Chapter 18
Something warm and heavy pressed against my back. A pleasant buzzing sensation vibrated against my spine, reverberating throughout my body like a soft, steady massage, seeking and destroying every pain, every knot of tension. A giant, spiky ball of ice lay trapped deep inside my core, and every breath I took pressed shards of cold into my lungs. I shrank away from that cold, that pain. Some instinct told me it was going to get worse. There was no escaping it, not even in sleep. Still, unconsciousness seemed better than waking. I tried to burrow further into the darkness, trying to hide under the shadows, away from the growing light.
“Her breathing changed. I think she’s waking up.”
Liam’s voice. I squeezed my eyes shut tighter, fighting consciousness even as my senses stirred. I didn’t want to wake up. I wanted to sleep, to press closer to that warm sensation behind me until the pleasant buzz drove deeper, broke apart the aching rock of frozen pain.
“Shade, wake up.”
Liam’s voice again. My brain shook off the last vestiges of sleep, rousing my body with the unwelcome realization that the warm weight pressed against me was the werewolf alpha. A tinge of awkwardness poisoned my warm, buzzy feeling, but not so much that I was willing to give it up yet. If I wasn’t awake, I couldn’t be embarrassed. I tried to go back to sleep.
“Ms. Renard, can you hear me?”
A second voice, also familiar. Vincent. Vincent Aegis, the wizard. A memory flashed through my mind, the wizard’s face contorted with determination as magic flowed down his arm in a show of rainbow light. Amusement drew me further into wakefulness. The lab rat wizard could claim he was only an analyst, but he had power.
Lots of it.
“Shade?”
This time Liam’s voice held the tone of a parent asking if you were really sick or just wanted to stay home from school—gentle and concerned with a hint of warning. I sighed and let my eyes flutter open. The light lanced my corneas, punishing me for keeping them closed for so long. I hissed and closed them again, giving myself to the count of ten before I opened them a second time.
“I’m fine,” I croaked.
My voice did not sound fine. I blinked, trying to discern whether that had been my voice or if someone had spoken for me. Someone who was a hundred years old. Someone who hadn’t had a non-alcoholic drink in decades. Perhaps who gargled broken glass and lemon juice for giggles.
“I sound awful.”
Yep, sounded just as bad the second time. Liam didn’t move, letting me stay pressed against him. “You sound good considering we thought you were dead.”
Well, that didn’t sound good. I blinked, trying to force my blurry vision to clear. I was in the back of an SUV. The light that had seemed so bright, so terribly intrusive, was only the vehicle’s dome light. Outside, the moon shone soft and silver, almost full, but not quite.
Vincent knelt in the passenger seat, squeezed into the gap between the seats so he could offer me a bottle of water. I stared at the cap, debating whether it would be worth the effort to twist the damn thing off. Vincent seemed to read my mind. He unscrewed the cap, then handed me the open bottle. I took it, gulping down the cool fluid in a less-than-ladylike fashion.
“And this?” he offered.
I didn’t take my mouth from the bottle of water as I eyed the cup in his other hand.
“A healing potion,” he explained. “You suffered a rather bad beating. I did what I could, but I daresay you’ll be sore.” Tension drew deep creases around his eyes. “Not all of your wounds are physical.”
I finished the water, ignoring the way my insides now had the uncomfortable sensation of floating in my stomach. Unsure how much room I had left, I sipped the healing potion more slowly.
“What was that thing that attacked you?” Liam asked. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“A dream shard.” I froze, my heart leaping into my throat. The healing potion dipped in my hand, almost spilling over the back seat of the SUV as I swiveled my head from side to side. “Peasblossom?”
“Right here!”
A tiny weight rocketed into my neck from out of nowhere, little hands wrapping around it in a ferocious hug. My shoulders slumped in relief, and I laughed, patting her back with one finger of my free hand. “Oh, thank the Goddess you’re okay.”
“You scared me,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry.” I stroked a finger between her wings. “I scared myself too.”
“What’s a dream shard?” Liam asked.
“A dream shard is—” I twisted around to answer him, then stopped. My cheeks warmed. “Sergeant?”
