by D. D. Miers
They all knew better.
Alana shifted uncomfortably within her seat at the last slide, the still unspoken nature of what they were discussing leaving her with bile on her tongue. It would be too much of a coincidence, though, for the very rift she feared, to be tossed into her lap to investigate.
“This,” Mason continued with a click to the next photo, “is the site where the most reports came from.”
the image on the screen depicted a derelict Second Empire mansion. It's once intricate woodwork and trim crumbled, held together as much by moss and ivy as its dusty mortar. The lacelike wrought iron railings that rimmed the parapets were red with age. Mason tossed a rusted hunk of metal onto the table. It was the same metal as the one on the screen.
“The energy signature still resonates in this,” Mason explained with a shove of it to the table’s center.
Alana stared for a few moments in silence, cold and unmoving. She didn’t need to touch it to feel the power rolling off of it. She’d know that signature anywhere. The one of Damon Drake. He’d escaped Que’ Theran’s tomb. Shit.
“Creed?”
Alana’s head snapped up. “What?”
Mason’s lips pulled into a thin line. “You’re on this last rift.” He pointed toward the object she’d wanted to recoil from. “We’re stretched thin with too little resources, you’ll be on your own for now. We’ll send others out as soon as possible.”
“Uh . . . I . . .”
“I didn’t ask if you wanted the rift, Creed. I’m telling you. Got it?”
A few men around her snickered and she nodded. The world seemed to move in perpetual slow motion. “Yeah, got it.”
“Don’t disappoint me.”
“I never do.”
With nausea settling in, and a bubbling, unending sense of discomfort rooted in her belly, Alana lurched from her chair. She fled the room just as nausea punched her a second time, as Mason handed out other assignments.
Drake’s threat for months ago echoed in her mind. “Today you sealed not only your death, but those of anyone else you loved.”
She covered her mouth, fingertips clamping over her face as she held back the inevitable reaction. She zoomed down the long corridor, mentally cursing the architect responsible for the hellish trek from the conference room to the restrooms.
She found refuge for the moment behind the door to the women’s bathroom. With a resounding click, she locked herself away from the world and prying eyes. Fear and guilt clenched in a tight wrap around Alana’s stomach. She shouldn’t have come home. She should’ve gone into one of the barren realms. Sure, the risk of death was high. If the local beasts didn’t kill you, the elements or starvation would. But any of those were better than the death the warlock likely had planned for her.
She slipped to her knees as a tingling heat crept up her spine. She reached out, grasping the porcelain bowl. The pit of her stomach clenched, hurling up her sugary breakfast in an unrecognizable mass.
All she saw in the murky water was her downfall. It was putrid and beige and a mess of her own creation, wasn’t it? All this time she’d been lucky. But now? Her luck had run out.
Alana had met her fair share of horrid bastards over her lifetime jumping realms, but none terrified her as much as the dreaded warlock, Damon Drake. Why the hell did she have to choose him of all people to cross?
Her hands scrambled and reached for the roll of toilet paper. Ripping off a wad and wiping at the sides of her mouth, she cleaned up quickly. Moments later, she stood before the sink. She didn't recognize the face in the mirror. She was hard, confident, maybe even a bitch sometimes, but this woman? This pale, terrified face?
This wasn’t her.
It couldn’t be her.
It was someone else, and if she wasn’t careful, everyone would notice she had something to hide.
“Get your shit together, Lana,” she whispered while rinsing away the acrid taste in her mouth. Letting them in to the truth would be just as deadly as stepping into it herself.
She wouldn’t escape Damon alive a second time.
Drawing in a settling breath, she left the restroom, grateful to find no curious eyes awaiting her outside. There was work to be done, and whether she wished to tempt fate or not, she couldn’t renege on her job, not when it was the only thing keeping her from spending much of her life behind bars.
She needed to find a balance, somewhere between truth and a lie, to keep herself out from the rift that would surely be her death.
