I landed on my feet. Pain shot through my foot and rampaged up my spine. Ignoring it, I limped into the living room as Davey covered me, shotgun on his shoulder like a pro, while Sarakas charged down the hall, holding his gun and wearing only a towel.
Glass covered the carpet and a brown lump sat on my sofa. Another bomb?
“Get back,” I shouted. I lunged and grabbed it, a stupid reflex.
“A brick,” I announced, cautiously moving the edge of a curtain and peering down the street. I heard the car squealing away but couldn’t see it.
“What’s the point of living in a gated community if your neighbors hate you as much as the rest of the world?” Sarakas said. Water beaded on his naked chest, dripped from his wet hair. I pursed my lips, Zelda stared, and Davey cleared his throat. Sarakas blushed. “We aren’t done with this conversation,” he warned, then retreated.
“Are you ladies alright?” Dad said.
Zelda stood arms akimbo. “Kaidlyn, you keep a shotgun in the pantry?”
Sheepishly, Davey returned the weapon to its place.
“Bombs and bricks?” Dad’s face flushed. “Anything else should I know?”
“Don’t lecture me,” I said, adrenaline tripping. “You haven’t the right!”
“Now, now,” Zelda interrupted. “We’re all tense because of the body parts that a homicidal maniac left for Kaidlyn. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Well, I for one need some sugar to calm my nerves. Monkey bread, anyone?”
Dad’s mouth fell open, and I hastened to avoid the pending conversation. Lungs burning me, ribs digging into my chest, unable to breathe; I didn’t have the energy to argue. I holstered my weapon and examined the brick. No message, simply a random projectile of hatred. I tread back into the kitchen and grabbed my cup of coffee, downing it like a shot. An orange cat leaped through the broken window and sauntered over to Zelda. Gnarly bastard curled around her ankles and begged for scraps while my father quirked an eyebrow.
My father pulled a flask from his back pocket and poured some into my mug, then topped off his coffee. Whiskey, from the smell. We drank simultaneously while Zelda sliced into the confection.
An hour later, we stood outside near the big camo truck. With all the chaos, I'd forgotten he and I were so uncomfortable with each other we could barely breathe. Now, I could look at him and inhale without choking. Didn't mean I wanted him to stay, though.
Dad held Zelda's monkey bread in tin foil.
“I didn't want to argue about it and risk hurting her feelings.”
“You don't say,” I murmured. Great: septuagenarian romance. Then again, he had spent several years alone. “Zelda's one hell of a cook. And she wears lipstick.”
My father pretended he didn't know what I was talking about. “I figured it might bribe my way past a few checkpoints.”
I tried not to smile. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“We both know why that boy is in your house.”
“What do you think you know?”
“I remember Jacob’s face, right before…I’ll remember it forever.”
“Not everything is about that.”
“Probably, but Davey almost has Jacob's eyes.”
True. I hadn't really acknowledged it. The realization made me want to cry, and I blamed that reaction on the damn painkillers. “He is a decent kid.”
I slumped against the truck while Dad stood as straight as ever. Weak on my feet, I saved my strength for the conversation we were about to have. Real dialog was unlike us.
“Dad—”
“Do you think if we had known about Jacob—”
“Nothing would have changed. What he caught was a wicked, evil strain. It burned too hot to manage. Came too fast. He combusted. Feral strains, you know, they’re unpredictable. Nearly unstoppable. Plus, lykos didn't officially exist then, and there were no experts. Hell, I'm still trying to figure them out. Jacob didn't have a chance, and he didn't give us any time.” It was something Dad needed to hear, something no one else could have said so that he'd believe it. Other people didn't know, but I did. And the truth: “It wasn't your fault.”
“That's your professional opinion?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Does it help you sleep at night?”
“Fuck no.”
“Language,” he said.
“Right. Sorry.”
He shuffled slightly. I think he was wrestling with the idea of hugging me. The embrace would lead straight to weeping, and I refused to cry in front of the man. I killed his son, after all.
