My cabin is just a place; my garage is home.
Two stories tall and four bays wide, the garage is a car lover's dream – slate gray epoxy floors, vaulted ceilings with pendant shop lights hanging from steel cables, coal black 24-gauge steel cabinets lining both the north and south walls, and the best car lift money can buy in the south bay. I even have a bed and a shower in the back room – everything I need under one roof.
Torquing a wrench is the only time I feel at peace, but the waiting has yanked my attention so much I’ve lost the skin of three knuckles already. Yeah, I’ll blame waiting instead of what I’m really doing – thinking of Evangeline.
Damn that woman.
I’ve been dancing around her forever it seems. Fighting my baser instincts to avoid tearing my fangs into the delicate column of her porcelain neck. Just thinking about that line of soft skin makes me fight against my dick getting hard. The way that line follows her slim shoulders and petite body, the full curve of her breasts and the gentle swell of her hips that I just so recently got a glimpse of.
A tiny glimpse. Then again, any time looking at her would be too short. I could look at her for the rest of my life, and it wouldn’t be enough time. And those eyes – clearer than a Colorado sky and twice as blue. The way her nose scrunches into this adorable little frown when she’s irritated. That mass of curly hair that my fingers ache to get tangled in.
It isn’t just her body; it’s also the sounds she makes. When she’s eating her favorite dessert, she makes this little humming noise with every bite that goes straight to my dick. When she knows I’m getting lost in my own head, she tells a joke or tells me a crazy story about some trouble her and Aurelia have gotten into. And the singing. Her voice turns rough when she sings, all bluesy in a way I’d never think her normally soprano vocal chords could go.
Goddamn, I miss her.
Just as I think that thought, the wrench in my hands slips off the bolt and I have another skinned knuckle.
Fuck.
I can’t keep getting distracted like this, or my own brain is going to get me killed. And with that pleasant thought, the wrench slips again.
Goddamn, motherfucking, son of a fucking whore.
“Nice mouth, Carmichael,” a voice calls drolly from the shadows of my garage.
Voyt.
Took him long enough. I had no idea I was speaking aloud, but trust Voyt fucking Garrison to point it out. He saunters into the light of my shop lamp, running a reverent finger over the fender of my fully restored 1950 Chevy ICON Thriftmaster. I did everything on the pickup except for the painting. The fact that he’s touching it makes my lips pull into a snarl. First my girl, now my fucking truck. If he keeps wanting after what’s mine, I’m going to rip his arms off.
“What took you so long? Needed to change your shorts after Evangeline got through with you?” I taunt, and I’m asshole enough to enjoy the uncomfortable twist to his face before he can mask it.
“Wouldn’t you have?” he asks, and it is so self-deprecating, I have to give him that point.
“Eh… Probably,” I chuckle tossing the wrench close to its proper spot. Evangeline organized them all years ago, labeling the spots with her trusty label maker. She even used specialty glue so the labels would stick to the foam insert. I can’t even look at my own tools without missing her.
Dammit.
“So you wanted me here, and against my better judgment, I agreed. What do you need, West? Because this cloak and dagger shit isn’t really my forte,” he grumbles pulling my eyes from the stupid foam back to him.
“There was an attempt on Evangeline’s life tonight,” I say dropping a massive bomb on the likely clueless Voyt.
“What. The. Fuck,” he growls his eyes going from green to the black of a phase so quick, even I’m surprised.
“Don’t you worry your gelled little locks about it, I made sure none of the bastards lived. But they didn’t think this shit up on their own, they looked more like pawns. I think some of the head families are behind it – it is the only thing that makes sense to me. And they have to be behind John and Olivia’s deaths, and that cannot stand,” I inform him, and if anything it just brings an even more crazed look to his eyes. His fingers rip through his perfectly coiffed, expertly gelled hair as a snarl erupts from his throat.
“You’re telling me after I watched my two best men get fucking liquefied right in front of my eyes, more death happened?” he asks on a demand as he starts pacing in front of the truck.
