by Hettie Ivers
I knew Milena herself didn’t actually believe that. Milena viewed my mate’s actions in the ether as wholly selfish, vile, and unforgivable.
Happy. What werewolf would be “happy” to be violently severed from his mate and left to live on with the blood of countless innocents staining his hands forevermore? What kind of mate would happily move on in his fractured existence knowing that his partner had deliberately consumed the black heart of a dark revenge curse—and in doing so willingly assumed the risk of being reborn as the Rogue abomination—in order to be rid of him?
What in God’s name had happened to Maribel in death?
Regardless of the deep-seated insecurities she’d struggled with in life, she had always been a good person—wired to do the right thing, to uphold justice, and to protect the weak and subjugated. The Maribel I knew would not have slaughtered innocents from the ether over the course of a century out of love for me. The Maribel I knew would not have callously slain Kaleb or manipulated Lupe to her own demise.
There had to be more to it than we knew. And I feared the answers lay dead and buried with the scores of seers Maribel had massacred—the greatest sign of all that her justifications to Milena in the ether had largely been false. In the end, she’d left no possible witnesses to her truth.
24
Lauren
Voices floated over me. Men were arguing. One of them sounded like Michael, but without his British accent. He sounded angry. Furious.
“You were supposed to watch. Watch. What part of watching over someone involves tackling them to the ground and rendering them unconscious?”
“Mike, she’s fine,” a calmer male voice inserted. “Let it go.”
“I didn’t tackle her,” the man with the Spanish accent protested. “She was falling. I was trying to help her.”
“You don’t touch her. Ever. And you don’t enter her mind—even if briefly to knock her out—ever again. Do you understand?”
“It wasn’t my fault! I had no choice after she freaked out for no damn reason and began screaming bloody murder.”
“There are always choices.”
“You aren’t my Alpha,” the Spanish man sneered.
“Maybe not,” a confident, American-accented female voice entered the conversation. “But I’m certain of his ability to kill you. Also certain Stephen and I would gladly stand by and watch. You really need to learn when to stop talking, Jorge.”
“Guys, she’s semiconscious,” the third male voice—presumably Stephen—said. “We’ll have to erase this.”
Everything went black again.
When I resurfaced, I was lying on a therapist’s couch—that was floating on a cloud. Michael was floating in a chair next to me.
“Lauren, I’d like for you to tell me what you know about the bloody corpses you saw today.” He was talking with his British accent again.
Why would Michael—even a dream Michael—care about the bloody corpses in my vision?
He smiled. “Because we take deviant sosh together, Lauren. This is right up my alley. Now, about the dead bodies you saw … was that a vision of the past, or was it a future event?”
“Past.”
“You’re certain?”
I nodded.
“Did the man who grabbed you from behind kill them?”
“I think so.”
“But you aren’t certain?”
“Well … no, I’m certain he was involved. But it wasn’t just him. So I don’t know if he personally killed all the dead bodies I saw.”
His brow arched. “Interesting. Did you see any part of the face of the man who grabbed you?”
I shook my head.
“Do you remember his voice?”
I nodded.
“Good. If you ever hear his voice again, you will remember that he’s dangerous. Understand?”
I nodded again.
“And you’ll immediately text me to ask if you can borrow my notes from deviant sosh class.”
That made zero sense, but I found myself agreeing to do it just the same.
“Excellent.” He leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. “Lauren, I’m afraid I’ve left your mind alone for too long. I’ve been allowing you time and space to develop your seer abilities without interference, but from now on I’m going to be checking in on you more often so that you can share what you’ve learned with me, all right?”
Dream Michael knew that I was a seer?
“Of course,” he said. “We’re friends. You trust me, remember?”
Did I? I wanted to. Michael sure looked trustworthy. He had that “upstanding guy” look about him. And he was so handsome—in that all-American, classic-movie-star, wholesome-heartthrob-next-door kind of way. Only British.
He shook his head and chuckled softly. “I would be whatever nationality you wanted me to be, Lauren.” His gaze dipped to my mouth, and his smile faded. He looked away, leaning back in his seat again and running a hand over his face. “Where were we? Before we get into the visions you’ve been having, I’d like to learn more about your childhood. Let’s start with your relationship with your mother.”
Why would we want to open that box?
“I promise we’ll carefully shut the box when we’re done here.”
Did he just respond to my inner thought? Wait—had he been doing that this whole time?
He smiled. “Lauren, this is for our class assignment, remember? We’re doing a project together where I have to pretend to be your therapist, and you have to be my patient.”
When had we gotten that assignment?
“It’s just been assigned. You need to come through with your part or we’ll both fail. You don’t want that, do you?”
No. I couldn’t afford to fail deviant sosh class.
“Who can? Now, I want you to tell me about Barbara, your mother—Babs, as you prefer to call her. Let’s talk about what happened in the days and months after your grandmother passed away.”
I started to cry. Why had he gone straight there—to my very worst memories? Those days were too painful to relive. I’d rather fail deviant sosh than go down that path.
