Bone Hunter

by Thea Atkinson

  A quick glance left and right told me I was safe to head in, but I hesitated.

  The building looked like it always did to me in the dark. There was a small garden out front that my landlord kept wild and in disarray. The overgrown clumps of flowers and foliage were well within the bylines because he kept it weeded, but it was messy, and his neighbors hated messy.

  Even in the faint illumination of a too weak porch light I could see a newly formed spider web clinging to the stem of a fading poppy.

  I sighed and went in, wondering the whole time if I was crossing into the fae warlord's realm as I walked through my front door or if he'd already taken off the glamor and I was returning to an apartment I'd not set foot in for weeks.

  My answer came when the cat didn't streak across the apartment at me, all hiss and raised fur. As guard dogs went, she was pretty decent.

  "Seriously?" I said, dangling my heels by their straps in my hand as I stood in the bedroom doorway. The bastard took off the glamor all right, but he'd left my cat back in his realm.

  I strode to the kitchen counter and noticed a shard of glass embedded in the grout of the floor. I bent to stick my finger to it and discard it.

  Obviously the fae warlord had been taunting me and the glass had indeed broken in my apartment, which meant all kinds of ridiculously impossible things were going on here whenever something happened in the fae realm version. I tried to imagine glasses sailing through the air on their own toward the fridge as I poured a glass of milk, dishes washing themselves, laundry being sorted and put away.

  The stress and adrenaline release had me chuckling over the stupidity of it all and I sank down onto the floor with my legs splayed in front of me. Maddox's jacket hung from my shoulders and the thought of that for some reason made me cry.

  Which is exactly the state Alvin found me in.

  CHAPTER 11

  I was shocked to see him standing in my living room, looking across the open space to my kitchenette, but there he was. I didn't ask how he got in or how he'd found me. The warlord's specific glamor was off, and I'd taken a short cut because the night was a clusterfuck and I didn't have it in me to be careful.

  He'd found me the way anyone would. Followed me and stepped right through the front door because I'd forgotten to lock it.

  He wore a smirk like the bad suit he had on and he took off that cheap jacket so leisurely, I knew before he spoke what he'd come for.

  "Scottie sent you to collect me," I said, hoping that was all it was.

  Alvin rolled up first one, then the other sleeve, before apparently deciding that wouldn't be enough and took his shirt off right off. He was hairy enough, but not as covered as I'd expected. I'd thought before that he was pudgy, an overstuffed brute who ate too many danish and used his size instead of muscle to intimidate.

  I was wrong. The muscles under his wife beater shirt moved as though they were hard chunks of steel. There was no life, no fluidity to them at all. No lithe movement like a cheetah or lion's big working muscles.

  They were hard blocks of cement beneath his skin.

  I tried and failed to stand and had to roll over onto my knees to get to my feet. And I knew I needed to get to my feet.

  Quickly.

  The blow to my cheekbone sent me straight back down to the floor before I could weave away or stand straight. I couldn't see the floor tiles for the black spots in my vision.

  "Scottie sent me to teach you a lesson," he said. "And he told me to make sure you learned it."

  There was glee in his tone, too much glee to make me think the lesson would be a quick one.

  I turned my face toward him, looking up at him as he loomed above me.

  I held up my hand, thinking maybe he would halt long enough for me to explain or protest.

  He didn't. The blows came again, this time in more targeted areas: my stomach, ribs, and then finally my face. I'd thought perhaps for Scottie's vanity's sake, I would be spared my face.

  My nose crunched, and pain ripped into my skull.

  If I whimpered he didn't hear it. His steel-toed shoes went into my ribs next until I curled into a fetal position, vainly trying to protect my core.

  It went on for too long. The lesson was a long, painful, pointed one and long after he'd stopped hitting me, I still felt the blows. My cell memory wasn't sure whether it was Alvin's fists or Scottie's, and I supposed they were one and the same, after all.

  The last thing I remembered before blacking out was Alvin looking over his shoulder at me as he stood at the open doorway.

