Storybound

by Emily Mckay

  “No way.”

  “Don’t be stubborn. You need help.”

  “What I need is a shower and a whole lot of soap.” I scan the bathroom. “You do have showers in this world, right?”

  “Right behind you.” He points to a wall of glass bricks.

  “Then I’m good.” I start to shut the door and then open it a few more inches to say, “Maybe some Neosporin. Or Bactine. Or whatever the Tuatha equivalent is.”

  There is not even a flicker of confusion in his expression. So I assume he knows what I mean, and I shut the door.

  I eye my tattered Hello, Cupcake! shirt.

  It’s a bloody ruined mess.

  I pull it over my head, wincing as the action stretches my scratches, and then drop it in the sink. Kane or Morgan will probably want to burn it later. Blood can be used to track a person. I don’t even want to imagine what my iron-rich blood could be used for.

  I toe off my shoes and leave them in the corner. My other clothes—socks, underwear, bra, and jeans—are in better shape. The jeans have a few rips and some blood, but maybe Morgan has a washing machine I can borrow.

  The next thing I do is pee. I figure I’ve now been in the Kingdoms of Mithres for close to six hours—which frankly makes it impressive that I didn’t wet myself when the Kellas cat attacked.

  Excerpt from

  Book Five of The Traveler Chronicles:

  The Traveler Undone

  The Nawlins Court has made and lost more fortunes than all the other courts combined. They have a reputation for being charming, lazy, and too pretty to be of any use in a fight.

  Like most rumors about the Nawlins Court, that last is only partly true.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  When I get out of the shower, my bloodied clothes have been washed, mended, and neatly refolded. My Hello, Cupcake! shirt is on top. The bottom two inches that I cut off to bind my hand are still missing. The other rips and tears have been repaired—not stitched with needle and thread, but somehow rewoven, so it looks as though the fabric was never damaged. I bring it to my nose and sniff. The fabric smells clean and faintly of lavender. Like the laundry detergent my mother used when I was a kid.

  Huh.

  Did someone glamour my clothes or is this all part of the Tuatha mending and tailoring service?

  I quickly slip into my underwear and bra.

  Whoever cleaned and folded my clothes in the ten minutes I was in the shower also left me a small jar of ointment.

  I unscrew the lid of the jar and dip my finger in. I kid you not, as I rub the ointment into the wound, the bright red inflammation surrounding the scratch fades to a healthy pink.

  I work quickly, hitting the deeper scratches on my legs first, and then slip into my jeans. The scratches on my arms aren’t very deep, but there are several gouges on my torso and shoulders that may leave scars.

  But it’s not like these are the worst scars I have. That prize goes to the one just above my right breast, where the bullet exited my body. The gun was small caliber, so the entry wound scar just under my shoulder blade is so small, you hardly notice it.

  The thing about bullets—at least about mine—is the physical injury never hurts as much as the mental. Being shot didn’t hurt me. Knowing my father was the one who shot me? That had nearly killed me.

  It was years before I could even look at my naked chest in the mirror without wanting to claw my skin off. Years before I accepted what had happened to me. Like those scars, the ones I got today are proof I survived the battle. I’m not ashamed of being a survivor.

  After a few minutes, the tips of my fingers start to go numb. So I find a washcloth and dip the corner of it in the salve. I’ve just brought the washcloth up to my chin when the door behind me opens and Kane walks in.

  I jerk the washcloth to my chest to cover my scar and the tattoo that covers it. I’m not ashamed of my scars, but that doesn’t mean I want anyone seeing them, either.

  “What the hell?”

  “I knew you would need—” Kane breaks off midsentence.

  In the mirror, I see him look down and realize I am still shirtless. Yeah, my bra covers the important bits and the washcloth covers the bit I really don’t want him to see, but that still leaves a lot of bare skin. His gaze seems to linger on my reflection, and I feel my nerves prickle in response. Then, abruptly, he jerks his gaze away and clears his throat.

  “Need help. Reaching the scratches on your shoulders and back.” He finishes the sentence, like he didn’t even miss a beat.

  “I don’t,” I say quickly. I stretch my left hand over my back and wave it around. “Look. I can reach my back. No problem.”

  “Don’t be stupid.” He reaches around to pick the jar of ointment off the counter.

  I snatch the jar back out of his hand. “I’ll be fine.”

  “If you don’t treat these, a scratch from a Kellas cat can fester for weeks.”

  “Ew.”

  “And after about a day, they stink. And ooze.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “I’m not. The stench allows a Kellas cat to track down any prey that it didn’t kill.”

  “Seriously?” I push the jar back into his hand. “Go for it.”

  Kane dips a finger into the ointment and smears it on one of the scratches on my left shoulder. His touch is brusque and quick, as if this is a task he just wants done. He doesn’t look at the reflection of us in the mirror, but down at the wounds he’s dressing.

  He’s nearly a full foot taller than I am. With his head ducked, I can still see his face, the seriousness of his expression. I’m so distracted watching him, I don’t think to brace myself against the sharp sting of pain when he touches one of the deeper cuts.

