Shadow Bound (Unbound)

by Rachel Vincent

  Someone cleared her throat next to our table, and I looked up to see the waitress standing there with nothing in her hands. “Is there anything else I can get you two?” she asked, and I realized she was hinting at the check, which meant her shift was probably over.

  “No, I think we’re fine.” I set my credit card on top of the bill—the syndicate would reimburse me after I filed the receipt—and she slid both into the pocket of her black apron. Then she picked up my empty short glass and when she turned to say something to Ian, the glass she held slammed into Ian’s full glass of water. Which then slammed into mine. The water from both glasses poured over the edge of the table and onto my lap like a miniature waterfall. An ice-cold waterfall that splashed all the way up to my chin and soaked through my jeans so fast I may as well have been sitting on a glacier.

  The waitress stared, frozen. And for a moment, I was too stunned to move.

  Then that moment was over.

  “Son of a motherfucking, ass-reaming, shit-eating, hell-dodging soulless bitch!” I stood too fast and my head swam, and the water poured down my pants to form freezing puddles in my boots.

  Ian burst into laughter, the waitress burst into tears, and more profanity exploded from my mouth so fast I couldn’t even tell what I was saying. But the whole damn bar heard it.

  “I’m so sorry!” the waitress blubbered. “Here, let me help.” She pulled off her grease-stained black apron and started wiping at my crotch until a growl rumbled up from somewhere deep inside me.

  “Get. The fuck. Off me,” I said, so soft I barely heard the words. She backed away, clutching her apron in one shaking fist.

  “I’m so sorry. Let me take care of the bill.” She set my credit card back on the table.

  “It’s coming out of your check,” the bartender called from across the bar, and the waitress flinched.

  “That’s not necessary.” Ian dropped a fifty and a twenty on the table, then grabbed my credit card and reached for my arm. But he stopped just short of touching me and held one hand out toward the back of the bar instead, gesturing for me to go first.

  I stomped stiffly toward the bathroom, acutely aware that everyone was watching me. There was no sound, other than our footsteps. No silverware clanged. No ice cubes clinked. There was just me and my walk of shame.

  In the back hall, Ian held the door to the tiny, one-person women’s room for me, then followed me in and bolted the door while I cursed under my breath. “It’s just a little water,” he said, pulling handfuls of brown paper towels from the dispenser next to the sink.

  “It’s fucking Niagara Falls in my pants. With ice.”

  “There is a backlog of crude jokes in here just begging to be cracked,” he said, tapping his own temple for emphasis. “But I want you to know that I’m holding them all back out of respect for your pain. I, too, have been the victim of an ice-water crotch deluge. There’s no way to bear it gracefully.”

  “You’re fucking right about that.” And frankly, I was surprised to hear that he knew any crude jokes.

  He chuckled again while I snatched the first handful of towels from him and started blotting my pants. “You can’t help it, can you?”

  “Can’t help what?” I was cold. And wet. And starting to shiver, which pissed me off.

  “Profanity flows through your veins like blood, doesn’t it? I bet you can’t go a single day without bursting into a string of expletives foul enough to set a nun’s habit on fire.”

  “The hell I can’t,” I mumbled, and he laughed again. “I said I could. I didn’t say I would.”

  Ian stared down at me, green eyes practically shining with amusement, and my pulse spiked when I realized how small the bathroom was, and how close together we stood. “I dare you.” The words were soft, his voice intense, like he was challenging more than just my proclivity for profanity.

  I had to reach around him to drop the first handful of wet paper towels into the trash, and for one dizzying second, the full length of his body was pressed against mine, because there was nowhere else to go. “What are we, twelve?” I asked, desperately hoping he didn’t notice the tremor in my voice.

  “No self-respecting twelve-year-old would balk over a simple dare.”

  “I’m not balking,” I insisted, suddenly short of breath now that the shocking cold of spilled water had given way to the body heat building between us in the small space. “This is not what I look like when I balk.”

  “You’re right.” He tilted his head, pretending to study me from another angle. “This is definitely the face of cowardice. It’s a subtle difference.”

  “Smart-ass.” I took the next handful of tissues as he offered them. “Fine. But for the record, this is a stupid fucking dare. What are the terms?”

  “It’s a bet, not a contract negotiation.” He shrugged. “Don’t cuss. If you do, you lose.”

  I frowned up at him, trying not to see the flecks of brown in his green eyes, almost mesmerizing from such a close vantage point. “You’re a piss-poor negotiator. Do yourself a favor. Take a lawyer with you when you meet with Jake.”

