Three Days to Dead dc-1

by Kelly Mendig

  “That’s where I was that night, Evy. He asked me to come see him. Said he had important information for me. When Tovin summons, you go.”

  That night. The night I killed Jesse. The one night, out of all other nights, I truly needed Wyatt’s wisdom, and he’d spent it conferring with an elf. I had wondered, needed to know, and now I did. My fists ball, nails digging into palms.

  “Happy ending?” I snarl. “He saw a happy ending, but he didn’t see how much I needed you by my side? Maybe everything wouldn’t be so fucked up right now if you’d been there.”

  He flinches, but stays fast. “This is the path, Evy.”

  “Don’t give me that destiny bullshit. You know I don’t buy it.”

  “And you know I do, so one of us is going to look pretty stupid when this is over.”

  “I think one of us already does, because if this is what destiny had in mind, you can tell her to eat me. People like us don’t get happy endings.”

  Anger flickers across his face. “They do, if they work hard enough. We can fix this. You don’t have to spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder.”

  “The Department won’t hear me out, and you know it.”

  Getting the hell out of Dodge seems like the only viable solution. There is nothing to be fixed, only endured. It won’t be long before the brass starts itching for results and reports me to the regular police. Once that happens, when both the public and private faces of law enforcement are after me, it’s over. I’ll have nowhere left to turn.

  The one thing I still don’t understand is the timing. How in hell did the brass have a Neutralize order on me within minutes of my leaving the scene of my supposed crime? Not hours, minutes.

  “Who reported it?” I ask.

  “Reported what?”

  “Who reported what happened at Corcoran? Who told the brass it was murder and set me up?”

  “I don’t know, Evy. Communication with the brass is one-way, remember?”

  Right. Three unknown and unnamed officers in the high ranks of the Metro Police Department, who sit on their fucking Mount Olympus with representatives from the Fey Council breathing down their necks as they pull our strings. With a snap of their collective fingers, and on someone else’s word, they ordered nine other Triads to turn on one of their own. Because the brass knew they would. Handlers are well trained to follow orders. To respond to imperatives from the brass like Pavlov’s dogs to that damned bell.

  Thank God Wyatt is finally deaf to its tune.

  “One-way, right,” I say. “So I guess that makes pleading my case an example of words falling on deaf ears?”

  “They might listen if you bring them something they can use. Something valuable.”

  “Like what? The head of a gorgon?”

  “I was thinking something a little less mythical, and a bit more tangible. Information.”

  He is ignoring every single sarcastic retort, stuck on some imaginary idea of forgiveness and a fairy tale ending. I’m doomed, and he knows it. Still, a small part of me wants to believe him. To believe that there is a chance I can come out of this with my skin intact.

  “What sort of information?”

  “Tovin told me something else, the reason he summoned me, but we shouldn’t talk about it here,” Wyatt says. “You never know who’s listening. I have a hotel room not far from here. It’s under a protective barrier, so no one will find us. We’ll talk about it there.”

  It can still be a trap. At least here, in this dirty boxcar, we are on familiar territory. I’ve hunted and killed here. I know all of the hiding places. But I trust Wyatt, because nothing he’s said sounds like a lie. He’s smart and skillful, but he’s never been good at lying to me.

  “Fine, let’s go,” I say.

  * * *

  We don’t speak during the ten-minute walk to the West Inn, a two-story motel with bad parking lot lights and dirty windows. It’s quiet, private; the sort of place we need. It’s nestled just on the edge of Mercy’s Lot, surrounded by strip malls and consignment shops.

  We reach the motel in the middle of the night. Foot traffic is nonexistent, but I still pause before crossing the street. No cars, no signs of life, just gentle quiet, practically unheard of in a city our size. Wyatt crosses first, palming his room key. He has a room on the very end, closest to the street and farthest from the office. I eye all possible exit points and escape routes—one front window, a path across the parking lot or to the sidewalk, no direct access to the second level or roof—before following.

  I expect attack at any moment and am relieved to reach the door safely. My skin tingles as I cross the threshold and pass through the protection barrier. He closes the door, turns the lock.

