The moment my back foot crossed the threshold, he wrapped his hand around my throat and slammed me into a wall. Pain shot from my skull and splintered down my back, twisting along my spine like the roots of a tree. He’d covered several yards in mere seconds!
“Silly girl.” The maître d’s breath, hot against my cheek, did little to distract me from his thumb as he rubbed it over my jugular. The metal door hung open and creaked in the wind, allowing just enough light to outline his face.
Samson would come. He would if for no other reason than I was paying him to.
“I almost blew it. I was hungry.” A low growl vibrated in his throat, and he sniffed along my jaw, hot breath pressing into my nostrils. Decay and rot. “So many humans. I haven’t been allowed a human in a century. A century!”
Like wax on a summer day, the maître d’s face slowly melted. His skin stretched to form a pronounced chin and a long, thin neck, while his ears twisted into points and fine, sharp edges. He extended his fingers along my flesh to curl them around the back of my neck, and a shiver racked my body as his bony appendages swiped the shell of my ear.
His hair, now stringy and damp, brushed my arm as he pressed his sharp nose to my throat. My eyes burned and hands twitched at my sides. Come on, Samson!
“Your fear is divine. Reminds me of sailors as their ships barrel toward rock.” He inhaled in the hollow of my throat, long nose scraping the side of my face as a jagged nail dragged along my check and jaw. “If I eat you, there will be no body. No body. No blood. No mess. No mess like he said. I’ll lick up every drop.” The creature pushed my chin up toward the ceiling. His tongue, wet and slippery, pressed against my jugular and moved in slow circles. “Lovely dinner. A lovely dinner you’ll be.”
The light billowed as the open door behind him creaked.
“I smell you!” the creature growled and whipped his head around to appraise the dark room. The stench of wet, rotting plants seeped into my nose. “Ash. Blood. But…also human. I’ll eat you next.”
Please let it be Samson. He smelled like an ashtray. It had to be him!
He turned back to me. The creature loomed over me, teeth glinting in the moonlight as his gaze raked over my body. I had no weapon. No training. A low croak scraped the back of the creature’s throat, and he looked away from me again. He wound his fingers around my neck and squeezed. Every breath burned inside my lungs as they fought to escape his grip.
Fancy Pants, drop to the ground. A pause. Samson? Now.
I didn’t have time to work out how Samson’s voice was in my head. After a quick prayer, I hung like dead weight in the monster’s grip. The surprise was likely the only thing that allowed me to do anything at all. While I only fell down the wall a few inches, it was enough.
The loud echo of a bullet leaving a barrel was the only warning I had before a black, oil-like substance poured on my scalp from above. It ran down my forehead and dripped onto the ground. A hot casing bounced off my arm and fell in the goop.
“You fool! Your bullets can’t kill me!” The creature dropped me into the pool of the black soup.
Blood. I was sitting in his blood.
I gagged and scampered out of the tar on my hands and knees. If I didn’t get a grip, I wouldn’t make it out. Swallow the fear and disgust, Tilly! You’ve got to!
“I smell you! I don’t like ash, but I’ll make an exception for you.” The creature took a few more steps forward with a hand covering the hole in his chest.
He jerked his head toward me, scowl on his face as his eyes pulled me apart. To eat her, or not to eat her? he seemed to think. To eat her, or to chase this person that smelled like a chimney?
The kitchen wasn’t that large. Samson had to be hiding close by. My gaze darted around. Stoves. Shelves. Freezer. There—by the fryers.
The creature noticed at the same time I did and lunged.
The monster pushed through the metal tables and shelves, sending them to the floor in heavy clangs and sharp waves of corrugated sheets. I jumped to my feet and teetered on the spikes of my stilettos a second before I kicked them off. I needed to be able to move quickly, even if I stepped on something and got tetanus.
The light of Manhattan filtered in through the open door, casting enough of a glow that I could see Samson bob and weave away from the creature’s outstretched arms and sharp nails.
Help him, Tilly. Stop standing around like a moron!