“What you mean to say is, after Evangeline’s parents were poisoned and killed, several members of our community tried to murder her. Because if you say that you are upset you lost those two assholes, I’m going to rip your fucking dick off,” I growl, barely staving off the right hook I so desperately want to plant in his temple.
“No, I do not lament the loss of two duplicitous men whom I obviously had no idea could… Our species as a whole is dwindling into nothing, you fucking idiot. We had maybe ten thousand Wraiths left in the world after the Phoenix attacks, and now… There should be millions of us to keep the balance. To send the souls to hell for good instead of them just sitting in rotting corpses waiting for some witch or warlock or shapeshifter to steal the energy and start some real trouble. There are too many souls for us to reap and not enough of us to go around. And we just lost more,” he rants, still pacing in a jerky clip.
“So, you’re worried about the hypothetical instead of the shit we’re swimming in now?”
“No. I’m worried about how many I’m going to have to kill to keep her alive. I am well aware you don’t care how many you kill, but I do,” he sends that zinger straight to my chest. Trust Voyt to know where to hit to cause the most damage. The scars of the people I’ve killed are not healed on my soul. Rather, they are big gaping wounds that refuse to mend. But I don’t kill without reason, and I don’t kill the innocent.
Never again.
“I don’t kill innocents, Voyt. Even the King’s Assassin has scruples,” I growl.
“Of course not,” he mutters, his tone scathing. “What exactly do you need from me?”
“I need an in with the Emerson family. If there were a head family that had anything to do with this, it would be them.”
They are also the only head family that was conspicuously absent from the funeral.
“And why is that? The Emersons have been one of the most upstanding families – they have helped so much with the aftermath of the attacks,” Voyt says in disbelief.
Helped, my ass. I’ve never seen a family more two-faced.
“Devereux and Sampson Emerson were Evangeline’s Guardians before me. They were killed in their service. If there is any family that has a serious grudge against her, it would be them,” I inform him, and the hope on his face dies. It is replaced with dawning horror.
“Well, fuck,” he mutters, and it is the first time Voyt and I have ever agreed on anything.
“Right? I’m not going to attack anyone, but it would be much easier to suss out who the culprits are if I have an in with them. I may not be Evangeline’s Guardian anymore, but that doesn’t mean my job is done.”
“She released you?”
“Don’t sound so broken up about it, asshole. She’s my mate, and I love her more than anything. But I… I can’t bind her. Not yet. Not until I know she’s safe. I-I’m trying to keep her safe,” I admit, and it burns me to do so.
It isn’t about the King and Queen bullshit. It isn’t about avoiding the monarchy. It is about keeping her alive, and safe. As the King’s Assassin, I made enemies. There are people out there who would rather see me as maggot food than to take another breath. I can’t tie her life to mine for so many reasons, but the fact that I have a huge target on my back is at the top of the list.
“And she released you because you won’t bind her,” he guesses offhandedly.
“Got it in one.”
“I assume you have a good reason for not binding her,” he whispers, his voice has turned deadly. He cares
for her, and as much as it kills me to ask him for a favor, he is probably the only person I can trust to help me and keep her safe. Granted his reasons make me want to rip his fucking arms off, but… if he keeps her safe, I have to respect him.
Voyt’s face closes down, and I can no longer get a bead on him. From a man with my considerable people-reading skills, the thought of not being able to gauge him freaks me a bit. He is silent for a few moments but continues his pacing before he stops suddenly, breathes a huge sigh of resignation, and turns back to me.
“Yeah. I’ll help,” he says, his voice like sandpaper. “Give me a day. I’ll grease the wheels and get you a meeting. I can’t promise anything will come of it, but I’ll do what I can.”
“Even after I told you we are mates, you’ll still help me?”
“I want her to be happy. I don’t care if it’s me who brings her happiness, as long as she’s actually happy.”
“I hope you mean that, Voyt. I really, really do.”
