4.0 - Howl Of The Fettered Wolf

by Krista Walsh

  The ferocity of her determination eased some of her fear, but it didn’t erase it entirely. She prayed Gabe’s resources would provide enough information to guarantee she came out on top.

  Vera checked the water again, and when her fingers didn’t freeze, she stepped into the tub and allowed the spray to wash over her, ridding her of Rega’s lingering touch and the muckiness of the red magic the warlock had thrown at her.

  The shampoo smelled of lavender, the soap of fresh forest, and by the time she stepped out, she felt more in balance than she had since the first attempt on the book. As much as she hated to admit it to anyone, even to herself, it seemed Ara might have been right about the wisdom of coming here. The opportunity to ground herself in the silence, in the comfort of someone else’s home, made her feel ready to face whatever came at her next.

  As she wrapped the towel around her slim frame, she caught a whiff of mustiness from the cotton, an odor that made her think of summer cottages and running across the beach as a storm came in. It smelled like peace and quiet.

  She padded into the bedroom and hauled her suitcase onto the bed. Then she pulled out her outfit for tomorrow and set her planner on top of it. It was part of her daily routine to sort out the next day before going to sleep, and she saw no reason not to keep to her habits as much as she could.

  After rifling through her bag three more times, she set her hands on her hips. “Damn.”

  She’d forgotten pajamas.

  For a moment, she considered poking through the wardrobe to see if there was anything left behind, but the idea repulsed her.

  Gabe would just love to see me waltz downstairs in his mother’s PJs, I’m sure.

  With a sigh of acceptance, she went to the door and poked her head through the crack. “Gabe?”

  “What’s up? Do you have everything?”

  “I—” She groaned inwardly. “I forgot to pack something to sleep in. I don’t suppose…”

  “On it,” he said, and a few seconds later he bounded up the steps. He flashed her a grin as he passed by, and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

  She was his client, for goodness’ sake. She had hired him for his professional skills, not to babysit her. And here she was looking like a buffoon who couldn’t even remember to bring the basics with her when she went on the run.

  He returned a moment later with clothes bundled in his hands. “This should keep you warm enough. When you’re dressed, come downstairs. I’ve opened a bottle of whiskey that we can drink by the fire. A few sips of that and you’ll be ready to pass out.”

  Vera cleared her throat. “I don’t drink.”

  “You will tonight,” he said. “You need it.”

  He disappeared downstairs, leaving Vera to get dressed.

  ***

  On top of giving her a pair of old red-and-black sweatpants and a baggy white band T-shirt, Gabe had included a pair of wool socks that tickled Vera’s toes but kept them toasty as she curled up on the couch in front of the fire. She wished she had her favorite sweater to hunker down in, but she didn’t really need it. The room was cool enough that most humans would be uncomfortable, but her post-shower goosebumps were gone, and she could have happily fallen asleep right here.

  Even the whiskey wasn’t so bad. She was on her second glass and couldn’t remember ever feeling so relaxed.

  The drink had been waiting for her on the end table when she’d come downstairs, along with a crocheted blanket folded on the cushion. Vidar and Baxter were snoring on the rug in front of the hearth, and Gabe was sitting on the other end of the couch, looking at ease in his faded jeans and a college hoodie. Only the sunglasses in the low-lit space gave away that he was anything other than human.

  For a moment, Vera’s heart had squeezed tight in her chest, touched by the scene laid out in front of her, but she’d reeled in her reaction and reminded herself that this was business. He was doing her a professional favor.

  Now, she shifted her legs beneath her and took another sip of her drink, wincing and then relishing the warmth as it slipped down her throat. After so many days of nothing but tension and heavy thoughts, she enjoyed the chance to let them drift away so she could focus on questions that until now had seemed too irrelevant to dwell on.

  As she stared at Gabe’s profile — the slight bump on the bridge of his nose, the curve of his lips and the smoothness of his square jawline — she noticed a new hardness in the lines around his mouth.

  “Something’s changed in you,” she said. “You were so roguish and cavanear — cava — funny in Jermaine’s little room. Now you’re serious. Like something bad happened.”

  Warmth rose under her skin at the faint slur in her words, but the embarrassment wasn’t strong enough to yank her into sobriety.

  Gabe’s body tensed, and he cupped the back of his neck. “I had a case a couple of weeks ago. I guess I’m still recovering from it.”

  “What kind of case?”

  He tilted his head to glance at her. “A bit of a minefield. A snowy one. One where I didn’t know who I could trust or who was spinning me along. In the end, I made a decision, and the result has been nightmares I’m having a hard time shaking.”

  He sounded like he was torn between telling her more and not wanting to talk about it. Vera decided to respect his privacy and, before she knew she was speaking, asked instead, “Why did you never come see me when you walked past the shop?”

  Gabe pressed his lips together and his fingers tapped an unsteady rhythm on his thigh. Finally, he relaxed into the cushions. “I didn’t know if you’d want to see me. As much as the experience we shared was unique, it wasn’t exactly the basis for a lifelong friendship. I asked you for drinks, you turned me down. I didn’t want to hassle you by barging in on your life when you weren’t expecting me.”