  I gasped involuntarily, and his gaze jerks to mine in the mirror. His hand stills.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay. I can take it.” I’ve had much worse, but I don’t tell him that.

  “I’m not used to”—he clears his throat again—”delicate things.”

  “It’s really okay. I’m tough.”

  He nods, but still, he hesitates before barely trailing his finger across one of the scratches on my shoulder blade.

  “I don’t think that,” he says, his voice rough.

  “What?” I ask.

  He clears his throat again. “That you’re delicate.”

  I snort. “Obviously. I think the term you used was stubby.”

  His gaze flickers to mine in the mirror and then back down again. “No. What I meant is, I don’t think you’re weak.”

  “Oh.”

  “You handled yourself well out there. With the Kellas cat. You’re pretty tough.”

  “Pretty tough for a Dark Worlder, you mean?”

  “No.” He looks up again and his gaze holds mine in the mirror. “Pretty tough for anyone. Dark Worlder or Tuatha.”

  His compliment sends another burst of heat spiraling through my chest. Kane-the-effing-Traveler thinks I’m tough. “Thank you.”

  He nods and then looks back down. He seems to be concentrating a bit more than he needs to, as if this conversation makes him deeply uncomfortable. I guess when you’re a badass, lone-wolf mercenary, you’re not used to handing out compliments.

  He continues to rub that one spot, a gentle brush of his fingertips, over and over until the ointment is absorbed. And then he moves on to the next scratch and then the next.

  Everywhere he touches, there’s the faint numbing from the ointment. The pleasant warmth that follows has nothing to do with the salve and everything to do with Kane. I feel myself softening, my whole body relaxing, warmth swirling up through my torso and then back down again until I tingle all over.

  My reaction surprises me. After I was shot, I was in the hospital for weeks. My lung had collapsed. They inserte
d a tube to drain fluid from it. There were multiple surgeries and then physical therapy. After a while, I sort of…detached from my own body. This physical vessel I walked around was handled and manipulated by countless doctors, nurses, physical therapists, and aides. Even when the caregivers were kind, respectful, and sensitive, the experience was dehumanizing. Later, my therapist called it a coping mechanism. At the time, I was so broken inside, I didn’t want to feel human. Either way, when that many strangers touch your body, it no longer feels like it’s your body.

  To be honest, I wasn’t sure it would ever feel like my body again. Until now.

  My eyes drift closed as I lose myself in the sensation of his fingertips trailing heat along my shoulder blades. One of my bra straps must have gotten in his way, because he hooks a finger under it and lowers it off my shoulder. A sigh comes unbidden to my lips. I feel his hands still and then pull away.

  My eyes fly open and I find him staring at me in the mirror. I can’t look away from the reflection of the two of us together. His expression is dark, shuttered. My cheeks are flushed, my lips parted and damp, like I licked them without realizing it.

  Abruptly, he drops his hands. He reaches past me to set the jar of ointment on the counter and grabs the towels beside the sink. Wiping the excess ointment off his fingers he says, “I think I got the worst of them.”

  I nod, mutely, but I’m not sure if he even notices. He tosses the towel on the counter and goes to leave, then pauses with his hand on the doorknob.

  “I’m not him, you know.”

  “What?” I ask, turning toward him

  Now he does look up at me, and I press the washcloth more firmly against my skin.

  “The character from the books. That guy you think you know. I’m not him.”

  “I know that,” I say quickly.

  “I’m not a hero. I’m not someone anyone looks up to. I’m not even particularly nice.”

  “I—”

  “If we met under different circumstances, if I didn’t need your help, I probably wouldn’t even care if you lived or died.”

  “I know,” I say for a third time, but this time Kane is already gone, closing the door firmly behind him.

  Alone in the room, I turn back to the mirror.

  Slowly I lower my hand, letting the washcloth drop into the sink. There, on my chest just a little right of center, is the scar from where I was shot. A puckered oval, barely visible since I got the tattoo. A tattoo in the shape of a rune. A gentle arc of three overlapping backward J’s. It’s a rune for protection. For disguise and deceit. It’s the rune Kane has marked on his own chest.

  I shiver when I remember how his hands felt on my skin. Like I was alive again. Like I was fully in my body for the first time in years.

  Shaking off the feeling, I pull my mended T-shirt over my head.

  Was I honest with Kane just now, or did I lie to him and to myself?

  Do I know that he’s not the character I fell in love with from the books? Does it matter?

  Excerpt from

  Book Five of The Traveler Chronicles:

  The Traveler Undone

  No one likes a smart-ass.

  That probably explains why I don’t have more friends.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  When I leave the bathroom, Kane is gone. The guest room is empty and I’m all alone.

  There is a note propped on the bed.

  It’s late. Can’t do more until morning anyway. Get some rest.

  — K

  Part of me wants to argue with this logic. Yes, it’s late. But it’s harder to do magic during the day, so if we’re going to break the princess and the Curator out of jail, shouldn’t we go now?

  Clutching the note in my hand, I walk toward the door, but my ankle hurts with every step. I make it only halfway across the room before I turn and hobble back to the bed. I swing my legs to examine my throbbing ankle. It’s starting to swell.