Because when this goes south, at least Evangeline will have someone who loves her that much.
I can do what I need to, knowing that.
4
Like a Screaming Toddler at a Dinner Party
EVAN
I have a strong urge to wear yoga pants and not get out of bed for a week. Or maybe I’ll just eat enough ice cream to give myself a sugar coma and sleep for the next fifty years.
Yeah. That could work.
The funeral was last night, and I haven’t left this room for approximately twenty-four hours. By my count, I have less than five minutes left before Aurelia either busts down the door or figures out how to jerry-rig an incendiary device and blow it off its hinges.
The new raw wood door the idiot twins installed is substantial enough, but nothing stops my bestie.
Solid oak be damned.
I’m proved right not two minutes later when Asher ferries Aurelia and Mena into the room with him in a swath of black smoke, totally bypassing the door altogether.
Right. I should have thought of that.
“Are you getting subtle in your old age?” I croak from underneath my veritable cocoon of down blankets and pillows. She doesn’t answer me, she simply holds up a finger and covers her mouth with her other hand, swiftly but calmly walking to the bathroom.
The retching that quickly bites at her heels tells me all I need to know.
“You think she’ll figure it out on her own or should we tell her?” Mena asks me, but I have no freaking clue what she’s talking about. Whatever. I don’t have the energy for this.
“Figure out what, Princess?” Asher inquires, but Mena doesn’t answer him. She just gives him a sweet look that from this angle tells me she thinks he’s a silly, stupid man.
He doesn’t catch it, though, because he’s too busy looking at her lips to notice anything else. Barf.
“If I wanted to see the newbie lovers in action, I would have gone outside my room,” I gripe, and for an extra barrier against love-sick assholes, I throw a pillow over my head.
Two smarmy doe-eyed lovers and one pukey best friend. If this is the cheer-up crew, I am so fucked.
A flush and the tap sounding from the open bathroom door is a relief. That is until I hear her brushing her teeth. With what has to be my toothbrush.
Umm. No, she did not. The gargle and spit that follows just pisses me off more.
“You’re going to need a new toothbrush,” Aurelia croaks from the doorway still looking green.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I screech from my fortress of pillows. If she thinks this is getting me out of bed, she is sorely mistaken.
“Nope,” she groans, shuffling over to the bed and shoving me over to lay down beside me. She barely has her head on a stolen pillow when there is frantic banging on the new door.
For fuck’s sake.
“Aurelia?” Rhys frantically calls through the wood. “You okay, Gorgeous? Open this damn door!”
Mena stifles a snicker as she unlocks it for him, and he damn near bowls her over getting through the door to get to his wife. Before I can blink, he’s on his knees next to her side of the bed, checking her forehead for fever.
I have no idea why.
As far as I know, I have never heard of Phoenix getting sick. Ever. I look from them to Mena and Asher, who are cuddling in a single white leather slipper chair. Ugh.
I think I would rather be on the fucking moon than see every single one of my friends right now. And it sucks.
I don’t want to see people. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to bear witness to a cute kiss or nuzzled hug.
I want my Mom.
I want my Dad.
I want to rip out the guts of whoever conspired to take them from me, and if I can’t have that, then… I don’t know what.
I’m not sure I’ll let myself want anything else.
Soon, the room is filled with my family. Ian, his face somber for probably the first time in his life, and then Aidan filing in behind him. Even Cam and Carver show up, Carver’s superfluous eyepatch is jauntily flipped up showing a perfectly working eye. I think it is supposed to make me laugh, and in normal circumstances, it probably would. And even though this room is filled with all the people I love, I feel more alone than ever.
Their voices practically grate on my skin.
They all want to know if I’m okay. They want to know what’s next. They want to know why I sent West away. The questions aren’t asked, but I know they’re there. I feel them closing in on me.
