by Kelly Meding
“Request away,” I said.
“Let Marie inject you with the internal tracking dye.”
I’d been injected with the radioactive dye a few times in the past without ill effects. Still, everything that had ever come out of R&D was now suspect. “Thackery’s probably the one who told Erickson how to develop ours and knows how to find it, so no thanks.”
“This is a new varietal that’s improved upon the old formula. It allows us to track you within a half-mile radius now. Thackery shouldn’t be able to scan you for it.”
“Is it detectable?”
“You mean when he tests your blood? No, it shouldn’t be.”
“Shouldn’t be.” I hated words like that. And yet, for all my suspicions, it was actually a damned good backup plan. As long as he wasn’t lying to me. “Okay, then.”
Bastian smiled. “Marie, can you fetch the D-34 solution?”
The lab assistant produced a bottle of blue liquid from a locked cabinet. I watched her insert a syringe, suck out a small amount, and flick it with her finger. She stepped toward me, and I held up my hand in a warning gesture. “Nuh-uh, him first.”
“We don’t need to track me,” Bastian said.
“True, but I don’t know what’s really in that bottle, or if D-34 is code for a sedative. You stay on your feet, then she can hit me with it.”
A flicker of respect passed across Bastian’s face. He unbuttoned his shirt sleeve and rolled it to just above the elbow. “Okay, then. Go ahead, Marie.”
She swabbed the inside of his elbow and made the injection. We stood there for a full minute afterward, everyone deferring to me. When Bastian remained upright, bemused, without showing any sign of passing out, I presented my arm to Marie. She prepped a new syringe. Heat flared outward from the injection site, dissipating seconds later. No dizziness, no nausea. So far, so good.
“You been here a while?” I asked Marie.
She nodded, wary of being addressed directly. “Yes.”
“A week ago, Gina Kismet sent a sample of liquid here. She was told it was an experimental antidote. Did you test it?”
She glanced at Bastian first, then shook her head at me. “I didn’t test it, but I saw the file. It was a deteriorating tracking liquid, meant to last about seventy-two hours. Its tracking range isn’t impressive.”
Damn. We still didn’t know how the pùca found the cabin, or how Thackery knew I’d survived the infection.
“I’ll get the computer you’ll need to track her,” Bastian said to Baylor. “Meet me back at the elevator.”
Baylor seemed poised to argue, but Bastian slid out of the room like a vapor. Marie discarded the used needles and went back to her blood work.
“How long will your testing take?” I asked.
“A couple of hours,” she replied, not looking at me.
Baylor and I retreated to the corridor. The networking hallways made navigating back to the elevator difficult, but Baylor seemed to remember the way, so I let him lead. We arrived first and waited. He’d finally reholstered his gun and stood there like a statue, the modern model of a dedicated bodyguard. We’d interacted quite a bit in the last month, but I really knew next to nothing about him. Nothing except his dedication to the Triads and his bullheaded integrity.
“Do me a favor?” I asked before I could talk myself out of it.
“Within my power,” he replied, a curious slant to his mouth.
“Don’t let Wyatt do anything stupid. He won’t like me going to Thackery willingly—hell, I don’t like me going willingly—but right now, I don’t see any other way to save Phineas. Thackery’s got the cards, and he knows how to play them. If things go badly and I …” My stomach clenched. “Just don’t let him do anything stupid, okay?”
“Like try to mount an ill-advised rescue and get himself killed?”
“Basically. Or, you know, hunt down another crazy elf and try to resurrect me again.”
Baylor smiled warmly. “I’ll do my best. Sure you wouldn’t rather ask Gina?”
“I think she could talk him down, but you’re more likely to actually knock him down, if it comes to that.”
“Understood.”
Bastian joined us a minute later, a laptop case dangling from one shoulder. “What are you going to tell the others about me?” he asked.
“You mean the lying-by-omission thing?” Baylor took a menacing step forward. “Nothing. But you’ve got one hour to come clean about it to the brass. One hour.” He didn’t have to make a threat—the violence was implied.