Forcing her chin up, she left the building and made her way to the mansion from Mason’s briefing.
Gravel crunched beneath her boots as she approached the old house, and the hair on her body stood on end. She wasn’t even certain one needed to be Fae kissed to feel the remnants of outright danger on the air. The sky loomed slate-gray behind the mansard roof and elegant towers of the once magnificent old building, threatening a cold, miserable drizzle.
A jungle of waist-high brown grass and stunted, strangled shrubs consumed the overgrown front yard. Fallen bits of the architecture and garbage abandoned by inconsiderate neighbors lurked among the overgrowth like half-hidden predators waiting for their chance to strike. A single tree, once older than the house behind it but now twisted and dead, grew in the corner of the yard, its bare branches stark against the black and empty windows. The windows looked staring eyes to Alana. She waited uneasily for a face to appear, a white hand beckoning her in.
Creeping along with a healthy dose of trepidation, she paid attention to her body as it alerted her to the spot in which the rift had appeared. It assaulted her senses, drowning her mind in a wash of confusion, and setting her skin ablaze with a tingling unease.
Gods, she hated that sensation more than any other. Fear. A single emotion that had the power to debilitate even the most courageous of warriors.
Alana didn't run from monsters. She’d fought enough of them during her years as a Reaver It was a part of doing business. But warlocks, masters of the dark arts, were a whole other kind of evil. Sure, she had her Gale Magic to protect her, and she knew enough about physical combat to hold her own, but if Damon broke through the magic bind she’d placed upon him months ago, he was even more of a threat than she’d ever imagined.
The path from the yard to the front steps had once been paved. The concrete, now a rubble of broken concrete slabs, had voracious grass forced through it in all places but one—the place to which the energy of the rift drew her. Across the ground at her feet lay a giant gash in the cracked pavement. She crouched and reached for the earth’s ragged cut, only to recoil at the force that pushed her back.
Damon.
It was true. The warlock she’d effectively banished had escaped, and there was only one reason in particular why he’d come to the human realm. To gain his retribution on Alana.
He wanted what was his, what she’d taken from him—the orb. But knowing the consequences of Damon possessing such an object, she could never willingly give back.
“Shit.” Mason would have her ass if she didn’t do her job, but opening the rift meant putting herself directly into the danger she’d run from. And what about the other lives at risk? Not just her, but . . .
Oh, fuck. Taylor.
Did he know her sister existed? Was he already after her?
Alana set off. With each slam of her boots against the ground, her mind raced with every awful scenario. She and Taylor were as similar as they’d ever been. They were both detectives, even if their focus was vastly different, and now they’d both be in equal amounts of danger.
There would never be any outrunning Damon’s threat, and she couldn’t ignore the repeat of his last words as they echoed again in her mind, setting her on a collision course for Taylor’s apartment.
Alana's fears were coming true.
Chapter 3
Every rustling branch and passing face on Taylor's quaint, tree-lined street, made Alana on edge. The smallest of signs could be the only warning she’d g
et, if she got one at all.
She ran up the apartment’s flower-lined front path with her head moving in a steady swivel. A lump caught in her throat, slowing her steps. A rugged figure walked off around the building’s side with a single glance over his shoulder. Was he looking at her?
Was it him?
Her heart slammed beat after beat into her breastbone. It was one thing to bring danger upon herself, but Taylor wouldn’t see it coming. It seemed an impossible feat to make her mortal sister understand the world as she knew it wasn’t the true world at all. Hell, she’d barely believed it herself in the beginning.
Swallowing down her worry, she bolted for the apartment’s door and her hand gripped the knob. It turned, too easily, and without any resistance at all. Requiring no key, she nudged it open with an eerie creak.
Silent shock stilled her in the doorway. The beige dream within had turned into a nightmare.
The kitchen counters were covered with cracked dishes and a mountain of plastic lids that tumbled onto the floor. The living room beyond wasn’t any better, with nearly every book having been pulled from the shelves, and movies tossed all over the floor. For the first time, Alana missed the dreary cleanliness.
