Another Kind of Dead dc-3

by Kelly Meding

  I took the tin, unable to keep my fingers from shaking, and tucked it into my rear pocket. As far as backup plans went, swallowing a suicide pill wasn’t my style. “Yeah, thanks.”

  “Wyatt would kill me if he knew I gave that to you.”

  I snickered at her poor choice of words. “We have them available for a reason, right?”

  “Right.”

  More and more, against my better judgment, I was starting to like Gina Kismet. I was also starting to get very curious about her. Perhaps because I really knew so little, and every tidbit I learned contradicted the one before. It drew me back to a conversation that seemed like years ago and a comment I hadn’t been able to shake.

  “Who was he?”

  Kismet frowned, her slim eyebrows furrowing. “Who was who?”

  I hesitated. She could tell me to shut up, mind my own business, or quite possibly shoot me between the eyes for my impudence. But I’d asked the question, and it was time to shit or get off the metaphorical pot.

  “Who was the Hunter you weren’t supposed to fall in love with?”

  Kismet went perfectly still. Not a muscle twitched, not a wisp of hair moved. Even her eyes seemed flat, lifeless. Fascinating, if it weren’t so damned scary. Then she blinked and the spell was broken. I resigned myself to getting no answers and watching her storm back out of the bedroom.

  Instead, she plunked down next to me, slid back until she hit the wall, and sat cross-legged, as if we were girlfriends sharing a weekly gabfest. “His name was Lucas Moore.”

  I knew the name, and if I recalled my history correctly, Milo had been his replacement in the Triad. She’d been in love with her own Hunter. Hypocrite didn’t begin to describe what she was, and yet I couldn’t drum up any anger or indignation. Just pity. And I knew she’d hate pity.

  I covered with a stupid question, because I already knew the answer. “When did he die?”

  “One year, two months, twelve days ago.” Her perfectly trimmed fingernails picked at an imaginary snag on her jeans leg. “He was my Hunter for almost two years, and I … we felt something from the first day. Denied it, of course, for as long as we could, and then we hid it for over a year. I always told myself it didn’t affect my leadership decisions, but I don’t really know. It’s hard to judge actions when your mind is clouded by emotion.”

  “It’s not easy staying behind.”

  “No.” If she understood how much more was implied in my statement beyond simply her duties as a Handler, she gave no indication. “When Lucas died, I thought I would die, too. I’d never loved someone with my whole heart, and it broke me, Evy.”

  Her use of my nickname didn’t go unnoticed. I couldn’t picture the strong, vital, persistent redhead next to me as a crying, shattered emotional wreck. Couldn’t picture her as anything except what I’d always seen, even with the tremor in her voice and glimmer in her eyes.

  Our history was tangential, our paths barely crossing in four years—Kismet and I hadn’t directly interacted in any meaningful way until Olsmill, even though our Triads had. And gossip never really died. People talked, especially when teams went out of rotation for Hunter injury or loss, and Gina’s Triad had seen more than its fair share of bad luck and loss—four deaths in four years. The Handler herself had barely survived a brutal attack the night Felix was assigned.

  The only thing I really remembered about the time around Lucas’s death was Wyatt. He’d seemed distracted, around less than he should have been. Guess he’d been helping out a grieving friend.

  “Wyatt loved you for a long time,” she said, switching conversational tracks. “He never said anything, but if you’ve lived it, you can spot it. Then you died and he went apeshit. After seeing what I’d … I was furious at him for a lot of reasons, and now I think it was because I was jealous.”

  I gaped at her, flabbergasted. “Jealous?”

  She tilted her head, never breaking eye contact. “Jealous that he loved you so much he was willing to trade everything to bring you back. And he did. It made what I’d felt for Lucas seem very small.”

  “Wyatt was manipulated by Tovin into agreeing to that deal. Tovin made him believe that if I was brought back, we’d both live and have a future together. Wyatt never would have done it without that promise.”

  “True, but I asked myself not long after Olsmill if I’d do what Wyatt did, had our situations been reversed. If I would trade my free will for the tiniest hope of Lucas and me being together again.”

  Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask! “And?”

  “I couldn’t say yes.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything, Kismet. People feel differently, they love differently, but it doesn’t …” Emotional soul-baring was not my forte, and I hadn’t had this sort of girl talk in … well, ever. I’d never had a best friend. While Ash had been the closest thing I’d had to a girlfriend, we’d never discussed love or boyfriends or anything similar. Our jobs had always canceled out the odds of a healthy long-term relationship, so why bother?

  “Would you have died in Lucas’s place?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “So you and Wyatt really aren’t that different.”

  “Yet he got his love back.”

  “Only because a gnome happened to give me a magic healing crystal.” The crystal had been a lucky gift, given by an elderly gnome named Horzt in an effort to atone for his part in my resurrection. He’d both blessed and cursed me with my healing ability, and without that crystal, everything would be different now. Wyatt would have stayed dead, having bled out from friendly fire; I’d be dead for all intents and purposes, seeing as a demon had been hell-bent on having his demon wife possess my body for a fiendish reunion. The city would be in ruins.

  Yeah, lucky preempt, that crystal.

  Kismet made a sound—louder than a sigh and softer than a grunt. “After this little chat, you probably think trying to kill you at the factory was personal.”

  “No, I don’t.” I didn’t have to think about my answer. Gina Kismet was the consummate professional—duty above self.

  “Thanks.”

  And since we were on the topic of unusual Hunter romances … “Can I ask you a question about Milo?”

  “If you have questions about Milo, you should ask Milo.” It came out as a friendly suggestion, but I also heard the hidden warning in her tone.

  The doorbell chimed. Kismet climbed off the bed and went out, leaving the door half-open. Muffled voices filtered down the hall and into the bedroom. I stayed put through questions about Reilly and what was going on. I’d never met Seth Nevada but guessed his voice was the deep, grating one doing most of the asking. It seemed none of the Handlers who patrolled outside of Mercy’s Lot were in on our little operation, and Nevada didn’t seem happy about being left out of the loop.

  Too fucking bad. The fewer people who knew about this trade with Thackery, the fewer would blame us if Thackery managed to develop and use his weapon. When the number of voices in the other room dwindled and the front door shut with a resounding bang, I rejoined the others.

  Paul, Oliver, and Carly were there, sitting restlessly in the living room with Milo. Kismet and Baylor were at the dining room table with the laptop, going over basic functions. Without a word, Wyatt handed me a mug of steaming coffee. I carried it with me to the table. On the laptop’s screen, a steady beep on top of a city map said that the dye was still working perfectly.

  “Bastian talk to anyone after we left?” I asked.

  Baylor nodded. “Exactly who he said he’d talk to.”

  When we didn’t elaborate, Kismet asked, “And that means what, precisely?”

  I deferred to my sort-of-superior and drank my coffee while Baylor expounded on Bastian’s duplicity, his voice barely above a whisper so only Wyatt and Kismet could hear. The fury of their combined tempers was palpable. I grabbed Wyatt’s hand and squeezed. The tension was vibrating off him. He held tight in return. A little too tight, but I didn’t protest.

&n
bsp; “This is insane,” Kismet said.

  No one argued with her.

  “How much time before Thackery calls?” Baylor asked.

  Wyatt replied before I could look for a clock. “Less than ten minutes.”

  Fucking hell. My stomach twisted into tiny, frozen knots. I put the half-finished coffee on the table and pulled Wyatt back down the hall to the bedroom. I didn’t care what they thought. I wanted a few more minutes.

  Once inside, Wyatt swept me into his arms, his mouth finding mine in a bruising kiss. I held him around the waist, molding my body to his, kissing him so hard our teeth scraped. Imprinting his taste on my tongue, his smell in my nose, his touch all over my skin. We held each other a while, until my arms trembled and some internal chronometer told me our time was almost up.

  I pulled back, cold everywhere we no longer touched, and fished my necklace out of my pocket. It had become a part of me since I’d first found it. The silver cross glittered in the light. I opened Wyatt’s palm, coiled it there, then curled his fingers back to hold it, and kissed his fist.

