Reaching the wall, I put my hand against the stone. I wasn’t shocked when the surface undulated, like the ‘window’ to the room where Ronan died. I pushed my hand through the illusion, then my body. The wall dissolved around me, and I stepped through into another room. This one was smaller and older. The air stunk of stale smoke and dust. Char marks decorated the rock walls. Stone columns held up the low, uneven ceiling; both were crumbling and scored. There was barely anywhere to walk. Not that I could see the floor. It was covered by tall mounds of ash and bone. Many of the powdery peaks nearly touched the ceiling. Their slopes were bathed in a dense cloud of trauma that flowed back and forth, like ocean waves. Striking against the walls, endlessly rolling, the amalgam of ghosts had been trapped in the crematorium for far too many years.
Low to the ground, near the base of one mound, was a stark cluster of color against the drab. I watched it a moment, shining and flickering through the ash and the ghosts of old death. “There you are.”
Relieved and bone tired, I let go of my scales and approached the pile. Powder kicked up around the busted-out soles of my boots as I walked. It floated up into my face, and I put an arm over my mouth. I didn’t want to think what I was breathing in, or to guess the enormous tally of how many had died here. Instead, I wondered what had turned the Queen I knew into a ruler who condoned death on such a massive level.
I squatted. Sifting through the remains, I scooped the ash aside. Fragments of blackened bone tumbled down the incline, revealing more prisms. As the uncovered pieces of the exit spun freely, without obstruction, I dug faster. Sweat stuck the ash to my skin. It clung to the blood on my clothes as more and more of the exit came into view.
When our way out was fully exposed, I sat back on my heels and stared at the burst of spinning colored fragments hovering above the ground. I was looking at their reflections, searching for a clue to what lie on the other side, when Coen came up behind me. He was standing at my shoulder, staring down, but I knew he was watching me, not the exit. None of his eyes could see it. Neither could his nose detect the typical odor that accompanied an exit. The abundance of incinerated corpses had muted the smell.
The impatient one asked, “What in all the hells in all the worlds, are you doing?”
I held his bemused stare. “Back in the alley, you talked about taking me to Drimera the long way. I assume that means you know your way around the exits.”
“What I know, is the location of exits the Guild does not.” Sensing my mistrust, he listed his chin. “Surreptitious behavior doesn’t always imply bad intentions.”
“Right now, Coen, I don’t give a flying fuck about your intentions—any of you.” I glanced at each head in turn. “All I care about is your ability to get me home. Can you do that? If I get us off-world, can you get me back to the Sentinel?”
Coen’s golden eyes softened. “If there are exits in this Citadel, we would know. And if we don’t, they are so closely guarded that we will never reach them alive.”
I stood. “Do you trust me?”
The two flanking heads hissed and weaved, glancing away.
The middle gaze never wavered. Boldly, he said, “Yes.”
It was the answer I wanted, but Coen’s zero hesitation bothered me. His quick compliance, coupled with the sincerity in his eyes, gave me the disturbing impression that he was thinking: I always have.
Thirty-Six
Coen swung his gloved human fist down onto the ice. Powerful, even in this form, the upper layer of skim shattered. He punched it again. Standing, he stomped on the compromised surface until he broke through. The remaining slush and the wood beneath splintered into pieces. Several broke off and plummeted down. He yanked the rest aside, enlarging the hole his efforts had revealed.
Golden eyes calm in the dim light, he beckoned me without a weary hand. I left his other two on the snow-covered shelf and inched along the ledge to his position. Reaching his side, I pulled the scrap of cloth I’d stolen, tighter over my trembling shoulders. “Is this it?”
Coen nodded. His breath filled the frigid air. “The last one.”
I looked down at the eruption of light against the dark and released a shaky sigh of relief. “Seven exits in twelve hours. That must be some kind of record.”
One of Coen’s bodies mocked my observation with a grunt of disagreement. Barely able to walk, my clothes in tatters, starving and aching in every bone, I was too tired to verbally spar with any of them. I didn’t have the strength even to shake the frost from my hair. The cold of this world had taken all I had left.
