Oh, no.
“That’s right, Graham. In fact,” Avery said, leaning forward, “I’m taking the lead on this issue because I find it profoundly disturbing that this might have been routinely rubber-stamped by the FDA. As district attorney, I’m seeing to it that this case is investigated thoroughly.”
Oh, no. Avery just couldn’t get mixed up in this now.
“You think this Doctor”—Graham consulted a blue index card—“Doctor Riley Clayton set out to hurt kids on purpose?”
“I’m not saying that,” Avery said. “I don’t know that to be or not be the issue. What I am saying is that the public deserves assurance that the products they buy and rely on to take care of their kids’ health are safe. We’re going to get to the bottom of this toothpaste situation, and hopefully get measures in place to avoid another near-crisis.”
“Tell us the truth,” Graham said. “Do you floss every day?”
“Well,” Avery said with a sheepish smile.
“Because,” Graham told him, “you look exactly like the kind of person who does. The kind of person the rest of us pretend to be.”
While the audience laughed, I groaned. Just when I had kicked Riley Clayton to the curb, Avery was going to pick him up and shake him until he rattled. As much as I’d just been thinking Clayton should have gotten more grief, I didn’t want Avery to be the one to give it to him. As long as Avery was involved, I was still involved. Shit.
Graham thanked Avery for coming on to the show and as they stood to shake hands, I watched my boyfriend, along with millions of faceless viewers. I wondered when I would see him again. Even though I hoped with all my heart it would be tomorrow, I had a terrible feeling that it wouldn’t, that our relationship was done.
And I had a more terrible feeling that Clayton wasn’t done.
CHAPTER 22
"I need to see you.”
As much as I’d wanted to hear those words, I was hearing them from the wrong person. “Mahoney,” I said into the phone, “It’ll have to wait. I’ve got some stuff to take care of here.”
I hoped he wouldn’t ask what stuff, because I didn’t want to confess I was committed to camping out under the blankets in bed all day with the phone, waiting for Avery to come home or call. I’d gotten zero sleep last night, scripting what I’d say if he walked in the door today, and planning how I’d try to find him and change his mind if he didn’t. “Listen,” I said to the Digger, “if this is about our deal, we can talk another time.” That is, after I’d consulted Frederica, et al., for advice on how much I could tell Mahoney about the fae.
“It’s not about that,” he said. “It’s Clayton.”
“What about him?” I sat up partway, and my hair rubbed against the sheet, crackling with static and zapping my earlobe. “Ow. Did he contact you?”
I heard a loud muffle, as if he’d covered the phone with his hand, then the line cleared again. “Gemma,” he said. “It’s really important that you meet me now.”
“Just tell me what’s up,” I said.
“I can’t,” he said, and I sat up straighter, pulling the sheets away from me. His voice was as flat as a floorboard, with no trace of his trademark cockiness. No bragging about breaking the biggest story of his blogging career, no coaxing me to give him the information I’d promised, no teasing banter with a glaringly obvious ulterior motive. Nothing.
That’s how I knew things had gone very wrong.
“Is he there?” I asked. “Is he with you right now?”
Say no, I begged silently. At a keyboard, Mahoney was a force of nature. But he’d be no match for a scorned and shamed half-fae.
He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Can you meet me at your boxing gym?”
I glanced at the clock. Quarter after noon. “I’m leaving now on my bike. But it’s still going to take me a little while.”
“I’m there now,” he said. “I’m out front. Just—you have to get here.” A note of panic broke through his monotone. “I’m sorry. He made me -”
He was cut off and I heard scuffling. I stumbled out of bed, scooped up the same pair of jeans I’d worn yesterday, and held the phone with my shoulder as I jammed one leg in. “I’m on my way,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything. Can you hang on?”
He didn’t answer. I fell onto the bed to shove my other leg into my pants. “Hang on,” I said, my own voice cracking. “Greg, hang on!”
The only response was a disconnection.
I threw on a T-shirt over my sports bra and pushed my feet into sneakers. I rushed over to the dresser, grabbed a fistful of my belongings—house keys, loose change, Fae Phone and cell phone, the tooth pouch from Reese—and stuffed it all into my hip pockets.