  “I gave this to you once before for safekeeping,” I said, my voice tight. “Hold it for me again?”

  His eyes glittered. “Only if that means you’re coming back for it.”

  “You know I’ll do everything in my power, Wyatt. Me and Defeat aren’t exactly pals.”

  “Yeah. It’s one of the things I love about you, Evy.”

  I smiled. “I love you, too.”

  And that was when my ass rang.

  “Fuck,” he muttered.

  “Yeah.” I fished out the phone as we walked back to the living room, hand in hand, and had it on speaker by the time we got there. Instead of opening with my usual terse “Stone,” I said, “The money’s ready.”

  “Cutting to the chase, Ms. Stone? I like that.” The calm lilt of Thackery’s voice made my toes curl—and not in a good way. “Tell whoever else is listening to send it to this account.”

  He rattled off a number that Kismet typed into the laptop. I let her do her thing, having no earthly idea how money transfers worked. Two hundred grand was more cash than I’d see in a lifetime, and it was all going to this bastard via Blackmail Express. A full minute passed in silence. Even the other Hunters had gone completely still.

  “Excellent,” Thackery finally said. “I don’t suppose, after our first meeting, I need remind you that you’re to be alone and unarmed?”

  “You don’t.”

  “Keep this phone with you and go back to Grove Park. You have fifteen minutes.”

  “That’s cutting it close from my current location.”

  “Then I suggest you get started.” And he hung up.

  Baylor closed the laptop. Everyone began moving without a single order being barked. Those cold knots continued twisting my stomach, unaffected by the scorching coffee I’d gulped.

  I climbed into one Jeep with Wyatt, Kismet, and Milo. Baylor’s crew piled into the second Jeep. Kismet drove. Wyatt and I sat in the back, clutching hands, just existing for a few more minutes. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. He didn’t try to offer platitudes or reiterate his unerring promise to find me and get me back alive. It was implied. Expected.

  Six blocks from Grove Park, Kismet pulled to the curb. My heart hammered so hard I thought it might beat out of my chest. I started to stand. Wyatt pulled me down for one more kiss. A gentle promise in the brush of his lips. On any other day, I might have been embarrassed by the PDA. But today, I didn’t give a shit.

  His expression was carefully schooled into intense calm, but he couldn’t keep the fear out of his eyes. Eyes that begged me to stay even as he silently watched me go.

  “See you later,” I said, and he nodded. Replied, “See you.”

  I didn’t look back as I walked. If I had, the tightness in my chest and throat would have turned into wrenching sobs. Crying where they could see me would only make this harder. And walking away now was hard enough.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  It was just past sunrise, the north-south streets still cast in shadows. Halfway to the park, in the gloom between two streetlamps, I pulled the little tin box out of my back pocket. Flipped the lid and looked at the two white capsules nestled in a bit of cotton. Enough poison lurked in one of those to kill a three-hundred-pound man in under ten seconds. I took the pills and tossed the tin into a garbage can. Held the milky capsules in my palm a moment, contemplating how benign they looked.

  I had told Wyatt I would rather die again than be anyone’s guinea pig. I had meant it then, and still did now. But staying alive meant a continued chance of rescue or escape. Killing myself precluded those possibilities. Precluded him.

  I dropped the pills and crushed them beneath my heel, grinding the poisonous contents into the sidewalk. Even as I’d suffered at Kelsa’s hands, I’d stayed sane with thoughts of rescue. Thoughts of Wyatt looking for me, doing everything in his power to find me. No matter what Thackery had in mind, I wasn’t going down without a fight.

  The park was empty, silent as a grave. The neighborhood around it would be waking up soon; for now, not even birds occupied the stubbly trees. The ground was soaked and muddy in places from last night’s rainstorm, and the odor of wet earth was cloying. Almost suffocating.

  I tested my tap to the Break and found its familiar, buzzing power quickly. Just in case. The utter silence unnerved me. Then the phone rang, and I had it open and to my ear before it could chime a second time. “Where’s Phineas?”

  “The trade isn’t happening at the park. It’s too public.”

