Marine Sergeant Isaac Pine was startled by a crash of glass from beyond the door of his temporary prison. It was loud enough he instinctively tried to get up from the bed he was stretched out on, only to be yanked back into place by the pair of handcuffs holding him fast to the headboard.

More glass shattered on the floor downstairs. It sounded like someone sweeping plates and glasses out of kitchen cabinets and onto the floor.

He glanced at the window on his right. He was pretty sure it hadn’t always had iron bars affixed to it. No matter how many times he could see himself chipping away at the plaster the bars were embedded in, there was no way he would ever be able to escape that way, even if he managed to rid himself of the cuffs beginning to chafe his wrist.

Quick footsteps thumped on the stairs, causing the old wood to creak and moan. There was no way anyone could get up or down those steps unheard. Isaac stared at the door, waiting for one of his captors to check in on him, ensuring he was still locked down.

The footsteps stopped in front of his door. The rusted gold knob turned, the old hinges whining. Camila’s face leaned in past it, quickly sizing him up. She was young, with a small, broad nose and big brown eyes, her hair cut in a short, chaotic pattern that suggested she did it herself. Without a mirror.

“Still there I see,” she said. “Good.” Her eyes shifted to the table next to his bed. A glass of water and a centuries-old MRE rested on it. “You should eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” Isaac said.

“Bullshit. It’s been three days.”

“What’s happening out there?”

“Alexander got a little too fresh. I gently reminded him it was better if he kept his fucking hands off me.”

“That was gentle?”

She laughed. “He’s going to be picking glass out of his skin for the next three weeks.” She pointed at the MRE. “Eat.”

“Not interested,” Isaac said.

Camila sighed, moving more fully into the room. She was dressed in a sleeveless shirt and a pair of frayed denim shorts that showed off more of her body than Isaac cared to see. She had a knife strapped to her calf and an ammo belt and revolver hanging from her hips, along with a familiar tattoo that rode on her shoulder, identifying her as a follower of Shurrath.

She had never said as much, but Isaac knew she was infected. He wasn’t sure which part of her cared whether or not he ate—the parasitic, worm-like khoron or the part of her original consciousness that still maintained a minimum of control.

She sat down on the bed beside him, putting a calloused hand to his face. “There’s no reason to fight it, Sergeant,” she said. “What you think you’re protecting, it doesn’t exist. It’s a memory.”

“Then I’ll protect my memories,” he replied, turning his head away from her touch.

He looked at the MRE. It was wrapped in aluminum, the words ‘Thanksgiving Dinner’ printed across the outside. He was hungry. They both knew it. But he wasn’t going to give Shurrath the satisfaction.

The woman moved her hand down to his shoulder, petting him like he was a puppy. “Come on now, Sergeant. Be a good boy.”

“Can you go away, please?” Isaac said. “Just leave me alone while we wait for whatever the hell it is we’re waiting for.”

Isaac had been captured three days earlier, overwhelmed by the biggest trife he had ever seen in the middle of a confrontation that had finally found him face-to-face with Grace Salk. They had stared at one another, him from behind a rifle, her from behind an alien weapon Sheriff Duke had labeled a microspear. Neither of them had said a word, but the moment had spoken volumes for both of them.

The moment had ended when the trife grabbed him, throwing him roughly to the ground. Huge claws tore off his helmet, leaving his head exposed to the razor-sharp blades. The demon was ready to kill him, would have killed him if Grace hadn’t stopped it. The trife had gathered him up, joining a group of a dozen others. They took him from the scene, the fight still raging as they carried him away. He still didn’t know the outcome. Had Sheriff Duke neutralized Brute and Grace? Or was Hayden dead?

He had been captured, which made it seem more likely Hayden was dead. If that was the case, maybe Camila was right. Maybe there was no use continuing the fight. The past was gone. Centuries gone. Maybe humankind was beyond saving. Beyond hope.

“You’re starting to get it,” Camila said.

Isaac snapped out of his malaise. It was easy to get sucked into despair when he had been handcuffed to a bed for the last fifty-something hours, dealing with this woman who alternated between treating him like she either wanted to kill him or keep him as a pet.

He didn’t want either outcome. He wanted to get loose from this fucking bed, out the fucking door, down the fucking stairs and…

His thoughts trailed off. And then what? He didn’t know where he was. When the trife had brought him to Camila and Alexander they had cuffed him and blindfolded him before shoving him in the back of a modbox and driving away. They had gone some distance—far enough he was pretty sure they were outside of the UWT, or at least in an unpopulated area of the territories—and then brought him up here. The cuff had been removed from one wrist and reattached to the headboard. Only then had the blindfold come off.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll eat. But stop touching me.”

Camila pulled her hand away with a smile. “You’re lucky Shurrath has plans for you or I’d have plans of my own.” She grabbed the MRE and ripped it open, dropping it onto his chest. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

She stood and stormed out of the room.

Isaac grabbed the bar and took a bite. She was right, there was no point starving himself. Maybe he couldn’t protect his memories.

But if he had the chance, he was damn well going to avenge them.