Maybe she’s in one of her deep sleeps.
No. She’s dead.
No. Sleeping.
Her eyes opened less than an hour ago. She’ll open them again.
I will her yellow eyes to stare back at me. They don’t.
I drop the bag of fish treats on the floor and approach Sunshine carefully like I’m trying not to startle her. My hand hovers over her head, shaking. My entire arm trembles. I lower my hand. When I place it on her head, I think I feel warmth, but it’s her black hair absorbing the sun. Her body is cold and still.
A sob bursts from my lips. It’s like a gunshot before a race. It sets my heart off like hundreds of pounding feet trampling me into the ground. I’m sobbing so hard I feel like my chest will explode.
Something inside me breaks apart. I don’t think it will ever mend.
I cry for another hour before I’m calm enough to call Sunshine’s vet. I feel numb after I get off the phone and roll Sunshine onto my favorite fuzzy blanket. I don’t care that I’m giving it up. I’ve already lost something irreplaceable. The next hour is a haze: catching a Lyft to the vet’s office; staring stony eyed at the receptionist; handing over my baby wrapped in the fuzzy blanket to a tech; giving the front desk my credit card to make arrangements.
When it’s all done, and Sunshine is officially gone from my life, I think briefly of calling my mom but end up dialing Gunnar. There’s no answer. We’re supposed to meet up at his apartment tonight. I need him now. I need a hug, not tears over the phone with my mother.
I take a Lyft across downtown to Gunnar’s posh apartment. I keep my sunglasses on even inside the building. My grief feels too private and my eyes too puffy.
There’s no answer when I knock on Gunnar’s door, but I have that sixth sense that he’s home and that something is off.
I think deep down somewhere I know. Like with Sunshine, I know.
The moment I teleport into the immaculate living room, I hear soft music and a woman moaning from the direction of his bedroom.
Shock. Denial. Heartbreak. It’s like fucking déjà vu. Didn’t I just do this?
Jace Everett is singing “Bad Things” from down the hallway. Gunnar is playing his fuck track for someone else. That’s supposed to be our playlist.
I walk down Gunnar’s long hall with its wood polished floors to his bedroom where I find him with one of the new recruits, Maélie, bent over the edge of his bed while he thrusts into her from behind. Jace Everett encourages them in a deep sexy voice from the cylinder speaker on Gunnar’s dresser. They have their black tops on, pants around their ankles. Gunnar once told me he didn’t do relationships, not until me. He said I was the only woman he ever let stay the night. He’d kept asking me to stay, night after night, week after week. It wasn’t as though I’d been looking for a commitment either. We’d just sorta evolved along the way until my staying the night and eating breakfast with him the following morning became routine. Stupidly, I thought it meant something.
Well, this pig can eat his bacon and eggs alone for the remainder of his miserable life. I hope Maélie is worth it.
Actually, I don’t.
Maélie is the one making all the noise—all the sickening whimpers while Gunnar plows her.
My anger burns up any lingering tears. It’s temporary, but for several seconds, the rage feels glorious.
“Are you kidding me?” I scream. “What a fucking cliché!”
I don’t add that I’m a fucking fool. I had to go falling in love with a player. Way to go, Sabine. You really know how to pick a winner. Why couldn’t I crush on someone nice—like Chilton?
Gunnar’s body goes rigid. He takes a step back and pulls up his pants before turning to face me. What a joke. It’s like he thinks he can hide the goddamn evidence—the smoking gun. I hate him so much right now. Just like that. Love to hate. Life to death. Everything around me is turning to ash. Why is the fucking sun out today? It’s insulting.
“Sabine.” He says my name all dark silk. Rather than hang his head in shame, he’s staring straight at me, trying to find my eyes through my sunglasses. Behind him, Maélie, with her long glossy hair and perky breasts, yanks up her pants then sprints into his washroom, shoving the door closed behind her. Gunnar takes a step toward me. “You’re here early. You know I don’t like unannounced visits.”
“Fuck you, asshole!” I grab the speaker off the dresser, ripping out the cord, cutting off the music. I want to do bad things, too, Jace, just not the sexy kind.