Hiding in culverts, scaling cliffs in broken boots, sneaking through dark dens and navigating underground cities with generations of inhabitants that had never seen the surface; our frantic, exhausting trek had included two worlds that Coen claimed didn’t even connect with Drimera. Their inhabitants had no idea what a lyrriken or dragon was, making it imperative we leave no footprints, literal or otherwise, and leaving me to wonder if the network of exits (and the number of existing species) was infinitely larger than I imagined.
Coen might have told me if I’d asked, but I’d barely spoken. He’d split into three shortly after we left Drimera, claiming it was more efficient. I couldn’t disagree. On our first world he’d managed to pilfer enough clothing to cover sensitive parts, and more ‘hands’ allowed one to scout ahead, one to stay with me, and the other to lag behind and guard our rear. They switched positions often, to stay alert. Though it was more likely they expected me to pass out or wander off if I was left alone. They’d taken turns attempting to fill the silence, offering tidbits of information on each world, and carrying on a running debate of which was more important: safety, stealth, or speed. Each had a strong opinion on the matter. But I needed all three. Because, I knew, the whole time we’d been leapfrogging from one exit to the next, Brynne was out there. She was holed up somewhere, healing, getting stronger.
I shouldn’t have listened to Coen. I should have gone after her.
Beside me, he put a brief hand on my arm. “Come. I will see you through.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“You can barely walk.”
I peered into the hole. “Good thing I’m jumping.” When he didn’t answer, I glanced at the others. Their identical frowns were disconcerting. “Thank you for getting me here,” I said. “It would have taken me more like twelve years than twelve hours to figure a way back on my own. But whatever you think this is…” my gaze landed on the man beside me, “it’s not.”
“It is me seeing you home,” he replied, “as you requested.”
Bullshit. But none of them were taking no for an answer. “Fine.” I shrugged the cloth off my shoulders and jumped. It was an unceremonious departure, rude even. But as my body sped through the chilly air and entered the exit, my fleeting thought on the matter vanished. I slipped through the weakened membrane feet first and tumbled out, striking hard ground and rolling down a dark bumpy incline.
I came to a rest as a flash of yellow light sped by, somewhere close. Catching my breath brought me warm humid air and the sudden scent of grass and soil. Above was a single full moon. In the background, car sounds and the distinct aroma of fresh asphalt.
Coen landed beside me a moment later. I checked his eyes. They were golden-brown, as I expected. “The side of a highway?” I grumbled at him. “I thought you said these exits of yours were hidden?”
“What can’t be concealed…” he kicked a leg and it met something solid, “must be controlled. I’m told it’s called ‘private property’.”
I sat up. A metal security fence separated us from the other side of the embankment and the highway beyond. The bars of the fence were thick, with not much space in between. “Do you own this property?”
He didn’t reply.
I couldn’t tolerate another excuse for his silence so I picked myself up. “Thanks. I got it from here.” Walking to the fence, I stared up its length. I put my hands on the bars. They were smooth and tall, but not u
nclimbable.
Coen moved closer. Watching me inspect the fence, he said, “You’re angry.”
“I’m not angry. I’m frustrated and hungry.”
“And angry.”
I turned to him. “I’m sorry, Coen, but I don’t know what you want from me. You show up out of nowhere. You help me without reason or explanation. You tell me nothing. And I’ve already watched one of us die today for the same damn thing.” After our grueling trek, what happened on Drimera seemed so long ago. Yet I could still feel Ronan’s blood on me, under the dirt and dried crisp on my clothes. “Brynne may have taken his heart, but Ronan is dead because of his secrets, his lies. And now he’s gone, and I’ll never know the truth.”
I gripped the fence and climbed. My ruined boots were uncooperative. My muscles hated me. At the moment, I hated them even more.
Near the top, I realized I should have shifted. It would have protected my skin and increased my strength. The fact that I hadn’t even considered the easier way, told me how badly my mind was working.