The werewolf alpha lay beside me, curled around my body to accommodate the somewhat cramped quarters of the vehicle. His brown hair was tousled, and he was shirtless. A broad expanse of tan skin called my eye down, noting the light dusting of hair over broad pectoral muscles. I had the odd, random thought that I would have expected a werewolf to be hairier.
Liam followed my gaze down to his bare chest and shrugged. “You were shaking like a paint mixer after whatever you did to that thing. When I picked you up to carry you here, you quieted.” He tilted his head, his gaze taking on a considering quality as he pushed himself into a sitting position. “It was interesting, almost like you were pack. I took a chance and treated you like I would treat an injured shifter.”
It wasn’t until he sat up that I noticed he held something in his palm. It was the small black stone he’d had in his office, the one Vincent had given him so he could determine if I were really trying to steal his energy. I gave the stone a pointed look.
Again Liam followed my gaze. “You weren’t lying,” he said. There wasn’t so much as a hint of apology in his voice. “Stone never so much as sparkled.”
“I’m surprised you were willing to give me the skin-to-skin treatment, considering what you thought I might do.” As soon as I said “skin-to-skin,” I realized there was a definite draft against my spine. I patted the back of my shirt, or rather, what remained of it. My fingers met skin and shreds of cotton.
“You were almost dead, and on my territory,” Liam said evenly. “I would have let you have some of my energy if it meant keeping you alive.”
His voice still held that considering tone, as if he were still thinking about my reaction to his touch. “I had the same reaction to Stephen,” I blurted out.
Both Vincent and Liam raised their eyebrows at that. The blush I’d been lucky enough to avoid roared into my cheeks in a rush of heat, and I scowled. I drew my magic, ignoring the prickles of discomfort that spiraled out from that damn cold still huddled inside me, and a spell sizzled over my clothing, knitting it together. Another wave took care of the dirt and grime.
Didn’t help the blush, though.
“A dream shard is a piece of a nightmare,” Vincent said, picking up my explanation and blessedly taking the attention off me. “When an individual has a vivid nightmare, it takes on enough substance that an enterprising magic user with the requisite knowledge can tear off a piece and animate it. The resulting creature, a dream shard, can then be ordered about—depending on the power of whomever created it.”
“That would be Arianne Monet,” I said.
Vincent winced. “If that is the case, may I suggest you try to make amends before she gets it in her head to try again? The chances you could absorb a second dream shard are quite—”
“What?” I blinked, not quite processing that last part. “What do you mean, absorb a dream shard?”
“Well, that’s what you did. Together we weakened it, but the creature…” His eyes went distant as he looked into the past. “It was impressive. Even weakened as it was, it went after you.” The respect in his gaze chased away some of the cold inside me. “I have never had the pleasure of witnessing a person overcome a dream shard in that manner. To have faced your fear, beaten it, even when it had the added power of someone else’s magic… There are few who have the courage.”
I looked away, suddenly
uncomfortable with the praise. “It wasn’t courage. It was anger.”
“Anger at me?” Liam asked. He rooted around under the blanket we were lying on and fished out his white T-shirt.
I met his gaze, trying very hard not to stare as he pulled his shirt on over his bare chest. “No. No, not at you. At Mother Hazel.” I gritted my teeth and took a deep breath to force myself to calm. “I figured out why she offered me that deal. Why she set the terms she did.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” I rubbed a hand over my face. “It was Emma. Emma killed Oliver Dale.”
Liam tensed, then let out a slow breath. “It was the dog, wasn’t it? She found Oliver hurting the dog.”
“Hanging her, yes.”
“Bastard.”
“That’s how he got the red welts on his hands. He caught Gypsy and got her leash over a low-hanging branch.”
“Why?” Vincent asked, looking a little green. “Why hang her? I don’t understand the urge to hurt a dog period, but hanging… That was a lot of effort to go through.”
“Humans can be monsters too,” I said quietly. “Stephen was right. Oliver was a very angry man. Life didn’t treat him the way he thought it should, and someone was going to have to pay for that.”
Vincent tapped the healing potion, a silent reminder for me to finish it. I gulped the rest down in one swallow.