If I do any magic on Gunnar or Maélie, my punishment will not be worth the price. Demotion to desk lackey or a teacher at the School of Night, preparing students to live my dream. I went through too much, worked too hard, to get to where I am. The School of Night is the ultimate spy boot camp from hell. Only the strongest survive. It’s not even about power. It’s four years of mental mind fuckery to thin the herd. I never want to go back in any capacity.
Then there’s the worst-case scenario—the agency could wipe my memories of my time with them and kick me out of their organization permanently.
I won’t give up my life for temporary gratification. There are other ways to express my anger. I throw the speaker at Gunnar. It smacks him square in the chest. His teeth clack together when he snarls. Gunnar hates having his shit messed with. He’s OCD about his stuff, not to mention a total clean freak who bills the agency for a daily maid service. He probably has to put the music on to get it up; that’s how tightly he’s programmed.
There isn’t much to throw at him since he’s such a minimalist, but there’s still a set of artsy recycled metal vases arranged on the opposite corner of his dresser. Gunnar jumps in front of me as I go for them. He grabs my shoulders. I shake him off and snarl. “Don’t touch me.”
“She means nothing to me,” he snarls back.
“Well, that makes everything all better, doesn’t it?”
I spin around and storm out. His presence is suffocating me. I can’t take any more of him or his stupid mouth. I can’t just teleport out as I long to because there might be someone in the hallway.
Once I make it outside, I thunder down the streets several blocks before pulling out my phone to arrange a Lyft. Staring at the screen, I watch my hand tremble. I can’t go home.
I didn’t think I could break any more today, but it’s like the fractured pieces of my soul are being crushed into microscopic particles. No amount of stitching will hold me together now.
The streets blur as my legs move me from one block to the next until I end up at a hair salon that takes walk-ins. That’s me, a walking mess who needs to do something drastic to make it through the rest of the afternoon.
“I want color,” I say once the young stylist with short spiky black hair seats me at her station.
“What were you thinking? Highlights? Maybe some copper and red.” The stylist pushes my brown hair over my shoulders and looks at me in the mirror.
“No,” I say. “Color. Like pink or blue.”
“Oh, something fun?” She smiles through icy blue lipstick.
“Let’s do pink.” I look from her to my reflection. “No. Purple. Let’s do purple.”
She stands in place, staring at me, probably waiting to see if I’ll change my mind. “Purple,” I say a third time.
The next time I look in the mirror, I don’t want to see me.
After my hair’s dyed and styled, I walk past a jewelry shop that does piercings, stop, and storm inside where I get my nose pierced by a chick in a short skirt and tight tee who looks like she’s sixteen. I don’t want a dainty stud; I want a freaking hoop in my nostril.
She walks over with the piercing gun. The memory speeds up as though on fast forward. It’s done. The hoop is in, and I’m poking at it as I walk into a liquor store and buy a bottle of bourbon and grab a bag of Chex Mix on my way to the counter.
I return to my apartment to change out of the blazer, blouse, and trousers. I strip inside my bedroom. Don’t bother picking up after myself as
I put on the neon green bra-and-panty set. I drink straight from the bottle of Jim Beam as I pull on a pair of jeans and pink burn-out “I Laugh in the Face of Gravity” tank top. Inside my washroom, I admire my new purple locks in the mirror. My eyes don’t look that bad anymore—the purple hair helps brighten my face. Several more gulps of bourbon, and I’m ready to go. I request a Lyft on my phone, taking my drink and snacks with me. I text Chilton. Tell him I’m on my way.
Fast forward to Chilton’s apartment.
I’m knocking, but he’s not answering. Done this before. I teleport inside to find he’s not home.
I don’t want to be alone. I need a friend.
I kick off my flats and make myself at home on his sofa, feet curled beneath me, drinking straight from the bottle of bourbon. I’ll just wait for him then. Fine. I’ve got Jim Beam for company. I’ve got Chex Mix. The bag crinkles before I’m crunching down on seasoned cereal and pretzel bits—washing it down with ol’ Jimmy B.
I snort-laugh, pull out my phone, and text Chilton:
Where r u?
I take several more swigs of bourbon waiting for a reply then add:
Dude. Need u.