Throwing a leg over the top railing, I dropped on the other side. Losing my balance, my ankle twisted. I sat fast on the embankment with a groan. The sign above me on the road listed Sentinel City as a mere thirty-seven miles away. It might as well have been a thousand.
On a whim, I put a hand on my back pocket. Feeling my phone, I laughed as I pulled it out. It was a mess, with cracks and dents. The ‘virtually indestructible’ case I’d splurged for clearly hadn’t been tested by dragons.
I pushed the power button. The shattered screen flickered on. Yes.
It went black. “Shit.”
Through the fence I saw Coen, still standing on the other side. He moved up to the bars. “You are positive that Ronan Locke suffered a permanent death?”
Wiping my grimy hands on my already trashed pants, I nodded. “I’m sure. Why?”
Coen turned away.
Something about the gesture bugged me. “But you’re not?”
“There is only one real measure of truth, Dahlia. The soul. What does yours tell you?”
Drawn up by his odd words, I stood on my wobbly ankle. “What do you mean?”
“I think you know.”
It was impossible, but I said it anyway. “You think Ronan is alive? That it was all some kind of trick?”
“Eyes are easy to deceive. Without them we would be far less gullible. And what matters is not what I think, but what you feel.”
“Dammit, Coen, is he alive or not?”
“I can’t answer that question, Dahlia. Only you can. Your soul can. It remembers. It speaks.” My view of Coen diminished with his voice as he withdrew. “Perhaps the time has come for you to listen.”
Thirty-Seven
The water had been running a while. Evans had knocked on the bathroom door twice to see if I was all right. Obviously, I wasn’t. I was sitting on the floor of my shower, with the water beating down, washing away layers of blood, dirt, and ash, and the last traces of my ex-boyfriend off my skin. The dirty water pooling around me on the bottom of the stall couldn’t go down the drain fast enough. As it circled lazily, my mind conjured things like hope and possibility where I knew damn well there was none. They wanted to convince me that Brynne was dead and Ronan was alive, that I hadn’t sucked the pain from the nageun and used my empathy as a weapon.
But I had. And Brynne was alive.
And Ronan was dead.
“Fuck you, Coen, for putting that shit in my head.”
There was a third knock on the door. This time it opened. Through the fogged glass walls of the shower stall, I saw Evans come in. He opened the shower door and reached over my head. Water pelted the long sleeve of his coal gray shirt as he turned the knob to the off position without making a single joke or stealing a peak. He was definitely worried.
Evans grabbed a towel off the rack on the wall and helped me up. Draping the soft cloth around my shoulders, he guided me out to stand on the mat. The pale green carpet darkened as water slid down my legs and off the ends of my hair. He pushed the wet curls back from my face, and I frowned. I couldn’t decide if his well-meaning attention made me feel like an inept child or a feeble old lady.
Neither was working for me.
I took a step back. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Are you sure?” A grin emerged beneath a light layer of scruff. “I could have sworn toweling you off and getting you dressed was somewhere in the manual.” He pushed the shower door closed and glanced at me. “Page forty-seven maybe?”
The comfortable familiarity of his smart-ass comment improved my mood. “Umm…I don’t think there is a page forty-seven.”
“There is now.” I laughed, and a measure of anxiety left his eyes. “How are you feeling? You were pretty banged up when I found you.”
“I’m all right. The nap helped.”
“You’re not mad I put you in bed like that? You were a mess, but I figured it was better than the couch.”
“I thought you liked my couch.”
Sheepish, he grinned. “I do…which is why I wasn’t giving it up.” He gestured at the door. “I changed your sheets and put the dirty ones in the wash.”
“Thanks. But the incinerator might be a better place.”
His gaze drifted. I knew he was searching for a way to express his concern and relief that wouldn’t overstep the unspoken boundaries of our friendship.
I made his decision easy and shoved Evans out into the hall.
