And threw the stake.
Chapter Thirteen
Progress
White light darted off the metal stake protruding from Myra’s chest.
While everyone stared, I nodded in Ryann’s direction and she fired two darts into Nate.
I jerked Nicolette away from him and thrust her at Peri. Nate slumped, blinked, looked confusedly up at me as I caught him with one arm and eased him down on the floor. I managed to flex the fingers of my left hand but couldn’t get much more out of them, so moved my right up to brush hair from his eyes.
“Never,” I said in a low voice and swallowed a lump in my throat. “No matter how many times you try to kill me.” You’re worth it. He wouldn’t remember. Probably didn’t connect it to what I’d said earlier that day. And would probably still try to kill me again.
He’d never give up on me. He searched for four months, nearly traded his life for mine over and over. He was a motherfucking honey badger about things, getting up again and again, so damn stubborn... And I had to be the same. I’d get tired. I might need a few more holidays, but I’d find a way to make it work.
I’d definitely have to keep the civilians away from him, though.
I glanced at Nic and she looked okay, rubbing idly at her throat and waving off Peri’s concerns. She gave me a nod and it looked like whatever Nate did to her, it was better than what I’d suffered.
“Send that bitch down for Toby and Jules to take back,” I said and Peri slung the tiny vampire witch over her shoulder, hefting her like a bag of small stones. My voice was rough, like something was really damaged in my poor throat. If the assassin gig went south, I could probably get a job as a phone sex operator. Or a voiceover in an anti-smoking commercial. “Tell them to drop her off at the VBA’s doorstep.” It would take them six hours or so to get there—I’d time it just right and text Felix a note about never fucking with me and my boyfriend ever again. “And that I’ll wire them a fifty-fifty split of the payment for this job once they do it. If Toby bitches about the cut, punch him in the snout.”
Peri said nothing, just carted the body off out the door. I shifted, trying to lift up Nate with only one good arm, and both Nic and Ry rushed across the floor to help me. Without me even asking. Huh. A weird, wiggly irritation wormed up because I was vulnerable and they were seeing me vulnerable and I hated it, but they were useful so I said nothing. We got Nate settled on the bed again. I chucked the pillow with the blood and glanced over the back of his head; she’d dug her nails in but it healed.
So I’d hurt him and freaked him out, and it hadn’t benefited us at all. Le sigh.
I didn’t bother hooking the chain through another loop; he’d popped it out of the wall pretty quickly anyway. Instead I ordered Nic to bring up a pouch of blood and a straw, and he could feed himself when he woke up. The stuff from the VBA had an anti-coagulant in it—it kind of wrecked the flavour which is why I only drank fresh and organic, but he didn’t know that yet and it would save one of us from coming up and feeding him. Eventually he wouldn’t need so much; the bloodlust was bad those first few weeks as the body replenished itself, and a month from now he’d just need a dose every five to seven days.
I was thinking ahead. That had to be a good thing.
I walked out the bedroom door, past the others staring at me, and thumped down the stairs with heavy steps. Every inch of me ached. Even my hair. Now that some feeling was returning to my shot and magicked arm, so came the pain, and I almost wanted it numb again. I slumped on the couch and worked on the zippers to my boots with my right hand.
And I braced. Waited for the inevitable concern trolling from the others. Are you sure this is a good idea? How long are you going to keep us here with threats to break our limbs? And, worst of all, Are you okay?
No. I sure as fuck wasn’t okay.
The steps clattering on the stairs behind me finally ceased as the three of them took up various spots in the living area. All eyes on me. I figured it would be Nic who stepped in first—she knew me the most and the longest.
But it was Ellie. “Peter caught all that.”
Oh. Yeah. Like it couldn’t get any worse, I asked the dead demonologist and Nate’s best friend to watch. Beautiful.
“It’s...” He trailed off and I all but visibly braced.
“A nightmare? I suck and he hates me? He’s building an army of ghosts to come and harass me?”
