by Kelly Meding
Everything. Me, him, the world. We weren’t the same people we’d been, even five minutes ago. As my memories returned, I would continue to evolve. Into someone who battled against foreign desire and fought for duty above self. One who would be dead again in fifty-something hours. One who would leave him again.
“Evy?”
He stood toe-to-toe, drilling me with his intense gaze. I looked down, unable to drum up any of my previous levity. All I felt was consuming sadness—heavy, palpable, and suffocating.
“We should go,” I said. “We’re running out of time.”
I opened the service door and fled into the bright third-floor corridor. Wyatt followed at a distance, and we did not speak again until we returned to his car.
* * *
“Chalice!”
The stranger’s voice bounced off the building behind me. I froze in place, fingers brushing the door handle. On the other side of the car, Wyatt tensed. We both turned in the direction of the library.
A boy in his late teens jogged down the sidewalk, his long brown hair flowing behind in tangled strands. He wore baggy jeans and moved with all of the grace of a newborn foal. He stumbled once, but kept going, intent on me.
“Hey, Chal,” he said, putting on the brakes. He almost overshot me.
“Hey,” I replied, not a clue who the kid was. Damn Chalice for having friends.
“What happened to you yesterday?” He had a high, nasally voice that, I imagined, became quite irritating after long-term exposure. “Dude, Baxter was furious when you didn’t show, and then he got all worried, ’cause you’re never late.” He eyed the bandage on my forearm. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I am now,” I said, holding up my arm. Lies tumbled out of my mouth. “Grease fire in my apartment. My, um, brother, Wyatt, over there was visiting, and he wanted to make stir-fry. He sloshed the oil and it got me, but then I had a bad reaction to painkillers at the hospital or I would have called. Tell … uh …” What name had he said? “Tell Baxter I’m sorry.”
The kid cocked his head to the left, analyzing one of those sentences. With my luck, Chalice was an only child and everyone knew it. He’d call me on it, and I’d have to fudge another lie.
“Tell Baxter yourself, Chal; he’ll be there when you go on-shift tonight,” he finally said.
I bit the inside of my cheek to stifle relieved laughter. Yeah, that was going to happen. “Right, sure. Look, I hate to be rude, but I really have to go.”
“Yeah, okay.” He shrugged one shoulder, seeming unbothered by my abrupt dismissal. He looked across the car and offered Wyatt a half-assed salute. “Dude, your sister’s awesome.” He turned and continued his wobble-legged journey down the street.
After he managed to put about twenty feet of distance between us, I turned and placed my palms flat against the top of the car. “That was somewhat surreal.”
“Brother?” Wyatt asked, still ghostly pale from his summoning exertion, but seeming less likely to be bowled over by a strong wind.
“It slipped out. At least I didn’t say that I missed my shift because I was dead and hadn’t made my four o’clock resurrection appointment yet.”
“His expression would have been priceless.”
“Why couldn’t I have woken up in the body of a homeless person that nobody knew? This has the potential to become very, very complicated.”
“I think we’ve passed that mile marker already. You said you met Chalice’s roommate. Now we know she has a job somewhere, so people are bound to recognize her.”
“Not to mention the suicide report that some city cop has probably filed away with Chalice’s photo in it.”
He blew air through his lips, eyebrows scrunching. “We need to make you disappear, Evy. Get Chalice Frost erased from the system.”
“You’re thinking of this now?”
“I’ve been a little distracted by other details, like tracking you down and tending to your self-healing wounds. If you’d come back where you were supposed to, it wouldn’t be an issue.”
I rolled my eyes.
He mimicked me, and then said, “We need to get this done so we can keep focusing on your memory.”
He was right. Hoping that Chalice Frost’s former life wouldn’t become a problem had been idiotic. We should have dealt with it right away. Time to correct a mistake. I just didn’t know what to do about Alex Forrester, but knocking him out cold and locking him in a closet for the next two days sounded promising.
I opened the door and climbed into the passenger seat. “So how do we do this?”
Wyatt turned the key and the car engine roared to life. “I need to stop by a bakery.”
