by Bryn Donovan
The beast shook shattered glass off his pelt like drops of water and advanced into the living room toward him, blocking his path to the gun on the table. Long, sharp canines glistened as he drew back his lips and let out a throaty growl that vibrated through Cassie’s shoes.
Of course this would happen. Cassie had gotten as angry with Jonathan as she’d ever been with anyone. And now a bear, who had no interest whatsoever in harming her, was going to tear his head off right before her eyes.
Jonathan stepped away from her. The bear bounded toward him, fast and graceful despite his massive size. He rose on his hind legs. Jonathan crashed his fist across his mottled brown snout. Holy shit. Who punched a bear in the face?
The massive animal staggered and went back down onto all fours. His nose was probably more vulnerable than the rest of him, padded with thick hide and hefty muscle. Jonathan only got a step closer to his gun before it charged toward him again.
She picked up the floor lamp and smashed it down on the bear’s head.
He turned to her. Oh God. Now he’s pissed at me, too.
His face reflected hurt and bewilderment. He was only trying to protect her from this intruder. Confusion swirled in her brain. Maybe she should have stood back and let him.
Jonathan sprinted for the Glock. The bear launched himself after him and reached him with one swipe. Claws slashed red lines in Jonathan’s back. Pivoting, Jonathan delivered a hard-booted kick to the creature’s other front leg, right at the knee joint. The animal let out a high-pitched howl. Jonathan made it to the kitchen table and picked up the gun.
“Don’t shoot!” Cassie screamed.
He froze and looked over at her.
The bear ran away. This made no sense—animals didn’t know about guns. It was as though he’d picked up on her fear for his safety. Even with the limp from the damaged leg, he moved fast, disappearing through the shattered sliding glass door.
Jonathan took a step after him, still aiming. Then he lowered the weapon, panting.
“Is he gone?” she asked.
He nodded once, his mouth slightly open. “Why’d you tell me not to shoot?” The tone of his voice implied she was crazy, which raised the question of why he’d obeyed her.
“It’s not his fault! He was trying to protect me.” A sad thought occurred to her. “But I don’t know if he’ll survive with a broken leg.”
“Didn’t break it. Tried.” He craned his neck around, trying to see his back. She came over to get a closer look and sucked in a breath.
Blood soaked the back of his shirt, or what was left of it. The claws had ripped it into long ribbons that revealed torn, glistening furrows of flesh. Oh, God. My fault. She couldn’t believe he hadn’t screamed in agony.
Maybe she should try to run now, while he was injured and distracted. Drive away, call the cops.
But what if he were the only one who could help her? Like he said, she couldn’t let this happen to anyone she cared about. She didn’t have the worst temper in the world, but she wasn’t a saint, either. He’d been trying to protect people, just like the bear.
She said, “I’ll call 911.”
“Don’t.” His scary voice had returned. She straightened. “I know someone who can stitch me up,” he added in a more human tone. “You’re staying with me.”
What if she said no? He’d said he wouldn’t hurt her. Hell, when the bear had charged toward them, he’d jumped right in front of her, instinctively shielding her from the threat. Of course, she hadn’t been the one at risk. Even if he’d really made the switch from executor to protector, she didn’t like the thought of one of his friends showing up, whoever they were.
“We’re not going to a crowded hospital.” Pain tightened his words. “You’re too dangerous.” He bent down to grab his backpack, swayed, and almost fell on his head.
He was in no shape to drive. Hell, he could pass out behind the wheel and run somebody over. “I’ll take you. Let me get some bandages.” She didn’t want him bleeding out in her living room, and he’d need something sturdier than the gauze in his first aid kit. She ran to the linen closet, grabbed an old sheet, and after scrabbling for scissors in the kitchen junk drawer, she cut and tore a few long bandages. When she rushed back into the living room, he’d stripped to the waist and was tying the T-shirt around his middle.
