Final Kill (Cain University Book 3)

by Lucy Auburn

  Eventually, it gets late enough into the evening that the intercoms start to warn the zoo will close soon. I ask Wyatt if he wants to hurry up to catch any other exhibits, and he just slides me a sly smile.

  "That doesn't apply to us," he says, and I frown at him. "Just wait. You'll see. Do you trust me?"

  "Always and forever," I confess, and it feels like the words were pulled from the deepest recesses of my wounded heart. So I follow up with a joking, "I just hope we're not about to get arrested. You know what they'll say about Killer Ellen going back in the clink."

  "Don't worry about it. I've got a man on the inside."

  He says it so dramatically that I giggle again, though I'm curious what he means. Maybe someone he knows works at the zoo and has agreed to let us stay after closing. If so, he's being circumspect about it—he could just come out and say it. But I guess the mystery makes things more interesting.

  Chapter 22

  As the air cools down, we head to the aviary and enjoy the sound of birdsong and the warmth inside. Birds of every color and size flit from branch to branch, taking seemingly no notice of the humans walking in their midst. Eventually a guide calls for all the visitors to file out, and I look up at Wyatt in anticipation of what's going to come next as he leads me out of the aviary, Killer trotting at my side.

  "We have somewhere to go. We've got to hurry or we'll miss out on my special prize," he explains to me with a hint of a secretive smirk. He's enjoying keeping this close to the chest far more than should be charming—but damnit, he's annoyingly, elusively attractive even so. "Just come with me—I'll show you the way, Ellen."

  Narrowing my eyes at him, I point out, "A hint or two wouldn't hurt. Even just a little tiny one." As if on cue, my stomach grumbles. "I'd also love to know if there'll be food involved."

  "You'll have plenty to fill your mouth with."

  I elbow him, even as a spark of heat strikes deep within me. "Hush up already. You know that I meant food. Delicious, warm, wonderful pasta with a creamy alfredo sauce maybe? Or a thick juicy steak. Oh, I'd love some of those mashed potatoes with the cheese in them... and cheesecake for dessert. With plenty of wine to drink. Is that what you have planned?"

  "Maybe." He's such a tease.

  "Now that I'm thinking about it, cheese and carbs sound amazing. Maybe some queso with chips instead of Italian food." My mouth is starting to water so much that I have to swallow my saliva between sentences. "Tex Mex actually sounds pretty amazing right now. Some steak fajitas with onions and bell pepper... a few nice margaritas, salt on the rim, and guacamole made fresh at the table. But wait. We're at the zoo. How could we possibly have a fancy date with a fancy dinner? Unless we're eating fast food, in which case I'm cool with that too. Funnel cakes are pretty great..."

  My musings on all the types of food I want to eat—really, there's not much of a limit—take us down the path as we stroll towards the center of the park. Wyatt smiles at me from time to time and squeezes my hand, but otherwise doesn't really interject. He seems content to just listen to me ramble endlessly, talking about food as if it's the most interesting subject in the world.

  And really, it is. The only thing that comes close to eating food is talking about how delicious food is. I like nothing better than working up an appetite right before a big meal, so this is basically perfect for me.

  As we cross the street outside the zoo and reach an extended part of the park that's under construction, Wyatt surprises me by beelining directly towards the DO NOT ENTER signs. I eye him sideways, wondering if this is just more of his rebellious nature coming out, or if he's really going to take me where I think he's about to take me.

  "Are we having a date underneath a construction crane, next to an open pit? Because if so, I think I'm a tad overdressed—and I'm wearing a T-shirt and jeans.

  "You'll see," he reassures me, as smug and mysterious as ever. "It'll be awesome, I promise. If it's not, you can kick me in the nuts."

  "Knowing you, you probably won't even feel it," I grumble.

  "It's true—I'm impossibly big and strong. The better to withstand your furious fists and feet." He winks in my direction as he pulls up a length of CAUTION tape and motions for me to follow him beneath it. "Don't worry, there are stairs."

  "Rickety plywood stairs."

  "The construction workers go up and down them all day."

  I snort, motioning for Killer to follow me as he hangs back in anxiety and fear. "Construction workers don't have a seeing eye dog with PTSD."