“He says he’d love to tell you he told you so but no one did tell you, so he can’t. But what Myra said was good news.”
I blinked. Shook my head. “I’m sorry, I think I caught Nate’s crazy.”
“Okay,” Ellie settled into the chair across from me, “I’m just gonna repeat this even if it doesn’t make any sense to me. Maybe record it?” Nic got right on that and settled her phone on the coffee table between us. “It’s neuroscience.”
“I thought you studied demonology.”
“Magic is science. Demons have their own biology. There is quite a lot of crossover.”
Jeebus, even Ellie was picking up Peter’s light Brit accent and the similarities were getting eerie after the episode with Sean O’Connor. “Okay, I test well in logic but not science so keep that in mind while explaining.”
“Picture sand falling into a pile. How it lands. It’s impossible to predict, each piece that was beside one another now ending up somewhere else. That is information in the brain, seemingly unconnected things literally connected. On the edge of chaos. Nate’s brain, right now, is firmly entrenched in chaos. Memories are occurring out of order and his sense of time is now nonlinear, like someone jumbled the sand. His mind is jumping from place to place, unable to self-regulate and create order, neurons firing all at once. But some connections aren’t being made—those are the holes. He remembers something but gets stuck there. Trying to find the missing pieces—bridging the gaps—is what’s driving his insanity.”
“His obsession with covering the windows. I went over that with him—what happened that morning. He hasn’t mentioned it since.”
Ellie stared at the air to the side, head tilted like he was listening, a line of concentration between his brows. “As he makes these connections, things will improve. Probably. Peter suggests doing so as often as possible.”
Which raised the most crucial point: I didn’t know Nate. Not that well. I’d spent like a week and a half in his company. I’d dreamed of him while held underground for four months, just like he’d thought of me over that time—obsessed over finding me—and that seemed to count for something, but I didn’t know that much about his life. I knew he’d been abused as a kid, had some serious inferiority issues with regards to his family, and believed in people even when he shouldn’t. I knew him as a person—had no doubts about him—and the things that really mattered, but the details? His favourite colour? The first girl he dated? A movie he could watch over and over? The events that turned him into the person I knew? All that stuff, I hadn’t a fucking clue.
And everyone who did know was dead.
Except for Peter. “He’s babbled about a lot of stuff. I thought it was just craziness. He’s trying to remember things? Make connections?”
“Peter says yes. He might be able to help with some.”
It was a start. “He’s talked a lot about a ring.”
“Can’t help you there.”
Oh well. “And ‘him’. He’s being like him. And him may or may not be the one who...” I scanned my memory from the past couple of days. “Put shrimp in his food? I think he said—”
“His father,” Ellie said immediately. “He...Jesus, seriously?” Silence hung in the air and he shook his head at whatever confirmation Peter gave him. Ellie ran his hands back through his hair. “Nate was allergic to shellfish as a kid. Everyone knew it and his father intentionally gave shrimp to him once...”
Holy fuck, I wished I could kill the man again. “Can you talk to him, Pete? When he wakes up? See if that helps him?”
“He will,” Ellie said and yawned.
“I’ll need a nap. And more liquor. My head’s wide open and...”
He was a good sport. I’d pay him and Ry handsomely. “I will kidnap the bartender from Alchemy Red and have him mix you up fab drinks. I promise. Get some food and rest for a bit.” I slumped my head back on the couch and closed my eyes, drinking in the sound of the pair of them retreating. A glimmer of something flickered in me, a stupid, horrible thing I couldn’t quash no matter how I tried.
Hope.
I didn’t want it. I hated nothing more than false hope. I’d been operating on faith so far—a persistent, illogical belief that we could fix him. Sheer, bloody-minded stubbornness. But this was someone other than me suggesting it truly was possible.
And it was fucking terrifying.
If I let myself hope, there rose a very strong possibility of having it bite me in the ass. Hope meant dreaming. Hope meant picturing him not-crazy, and it would stab a little deeper every time I looked at him now.
Goddamn Peter.