He was seriously ripped—in the muscle way, in addition to the clawed-by-a-bear way. A thick purple scar slashed across his collarbone, shiny against pale skin. A concave gouge marred his side. A bullet wound? Brown hair smattered his chest and traced the trail from his navel downward. A small silver crucifix hung near his heart from a cheap ball chain. He gave her a bemused look as he took a makeshift bandage from her. “Surprised you’re helping me.”
“So am I,” she muttered, but she cringed as she caught another glimpse of the slashes. This was what she did to people. He gritted his teeth, knotted the second strip, and then picked up the Glock again. She froze. “Give me the gun.”
He gave a short laugh. “No.”
“Otherwise, I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“I’ll make you go with me if I have to.” He sounded resigned rather than hostile. With his injuries, could he force her to do anything? Maybe.
She looked him in the eye. “You really want to piss me off again?” She was pretty sure he wasn’t up to a second bear fight.
His eyes darted down to the Glock and back to her. “They said you’re a good shot.”
“Damn right I am—Who said that?”
This elicited a chuckle from him despite his clenched jaw. He unloaded the gun and handed the magazine to her. “Good enough?” She nodded and shoved it into her giant purse. Once they were both in her truck, she asked, “Where are we headed?”
“Southside.” He gave her the address. Not the safest neighborhood in the world, but not the worst, either. Her parents lived in Mesa and volunteered at a food bank not far from there. She’d gone with them as a kid.
Gravel sprayed as she sped out of the driveway. “So who the hell are you? How did you know about the animals?”
“Can’t explain that.”
He could if he wanted to. “How can you get in my thoughts?”
“Uh. Natural ability. And practice.”
“You do that to people a lot?” She took a sharp turn, and he grunted.
“Only when someone’s murdering people with magic.” He laid his head back on the seat. A couple of days’ worth of stubble covered his jaw and upper lip.
This is crazy. It can’t be real. She asked him, “How many people have you killed?”
“Not people. Witches, demons. Monsters.”
She shook her head. “You expect me to believe that?”
“Would anyone believe you? About the animals?”
Fair point. Still, her temper rose. “Who gave you the right to decide?” Her tire hit a pothole with a thump, and he took in a sharp breath.
“Try not to get mad. You don’t want a bear coming through your windshield.”
“They don’t show up right away.” Nonetheless, she forced herself to calm down, fast. She couldn’t afford car repairs. “There’s no way you work for the government.”
He shifted in the seat, his long legs sprawling, and said nothing. Maybe he wasn’t part of a bigger organization. Maybe he was just an insane, violent man.
“Jon!” A loud, male disembodied voice in the truck made her jump. “I’ve called you ten times. What the hell’s going on?”
CHAPTER FOUR
Jonathan winced. This was a bad time for his mission runner, Dominic Joe, to break through. Nic was tracking his vitals. He would have gotten an alert on the inevitable surge in heart rate and the adrenaline dump when Jonathan had started fighting a bear. Depending on how much he was bleeding, his blood pressure might be dropping, too. He yanked his phone out of his pocket. “I’m fine.”
Cassandra’s head swiveled over to him, eyes wide. She clearly believed he was nowhere close to okay.
“The hell you are. I’m sending Gabi.”
“No!” He said it loud enough that Cassandra jumped. Nic was overreacting, not that Jonathan could blame him after the last mission.
“Why?”
“I can’t talk now.” Officially, a mission runner made the decisions. In reality, the runner and those in the field usually came to agreements together, and this was especially true if they were friends. He knew Nic would back off, even before he heard his frustrated sigh. “Call me soon,” he said and hung up.
“How did he know you were hurt?” Cassandra demanded, and Jonathan shook his head. Almost too late, she saw a stop sign and jammed on the brakes, making him lurch forward in his seat. “Christos,” he muttered under his breath.
She gripped the steering wheel more tightly. “How hurt are you? Are you going to die in my truck?”
“No. Turn here.” He directed her past an old building, covered with graffiti—elaborate, unreadable letters, disgruntled green skulls—and down a block of small houses in disrepair.
When they walked up to the driveway to the stucco house, he staggered. He pounded the heel of his hand against the door a few times and then braced a forearm against the frame. They waited.