My gaze moved faster than ever. As the creature and Samson tore everything apart in their frantic game of cat and mouse, I found a potential weapon sitting on the floor. A basket had flown out of the fryer in their scuffle. My hand shot forward before I could properly think about the consequences, and I wrapped the wooden handle of the fryer basket tight in my grip. Old grease smeared along my fingers and buried beneath my nails, but now wasn’t the time to think about my manicure.
I took a few more steps, ignored a sharp pain in the sole of my foot, and hurled the basket as hard as I could with both hands toward the creature’s back. He jerked around as the basket smacked him between the shoulder blades.
“You filthy—”
The end of a blade pushed through his flesh below his collarbone.
“It burns!”
More of the black oil dumped down the creature’s pectorals and sloshed onto his feet. He reached over his shoulder, gripped the knife, and pulled it out before whipping his head back toward Samson.
“Fuck!” Samson bolted around something bulky. An oven, maybe? “Where is your fucking heart?”
Great. How could we kill this thing if we didn’t have a clue where his heart was?
“It doesn’t matter because I’m going to eat yours!” The creature held Samson’s knife with a shaking hand. “Right after I eat hers.”
My mouth fell open as the creature’s words sank in.
He meant me. My heart.
The creature’s speed, nothing short of otherworldly, wasn’t something I could dodge. He stood in front of me in milliseconds, sharp teeth on my throat and nails piercing through the fabric of my dress and into my ribs.
A scream tore through my throat as his teeth pricked my neck.
I waited.
And I waited.
The creature that had moved so effortlessly before was now completely still. Breaths slowly pushed through his open mouth and billowed along my throat, but nothing else.
“Turn,” Samson said with a thick, labored voice, “around.”
Then, like a child following the commands of a parent, the creature obeyed. He slipped his hand from my waist, leaving nothing more than scratches behind. His mouth opened a little, and his teeth pulled back from my skin. The humid air of the night replaced his hot breath, and thin trickles of blood ran into the ridge of my collarbone.
Samson stood among a cluster of crumpled tables and appliances, hand outstretched in front of him. Even in the poor lighting, the tremors in his fingers were clear.
“Where’s your heart?” he asked with heavy breaths and blood running out of his nose and over his lip. Samson swayed, but remained upright. The creature positioned the knife at his side, where I would expect intestines on a human.
“Stab it.” Samson’s voice, ragged and slow, matched the drunken stumble of his feet.
Then, without so much a breath, the creature plunged the knife into his flesh. He twisted the blade in his side so deep the hilt disappeared beneath his skin.
My heart trembled as the creature melted again. It started at his feet, and like a candle burning at both ends, his scalp moved too, trickling down what used to be his neck. His shoulders. His legs.
Until he was nothing more than a pool of oil on the tile.
A noise shook against my dry throat as I tried to piece it all together. Tried to figure out what exactly I’d seen.
Samson had made whatever that monster was kill itself.
We stared at each other in the dark. He’d admitted to being a telepath. It never occurred to me that he might be something e
lse too.
Samson staggered on his feet, boots twisting together as he stumbled into the side of an overturned table and held a hand up to brace the wall.
He missed.
And collapsed into a heap on the ground.
Eighteen
Samson had only been unconscious for moments, but it felt more like years since he collapsed like a sack of rocks on the floor. I shoved some overturned tables out of the way in hopes of getting more light on him, but the faint light of the moon wasn’t bright enough to get a good look. His skin, still warm beneath my fingers, beat when I found his jugular. He had a heartbeat and steady breaths.
Light. I needed more light.
I felt along his coat pockets. Bullets. More bullets. Pocketknife. Phone.
If he’d been like any other person milling about Manhattan, it would’ve been a smartphone with a built-in flashlight. As it stood, all I had was the tiny, almost inconsequential light of his dinosaur flip phone. I popped it open and shined it on his face, although unsure of what I hoped to find.
Blood coated his upper lip and chin. Even though he was unconscious, more still trickled out of his nostrils and ran down the front of his throat.
“Wake up.” I shook his shoulder. Nothing. “Samson—come on! I need you. Wake up!”
