by Alex Hayes
He looks doubtful and then concerned.
“I’m serious. Your songs hit me right here.” I tap my chest. “You’re that good.”
As the elevator carries us down, I say, “Are you going to tell Cadi?”
“That I’ve failed yet again?” He shakes his head.
“You didn’t fail. They wanted your song. You’re the one who found their conditions unacceptable. You turned them down. That’s a good thing. It sets a precedent that you control your music and your vision.” I give him a long look. “You should contact her.”
“I can’t. Not right now. Give me twenty-four hours.”
“Will you let me talk to her?”
He shrugs. “That’s your call.”
Once we’re back at the apartment, Idris disappears into his workroom. Guitar riffs slip through the closed door as I wander from the kitchen to the living room, rubbing my side to ease the residual soreness, and settle on the couch.
I call Cadi’s number, but she doesn’t answer. I text, Hey, called you. Can we talk?
Twenty minutes later, I’m contemplating a hot shower to sooth my aches when my phone dings.
Not in a good place to chat. How are things? Cadi responds.
She must be helping Mrs. Jacobsen with some chore or other.
What do I say? I want to talk to her about the turn of events firsthand, not via a long chain of texts. Maybe Idris is right about holding off. Better to go into detail once she’s free to have a proper conversation.
We’re doing okay. Will catch up when you’re free to talk.
Sounds good. Ttfn.
A feeling of sadness pulls on me, a disembodied emotion. Con.
I tip my head into the seat cushions and gaze at the ceiling, tuning deeper into the feelings that are his. Their heaviness weighs like a lead blanket, pressing into my chest and flattening my heart.
When Idris accused him of taking that picture, Con didn’t defend himself. Despite my anger, I’d picked up his feelings loud and clear. He’d felt guilt and helplessness.
Does what we do define us?
Con flies to accidents and saves people’s lives, for which he gets nothing in return. Is it fair I should judge him for what he does to put food on the table?
As I head upstairs, intent on taking that relaxing shower, Idris sticks his head out of the workroom door.
“Hey, Rowan. Take a look at this.”
He’s seated at his computer by the time I reach his side. He points to that infamous picture of him and Nicole. “Look at the photo credit.”
“B. Danvers.” I glance at Idris. “Who’s he?”
He shrugs. “Conithar goes by Connell, right?”
“Connell Kurēn.”
Idris twists in his chair to look at me “So he didn’t take this picture.”
“Then why didn’t he say he was innocent when you accused him?”
Idris taps his fingers in a tune across his desk. “He admitted he was a press photographer, and I called him a paparazzo. Maybe he figured it didn’t matter. We’d as good as judged, sentenced and executed him.”
“I’m the biggest jerk ever.” I wrap my arms around myself.
“We both are. I shouldn’t have said what I did.”
I shake my head. “But I should have known better.”
Idris sighs. “Yeah, well, he didn’t defend himself, either.”
“God, Idris. We were so harsh, and he stood there and took it. I need to straighten this out.”
“You wanna take my car?”
I stare at him. “Seriously?”
“Sure, I’m not in the mood to go anywhere. I’ll stick around here and play music. For me, that’s the best therapy.”
I pat his arm and accept the keys.
There are no spaces on the street outside Con’s apartment building, so I park around the corner near the entrance to a back alley. Hopefully the Beemer will be safe here because Idris will kill me if anything happens to his car.
Sensing Con isn’t home, I wait in the vehicle.
A half hour later, I pick up his approach, though his distance is difficult to measure. I walk to the front of the multistory apartment building. I’m pacing outside when a young man about my age, dressed a hoodie, appears.
“Hey, you waiting for someone?” the guy asks. He’s tall and thin, and his dark eyes sparkle with a friendliness that surprises me. Most people in LA seem too busy minding their own business to notice anyone else.
“Um, yeah. Con…Connell Kurēn, but he’s not home yet.”
