by Jen Colly
Navarre found the fireplace, the carved wood mantel familiar beneath his fingers. Bracing his weight on his forearms, he curled his body toward the heat.
He opened his eyes to see the fuzzy outline of his mantel clock before his face. He couldn’t hear it tick, but perhaps in his long absence it hadn’t been wound. At least he could see the clock. It was distorted and hazy, and at the wrong depth, but it was there. Resting his palm on the curved top, he then felt the clock’s tiny heartbeat thrumming away.
Navarre gripped the mantel and hissed. A painful throbbing seemed to burst from inside his teeth, then shoot down to his gut. He could taste blood, but it wasn’t on his tongue. He wanted it on his tongue, sliding sweetly down his throat. Need clawed at him, quickened his breath. The sawing motion of his ribs jarred his wound. He looked down, could see a blade protruding from his chest, his blood seeping out around the cool steel. His hands flew to his chest, searched for the blade to pull it free. Nothing. It wasn’t there.
Eyes closed, he saw blood. Eyes open, blood. The pressure… His fangs throbbed so hard his entire face hurt. Navarre pressed the heels of his palm against his cheekbone, willing this debilitating pain to ease. His wound ached. His gut burned. He needed to feed now. Didn’t want to kill the female. How could he preserve her life when some foreign instinct inside urged him to take, to survive? To hunt.
Chapter 4
Multiple calls had come in over the last few days from a rough bar deep south on the ninth level. Any Guardians working the level were required to make their presence known on their shift. Cat and Dyre were headed there now.
The first two levels of Balinese were considerably smaller than the rest of the city, and it had taken Cat a while to learn her way around the lower levels. The wide corridors of the upper levels were decorated with gilded domed ceilings, opulent paintings and treasures, and ornately designed wallpaper. Finding her way around the rich atmosphere was easy.
With the passing of each level, the corridors lost extravagance. The ceiling on the second level was still domed, or angled in gothic fashion, but it lacked the bright coloring of the first level. Gradually the detailing disappeared, and by level nine, only doors lined the barren corridors.
These veins connecting the city this far below ground were a maze of plain stonework. To prevent confusion and disorientation, they’d been given street names.
Elevators didn’t go this far below ground, and as she and Dyre stepped from the mouth of a wide stairwell and into the ninth level, she was on edge. Something already buzzed beneath her skin. Unfamiliar. Urgent. It wasn’t exactly the feeling of being watched or even that something was wrong, but more like an itch to fight.
Cat could deal with the complaints, the domestics, the drunks, and the arrests. What she hated was the small, rank bars scattered along the underside of the city. Dozens of men packed into a single room made her skin crawl. She’d rather pick up one of Bertie’s mice.
Dyre veered too close, his elbow brushing hers. She hissed at the contact and jerked her arm away. Cat squeezed her eyes shut for one brief moment, tried to pull it together. He wasn’t the problem.
“You’re touchy today,” he said, his voice low. With Dyre it was never an accusation, only an observation. “What is it? What happened?”
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. Other than the children, she spent the most time around Dyre, and the man was extremely perceptive. “I’m touchy?”
“More than usual. Something’s under your skin.” He paused, shrugged a shoulder. “Or someone.”
Cat couldn’t explain the eerie, mysterious feeling begging her to go home, or the paranoia that overcame her every time a door shut behind her. Trapped her. She refused to open those topics.
“Rollin asked to be a Guardian,” she said, choosing to talk about her personal life, and the subject that had been in the back of her mind since she’d left home.
“Did he really? Is he not aware his father died in the demon battle as a Guardian?”
“That’s the story, but it’s not what happened.” Cat lowered her voice. “Rollin’s mother was killed by demons. When his father came home, he was so distraught that he picked her up and carried her into the sun.”
“Does Rollin know?”
“He was eleven at the time, and inside the home when it happened. I don’t know how much he saw, but he must have heard everything.”
“Then I understand his drive.” Dyre rolled the sleeves of his clean shirt up to his elbows. “Will you allow him to train?”
“Not until he gives me a good reason to let him,” she said, glancing into an open doorway as they continued on.
“Was he angry?”
“No. He was Rollin.” Cat shortened her stride, taking the inner corner as they switched corridors. “He sat down, closed his mouth, and started sorting through possible reasons in his head. I bet when I get home I’ll find him asleep at the table where I left him.”
Dyre cleared his throat. “You can’t tell him what to do anymore. Granted, he remains in your care, but technically, Rollin is an adult.”
“I need him to act like one. If he wants this so bad, then he should have signed up on his own and informed me later.” Cat let out a long, frustrated sigh. “He doesn’t believe in himself enough to make his own decisions.”
The bar was just ahead. Raised, arguing voices filtered through the door and down the corridor to them.
“Confidence can make or break a Guardian. It’s hard to trust in yourself when you still rely on others. Maybe he needs to move out, live on his own,” Dyre said quietly, then reached for the long brass handle on the door.
“You touch that door and I’ll cut your hand off and beat you with it,” Cat snapped.