The answers aren’t there. I don’t know what’s next. I don’t know if I’m okay. I’d venture a guess as to no – I’m not. And West…
I sent him away because he would never choose me. I’ve been waiting for him to pick me – bind me – forever it seems like. He had all the time in the world, and he left me alone. And watching Mena and Asher…
How quickly they succumbed to the bond. How little time it took… it just makes the century I’ve been waiting seem so much longer.
And Mama, Papa. My heart couldn’t take much more.
I needed to cut the dead weight.
He had to go.
“Hey,” Aurelia whispers, pulling me out of the stirrings of a top-notch panic attack. “Want to go beat the shit out of something? I’ll even hold the heavy bag for you,” she offers, her voice soft in the newly loud room. It is a kindness she’s offering me, a reason to leave without a fuss, and I appreciate it more than I can say.
“Get dressed. I’ll kick these assholes out,” she assures me, and I feel my lips pull into a pathetic attempt at a smile. I think I’m at a point in my life where I don’t want to have to be grateful, but I am.
Aurelia ushers everyone out, allowing me a few moments to collect myself before I go kick the crap out of a heavy bag. But I don’t dawdle. Instead, I move as quickly as I can through the motions of opening a brand new toothbrush and attacking my teeth with it, throwing on some clothes and heading out the door to the gym. At this point, I don’t even know if my socks match, but I don’t really give a shit. I have the single-minded focus of a woman who is systematically avoiding her problems.
No thinking, just doing.
I travel to the gym located on the top floor of the cliff house and watch Aurelia string up the hundred-and-fifty-pound heavy bag on a wall-mounted L-bracket like she’s tying her freaking shoelaces.
After she hooks the bag, she doesn’t look at me expectantly, she just moves on, wrapping her hands, waiting for me to be ready.
The space is mostly open, the weights and lifting platforms closer to the edges, and the center left open for sparring. I love this room, and if it weren’t for the three full walls of floor to ceiling windows, I would have claimed it for myself.
Papa said it wasn’t safe for me – it had too many points of entry. It couldn’t be fortified. My suite on the second floor doesn’t have any windows. As an interior room, I’m boxed in.
I fucking hate it.
I see these windows
, and I realize how naive and sheltered I’ve been. Skipping along happy when others were keeping me safe.
It’s San Francisco all over again – me thinking I know better when everyone else had to watch my back, had to worry over me.
I should know better.
“You about done wallowing?” she asks bracing herself behind the bag, and her dumb question is like a red flag in front of a bull.
“Wallowing? Really? You want to know if I’m done wallowing?” I roar, throwing a solid haymaker into the bag – my hands still unwrapped. I don’t move her an inch, and it just pisses me off. The stain of the blood on the canvas makes it worse.
“Pfft. Weak sauce. You’ve done better in your fucking sleep,” she needles me with a shitty little smile on her face.
The feral scream ripping up my throat surprises me, but not Aurelia. She looks bored, unruffled. My next punch doesn’t hit the bag – it doesn’t hit anything at all. I clutch at nothing but air as Aurelia moves blindingly fast avoiding my fists at every turn. I can’t make myself stop the advance on her, and with every single failed hit, my anger grows.
The phase comes against my will, my fangs ripping through my lips, my talons erupting from my fingertips.
I can’t stop.
I try to rush her, herd her into the corner, but I can’t seem to close in on her the way I want to. She’s always one step ahead, and with every failed strike, the single-minded pain in my chest chips away. But in its place, the anger grows – the fury and regret and wrath.
I know what to do now. I know how I’m going to fix this bullshit. And with my last punch, I stop mere millimeters in front of her nose, pulling back just enough so Aurelia knows I could have hit her square in the face if I wanted to.
“Feel better?” she asks, and I realize she meant for me to lose it. She wanted me to vent this noxious poison brewing in my gut.
“A bit, but more importantly, I know what to do now,” I say, my breaths coming out ragged. She nods at me and strolls over to a tucked away mini-fridge filled with water and tosses me a bottle. I chug it down in three large swallows.
Rising Ashes Page 3