I stared.
He winked. “Trust me.”
Chapter Ten
55:20
I balanced the bakery box in both hands, careful to not drop and ruin the expensive treat inside as I ascended the rickety metal staircase. Wyatt led the way up, taking the steps two at a time. The interior of the service stairwell smelled of forgetfulness and disuse.
We had returned to downtown. Wyatt had left me in the running car while he ran into a bakery and, moments later, returned with a white box. I hadn’t opened it, but a sticker on the side said “CSCK—Cherry Top.” Given the shape and weight of the box, I silently translated that into “Cheesecake—Cherry Topping.” I had kept my questions to myself, even when Wyatt drove us back toward Mercy’s Lot.
Halfway there, he had said, “You know, you’re showing amazing restraint.”
“With what? The cheesecake?”
A tiny smile. “No, with not asking me about the night you died. And who else was in the room.”
“You’ll tell me when I need to know something.”
“Fair enough.”
After reaching the outskirts of Mercy’s Lot, he had parked in front of an abandoned potato chip factory and said we needed to head to the top level.
Six flights up I smelled it. Faint at first, and then gradually stronger—the eye-watering stench of fermented sugar. I felt like I was walking into a distillery, and that clued me in as to who we were visiting.
Gremlins are the cockroaches of Dregs. They live short lives in the dark (eight days is the record), reproduce like bunnies, and are hard to kill. They are also hermaphroditic. On the fourth day of their lives they produce and fertilize litters of twelve, which are fully grown within twenty-four hours. Gremlins are as notorious for causing havoc with machinery as they are for having a sweet tooth. Existing almost entirely on a sugar-based diet, their waste created the alcoholic smell that permeated the upper floors of the factory.
I’m still waiting for some brave soul to start marketing Gremlin Piss Schnapps.
Flexible as putty and ugly as sin, the eighteen-inch-tall creatures didn’t fear the Triads. Instead of death and destruction, they specialized in causing trouble and occasional mayhem. We had no reason to hunt them. Their only natural enemies were gargoyles—as a crunchy snack or sport hunting, I didn’t know—and their own brief life spans.
On the seventh level, I began to hear the scuffling sounds of small feet racing back and forth. They knew we were there; it was only a matter of seconds before they sent an emissary. Gremlins did not speak to outsiders en masse. They rarely showed their full strength, and given the size of the factory (and the stink), there could easily be thousands of gremlins breeding in the shadows.
We reached the eighth floor. A reinforced fire door blocked the top of the stairwell. Wyatt banged his open palm against it.
“Ballengee be blessed,” he shouted. His voice bounced off the enclosed space, and I clutched the bakery box closer. More scuffling preceded a single set of footsteps.
A lock turned on the other side of the door. Wyatt pushed. The tiny creature scrambled away and disappeared. I followed Wyatt into a haze of odor so thick my eyes watered. It felt heavy against my skin, like a fog of liquor fumes. I held my breath, but it did no good. The stink was everywhere, seeping into my pores, so strong I could taste it.
; We stood on the upper balcony of a catwalk that overlooked a cavernous production area. To my left was a row of offices, the doors gone and glass broken out of every window. The open area below caught my immediate interest. Hundreds of gremlins scurried about on those multi level floors. Dozens of nests, made of cardboard and shredded debris, dotted nearly every available space. The din of their chatter and daily activity sounded like faint machine-gun fire—constant and sharp. Huge metal vats (likely old deep fryers) were filled with pools of amber liquid.
“They certainly took the term, ‘ piss pot’ to a literal level,” Wyatt said.
I snorted, but could not drum up laughter. The sight of so many Dregs in one place startled me. I had never seen such a gathering, nor been invited into the heart of this community. Whatever “Ballengee be blessed” meant, it worked to gain their trust.
“Why for come you?”