“You mess with my head, you know that?” He dropped his hand to his side. “On a daily basis I have to transition from being a gentleman, a trait I’m fond of, to acting the callous ass who makes you fend for yourself. When will you learn that allowing me to hold open a door for you is not a sign of weakness?”
She grabbed the door and flung it open. Dyre stepped back, barely avoiding getting smacked in the face with the heavy oak door.
“You’re wrong.” She took a long look over the crowd inside, which had suddenly quieted. Some openly gaped. Without turning her head, she spoke to Dyre, her voice low. “You see the way they look at me, that fun mix of fear and hate? If they think for one second that I’m weak, they’ll lose that fear and come after me.”
“Not possible. You’re here under Savard’s protection.”
She turned her head only halfway to him, whispered, “I don’t think they like him, either.”
Cat headed straight for the bar and the burly bartender cleaning a glass in front of a wall of bottles. William Gagnon, fourth generation owner of Sam’s Bar, was big enough to handle any brawl on his own, though he rarely interfered. He saw them approaching and nodded toward the seats in front of him with a sly smile. Same as always, they’d have to pay if they wanted an informative conversation.
“Bill,” Cat said, curling the right corner of her lips up in a cocky smile.
William narrowed his eyes, but didn’t correct her abuse of his name. Dyre paid, and when William had pocketed their money, he popped the caps off two bottles and plunked them on the bar.
Cat picked up the bottle, examined the gold and green label, then set it back down. William had never once asked them what they wanted. He only offered beer.
Dyre took a drink, then asked, “Anyone causing trouble today?”
William looked pointedly at Cat, and his deep voice rumbled through his thick black beard. “Only her.”
Cat grabbed her beer and slid it across the bar at William so fast that he had to stretch his arm out to catch the bottle before it crashed to the floor.
“See what I mean?” William took a deep swig of Cat’s unwanted beer, then pointed at her, bottle in hand. “That one’s trouble, and you well know
it.”
“Come now, William, you know what kind of trouble I’m referring to,” Dyre said patiently.
The radio at Dyre’s hip popped on with a quick fizzle of static. “Bar fight, level nine. Janelle Street. Sam’s Bar.”
Her eyes met Dyre’s. She scanned the room. Nothing was out of place, no one was fighting. Everything seemed as calm as when they’d first walked in, but if they’d gotten a call, then there was a problem.
Dyre shook his head. He hadn’t found the problem yet either. Then suddenly shouts and a loud crash drew the attention of several patrons near the back of the bar.
Cat smacked her hand on the bar. “Damn it, he’s got another room.”
She hopped off the bar stool and hurried toward the door. Dyre followed close behind, already on the radio letting dispatch know the situation was handled. No need for another team to waste a trip.
Rounding the bar, Cat found the door easily. It blended into the wall, green paint on the top half, and a chair rail on the bottom, but it was clearly a door.
She entered the room, quickly took note of the overturned table, scattered cards and chips. Two men slung punches near the fallen table while the other players stood back, keeping clear of the fight.
“Break it up,” Cat yelled, but they didn’t respond.
The stockier man sent a heavy swing to the other man’s jaw. His head lolled, and the big man grabbed his shirt to keep him upright and kept beating on him.
Words were no longer an option. Cat stepped up and grabbed the big guy’s shoulder, jerking him around hard enough to redirect his attention.
“Stay out of this,” the man bellowed as he spun around, lashing out at anyone who dared interfere. His fist clipped her chin.
The blow cranked her head to the side, and a warm rivulet of blood slid down from her lip. Cat never touched her face. You play with the big boys, you bleed, and she could take a punch with the best of them.
Cat took advantage of that small window where the man stood in stunned disbelief at having accidentally struck a woman. She vaulted off the floor, grabbed his hair, and wrenched his face down to collide with her rising knee. He straightened, a mixed mess of anger, pain, and surprise playing across his face. Cat wrapped her hand around her fist and drove her elbow into his gut. He doubled over, but she didn’t back off. With a solid downward punch to his face, she sent him to the ground.
“You’re under arrest.” She rolled him fully onto his belly and jammed her knee against his back, pinning him down.
Cat hadn’t stopped to think, to process how she should handle the situation. Her automatic reaction was a result of her former life above ground, battling demons, and it guaranteed her survival. You get hit, you hit back harder.
She opened her fist, moved her fingers. No damage. The fingerless leather gloves she wore kept her knuckles from getting cut up on some idiot’s face, but it didn’t keep them from getting broken once in a while.
The curious din in the bar from the gathered observers instantly shifted into dead silence. Cat glanced up at Dyre. He’d caught the change, too. Men backed out of the congested doorway, some seeming to leave altogether. Then those inside the room parted to allow someone access.
Devlin Savard.
Savard was a good foot shorter than Dyre, but it wasn’t the captain’s stature that intimidated. Though his young, clean-shaven face gave the impression that he was a kind young man, Cat knew the truth, and others suspected the same. Savard had a reputation. He never failed, even if it meant someone ended up dead. It made the people of Balinese question how exactly he, a nobody Navarre had raised to captain, had gained control of the entire city in one tragic night.
