Pound of Flesh: An Urban Fantasy Novel (The Half-Demon Warlock Book 1)
Page 19
“We’ll see,” she shrugged.
I knew that “we’ll see.” It was the same one she used last week when we ended up at that Kate Hudson movie or a couple of days ago when I wanted hot dogs and she wanted to try out the new Indian place. That “we’ll see” meant I’d probably end up with new upholstery before it was all said and done. But I didn’t care. She was worth it.
“I can’t believe how everything turned out,” she said, lowering the volume on the radio. “Do you really think it’s over?”
“I talked to a couple of guys in the know about people like the Founder. They told me beings like that can’t just come popping up anytime they want. It takes time and coordination, and a heck of a lot of energy. That’s why he needed Fulton.” I glanced down at the top of her beautiful head. “And Fulton’s dead. So I guess you’re just going to have to get used to me.”
“I can do that,” she purred, and I got a whiff of her perfume, Jasmine and wild berries. “And I can find my brother.”
“Renee,” I started, getting a little impatient. We had talked about this before, just briefly. I thought it as better for her to let this go. She, obviously, disagreed.
She pulled away from me. “He’s my brother, Roy. He might have made a mistake, and he might have not had his head screwed on the right way, but I love him. He’s still out there somewhere, and I’m going to find him.”
“He was going to let you die,” I reminded her, pursing my lips and reminding her where my true loyalty lay.
“That’s something we’ll have to deal with, but we will deal with it,” she answered, her tone solid and the look on her face fierce enough to tell me she meant business.
I turned back to the road, just in time to see a huge dark mass slam into my windshield.
“Shit!” I screamed and swerved hard to the shoulder before screeching to a stop. The windshield was a mass of cracks, and the engine sputtered pathetically as smoke poured from beneath the dented hood like there was a goddamned campfire beneath it. I had just gotten this damned thing fixed, and it was already destroyed again.
“Are you alright?” I asked Renee. She was breathing heavily, but I didn’t see any blood.
“What was that?” she asked, ignoring my question.
I looked back in the side window to see the mass lying face up on the road. Holy fuck. I hadn’t hit just anything. I’d hit a person. Only, people don’t just fall from the sky.
“I think… I think it’s a person,” I said, horror filling my voice as I unbuckled my seatbelt and opened my door to get a better look.
“Call 911,” Renee said, throwing open her own door and rushing out.
I fumbled with my phone, but before I could dial the numbers, Renee’s voice shot through me like a dagger.
“No!” she cried and the pain and anguish in her voice twisted that dagger deep inside me.
I jumped out of my newly fixed and even more newly wrecked Impala and sprinted toward her. She was turned away from the body. Tears streamed down her face and she was shaking.
“It’s him,” she sobbed, shaking her head hard enough to fling the tears streaming down her cheeks into the air. “It’s Nicky!”
My eyes grew wide as I moved past her, already in detective mode. I knelt down next to the corpse and saw the face I had seen on the picture on her desk, a face that looked just like hers. His eyes were open, his expression as blank. Carved into his forehead were the words “This Isn’t Over.”
Afterword
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