Wrong Side of Dead dc-4

by Kelly Meding

  “If you ask if I’m okay, I may have to punch you,” I say.

  He laughs. I’ve missed that sound. I shift sideways on the fallen log that’s my chair. He stands a few feet away, leaning against a tree trunk, hands in the pockets of his cargo pants, a black smudge slowly melting into twilight. I want to run to him, throw my arms around his neck, and let him hold me.

  Instead, I ask, “Any word from the hospital?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “Bastian died a few minutes ago.”

  I feel nothing at the news—just the same numbness around my heart that has been there since the meeting. “So what did they decide?”

  “Gina and Adrian are talking to the other Handlers right now,” he replies. “It’ll take some time, but I think they’ll come around.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “Then they don’t. We can’t force anyone to accept the idea of working alongside the very creatures they’ve been taught to hate and hunt. No one changes their mind-set overnight, Evy. You know that.”

  “Yeah, I do.” My tentative friendship with Danika planted the seeds of change that Phin’s influence forced into growing. Seeing individuals rather than an entire race, and judging each one separately. “So I guess this is what we were fighting over earlier?”

  “For the most part, yes.”

  “For the most part?”

  He picks a path through the fallen branches and brush, each step careful and deliberate. He sits on the log without upsetting its balance, an arm’s reach of distance between us. Up close and without the lens of recent battle, I see the shadows under his eyes, the new wrinkles at the corners. The weight he’s lost and the way he’s aged. He’s not even thirty, and yet he looks close to fifty now.

  “You know, part of me feels like I betrayed you,” he says, “by accepting that you’d died.”

  “Wyatt, don’t.”

  “No, Evy, please.” He’s speaking to me, but his attention is on the ground in front of us. “Part of me does think so. I never should have doubted you’d find a way back, and that part is so happy to have been wrong.”

  “What’s the other part think?”

  He draws his fingers through his hair, down his chin to scratch at his throat where his dark beard has shadowed the skin. He still won’t look at me. “The other part of me is angry and scared of getting his heart broken a third time.”

  The words hit like a punch to the gut, all the more powerful because they’re honest. For Wyatt I’ve died twice, and both times I broke his heart. And I cannot guarantee it won’t happen again. Loss is part of our lives; we both know and accept this. But how do you lose the same person over and over, and still find the strength to return for more?

  Do I even have the right to expect him to? I wouldn’t be here at all if Max hadn’t interfered. I told Thackery to kill me when he was finished with me, and he swore he would. Consistently defying expectations by not dying is fun when it confounds the bad guy, but not when it hurts the people I care about. Coming back ripped open a healing wound. Again.

  “I get it,” I say.

  “Do you? Because I’m not even sure I get it. Everything is so—”

  “Different?”

  He finally looks at me with utter devastation in his eyes. Glimmering with unshed tears, full of confusion and love and fear and so many things that both thrill and hurt me. “I still love you. That hasn’t changed.”

  “It’s okay, Wyatt.” It isn’t okay, not one bit, but I say it anyway. I say it like I mean it because I have to. He needs this. He deserves this.

  “Is it?”

  “Of course.” I scoot closer and rest one hand on his knee. “I still love you, too, and even though I’ve said it only a few times, I do mean it. And you’re right. Everything is different now and we can’t pretend it isn’t. We can’t go back. We can’t fix it. We can only be who we are now.”

  He turns his hand so we’re palm to palm, fingers curling tight. “And who are we?”

  “I don’t know.” My throat’s tight, clogging with tears. “But I think we both need time to figure that out for ourselves before we can think about us again.” The hand around mine squeezes tighter. “A part of me died in that trailer, Wyatt, in Thackery’s lab, and I’m not entirely sure who’s still left. I’ve been free less than two days, and now everything I thought was true isn’t. I don’t know where I go from here.”