Cat didn’t care. The man could have brought down the monarchy single-handed, and it wouldn’t make her an ounce of difference. He’d been good to her, to the children, and she’d never once witnessed him behaving irrationally or unjustly.
“Savard.” Dyre sent the acting lord a respectful nod.
Savard ignored him, his eyes on her. “I need a word with you, Cat.”
“Why?” she snapped, wiping the back of her hand across her upper lip. Blood transferred from her face to her fingers. Cat glanced at the semiconscious man beneath her knee. “He’s still breathing.”
Dyre stepped between them, knelt at her side, and took hold of the dazed drunkard’s arm. “I’ll take him in.”
She released the semiconscious man and followed Savard out the door and into the bar. Caught in her angry glare, William plastered a look of innocence on his face and lifted his hands in defense. “What? Gambling’s not illegal.”
“Would have been nice to know you had a back room.” She pointed at William as she walked by. “You, sir, are an ass.”
William smiled, a toothy grin appearing in the midst of his beard. Cat kept her eye on him as she backed out of his bar.
She hurried from the bar and caught up with Savard. He walked fast, leading her out into the corridor and away from Janelle Street, but he didn’t have much of a height advantage on her, and her strides easily matched his. Now side by side, she expected him to give direction, start a conversation. Anything. He didn’t speak, not even after they’d climbed two flights of stairs and emerged on level seven.
They entered an elevator and Savard pressed the button for her home floor. Three floors went by.
Cat had never been patient. Why start now? “Spit it out. What do you want?”
“Lord Navarre Casteel has woken. I want you to feed him.”
She flinched. The word feed caught her off guard, tripped a mental trigger. Teeth. Shredded flesh. Blood. Terror. Cold death. “Not happening.”
“Not my city,” he countered, not combative, just matter of fact. “It belongs to Lord Navarre.”
The elevator doors opened, but she didn’t move. “If I feed him, I can stay. Permanently. Is that what you’re saying?”
“I can’t promise you anything, but if you sacrifice for him, he’ll be more inclined to overlook your…” Savard glanced at her hair, his youthful face never betraying an emotion. “Anomalies.”
Cat had known this day would come. A piece of her had silently hoped for the lord’s death. With Captain Savard, her home and life were secure. Soon her life, and the lives of the children, would be in the hands of a stranger.
“What do I need to do?” Her voice didn’t come out right. Not quite a whisper, but too shallow.
“Pack a change of clothes. Something white.” Captain Savard stepped from the elevator, his hand braced on the door, holding it open. “Go to Elin’s clinic. She’ll give you instructions.”
The captain walked away, left her to make her own decision. She stepped from the elevator, but didn’t make it very far before she threw her hand out to the wall for support. Cat had no time to think, to find an alternative. Lord Navarre had the power to take everything away from her. In one verbal command he could strip her of her home, her children, her very life. If she had any hope of finding herself in his good graces, this was her one shot.
Just the thought of feeding gave her the sensation of phantom fangs scraping down her neck, tearing open her skin. With one deep, shuddering breath, she broke into a jog, quickly moving down the corridor. Outrunning the memories.
Opening the door to her home, she slipped inside. Silence greeted her. A few hours remained before the children would wake and begin the busy routine of getting ready for school. Rummaging through her dresser with only a dim light to guide her, she grabbed a change of clothes and stuffed them into a bag. Throwing the strap over her shoulder, she headed for the door.
Rollin blocked her path. Standing in her bedroom doorway, he scratched his chest and yawned. The others slept, and he respectfully kept his voice to a whisper. “You’re home early. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I just…” She couldn’t tell him, couldn’t think about what she had to do. “Something came up and I can’t come home tonight. Faith will check in on y
ou. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
He nodded, trusting in her.
Cat had never been so uncertain of the future. Yes, the lord could allow her to stay, but what if she revived this lord and he kicked her out, or demanded her head removed from her body? Cat knew without a doubt that she wouldn’t allow her head to be taken, but to save her head she would have to leave the city. Either scenario ended with her out of the children’s lives. Would she ever see any of them again?
Cat walked up to Rollin, leaned in, and hugged him tight. Rollin wrapped his arm around her shoulder, crushing her close. He laughed, a soft and sleepy laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re tiny. I’m like three times your size and you can still kick my ass.” Rollin gave her a quick squeeze, but when he pulled back and she still clung to him, he instantly froze.
“You’re leaving us.” His voice had turned breathless, fearful.
“No.” She would not abandon them, but she would face her greatest fear tonight, for them. She stepped back, her head held high, her words a solemn vow. “I will never leave you.”
“Promise?”
“They’d have to remove me. Forcibly.” She sent him a slow, knowing nod. “And you know how I like a fight.”
“All right, then,” he said slowly, then took a deep breath. “I’m picking up groceries tomorrow. Want anything?”
“Maeryn is out of yogurt, and Barro shredded his last toy.”
Rollin backed away to let her pass, but she hadn’t made it halfway through the kitchen when he called out softly. “Anything for you?”
Rollin, just being who he was, was testing her. “Sure. See how much coffee I have left. Don’t want to run out.”