by Kelly Meding
Intent on a van that didn’t exist.
Blood was in my mouth, my nose, my eyes. The taste of it was on my tongue and the smell of it in my nose, and the blood and agony followed me into oblivion.
Chapter Sixteen
Six Weeks Ago
An awful smell draws me out of a restless, dream-filled sleep. Not rotting-meat awful. More like vinegar-tang awful. God, please don’t let Ash be making that Korean sauerkraut mess. Jesse eats it, but not me. Especially not when I’m five days into a never-ending bout of the flu, haven’t eaten anything thicker than mashed potatoes in four, and am tempted to just chop my own head off at the neck so my mucus can drain out faster.
I peek one eye open. I’m facing the wall and its familiar stained wallpaper—what was once white and yellow daisies. Not even close to my taste, but I’m never home enough to care. Not until lately.
My head feels like dead weight as I roll to my other side. A fresh glass of orange juice is on the bedside table—or rather the old orange crate that serves as one. I like the simplicity of it. Next to the juice is a half-empty box of tissues. I reach for one and pull. The damned thing snags and sends the entire box tumbling to the floor.
“Fuck,” I croak.
I scoot closer to the edge of the bed and peek down. It’s tumbled pretty far away, too far to reach. My nose is starting to drip. I need a tissue. I just can’t make my dead-weight body get up and retrieve them. Frustration makes me growl, which tickles deep in my clogged chest. The ensuing coughs wrack my entire body and leave my throat raw, aching.
Just kill me now.
A tissue dangles in front of me. I follow the hand that holds it to a wrist, up an arm, until I’m looking at Wyatt through bleary eyes.
“You dropped these,” he says.
I grunt, take it, and blow. Hard enough to make me dizzy. I slump back against the pillow. The damp tissue falls away. I close my eyes, willing the room to stop spinning. I can’t sleep with it spinning like this.
The mattress sinks. A cool hand presses against my steaming forehead. Feels good.
“Ash says you haven’t eaten all day.”
“Hurts.”
“You need to eat, Evy.”
“No.”
“If you don’t eat, you’re going to end up in the hospital.”
I snap my eyes open. I hate the hospital. Despise it. I’d rather stitch my own wounds, and I usually do. He’s holding two red pills in his palm. I eye them. More medicine. I hate pills, too, and he knows it. He’s pushing again, like he’s been pushing me all month. Harder than usual all spring, actually.
I once asked Jesse if I’d done something to piss off Wyatt, but Jesse said he didn’t think so. Wyatt was just in a mood. Monthlong man PMS, I guess.
If those red pills make my head stop feeling like a bowling ball, I’ll forgive him his bad mood. I open my mouth. He pops them in, then holds the juice while I sip enough to get the pills down. The juice stings my throat and sits cool in my stomach. I flop against the pillow and close my eyes, hoping he’s satisfied.
“Ash is making some gelatin,” he says, patting my forehead with a tissue. “You’re going to eat it.”
“Gross.”
“It’s cherry.”
“Grosser.”
“Evy, I’m serious. Eat it, or I’m driving you to the hospital myself.”
I crack one eye open. Peer under my lashes at him. His mouth is set, lips pressed thin. I know that look. He’s dead serious. And I don’t have the strength to fight him. “Fine.”
With the battle won, I expect him to leave. He stays.
He stays through another coughing fit. He hands me tissue after tissue, until I’m sure my head can’t expel any more snot without turning itself inside out. He holds a basin while I throw up half the gelatin I’m forced to eat. I curse at him because he’s convenient, and he continues to chatter about nonsensical things.
More juice and gelatin, a few saltine crackers, and lots of monologuing later, my fever breaks sometime during the night. Wyatt stays with me through it, holding my hand and always ready with a tissue. A constant, comforting presence.
He’s gone when I wake the next morning from a dreamless sleep.
I stare at the faded wallpaper, more able to think now, and wonder if I dreamed him. After four years and dozens of injuries, this is the first time he’s kept vigil at my bedside. For the flu, of all things—not even a life-threatening wound. It seems silly, and yet there it is.