My heart sank into the depths of my stomach. Nothing.
The hem of his shirt was pulled up a little. I pinched the exposed skin with the tips of my fingernails, hoping to jar him awake with pain. Still nothing. My eyes burned as I stared at his motionless body. Why wouldn’t he wake up?
“No…” I lifted his head enough to maneuver it onto my lap and off the hard ground. What was I supposed to do now? I leaned back against the oven behind me and groaned. Loud. Thunder rolled outside and through the open door, echoing in the empty space.
Calling an ambulance was out of the question. There was no way to explain what happened to a paramedic. How did he get like this, you ask? We were almost eaten by a bridge troll, sir. I bet you see that all the time.
Calling anyone was out of the question, really. Couldn’t call Eliza. Couldn’t call Gerard. I’d rather die than call Richard or my father.
A thought wiggled around for a moment before I flipped open Samson’s phone again. Only one number saved in the call log, and it didn’t have a name. It had a local area code though, and that was the only thing that gave me the confidence to press CALL.
The phone rang in my ear three times before a familiar voice answered.
“What?”
I would’ve been more aggravated by his tone if I hadn’t been swallowed in relief. “Cliff?”
A long pause
“Silver Spoon?” I scowled at the name. “Is that you?”
“My name is Matilda,” I reminded him. “I need help.”
“You’re Samson’s problem. Not mine.”
There was jostling on the other end. He couldn’t hang up. No!
“Wait!” My eyes started burning again. Such a baby. “Samson’s unconscious. He did something, and now he’s not waking up.”
“What’d he do?”
“He did this, I don’t know, mind-control thing on this other thing that was trying to eat us. For some reason, I could hear his voice in my head, and he’s bleeding everywhere.” The words coming out of my mouth were completely insane. “Now I’m stuck in a dark kitchen with a melted something, and…he’s not waking up.”
“Is he dead?”
“No!” The thought made my heart skip. “No. He’s breathing. He has a pulse. He just isn’t waking up.”
“Damn it.” Cliff exhaled a groan much like I did before I called him. I was sure the people around were giving him a wide berth. “Fuck. Where are you?”
“Manhattan. In an unoccupied building somewhere around The Dove.”
Another long pause echoed in my ears. If Cliff wouldn’t come help me, I didn’t know what I’d do. We couldn’t sit here all night. Someone could call the police. An adventurous soul could see the door sitting unlocked and slink inside. So much could go wrong.
“Try your best to stay hidden. Stay put. I’m coming.” Then he hung up.
I ran my fingers through Samson’s hair and tried to relax. He was still breathing. Every time I felt along his neck, his pulse continued to beat against my skin. He should be alive. Awake.
Why wasn’t he?
According to Samson’s phone, it had been a little over thirty minutes since I’d talked to Cliff. In that time, I shut the back door and carefully angled overturned tables and empty boxes around Samson’s body. If anyone happened to wander inside looking for us, they’d have to look a little harder now.
I continued to mindlessly stroke his hair and analyze every creak and groan of the building as every terrible scenario played out in my mind. Samson would wake up eventually. He had to.
The dank smell of old, wet stone filled my nose with every forced breath. That thing stank, and his puddle of remains stank too. It was in my hair, eyelashes, and all over my dress. I’d probably smell like a trash bag of rotten yard clippings for the rest of my life. Maybe Richard wouldn’t be so upset about my rejection when he caught a whiff of me the next time I saw him.
Ugh. I’d been proposed to and attacked by a monster in the same night.
The squeal of wet, rusted hinges echoed in the cavernous space, and moonlight spilled inside. I stilled and cradled him close to my stomach like his unconscious body could somehow protect me if something nefarious were slinking inside.
I bit my lip as footsteps scraped along the tile. If it were Cliff, why didn’t he say something? Wouldn’t I smell the cloud of cigarette smoke that followed behind him back at The Den? The pervasive smell of the gross puddle had permanently taken residence in my nostrils, so maybe not—
One of the boxes moved. “Matilda?”