“Thanks, dad,” I said, and patted him on the arm. Compromise. He gently squeezed my elbow, and then got in the rustic vehicle. He locked the door and started the loud engine. I waved, leaned on the cane, and began limping back to the house. When I turned Dad was sheltering his eyes from the sun despite it being an overcast day. I didn't want to know if his eyes were troubled with tears.
As my father drove away, an odd weight slipped off me, something I hadn’t expected. We’d had a real conversation about heavy crap, and it put me at ease. I thought, if I die now, at least I wouldn’t leave anything undone.
I trudged back into the house where the boys stood expectantly in the kitchen.
Andreas said, “How come you didn't mention your dad was alive?”
“Yeah, how come?” Davey said. “He makes a mean sandwich and he’s clearly awesome, so why did everyone think he was dead?”
“We don't see each other much, is all,” I defended.
“Why should we trust you if you can't share stuff like this with us?” Davey’s hair was especially bouncy to match his teenage angst.
“Drop the attitude before we start arguing about where were you last night.” I sighed. “Look, I'm suffering an emotional hangover right now. My head hurts, my chest burns, and I might puke. Can we leave this off until a better time?”
“Right,” Davey said to Sarakas. “How much do you want to bet we never see this conversation again?”
I snorted, praying they’d forget this ever happened.
“I have to go to work,” Sarakas said. “I’m going to stop in tonight to check on you, and tomorrow we can catch the game. Don’t leave this house.”
“Okay.”
“I’m serious.”
“Okay, jeez.”
Chapter 16
With murderers prowling around and leaving very personal messages for me, we needed to take precautions. Especially if I wasn’t able to be home all the time. Davey would have to learn to defend himself with or without guns.
As soon as Sarakas backed his vehicle out of the drive, I unscrewed a bottle of Gorgonblood that’d I’d secreted from the hospital and tucked between the mattress. Sure, I wasn’t supposed to take it, but hell. Doc might have fixed my body up, but she couldn’t remove the circumstances of my life. My body might be able to last longer, but my life expectancy was still the same: short and bleak. Pushing my body to heal before its time while murderers left dismembered breasts on the floor with my name on them, well, it seemed worth the risk.
I’d shatter to pieces before I let something happen to Davey.
Mostly, I took the pill because I was lazy, impatient, and ultimately didn’t care. I’d been patched, fixed, quilted, modified, and healed so many times because I needed to be functional. People depended on me. I needed to be at my best if I wanted any chance of survival. I couldn’t ignore a quick fix to patch me up and get me back in the game.
Besides, it’s only this once. Then I’ll be good.
I swallowed another pill (surely two wouldn’t kill me) and shuffled my drug-dependent torso into the kitchen. Three guns on my body, only one concealed, and enough ammo to kill a tank. Davey immediately guessed something was up.
“I thought we weren’t supposed to leave the house,” he said.
I leaned my ass against the wall and rolled my eyes. “Seriously, dude, you need to stretch the rules a smidge.”
“Maybe we should play it safe for a wh
ile. I’m technically a terrorist and a public threat. I think I’ve bent enough rules already.”
“Well, maybe one more. It’s for your own good.”
He raised his eyebrows, carried my coffee for me, and watched me limp to the truck. On account of my broken foot, I kindly let him drive and directed him toward Red Sector.
I loved Red. Looked like a carnival half the time, like a ghost town the rest of the day. Beyond a labyrinth of barricades outside Red, I pointed him to Clifford’s dojo. The gym was empty in the morning, and we'd need the privacy. We parked and Davey said, “What are we doing here?”
“You're learning self-defense.”
“Perhaps we didn't make this clear, but I'm contaminated.”
“And undisciplined and untrained. Clifford can help change that.” I began the process of leaving the vehicle, juggling my weight to step down without plopping face-first.
“What if I hurt him?” he said.
I smiled. “That's not likely.”