“You should probably get cleaned up,” Nic said softly. “Want me to look at your arm?”
“Bullet went clean through. Myra blasted me with something though and it went numb. I probably should’ve cut off her head. Shit, just staking her won’t be seen as an act of mercy, right? I can’t afford that kind of reputation.”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” she reassured me.
Right. Like she had a damn clue about these sorts of things. I shook my head. “Next time I’ll decapitate. Heads on pikes never go out of style.”
The elevator door opened in the distance and Peri trudged in. “Myra’s off. I was clear on your instructions. And I got to punch Toby.”
Sweet.
Chapter Fourteen
Not the Scary-Dead-Kid-in-a-Well Kind
I sat on the couch as long as I could stand to, until I realized I might still be bleeding a bit and could be staining the fabric. I’d already sent Ryann and Ellie off to rest so I trekked upstairs to shower instead of slipping in the downstairs one. Nate still slept and didn’t stir as I crept past and into the bathroom. I’d swept up the glass, mopped up the blood, and shut off the water earlier, but not the fallen bottle of shampoo. Glossy light blue liquid smelling of coconut milk snaked along the tile and toward the drain. Shit. I’d have to add it to my grocery list. As it was, there looked to be enough to at least scrub my roots and any blood and grime lingering in my hair. Another shirt was ruined and I deposited it in the trash, glass rattling in the chrome bin. Jeans held up so I threw them over the tub, next to Nate’s discarded track pants he’d awoken in.
My shower was short and non-leisurely. The hot water didn’t help my sore, still kind of useless arm, instead beating hard, hot needles against it that felt like they were bruising. So I washed the dried blood off, ensured the bullet wounds had at least closed, washed my hair, and shut the water off. My throat ached inside and out, flesh tender and muscles stinging every time I swallowed. It was probably a good thing he broke the mirror—I didn’t need to see the reminder outline of chains on my throat.
I’m pretty sure I loved you, though.
I wondered if he chose past tense for a reason.
I wrung the water out of my hair—not an easy task with just the one hand, but I made do—and let it hang in smooth wet ropes down my back while I towel dried the rest of me. I had no clothes in the bathroom or my robe, so I wrapped up in a fresh towel and gathered the pile of laundry as I padded back into the bedroom.
He was awake. Crouched in the corner of the room, knees pulled up, chains coiled on the floor. A wounded animal, maybe, or a prisoner waiting to be beaten. Burning through the sedatives that quickly, he had to be jacked up on magic or something. Just my luck he’d throw another spell at me and that would be it for our heroine.
“Peter’s coming up to talk to you later,” I called, my voice rasping like I was a chronic smoker, but at least without fear. Last thing he needed to hear was any terror from me.
“Peter...is dead.”
Shit, I was probably confusing him more. I popped open the closet doors and continued about my business. “Yes and I know a guy who is a medium and can talk to him. He explained the shellfish incident to me. Your father was a fucking bastard and I wish I could kill him again for you.” I caught a glimpse of my throat in one of the full length mirrors at the end of the closet, all crisscrossing blue-black bruises. Ugh. And I didn’t own any turtlenecks as I liked stuff that showed cleavage. Plus it was summer.
I rifled through a drawer of my unmentionables. So many pretties, silk and lace, but I just was not in the mood to be hot and found a pair of black cotton briefs to slip on under my towel instead.
Chains dragged and thumped over the floor in the other room, nearing me as he moved, and I fought to control my heart rate. Vamps can hear really, really well—I was in the habit of blocking it out but for a newbie, he’d pick up on the sound. And it might trigger him if I sounded panicked, so I focused on my clothes. The bra I picked was lace, as I didn’t have anything plain there.
Days are dark indeed when Zara Lain doesn’t wear a matching bra and panty set.
I slipped on a tank top just as he moved into my peripheral vision in the doorway. At least I had weapons nearby, should he decide to attack me in my walk-in.
“I had a ring.”
“So you’ve told me,” I rasped and reached up for my neck, swallowing painfully. I avoided his gaze and hunted around for pants.