There’s still no reply.
Not leaving.
I swipe through emojis for way too long, trying to decide between a frowny, smile, wink, or woozy face. I end up sending the fortune cookie emoji. It seems really random and funny in the moment. I don’t know why, though. I’m a mess. I don’t need a fortune cookie to tell me that. I’m already broken wide open.
I drink some more. My memories slow down like slurred speech.
I hear the sound of a key in the door. Finally, Chilton is home. You’d think he would have answered my text first. Whatever. He’s here now. The apartment door opens and closes with a deliberate roughness.
“I’m in the living room,” I say.
Feeling woozy, I grab a handful of Chex Mix and fill my mouth, a pretzel falling to the cushion as Blaze freaking Addington sweeps into sight, green and brown eyes radiating fury.
Oh. Fuck.
Blaze Addington. Agency Top 10 Most Wanted! My brain screams.
In the agency surveillance photos, he lounges like a lazy playboy, way looser than Gunnar, who is always wound so tight. Privately, the female agents refer to Blaze as “Top 10 Most Fuckable.” In person, he looks like the devious rogue agent we’re all after. That dark curl at the top of his head falls toward his forehead like the tip of a knife, and his thick eyebrows form slashes. Full sardonic lips mock me without saying a word.
I jump to my feet. Well, that’s the way I see it play out inside my mind. What really happens is I try to get up then topple back on my ass onto the sofa cushion.
Blaze Addington looks me over with a biting smirk. “As far as seductions go, I have to say, this is a sad attempt.” His voice rumbles. I feel it shake my bones.
I try to answer, but there’s still too much damned Chex Mix in my mouth. I crunch the last bits up as quickly as I can and swallow them down fast which leads to coughing. I take several pulls from the bottle of bourbon before setting it on the coffee table while glaring at Mr. Top 10.
“Who the hell are you?” I demand.
Blaze keeps his distance, eyes glimmering as he holds me in his stare.
“You know exactly who I am,” he drawls.
Shit. So, he suspects me. Why? I’ve never given Chilton any reason to think I’m with the agency. How did he figure it out? Why now when my brain seems to have sucked up all the Jim Beam before my stomach could get any? And if he knew, why come here and confront me?
I’m not convinced it’s in my best interest to deny his accusation. I don’t know what to do. Try to take him on while buzzed on bourbon? Blaze Addington is a powerful wizard. A freaking Top 10. He’s taken me unaware. If he’d feared capture, he would have run the other way, vanished—not walked right up to an Agent of Night.
Remembering his first remark, I screw up my face and say, “This isn’t a seduction, asshole. Tonight I needed a friend.”
“Why?” His forehead wrinkles.
“You wouldn’t understand.” I snatch up the bottle of bourbon.
Blaze spreads his arms, and a wave of energy ripples in front of him, creating a force field—expecting an attack.
I grunt with amusement and take a swig of bourbon.
The shield vanishes from in front of Blaze. “What sort of game are you playing, witch?”
“I’m not on the clock if that’s what you mean.”
“You’re always on the clock, or didn’t Gunnar teach you that?”
I scowl. “How do you know him?”
“I have my sources,” Blaze answers cryptically.
I squint at him. “What? Like a mole?” My brain’s racing, well, tripping, thanks to JB. I’ve stumbled upon the mother lode tonight. Or rather, the mother lode has stumbled into me.
Blaze folds his arms over his chest. “I thought you weren’t on the clock?”
I slouch against the sofa. It’s not too difficult feigning relaxation when my muscles are rubbery. The thought of bringing Blaze Addington in is sobering me up. I’ll be a hero. A freaking Agents of Night legend. Agent Sabine Lasalle who laughs, not only in the face of gravity but danger. Gunnar will be sorry. Maybe I’ll get a promotion. Become a handler. Become his boss. My grin lights me up from within.
“I’m on break,” I say, my tone turning from slurred to saucy.
Blaze’s jaw clenches, and his eyes gleam. “Is that why you’re here? Planning to take a break with my brother? Use him to get to me?” He storms over to the couch and sneers down at me. “Barged in, playing the drunk and vulnerable card.”