  The room is small, barely large enough to accommodate a pair of full beds. A plastic table and chairs are pushed to the front corner, nearest the single window. Hideous striped drapes are drawn shut, blocking out roving eyes and neon streetlights. Rumpled clothes lay in a pile by the bathroom door. Toiletries cover the vanity area.

  “You’ve been here awhile,” I say.

  “A few days. Even before I talked to Tovin, I was worried. Worried that something was going down. I wasn’t sure who to trust. I didn’t want to be anywhere I could be found.”

  Not even by me. I spy an electric water kettle on the room’s cheap bureau, and next to it a box of instant cocoa packets. A smile steals across my lips before I can stop it. I want to be angry with him, but all I am now is tired. And smelly. Coated in sweat and ash and blood.

  As if reading my mind, he says, “There are fresh towels in the bathroom, Evy. Go clean up and then we’ll talk.”

  I want to argue, to get the inevitable taunts and blame-tossing out of the way first. Instead, I brush past him, eyes on the bathroom door. I can do a better job of ripping him a new asshole when I don’t feel quite so much like death on a cracker.

  * * *

  An hour later, I sprawl on one of the beds in a borrowed T-shirt, and feel more or less human again. More or less, because I never have felt completely human.

  Hunters are recruited for many reasons. Most often, it’s because we’re smart, strong, and we like violence. It’s also a better alternative to jail. The recruiters see potential for strength, cunning, and obedience. We are generally orphans, usually unwanted, and always unmissed, taught to think only about the next kill. To follow one leader and trust in groups of three—our Triad.

  They had hit the mother lode with me: orphaned at the age of ten, and in foster care until my arrest at the tender age of fourteen. I celebrated my eighteenth birthday with a breaking-and-entering bust that brought me to the attention of the Metro Police. I led them on a merry chase through Mercy’s Lot while resisting arrest, and accepted a one-way ticket to Boot Camp in lieu of jail time. Anything was better than jail.

  At least, I used to think so.

  Jesse and Ash had lost their senior teammate a week before I was assigned to Wyatt. They took to me faster than he did. He said at least once a week that I didn’t have what it took to be a Hunter. Times have changed.

  Wyatt hands me a steaming porcelain mug. I inhale the rich scent of the cocoa, soothed by the gentle aroma of chocolate. The hot mug burns my fingertips, but it is a welcome pain. I sip. It scorches down my throat and warms my belly.

  He sits on the edge of the bed, intent on me. “Tell me about it, Evy.”

  “About what?” I ask, playing obtuse. Buying time to summon the words. He is silent, not playing along this time. I clutch the mug in both hands. My skin heats.

  So I do. When I get to the part about Jesse’s death, Wyatt slides up the bed until he can touch my arm. I don’t draw away. I find a tiny measure of comfort in his touch, his warmth. He brushes my tears away with his hand. He offers what I needed two nights ago—unconditional love. Acceptance of tragedy and the promise of hope. I put the mug down on the room’s single nightstand and surge into his arms, burying my face in his shoulder. He holds me, hands stroking my back, hi
s voice soft and murmuring empty words.

  “They didn’t tell me,” he says. “The brass said nothing about Jesse being turned, just shot in the back.”

  “What about the Halfies?” I ask, lifting my head. “Their bodies wouldn’t have had time to decompose.”

  Wyatt shakes his head. “None were found, just Jesse and Ash. Someone set you up, Evy. Someone who wanted all three of you dead.”

  I rest my head on his chest, drawing strength from him. His arms tighten around my waist. His heart, thudding so close to my ear, speeds up. He shifts. I remember his words from an hour ago: a happy ending for us. What sort of happy ending had Tovin seen? I love Wyatt, as much as any person possibly can, but not in a romantic way. I never had those feelings for him, and I don’t have them now.

  I close my eyes, but all I see is the fight that killed my partners. My friends. I see how fiercely they pile onto Jesse during those first moments. I see Ash, black hair a blur as she becomes the warrior I have always longed to be. The fight is so well coordinated, unexpectedly so for Halfies. They move in packs and fight dirty. This is more planned, more focused—just not on me.