It was pure disaster, and clearly whoever had done it was on the hunt for something.
For something she’d taken from them.
Entirely violated by the intrusion, Alana stepped in farther, releasing the door. It swung shut and slammed hard, sending another stack of plastic lids tumbling off of the kitchen counter.
Fucking great. If there was anyone lying in wait, they knew she was there now.
Cautiously, she crept through the apartment, checking behind every large piece of furniture, and behind the swing of every door. She was alone now, but whoever had been there was entirely thorough in the search. Nothing was untouched, not even Taylor’s once-pristine bedroom.
She stepped back into the living room and shoved her fingers into her thick hair. She had no idea where to start or what to do, she only knew she needed to do something.
She headed toward the kitchen, intending to grab a trash bag, when her instincts drew her attention to the center of the dining room table.
How could she have missed it on her way in? A rectangular box, beige, just like the rest of the apartment, save for a colorful bow settled right on top. Blood-red curls of ribbon cascaded down and across the table, making it a definite blight in the monotone space.
Hesitantly, Alana flipped open the lid.
“What the fuck . . .”
Inside lay a bouquet of flowers, cut stems carefully bound with a red ribbon. A froth of star-shaped white blooms surrounded a single scarlet flower with dense, ruffled petals gathered like a lady's skirts. Her brow pinched as she plucked the ribbon-tied bouquet free and searched for a card in vain. The intended meaning of it eluded her, if it had one at all. But she could only guess it was a giant "screw you" directed squarely at herself.
Furious, she threw the flowers to the table, only for something to skitter out from the spread of leaves. The creature raced across the surface, its upward curled tail and clicking feet too akin to a scorpion for Alana to waste any time at all.
Afraid to take her eyes off of the creature as it ducked beneath a pile of magazines, she stumbled into the kitchen, her eyes glued on the last spot she’d seen it. All movement on the table ceased, but she refused to look away as her hands waved wildly across the counter. There’d been a knife there, she was sure of it, and if she got cut finding it—oh well. There were far worse things that could happen, and she was certain that scorpion’s bite was one of them.
Her hands patted over the scattered objects, shoving aside forks, cups, and spatulas until finally her fingers curled around what felt to be the handle of a knife. Snatching it up into view, she sighed at the sight of the screwdriver.
“Fuck it. It’ll work,” she grumbled before charging back to the table. Reaching carefully for the haphazard stack of magazines that had created a hiding spot beneath, she flung them free and stabbed straight down without hesitation. The tool dug straight into the wood, marring her sister’s flawless piece of furniture, and hitting nowhere near her target.
She lunged again, driving the screwdriver down into the floor before it finally swung back on her. Almost the length of her hand, its shell was a pearly beetle green and its faceted eyes glittered like gems as it stared at her, mouth-parts clicking. Its raised tail reared back, filling her with a sense of outright dread. The thing was born of magic, she could feel it. With two hands she yanked the screwdriver free of the floor. It skittered abnormally fast across the room and turned on her. Fuck. She’d need to use her powers to end this.
It went directly against her probation agreement, but so did dying and not fulfilling her contract. Pushing herself up off her knees, she focused on her element—air—and gathered her magic. In seconds, a half-dozen miniature tornadoes swirled in a circular motion surrounding the beetle-like beast. They twisted and whirled, forcing the creature into the corner and directly where Alana wanted it. Finally, within reach, she lifted her boot and slammed it straight down onto the dangerous creature.
The vicious thing crunched underfoot, leaving the sole of Alana’s boot slick with the crushed remains as she went to step away. The smear was black as tar and iridescent as an oil slick. All the way back to the table, her dirty footprint followed, only adding to the outright mess of the apartment.
There was no time to dwell as a key slid into the door and turned without a solid click. Alana didn’t even bother trying to come up with an excuse as Taylor shoved the door open.