Rage sizzles up my spine. “I’m not vulnerable!” I leap up. This jackass picked the wrong day to mess with me. I send a blast of energy his way. This time, he’s not ready for it, and he slams into the wall.
Blaze jumps forward as though bouncing off a trampoline. The hard edges of his jaw smooth out. A glare would have been more comforting than the smile he shoots me. Wind whispers over my face, playing with the ends of my purple hair, as he chants. He lifts his arm, and I lift with it, smacking my back into the ceiling. Blaze drops his hand, and I only manage to save myself from flattening over the floor by an inch.
I push back up, chanting rapidly as Blaze starts toward me. His next step slows, comes down, and then freezes with the rest of his body. Calming my breath, I look at Blaze’s immobile body and smirk. Blaze returns my smile. He shouldn’t be able to smile. As long as the rest of him remains frozen in place, I’ll deal with the wicked grin. Then I hear the snap of his fingers.
My jeans and tank top disappear, leaving me standing in only the lace neon green bra and panties. I screech. When I rub my fingers together to snap my clothes back on, Blaze has already unfrozen and reached me. He crushes my fingers in his hands before I can snap. I try to knee him in the groin, but we’re too close, our bodies rubbing against one another as we struggle. His nose is right in front of me, and it’s hard not to stare. I’ve admired it for so long in the surveillance shots. A nose, I know, what a weirdo. But his is so perfect. I’ve never seen such a perfectly gorgeous nose. I think Jimmy B must be sloshing around, giving me a fresh buzz, because as Blaze is wrestling my arms behind my back, I lean forward and lick his nose.
Blaze goes utterly still. The sparks in his eyes simmer to a glow.
“What the hell?” he asks, sounding baffled and—amused?
I burst into laughter. So not the time and place. It makes me laugh harder and harder until I’m sobbing against his red, white, and black polo. His grip on my wrists loosens. For some reason, I end up spilling my guts about losing my cat and boyfriend all in one day. I leave Gunnar’s name out of it, but it feels good to unload.
Blaze snaps my clothes back in place and shocks me by sharing what really happened with the agency. The witch he released had been out cycling by a dance studio when a man pulled up in a white van and grabbed one of the young girls waiting for her
parents on the sidewalk.
The Agents of Night have made it very clear to the wizarding community that public displays of power will not be tolerated. They say it is not for us to play God. Normals have their own system of authority and justice. It is not for us to interfere.
But the witch did interfere. She cast a freezing spell on the van. Unfortunately, her rash actions caused an SUV to ram into the van from behind in the middle of the intersection. The SUV spun into oncoming traffic. Three people ended up in the hospital that day, and the would-be-abductor died. He’d still been breathing, but the witch took care of that. The little girl made it safely back to her parents.
“My sister was kidnapped when she was five,” Blaze says in a faraway voice. “We never found her. I always thought it was bullshit. The child of a witch and wizard should never go missing. But, really, no child should.” He looks at me with cloudy eyes. “If someone had been there to stop it, to save her, I would have wanted them to. I couldn’t let the agency lock the witch up for doing the right thing. Because of her, that little girl got to go home. Her family gets to see her grow up. The witch who stepped in made a sacrifice. I decided I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t do the same for her.”
I’m stunned. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know that Blaze wants me to say anything. We’re quiet a long time. We pass my bottle of bourbon back and forth. We talk about other things—everything—getting to know one another like we’re on a damn date.
“Where’s Chilton?” I ask.
“At a bar, waiting for me to text him that the coast is clear.”
“Why’d he send you?” I ask curiously.
Blaze takes another pull on the Jim Beam and shrugs. “He had his suspicions. You’re not the first female the agency has sent his way. He was hoping you were legit interested in being friends, but your texts made him paranoid—especially the fortune cookie.” Blaze chuckles.
Damn fortune cookie.
I run my tongue over my lips.
“Well, I guess it’s getting late, and I’m sure Chilton would like his apartment back.” My heart squeezes. I don’t want this night to end. I’ve found comfort from the last person I would have ever believed could deliver it. But this is only a time out. I can never see Blaze Addington again.
The Monster Ball Year 2 Page 38