Wrong Side of Dead

by Kelly Meding

  I can’t tell her the secret that Rufus confessed to me about his involvement in the death of Wyatt’s family ten years ago, and if I’m put in the same room with both of them, I won’t be able to keep my mouth shut. Maybe that’s what Rufus wants, and maybe the chance to unload his guilt is what he hoped for when he told me, because I don’t like lying to Wyatt.

  God, I don’t want to be responsible for this secret.

  “This works out, though,” I say, my way of redirecting the conversation. “I wanted to speak with Astrid anyway. Right now, the Assembly is our best chance.”

  Kismet nods, understanding without further clarification. The future of the Triads and the safety of the city are foremost in her mind, as well. “The vampires, too. They’ve helped us in the past. They don’t want to see the goblins or Halfies overrun the city any more than we do. Your contacts would be useful.”

  “Contacts?” I snort. Can’t help it. “Isleen and I didn’t exactly exchange phone numbers. She just has this odd habit of showing up.”

  Kismet arches a slim eyebrow at me.

  “Okay, fine,” I say. “You call her, I’ll kiss her ass.”

  Behind me, Phin chokes to hide laughter. “It’s very likely a vampire representative will be at your audience with Astrid,” he says.

  I pivot on my heel, hands going to my hips. “Why’s that?”

  He smiles, the enigmatic bastard. “A lot’s happened in the past three weeks, Evy.”

  A series of sarcastic barbs die on my tongue as I comprehend the hidden meaning in his words. “Like unexpected alliances?” His expression remains neutral. “I’ll take that as a yes. Awesome.” I spin to face Kismet again, whose mouth is open in an O. “Looks like we’ll get to talk to the vampires tonight, too.”

  Her expression shifts from surprise to annoyance. “Secret alliances between the Assembly and the Families? When were we going to hear about this?”

  Phin steps around me, closer to Kismet. “When the Assembly chose to disclose it. We work with your Triads, not for them. We no longer answer to you.” It’s not quite a threat, but it’s close enough.

  And I don’t know how I feel about it.

  Someone had the good sense to empty out Boot Camp’s stash of sweats and spare clothes and distribute them to the motel rooms housing the refugees. Changing into clean sweat-shorts and a T-shirt makes my shower so much sweeter, and I’m almost energized as I exit the bathroom.

  The four female trainees assigned to the room clam up the moment I step out. They’re a little intimidated by me, and I hate it. Okay, so I came back from the dead, have nearly died enough times to make any cat cash in its nine lives, and I can be pretty scary when I yell. Which I did ten minutes ago to gain access to their shower.

  “Thanks,” I say as I glide through the small room, straight to the door. Summer humidity hits like a soggy blanket the moment I step outside onto a cracked sidewalk, facing a weed-pocked parking lot and the side of a mountain. Many of the room doors are open, creating a beehive effect of people going in and out at random, passing messages or delivering supplies. Three hours here and things are running smoothly, thanks to Baylor and Kismet.

  The Green Acres Lodge office has become our modified command center, so I head around to the front. The motel is L shaped, the inside of the L facing the mountains, and the office on the short end, along with an old diner. I’m on the long end, so it’s a hefty walk. My poor stomach is tied up in unhappy knots, an awful combination of nerves and lack of food.

  I still have no idea where I stand in all this. My brain wants to help the remaining Triads in whatever way I can. My heart wants to find Wyatt, haul him into the nearest empty room, and demand to know what he’s thinking. What he’s feeling. To have him tell me everything that happened while I was missing.

  But I don’t even know if he’s still here, or if he left with his new playmates.

  A familiar Cadillac is parked in front of the office, next to a red sports car with heavily tinted windows. Looks like I’m the last one to the party, so I pick up my pace. Instead of the office, I find them assembled in the diner, chairs clustered around a few pushed-together tables. The entire place is spotless, and the retro chrome gleams under fresh lightbulbs in overhead fixtures. It reminds me a little of the diner where Phineas and I almost had lunch one day.

