THE COST

"He who wishes to fight must first count the cost." —Sun Tzu, The Art of War

SEPTEMBER 7TH 2039

3:04AM CST

MONTERREY, NUEVO LEON


A final wall caved in with minimal effort, crumbling into dust and debris with barely the lightest blow to the wood and stone that had kept it upright for over a century. A scream broke through as a fist met the ground, and then another, shaking the Earth and only serving to dirty up her fists.

Maria screamed again and stood back up. It was nearly over.

She stood and waited for the rest of the dust to settle—it took several minutes—and when it did she pulled the lighter from her pocket and finally moved, leaning down to let the flame catch on every single dry patch of grass that surrounded the rubble. It didn't take long for larger pieces to catch, and by the time she'd walked around the entire perimeter, the flames were hot against her skin.

She looked out into the horizon and hated the way she could see the mountains from the eastern end of the property. The mansion used to take up the space, blocking it from view. Now, it was level to the Earth. Once the flames ate it away, the place that had been her base of operations for the past one hundred and fifty years would turn to ash.

She should have known when she saw Ismael waiting for her tonight, standing on the edge of town instead of within city limits. She should have fucking known she would not want to hear what he had to say.

"They were looking for an errand runner," he'd spoken, his expression grave. "They came to Tomas, eleven days ago. He told them he was not fit for the duty."

"What did they want?" She had snapped, hating the way he danced around the subject. Hated how he was in contact with more than just her. Hated that weak, cowardly Tomas had been tracked down by the Volturi and had lived to tell the tale. The last Ismael said to her was that they had gone west. Tomas was only located along the western border of Ismael's current territory. The proximity was too close for comfort. "What kind of errand?"

"He did not give many answers, but I spoke with Kabil—" ("Of course you did!" She'd cursed, angrier at the revelation of his camaraderie with yet another hated enemy.) "—and he was able to surmise that it's in response to the new opposition that emerged a few decades back. He's unsure… but he doesn't know what else they'd want to do on this side of the world. Why else come to North America, mingle amongst the southern warlords, and not burn us where we stand?"

"Your conjecture is not poetic and I do not care to be a part of it," she had hissed. Maria had wanted to pluck his head from his neck as he spoke. Her fingers had twitched at her side, wanting.

Maria had heard about the group that had challenged the Volturi recently. The ripples of that story had made their way down to Mexico a handful of years after it had happened. Maria tried not to think about the fact that it was Ismael who'd told her about them, first. (She hadn't believed him until the New Orleans coven had also mentioned such a thing to her in passing, the following year.)

The gathering of obstinate idiots had somehow walked away unscathed. If the Volturi were there, not to clean house but to recruit one of their own for an errand, then it meant the law of the land had been challenged again. It was certainly a first, but it meant they were seeking out the lowest of them all to do their dirty work.

That thought had been confirmed with Ismael's very next sentence.

"Father Esteban's lands are empty." He had paused, and Maria had wanted to throttle him. "Kabil investigated a week after he spoke to Tomas. He believes that Esteban agreed to run the errand."

Then, "If that's the case, then he's made a deal with members of the guard."

And then, "I'm sorry." Ismael had spoken with such genuine upset and she hated the words. Hated him for speaking them to her. Hated his fucking pity. His concern. "I'm so sorry, Maria."

The instant he'd started speaking she should have turned and left. Instead, she'd let him speak. She wondered now if he would fight back if she went back to Mazapil to kill him.

Maria did not have time to waste but she did watch the mansion burn. She would wait for the flames to cover every inch of it before departing. She knew it wouldn't make a difference. The watched flame wouldn't burn quicker. If she neglected to look, it would not cease to exist.

But she watched. The crackling of the main floor as it started to give way into the basement was loud. The groaning of old wood echoed through the night as the weight of the house on top of it became too much for the weakening, burning pieces.

Maria inhaled deeply. She gave herself a full sixty seconds to exist quietly, silently, and without thought. Then, she grounded herself and began to plan. She rolled over the information she knew in her head; information she would be a fool to doubt at this point.

Father Esteban had been visited. He was not dead. He was selected to run an errand for the Volturi.

He was accompanied by members of the Volturi guard, and had made a deal with the Kings who ruled their world.

The Volturi had offered him something he wanted. And Esteban had never wanted anything more than he wanted Maria dead.

Before she had departed, the revelation sat between them in the silence, barely acknowledged by her after he'd spoken. Then, Ismael called out to her.

"I can't help you, Maria." She'd hissed at his insistence in using her name. "This warning is the only thing I can give you now. Once the errand is complete, he'll only start with you. I have to prepare myself. I'm so sorry."

"Say that again and I'll give you a reason to be sorry," she'd threatened, barely paying attention to him now. As if she'd ever wanted his help. As if she would ever dream of asking for it. Asking for help had never been an option in any version of this loathsome world they lived in.

