My healing factor is mopping up the damage at a decent rate, considering just how many severe injuries Targus dealt me in a matter of minutes. But no degree of healing can hide the fact I took a beating, and I don’t want any pedestrian do-gooders siccing a pack of paramedics on me. A trip to the hospital will cost me too much time, and raise the odds that someone from DSI will track me down before I’m able to skip town.
So I hurry along through side streets and back alleys, sticking to the shadows and steering clear of any busy areas. As I duck behind a dumpster to avoid a group of boisterous people passing the end of an alley, I curse myself for not thinking to move my truck out of the DSI garage and park it in a public space before I headed off to intercept Targus at his orchestrated crash scene.
At the time, of course, I was less concerned about my own well-being than I was about making sure the plan to save Sadie went off without a hitch. Newsome only had seconds to activate the portal charm Reid provided and whisk everyone except the driver off to the Eververse before the SUV passed the array of magic-dampening wards on the DSI perimeter. If she’d acted too late, Targus might’ve sensed the disturbance in the veil, realized what we were up to, and pursued Newsome’s group into the Eververse to kill Sadie before she was passed into the custody of the Winter Court’s liaison.
Thankfully, Newsome didn’t make any critical mistakes, and Targus took the bait.
Unthankfully, part of that bait was the confrontation with me on the rooftop.
Note to self: next time you get the bright idea to confront someone exponentially stronger than you, crush the fucking light bulb.
By some miracle, I make it back to my apartment building and slip in through the side door into the secondary stairwell without being seen by anyone other than a few homeless people rummaging around in the back dumpster, and homeless people, as a general rule, mind their own damn business. So up the stairs I go, stopping here and there to wipe away a bloody smudge on a step or a rail, until I finally trundle onto the landing for my floor. At which point I stop, crack the stairwell door open, and sneak a peek down the hallway. No one walking. No one talking. No elevator clanking up the floors. I’m good to go.
Slipping out into the hall, I shut the stairwell door softly behind me and proceed to make a mad dash for my apartment. The key slips into the lock with surprising ease, considering how badly my hand is shaking, and I turn the knob, push the front door open, and stumble into my foyer in what is somehow a single continuous move that may very well violate the laws of physics. I then close the door and slide the deadbolt into place with a reassuring clack. And finally, I unceremoniously slump against the door and slide straight to the floor, a deep sigh rumbling through my achy ribs.
Walk of shame complete, I think sourly. Now comes the shuffle of crippling depression.
My first order of business is to power up my laptop and delete the five copies of the email, which isn’t quite as big a deal as I convinced Targus it was. The content of the email points to Targus as the culprit behind the murders and backs up the accusation with the DNA evidence that DSI now has on file, but it doesn’t actually connect Targus to the High Court or in any way imply Targus’ actions were sanctioned by the ICM.
As hard as it may be to believe, I’m not quite reckless enough to risk driving the global supernatural super-community into a war of attrition fated to have an unholy civilian casualty rate. I won’t publicly spill the beans about the High Court’s treachery until I can do so in a way that results in their censure without triggering large-scale inter-community conflict.
I told Targus otherwise because I knew he’d be more likely to concede to a stalemate if he thought the nuclear option was in play, and luckily for my sore ass, he didn’t call my bluff.
Email deleted—though I save the text in a Word doc, just in case—I shut down my laptop, zip it up in its padded case, and set it in plain sight on my coffee table, the first of several key items I need to make sure I don’t leave behind. The next order of business is a quick but soothing shower, followed by a meal that consists of three TV dinners, four sodas, and an energy drink I hope provides enough juice to get me through the rest of this difficult evening. After I toss the remains of that unhealthy dinner in the trash, I head to my bedroom and dig out from my closet a suitcase, a ratty backpack, and a duffle bag.
Then I start packing my life away.
All my important documents, including my passport, are carefully arranged in the backpack, along with my laptop, the magic books I borrowed from Erica’s shop, and an envelope full of emergency cash I set aside last month—everything I had left in savings after my involuntary apartment reno—in case the Black Knights came calling for revenge and I had to drop off the grid to keep my head attached to my shoulders.
The bulk of my cold-weather clothing gets stuffed into the duffle bag, including an assortment of thick gloves, knitted beanie hats, and fluffy scarves, everything I need to survive what’s shaping up to be a dreary winter. And lastly, into the suitcase goes a variety of toiletries sealed in plastic baggies, three pairs of well-worn shoes, my sparse collection of framed family photos, and all the random personal knickknacks I don’t want to end up in a landfill when my lease inevitably lapses and my landlord clears the place.
As I’m zipping up the suitcase, a buzzing noise catches my ear. My phone, sitting on the kitchen table.
I close my eyes and sigh. Figures I wouldn’t get away without one last dose of guilt.
With the help of a bedpost, I hoist myself up and slog into the kitchen. The screen of my phone has already gone dark, but a quick tap reveals a new text message at the top of my notifications list. It’s from Ella, and it says, Hey, where are you? Nick swung by almost an hour ago and said you went out to grab some Chinese for the team. You get held up in the crowds somewhere? If you need a pickup, let me know.