  My eyes snap open. I must be remembering it wrong. But as I replay the battle from first blow to last, I keep reaching the same conclusion. After my initial taunt, none of them made a move on me. And the remaining Halfies scattered when Ash fell, and I was the last human standing.

  Fucking impossible.

  No, I am just tired and way beyond stressed. That line of thinking screams “inside job,” and I’m just not going there. Not until I can think straight again. “I don’t understand, Wyatt,” I whisper. “Do the Triads—?”

  “Right now, I don’t trust the Triads. Or the Council, for that matter. There’s no way to know if one of them is in on this yet. But we could get them to listen to you.”

  “You mentioned that before. About information?”

  He releases me, and I miss his embrace. I feel cold without it. He paces to the other side of the room, hands balling into fists. I can almost see imaginary wheels turning in his head. “Tovin has been hearing rumors for a few days now, mostly through informants and the gossip train, about a possible alliance developing between the goblin Queens and one of the Blood Families. And now I’ve started hearing them, too.”

  My heart hammers. A chill worms down my spine, stirring up the sudden urge to vomit. “That’s not possible. Goblins and Bloods hate each other.”

  “Normally, they do, but they hate humans and the Fey even more. An alliance like that would be a disaster to us and the Fey Council, and to everything we’ve managed to build over the last decade. It would force the other races to take sides, and not all of them would side with us.”

  “How reliable is your intel?”

  “No one jokes about something like that, Evy. If they’re hearing it, it’s happening. The question now becomes when, and why? If we can get a bead on those things, find something to give the Council that can prepare them for the possibility of a species war, it could go a long way toward getting the brass to listen to your side of the story. Right now, we’re under orders to shoot you on sight.”

  I shudder. “Guess I’m lucky you found me first.”

  “I’ll protect you, Evy.” He returns to the bed, sits down in front of me. “I promised I would, and I will. We’ll figure this all out together.”

  His hands cup my cheeks and force me to look into eyes that seem to see right through me, right into my heart and soul. So protective and loving. I crave those things. If only they can be enough to make me believe in his promised happy ending.

  His breath is sweet, like chocolate, and warm on my face. I feel every callus on his fingertips, every rough patch of skin on his palms. His thumb gently strokes across my cheek—a featherlight touch. The world is more vivid, if only for a moment.

  Wyatt’s mouth captures mine, and the world goes away. I have nothing to lose, and he has everything to gain. He wants this. I don’t know if I do or not, but I submit. Instinct takes over. I reach for him.

  Hands caress flesh. Clothing falls away, replaced by touches and kisses. I taste his sweat; he tastes mine. Our bodies are one—stroking, taking, needing. Time is nothing. The world means nothing. We take pleasure in each other, finding elusive comfort in this sudden intimacy.

  It is over too soon. He holds me close, my back to his chest, still breathing hard against my neck. My body trembles, as much from the pleasure he has given me as from the fear of facing tomorrow. Everything has changed. There is no going back.

  “I love you, Evy,” Wyatt whispers.

  I do not reply.

  Chapter 9

  56:06

  Certain my death would come soon and on swift feet, I had felt no shame in allowing the seduction. Not that night. The shame consumed me a week later as I sat on the bottom stair of a dank library service stairwell. My body had lied to Wyatt, faking love when all it craved was sensation. Touch. One last hurrah before I died.

  A perfect moment for both of us, if he’d let me stay dead.

  “I’m sorry, Wyatt.” My voice echoed, harsh and piercing. I longed to pull out of his arms, put as much distance between us as possible, but found myself immobilized. Not by his embrace, but by my own emotions. I had felt alive during those intimate moments. Alive and wanted and necessary, able to face anything the Dregs threw at me. In that dank library stairwell, I wallowed in shame.

  “Sorry for what?” Wyatt asked.

  “I shouldn’t have slept with you.”