His friendly face stretches into a grin. “Connell’s a great guy. Hey, you wanna come in and wait?”
I smile. “That would be great.”
He enters a six-digit code and the door lock buzzes. He pushes it open and gestures me inside.
I drift into a small foyer with a single elevator door.
The young guy pulls back his sweatshirt hood, revealing a shaved head and stubbly chin. “You know his apartment number?”
I shake my head, having missed the number as I ran from the place in terror.
“He’s on the third floor, just down the hall from my gran. Come on, I’ll take you up. You sure he’s not here?”
“Pretty sure.” Absolutely positively sure, actually.
“Just got my driver’s license in the mail,” he says. “I gotta show it to my gran. She’s gonna be jazzed.”
“Congratulations.” Reluctantly, I trail him up the carpeted stairs, feeling like I’m invading Con’s privacy.
“I’m Jax, by the way. Connell’s a buddy of mine. You dating him?”
I pull in a breath. “Uh, no. We’re friends.”
We reach the third floor.
“This way.” Jax leads me down the hall and points at a door. “307.”
I wonder vaguely if there are still two palm prints burned on the other side. All I know for sure is that Con isn’t in there.
“Give a knock,” Jax urges. “You never know. He might be home.”
Almost certainly not, but I humor him and knock.
He gives me a thumbs up and saunters on down the hall.
A rattle comes from the door in front of me, the sound of a chain being released from its catch.
If Con isn’t in his apartment, then who is?
The door opens.
A woman with a body like Scarlett Johansson’s and a posture to match stands in front of me. Her bobbed hair screams Don’t mess with me! but her expression is neutral, aside from the obvious question in her eyes, Who the hell are you?
“Sorry, I must have the wrong apartment.” I glance down the hall after Jax, but he’s disappeared into one of a dozen doorways.
Her head tilts, brow furrowing. “Who are you looking for?”
“Con…Connell Kurēn.”
Is it his name or the fact I’m looking for him that makes her eyes narrow and her nostrils flare?
“You better come in,” she growls, pulling the door open wider.
Like a lamb led to the proverbial slaughter, I step through the doorway into a kitchen I recognize. An island with three bar chairs, a thin granite countertop, wood cabinets.
The door closes with a definitive click, making me jump and turn. Fear leaps into my throat, and I see the burned handprints on the middle panel.
Con said there was someone in his life. Why didn’t it occur to me she lived with him? Slept with…
A cold chill slides down my neck into my chest. I contend with my sudden drop in blood pressure, the dizziness that follows and a responding adrenaline rush.
Hold it together, Rowan. You’ve got this.
With effort, I lift my chin and meet the woman’s eyes, but terror creeps over me.
“Azera.” She thrusts out her hand like it’s a weapon.
I jolt backward and try to temper my reaction. “R-Rowan.” My body turns to iron.
Her eyes cool twenty degrees at my name. Gray-blue crystallizes and a sneer curls her upper lip. “You have a hell of a nerve showing up he
re.”
I swallow, wishing a wormhole would rip through the space-time continuum and suck me away. Oddly, it does. Although, where it takes me is the last place on Earth I want to go.
Trees form a forest around me. My feet plod along a dirt path I fear to follow. Turn around and run, Rowan, but I can’t stop my forward momentum.
A figure takes shape in front of me. Muscular. Massive. Hourglass pupils that shine violet. The form advances, arms rising, hands clenched.
“He doesn’t want you.” The words echo through my head in a voice that seems strange. Nothing like the sharp click-clack dialect of an Evatenon. And yet, the massive blue alien stands before me.
Horror seals my throat, even though logic screams this is all wrong.
Don’t panic, Rowan. Deep breaths. Calm down.
Something instinctual prods me to transform, to prepare to defend myself, but I resist its urging.
Then that out-of-place voice repeats. “Did you hear me? He doesn’t want you.”
My heart curls like burnt paper, glowing along its edges and flaking to dust. He doesn’t want me. How could he when he has her?