“Hey, hey.” Suddenly, he was leaning over me, dabbing my eyes with one of those fancy hankies that only a true Brit could pull from thin air. He was sitting on the edge of the couch I was lying upon now, although I hadn’t seen him move. “I’ll make it better for you, Lauren. I promise. Once you share with me, you’ll feel so much lighter—like a great weight has been lifted.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I understand that it’s hard. But I need to be able to block the bad guys from your mind if necessary.” His fingers combed through the hair at my scalp. “I don’t want the man who frightened you today to be able to access your mind again. If you allow me this glimpse into your memories, it’ll be the best way that I can protect you in the future. Please? Talk to me about the time when Babs was in the hospital.”
“I don’t remember any of the details,” I said with a sniffle. I really didn’t. In my memory it always seemed as if she’d been there for months, but probably it had only been weeks. “I don’t know how long she was there for or what happened.”
“No, darling, you misunderstand. I already know those things. I don’t need you to relay facts; I want you to share feelings. Yours.” His brow wrinkled. “I could pull them from you, but that would cause you more pain and distress. It will be a far more cathartic, empowering experience for you if you simply talk to me.”
That kinda sounded like a threat.
“Never, Lauren.” He cupped my right cheek in his free hand. “I’m giving you options because I like you and we’re friends. Please make the wise choice so that I don’t have to make it for you. Ultimately, I will do what’s necessary to protect you.”
25
Lauren
I awoke in my bed to the sound of the Weird Sisters chattering. The room was dark, but I could see light behind the thick curtains, indicating it was still da
ytime. Why was I in bed? What day was it?
I heard Michael and Kendall talking on the other side of my bedroom door, but I couldn’t make out their words over DDTTB’s yapping.
Why would Michael be here?
“No, no, Maribel thought herself immortal because she was mated to the White King,” Hecate was saying to the other two. “But their mating bond was flawed.”
“Imbalanced is what it was,” Hag #2 corrected.
“He’s not immortal,” Hag #3 argued. “He just doesn’t die.”
“He does die,” Hag #2 insisted. “But like a phoenix, he can’t stay dead.”
“And now the world is doomed …” Hecate crooned dramatically.
“Doomed, doomed, doomed,” the other two chorused in agreement.
“Because he’s made the dreaded Rogue immortal, too,” Hecate concluded.
“Not immortal,” Hag #3 argued once again. “She just can’t die.”
“She can’t stay dead,” Hag #2 corrected.
It was like listening to a poorly produced “All About Maribel” podcast all day every day with these bitches. I steadfastly refused to rise to their bait and engage with them.
I knew they referred to the white wolf from my visions as the “White King.” And I’d already gathered that the poor little werelock pup had ultimately grown up to be saddled with Maribel: the purple-eyed werelock trapped in the ether (aka the murderer of all seers) who’d resorted to severing her mating bond with him through dark, unnatural means in order to escape her near-century-long imprisonment between worlds.
The present dilemma, as I understood it to be from my dreams with the seers, was that Maribel had taken a part of the arctic werelock with her when she’d absorbed the black magic of the stolen revenge curse to sever their mate bond. And although her goal had been to cross over and remain dead, she had failed to do so. Thus, she’d been reborn far more powerful—and more warped—than she’d been before, and she was prophesied to wreak havoc on the world as the Rogue creature now known as Sloane.
What I didn’t understand was what DDTTB, Granny Nina, and the other seers thought I could actually do about it. They seemed to think the only solution was the arctic werelock’s destruction—and that somehow I would be able to convince the White King to make this sacrifice for the sake of the greater good. All of my visions thus far of the white wolf were from the past. But the seers had assured me he was alive and well in the present, and that he hadn’t regenerated in four centuries—not since his days as a pup living in the cave on the mountainside.
As I sat up and threw the covers aside, I realized I wasn’t wearing pajamas; I was dressed in my houndstooth pencil skirt and blouse that I’d chosen for work that morning. And my hair was damp. Fuck. I racked my memory, but I didn’t recall coming home. I remembered being on my way to class, speed-walking in my stupid high-heeled boots through the hailstorm, and then …
I reached for the lamp on my nightstand to turn it on, but before I could locate the switch, I knocked my stainless steel water bottle over. Crud. As I was leaning over the edge of the bed to recover my clanking water bottle, the light on my nightstand came on all on its own. Hecate startled me by shrieking, “Salvatella!” and I lost my balance and toppled over the side of the bed.
Kendall burst through the door. “Oh, my God, did you fall out of bed now?”
I was already pushing myself back up as Michael entered behind my roommate and rushed to assist me.
“You okay?” he asked, lifting me off the floor like I weighed nothing and depositing me on the edge of the bed. “Did you have a dizzy spell?”
“Nope. Just my normal coordination impairment rearing its klutzy head.”
“I swear you need a helmet.” Kendall exhaled a rush of air. “That’s what I’m gonna do—buy you a helmet. You could’ve really hurt yourself falling outside today.”
“What happened?”
“You don’t remember anything?” Michael asked. He was kneeling at my feet, having just retrieved my water bottle from beneath the bed.
I shook my head. “I remember walking to class through the hailstorm, and then slipping on ice, but I don’t remember hitting the ground or anything after that.