Father Esteban did not control the most land, did not possess the strongest army, and did not rank on her list of people to keep tabs on. He and his brainwashed cult were always an afterthought. An inevitable annoyance to those who desired land along the border of Durango and Coahuila for themselves. He was another despised constant whose mangled face and rotted mind always lingered on her peripheral. His presence was not a threat, it was only a reminder.

An armed psychopath with a vendetta was not good. Esteban would've killed her a century ago if he had the ability. Ismael was right about one thing: they all knew that Maria would be first once Esteban had completed his task.

There was only one person who was in as much shit as she was.

"Maria," and she despised the way she'd looked at him instead of lunged at him, "who is Jasper Whitlock?"

Maria had been abruptly furious that he knew that name. That he'd spoken it. She wanted to spit in Oscar's putrid face and rip the tongue out of Kabil's filthy mouth. Leave it to them to have given Ismael information he hadn't needed. Leave it to their dishonorable, untrustworthy tongues to try and utter the Major's real name to another, newer enemy of hers. She wanted to ask what the fuck they'd said about the Major, but Maria didn't want to know what Ismael had been told. She did not care.

Even if they had told Ismael that her successes were because of the Major's aid, it wouldn't have been true.

Maria had narrowed her eyes at him either way and hoped Ismael felt uneasy under her glare. Her words had been quiet and angry. "That is the name of a man who died a long time ago."

It was not a lie. Ismael had not looked convinced.

As she left him behind, she'd let her anger fuel her. She'd let her rage push her further and faster and closer to Monterrey. Let the adrenaline catch on the flames of her fury, let the gears in her brain turn and push her senses into overdrive.

There was no time to waste. Her mansion was gone, but Monterrey was a constant. She would die before anyone would ever take it from her. She was not planning on dying.

Maria inhaled the smoke and held it within her. She knew what she had to do next.

OCTOBER 2039

OKLAHOMA

It took her three weeks. Three weeks to gather ten bodies. It was an amount that she would have been ashamed of back in the day. Her last army—the one she and Paige and Karan had brought down before she and Paige had turned on Karan and before Maria had turned on Paige—had boasted nineteen bodies.

Now all she had was ten. Maria had not been this careful with her selections since the aftermath of the Peter disaster, and had rarely changed women since. Paige had been a delightful exception and a welcome addition; Paige's leadership had been subpar and her temper had been irritating but she'd been very, very valuable in other regards…

Maria wanted to be more careful with these selections but she did not have the damn time. She wanted more bodies but she could not risk more fresh newborns than this. Even this amount, this young, only under her command, was another gamble. A risk she had to take if she wanted to remain alive.

Three weeks. Ten bodies. Every single one of them built strong. Deadly hunters and quick minds. She had no time for fools and imbeciles.

Maria could not afford to waste time on newborns that were useless and defiant. She did not need bodies, she needed soldiers. Fighters.

They stood beneath an overpass. The land that stretched out before them was flat and empty. The road they stood beneath was the only cover for miles. The sunlight reflected off the disgusting sewer water that trickled by, and Maria glared at the reflection of the sunbeams against her skin.

When night fell, she let them take out the first few cars that passed overhead. It was more than deserved. For the entire day, every several minutes another car had passed overhead. Despite the temptation, the newborns had all sat, still as stone, thirsty, but in the shadows, waiting.

It was more than she could have asked for from a brand new army being carted across the continent. So, until they reached their destination—wherever that might be—that was how they traveled. She had been forced to come up with plan after plan to keep her team in line when they encountered cities in their path, but when that happened, she praised their restraint, promised them meals, and only punished when necessary.

Thankfully when she was forced to kill Frazer outside of Dallas the rest of the group had agreed with her decision. Respected her more for it. The deeper into the country they traveled, the more she told them. About the evil man who was after her. About the old friend she hoped they could track down to help.

Despite her sternness, she played into their feelings more than she was used to. More than she liked to do. But it was an effective tool, and Maria knew that even if she didn't have their fear, she had their respect, and even if they held some form of awful, ugly affection for her, she at least had their obedience.

She would need it in the coming days.

There was no one in Mexico that Father Esteban hated more than Maria. But there was no one on the entire godforsaken planet that Father Esteban hated more than the Major.

If Maria could get Esteban killed, then she might never have to worry about a damn thing ever again. If she could show the Major that he and his family were next, that they were in trouble—and "oh, isn't it kind that I thought to warn you of what's to come?" —they would probably do most of the work for her. Their foolish love for one another was a noose around their throats, waiting to be pulled taut.

Hm. If the Major or any of his strange family happened to die in the process… Well. That wasn't her problem. She only hoped that the errand the foul priest was running for the Volturi would take him longer to complete than it would for her to corral her small army further north and find the Major.

It had been years since she'd last paid the Cullens a visit. She was certain one was overdue.