I blink, trying to orient the image before me. The Evatenon draws closer, webbed fingers reaching out.
Run, Rowan. Run! But I’m frozen.
The image in front of me swirls and twists. Blue. Gray. Violet. Alien hands grip my biceps. “What is wrong with you?”
I break free—more easily than expected—and dive for the safety of the trees.
My toe catches a tree root, arms flail and my torso slams into something hard. I cry out in time to a loud crack. My scream splutters, leaving me breathless.
I’ve got to get out of here.
“What. The. Hell.” Those angry words circle my head like a murder of crows.
The shadowy forest scene morphs into a kitchen. My hands splay across a counter. Gasping, I zero in on the door and stumble forward.
A hand lands on its white paneling, scorching a third imprint into latex. I grab the handle and tug.
Pain courses through me, like a knife lodged between my ribs, twisting with each step. I pitch down the hallway and catch the stair railing. Stainless steel buckles under my grip.
With a gasp, I snatch my hand away and stagger downstairs, struggling for breath. My legs give out as I reach the ground floor.
Why can’t I breathe?
I should shape shift to Livran form. The transformation process can repair rudimentary wounds, like cuts, but internal injuries are another story. The process couldn’t save Mr. Scrim when he was shot, but it bought him a few more minutes of life.
My time is running out. I have to do something.
“Hey.” Footsteps pound on the stairs. “Are you okay?”
God, do I look it?
Jax squats in front of me. “What happened? Did you fall? Do you need an ambulance?”
Each inhale feels like a stab to the chest. I grope in my coat pocket and pull out car keys. “Can you help me?” I whisper.
Jax’s eyes widen. Then he grabs the keys and hooks an arm under mine, guiding me out of the front door.
The darkened street swims as Jax follows my directions to the Beemer. With surprising strength and gentleness, he helps me onto the backseat.
“You seriously want me to drive your car?” he asks. “I told you, I only just got my license.”
“I trust you,” I whisper.
His chin lifts and he nods. “Where we going? Hospital?”
“No. To the address on the GPS,” I force out.
Bent over me, he frowns deep. “I think we should go to a hospital.”
“Please. To the address.”
He chews hard on his lip, then nods. “Okay.” He darts into the front seat, starts the engine and pulls into traffic.
30
Connell
Panic slices through me as if it were my own. My crystal hums a warning, a message I understand all too clearly.
Rowan’s life is in danger.
I’m minutes from home, and the pull of her crystal guides me in that direction. I turn into the back alley and stop in a no-parking zone, heedless of the infraction.
By the time I reach the front door, Rowan’s on the move, away from here. I’m tempted to run upstairs, hoping Azera can tell me what happened, but the distance between us is growing and she’s badly hurt.
Footsteps on the staircase make me look up. Azera jogs down. She stops when she sees me.
Anger flares in my chest. “What did you do to Rowan?”
Her eyes widen. “You saw her?”
I shake my head, jaw tightening. “But she’s hurt. What happened?”
Azera’s eyes flash. “I didn’t touch her. She freaked out and tripped, slammed into the kitchen counter, then ran away.”
“I need to find her.” I yank at the door to the street.
“Connell. How the hell did you know she was hurt?”
I look over my shoulder. “Because I feel her fear, Azera, like a knife to the heart. And if she dies, I think I might, too.”
Her blazing eyes meet mine. They shine with an ultimatum I don’t want to contemplate. Certainly not now.
I take off because Rowan needs me and her life may depend on me finding her in time.
Logic would send her to a hospital, but the last time I saw her scared, her behavior was anything but logical. She reacted based on fear.
At this point, she’s no longer running away, which means she’ll run toward somewhere safe, or someone.
Idris Williams.
31
Rowan
Every bounce of the Beemer delivers a lightning bolt of pain, and each breath I take is a glass shard to the chest.