  "You know where he's staying," he said with his hand on the doorknob. "Your hall pass expires in twenty-four hours."

  It was clever, that quip. Far smarter than I gave Alvin credit for. I had time to think I really needed to reconsider how cunning he was.

  And then I did black out. Merciful, painless unconsciousness and when I woke again, it was to birdsong.

  I tried to roll over, thinking I was in bed at first and was just confused about why my mattress was so damn stiff.

  When pain flared through my ribcage, I remembered exactly where I was and why.

  I was on my kitchen floor. I hurt like hell. And I had probably twelve hours or so to deliver myself to my ex-lover or risk worse than a few punches and kicks.

  I managed to squirm onto to my back, but it left me huffing and trying to hold my ribcage together beneath the suit jacket I still wore. It snagged by a button to a hank of my hair, reminding me exactly how much my scalp hurt.

  I vaguely remembered why that was too. Something about Alvin grabbing me by the hair and dragging me several feet toward the door in a threat to haul me all the way to the jail where Scottie was being held for twenty-four hours because of me.

  But he'd given up and spun me right back around and dumped me next to the sink so I could splash my face with water if I needed to.

  He had his orders, after all.

  I bit him, if I remembered correctly. One great chomp out of a hunk of muscled calf because it was the only thing I could reach from my spot on the floor.

  It was foolish. It had escalated what had no doubt meant to be a brief but brutal reminder into an all-out rage fest.

  I quivered all over as my memory tried to bring every moment back to bear, and the instinct of self-preservation forced it back in. Like a jar that refused to have is lid screwed shut, I kept having to retract and refit, and the effort made me tremble. I leaked frustrated tears onto my cheek.

  I couldn't cry. It hurt too much. Salty fluid ran into the corner of my mouth and stung.

  I tasted blood.

  And the taste of copper in my mouth yanked a sob out me finally because it reminded me of why I was in this mess in the first place. I should have listened to the fae warlord. What would it have cost me, after all? A few bones and a nest of vampires? What was that to the beating I'd just endured?

  I let go. No matter that it hurt every part of my body to do so, I let go lying on my back with my arms flung out because I couldn't even curl into the fetal position.

  I wasn't sure how long I lay there that way. I knew something caught my attention only through the near-silent wailing. I hitched the tears back down, swallowing greasy saliva as I tried to make out what had tweaked my senses.

  Alvin wouldn't have knocked. Neither would Scottie.

  Except I didn't even know if it was a knock I'd heard in the first place.

  I tried and failed to roll over onto my side. I had to settle for letting my head roll toward the door.

  A sharp intake of breath was the thing I did register. That and the sound of shoes scuffing across the floor toward me.

  I thought I heard my name.

  I cringed in reflex and tried to scrabble to my feet, thankful that terror has a way of overriding pain in the worst circumstances. I had a gun in my bedroom. Half a dozen knives in the kitchen drawer. A broken bottom of glass I could use to stab at whoever came at me.

  Any one of them would do in a pinch.

&nbs
p; A hand clamped down over my wrist as I went for the drawer and I whirled around in a flat-out panic, seeing nothing but a sizable chest and the blur of color. My eyes, I realized. I could barely see through them. I couldn't even open them.

  "Sweet Jesus, Kitten," the intruder said. "Who the fuck did this to you?"

  Maddox. Maddox was the one in my apartment. Not Alvin. Not Scottie.

  I sagged against the counter. Not Scottie. Not Alvin. I shouldn't have felt safe knowing that Maddox had let himself in to my apartment, an apartment that was now painfully accessible to rabble and friends alike.

  And yet I did feel safe.

  So why did I yank my hand back so violently from his? Why did I pull it into my chest as though I couldn't risk letting any part of myself be out in space, vulnerable and accessible?

  "Don't touch me," I said in a voice that couldn't possibly be my own. It was too high pitched, too shrill. I felt my head shaking back and forth. A renewed sting of tears made my eyelids hurt.