  “I know the feeling.” His voice is low, raspy with emotion. “Before this morning, I was ready to turn my back on the Triads and everything I’d help build. On the people who used to count on me and call me a friend. We’d learned all of these things about the Fey, and then the Assembly and the Families came together, and I needed what they were offering me. I wanted a fresh start. Everything about the Triads reminded me of you.

  “But then I heard about Boot Camp being attacked and … I can’t even explain how I felt. It was beyond personal. And then I got there and saw those kids fighting. They were so brave, and then Gina told me you were alive, and I didn’t believe her. Even when I saw you fighting that wolf, I didn’t believe it. But you were real. Everything I’d abandoned was real. The people I hurt were real, and they needed me more than ever.”

  “Wyatt,” I say, drawing out his name, unsure if I even want to ask this. “If the attack hadn’t happened this morning, would Astrid and Isleen still have invited the Triads into this little task force?”

  He flinches. “Not this soon, no. I’ve brought it up, but we had no way of exposing the brass and no guarantee that anyone, even Gina, would listen to me. But now—”

  “Now we don’t really have a choice.”

  “There’s always a choice, Evy, but I do think that joining us is the lesser of many evils. And we’ll be five times stronger than we ever were before. Not only in numbers, but in abilities and knowledge and political power. Instead of bullying the Families and Clans, we’ll be working with them. Cooperating instead of ordering around. And if Amalie really is trying to instigate some sort of surface civil war, we’ll have a much stronger position from which to fight back.”

  “You’re right.”

  “But?”

  “No buts.” I poke him in the shoulder. “I can’t say you’re right without adding a but?”

  “You can. You just rarely do.”

  We smile, and it feels so normal. So much like us—here, alone in the woods, with the problems of the world seeming so far away, as if the last three weeks never happened. Only they did, and we’ll remember that as soon as we rejoin the others. So many things still need to be said before either of us can heal.

  “I’m not sorry I went with Thackery.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind. I don’t think I can ever tell Wyatt that I asked Thackery to kill me, but I can tell him about this.

  He flinches. “I know. It was the right decision.”

  “The right decision for everyone else.”

  “Well, it was a Bigger Picture kind of moment.”

  “It always is, and that’s okay. This is the life we chose.” Dusky shadows lengthen on the ground as twilight wanes. “Do you ever think about how different things would have turned out if you’d gotten Tybalt instead of me four years ago?”

  Wyatt arches both eyebrows, expression going thoughtful. “Well, for one thing, I wouldn’t have kissed him that night I came over to your place drunk off my ass.”

  “You remember that?”

  “Parts of it.”

  “You never said anything.”

  “I was embarrassed, Evy. I never should have gone over there, much less kissed you.”

  “Well, now that I know more about the anniversary in question, I’m glad you did.” My thoughts jump back to Rufus and his part in the reason behind that particular anniversary. It isn’t my secret to tell, and yet I feel like I’m lying to Wyatt simply by keeping my mouth shut.

  “You’ve been part of my life, blonde or brunette, for the last four years, Evy Stone,” he say
s. “I can’t imagine my life without you in it. And for a while you weren’t, and I hated it. I hated the guy I was, and I hated you for leaving me.” He seems to realize just how tightly he’s been squeezing my hand and relaxes his grip. “You said that a part of you died in that trailer, and you aren’t sure what’s left.”

  I nod, positive I know what’s coming.

  “Part of me died with you,” he says, voice tight. Near the breaking point. “Died when I accepted you were gone. And I don’t know who’s left, either.”

  “Maybe, um.” I swallow against the lump in my throat. “Maybe we both need time to figure that out. Time to just … make sense of the world again.”

  “Apart.” It isn’t a question.

  I laugh, and it’s a hollow sound. “Well, we’re going to be working together, I think, so ‘apart’ is a relative term.”

  “Right.”

  “We’re not going anywhere, Wyatt, but no pressure, no expectations. For a while. I think we both need this.” I tell myself it’s for him as much as me, but I’m being selfish. Incredibly selfish with the two hardest secrets I’ve ever kept from him.