Immediately, the girl’s jaw fell open. “Lana! What in the hell happened?”
Somehow, Alana had forgotten her sister came home for lunch each day. She was lucky she hadn’t arrived seconds earlier and seen Alana casually casting magic in her living room.
“Um . . .” There was no time for explanations.
“Did you leave the door unlocked again?” Taylor looked absolutely out of place in the chaos in her perfect pant suit. “You couldn’t have made this mess yourself! Right?” Her eyes narrowed on Alana, whose jaw clenched tight. There was so much at risk, but it sure as hell wasn’t the damn apartment she was worried about.
“Look, there’s no time to explain, I just need you to—”
“No!” Taylor’s hands flung up in the air, silencing Alana’s attempts. “Look at this place! It’s a goddamned disaster! When are you going to get your life together, Lana?”
The insinuation left her teeth grinding together so hard the ache shifted up behind her eyes.
“I'm sorry,” she ground out. “I'll clean it up, I promise.”
She stomped past her sister into the kitchen to fetch a handful of napkins, wiping the crushed scorpion off of her shoe first before returning to get as much of it off the carpet as she could. She didn't know if it might be dangerous if left to sit.
“Is this your way of getting back at me for this morning?”
“What? No. Of course not.”
Taylor watched her, clearly trying to find words. Finally, she sighed, dropped her bag by the door, and made her way to the kitchen. She pulled out a trash bag and began forlornly scooping all her broken dishes into it.
“Just tell me what's going on,” Taylor said, not looking at her. “I'm not an idiot, Alana. I know you're involved in something. You were gone for six years. You come back with nothing but the clothes on your back and you're out all night doing something that clearly exhausts you. Is it drugs, Alana? Organized crime? If you tell me I could help you, you know that, right?”
“It's nothing like that,” Alana said quickly, focusing on putting the books back on the shelves. “It's not something you can help me with.”
Taylor pursed her lips tight and turned to salvage what she could of her tupperware.
“And what about this?” she asked, gesturing to the destroyed apartment. “You didn't do this, did you? Somebody tossed this place. And judgin
g by the fact that the TV is still here, it wasn't just a burglar. This is my apartment, my stuff, Alana. You can't pretend I don't have a right to know.”
“It's complicated,” Alana said, her throat tight and her back to Taylor as she knelt on the living room floor gathering up books. She couldn't tell Taylor the truth. Even if there was even a remote chance her sister would believe her, it would only put Taylor in more danger. Alana couldn't risk it. Not until Taylor was safe. “I'm sorry.”
“Should I call this in?” Taylor asked. “If you think whatever asshole did this will be back—”
“No,” Alana said quickly, imagining the horrorshow that would be Damon in a showdown with the human cops. “No, they won't be back. I'm going to take care of it.”
“Alana.”
Alana heard the concern in Taylor's voice and she turned to look at her sister. Taylor's brow was furrowed, her frown the spitting image of their father's. Alana swallowed a lump in her throat, gathering her resolve.
“I'll take care of it,” she insisted.
Taylor looked away, jaw tight, and Alana saw the worry and disappointment lining her eyes. Until they fell on the bouquet still lying on the table.
“Are those flowers?” she asked, sounding as perplexed as Alana had been. She reached for them and Alana all but launched herself across the room to catch Taylor's hand.
“Don't touch those!” she said, eyes wide. There could be more murderous magic scorpions in there, or worse. There was no telling what Damon was capable of. Taylor looked surprised for a moment, and then her eyes narrowed.
“Did whoever did this leave those?”
“No,” Alana said quickly, obviously lying. She grabbed a fistful of paper towels and used them to carefully pick up the bouquet and drop it back into the gift box.
“Alana that's evidence,” Taylor said sharply, scandalized. “If this is some stalker or—”
“It's not a stalker,” Alana said, about to close the gift box again. Taylor stuck a hand in the way to stop her, leaning over to get a better look at the bouquet.