  “Where, then?”

  “I’m sending a courier to get you, Ms. Stone. And, please, try to keep an open mind about your transportation.”

  “I don’t—”

  He hung up and I grunted, sick of him doing that. I pocketed the phone. I didn’t have to wait long, though, to see just what he meant by transportation. I sensed movement behind me and pivoted, dropping my weight back to my right foot, ready for a fight.

  I wasn’t ready for the sight of a two-hundred-pound gray wolf standing on the sidewalk, less than twenty feet from me. Streetlight glistened off its long canines, glinted across the sleek gray pelt that covered its heavily muscled body, and sparkled in its intelligent silver eyes. It drew back black lips and snarled.

  My stomach hit the dirt. What the fuck was a wolf doing in the middle of the city? I had no weapons, and no way to defend myself short of teleporting onto the roof of the next building. I stared, waiting for its muscles to tense, for any sign of impending attack. It didn’t. It actually turned and hunched sideways, offering its back, then swiveled its head around to stare at me again. I gaped.

  Try to keep an open mind about your transportation.

  “You have got to be shitting me!”

  It was actually kind of brilliant, as long as the wolf didn’t get hungry and decide to make a snack of me on the way to our destination. Wolves were fast—much faster than any human being—and had the agility and grace of natural predators. It could carry me on a zigzagging course through Mercy’s Lot that would leave my trackers in the dust, rendering the dye useless as a means to follow me.

  Fucking genius.

  I took two tentative steps forward. “Nice doggie,” I said softly.

  The wolf remained still. More steps, a few at a time, until I was nearly at its back. I longed for one of my knives. Something to plunge into the animal’s hide and rip through muscle and flesh. The odor of it roiled my stomach—sweat and meat and something musky, almost sinister—both familiar and completely foreign. I touched its shoulder. Coarse fur and hot skin rippled under my touch. A low, almost inaudible growl rumbled in its chest. Orders warring with its killer instinct to rend rather than carry.

  The growl grew louder, and I swore it was from impatience. I took a deep breath, summoned up my courage, and climbed on like it was a pony ride. My arms tightened around its neck, fingers finding purchase in unexpectedly soft fur, my legs clamped firmly arou
nd its hard, muscled waist. It paused only a moment to let me get a grip, then bolted. I pressed my cheek into its neck and held on for the horseback ride from Hell.

  The city sped past—alleys and streets and sidewalks, everything mixing together in a blur. Steel muscles rippled beneath me as it moved seemingly without effort. I saw very few cars, fewer people. Oddly, we passed what I guessed was a small group of gremlins conferring in an alley behind a bakery. Gremlins, of all damned things.

  The wolf made several more sharp turns, keeping to side streets for a while, and then raced into a condemned public parking garage. It leapt over the white-and-black-painted pole permanently dropped into place across the entrance, and I nearly fell off. Not just from the momentum but also from the sparkle of orange light that flashed through my brain and body as we passed. Protection barrier. Figured.

  I barely hung on as the wolf continued its breakneck pace. Up to the center level. Dirt and grime and a few abandoned cars marked our path, as well as something else—fresh tire tracks and footprints.

  I tried to drum up a location and could think of only one condemned parking garage in Mercy’s Lot, as far south as you could get on the peninsula without crossing one of the rivers. Based on the length of time we’d been traveling—and the fact that we hadn’t crossed either of the rivers—it had to be where we were. Outside the half-mile limit of the tracking dye.

  On the third level, the wolf came to an abrupt stop and crouched. The sudden forward momentum pitched me over its head. I hit the cement on my back, blasting the air from my lungs in a pained whoosh, sending bolts of agony up my backside. I gasped, seeing stars and winking lights in my vision. I felt, more than saw, the wolf circling me. Watching me.

  “Ms. Stone?”

  I bolted upright, sending more spasms through my lower back, which had tears stinging my eyes. Walter Thackery stood ten feet from me, dressed exactly as before in a long coat and snazzy suit. Behind him was a long black vehicle, and I had to blink several times to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. He’d driven up here in a hearse.