For a brief moment, I consider typing out an excuse. A lie. Another lie.
But that would make me feel even worse, so I set the phone down and don’t answer at all.
Instead, I walk over to my printer, slip a single sheet of plain paper out of the tray, locate a working pen, and sit down at the kitchen table, where I proceed to write an unsatisfying single-paragraph resignation letter. I manage to squeeze in a hint that they should check the office for bugs between the I’m sorry and the I won’t be around for a while, but that makes the letter come off just as cryptic as it does apologetic.
It’s the best I can do on short notice though—and really, is there any good way to sever all your personal ties when you can’t explain why those ties need to be severed?—so I fold the letter, stick it in an envelope, and write “Captain” on the front. No point in mailing it to the office. Ella will send someone to snoop around my apartment if she doesn’t hear from me in the next few hours.
That cringe-worthy piece of business done, I examine my apartment one final time.
The spackled spot in the wall next to the front door, where I once slammed the doorknob through the drywall. The new wooden boards partially hidden by the living room rug, installed to cover a hole in the floor left by a vampire’s foot. All the new furniture and equipment, marred by nothing but dust and a few food crumbs, that I obviously wasted a tremendous amount of money to obtain, under the impression I’d keep on living in this apartment for more than three weeks after the Black Knights tore it apart. Under the impression this place that had been my home—my first real home as an adult—would remain my home indefinitely. Under the impression my life would never get so badly shaken up that I’d be forced to abandon my home, my job, and my friends, i.e. everything, in a matter of hours, and walk out the door into the great unknown.
I should’ve known better.
But I didn’t, so here I am.
I switch off every light in the house, unplug all the electronics, gather up all the perishable foods and drop them down the garbage chute, then retrieve my three bags from my bedroom and shut my bedroom door behind me. I head down the hall, n
ot daring to glance to my left or my right, then come to a halt in the foyer. I dig my apartment key out of my pocket, set it on the side table next to the door, then unlock the deadbolt and open the door. I exit my apartment—no, the apartment—let the door swing shut behind me and lock me out, then march down the hall toward the elevator.
Somewhere behind me, I hear the ghost of my phone vibrating.
I don’t look back.
Thirty minutes later, a cab spits me out at the drop-off lane of the transportation depot on Mormont Street. I sit down on a bench between a Chinese man on a video call with a business partner on the other side of the world and a middle-aged woman trying her best to wrangle three children under twelve. The next shuttle bus doesn’t come around for another few minutes, so I take the opportunity to slip my laptop out of my backpack, access the depot’s public WiFi, and scroll through a few airfare websites until I find a reasonably priced ticket to an international airport on the east coast, where I can grab an overnight connecting flight across the Atlantic.
On the ride over, I thought long and hard about where exactly I should go. But after running in mental circles for the better part of half an hour, churning through my short list of friends and acquaintances who live outside the city limits and might offer me a spare bedroom, I realized there was only one viable answer. Only one destination not bound to drive me stir crazy. Only one destination where I might achieve some modicum of satisfaction during my banishment period. Only one destination where I can do something, small as it is, that actually matters to me.
At six thirty on the dot, with Aurora fully entrenched in winter dusk, the airport shuttle bus swings around into the pickup lane and stops in front of the bench. I stow my laptop in my backpack, slip the pack over my shoulder, grab my duffle bag and suitcase, and line up behind the overworked mother, the busy businessman, and the other colorful characters who’ve chosen to leave the city tonight and soar off toward a dozen vastly different worlds to begin the next stage of their vastly different lives.
The last person on the bus, I head straight to the back and take my seat not a second before the doors squeak shut and the bus begins to move. Away from the depot. Away from my city. Away from my life.
As the familiar sights that have defined me for the past twenty-three years begin to melt into a blur, I press my hand to the cold window and whisper a prayer for everyone I know and everything I love to stay safe until I return.
Then I face forward, take a deep breath, and murmur, “Goodbye, Michigan. Hello, Siberia.”
To Be Continued
IN DAWN SLAYER
Coming Soon!
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Books by Clara Coulson
CITY OF CROWS
Soul Breaker
Shade Chaser
Wraith Hunter
Doom Sayer
Day Killer
Spell Caster
Dawn Slayer
TALES FROM THE CITY OF CROWS
Dream Snatcher
THE FROST ARCANA
What Fate Portends
What Man Defies
What Gods Incite
What Dawn Demands
About Clara Coulson
Clara Coulson was born and raised in backwoods Virginia, USA. Currently in her mid-twenties, Clara holds a degree in English and Finance from the College of William & Mary and recently retired from the hustle and bustle of Washington, DC to return to the homeland and pick up the quiet writing life.
Clara spends most of her time (when she's not writing) dreaming up new story ideas, studying Japanese, and slowly reading through the several-hundred-book backlog in her budding home library. If she's not occupied with any of those things, then you can probably find her playing with her two cats or lurking in the shadows of various social media websites.
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Spell Caster Page 29