Something has changed, and I’m helpless to understand it. So I’ll just ignore it. Pretend it never happened. Pretend nothing’s changed.
Even though we both know something has.
Chapter Seventeen
Later …
I was on fire. Every inch of my body ached and burned—back and shoulders that lay on something soft, face caressed by external force, legs surrounded by support. Nothing was left untouched. Even my insides hurt, as though taken out, smashed to a pulp, and then tossed back in.
The pain meant I wasn’t dead. It was just too much to handle, so I drifted. Up and down on waves of agony and itching, highs and lows that carried me back and forth from sleeping to near-waking. I thought I heard voices, smelled smells, felt touches on my skin. I tried to talk a few times and probably only grunted. My tongue was swollen, throat dry and sore.
No, it felt better to sleep.
And then the overwhelming need to vomit forced me to wakefulness. My entire upper body twisted sideways, and I dry-heaved into something soft. Cottony. A blanket. Something warm touched my face and shoulder. Spoke indecipherable words in a gentle voice.
Bolts of lightning shot down my legs. I stiffened, tried not to move as heaves dissolved into quiet sobs. Hot tears scorched my eyes; I squeezed them shut against the uncontrollable weakness. Weight shifted the soft blanket … no, mattress.
I shot up in a tangle of arms, blankets, shouts, and pain. My legs hollered at the sudden movement, furious and blinding. Someone grabbed my flailing wrists. I forced my eyelids to peel apart, even as the voice became more clear.
“Evy, it’s me. Calm down, please.”
A blurry shape was outlined against the light of a pale wall. I blinked several times. The voice, soothing and soft, placed the details my addled brain couldn’t quite focus on its own. My racing heart calmed, only to speed up again. Not from fear this time.
“You’re safe,” Wyatt said.
I stared, not quite believing it, even when my eyes completely focused. He was sitting on the bed next to me, hands clamped around my wrists, black eyes wide with concern. A flurry of emotions blasted me—joy, surprise, confusion, and most of all, stark relief.
He loosened his hold on my wrists and I fell against his chest, flinging my arms around his waist. I inhaled his scent, felt his warmth on my cheek. He was really there, arms around me, chin resting on the top of my head. I held tight with what little strength I had, communicating with touch what I couldn’t seem to manage with words. Then through the relief came the pain again, white-hot and itchy irritation. I groaned, pushed away, and fell back against a fluffy pillow.
“Take it easy, Evy. Your legs are still healing.”
I scrunched my eyes shut and sucked in several deep breaths. My stomach felt twisted inside out, but less likely to try and jump out of my mouth. I was aware of other things, as well—the gentle swish of water through nearby pipes, the faint odor of fabric softener in the clean sheets, the lack of anything resembling a burning factory or VW bus.
“Where?” I croaked.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
I cracked one eyelid. He brushed the back of his knuckles across my cheek. I automatically leaned into the touch, amazed he was even there. A little pale, but otherwise healthy for someone who’d recently had surgery. A lot had happened, and I wanted details.
“We’re in Michael Jenner’s house,” Wyatt replied.
My other eye opened, and I stared. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. I guess your meeting made an impression. The Assembly is considering what you told him, and we should know their decision tonight.”
Good, that still gave us time to decide how to handle the mass-meet at Park Place. I glanced briefly around the small bedroom—definitely a guest room, with its plain painted walls, simple curtains, and abstract watercolor in lieu of personal photos. Even the furniture was the generic sort you buy to fill a room, not add style. The bed was against the wall, the door angled away and propped half open.
He was still watching me when my attention returned, as though terrified he’d blink and I’d disappear. I had no intention of teleporting again for a long time. Not until my body stopped throbbing. My wounds would heal, as they always had—fast, because of my Gift. A Gift not everyone shared.
“Not that I’m complaining,” I said, “but what the hell are you doing out of the hospital?”