  "True. But as long as I'm here with you, you'll be able to see."

  Thankfully Killer manages to get over his fear of rickety wood stairs and follows us after a moment. Whether I need him or not, there's no way I'll leave my dog behind—especially because he could turn into tiger food if I'm not careful. I saw how that ended with Carole Baskin's husband, and it wasn't pretty. I'm convinced she killed him. She'd be one of us here at Cain University if she didn't have such terrible taste in fashion.

  It takes me a while to realize where we're going and what the plan is for our date. It's not until Wyatt leads me close enough to see the hulking building in front of us that it begins to click.

  "This is under construction," I observe out loud, "but they're pretty much done with the building. It's ready to go."

  "Yep. They announced that the new, fancy restaurant is opening next month as part of an expansion of this area—something to attract adults who don't want to dine on pizza with noisy children. They're almost ready. Just a matter of getting the ramps, sidewalks, permits, and final touches on the kitchen setup. Everything else is done and just waiting for staff and supplies to move in. Until then it just sits here empty. So the contractor working on this expansion let me in—or, well, told me I could let myself in."

  I raise both brows at him. "What you're telling me is, we're trespassing."

  "Basically." He shoots me a cheeky grin. "Would you have it any other way, though?"

  I wouldn't. Normal dates—going to the movies, getting dinner after, sitting across from someone with a cup of coffee in front of you—feel like something from a long ago past. Old Ellen would've done that, in high school before Jack, or in college with Jack. Before things got sour and even asking for a date got me chided, insulted, and thrown onto the couch.

  New Ellen wants to have wild adventures with the men she cares for, not boring old normal dates. A technically-trespassing date at a newly-built fancy restaurant in the zoo is exactly the kind of thing I'm into now. It only makes sense that in between using my dog's eyes to see through and planning to murder terrible people, I would wind up here with an impossibly strong, handsome, and gentle man at my side.

  Also I bet the place is great without any other people around.

  "So." Wyatt pushes open the door to the restaurant and I step inside, gasping a little at the chrome, glass, and tile interior of a sweepingly beautiful indoor eatery. "What are we going to have to eat? Since the chef hasn't started working yet..."

  "I planned that out too. But I'll have to let go of your hand for a minute to go fetch what I need." He leans down to kiss my forehead, his lips briefly lingering on my skin. "Do you trust me?"

  "I can stand around in an empty restaurant by myself for a few minutes," I tell him, teasingly elbowing him in the side. "I'm no damsel in distress, remember?"

  "Of course not. You're Ellen Fucking Arizona." He smiles at me. "Just wait here. I'll be back to set things up."

  As his hand parts from mine, my vision folds inward and returns to darkness, but I try not to mind. It sucks not being able to take in all the little architectural details of the restaurant—there was a painting over on the far wall that I wanted to get a closer look at, and the chandeliers looked like something out of a movie, dripping with warm light. None of it looks the same through Killer's eyes, especially since he's been getting antsy as the date wears on, preferring to stare at his own things instead of where I want him to.

  So I do what something I've
been trying lately, even though it's hard: I let go of my vision, abandon even the thought of trying to see, through my eyes or another's eyes. I choose to lean into my other senses. I try to think of what happened to me not as a weakness, but an opportunity to find other types of strength.

  There's a bird outside the glass front of the restaurant, sitting on a tree branch no doubt, warbling its song even as the sun sets and the day passes it by completely.

  Air clicks on in the vents high on the dining room's walls, a sign that Wyatt probably found the thermostat and set it somewhere between comfortable and warm enough to make the woman I'm with want to take her clothes off.

  I can smell a hint of food. Moving towards it, and leaving Killer to his own devices, I take in a few whiffs: a deep potato-y smell, something that might be rosemary, and the sound of oil bubbling and hissing as food hits it. Maybe I'm wrong, but my instincts tell me that Wyatt is frying fancy potatoes for me—no doubt something his "friend" left for him in the kitchen so he could have this little date.

  The thought reminds me of something I said to him once offhand during training: that Eve had come home with these leftover potatoes from a restaurant in Manhattan, and even heated up they were the best thing I'd ever tried in my life. I wanted to go, but Headmaster Shu wasn't exactly going to give me special dispensation to leave campus just to stuff my face with fried carbs. So I whined about it instead.