  A ripple went through his body, and I felt it keenly. Not quite a shiver, but close. I wanted to take back those hurtful words, erase them from his memory. I saved him the trouble of pushing me away and stood up, untangling his arms from my waist. Two steps took me to the stairwell door. I pulled the knob. His hand slammed against the door and pushed it closed again. I yelped.

  “Don’t run from me, Evy,” he said.

  He grabbed my wrist. Instinct kicked in. I twisted my hand around, stepped to the left, and reversed the grip. Drew his arm up and behind his back, effectively pinning him face-first to the door. My free hand squeezed his shoulder. I’d snapped necks from this position, killed dozens of Halfies with a single, pointed blow through the heart. I didn’t want to hurt Wyatt. Far from it. I just needed room to think.

  “Don’t do that,” I hissed into his ear. “Ever.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I let go and moved to the other side of the tiny space. He stood still for a moment, then slowly turned around. His jaw was clenched, his mouth drawn into a straight line. The sight of him, so grim and desperate, deflated my anger.

  “This was Tovin’s idea of a happy ending?” I asked. “Me dying, you putting yourself on the line to bring me back, and for what? To stop a war in a world that doesn’t want us here? That wouldn’t give a rat’s ass if we both keeled over and died? Is that what we’re fighting for?”

  Wyatt shook his head. “No, I’m not fighting for this world. I’m fighting for you, because against my better judgment, Evangeline, I fell in love with you. With your sparkle and energy and wit. With the way you used to cut your own hair, even though it was never straight or even. With the look on your face when you drank hot chocolate. For everything you put into doing your job and never got back from it.”

  His words cut like glass, right through a tough exterior I’d spent years erecting. I wanted to melt into the floor. Hide from his emotional soul-baring. Put the genie back in the bottle and pretend it had never come out.

  But he wasn’t letting that happen. “I love you,” he said. “I didn’t know if you loved me, and now I don’t think you did. But that’s okay, because I never asked you to. Everything I did was my choice, and mine alone.” He started to add more, then stopped, searching for the right words.

  “I’m not who I was before, Wyatt.” I was of two minds about his confession. The old part of me wanted to derail his love fest right then and there. The new me—the part of Chalice Frost that
remained alive and attracted to Wyatt, the part that felt the invisible power tethering Wyatt to the magic of the Fey—rebelled. So many things warred against the me who wanted to let myself care again.

  “You may look different, but you’re still you,” he said. “I wasn’t in love with your blond hair and blue eyes, Evy. It’s what’s inside that makes you who you are.”

  “It isn’t enough if you’re not attracted to someone, too.”

  His eyes narrowed. They roved up and down my borrowed body. I shrank under his scrutiny, unused to such a blatant perusal. “You’re right,” he said after a few seconds of silence. “I suppose I was a fool for thinking otherwise.”

  Was that an insult? He quirked one eyebrow, telegraphing disappointment, disinterest. I bristled, fists balling by my sides. I covered the distance between us in two measured steps, intent on smacking him across the face.

  He reached up, wrapped both hands around my neck, and kissed me so hard our teeth clashed. I responded, mouth and body surging against his. Hands tangled in my hair, roamed down my neck, across my shoulders. Our tongues danced, teasing and tasting.

  I wanted to stop; I also wanted him. Unlike our first time, when I invited him into my body for his own pleasure, I now wanted him for mine—if it was really mine at all. My skin burned where he touched. I craved his scent, his taste, in a way I couldn’t explain. Could barely control.

  I broke the dizzying kiss and stepped back. I couldn’t help noticing the slight bulge in his pants, or the curious glimmer in his eyes. I didn’t know what was me, what was memory, and what was Chalice. Too many people’s emotions in one head. And now wasn’t the time.

  “I do love you, Wyatt,” I said. “I always have, but not romantically. I’m sorry if I made you think otherwise.”

  “And now?”

  “Now?” How much of love was physical attraction? I didn’t know, but my lips still burned from his kisses. My heart beat faster at the sight of him, red-cheeked and out of breath. I remembered how it felt to have him inside of me and something new—and entirely Chalice—wanted him there again. “Now? The things I crave aren’t appropriate for a public library.”