  “I kind of feel like I need one now.”

  “You and me both. State your terms.” Was the air-conditioning even on? How could I be so warm now, when I was freezing a minute earlier?

  “Twenty-four hours. No cussing. No exceptions.”

  “What about life-and-death situations? No one could keep from cussing with a knife in her back or a bullet lodged in her chest,” I said, plucking at the wet material clinging to my legs—until my hand brushed his thigh, and I froze, half embarrassed, half…intrigued.

  “Are you planning to be shot or stabbed in the next twenty-four hours?” he asked, like he hadn’t even noticed, and I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved by that or insulted.

  “Were you there in the alley? If I get hurt, it’ll be in the line of duty, keeping your ass from getting poached.”

  “No exceptions,” Ian insisted. “But if that’s too much for you…?”

  I frowned up at him. “You are such a child. Fine. No cussing for twenty-four hours. Starting now.” I pulled my phone from my pocket to glance at the time. “Two thirty-four p.m. What do I get when I win?”

  He smiled and spread both arms, and for a moment, I thought he was offering himself as the prize, and I flushed at the thought. For just a second. “My undying respect.”

  I didn’t even bother to hide my disappointment. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

  His left eyebrow rose. “My respect has no value to you?”

  “That’s not what I…” In fact, for no reason I could explain, considering that we’d just met, I did want his respect. But I also wanted free will, a billion dollars and a bathtub full of Häagen-Dazs, and I wasn’t going to get any of those, either. “How ’bout we assume the fair market value of your undying respect is…a bottle of Grey Goose. The big one. Because your respect means that much to me.”

  He laughed. “Oddly, I’m flattered.”

  “But are you ready to put your money where your mouth is? I dare you to go the rest of your visit without slacks.”

  His mouth actually dropped open a little in surprise. “You want me to take off my pants?” he said, and when I realized what my dare had sounded like, I could feel my cheeks flame. But I couldn’t make my tongue work right.

  “That’s not what I… I mean, I dare you to wear jeans for the rest of your visit, instead of slacks. And no tie. I bet you can’t go the next four and a half days without your stuffy, corporate zombie clothes.”

  His grin seemed to warm his face, like he might still be thinking about that first misinterpretation of my dare. “Why four and a half days? You’re only on the hook for twenty-four hours.”

  “To make up for the difference in the degree of difficulty. Unless you don’t think you can do it.”

  “You’re on. And if I win?”

  “What do you want?” I asked, and regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth.
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  Ian stared down at me again from inches away, so close I could feel the heat from his skin through both layers of clothes. I could see what he wanted—some hint of it, anyway—in his eyes. And again, my breath deserted me.

  “A compliment.”

  “What?” His answer was so unexpected I couldn’t even make sense of it.

  “If I win, you have to tell me what you like best about me. With a straight face.”

  “That’s it?” Was his ego that malnourished?

  “That’s it.” His smile was a quiet challenge, and I couldn’t help wondering if this was some kind of trick.

  “Fine. Let’s get out of here.” I unbolted the door and turned off the light, and his hand slid into mine like he’d been planning that since the moment he’d closed the door behind us. I stepped forward—there was only room for a single step—and he walked with me. A second later, we were in the bathroom of his hotel room, left dark on purpose that morning.

  He let go of my hand and pulled the door open, and light poured in from the bedroom, but I stayed put when he stepped into it. “I have to go change, and I need to report to Jake after that. Will you be okay for a couple of hours?”

  “I’ve been staying home by myself since I was nine, Kori.”

  “So you’ve got it down by now, right? I’ll see you back here at four.”

  Ian nodded and started to close the door, then stopped and looked at me, and there was something in his expression I couldn’t quite identify. “Will we be working together?” he asked. “If I sign with Tower?”

  “Maybe.” I shrugged. “Probably. But you never can tell with Jake. Why? Is that a deal-breaker?” I was joking. At least, I was trying to. But he didn’t laugh.

  “Quite the opposite. I think that may be the only thing that would make wearing his chain links bearable.”

  Ten

  Ian

  I don’t know why I asked her that. It wasn’t fair. And it didn’t matter, because I wasn’t going to sign with Tower. Kori and I would never work together.

  The damn dare was a mistake, too. If she won, I’d have to present her with a bottle of vodka, right around the time I killed her sister, like some kind of morbid condolence for the crime I’d committed. I’d be lucky if she didn’t beat me to death with it.

  What the hell are you doing, Ian?