As I bolted from the condo, I tripped over one of Avery’s running sneakers, keeping myself upright by slamming my arm into the door frame. Dreading I might be too late, I prayed to whatever fae gods existed that my screw-ups wouldn’t hurt anyone else but me. I banged the door shut behind me and ran.
>=<
My bike brakes screeched in protest when I got to Smiley’s. I hopped off the bike before it came to a full stop and shoved it against the front wall. Panting from the exertion of riding here at top speed and trying to stay on my wobbly, sore legs, I looked around. No Mahoney.
“Mahoney!” I yelled. The only other person on the street, a man in a dirty denim jacket walking a Chihuahua, eyed me and hurried around the corner, his dog clicking frantically after him. “Greg!”
I was about to head inside when I heard it: a soft moan. I slipped into the narrow space between Smiley’s and a Chinese take-out place and pushed around a bundle of white trash bags until I uncovered a man’s foot in a flip-flop. I threw off a few more bags to find Mahoney in a T-shirt and long shorts, his eyes half-closed. His blood everywhere.
“Greg!” I yelled into his face. “Wake up! Wake up. Stay with me. I’ll get you help.”
“Gem-“ he said, and his right hand curled, clutching at air. “No,” he breathed. “Don’t help—me. He has him. Clayton … ” He coughed and the blood ran harder down his white shirt. “Clayton has him.”
“Who?” I asked, gently guiding him upright and laying him against my shoulder as I stood.
He flopped against me as I half pushed him over my back. His voice hissed against my sweaty shirt. “He has—McCormack.”
Avery. Oh, God. Oh, God.
I staggered under his weight and dragged us both to the front door, where Shirley and Not-Rocky were now chatting. Shirley was locking the door. Smiley didn’t work on Sundays, and the regulars took the responsibility of closing up early.
“What the hell?” Not-Rocky asked, dropping his gym bag to help me with Mahoney. Shirley twisted back around and unlocked the door, kicking it open, and the three of us managed to get Mahoney in and lying on the floor.
Even fully occupied, the gym was a dim cave. It was even darker now, with no lights and the blinds on the two tiny windows drawn. Mid-afternoon sunlight squeezed in between two broken blinds, and dust danced in its wake.
“Are you okay?” Not-Rocky asked me, cupping the back of my head and glancing down at my blood-stained shirt.
“I’m fine. It’s all him.” I looked down at Mahoney, who had shut his eyes again. His chest rose up and down and his breath rasped through his parted lips. The blood came from his nose—and his ears.
“Oh, no,” I whispered. “It’s all me. This is all me.”
“Who is this guy?” Not-Rocky asked.
Mahoney groaned and his arm twitched. I grabbed his wrist. “Where’s Clayton?” I demanded. “Where’s Avery?”
He shook his head back and forth, back and forth, his eyes still closed to the world he was leaving. “Don’t know,” he mumbled. “You have to—you have to find them. He killed me. He’ll kill him.”
My heart iced over.
“S-s-sorry,” he said, his body convulsing with shivers.
“It’s okay,” I whispered, even though it really, re
ally wasn’t. I let go of his wrist.
Shirley pulled off his black track jacket, rolled it up and put it under Mahoney’s head as Not-Rocky grabbed the first-aid kit off the wall and pulled out rolls of gauze. “I’m calling 911,” Shirley said as I pulled out my own phone and speed-dialed Svein.
“No one is calling anyone.”
We all turned.
Clayton stepped out from behind the ring, from the darkest corner of the room.
“Who are you?” Shirley demanded, just as Not-Rocky said, “How’d you get in here?”
Clayton moved a little closer, and Shirley broadened his chest and stared him down. Not-Rocky, crouching beside Mahoney on the floor, stood up.
“You did this?” Not-Rocky asked, pointing at Mahoney. “You beat the crap out of this guy? He needs an ambulance.”
“You need to shut up and get out,” Clayton said, and despite his words, his tone was affable. He smiled at me. “Gemma, tell them.”