Bravo.
We went back up to the lobby; Bastian stayed below. Wyatt was stalking the elevator doors, looking ready to burst out of his skin. Kismet stood from the chair she’d folded herself into. Both were studies of anxiety and nerves.
“They’re all down there,” I said before he could ask. “All six.”
“What took so long?” His dark gaze roved over me.
“Little preemptive planning.” I told him about the tracking dye and my blood donation, but left out the details of Bastian’s confession. The latter because I didn’t need the headache of prying Wyatt’s hands from Bastian’s throat. I almost didn’t mention the blood—telling Wyatt I’d left a sample behind seemed like saying I didn’t think I’d be back. “It’s being tested downstairs, but I don’t know if they’ll have results before game time.”
“That’s good, though,” Kismet said. “The blood gives our side a chance to look for antibodies, and if the dye isn’t something Thackery can identify, it’ll go a long way toward finding out where he’s set up his little laboratory.”
“Exactly,” I said. And if Marie happened to learn that I wasn’t carrying anything extraordinary in my veins, so much the better. It meant I wasn’t giving Thackery anything useful, and I’d beaten the infection through good, old-fashioned gnome healing magic.
A newly familiar clanging bell broke from Wyatt’s hip. He pulled Thackery’s cell phone out and held it to me.
I stared at it, wide-eyed. “He’s early.” I took it, flipped it open. Hit Speaker. “Stone.”
“Ah, excellent,” Thackery said. “When I heard about your presence at the cabin, I feared for your safety.”
“Fuck you.”
He chuckled, and I wanted to reach through the phone and strangle him. “No sense in being vulgar, my dear.”
“Why are you calling? Our agreement was twelve hours, and it’s been only eight. You reneging?”
“Not exactly. The deadline stands, but I’ve decided to alter the price of your friend’s freedom.”
“And if I don’t feel like negotiating?”
Thackery sighed. Then a scream erupted on his end of the call, long and loud and agonized. I nearly dropped the phone. I knew that voice. Wyatt held my gaze, steely determination in his black eyes, and I didn’t look away.
“You were saying about not wishing to negotiate?” Thackery asked.
It took several tries to get my voice steady enough to answer. “What do you want?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars wired to the overseas account of my choice.”
I barked laughter, stung by the absurdity of his request. Had I left my life behind and landed in the middle of a police television drama? “How the hell am I supposed to get my hands on two hundred grand, not to mention have a clue as to how to wire it somewhere?”
“Your friends will help you. Have it ready to go when I call at the end of our deadline. And just in case you’re planning on double-crossing me in some way, I think I’ve proved I’ll not hesitate to take it out on the shape-shifter. But if you need further incentive, I have two hounds left at my disposal.”
My heart sank.
“Cross me,” he said, “and I’ll release them in a populated area. Perhaps a park or inside the mall. A good place for them to hunt. Talk to you soon.” He hung up with an audible click.
Motherfucker! The sound of Phin’s agonized scream haunted me as I tucked the phone away with trembling hands. I co
uldn’t stop imagining what Thackery had done to make him shriek like that. Wyatt slipped his arm around my waist, and I sagged against him, eyes closed, trying to collect my racing thoughts. Any plans I’d had to get Phin free and make a run for it were gone. I would never risk Thackery loosing those hounds on the public. The casualties would be catastrophic. Thackery had played every card right, and I had nothing to challenge his hand.
As though sensing my defeat, Wyatt held me tighter.
“Where are we going to get that kind of money?” I asked, focusing on the problem I could fix.
“We’ll ask the Assembly,” he said, voice rumbling through his chest.
“What if they pull some sort of nonnegotiation policy on us?”
“Doubtful.” His hand stroked my arm in comforting lines. “Phin’s an Elder, Evy, and he’s one of the last of his kind. Something tells me the Assembly will pay. I’m almost surprised Thackery didn’t demand more.”