Wyatt smiled, fingers still gently stroking my cheek. It was distracting in a nice way, but his anger simmered just below the surface. “About an hour after I spoke to you the last time, I was moved to another room and was livid that no one would tell me where you were. Then I got a call from Kismet, telling me you were in the factory when it caught fire and that it went up so fast she never saw you come out.” Something passed across his face as he recalled the memory of that moment.
I reached up and threaded my fingers through his, then drew his hand down to hold it against my chest. I almost asked if he knew she’d been lying, or at least creatively excluding the truth. Instead, I squeezed his hand, encouraging him to continue.
“I got a little upset,” he said with a chagrined smile. “No one would tell me what was going on, so I signed myself out. Phineas found me outside the hospital. He said he’d gone back to the factory hoping to catch up with you when you got your information from the gremlins. He had you wrapped in blankets in the back of a van. You were so … I didn’t think you were alive, at first. We ended up here. Jenner called a doctor he trusted.”
A doctor? I looked past him, down the length of my blanket-covered legs. I wiggled my toes and found them working. Nerve endings twitched and smarted. “Were they broken?” I asked.
“Both of them, in several places, plus your left kneecap. The doctor had a time resetting those bones so they’d heal straight. And you were having trouble breathing all night from all the smoke and chemicals you inhaled.”
“All night? How long have I been out?”
His lips pressed together. “It’s Sunday, about noon.”
Holy shit, I’d been unconscious for more than a day! My deadline for saving Rufus was looming closer and closer, and Aurora could have given birth by now. Who knew what was going down with Call and his cronies?
“Fuck,” I said. “Park Place last night—”
“Nothing happened.”
I blinked, confused.
“Kismet had people watching it. No one went into or out of that building last night. Whatever was supposed to happen was probably moved.”
Because Phin had tipped them off. Told Black Hat we knew about Park Place. Shit, shit, and dammit all. If I hadn’t been so utterly exhausted, I probably would have hit the wall in frustration. Our last lead was gone. Unless I managed to track down the recently relocated gremlins. The problem was the Black River docks covered more than a mile of waterfront, and I didn’t have the time or resources to search it all.
He bent at the waist and pressed his forehead to mine, our noses nearly touching. Inky black eyes gazed into mine, his coffee-scented breath warm on my face. I couldn’t imagine mine smelled that great, but he didn’t wrinkle his nose or pull away. I drew strength from his nearness, glad to have him by my side again. We made a better team than solitary players.
“So much happened the day before yesterday,” I said quietly. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Phin filled in some of the details. He’s got a hell of a story to tell, too.”
“He’s still here?”
“Downstairs with Aurora, I think.”
My head jerked in surprise and, forgetting how close we were, we banged our noses together. Wincing, Wyatt sat up, and I tried to follow, heedless of my smarting legs. “Aurora and Joseph are here?” I asked.
“Just this morning. Apparently, the stress of being forced from your apartment sent Aurora into labor. The were-cats took her to a private clinic and informed the Assembly, who then told Jenner.”
“Who told Phin.” I gazed at him in wonder and dread. “She had her baby.”
“A healthy baby girl, and she’s already the size of a one-year-old.”
Joy over the safe delivery was demolished by an impending sense of doom. “But my bargain with Phin was good only until the baby was born. What happens to Rufus now?”
“Nothing yet.” Phin’s voice surprised me, and even Wyatt jumped. Phin stood just inside the room, his body half hidden by the door. He had a healing burn on his left cheek and a serious crease to his forehead. “Welcome back.”
I swallowed, tormented by enough conflicting emotions to choke an empath. He had stabbed me and left me for dead. Allowed Belle’s cronies to attack and drive me out of my apartment. He’d also given me top secret information about his people. Oh yeah, and he saved my life. Again. I wanted to hug him tight and punch him until he cried.
“You have every right to be cross with me,” Phin said when I didn’t speak.