The tiny voice startled me. I spun around and nearly dropped the cheesecake. Barely twenty inches tall, an elderly gremlin gazed at us from the floor. Its long, apish arms and knob-kneed legs were wrinkled, with yellowish skin that seemed transparent in places. A round, distended belly hung low. Tall, rabbitlike ears stuck out from its oval-shaped head at perfect right angles, accented by tufts of green fur. More green fur covered the top of its flat head. The gremlin smiled, revealing two rows of tiny teeth in a mouth that seemed too small for the width of its head. Red eyes blinked, shifting from me to Wyatt.
“I would like to buy a favor,” Wyatt said.
The gremlin tilted its head, a very thoughtful (and human) gesture. “Payment?”
Wyatt nudged me. I opened the top of the box and squatted down. The gremlin peered into the box. A whistle of delight turned into a shriek, and it rubbed clawed hands together. I pulled the box away before the little critter could drool all over it.
“Favor?” it asked.
“A computer wipe,” Wyatt replied. “I need all traces and records for the name Chalice Frost erased. Every data source, every police file, all of it. After today, she doesn’t exist. We need paper copies of everything dropped at this address.”
“Chalice Frost,” it repeated. The tinny voice did not match its horrific appearance. It seemed better suited to a tiny human being than a creature of nightmare. It took a slip of paper from Wyatt. “Will done be. All is that?”
“That’s all, and I need it done in two hours.”
“Less.”
“Good.”
The gremlin extended its clawed hands toward me. I looked at Wyatt; he gestured toward the bakery box. I handed it over. The small creature grabbed it and hobbled off, probably to gorge its latest brood.
“That’s it?” I asked.
“Yes, that’s it,” Wyatt said.
“How do you know it will keep its part of the deal?”
“How did you know before that Max wouldn’t spill his guts?”
“Point taken.”
Gremlins don’t understand deception. It’s a very human trait. For many of the Dregs, especially those who are more animal than others, things simply are. Gremlins need food. In return for food they don’t have to steal themselves, they will grant a favor. It doesn’t even occur to them to not hold up their end.
I followed him across the balcony, back toward the stairwell. “Too bad human beings aren’t more like gremlins,” I said. “Then we probably wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“I hear that.”
“So Chalice is almost taken care of.” My voice echoed around us, and I reminded myself to whisper. “What’s our next step, O Great Mastermind? Max was a dead end. Any other suspects on the list of people present the night I died?”
Wyatt stopped on the steps; I grabbed the rail to halt my own forward movement and avoid knocking him down to the next landing. He tugged back the sleeve of his shirt, twisting his wrist to check his watch. The glowing face lit up with the time—barely after ten. I watched the seconds click by, ticking away the last few days of my life. One, two, three seconds that I would never get back.
“I think it’s been long enough,” he said, breaking the silence.
“Long enough for what?”
He turned his head and looked up at me. Something hard and angry flickered in his eyes. “To talk to Rufus.”
* * *
Rufus St. James was Wyatt’s mirror opposite. Another well-known Handler, Rufus exuded the patience and understanding of a wizened gnome lord, and was slower to anger than any human being I’d ever met. His Triad was as elusive as mine had been infamous, preferring stealth and secrecy to a reputation as swift dealers of punishment. Probably why they were still alive, and we were all (technically) dead.
Wyatt took us to the east side of Mercy’s Lot, far beyond the last of the apartment buildings and row homes. I considered asking where the hell we were meeting Rufus, but the hard line of Wyatt’s jaw (he was going to break his teeth one of these days) kept me silent. His path took us to the weedy parking lot of an abandoned fast-food restaurant. An empty strip mall occupied the other half of the lot, every storefront covered with graffiti. The sounds of the city seemed so far away from this ghostly part of town. Oddly stronger, though, were the lingering threads of static that still tickled the edges of my senses.
He parked around back, careful to obscure his car from passing motorists. Judging by the potholes we’d hit, I doubted many people ventured into this area, especially after dark. It felt like the perfect Halfie feeding ground.
A brand-new padlock secured the rear exit of the restaurant. Wyatt produced a key and let us inside. Faint odors of stale grease and humid air made me sneeze. I followed Wyatt through a dusty, grimy kitchen, toward a huge, walk-in refrigerator.