He moved so fucking fast, like a blink through time, and he was there, hand at my throat, my back against the shelves. My head knocked the toe of one of my boots and I held stock-still.
And then blinked. He wasn’t tightening his grip, just dragging his fingertips over my neck, looking at my throat. Frowning. Christ, he just looked so fucking sad that it tore another fresh wound in my heart.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I remember...they said they had information about you. And I went...”
“They set you up.” I kept frozen, knowing this could go either way—kept my voice deadly calm, too. “But that was six years ago. You found me, remember? You looked for me.”
“Of course.” A pause, a deeper frown; looking at me, searching. “Every day.”
“You looked for me,” I whispered before I could stop myself, before I remembered I’d already said it once, dumbfounded, and he simply gave me, “Of course,” like I’d asked the stupidest question in the world.
He shifted to meet my eyes, noses touching, breath warm and moist on my lips. Fingers brushed black waves of hair from my face. “Every day.”
Every day for four months. That was a lot of looking. I closed my eyes for a moment, tasting the memory of his lips on mine. He had good lips. Great for kissing. A shiver rolled down my spine and I looked back up at him. His head tipped down, forehead pressing against mine. Cool, heavy chain dragged up my side as he shifted, rested his hand on my shoulder.
“How about I help you find the ring?” I offered. “Peter didn’t know what it was but we can figure it out.”
He met my gaze. “You’re her, aren’t you?”
“Yes. You really think there are two people as hot as me? Please. The world would implode.”
A small smile crept over his lips.
Well, fuck, there was the key right there—I just had to be a snarky, self-absorbed bitch, and all was right in the world. Being nice was fucking with his head.
This, I could manage.
I swallowed dryly, still so close to him that all my thoughts were circling back to nudity. “Sit your ass down, lover boy, because I suspect my state of undress might make you crazier. When I have some clothes on, we’ll figure out what ring you’re looking for. Okay?”
He nodded and shifted back, chain scratching the floor. I stuffed my legs into jeans and urged him to sit down again while I threw open the bedroom door.
“Nic, bring up your tablet.”
She and Peri conversed for a moment then came upstairs with Nic’s iPad. Nate crossed his
ankles and dragged his legs up on the bed to sit cross-legged. I plugged “ring” into Google images and handed the tablet to him.
Engagement rings. One ring to rule them all. Scary kid climbing out of a black and white TV, dripping water. Nate scanned them, cycling through images, then paused. Touched one and the image opened up.
A thick gold band with engraved Celtic knots.
He was talking about his wedding ring. Motherfucker.
“Your wedding ring?” I snapped before I could stop myself, words painful in my throat even beyond the physical. “This is what you were huffing about? Threatening me with a piece of glass over?”
“Zara,” Nic started, but I cut over her.
“Mishka tried to kill you. Are you looking to pawn it now that you’re supposedly dead and totally penniless?”
But he apparently didn’t hear me—wasn’t listening. His finger trailed over the band, head tilted to the side as he regarded it. “I took it off at my father’s. He knew so I could put it back on, but I hadn’t yet. Then the house burned down.”
Holy fuck, was I ever irritated. Logically, it shouldn’t matter. I knew it shouldn’t. Neurons firing randomly, holes in his mind, chaos. This didn’t mean anything. I shouldn’t be pissy about it.
But I was totally okay with him trying to remember me and even failing, because it was about me. About restoring me in his brain. Even not knowing me, he was surrounded by me—trying to save me from burning, trying even to kill me.
And this wasn’t. This was mourning a dead woman who didn’t deserve his mourning—didn’t deserve his attention. The woman who selected him, lied to him, made him love her so she could fuck him over for power. She married him to sacrifice him, hired me to do it, and he was going all batshit crazy because he couldn’t find his fucking wedding ring?
And it was the look he gave the image that did me in. Like pieces had slid into place and he was relieved. Bittersweetly content. The connections were back there in his brain and he was following them, to happier places and memories long forgot.
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