I snorted and stood up straighter. He’d demanded plenty. In fact, his demand had cemented my course of action in a way nothing else had. Wyatt’s hand stayed on my hip, and I threaded my fingers through his, holding it there. “I’ll call Michael Jenner. He’ll be able to help.”
Jenner was the official representative of the Assembly of Clan Elders, speaking publicly for them in matters involving the Triads and most other species. He was Therian, like Phin, but he’d never verified from which Clan. He was also a public defender. He’d helped save my life twice, and here I was about to ask him for another favor.
The call went well, considering it was almost five in the morning and the first Jenner was hearing about Phin’s abduction. I gave him the condensed version of events and promised details later. He said to give him two hours to alert the Assembly Elders and collect the money in a transferable account. I didn’t know how he’d manage it before any banks actually opened but trusted him to get it done.
I didn’t have a choice, really, and I despised being left without choices. With a promise to get every available Therian on the streets looking for Phin and inspecting potential hound hunting grounds, he hung up. I gave Kismet’s cell back to her and gazed at the faces around me. No one had left the lobby during the call, not even Bastian. He’d come upstairs, nose bandaged, and had been showing Baylor and Kismet how to use the laptop for tracking me. He got looks, but no one asked about his fresh injury.
“So you’re really going through with this?” Baylor asked as they tucked the laptop back into its case.
“I don’t have a choice,” I said. “Let’s pretend I could actually justify allowing Phin to be tortured and murdered in order to protect what may or may not be in my blood. Even if I could manage that, I cannot justify the dozens, if not hundreds, of people who will be killed, hurt, or maimed when Thackery releases those hounds in public. You know he wasn’t bluffing. We’ve been lucky with them so far, because they’ve been sent after specific targets”—usually me—“but when they’re let out to kill indiscriminately? No, and if we weren’t so unsure about my blood, none of us would consider any other course of action beyond trading me.”
“But this isn’t just any other demand,” Kismet said. “If he gets his antidote, he has an effective weapon—”
“And you’ll deal with it, if it comes to that. Just like we always deal with everything that gets thrown at us. One step at a time. We can only battle what’s in front of us.” They can only battle what’s in front of them. I had to stop thinking in terms of “we.” A chill skated up my spine as the reality of what was happening truly set in. I was going to willingly turn myself over to Thackery, and all signs pointed toward a very slow death at his hands.
God, not again …
“I’ll call Morgan and Nevada,” Baylor said. “Start the phone chain. We need every team we have out there scouting potential attack zones. It’s likely Thackery hasn’t placed the hounds yet, so someone may get lucky. I’m going to stay here for now and coordinate things.”
“I’ll take the Hunters off base,” Kismet said, accepting his plan with a curt nod. “Where do you want—?”
“Can you take Oliver to the hospital to meet up with Carly?”
Ah, so Baylor’s female Hunter had a name. Good to know.
“Yeah, I’ll do that. I wanted to swing by and check on Felix anyway.” She looked at me, her expression warring between sympathy and grim determination. “You want a lift?”
“I don’t have anywhere to go,” I said, which was true enough. Our old apartment wasn’t the best spot, even though I hadn’t been back since the morning of the earthquake. Too many people knew where it was.
Kismet considered it a moment. “How about I drop you both at the boys’ apartment? No one’s there, and no offense, Wyatt, but you’re covered in mud, streaked with blood, and you kind of stink. Use their shower. Milo’s clothes should fit you.”
Wyatt blinked, and I couldn’t help but smile. It was the not-oft-seen mother hen side of her peeking through. It seemed that rumpled and worn fellow Handlers also rated high on her sympathy meter. And it gave Wyatt and me some time alone before … well, everything.
“Okay,” I said, then gave Bastian a fierce glare. “As soon as Marie or whoever knows something?”
“We’ll call,” he replied. “My word.”
I wanted to tell him just what I thought his word was worth. “Call Wyatt. I might not be able to answer.”
“Of course.”
“Kis, I’ll let you know when I’ve got things squared here,” Baylor said.