“There’s a hospital not too far from here,” Cassandra said.
Jonathan banged harder.
The door opened. Morty Silva stood there, his slightly hunched, stout frame wrapped in a shiny maroon bathrobe. He looked the same as ever, other than grouchier than usual, the way most people would be if you rousted them out of bed in the middle of the night. Although he was sixty-five or seventy, he had a full head of dyed-black hair, slicked straight back like Elvis or an Italian gangster in a movie. “What’s going on, Ace?”
“My back needs stitching up.”
He stood aside and invited them in with a jerk of his head. Scents of cinnamon and incense filled the dim and cluttered room. Morty gave Cassandra a keen look and then turned on Jonathan as he slammed the door shut. “What did you do?”
“Messed up.”
The older man glared, his head lowering like a bull’s. “Why do I get the feeling I should be calling the cops on you right now?”
Cassandra’s eyes went wide.
Jonathan clutched a low bookshelf for support. “Sew me up first?”
“Go in the bathroom before you bleed on my rug.”
Jonathan lurched down the hall while Morty introduced himself to Cassandra as though he had all the time in the world. The older man wasn’t Manus Sancti, but an occasional consultant. Jonathan sat down on the lid of the toilet, rested his folded arms on the sink, and laid down his head.
When Morty came in and peeled back part of the first makeshift bandage, he said, “God damn. You should have gone to the ER.” Good. His wounds might at least make Morty forget he was mad. “’Course, I know you guys avoid them if you can. What the hell did you do?”
“Fought a bear.”
Morty dug around in the medicine chest. “You win?”
“Does it look like it?”
“You’re still breathing.” He dabbed a wet washcloth on the exposed part of the slash, and the smell of rubbing alcohol hit Jonathan’s nostrils. “Where was your gun?”
Jonathan let out a harsh exhale and turned his head to see what Morty was doing. “I set it down.” He could’ve picked up the weapon right after Cassie’s unsuccessful struggle with him, but he’d been trying to get her to trust him.
Morty flipped open a first aid kit. “Not like you to leave it lying around.” He threaded a needle and swabbed it with more rubbing alcohol. “I’d give you some whiskey for this, but I don’t have any in the house.”
“Good for you.” The last he’d heard, Morty was giving Alcoholics Anonymous a second try—which had probably taken more courage than trying it the first time. Empaths were natural addicts. They sought out ways to dampen the onslaught of emotions from others in addition to their own. As the needle bit into Jonathan’s skin, he wondered if Cassandra had gone home. He couldn’t think of a reason why she wouldn’t.
He woke up on Morty’s bed without any recollection of lying down there. Sunlight streamed in through the small window, and his Glock—unloaded, he recalled—lay on the nightstand next to him. The jagged pieces of the night before reassembled themselves in his head.
“Morning, babe.” Morty’s greeting in the living room was definitely not directed at him. He heard Cassandra’s voice, though he didn’t catch what he said. She’s still here. His heart sped up.
Last night, when he’d wrapped his arms around her to stop her from grabbing his gun, the feel of her body pressed against his had triggered a lust in him as extreme as it was inappropriate. Remembering it now, a fantasy took over his mind. He imagined restraining her, but not against her will this time. Tying her up and kissing and stroking her, discovering all the secrets of her body and making her beg for more until she finally came undone.
There was something wrong with him, thinking like this. He had no business wanting someone he’d assaulted. He started to get up, and pain sliced across his back. Try that again, he told himself, and rolled to his side before sitting up. He moved to the closed door to listen.
Cassandra asked, “How long have I been asleep?”
“It’s about six in the morning.”
“Jesus.” She gave a rueful laugh. “I haven’t crashed on anyone’s couch since college.”
“You needed the rest. He got in your head, didn’t he?”