“Guys,” I said, and dropped my phone. First Greg, then Avery. I couldn’t let two more people I cared about walk into this fire. “Guys, I’ve got this.”
“Yeah, guys, she’s got this,” Clayton echoed. “Go on home. Gemma and I have some unfinished business to take care of.” He cut his eyes to me, and it became clear to all of us how he intended to finish it.
“Not goin’ anywhere,” Shirley said, moving to stand in front of me. “And right now, your business isn’t with her. It’s with me.”
I laid a restraining hand on Shirley’s cement block of a shoulder, and he gently lifted my fingers and pushed me further back behind him.
“Then why don’t you come on over here?” Clayton said, smirking. “And we’ll get down to that business.”
“Surely,” said Shirley.
If this was my first encounter with Shirley, and if he was coming at me the way he was coming at Clayton now, I’d be praying for a quick end. In one motion, Shirley cracked the knuckles of his right hand and pulled his elbow back to deliver his championship punch.
But all he hit was air, because Clayton vanished.
Shirley’s back was to me, and I couldn’t see his face, but I’m sure he was blinking in confusion. He turned his head to the right and the left, then pulled his arm back in to his body, raising both fists in front of his face to defend.
But even Shirley couldn’t stop what he couldn’t see coming.
The heavyweight champ’s right knee suddenly buckled. He struggled to stay upright, but then he clutched at his stomach with a cry of anger before an invisible force slammed into his skull. He spun and crashed to the floor like a solid slab of granite.
Clayton materialized, looked down at the unconscious Shirley and laughed out loud. “Riley Clayton in a KO!” he shouted, throwing one arm up in the air.
Before I could do anything, Not-Rocky bull rushed Clayton, breaking up his celebration. “No!” I cried as Clayton once again blinked out of view. Not-Rocky stumbled, flailing his arms to stay on his feet as his target disappeared and moved out of the way. Before he could turn, his arm jerked up against his back and twisted, his fingers scratching nothing, reaching in vain for his assailant. I winced at the loud crack of breaking bone and gasped at Not-Rocky’s scream of pain before he went down face first.
I ran in his direction but a now-visible Clayton stepped into my path. Eye to eye, we stared at each other until he looked away to where Mahoney lay unmoving. “Reporters,” he mused aloud, and shrugged. “They always say they’ll do anything to protect a source, but kick them in the head a few times and they’ll give up their own mother’s name and address.”
He looked back at me, smiling again. “I knew you were behind my media scandal, but I just wanted to make him say your name before he called you to come here. Then I had him call Avery McCormack, and tell him he had some extra information about my case. Too bad I wasn’t mollified by Greg’s eventual obedience. He really needed to learn more of a lesson, so I taught him one.”
“Where’s Avery?” I said through a clenched jaw.
He smiled as I tightened my fists at my side. “He’s safe and sound.”
I stepped even closer, and noticed a dark bruise on his jaw where I’d caught him in his office. My eyelashes nearly swept against his as I said, slowly and with danger in every syllable, “Where is Avery?”
He stepped away and flicked a wall switch, and Smiley’s office lit up. “Right in there, all along.”
Avery. I could see him through the glass window. He struggled against ropes that wrapped around his chest, and his lower jaw worked against a hand towel stuffed into his mouth. His eyes met mine, and he stopped moving.
I’d been home waiting for him, and he’d been here.
I ran to the window. “Hang on,” I mouthed, and he drew his brows together, the only response he could give.
Looking at him, helpless and vulnerable, rage surged through me. I pulled it out of the ground through my legs and drew it up my torso, electrifying every muscle in my body. A blinding, black rush spun through my mind and clogged my ears. Every inch of me was hyper alert, on the offense, and when my wings burst out through my back, I barely felt it.
“This didn’t have to go so far,” Clayton said behind me. “But you decided to make this public, and now I have to get rid of him too. Such a shame for the voters of Virginia. Oh, and for you. But you won’t be around long enough to miss him.”