We left R&D, still the dead of night—well, morning, technically. Crickets were actually chirping somewhere nearby, and overhead a sky full of stars winked down at us. As beautiful as the mountains were, I didn’t stop to admire them. Wyatt, Kismet, and I crowded into the already stuffed Jeep. The Hunters waiting in the backseat were subdued, and Kismet filled them in on the way back to the city, giving them all the details she had. I just held Wyatt’s hand and tried not to panic.
Half an hour later, she dropped us off in front of the apartment with a key and promise to return in about an hour and a quarter. As Wyatt and I walked inside and veered toward the elevator, those seventy-five minutes loomed. It wasn’t nearly enough time.
But if Thackery had his way, it was all the time we had left together to explore the intense, if somewhat peculiar, relationship we’d begun so many months ago. Long before I truly realized anything had changed.
Chapter Eighteen
Four Weeks Predeath
An hour-long soak in the tub has relieved the majority of my aches and pains. My own stupidity brought them on, and, for once, they aren’t the result of a fistfight or brawl with bloodthirsty Dregs. Our Triad isn’t even on rotation again until tomorrow evening. Nope, the bruises and scrapes on my back and shoulders are my own fucking fault.
No pun intended, however apropos.
I watch the bathwater swirl down the drain in a mini-cyclone of bubbles and soap, and hope Ash is still having a good time. I hated ditching her at the club but was in no mood to continue our usual barhopping extravaganza. The cab driver I flagged down took one look at me, muttered something that sounded like “hooker,” and drove me home.
Bastard didn’t get a tip. He was lucky I didn’t plant my heel in the back of his head.
After I’m thoroughly towel-dried, I check the scrapes in the bathroom mirror. A few along my shoulder blades are still oozing clear liquid. Most are surface abrasions—they’ll itch like crazy later. The backs of my thighs have smatterings of blue bruises, perfectly oval and fingertip-size. They’ll keep darkening, I bet. Good thing I prefer jeans.
In my line of work, dating is out of the question, but I’m a woman with needs, dammit, which is why Ash and I troll the bars on our nights off. Once in a while, one of us will find someone to hook up with for a little … activity. Location is rarely important, as long as I get my itch scratched.
Only tonight’s selection had been a little rougher than usual, and doing it up against
a brick wall, in a storage room at the club, hadn’t been exactly comfortable. Oh, I got off all right, but my back regrets it with a vengeance.
I slip into clean sweats and pad into the kitchen for a snack. It’s been a week since I shook off a horrid bout of the flu, and my appetite has finally returned. I settle on a bologna sandwich with mustard and steal one of Jesse’s lagers. He likes the dark brown sludge that tastes like rat piss, but it’s that or water.
We need to go shopping.
Sandwich and beer in hand, I retreat to the living room and curl up on the sofa. A gentle ache between my legs reminds me my back isn’t the only thing regretting tonight’s interlude. What was it Wyatt used to tell me? Sometimes I don’t have the good sense God gave goats. I shoulda said no.
I didn’t, though.
The apartment phone’s shrill chime makes me jump. We keep the landline for emergencies and in case “real people” need to contact us; everything else is handled over our Triad-issued cells. I stare at the telephone, an old rotary Ash picked up at a yard sale eons ago, and debate answering it. On the fifth ring, I do.
“Hello?”
“Yeah, this is the super,” a deep baritone says, not happy about making this call. “One of your neighbors called and complained about a drunk man sitting in front of your door.”
“I—What?” I sit up straighter and peer at the metal door, as if I can see right through it.
“Drunk man in front of your door. People are tripping over him. If he’s a friend, take him inside. If he’s a vagrant, call the cops. I just don’t want no more of these damned calls at three A.M.” With that, he slams his phone down.
Okaaay.
On the way to the door, I snag one of my favorite serrated knives from the weapons trunk behind the couch, just in case. I press one ear to the door and listen—nothing. Try the peephole. All I see are a pair of black sneakers sticking out from jeans-clad legs that disappear beneath my line of sight. Confident in my ability to subdue a regular human male if the need arises, I turn the various door locks, grasp the knob, and pull.