The visceral memory of forcing his way into Cassandra’s psyche made Jonathan feel sick. The recent injuries probably weren’t helping. He rested his forehead on the door, and his mind flickered back to the beautiful sky of her soulscape, the sunset more colorful than any he’d ever seen in real life. Or was it a sunrise? He’d never see it again. Finding goodness when he’d expected evil, after seeing so much evil lately, had affected him in some way he couldn’t even name.
She asked Morty, “Can you do that, too?”
“Nah, nothing like that. I get a sense of people’s feelings, mental states.”
“Oh.” She didn’t sound surprised. Maybe she’d already reached the point where nothing would surprise her. “You must be part of his secret group.”
“They wish.” Well, he wasn’t wrong. There had been talk of recruiting Morty, although no one had ever approached him directly, as far as Jonathan knew. Between the ex-priest’s empath abilities, his ghost talking, and his expansive knowledge of lore, he would have been a worthy addition.
“Are you a doctor?”
“Not that kind of doctor,” Morty said. “I’ve just had practice. So has he, but you can’t sew up your own back.”
“Where is he?”
“Still out for the count, on my bed.”
“Is he going to be okay?” A note of worry strained her voice. Strange. She shouldn’t be concerned about his welfare.
“I think so. He bled a lot, though. Passed out once before I was done.” Did Morty really have to tell her that? Not that there should have been anything embarrassing about blood loss.
Jonathan remembered now that after Morty had made him drink a full glass of water, a second glass of orange juice, and left him to sleep in his bedroom, he’d texted Nic, filling him in on what had happened. Nic had again suggested sending Gabi Bravo to join him. Jonathan had convinced him not to, pointing out that a second Knight might make Cassie feel more threatened, which would increase the likelihood of another animal attack.
A few hours later, when Jonathan had gotten up to go to the bathroom, he’d seen that Nic had texted him orders from Capitán Renaud. Under no circumstances was he to leave Cassandra Rios by herself, and he was responsible for making sure no one else got hurt. He’d have a couple of days to investigate the animal attacks, and if he couldn’t solve the issue, he’d bring her in. At El Dédalo, with its staff of trained Mages, she could be controlled and contained while a Scholar worked on the problem.
Jonathan couldn’t f
athom anything he wanted to do less than drag Cassandra Rios against her will to a compound in the middle of the New Mexico desert. The solution had to be close at hand, and he would find it.
He scanned the little bedroom—austere but with posters, book pages, and flyers covering the walls—and spotted his backpack sitting in the corner. Either Morty or Cassandra must have put it there. When he bent over to dig through the backpack, the stitches felt like laces of fire. He found the extra magazine, loaded his weapon, and shoved it back into the concealed carry holster inside his belt. Then he pulled out his spare shirt, a black button-down, and eased into it, only doing two buttons at the bottom so the fabric wouldn’t rub against his wounds. Had he taken off his shoes and socks? Morty had done it, probably. Embarrassing. Barefoot, he emerged to see the man handing a mug of coffee to Cassie, who sat on the sofa.
She must have crashed there. It had nothing to do with him. After getting attacked, she’d been exhausted. Was she all right?
Morty saw him and straightened up. “He lives.”
“Hey, Morty,” he said, not looking at her. “Thanks again. I’ll have them—they can pay you.”
“She’s all right,” Morty said. “No thanks to you, barging into her head. You scared the living daylights out of her. I felt the aftershocks on her last night, as soon as she came in.”
Cassie said, “It wasn’t just the…mind-reading thing.” From the tone of her voice, Jonathan guessed that she didn’t want to be taken for a weakling, though anyone would be shaken by a psychic invasion. “He tied me up and threatened to blow my brains out.”
Morty’s mouth fell open. He gave Jonathan a look of utter disgust. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
There was no good answer for that. Jonathan stared down at the rug.
Morty must have felt his shame, and he said in a less hostile tone, “You’re going to need to explain this to me.”
“Actually, I’d like to hear your opinion.” Still avoiding her eyes, he ventured into the room. He winced at the pull on his stitches as he sat down on the opposite end of the couch from her, leaving as much space as possible between them. “When Cassandra gets mad at someone, a wild animal attacks them.”