  All of the usual suspects are here: Kismet, Baylor, Phineas, Astrid, Marcus, and Wyatt. The three less-expected faces offer pleased smiles at my entrance. Michael Jenner, despite the heat, is wearing one of his customary suits. As representative of the Assembly, he always shows up to speak for the best interests of the fourteen were-Clans. For a lawyer, he’s not half-bad.

  I don’t know why I’m surprised to see Isleen and Eleri, but I am. Isleen has been an ally and a tentative friend since my resurrection—as much a friend as any vampire can be to a human. She stands and walks to me, extending her hand for a firm shake.

  “It pleases me that you are alive, yet again,” she says, her voice a familiar, lilting cadence that most vampires possess.

  “I’m pretty pleased about it, too,” I reply. My smile is forced. I’m too damned tired for witty banter. I just want to know what’s happening. I shake Jenner’s hand, too, then pull a chair into the circle between him and Baylor. Wyatt is directly across from me, staring intently.

  “I was just expressing the Assembly’s sincere condolences,” Jenner says, “on the loss of so many of your people today.”

  “I’d think the Assembly would be doing backflips over it,” I say, unable to censor myself.

  Astrid makes a startled noise, but Jenner just chuckles. “I admit, there are a few Elders who expressed a sense of justice over the news. However, they’re also intelligent enough to see how this can be a devastating blow to lasting peace. The Triads were far from perfect, but they were effective in their efforts to quell the larger uprisings of the darker races.”

  “Effective until now,” Astrid says.

  “We might still surprise you,” Kismet retorts.

  Astrid folds her hands in her lap, copper eyes flashing. “Your forces are at half strength, the Fey Council is ignoring you, and your protection within the Police Department has apparently committed group suicide. You’d be lucky to manage surprising a house cat.”

  Wow. All eyes are on Kismet, who’s in her seat only because Baylor’s hand is on her shoulder. Color rises high in her cheeks. Marcus nudges Astrid in the ribs, and she shifts her glare to him.

  “This bickering is unproductive,” Isleen says. She stands, drawing up to her full, lean height. Long white hair cascades down her back, a familiar and stark contrast to her black clothes. Lavender eyes take their turn sending silent messages to various people in our circle. “And if there are no objections, I will begin.”

  No one objects.

  “After the events at Parker’s Palace, Mr. Jenner approached the royal Fathers of the ruling Families with an offer from the Assembly. Although neither the Assembly nor the Fathers condoned the actions of the man named Leonard Call, we could also not ignore the implications of their organization and their ability to attract members of both our races. We also could not continue ignoring the host of internal problems that have been plaguing the Triads for months.”

  Baylor grunts—the only sound in an otherwise silent room. I glance at Wyatt, who’s giving Isleen his full attention. I have no doubt he’s heard all this before; he just doesn’t want to make eye contact with those of us who haven’t.

  No one else is asking, so I do. “What was the offer?”

  Isleen tilts her head in my direction without actually looking at me. “An alliance between our peoples.”

  This time it’s Kismet who makes a noise. “Really? Since when have the vampires and the Clans ever gotten along?”

  “Necessity creates strange bedfellows,” Jenner replies.

  I glance at Phineas, on Jenner’s right, and he’s staring straight at me.

  “This alliance was not offered lightly
,” Phin says, addressing the group. “Fourteen Elders means that many opinions were heard and many concerns still remain. However, what Call and Snow managed to do at Parker’s Palace is only one illustration of how ineffective the Triads have become. There are simply not enough of you, and your methods of control through fear no longer work.”

  It’s a conversation that Phin and I had weeks ago—words I didn’t want to hear then but am hearing now. I hate that he’s right and that the remains of the Triads are being pressed between a rock and a fucking hard place.

  “The Clans and the Families are not your enemies,” Isleen says. “But we can be your allies, and we are offering humans a partnership in this.”

  “What is this, exactly?” Kismet asks. The fact that she doesn’t say no outright gives me hope. I don’t know Astrid or Marcus, but I do know Phin and Isleen. And I trust them.