“Cross?” I repeated. “Cross doesn’t even begin to cover it. You stabbed me in the gut and tossed me into a fucking Dumpster.”
“He … what?” Wyatt asked. He started to stand. I grabbed his arm and kept him still as a familiar flush crept up his neck.
Phin ignored Wyatt, his blue eyes never blinking. “I won’t ask your forgiveness, Evy, but when I tell you what I learned, I believe you’ll agree the risk was worth the outcome.”
“You’d better have one hell of a story.” I settled back against the pillow, still clutching Wyatt’s hand. He remained seated, a silent sentinel. Phin stepped into the room but kept his distance.
“You recall the man in the black hat?” Phin asked.
I nodded.
“His name is Snow, and he’s a low-level member of the Kitsune Clan, who are—”
“Wait, I know this one!” I’d heard the word “Kitsune” before, referencing an animal. Now what was …? “Foxes. They’re were-foxes, right?”
“Correct. Snow has been actively recruiting for someone who wants to create a … well, for lack of a better term, an anti-Triad organization. A sort of nonhuman enforcement group to go after the Triads who punish indiscriminately.”
Wyatt snorted. “They’ll end up going after all of us.”
Phin pinned him with a hard stare. “Your people have a long history of punishing whomever they wish, as long as those punished are weaker than you. The Triads are out of control, and my people are beginning to fight back.”
I thought of what he’d said in the Green Apple diner, about wanting to join the Triads. Policing his own kind. I could see how such a group might appeal to Phin, even if its existence scared the shit out of me. “Who’s he been recruiting?”
“Mostly Therians, but there are some vampires and a few half-breeds. I never thought I’d see the day when the two stood in the same room and didn’t try to kill each other.”
Ditto that. “How many?”
“Around sixty, so far.”
Twice our numbers, although our training gave us an advantage in combat. “I don’t guess the man he works for is named Leonard Call?”
Phin’s head twitched sideways. “How did you hear that name?”
“A little birdie told me.” I briefly outlined my conversation with Isleen, including her woman on the inside. “If he’s been building this force for a month, we’re damned lucky we finally got wind of it. With our own numbers so low, a sneak attack would have devastated us.”
“An attack of any sort still might,” Wyatt said. “Even if every Triad in the cit
y had shown up at Olsmill the other night, we wouldn’t have won without help from the Bloods. We always kept the Dregs in line through fear and intimidation. That’s obviously not working anymore.”
“Obviously,” Phin drawled.
I pondered Isleen’s other comment about a larger threat looming, one ten years in the making. I’d thought to ask Rufus about it, to get some skinny on the earliest days of the Triads. “Who decided that?” I asked before I could censor myself.
“Decided what?” Wyatt asked.
No stopping now. “Fear and intimidation, Wyatt. Isleen got me thinking…. She said things really started to hit the fan around the time the Triads were first organized. You were there.”
He bristled like a threatened dog and stalked across the room before I could stop him. “She said this was all our fault?”
“No, that’s not what I said.” I struggled to sit up again, the movements less painful now. “What changed ten years ago that made the Triads necessary when they hadn’t existed before?”
He glared at me, the flush in his neck rising to his cheeks. “Your mother was murdered by vampires eleven years ago, Evy, and you’re asking me why?”
A chill spread through my chest. Her body had been found drained of blood, two weeks dead, so the possibility of her being killed by vampires had always existed. It just hadn’t been verified and never would be since her body had been cremated. No one had voiced it so bluntly since my days in Boot Camp, when the information was used to goad me into action. It had always worked.
I threw back the blanket covering me, noting—but not caring—that I was wearing only my bra and panties. Both legs were wrapped tightly in gauze bandages and medical tape, but I swung them off the bed anyway.
Angry fingers of pain tore up and down my legs, and I barked out a terse “Fuck you, Truman,” as I tried to stand up. “My mother was a fucking heroin addict who slept around and got herself killed.” My weak legs wobbled. My left knee screeched as weight was added, and I flopped back onto the bed, panting. “Why ten years ago?”