“And that made you angry?” he asked.
“No. I’m angry because this was all a test.” I tightened my fist around the vial. “I’ve wanted to be a private investigator for so long. Mother Hazel never approved, never understood. I finally did it, started my practice, made contacts. And as soon as it seemed like I was about to make it, she poisoned it. Made sure I’d get a case that would hurt no matter what happened. Either I’d fail to solve it and prove I couldn’t hack it as an investigator…”
“Or you’d solve it and have to punish a good person for killing a bad one,” Liam finished. He grabbed his uniform shirt and slid it on, strong hands working to fasten the buttons. “Yeah, it’s one of the less pleasant aspects of the job. But it’s over now.”
I clenched my jaw so tight it hurt. “No, it’s not.”
Liam and Vincent shared a look. Then Liam looked at me. “Shade, if you want to stay until we find Emma, I won’t stop you. But I can handle it from here. You solved the case. For real. Mother Hazel can’t argue that.”
I let myself watch him roll up his sleeves, trying to distract myself with the pleasant sight of muscular forearms. “I don’t have to find Emma. I know where she is.”
Vincent sat up straighter and hit his head on the low ceiling. “You do? How?”
“Romance is always relevant,” I said quietly. “She’s with Stephen.”
“No, she isn’t,” Liam said. “Blake and Sonar are there, and they’ve searched the place. Sonar is the best tracker we have. Emma’s not there.”
“Yes, she is. Stephen’s the one she called after she killed a man. Stephen’s the one that ordered her to stay quiet. Stephen’s the one that convinced her to take the yearbooks so I wouldn’t figure out the connection was between Emma and Oliver. She’s there.”
“And how do you think she’s hiding from a werewolf?” Liam asked.
I leaned against the side of the vehicle and gestured for him to take the wheel. “Take me there, and I’ll show you.”
I could feel Vincent and Liam sharing looks over my head, but I didn’t care. The ice left behind when I’d absorbed the dream shard provided the perfect host to incubate my growing ire toward my mentor. I would see this through, though. I would confront Emma and Stephen. I would follow the case to the end.
And then I would speak to Mother Hazel.
The drive to Stephen’s was too long and too short. By the time we arrived, I was ready to fly out of the car, if only to escape the damned sympathy radiating off the two men. Poor little witch, wanted to be the knight in shining armor and ended up the executioner instead. No big, bad guy to chase down, tackle into the mud, and drag off to a well-deserved cell. Only a woman who couldn’t watch a dog die. And the man who loved her enough to take the blame.
Liam knocked on the door, and Blake answered. His gaze flicked from Liam to me, his head tilted in question. Beside him, Sonar looked just as curious.
“Emma is here,” Liam told him.
Blake frowned, but stepped aside so we could enter. “Sergeant, I’ve looked. There’s no sign of her.” He gestured to his canine partner. “Sonar can’t find her either.”
Liam scented the air as he came in. The living room was empty, so I assumed Stephen was being held deeper in the house. I looked at the couch where I’d been sitting what felt like an eternity ago. Stephen really was a good cop. Even when he’d thought I knew, he never said. He never used a pronoun, never spoke in a way that suggested he wasn’t talking about himself. He hadn’t spoken to anything I didn’t say outright. And I’d responded with the same hypothetical tone, trying not to sound accusatory, trying to give him space. What a dance that had been. I hadn’t even heard the music.
“I can smell her, but it’s faint,” Liam said finally. He looked at me. “No more than I’d expect, considering she’s dating Stephen.”
“And that’s what they counted on,” I said, my voice dull. I looked away from the couch, tearing my thoughts from that earlier conversation so I could draw on my magic. I poured silver over the room in a wave and watched it trickle over the floor, probing at the walls. Nothing.
I stalked into the next room, throwing out an arm to force the silver energy ahead of me. Movement to the right down the hallway told me Stephen was in the den. I ignored that room and entered a bedroom instead. The magic frothed like an ocean wave, licking up a wall beside the bed. A trace of pale white light outlined a large rectangle on the wall. A doorway.