  “Shame,” she said, resting the side of her head against the back cushion. “Of all the people in that room, you were the one I wouldn’t have minded seeing again.”

  Vera only heard the words after they were out of her mouth, and she raised her fingers to her lips to stop herself from saying anything else. She didn’t want to act like a teenage girl with a crush now that he’d gone so far to help her.

  Thankfully, he just laughed at her comment, then gestured to her glass. “I guess I should have asked you to do something else with me. Though it seems you’ve taken to my whiskey fairly well. You say you’re not a drinker?”

  Vera shook her head. “I never saw the appeal. I’ve always had too much to take care of to risk not being in full control of my faclies.” She paused and tried again. “Faculties.”

  “Taking care of things like what?” he asked, and in his question she heard more than an attempt to be polite. His sunglasses stared at her with their blankness, but she imagined the intensity lurking behind them, the creases in the corners of his eyes, the gleam of gold in his green irises. Why hadn’t he taken them off?

  “Like taking care of my dad after my mom died. I was twelve and she was hit by a car right in front of me. It shouldn’t have killed her — she should have killed it — but it did.” Vera shrugged. “Dad was a wreck and he had to take care of me. Ara was there and he felt he needed to take care of her, too, but really, she’s a three hundred-year-old tree.”

  She pressed her lips into a line, but she couldn’t feel them. Part of her brain knew she was talking too much, babbling about things that didn’t matter, but Gabe had asked and for some reason she felt like answering.

  “Then there was taking care of Dad when he got sick five years ago. Cancer. Destroyed him. He lasted two years, hanging on right to the end, but it was a relief when he went. Kind of. It’s still hard not to have him around. But he helped me create Egg — Ygg — the bookshop, and Ara and I have kept it going. Of course, now it’s another thing for me to handle. And my dogs, even though I love them. And this stupid book.”

  She raised her gaze to stare into the centers of his lenses. “You see? I have no time for drinking. Or relations
hips. Or friendships. Or anything, really. Even if it’s not what Dad wanted for me, I need to stay on top of everything to make sure it doesn’t all fall apart.”

  Her throat closed up as the pressure of her responsibilities pressed in on her, and she took another drink to ease the tightness.

  Gabe shifted in his seat to face her, drawing one leg up between them. The amber liquid in his glass caught the reflection of the fire and cast light on his face, making him appear even more Fae than usual.

  So handsome. She wanted to lean in and kiss him full on the mouth, to find out if he tasted as good as he smelled, but the part of her that remained inhibited held her back.

  “It can’t be all on you,” he said. “You have Ara to help you, so that’s got to make a difference, right? And if you let more people help, you would have more time to relax.”

  Vera shook her head. “No, because no one knows it all as well as I do. All the little details.” She brought her thumb and index finger close together in front of her eye. “The essentials that would cause everything to crack if they were forgotten.” Letting her hand drop into her lap, she added, “I want everything to settle so I can let other people help, but I can’t yet. There’s too much at stake. It has to be me.”

  “Vera,” Gabe started, then he fell silent. Slowly, gently, he rested his hand on her arm. His warmth passed through her, but instead of receiving the comfort she knew he intended, tears welled in her eyes.

  “But that demon got so close to ruining everything,” she said. “He got his hands around my throat and almost killed me, and if he’d done that, everything would have been lost. Even with all the time I’ve put into making things effish — efficient, it’s just been an illusion. It’s a fragile sheet of glass hovering over a bed of nails, and one dropped end will sh—shatter the whole thing.”

  All at once, the tensions of the day overwhelmed her — her realization that she was fighting off two different enemies, her near-brush with death, the burden of guarding the book. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she tried to brush them away, but whiskey sloshed over the edge of the glass.

  In a smooth motion, Gabe took the drink from her and used the blanket to mop up the spills on her arms.

  “It’s all right,” he said, setting the glass on the table behind her. His chest brushed against her arm, sending shooting sparks through her body. “You had to face the demon alone tonight, but it won’t happen again. You’ve got help now.”

  He wrapped one arm around her shoulders and pulled the blanket higher over her chest to keep her bundled against him. She inhaled the scent of his skin — the woodsiness of loam and earth. He tucked his other arm around her waist and pulled her closer, making sure she had room to escape if she wanted to push him away. She didn’t. Instead, she curled herself into his embrace, her head swimming as sleep tugged her away from the room.

  Fear skittered under her growing drowsiness, and she burrowed deeper in Gabe’s arms, certain that he would watch over her.

  Warm and secure, the streaks of her tears still cooling her cheeks, she drifted to sleep.

  ***

  The voice called to her again, but this time it gave up the pretense that she was experiencing a regular dream. The strength and age of its power was unshielded, pressing on Vera’s mind until she thought her sanity might snap under the pressure.

  It only eased when she opened her psychic eye to the dreaming plane.

  She stood in Gabe’s living room, but again, it wasn’t quite as it should be. The furniture appeared uneven, distorted, slightly out of place. Walking through it, she nearly tripped on one of the dining chairs that for some reason was sitting in the middle of the pathway behind the couch. A fire popped in the grate, but cold air wafted toward her instead of the warmth she was expecting.