“Why not?” Davey examined the dojo with trepidation, dragging his feet. “Have you worked out with this guy?”
“For a while, yes. He’s a good teacher and an excellent fighter. You can learn a lot from him.”
“I don't like violence.”
“This isn't about liking violence. It's survival.”
“I don’t want to endanger him. How could he teach someone like me?”
I touched Davey above the elbow, which I meant to be comforting, but it didn’t help. “Take deep breaths, and we'll go ask.”
Utilizing Davey’s arm, I meandered my broken ass into the building. The only light shone from the hall near Clifford’s office in the back, and he emerged in an instant, frowning, clutching a gas station coffee cup in his hand.
“Durant? Good morning, sunshine.” He winked, but he wasn't at ease. No one wanted a visit from a dirty cop early in the morning. When he saw I brought company, he tossed the cup over his shoulder. It sailed into the garbage pail.
“What's wrong?” he said.
“I have a new student for you. He'll need private sessions, which I’m willing to pay extra for. Clifford, this is Davey.”
I was being an ass, bringing a strange mutt without warning, outing him to Clifford, and demanding they train together. It was a nasty thing for me to do to someone so early in the morning.
Clifford held out his hand. My boy hesitated a second before accepting. As they shook hands, the men evaluated each other.
“Ever trained before?” Clifford said.
“No.”
Clifford dropped the hand and looked at me. “This is the Davey? Yours?”
“Yep,” I said.
“I see.” He crossed his arms, then turned toward me to conspire. “I think you're overestimating my abilities.”
“You’re extremely qualified.”
“This will be difficult for me.”
“How's that?”
“He's a mutt,” he whispered, as if Davey couldn't hear.
“And?”
“I've never trained a mutt before.”
“You're strong enough,” I said. “How different can it be?”
He blinked at me like I'd spoken Hungarian. “You're joking, right?”
He set his hand out, palm up, and Davey hesitated. The palm was wide and brown, thick and strong. Davey's was small, lean, and timid. He moved cautiously because we all knew Clifford was up to something. I waited, considering logistics and how quickly I could draw a weapon.
Davey finally slid his palm into Clifford's. Clifford squeezed Davey's hand so tightly both their fists instantly whitened. Davey groaned deep in his throat. He tried to pull back, but Clifford didn't let go. Davey was trapped. A blush rose to his cheeks and his forehead shone. His jaw tightened and widened. His fingernails began to outgrow his fingers. Clifford's grip tightened, straining, arm bulging. Davey dipped, nearly going to his knees. A sweat broke through his cotton shirt. His lip pulled back from his teeth.
“Clifford,” I cautioned.
A bone cracked. My hand zoomed to a weapon. Clifford's face thickened. Sweat beaded above his lip. He reacted to the sight of Davey's distress, the heat of his hand, and the snarl of teeth. They were going to shed in front of me. I'd have to kill them both, starting with Clifford.
Why did I think he could handle this? I had wagered my life and Davey’s on Clifford's self-control.
I was wrong.
My throat tightened and my spine tingled.
“Everyone back off.” I resisted the urge to clear the firearm and escalate the situation. Davey's face, blotched white and red, bulged in odd directions. Clifford released his hand. My boy retreated several paces and cradled his damaged appendages. Clifford turned away. His shoulders hopped as he regulated his breathing, but he’d otherwise recovered.
Davey huffed like a pregnant woman at Lamaze class, but he slowly reined himself in. His bones normalized and slithered down to a respectable size. His skin stopped stretching. Pain snagged his breath.
He wiggled his fingers, watched them move, and made sure his artist's hand wasn't permanently damaged. Bruising set in, but the fracture had already sealed. Mutt power. He curled his hand into a fist and gave Clifford the most volatile glare I'd ever seen come from those rainy gray eyes. The pain-fear left anger behind.
Anger, unfortunately, was also a mutt catalyst.