  "Ok," he murmured. "I won't touch you. Can you walk? Can you make it to the sofa?"

  His voice was all soft and soothing and I hated that I responded to it because it made me feel even more weak.

  Even so, I nodded. Except the truth was, I had no idea if I could walk. I felt like a bunch of frayed wires all bundled together, but with open sores where critical electricity leaked out.

  Soaked through and through with adrenaline and fear, my memory flashed me back to the night I'd left Scottie and run from him in my bare feet and hid out in a ditch for hours.

  I swore then I would never go back to him. I swore I'd die before he controlled me again.

  And I think I almost did just that.

  I couldn't even hug myself to keep the shakes from rattling my teeth. They clacked together like a joke set and I expected someone somewhere to laugh. I took a step in the direction of the sofa and nearly collapsed.

  Maddox made a grab for me, assuming I was about to fall but I slapped his hand away.

  "My apartment," I said.

  My apartment. My walls. My sofa. I knew where everything was in the dark; I could find the sofa with a bruised and swollen eye.

  "OK," he said again but I could feel him hovering over me as I hand-walked my way along the counter and then wall to find the arm of my sofa.

  "Right here," I said as I found the seat with my palms. "This is where he sat."

  "Bastard," said Maddox and I eased onto the cushions, aiming my face to where his voice had come from. He thought I meant Alvin. He had no idea about the fae warlord.

  I could feel him standing there. He hummed with fury as I tried to find a comfortable way to sit without hurting my bruised legs. The blur of color that was his shirt and trousers moved silently away from me. I heard a tap squeak on and then running water splashing into my bathroom sink. He came back after several moments and dabbed ever so gently at my eyelids.

  I cursed at the first touchdown of the warm, wet cloth on my raw eyelids.

  "Sorry," he said, but he didn't stop. His touch was gentle and when I was able to brace myself, relieving. I had no idea how much gunk had gummed up my eyelids until I could see him more clearly.

  His face was inches from mine as he knelt in front of me.

  And the expression was murderous.

  My gaze dropped to the cloth, a favorite one I'd stolen from a hotel when I'd first run from Scottie. It had been thick and lush and white. A perfect metaphor for the life I wanted to live. A fresh start.

  Now it was coated in clotted blood.

  "Oh my God," I said.

  "Yeah."

  Not just tears and sweat had coated my eyelids closed, but blood. And lots of it. I didn't want to touch my face. I had the feeling my cheekbone was double its size, maybe even cracked.

  I clutched at the sofa cushions on either side of me, trying my best not to break down in front of him. I could hear my breath coming in hitching gasps as I began to hyperventilate.

  The murderous expression disappeared and in its place a sort of calm, compassionate one.

  "Don't," I said.

  "Don't what?" he said. "Don't let you know someone cares?"

  I shook my head. I had no idea what I meant except that I was dangerously close to losing my shit and I had no idea what the trigger would be or how it would look or what I would do. My hold on my control was as thready as the cushions I was clutching at.

  "I promised I wouldn't touch you, but I'm retracting that," he said in a gruff voice and before I could consent or deny, he ran the back of his hand down the length of my hair. My scalp hurt where his fingers landed. Something caught on his thumb. A knot. Or a clump or tangle.

  "I'm going to clean you up," he said. Not a request. Not an order either. Something in between.

  I nodded, and he made a small grunting noise. I watched him retreat to the bathroom and heard the shower turn on.

  I looked down at my hands. They were unmarked and clean. I turned them over. Not a single mark on them.

  I ran my fingers through my hair and they stuck on a snarl. A wet snarl.

  I hoped it was fluid from my nose and not blood. Please God, don't let it be blood.

  I told myself I would not look, but of course, I did.

  CHAPTER 12

  I nearly fainted when I saw the amount of gore on my hand from running them over my hair. Snot, yes, but blood too, although much less than I thought.

  "Looks like he spat on you," Maddox said in a deadpan voice and I realized while I was staring at my hands, he had come back into the room and was standing in front of me.