  “For a while,” he says. His voice cracks.

  He opens his arms and I fall against his chest, clinging to his warmth despite the heat of the evening. I rest my cheek against his heart and listen to it beat for a while, as his free hand strokes my back, his chin a comfortable weight on the top of my head.

  We’re still sitting like that a while later when Kismet finds us and delivers good news: our three-way alliance among humans, Therians, and vampires is a go.

  Chapter Eight

  Saturday, July 26

  4:20 A.M.

  Watchtower

  Funny how it’s possible to both feel better and feel like utter crap at the exact same time. My nose was stuffed, my eyes were swollen, and my head felt twenty pounds heavier, but all in all I was okay. The minor breakdown over the Therian abductions and Thackery’s involvement was over. I leaned against Wyatt’s chest, comfortable there on the floor of the gym, content to be held until I had collected myself enough to ask a coherent question.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He stiffened. “I can go if you’re uncomfortable.”

  He could—what? I sat up and twisted my somewhat-stiff neck to stare at him. He looked startled. I shook my head, confused. Then I got it and laughed. “No, you idiot, not that. I thought you and Marcus were interrogating Felix.”

  “We had to stop for a bit. The only thing he’d say was ‘I can’t’ and ‘it’s for them,’ and it was getting”—he blanched—“messy.”

  “Oh.” Ugh. I tried to get Felix’s words to make sense, but a fog had settled around my reasoning skills, and it wasn’t going away.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I think so.” I touched my face. I really wanted to blow my nose. “When did I become such a weepy mess?”

  “When you died and got a new body complete with new emotional imbalances?”

  “Oh. Yeah.” I smiled.

  So did he. “Get it out of your system?”

  “I think so. Although the punching bag may never forgive me.”

  “It might surprise you.”

  The teasing banter was so normal, so us, that it was easy to forget we weren’t us anymore. Hadn’t been for weeks. I sat up straighter and got my first good look at Wyatt. Flecks of blood dotted his gray T-shirt and the skin of his bare arms. Some stuck to his neck. If any had made it to his face, he’d taken the time to wipe it off. He was smiling, but it didn’t hide the hint of concern in his expression or the shadows haunting his eyes.

  “I’m so sorry about Ava,” he said.

  “Don’t be sorry yet.” A brief flare of annoyance shut out any lingering threads of grief. “I plan on getting her back alive, along with the rest of them.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I know, Wyatt, but saying you’re sorry feels like a condolence, and I don’t want it.”

  He lifted his hand and brushed a damp strand of hair off my forehead. “What do you want, then?”

  Boy, that was a loaded question, and it had nothing to do with the missing Therians. For once, I didn’t know what to say because I didn’t have a clue what I wanted from him. We’d been keeping each other at arm’s length for two weeks, getting the space we both needed. I just didn’t know if I was ready for the heart-to-heart that would finally lay it all on the table.

  “I want a shower,” I said.

  “Well, you are kind of a mess.”

  “No kidding.” I had dirt on my arms and legs from both of my tumbles (the roof of the rave and the driveway landing), drying sweat everywhere from my battle with the heavy bag, not to mention tears, snot, and probably a little bit of blood from any number of sources. I couldn’t smell very good, either. “No, I think ‘mess’ is kind. I’m downright disgusting.”

  “Come on, then, Stinky.” Wyatt stood up, then offered his hand. I waved my boxing glove at him. He laughed, then grabbed my wrist and helped lever me to my feet. He unstrapped the gloves—for which I was eternally grateful, as my fingers were stiff and refusing to work properly—and tossed them aside.

  “Thank you for this,” I said.

  “Of course. I’ll do everything I can to help you get the Coni back. You know that.”

  “I do.” I flexed my fingers, wincing at the sharp twinges in my joints. The soreness would fade quickly, thanks to my healing ability, so in some bizarre way I wanted to enjoy the pain while it existed.