  When Kori was gone, I glanced at my watch, then picked up my cell phone. Aaron answered on the second ring. “Hello?” he croaked into the phone, and springs creaked as he rolled over in bed.

  “Get up. I need a lift.”

  “Night shift, man. I gotta get more sleep.”

  “This is the only chance I’m going to have, and I have to be back in two hours. Get dressed.”

  More springs creaked, and Aaron groaned. “Where are you?”

  I gave him the hotel’s address and the room number, then hung up. Five minutes later, the bathroom door creaked open and Aaron padded into the living room of my hotel suite in huge, dog-shaped slippers and a pair of navy boxer briefs.

  “Where the hell are your pants?”

  Aaron shrugged. “You said you were in a hurry, so I rushed right over.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  Aaron scowled on his way to the minibar. “Do I look like an idiot?” When I only glanced at his slippers, he rolled his eyes. “Do I normally look like an idiot?” Before I could answer, he knelt in front of the minibar and opened the fridge. “I need a drink.”

  I slammed the fridge closed. “You can make coffee when we get there. There’s a robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door.”

  Aaron put the robe on, then stepped into the bathroom while I pulled my phone from my pocket and autodialed Meghan’s number. “Ian? Why isn’t it done?” she said into my ear, after only a ring and a half.

  My eyes closed. Of course she knew it wasn’t over. She’d be able to feel it when the binding was broken. “Turn off the light. We’re coming over.”

  Meghan hung up without a reply, and Aaron turned the bathroom light off as I pushed the door closed. He took my arm, bared by the sleeve I’d rolled up, and a second later we stepped into another bathroom thirty miles away, in the suburbs.

  This bathroom felt familiar, even with the lights off. It smelled like fruit-scented shampoo, bleach and the slightly scorched scent of every scrap of blood-soaked material that had ever been burned in the old-fashioned iron tub. When I stepped forward and reached for the light switch, my foot landed on ceramic tile, not as old as the tub, but older than I was, by several years. The tile was yellow, like the wallpaper exposed when I flipped the switch and let the light in.

  The floors in the rest of the house were real wood, scarred from use and warped in places from the spills and drips of three generations. Aaron and Meghan had grown up here, as had their mother. This house was as safe a rendezvous point as any other, and a good deal safer than Aaron’s apartment in the city.

  Meghan stepped out of a bedroom and into the hall, pulling the door closed behind her. She waved us into the living room without a word, and she didn’t even seem to notice that her brother wasn’t wearing pants.

  We followed her down the hall, through the living room, and into the small eat-in kitchen, where Meghan sank into a chair at the table and scrubbed her face with both hands. Long brown hair tumbled over her shoulders, and Aaron paused to set one hand on her head—a wordless, comforting gesture—on his way to the coffeepot.

  “How is he?” I asked, and I regretted being the one to break the silence before the words had even fallen from my tongue.

  “No better. A little worse, maybe,” Meghan said, and for the first time in more than two weeks, the exhaustion in her voice outweighed the accusation. She couldn’t do this for much longer. Not on her own. But it would be over soon, one way or another. If I couldn’t kill Kenley Daniels and break the binding, he wouldn’t last much longer anyway.

  But no one wanted things to end like that, least of all me.

  “Can I see him?”

  “I don’t want to wake him up. He doesn’t sleep much anymore.” Meghan sighed, and the weight of the world slipped a little on her shoulders. “What happened?” she said, as Aaron filled the pot and poured water into the reservoir. And the accusation that was absent from her voice found its way to her eyes, where it simmered quietly, waiting for the moment to flare into true flames and roast me alive.

  I sank onto the chair opposite her and rubbed one hand over my head, trying to decide where to start. A minute later, the scent of coffee drew my thoughts into some semblance of focus. “Remember my brilliant plan to get Kenley Daniels assigned as my tour guide-slash-recruiter for the duration of my visit?”

  “I take it that plan’s proven less than brilliant in hindsight?” Aaron took a mug down from the cabinet and leaned against the countertop as the machine spit the first drops of coffee into the carafe.

  “I stand by the simple brilliance of the plan. The flaw is in the execution. Kenley has an older sister who fits the same general physical description.” Though the more I got to know Kori, the less she looked like her sister, at least to me.

  Aaron turned with the pot in hand. “Korinne Daniels is Kenley’s sister?”

  “Who’s Korinne Daniels?” Meghan said, glancing from her brother to me, then back.

  “Tower’s guard dog bitch. But she’s dead.” Aaron glanced at me with both brows raised. “Didn’t we already determine that? Every source we spoke to said the same thing.”