  All the way from the bathroom and I hadn't heard him move.

  I looked up at him stupidly. I couldn't form any words.

  He held a hand out to me.

  "Come," he said. "It's warm and ready."

  I just stared.

  He sighed then stooped to help me to my feet. Like a lamb being led, I went with him to the bathroom. I stood woodenly as he stripped me gently down to my panties. He kept his eyes on my face, but what was in his was unreadable.

  I realized I was still wearing the dress only when he wadded it up and threw it in the trash. My expensive dress. The one I looked so good in. I sucked in a breath and would have bit down on my lip if the thickness of it didn't remind me how much that would hurt.

  I could hear my apartment-sized dryer rolling around half-full. It hummed quietly above the stacked washer as steam billowed about us. My mirror had been covered over by a towel and everything around us smelled faintly of lavender and peppermint. He'd put on my infuser. That small act made me want to whimper.

  "Come now," he said and eased me into the shower.

  The water sprayed around me, but he was careful to position me out of the direct spray, instead wetting my natural sponge and squeezing it out over my skin.

  He didn't so much as touch me. The sponge never met flesh. He just sluiced warm water over me until the blood and snot ran down the drain. I watched it go without emotion. He turned me back-to, careful to tug my panties up where the water was bogging them down. His arms came around me slowly, cautiously as he reached for the shampoo bottle on the ledge. I knew he was making slow, deliberate movements not to scare me and I imagined he was getting soaked from the back spray.

  The bottle made a spurting noise as he squeezed soap into his palm. The scent of coconut and papaya met my nose as he retracted his arms just as slowly as he'd reached in.

  He massaged my scalp delicately where it didn't hurt and skirted the section that did as though he knew exactly where the pain was. One gentle turn and my back was to the spray. He tilted my head back, cradling my nape so it didn't strain.

  He was gentle. So gentle. Those large, calloused hands of his brushed against my cheek once and I winced, but other than that, I felt nothing.

  After he shut the water off, he disappeared for several seconds. The door to the dryer opened and closed. He appeared in my line of vision again, holding out a bath towel.

 
"Come to me," he said and when I did he wrapped the warmth of the hot towel around me.

  "You've done this before," I croaked out. "Showered with women."

  "I've been in the same shape before," he said, careful to keep his eyes chastely on mine.

  I nodded, not sure what to say to that.

  "Will you let me look at you?" he said. "You've stopped shivering."

  I had.

  "It's not sexual," he said. I noted he was keeping his tone as emotionless as his expression. "It's clinical."

  Clinical. Like a doctor. The last doctor I'd seen had been that homeless drunk Scottie had hired to trail me and then install a tracking device beneath my skin. I wondered what had happened to him when Scottie realized the true bug had gone into a rat's dinner instead. I caught my lip on my teeth as those memories flooded back and winced because my mouth was split.

  Clinical. I didn't want clinical. I wanted outrage. I wanted fury.

  I dropped the towel. More than anything, I wanted someone to witness what Scottie's love had done to me. I wanted someone to know how badly that love hurt.

  Maddox had seen me in the shower, surely. He'd seen me all but naked as he'd washed me, but still, he sucked in his breath as I squared my shoulders best I could beneath his scrutiny.

  "The water cleaned up the nastiness," he said, and his voice was choked up. "So it looks better than it did. How do you feel?" his eyes skirted my breasts and pinned to my nose. I had the feeling it was crooked. It was hard to breathe through.

  "Like a stress ball at a banker's convention."

  He smiled timidly. "I expected you to say like you'd been hit by Mack Truck." He worked his lip with his teeth, jaw clenched. I noted his hands by his sides were balled into fists.

  "I'll be fine," I said, stooping to retrieve the towel.

  "Wait," he said.

  I peered up at him.

  He took a deep breath, bracing, I thought. Something was working its way through him, burrowing like a worm. A struggle was going on behind those eyes.

  "May I touch you?"

  I stepped away without meaning to and he flushed red in the face.