  He must've found the recipe. Or an imitation of it at least. I can still remember the taste of those slightly soggy twice fried potato chunks, drizzled with olive oil, rosemary, sea salt, and an amazing parmesan cheese with just a bit of funk. Thinking about it makes my mouth water—and reminds me that my stomach doesn't need my eyes to work up an appetite. My nose and imagination can do all that on their own.

  A few minutes later, as the smell starts to permeate the empty restaurant, the doors to the kitchen swing wide. Wyatt's footsteps are heavy as he walks over near me, his breathing slightly strained. Curious, I try to figure out what's happening—and get my answer as the sound of a table hitting the ground greets my ears, followed by two chairs scraping across the floor.

  "Here—this w-way." His wobbly voice, stuttering from the cruel twist that is magic and power, guides me over to one of the chairs. "Let me h...help you."

  "I've got it." I dodge his hand, nimbly using my fingertips to feel for the back of the chair and sit down on it with more confidence than I feel. Thankfully I don't fall on my ass. "I want to make sure I can get around even when I'm blind. It's something I have to get used to, after all."

  I can practically hear Wyatt's frown. "You d-don't have to."

  "Okay. But I want to." Tilting my face up, I try to shoot him a reassuring smile, and hope it lands somewhere in his general direction. "This is my new normal. Our new normal. I don't want to be helpless or dependent. So I'm going to try."

  "W-what if you g-g-get... hurt?"

  There's genuine anguish in his voice, so I point out to him, "I have four Affinities at my disposal. And I stabbed my ex to death so violently that it was headline news for months. I'm pretty sure I can take care of myself. But I promise that if I wind up in hot water, I'll accept help—and I'm sure you'll be right there next to me to give it."

  A long, deep sigh that tickles me. Wyatt really does care about me deeply, of that I have no doubt. "Oh-okay. J-j-just... wait here. For dinner."

  "As long as you fetch me a glass of wine." I drum my fingers on the table, which is absent any plates, silverware, or glasses of any kind. "Maybe one of those big ass glasses that holds a whole bottle."

  He chuckles. "On it."

  Moments later I find myself with a glass guided into my hand, the world coming into bright relief as my fingers knock against Wyatt's. Looking up into his handsome face, my heart does a little jig—we are alone here, after all, beginning this new journey of our relationship—and I find myself reaching out to grasp his hand as he withdraws it.

  "We'll hold hands all through dinner," I promise him. Then I amend it to, "Well, after I've sliced my steak. There will be steak, right?"

  "Maybe." He gives me a sly wink, the charming jerk. "Or maybe I made you a vegetarian dinner."

  "If you did, I'm going to marry you just so I can divorce you and take half your stuff."

  "Joke's on you, I have none of this so-called stuff."

  Leaning down, he kisses me on the mouth. At first the kiss is light—until I grab onto his collar and pull him to me, wanting to feel his desire against my lips. His tongue penetrates me and makes filthy promises that leave me panting as we reluctantly part.

  "I have to go make dinner," he says, his hand curved against my cheek, warm and delightful. "I'll be back with food soon."

  At my feet, Killer sighs, so I ask him, "And a bit for the hound dog, too? His ribs are caving in."

  "I'll give him a fourth steak." Wyatt winks at me. "Two steaks for me, one for you, and one for the dog. It's only fair, after all—he's had a long day."

  He has, if the way he's conked out on the tile is any indication. Going to the zoo is a lot for a perpetually nervous dog. All those predators in every direction. Killer took it in like a champ, of course with my Emotional Affinity to help smooth things out.

  Stomach on legs that he is, though, Killer raises his head when Wyatt emerges from the kitchen with the food, all of it wafting deliciously in the air. I can smell seared meat—the steaks no doubt—in addition to the rosemary, fried potatoes, and something else, a slightly vinegary smell that makes me wonder if my nose is off.

  "D-dinner is s-s-ser... here," Wyatt says as he approaches the table, sounding frustrated by his tongue. He sets down the serving platters one by one. "Guess."