I closed the door and dried off quickly. I brushed my teeth (twice), desperate to erase every trace of blood from my mouth. I was too lazy to dry my hair. I shook it out and combed my fingers through the snarls. The ever-increasing soreness that had plagued my muscles during my trek home was gone, but an ache still lived in my head. The mix of empathy overload and the strain of keeping a variety of unwanted ghosts at bay for twelve hours straight was not a good combination. I’d known the discomfort was coming. Traumatic events bred exits, leaving each one ringed with their own myriad of violence and pain. It was a fact I’d been happy to ignore when the entire Citadel was about to descend on our heads. By the time we’d reached our second world, where the imprint of an age-old, city-wide massacre crawled inside me, it was too late to re-think our escape plan.
I picked up the clothes Evans had left for me on the edge of the sink. He’d neglected to add a bra or underwear to the pile, but as I slipped on the black running shorts and gray tank top, his unwillingness to dig through my panty drawer made me smile. So did his merciful disposal of the rags I’d shed on the bathroom floor. There were only a few twigs, pebbles, and morsels of dirt to prove my ruined clothing had ever been there.
Walking out into the living room, I glanced at the window. Not quite dawn, the sky held just enough wan light to reveal the angry gray clouds sitting low over the city. Sheets of rain streaked the glass and pounded onto the fire escape.
I made a face as thunder shook the walls. “Fucking weather.”
From my couch, Evans replied, “It’s been a lousy summer.”
I eyed him, thinking, He’s making small talk? That’s not a good sign.
I almost made a joke of it, thinking it might ease both our moods, but Evans hadn’t noticed my scrutiny. His face was buried in an open container of take-out. Three more were on the ottoman, half empty with chopsticks protruding from their middles. A pillow was on one side of him, my extra blanket crumpled up on the other. This is some serious déjà vu.
I plopped down next to him. Yanking the blanket out from under me, I threw it over my legs as I pulled them up onto the couch. “How did you find me? I don’t remember anything after Coen left, until I woke up here.”
“He left you? You were injured. Who the hell is this guy, or dragon, or whatever?”
“I’m not sure. And he left because I told him to.” Evans squinted. I rolled my eyes and confessed. “When we met I was kind of a bitch. I burned him. He shot me. Coen said he was there to protect me. I told him to leav
e me alone.”
“So, translated into lyrriken, that means dropping you off half dead in the middle of the night, on the edge of the city?” He waved off my reply. “Doesn’t matter. I tracked your phone.”
“How? I must have tried to call you ten times, but the battery kept dying.”
“I know. But after those ten times, I had enough to cobble a location together. Once I figured out you were near the highway, it didn’t take long to find you.”
“Is bugging my phone without permission standard police procedure, Officer? Because it sounds a little stalkerish to me.”
“Tracking and bugging are two different things. And…” he cringed. “How about we chock it up to sidekick paranoia?”
“I guess that does sound slightly less illegal.”
“Not even worthy of a restraining order. And after what happened at the park, with Brynne, I wasn’t taking any chances.”
I smiled to myself, liking how what I was had never once cowed Evans or eroded his confidence. He spoke his mind. He teased. He knew when to follow my lead. Yet he also knew when to trust his own instincts over mine.
“I was right, too,” he added, “seeing how you ditched me at Nadine’s.”
“I was only supposed to be gone a couple of hours.”
His frown was full of unease and affection. “It’s Friday.”
“I know. I’m sorry. How much grief did Barnes give you?”
“He lost his shit when we lost you. And Creed…” Whistling, Evans shook his head. “But every single person in the bar misplaced about three hours, so the consensus is we were drugged and you were kidnapped. But that’s not what happened, is it?”
“It’s close enough.”
“When I couldn’t track your phone, I knew you’d left this world. I drove out to the Chandler house. I was going back to Drimera to look for you.”
“Dammit, Casey. You aren’t that stupid.”
“Almost,” he smiled. “I got as far as the front door. Then I realized I had no guarantee that’s where you were. So I did the only thing I could. I worked the case like you were any other missing person, and I waited for your signal to show up.”
Nite Fire: Flash Point Page 38