“You screamed bloody murder as you fell and collapsed unconscious outside of Alexander Hall,” Kendall supplied.
Oh, Jesus.
“You must’ve hit your head,” Kendall continued. “But you don’t have a lump or anything. Michael and I checked.”
“How’d I get home?”
“Michael carried you,” Kendall said.
My cheeks burned as my gaze shifted to Michael. Dear Lord, how many times could I possibly embarrass myself around him in one week?
The doorbell rang, and Kendall told Michael, “Bubble-wrap her while I get that, okay?”
When Michael and I were alone, I shook my head and said, “Oh, my God, Michael … I am so, so sorry. You must think that I have a fainting disorder … or that I’m narcoleptic. I swear this is not normal for me.” Had I slobbered on him again, too, I wondered? “Thank you for carrying my clumsy ass home.”
He smiled. “Not at all. It was entirely my pleasure, I assure you. And Kendall is quite mistaken. What really happened was I saw you slipping from across the quad and I ran to your rescue. You were so grateful that you kissed me. And it was the most non-puke-tastiest kiss you’d ever had. Naturally, your mind was so blown by it that you fainted on the spot.”
The absurd laughter that welled up in my chest as I rolled my eyes at him felt good. “You’re ridiculous. Thank you. I needed that.”
“Anytime. Let me know when you’re up for a repeat performance, since, sadly, it seems you’ve already forgotten how amazing it was for us both.” His eyes lowered meaningfully to my mouth, and for a moment I was almost convinced he’d kissed me for real outside Alexander Hall.
Something had changed. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but the energy seemed different between us. More … familiar. I felt my cheeks heating all over again. I was grasping for a witty, flirty comeback, when Michael winked and stood abruptly.
“Mi-kale!” Emil’s angry growl sent the pleasant warmth that had been spreading in my belly plummeting to a nauseating descent through the floor as he appeared in my bedroom doorway. I jerked back instinctively, retreating toward the head of the bed and pulling the covers back over my legs.
“Oh, hey there, Emil!” Michael greeted the infuriated German giant with a huge grin. “I thought I smelled an overgrown temper tantrum blow into the apartment a moment ago.”
“I know what you did,” Emil accused Michael. “Not cool.”
Despite how genuinely pissed off and scary-looking Emil was, the way he’d pronounced the word “cool” with his thick accent was somehow absurdly comical to me in that moment—particularly given Michael’s display of irreverence toward him. I tucked my lips between my teeth to keep from smiling.
“We had a deal,” Emil’s deep voice snarled. “You know what happens to people who double-cross me.”
“They buy beer for you and your buds for a week? No problem, man.” Michael walked over and slapped Emil on his shoulder. “I’ll get you those study notes like I promised. I don’t want to be responsible for you failing Psych 101 three years in a row.”
Emil was a student here?
“Reverse the block on Kendall,” Emil demanded. “Now.”
“All right, all right,” Michael said with a laugh as a puzzled-looking Kendall appeared in the doorway holding a cup of tea. “Geez, I had no idea you were so hooked on Facebook.”
“You’re on Facebook?” Kendall frowned at Emil. “I couldn’t find you on there when I looked.”
“He is,” Michael answered before Emil could get a word in. “He sent you a friend request. The notification popped up on your phone earlier when you went to put the teakettle on, and I thought it’d be a funny prank to decline his request and block him.” Michael shrugged. “I sincerely apologize for invading your privacy like that, Ke
ndall. The phone wasn’t locked and the screen was face up on the coffee table. It just seemed like a good gag at the time.” He held his arms out, palms up. “I never imagined Emil would get so upset over it. But I guess when you’re falling in love …”
Emil jutted his chin out and made a grunting noise like a caveman, his nostrils flaring. Meanwhile, Kendall tried to play off her smiling, blushing response with an eye-roll as she muttered, “Whatever Michael,” and brought the cup of tea over to me.
While I was thanking Kendall for the tea—and for being an all-around saint for the way she’d been looking after me—Michael and Emil started talking in another language and walked from the room.
I needed to ask Michael how he knew Emil. The dynamics of their frenemy relationship were strange, and Michael had been spewing more bullshit than a politician just now, as Babs would say. Emil had ordered Michael to reverse the block on Kendall, not on him. And while Emil’s English did seem to slip whenever he was angry, how the hell would he have known that it was Michael who had done it? Or that he would find Michael here?
26
Kai
In a moment of weakness—or madness—two days ago, I had broken down and reached out telepathically to Remy to solicit his skills as an empath. As much as I worried about Mike not looking after Lauren’s safety well enough where Emil was concerned, I also worried about Mike looking after Lauren too well. After securing Remy’s discretion and strict confidence, I’d teleported him to Lauren’s campus yesterday afternoon so that he might lurk in the shadows and read her emotions. And Mike’s.
I’d returned to São Paulo this morning and was working in the lab when Remy came by to discuss his visit to Washington.
“So? You saw them?”
“I did.”
“Together?”
“Well—yes.” He smirked. “That was the point, was it not?”