  “A multirace security force,” Astrid says, unfolding from her chair. She isn’t a tall woman, but she ripples with the power of her animal half, and it makes her presence in the room that much larger.

  Kismet stands as well. “Run by you?”

  “No,” Isleen says. “Run by a trifecta, a representative from each of our races. Final decisions go through them.”

  “Then let me guess. You and Astrid represent your people?”

  “Correct.”

  “So who represents ours?”

  “That is a choice you will have to discuss if you choose to accept our offer.”

  Kismet and Baylor exchange a look I can’t see, then both turn to face me. Asking or deferring, I have no idea, so I shrug and tilt my head. Their call. I’m not against the idea, but I won’t speak for them or the other Handlers and Hunters. It won’t be easy convincing them that this is a good idea, and it won’t go over any better coming from me. In fact, some of the Handlers might nix it outright just because I said it.

  “What specifically is this partnership about?” Baylor asks as Kismet sits back down.

  “It’s about protecting our peoples and this city from those who would destroy it,” Isleen says. She gives Astrid a look I can’t see—I’m starting to really hate the chair I chose—and Astrid sits. “As you well know, the Families and the Clans have remained mostly neutral in the actions taken by the Triads these past ten years. We do our best to present no threat, and we expect to not be threatened in return, save the most extreme of cases.”

  Cases such as Snow—a were-fox—or Kitsune, who helped organize Halfies, vampires, and other shifters in a rally against humans, and who murdered more than sixty of them at an arts benefit last month. Cases such as the occasional rogue vampire who thinks biting and infecting humans is a good idea.

  “We wish to see the half-Blood problem wiped out, as well as the goblins permanently disabled as a threat,” she continues. “Humans have their flaws, but evolution has given you this world, and I have no desire to see the dark races reclaim it.”

  “Do the Clans feel the same way?” Baylor asks.

  “The majority do, yes,” Jenner says. “This city allows the Clans something that does not exist in many other places. It gives us a chance to interact freely with humans, to be part of your world, your culture, and your technology. Because we age more rapidly than humans, it’s difficult for us to establish ourselves in urban areas. It’s why so many of us have chosen to live here, rather than hiding in tiny towns scattered across the country. Or, as some have done, choosing to live as animals.”

  He’s laying it on the table, and I respect Michael Jenner more than ever. I’ve never considered how rapid aging must interfere with a Therian’s ability to interact with humans, to create and establish relationships without revealing their inhumanity. Sure, in the two years I knew Danika, I saw the were-falcon age from a skinny preadolescent to a mature young woman. Physically, at any rate. She wasn’t even five years old when she died.

  “Neither of our peoples want to see humans crushed or removed from power in this city,” Jenner continues. “Because if the city falls to the rule of goblins, Fey, or others, they will spread beyond the valley and across this state and into others. Fear and violence will become a way of life, and that way leads to destruction.”

  “The Fey don’t want to rule; they’ve been our allies,” Kismet says.

  Wyatt laughs. It’s a low, terrible sound that skitters worms of fear down my spine. All eyes are on him, but he says nothing. Arms crossed over his chest, he gives his full attention to Isleen.

  She takes the stage again. “You assume the Fey are your friends because they came to you ten years ago and pushed you to create the Triads. You assume the Fey are on your side because they’ve fed you information and occasionally patted you on the head when you’ve done a good job. You assume too much, and you forget that the creatures helping you are not human, care nothing for humans, and are as old as the rivers dividing this city.”

  The fear in my spine settles icy cold in my gut. My mind whirls with information. Things I know about the creation of the Triads—Amalie approached Wyatt and the first trained Hunters; Amalie made contact with the officers who became the brass; Amalie set everything about the Triads in motion.

  “I don’t get it,” I say, startling myself by speaking at all. “Why would the Fey Council put so much time and effort into the Triads? Just to control us?”

  “That,” Isleen replies, “and to amuse themselves.”

  “Amuse themselves?”