“There,” I said, pointing.
Liam followed my gesture, leaning closer as he knocked. A hollow sound answered him, and he pressed his lips into a grim line. “Come out, Emma.”
Silence.
“I can hear you breathing, Emma,” Liam said, his ear close to the wall. “It’s okay. Come out.”
I thought I heard a sob. Then a mechanism on the other side clicked, and a section of wall swung open. Emma stood in the small panic room, her eyes swollen from crying. She was still wearing her ranger’s uniform, though it was rumpled and creased. She gripped four yearbooks to her chest, her knuckles pale, as if she’d been holding them so long that she’d forgotten about them.
“Come on,” Liam said quietly.
I forced myself to face Emma. I’d built the case against her, so I should have to look at her, knowing she’d go to jail now, or worse.
She swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you.”
“I know.” I looked away before I started crying too. “You tried to tell me.”
“He made me promise not to say anything.” She clutched the books harder to her chest. “It was all just a nightmare.”
I knew the feeling. We all slogged through the house to the den, none of us in a terrible hurry. Stephen tensed as soon as he saw Emma, rising out of his chair as though lifted by strings.
“Don’t move,” Liam told him.
Stephen gritted his teeth, but obeyed the order. Emma dropped the yearbooks, and no one stopped her when she ran to Stephen and threw herself into his arms.
“I’m sorry,” she said, sobbing. “I’m so sorry.”
Stephen wrapped his arms around her and held her as if he’d never let her go. “It’s all right,” he said. “It’s all right. Everything will be okay.”
“How?” Blake asked, staring at Emma in bewilderment. “Where was she?”
“Behind a wall to a hidden room.” I bent down and scooped up a yearbook. “I’m guessing kaava musk.”
“Kaava what?”
I looked up at Emma. “Your grandmother taught you how to hide from werewolves. Yes?”
Emma nodded without taking her face out of Steph
en’s shirt.
Every man in the room went still at the word werewolf, except for Stephen.
“You…know?” Liam asked carefully, as if there were still a chance he’d misunderstood.
“She knows. She always knew.” I flipped through the yearbook and found what I was looking for. “Nadège Watson?”
“Emma is my middle name,” she said. “I go by Emma because no one can pronounce my real name.”
I looked at the picture. No wonder I hadn’t recognized her. Different first name, and she was at least fifty pounds heavier, wearing thick makeup and clothes a size too small. Above her picture was the word “pushover.” I showed the page to Liam. Then I looked at Stephen. “You were talking about Emma. She’s the one who tried to see the good in him, who wouldn’t give up no matter what.”
He nodded, rubbing small circles on Emma’s back. “He took advantage.”
Emma pulled her head from Stephen’s chest and took a shuddering breath. Stephen tried to hold on to her, but she stepped out of his arms. “It’s my fault.” Tears fell down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Stephen.”
“It’s not your fault,” Stephen said gruffly. “It was never your fault.”
“Yes, it was.” She looked at Liam. “I’ve known Oliver since we were kids. His mom died when he was young, and my mom used to babysit him when his dad worked.” She looked from me to Liam. “Oliver’s father wasn’t a bad man. He just had trouble connecting emotionally. The only time he ever seemed comfortable showing affection toward his son was when Oliver would succeed at something. An A on a test, or a touchdown in football.” She sighed. “Even fights at school. If Oliver won, his dad heaped on the praise. It’s no wonder he got so obsessed with winning.”
“He must have gotten good at football,” I added.
“Yeah, he did. And you know what? He was happy in high school. He wasn’t…nice, but he was happy.” Emma crossed her arms over her chest. “He got a scholarship to college for football. But…”
“But being the best in a small-town high school isn’t the same as making it on a college team,” Liam guessed.
“He did fine,” Emma said softly. “But he wasn’t the best. He wasn’t the star anymore, not even in the top three. And to Oliver, if he wasn’t the best…” She closed her eyes. “He quit. And when he came home, he was so…angry. It was as if he felt the world owed him. Like he expected people to treat him the same way they treated him in high school. His dad got him that job at the insurance company. And he did really well.”
Monster Page 27