I grasped the front of my T-shirt, tore the remains of it off me and threw it to the ground. My wings, pushing out either side of my racer-back bra, pulsed with the powerful force that had risen in me. It was the urge to defend myself and to protect Avery and the friends who had rushed to help me without a second thought. It was the urge to avenge my broken family and a fae-seeking journalist.
I was ready to kill.
I whirled around but Clayton had advanced on me while my back was turned. He sucker-punched me in the gut. Already sore from his attack on me in his office, I lost my breath for a moment, but homicidal adrenaline pumped through me—and my fae form strengthened me. I sprang and surprised the now-winged Clayton with a left hook to the jaw and a strong right to his stomach.
His lower body caved in, rounding his back, and he shook his head, a trickle of blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. I barely registered the pain in my newly split knuckles as I bounced on my toes, back and forth, feinted in, hopped out and landed a jab hard into his sternum.
My half-human nemesis exhaled sharply but the half-fae in him recovered quickly. He grinned. “Finally,” he said. “Gemma Fae Cross unleashes some fight.” He ducked into me, and I pummeled his stomach once, twice, until he pushed away. He retaliated with a hard, sloppy cross, but I saw it coming and I blocked it.
“Unfortunately for those who paid to see this headline bout,” he said, “I’m not much of a boxer.” He jabbed again and I sidestepped it. “I’m more of a do-what-you-have-to-do-to-win kind of fighter.” His right side twisted and I raised my arms to block a punch, but he lifted his leg and kicked my shoulder, pushing me back a few feet. I righted myself and he spun 360 degrees, cracking me on the temple with a backfist, and I dropped, lights sparkling across my vision.
This wasn’t my kind of fight. I boxed for sport, controlled by rules and by limitations. Despite my desperation to make him hurt, I had no experience in fighting dirty.
He raised his leg to kick me again and I rolled out of the way. I scrambled to my feet and put the hanging heavy bag between us, but Clayton punched straight through the bag, the molecules of his fist splitting and reassembling inches from my face. I leaned back, stepping on a free weight plate near the dumbbell rack. I picked up the five-pounder as he walked around the bag and pushed he weight with both hands into his chest, knocking him onto his back. I crushed the plate into him, gritting my teeth, trying to suffocate him, but he lifted his lower body, hooked his feet over my shoulders and flipped me back. I threw my hands out to the floor as he reversed our positions. He squeezed my sides with his thigh
s and hovered over me. I reached for his throat but he held the plate six inches over my nose.
“Move a muscle,” he said. “Just twitch. Anything. And I’ll smash your face into a million pieces with your boyfriend watching through the window.”
I stilled.
“Actually,” he whispered, “I think I’ll do it anyway.” He lifted the plate up and I squeezed my eyes shut.
“Riley!” I heard. “You know you’re not supposed to show anger! Hold it inside! They can’t find out what you really are!”
Clayton froze, and I opened one eye. “Dad?” he asked and snapped his head around.
“No,” Svein said.
The overhead lighting switched on. I tried to raise my body onto my elbows, but Clayton threatened with the disc again, and I sank down. He stayed silent, but the ugly, amused smile he’d worn since I arrived was gone. He wasn’t looking at me anymore, but at something in front of him. When Svein spoke again, I realized he’d come around behind me and it was him Clayton was looking at.
“I talked to Carl,” Svein said. “Your dad. He said when he returned to the morning fae after your mother died, he was afraid for you. He didn’t want to lose someone else.”
Like my mother, I thought. Clayton’s dad tried to keep his warrior child safe. This murderous bastard who held a blunt weapon over the fragile bones of my face once had someone who loved him.
“Said one day he caught you shoving a kid in the playground. Remember that? So he had to teach you how to control your human emotions so the fae wouldn’t sniff you out. How was that?” Svein asked. “Couldn’t have been easy. You can’t bind your human side in any Butterfly Room. All those emotions, bubbling under the surface, so many years. How did you live with it? How did you…”
“Shut up!” Clayton exploded. “You don’t know shit.”
I risked speaking from under the heavy plate. “They ripped you in half,” I said, echoing his last letter to me, one he’d written so many years ago. Did he feel anything anymore? “Your human side died. Your mother’s side.”
Tooth and Nail Page 29