Clifford said, “Durant, you know tempers flare when things get out of hand. Amplified by a mutt temperament, it's a recipe for disaster. Especially with trauma victims. I don't have the control. Neither does he.”
“Start slow. Be cautious. I'll chaperon.”
“And what will you do if things go sour? Kill us both?”
“Tranquilizers. You'll take a snooze and try again next week.”
“Why do you want this?”
There were a lot of answers to that question. I chose the simplest, truest one. Sometimes honesty got you exactly where you wanted to be. “I don’t want him to die as a victim.”
Clifford sighed in defeat. Anyone could see Davey was a sweet kid with “victim” written all over him. Davey’s downward glance nearly broke my heart. He knew he was dead meat.
“Don't you know anyone better suited than me?” Clifford said.
“Every strong mutt I know is either embroiled in kennel politics or homicidally insane. I need an independent without sleazy motives. You'll do.”
He returned his amber gaze to Davey. “Are you up for this?”
Davey shrugged. “You backed down from the change super-fast.”
“It gets better with practice,” Clifford said.
“Guess I need practice.”
I smiled. I couldn't help it. My little Davey was all grow up.
“You are pretty when you smile,” Clifford said, watching me.
“I am also heavily armed.”
“Learn to take a compliment.”
“So you're going to help, right?”
“Bring him by on Thursday mornings—early, early morning—and on Sundays. Come dressed for action. And get him some gloves with a lot of elasticity.”
“Thanks, Clifford.”
“Don't get too excited. It's going to be rough, and you'll pay handsomely.”
“I figured.”
“What’s with the busted ribs and internal trauma?” he said.
“All in a day’s work.”
“Maybe you need a new job.”
“Gosh, look at the time.” Arms akimbo, I watched Davey. “Are you okay?”
Davey said, “See you Thursday.”
“Yeah,” Clifford said, understandably reluctant. He didn't want to end up splattered in an FBHS bag. If things got out of hand during a training session with Davey and they shed, both of them could easily be killed or publicly outed and consequently killed. Even if Clifford never shed again, his business would be dead, his freedom forfeit. And what if he got past my tranks and managed to kill Davey? Then we'd both be to blame for the young man's death. I sh
ould go before we all changed our minds. Nearer to the door, I stopped. Someday I would learn to let things go (but not today).
“How did you know he was L-pos?” I said.
Clifford shrugged. “It's not something I thought about, but something I knew. Like I could smell it on him, like I could see it sleeping in his bones.”
“And you knew what he was?” I asked Davey.
“Not until he touched me.”
“How did you know then?”
“Power,” Davey said. “Metaphysical heat.”
Abstract answers didn't help me.
“And his shedding was prompting you to shed,” I said to Clifford.
“Once we touched, it was nearly impossible to resist. If he was standing across the room, it might not have been an issue. But this close—” Clifford crossed his arms. “My mutt wanted to join him. It's a compulsion. Makes it easy to imagine why mutts get into kennels.”
“Has anyone approached you about joining a kennel?”
“Yes,” he said. I waited, but he said nothing.
“And you declined. Why?”
“It was Erik.” Clifford’s you're-an-idiot tone didn’t deter me.
“If a kennel appeals to you, why not join one? Erik can't be the only one trying to organize your kind.”
“My kind?” He snorted.
I shrugged. Not the most polite way to say it, but it was true. I stared at him for a moment, hearing nothing as a wave of numbness floated through my skull. He was beautiful in every sense of that trite word. And strong. His skin practically glowed with sweat, his muscles surged with stamina, and his eyes embodied the golden sunlight like a gilded gem. Flesh and bone. Someday I might have to plug silver into his skull and stop him in his tracks.
While my body turned to stone, his naturalistic flesh struck me as envious. I wanted to push him down to the floor to see how it felt. To see what he’d do afterward.
Not worth the risk.
Clifford said, “People join together for strength. I don't feel that joining Erik would make me stronger or safer. I felt that it would simply get me killed.”
“And if you came upon a strong group of mutts?”
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