  We headed for the door. I grabbed his arm before we reached it, and he stopped short.

  “One favor after my shower?” I asked.

  “Depends on the favor.”

  Smart man. “I want to speak with Felix.”

  “Think you can make him talk?”

  “Probably not, but if he isn’t talking, then Astrid won’t keep him alive much longer. I just want a minute before his neck gets snapped.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he never finished answering a question I asked him on the roof.”

  The shower felt wonderful. A little bit of steamy, wet heaven after a nightmarish few hours. I almost felt normal again as I left the bathrooms in fresh jeans, a navy blue tank top, and the latest in heavy-duty sneakers. My hair was left to dry in whichever manner it chose.

  Wyatt was lingering outside of the jail. “Astrid said you could have five minutes.”

  “Generous of her.”

  “Play nice, Evy.”

  “With Astrid or Felix?”

  “Astrid. She’s taking these disappearances more personally than you are. Clan protection is her job.”

  True, and a great point. Except for Phineas (and, to an extent, Kyle), I hadn’t given consideration to the feelings of the Therians we worked with. Before creating the Watch, Astrid had headed up an elite security team for the Assembly of Clan Elders. Losing so many people at once had to hurt.

  “Okay,” I said. “Five minutes.”

  We went inside. The first room was large, with a center desk and three observation windows, one on each wall. The rooms to the immediate left and center were both specialty jail cells—the walls created with alternating strips of silver bars (anti-Therian) and raw pine (anti-vampire) to keep the majority of potential prisoners from staging a breakout. To the right was the interrogation room, its walls a similar composition. Two different chairs were bolted to the floor at intervals, also of different materials depending on who was being questioned. A rack of tools hung on the back wall of that room next to an industrial sink.

  Seth Nevada stood behind the desk, arms crossed over his chest. I didn’t know him well; he’d been a Handler in a different part of the city and had volunteered here as the equivalent of town sheriff. Three others worked under him, and the quartet manned the jail. Humans were chosen because of the wall materials—to prevent accidental injury. Nevada was smart, fair, and fond of snacking on hard-boiled eggs.

  “Truman. Stone,” he
said.

  I gave an impolite half nod in his general direction, too horrified by what I saw in the interrogation room. Felix was slumped over in the wooden chair, bare arms and thighs bearing weeping blisters at every point of contact. Blood oozed from several parts of his body, and he was having trouble breathing. It took me a moment to spot the reason—a small head of garlic was hanging around his neck. Vampires and Halfies are allergic to all plants in the allium family, but garlic and onions had the worst effect.

  And we knew all the tricks.

  My stomach twisted. He’s not your friend, Felix died, he’s not your friend, Felix is dead. Seeing him like that made it harder to remember.

  It also made it impossible to forget Alex Forrester. A kind young man who was once the best friend of Chalice, my new body, he’d volunteered to help me after my resurrection. He lost his life for his generosity, ending up in a position very similar to the one Felix was in now—a half-Blood tied to a wooden chair, tortured for information.

  A warm hand squeezed my shoulder. I knew it was Wyatt without looking. “You sure you want to do this?” he whispered.

  “Yes.” No. Fuck.

  Nevada punched a code into the digital lock, and the interrogation door clicked. I pulled it open, stepped inside, and pulled it shut.

  The odors of garlic and blood stung my nose and watered my eyes. Felix didn’t move, head down, arms and ankles shackled to the chair. He seemed to have passed out, but I knew better.

  “I hear you haven’t been very cooperative,” I said.

  His head snapped up, iridescent eyes blinking through a sheen of tears. “You brought me here and assumed I’d trade info for good-byes,” he said, voice hoarse, bitter.

  “Not interested?”

  “Anything I agree to ends with me being executed anyway, so what’s the point?”

  I lifted one shoulder in a half shrug, struggling to keep an air of nonchalance when all I wanted to do was look away. “One final good deed before you die? For old time’s sake?”