  Kane has essentially stranded me here.

  Even as tired as I am, my thoughts race. No, race isn’t quite the right word. It’s more like they leap from topic to topic, like a frog on lily pads. I am in the Kingdoms of Mithres. Is my mother trying to reach me? She would be texting me for sure. She must be terrified that I haven’t texted back. But I am in the Kingdoms of Mithres. In. The. Kingdoms. Of Mithres.

  And, apparently, I’m an Untethered Sleeker. Whatever that is.

  The Curator didn’t need just anyone to cross the threshold. She needed me. She’d searched for me.

  And there it was—the lily pad not strong enough to support my weight. I feel the thought folding around me, dragging me underwater. Holding me there.

  If the Curator believes I am of Sleeker blood, then it must be recent Sleeker blood.

  Not some distant ancestor I never knew, but a parent.

  The truth holds me underwater until I feel like I’m drowning.

  My father.

  My troubled, broken father.

  What if he wasn’t broken after all?

  During the incident, he’d ranted and raved about monsters only he could see. What if hellhounds and Kellas cats weren’t the only monsters that were real?

  What if he wasn’t crazy. What if he was a Sleeker?

  Oh, that was a dangerous idea. It tapped into all my deepest fantasies. My darkest yearnings.

  What if he hadn’t really been crazy? What if he’d never meant to hurt me? What if he’d been trying to protect me from something when he’d fired that gun?

  What if…?

  What if…?

  Those are the thoughts that hold my mind as I drift off to sleep.

  I dream of the lily pads and drowning. And for the first time in years, I dream of my father.

  In my memories, he is tall and thin. And always—or almost always—dressed in a meticulous iron-gray suit. He was always either coming home from a business trip or leaving on one. Even on weekends, even when he was relaxed, there was a fastidiousness about him. A contained-ness. But he loved reading, and my best memories of him, my earliest memories of him, are of sitting on his lap, my cheek pressed to his chest as he read to me. He loved the sci-fi and fantasy classics. Tolkien. McCaffrey. Zimmer Bradley.

  And in the dream, I am on his lap, even though, at ten, I am too old. But it’s late, and he just got in from a business trip. I’m on his lap, rubbing my cheek back and forth against the warmth of his suit jacket, while he reads aloud. And in my dream, I hear his voice starting a book.

  Sure, I have a binding name, but if you’re stupid enough to ask me what it is, I don’t want to work for you.

  Excerpt from

  Book Five of The Traveler Chronicles:

  The Traveler Undone

  The Tuatha disdain physical violence. They think it’s uncivilized.

  I’ve used this to my advantage more than once in a fight. Obviously.

  Maybe it’s my Dark World blood, but I actually like punching things. Besides, when you use a blasting rod, you need a little space between you and the guy you’re blasting. You need only five inches to punch someone in the kidneys.

  When I’m in a fight, I don’t give a frayed Thread about being civilized. What I care about is winning.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I wake with a foggy brain and a sharp pain in my ankle.

  It’s dark in the room, but there’s a light on in the hall—just bright enough for me to see that there’s someone in the room with me, sitting at the foot of the bed.

  I scramble back.

  “Who are you?”

  The person reaches out and turns on a lamp on the bedside table.

  It’s a girl about my age. Her skin is lighter than Morgan’s, her hair a riot of curls that have been subdued into two ponytails on the top of her head. She’s dressed in a crisp white tennis skort with lime green tr
im and a matching polo. There is an air of comforting kindness about her. She’s like Snow White and chamomile tea mixed together and poured into the body of a runway model.

  “Your ankle is broken,” she says gently. “Just a hairline fracture, but walking on it will make it worse.” As she says the words, she reaches out a finger and skims it along my ankle.

  I feel another jab of pain before I wrench my ankle out of her reach.

  “Oh,” she says, wide-eyed. “Did that hurt?”

  “Yes.” I have to suck in a few deeps breaths before I can speak. “You’re Ro.”

  She jerks her hand away from me, looking startled, and then giggles. “Morgan is right. That is disconcerting.”

  “What is?”

  “You are. Knowing things about us when you’ve never met us.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling like a stalker again.

  “No! It’s okay.” Ro breaks into a grin. She bounces a little, tucking one leg up under her. “Tell me more. What do the books say about me?” She leans forward, looking like a tween eager to gossip at a slumber party. “How did he describe me? Obviously, he got my physical description right, or you wouldn’t have recognized me. But what kinds of powers do I have in the books?”

  “You have an affinity to the alkaline elements.”

  “Oh,” She sits back, frowning. “Well, that’s a bummer.”

  “Why? Is that not your power in real life?”

  “No, it is,” she admits. “It’s just, like, the dullest, crappiest affinity ever. Shifters are a drakuna a dozen.”

  “Shifters?” I ask. “You mean shape-shifters? Like, werewolves?”

  “Werewolves?” She looks confused, but then laughs. “I only wish I had that kind of power. No, people with an alkaline affinity are earth movers. Shifters. Because they shift land around.”

  “That sounds pretty powerful to me.”