I lay across the rear seat of the vehicle praying for this ride to be over.
The sun falls below the horizon and the sky flushes pink. It’s still light, but the tinted windows provide enough cover. As long as Jax doesn’t look over his shoulder.
Teeth gritted with the effort, I drag my coat hood over my head and shape shift into Livran form.
My breathing eases with increased lung capacity, but the sharp spikes continue to assail me. Hurry up, Jax.
I sense Idris’s crystal. We’re close.
Phone. I need to warn him. I text the burner phone he’s been using.
Hey, what’s up? Idris replies.
An accident. Pain. Possible internal bleeding. I need your help.
His response comes instantly. Where are you?
“Hey, Jax?” I call between stringy breaths. “How soon to arrival?”
“About five,” he calls over his shoulder.
Five minutes. Meet me outside. Might need ultrasound.
You got it.
Jax pulls over and the door at my feet swings open.
Idris bends over me. “What happened?”
“Impact to my ribs. Heard a crack. Can’t breathe properly,” I gasp.
He moves closer and skims a hand over my damaged side. “Shifting was a good idea,” he whispers, “but keep your head down.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, tilting my face further into the shadows.
“Hey…um, what’s your name?” Idris calls to the front.
“Jax,” comes his reply.
“Nice to meet you, Jax. Could you do me a favor? Run inside 147 and find a blanket. Upstairs, there’s a closet in the hall.”
“Sure thing.” Jax hops out of the car and jogs inside.
Idris finishes his exam of my torso using his ability to manipulate sound waves. “Looks like a broken rib and internal bleeding. You have a collapsed lung. We need to get you to a hospital fast, unless Conithar can fix this.”
“I haven’t spoken to him yet,” I wheeze. “Better take me to a hospital.”
“Do you know where he is right now?” There’s a frown in Idris’s voice.
I cough and the glass shards dig deeper. A flush runs through me, and I fear I might pass out. “In the direction of his apartment. I can’t tell how far.�
�
“Got it.” Jax’s voice makes me turn further into the seat leather.
Idris covers me with the blanket, then rounds the vehicle and climbs into the backseat by my head. “Hey, Jax, mind driving us back the way we came?”
“Uh, yeah, sure.” Jax climbs in.
“Idris,” I mutter. “To the hospital.” I lift my shoulder to give him more space, but he pushes me gently down again until my cheek rests on his thigh.
“Conithar can heal you faster,” he whispers. “And I’ll bet he’s closer.”
My vision goes fuzzy before I can answer.
“Rowan?” A hand shakes my shoulder.
“I feel weird,” I say, but my mouth won’t cooperate and my words come out a mumble.
“Can you tell where Conithar is now? How close?”
The tug of his crystal is strong, but I’m too disoriented to tell which direction. “Very close. I think.” Another mumble.
Idris squeezes my arm. “You’ll be okay. I sense him now… Oh, shit.”
“Whaaat?” The word comes out slurred, and the wooziness in my head threatens to swallow me whole.
Idris swears again. “He just passed us.”
My last conscious thought is that I should transform back to human.
32
Connell
I’m closing in on the tug of Rowan’s crystal, then the sensation passes. I swivel my head just in time to see a BMW speed by with Jax behind the wheel.
Jax? Driving a Beemer? What the hell?
More specifically, he’s driving Idris Williams’ Beemer. And judging by the hum I sense off his crystal, Idris is inside the car too.
Scanning the street around me, I spy a small lot, pull in and turn around.
By the time I catch up, the BMW is parked at the back of an In-N-Out Burger in the shade of a palm tree. I pull the Taurus next to it.
Idris is out of his vehicle by the time I circle mine.
“Let me see her,” I say before he can speak, and approach the rear door.
He moves to give me space. “She has a broken rib, internal bleeding and a collapsed lung.”
“Holy crap.” I wedge into the backseat next to Rowan. “How do you even know that?” I ask over my shoulder.