  Vera rubbed her hands over her arms and opened her mind to the direction of the energy’s source. It seemed to be coming from outside. She walked toward the front door, but when she rested her hand on the doorknob, she was thrust back, appearing in the same spot she’d stood when she’d opened her eyes.

  Who are you? she demanded. Why are you chasing me?

  A few seconds passed, and she received no answer. She’d just given up on hearing anything rational from the voice when it spoke. This time, instead of coming from a distance, it sounded as though it were in the room with her, a shapeless source of power.

  We demand the book, it said.

  The voice vibrated deep in Vera’s soul, as if it had reached inside her and grabbed her own power, proving that she was useless in the face of the ancient one. Her legs trembled and her heart thudded against her ribs, but despite her uneasiness, she forced out a laugh.

  No way in the seven hells. That book was charged to me, and I will keep it safe from any who choose to wield it. No matter how ancient you are or how strong you believe yourself to be.

  Another stretch of silence followed her answer, and for a moment she thought she detected a change in the energy around her. It became less suffocating, less menacing. Had she surprised whoever “we” were enough to weaken its hold over her?

  Testing it, she shifted her mind away from the room, but before the image could change, a pain so fierce and agonizing cut through her mind that her dream-self dropped to her knees. She clutched her head and attempted to wrangle a shield around her thoughts. Unseen claws tore through her brain, digging for the knowledge the voice sought. She fought the power off, blocking each new strike at the cost of her own mental fortitude.

  The pain shot knives into her eyes, twisting her stomach and exposing every nerve to a torturous inferno.

  Eventually, what felt like hours later, she succeeded in sealing her mind against the attacks and sobbed as the pain eased. The pressure continued, confronting her on all sides as the power tried to find a crack it could manipulate, but she held strong.

  Very well, the voice said. You will pay the consequences of keeping it from us.

  The living room scene vanished into a blessed blackness, and Vera faded with it.

  7

  Some time later, with no concept of how long she’d slept, Vera opened her eyes and immediately wished she hadn’t. The bedroom spun in large loops, and she was certain she was going to fall out of bed.

  Pain lanced behind her eye sockets and drums pounded against her skull. She groaned and rolled onto her side, then stopped moving when her stomach heaved.

  An effect of the attack in her dreams?

  She could believe it. She remembered the ache as though she’d been fully conscious when it had happened.

  Then she burped, and the taste of stale whiskey crept up the back of her throat. She groaned again, remembering the alcohol. Gave a third groan when she remembered how she’d behaved in front of Gabe and realized he must have carted her upstairs at some point, though she had no recollection of it. Suddenly, the torture of having someone try to crack open her thoughts sounded like a better option than facing Gabe sober in the light of day.

  She wished she could hunker down under her covers and disappear — if she never saw him again, she’d never have to address the things she’d said — but her dream reinforced the importance of making use of Gabe’s resources. That power had come here for a reason. Just because she’d made a drunken fool of herself and now felt as though all of her insides were trying to become her outsides didn’t mean she could allow the otherworld to remain under threat.

  With a final groan, she forced herself to throw off the blankets. She rolled her head toward the clock on the bedside table, but the green numbers were obscured by a full glass of water sitting in front of it. Lying beside the water were two ibuprofen tablets.

  It appeared Gabe’s PI services included hangover care.

  Vera debated not taking the pills, knowing the ichor in her blood would get rid of her headache soon enough, but if there was a chance the drugs could make it disappear faster, she would accept the offering. She popped the pills on her tongue and downed three-quarters of the water in
one go.

  The liquid made her tongue feel less like swollen cotton and eased the burn of her throat, but it didn’t help the cramps and spasms bursting through the rest of her body as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and attempted to stand up.

  The room swerved, and she held on to the bedpost as she went around to her suitcase and today’s outfit.

  It took longer than it should have, but soon her borrowed pajamas had been replaced by a teal blue shirt and relaxed gray slacks. The sort of business-casual attire she hoped would give the impression that she was as on top of everything as she claimed to be.

  In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face to help wash away the last vestiges of sleep and ran her fingers through her hair, braiding it down to the middle of her back.

  Once she was sure she didn’t look as though she’d crawled out of a grave — her bruises had already begun to take on a greenish-yellow hue — she opened the bedroom door. Her mouth watered at the smell of bacon and eggs wafting up the stairs, but her stomach heaved even as it grumbled, and she took the stairs one at a time until she reached the kitchen.

  Baxter and Vidar bounded over to her, tails wagging, then hurried back to Gabe with their noses in the air as they begged for bacon.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” Gabe greeted her, keeping his voice blessedly low. “Are you surviving?”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” she said, but her own voice bounced around her skull as though she’d shouted her reply, and she winced.

  He chuckled and set a cup of coffee down on the counter. “Breakfast is almost ready, and you’ll feel better afterward, I promise.”

  “How are you so cheerful?” she asked. “You drank more than I did.”

  He flashed her a smile. “And didn’t feel a thing. Part of the Fae genes. Alcohol burns right through me as though it were smoke.”

  Bastard, she thought, and sipped her coffee.

  “Did you sleep well?” Gabe asked.