  “Human literature is often incorrect in its records of the ancient races, but humans did manage to capture one aspect of the Fey. They see other races, lesser races, as playthings. They delight in interfering and creating chaos. And, although not immortal, most live an exceptionally long time.”

  “So you’re saying that Amalie’s been playing us this whole time? That everything she’s done for the Triads is the setup for some sort of ten-year practical joke?” I can’t reconcile the notion with everything I know, and a quick glance at Baylor and Kismet suggests the same on their end.

  “Ten years is half my lifetime,” Jenner says, “and an eighth of the average human’s. But it’s merely a moment to a sprite or a faerie.”

  “Or an elf,” Wyatt says. Speaking for the first time, and his words make my stomach twist. He hasn’t changed his posture or taken the floor. His expression is flat, but his eyes blaze with anger even from a distance.

  I catch his gaze and hold it. “What are you saying?” I ask.

  “That I’ve been a fool. A fool and a puppet, and I’ve been those things for a long, long time.”

  Chapter Seven

  Wyatt holds me captive with his eyes and his voice, and it’s as though we’re having this conversation alone. “The system that we put in place has been rotting at its core for years, Evy. Call and Snow were just symptoms of a larger problem—one that I couldn’t see until recently. It took losing everything I’d once lived for to see just how broken things are.”

  “The Triads?”

  “Mostly. Whatever purpose Amalie ultimately had in mind for us, she chose well when she picked the first Hunters. I was so blinded by grief and rage against the bounty hunters who killed my family that I’d have listened to anyone who pointed me in a direction and said to kill. Most of us had the same grudge against a Halfie or a goblin. We did everything she told us to do.”

  An image of Rufus flashes in my mind and with it the secret I’m keeping for him. He didn’t ask me to keep it, sure, but how can I tell Wyatt that one of his oldest, dearest friends helped slaughter his family ten years ago and put him on this path?

  “We never questioned an order from the Fey Council or the brass, not once in ten years,” Wyatt continues. “Even the orders that didn’t make sense, that we found difficult to live with.”

  I know him. I can see in his eyes and the slight downturn of his mouth that he’s thinking about Rain, the Kitsune he shot in cold blood for the simple crime of loving a human.

  “Thinking back on some of them, they made sense as political move
s. They drove a big damned wedge between humans and potential ally races.”

  “Sunset Terrace,” I say, choking on the words.

  Next to Wyatt, Phineas nods and doesn’t bother hiding a flash of grief. Several days before I died the first time, I’d hidden in the Sunset Terrace Apartments with my friend Danika, in order to escape the Hunters who wanted me dead. She helped me escape before the Triads descended and, upon orders from the brass, burned the complex to the ground with all inhabitants trapped within its walls. More than three hundred members of the Coni and Stri Clans—all birds of prey of one variety or another—died that night. The order never made sense, even as a scare tactic to keep the Clans in line, and it was directly responsible for the retaliatory attack on humans at Parker’s Palace.

  The brass had to know there’d be a response of some sort, Assembly sanctioned or not, and Parker’s Palace was it.

  “You don’t think the Fey Council simply condoned the attack on Sunset Terrace,” I say. “You think they ordered it through the brass?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I gave them a convenient excuse?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why—oh fuck.” It comes crashing down like a tidal wave, and everything seems fuzzy and far away for a moment. Weeks ago I accused the brass of purposely murdering the Coni and Stri because they were one of the oldest, most powerful of the Clans. The Coni are bi-shifters, able to maintain human form while still bearing wings strong enough to allow them to fly—like angels, creatures of legend. I tried to expose the brass, to make them accountable for Sunset Terrace, so the Assembly wouldn’t demand Rufus’s life in return. After circumstances secured a stay of execution on Rufus, I’d let the whole thing go.

  Goddammit!

  “Stone was right,” Kismet says. She sounds like she’d rather chew glass than admit it. Kismet knew what I was after back then, and she nearly killed me for it.

  “She was,” Phineas says. “But had she known then, she still couldn’t have gotten to them. They never would have allowed it.”