The desire for help eclipsed the desire to wring Cliff’s neck. If Samson’s head weren’t so heavy, I would’ve jumped up to hug him.
“How’d you know I was here?” I asked once Cliff knelt beside us. His shirt, soaked and dripping, clung to his chest, and water rolled down his cheeks. The rain must’ve picked up. “I thought I hid us well enough.”
“I could smell you from the alley. You smell like shit covered in all that.”
Oh.
“Can’t hide from a werewolf. I can see in the dark pretty damn good, but my nose is unbeatable.” I had a feeling he was a werewolf after the whole pack comment at The Den, but I’d been too afraid to ask. Cliff leaned forward and dug in his pants pocket. He pulled out a phone: a smartphone with a flashlight. “Ay. He move at all?”
“No.” Cliff peeled apart Samson’s eyelids. His eyeball was filled with popped blood vessels. “Is he okay?”
“I think so. He’s done this before.” Cliff sighed. “His human body can’t handle it.”
My throat dried to the equivalent of sandpaper. “Excuse me? Human body?”
Cliff cocked his head to the side and gave a sly smile. “This asshole didn’t tell you?”
I could only imagine what my face looked like. “I asked if he was a telepath…he said yes.”
“For someone with a Master’s degree, you’re pretty dumb.” When my mouth dropped open, he held up a hand. “Yeah. I’ve done some research on you. Pretty easy to do when your family’s featured in Forbes.”
My jaw clenched. How was I supposed to know Samson was more than a telepath?
“Didn’t you ever wonder how he got that way?” Cliff asked.
“Not really. Not until…whatever that thing was tried to eat me.” I smoothed out Samson’s hair and tried to still the mixture of anger and embarrassment simmering beneath my skin. Being angry now wouldn’t solve anything. I could rip Samson a new one for being sneaky when he woke up. “It doesn’t matter. What do we need to do?”
“Get him somewhere to sleep it off.” Cliff stood up and brushed the palms of his hands along his jeans. “I imagine you don’t want to walk around your building with all
that dead fae on you, huh?”
My stomach bubbled. Fae. Dead fae.
I’d almost been eaten by a fairy.
“Not particularly.”
Cliff snorted. “All right. There’s a motel outside the city I’ll take you to. No familiar faces to see us dragging him around. I’d offer up The Den, but the rest of the pack would be pissed if I brought him there after something like this. Too big of a risk.”
I absently ran my fingers along Samson’s scalp. “Fine. Let’s do this.”
Cliff picked Samson up and tossed him over his shoulder with ease, leaving me to simply peel myself off the ground. My feet, unsteady after sitting on them outstretched beneath the weight of Samson’s gigantic head, burned as I walked. Pins and needles. So annoying.
“Isn’t jostling him around like that bad for his head injury?” I hobbled behind Cliff barefoot and looked for my shoes. A quick flash of Cliff’s phone light found them beside the fae puddle.
“This isn’t like hitting your head on a rock. He just pushed himself somewhere he shouldn’t have.” Cliff pulled open the door and revealed a red car wedged in the alley. The rain had lessened to a light drizzle—just enough to make the fae blood run down my forearms. He settled Samson in the back seat, laying him down with all the gentleness one used to hurl a bowling ball down a lane. “He’ll survive. He’s got a hard head. Hop in.”
The passenger seat was filled with magazines and hair ties. Cliff scowled as I moved them to the floorboard and nestled in.
“Were you interested in the Fall trends?” I asked, waving around the August issue of Cosmo.
“This is Gemma’s car.” Cliff tried to act annoyed, but he did a poor job of hiding his mirth. “Tears people to pieces but likes shoes. I should’ve known that turd would be trouble when I took her in.”
I couldn’t fathom what it must be like to be a guardian to a teenage werewolf.
“All right.” Cliff started the car and began to slowly drive down the alley. “Let’s go find your car and get you to the motel.”
Samson had parked my Mercedes a few blocks past The Dove. We found it at an expired meter with a parking ticket tucked under the wiper. My first one ever. Great.
The Family Cross Page 12