“Why are we meeting Rufus here?” I finally ventured to ask.
Wyatt looked at me over his shoulder. “Because this is where I put him.”
I gaped at the refrigerator, noticing for the first time that the temperature controls were set to forty degrees Fahrenheit. Wyatt had kidnapped a fellow Handler and held him in an industrial fridge? More than unexpected, the realization was downright horrifying.
Hear that, Chalice? This is the guy you’re so keen to sleep with.
Wyatt tugged the handle. The door squealed open. Cold air wafted around my ankles, sending gooseflesh tickling across the backs of my legs. I didn’t want to look, but felt compelled to follow. If Wyatt had Rufus locked up in a fridge, he had a good reason for it. I refused to believe that Wyatt had completely lost his grip on reality.
Rufus sat in the center of the room, legs tucked oddly beneath him so that his ass rested on his shoes rather than the cold floor. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, and held both arms tightly around his waist. His pale skin was nearly translucent, contrasting harshly with his strawberry blond hair. Freckles dotted his face and neck like pockmarks. He shivered so continuously, he appeared to vibrate. I saw no chains, no restraints holding him in place. Bright hazel eyes glared first at Wyatt, then at me.
I didn’t dare speak. Rufus didn’t seem to have the strength. For a moment, the gentle thrum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the room.
“Ready to talk now?” Wyatt asked. “Or do you need a few more hours to chill?”
The pun fell flat, and I could have punched him for even uttering it. Rufus ignored him, his attention still on me, trying to puzzle me out. Unlike Wyatt, Rufus was a powerless Handler, known more for his extreme intelligence and tactical mind. He was measuring his chances, observing his situation. Considering the latest unknown variable: me.
“You’re a fool, Wyatt,” Rufus said at last. “Born one, and you’ll die one.”
Starting out with a verbal challenge—not good. I expected Wyatt to usher me back out of the fridge and slam the door, giving Rufus more time to “chill.” Instead, he asked, “How’s that?”
“For believing Tovin.” Wyatt arched his eyebrows, the only indication that Rufus’s words surprised him. “For your insistence in holding on to the naïve idea that people like us
get happy endings. How can you think for a second you’ll get away with what you’ve done?”
“It’s not about happiness anymore, Rufus. Right now it’s about justice for Evy, and stopping what’s about to happen.”
“Ah yes, the infamous deal between goblins and Bloods. Why is it no one else has heard of this? Why isn’t the brass all over it, Wyatt? You’re putting yourself up against a dozen other races, and for what? There’s no cause; no effect. It’s all in your head.”
“Is that what they’re saying? Poor Truman has lost his mind, so let’s bring him in for the public’s safety?”
“No, for your safety. Everyone knows you’re powerful, and now they think you’re insane. The old Wyatt Truman would never have tortured a friend for answers that don’t exist. The old Wyatt Truman wouldn’t have made a freewill deal to resurrect a wanted murderer just to further his fantasy of redemption.”
Wyatt lunged. I blocked him and was nearly bowled over for my efforts. I pressed my hands against Wyatt’s shoulders, holding him still. Fury flickered in his eyes, bright as fire and just as dangerous. I held my ground, my own temper peaking.
A freewill deal.
I’d questioned the bruises on Wyatt’s abdomen, as well as his simmering anger, in the were-cat’s apartment when I questioned his investment. Magic isn’t cheap, and it’s often dangerous. Because it breaks that tenuous barrier between life and death, I’d been unable to imagine the price Wyatt had paid to bring me back. Nothing seemed like enough, and I had never pondered such a huge sacrifice.
A freewill deal is exactly how it sounds—the willing trade of one’s free will in exchange for magic. Only the most powerful mages in any species can perform such a bargain, resolve tested by the beating and contract signed with blood. Wyatt had traded his free will in order to give me three more days.
“I’m the one who will be dead again in two and a half days, not you.” In some ways, he would die. He would be subject to the will of his master for the rest of his natural life. Way longer than my three days. All for what was in my head.
No pressure.