  "Guess what it is?"

  "Mmm-hmmmm."

  He wants to put my nose to the test. I wonder, though, if I'll be able to use my other senses. "Can I touch any of it?"

  "No." Firm, and immovable. "Smell."

  At our feet, Killer jumps up and eagerly pushes his head into my lap. No doubt he's waiting for his steak. Either this is just more of his begging—the longer he lives with the indulgent Eve, the worse he gets—or he's somehow gotten precocious enough to understand us talking about the steak that Wyatt made for him.

  Pushing his head away, I tell him, "Sit. And wait. I'll feed you in a moment."

  The sound he makes is of agonized hunger, but he does as I've asked, ever the loyal hound. It's a wonder he ever survived out in the wild woods behind campus, though, given what a stomach on legs he is. Somehow in the past few weeks he's eaten his body weight in caviar, cheesy puffs, and pot roast, all in addition to the kibble I've been feeding him, but he remains a greyhound-like chest on sticks.

  Thinking about him does give me an idea, though. Wyatt said I couldn't touch any of the food; I'm supposed to just smell it. But he never made me promise I would use my own sense of smell. Tamping down on a mischievous smile that would surely give me away, I reach my awareness down towards Killer and ask to borrow his great big, wet, doggy nose for a moment or two.

  Right now said nose is basically permanently flared as he takes in all the delicious smells on the table just above him. I expect to smell the food and nothing else as I swan dive into his olfactory senses, but instead I get way more info than expected.

  Killer's nose knows what was on the bottom of the shoes people wore as they walked through here yesterday. He can smell a whiff of the urine in the men's room around the corner. There's a bit of grass stain on the back of my shorts, and dish soap lingering on Wyatt's skin.

  I cut out before it gets even grosser—there's apparently some residual bird poop up in the rafters of this place—but his nose tells me one important thing: what the mysterious third dish is that sits in front of me.

  "So obviously I know about the steaks," I tell Wyatt, enjoying the lead-up to the reveal. "Those give off a pretty distinct scent. And I figured out a little while ago that the potatoes were those ones I told you about, with rosemary, sea, salt, and a b
it of aged parmesan on them. They smell fucking amazing by the way—I hope you fried a few pounds of them, because I plan on surviving on nothing else all week."

  Wyatt's smirk is loud enough to hear. "Go on," he urges me. "T-the last d-d-dish is?"

  There's eager confidence in his voice. He thinks I won't figure it out. "Brussels sprouts roasted with bacon, blue cheese, and balsamic vinegar. Some people might only smell the vinegar, but I got it right away."

  "S-sure. Dessert?"

  Ah, dessert. He thinks I can't smell that. But what he doesn't know is that I kinda sorta mostly cheated. "A New York style cheesecake that I'm absolutely sure was waiting for you in the fridge, ready to go."

  Wyatt chuckles and reaches across the table to take my hand, his touch bringing the vision of his face to life, as well as the beautifully fancy layout of all the food he worked on, strewn on white china serving platters in front of me.

  "You got it," he says, his smirk crooked and impossibly handsome. Cocking his head to the side, he raises a brow at me suspiciously. "In fact, you got it all a little bit too easily. Almost as if you had help."

  "Oh?" Even I can hear how high-pitched and caught-in-the-act my avoid sounds. "How would I have gotten help?"

  "Not sure. Maybe you used Killer's eyes."

  Leaning forward, I tell him with absolute sincerity, "I swear on my mother's grave that I didn't use Killer's eyes."

  "Specific." He narrows his own eyes in my direction. "I wonder, though... it's not just his eyes you could've used."

  I smirk at him and lean forward over the table, which pushes my cleavage up towards the neckline of my shirt. "Am I in trouble? Are you going to punish me?"

  "Maybe after dinner," he says, grinning. "Don't want the steaks to get cold. Speaking of..."

  Wyatt serves Killer his steak on a white porcelain plate, setting it on the ground. The poor dog doesn't seem to know what to do with it at first—his mouth is too small to grab onto the whole thing at once. Eventually he picks it up, walks across the tile with it, and settles in with the hunk of meat between his paws, enthusiastically chewing on it like it's a squeaky toy.