Three Days to Dead

by Kelly Meding

  How can he do that after proclaiming he loves me?

  I consider sneaking out, setting off on my mission without a good-bye. It is useless. He is no Hunter, but he will know when I get out of bed. There is no sneaking away from him. But I cannot continue to laze about. I still have to clear my name and find justice for my murdered teammates.

  My fingers slip around Wyatt’s. I draw his hand up to my mouth and kiss his knuckles. He stirs. His breathing quickens. He is awake.

  “I have to go,” I say without looking at him.

  “I know.” He kisses my bare shoulder. “Can I ask where you’re going?”

  “Uptown around Fourth Street. I know someone there who might be able to help with information.”

  “Who?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  I stand up, feeling no shame in my nudity as I search for my clothes. Wyatt sits, the blanket tight around his waist, and I am glad. I fear he will try to stop me or, worse, insist on going with me to see Max. He surprises me by doing neither. He simply watches while I dress and finger-comb my short hair back into order.

  “You’re sure this person can help?” he asks.

  “Pretty sure.”

  I go to the sink and splash cool water on my face. The terry towel is rough as I pat my skin dry. I turn. Wyatt stands in front of me with a sheet bunched around his hips. Uncertainty etches lines around his eyes and brackets his mouth. I want to reassure him, to force that uncertainty away, but I don’t. Wyatt believes in me. It is the only reason he isn’t begging me to stay.

  “The protection barrier on the motel will last two more days,” Wyatt says. “Come back here when you’ve talked to your friend.”

  “I will.” I check the digital clock on the nightstand. The sun won’t rise for a few hours, so I’ll probably have to wait for Max to return. “I should be back before noon.”

  “If you find out something—”

  “I’ll call.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Do you really think you have to say that?”

  “Yes.”

  I throw my arms around his shoulders and hug him before I can stop myself. His arms snake around my waist. The sheet whispers to the floor. I press my face into his shoulder, inhaling the scent of him—musk and cinnamon. Burning it into my memory. I know I may never see him again. I want to take this with me.

  “I’ll be careful,” I say. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

  He chuckles. I pull away before anything else is done or said. I have to get moving before sunrise. At the door, I pause and look back. He still stands with his back to me, but is watching me in the mirror. I wink. He smiles.

  And then I go.

  * * *

  The library is closed, but I make easy work of scaling the back wall. A metal gutter pipe provides adequate handholds. I climb quickly on pure adrenaline, positive of assault at any moment. The rear alley is quiet, but that means little. Things always seem to go dead silent right before a sneak attack.

  I swing over the edge of the wall. In the dim light, I find the cement path and avoid making noise on the gravel bed. The entrance to Max’s lair is around the next corner. The sky is still black, but the barest hints of blue peek out over the eastern horizon.

  Silent steps carry me down the path. I pause every few yards to listen and sniff the air. At the corner, I stop, alarmed by the faint sound of voices. Low and hushed; nearby. Too close to be coming from the street. I close in on the entrance to Max’s home. Each step brings those muffled voices closer.

  Max. I know his voice, so unique because he is a gargoyle. Not as unnatural as Smedge’s, but just as stony. The second voice is female. The cadence surprises me, as does the familiar lilt to her words. She’s a Blood.

  I creep closer to the entrance and listen.

  “… a disaster for our two peoples,” the Blood says. “You know I speak the truth; you cannot deny the implications.”

  “I deny nothing,” Max replies. “But I also admit to nothing, Istral. If what you say is true, it is your problem, not mine.”

  “But it will become everyone’s problem. Do you wish to be ruled by the goblin Queens?”

  “No more than I wish to be ruled by humans, but that is how things are. If the balance of power changes, the gargoyles will adapt, as we have done for centuries.”

  “Your statement reeks of cowardice, dear cousin.”

  “Merely discretion. There is a reason my kind no longer adorns the spires of human cathedrals. We know when to not interfere in the affairs of others.”

  The conversation confuses me. This Istral is a vampire; her use of “cousin” confirms it. Why isn’t she talking him into the Alliance, rather than against it? Unless even the Bloods are divided on the matter. I can use this.

  “You are foolish to allow the actions of others to determine your fate,” Istral says.

  “Gargoyles have survived in Man’s world for centuries longer than vampires, Istral. Don’t discount our methods so quickly. You could learn from our experience.”

  “I would sooner stand in the sun without protection.”

  He’s getting her riled up. Good old Max. Related or not, gargoyles and vampires don’t get along under the best of circumstances. They have different temperaments and opposing viewpoints on the place of Dregs in Man’s world.

  “What is it?” There is alarm in Max’s voice.

  “Human female,” Istral says with open distaste. Shit. “She has recently mated with one of her kind.”

  Okay, that’s just gross. I should have showered, true, but “mated”? Who says that? I start backing up, uncertain of Istral’s reaction if she catches me here. At the corner, something stings my ankle. I spot the dart. My leg is already numb. I fall on my left side, probably scraping skin on rock, but cannot feel it. Everything is numb. I can’t blink, I can’t speak. I can’t do anything but stare.

  No, no, no. Stupid. So stupid to die like this.

  Shadows whisper across the gravel, filled with grunts and growls and angry mutterings. A sniveling figure looms above me, its grotesque face curled into a snarl. Sharp teeth flash, shiny with saliva. Its breath is thick and putrid. I can’t turn away. I am helpless against the goblins surrounding me.

  They grab my arms and drag. Arguing voices become clearer, louder. We pass through the brick wall, into Max’s dim lair. They toss me to the stone floor. My head lolls to one side, and I see Max and Istral standing in the corner. She is as elegant as her voice implies, dressed in stealthy black befitting a well-paid corporate spy. Her white-blond hair is perfectly coiffed, her makeup flawless. She reeks of royalty.

  “You should be more careful, gargoyle,” a strange female says. “We weren’t the only ones spying on you tonight.” Her words are clipped, harsh, like someone trying desperately to hide a flaw. But it can’t be. Goblin Queens don’t do their own fieldwork.

  “What do you want, Kelsa?” Max asks. “Your kind does not have permission to travel uptown and you know it.”

  My body jerks. Did someone just kick me?

  “The Triads are a little busy tonight,” Kelsa says. “They aren’t looking for me, and they certainly aren’t looking here. Though something tells me I’ve just found a little piece of leverage.”

  “She is a rogue,” Istral says, pointing to me. “The Triads do not bargain. She is of no value.”

  “I will decide that, vampire. For what purpose do you haunt the lair of a gargoyle?”

  “I do not answer to you.”

  Cloth shifts. A gun is cocked. Istral tenses. From her position, I assume Kelsa is directly behind me.

  “You will answer to me tonight,” Kelsa sneers.

  “Your plan will fail, Kelsa,” Istral says. “You will fail and your people will become little more than slaves, forced back underground to eat the droppings of others.”

  “And what are we now?” There is fury in Kelsa’s voice. She has lost the struggle to maintain a human voice. Snarls punctuate each
word as they are forced through a goblin throat. This won’t end well.

  “The same as you always will be.” Istral takes a step forward, back straight, unafraid. “Scavengers.”

  Kelsa growls, throaty and terrifying. A shot is fired. Istral screams. The bullet propels her backward into the stone wall. Blood spurts from a wound in the center of her chest. It isn’t a mortal blow for vampires, so why is she sliding to the floor? Kelsa is laughing.

  An anti coag round. How did a goblin get her claws on our ammunition?

  I watch because I can’t look away. Istral clutches her chest, fingers ripping desperately at the cloth and skin. Blood continues to pour in torrents. She pales quickly, like colored chalk washing away in the rain. She is bleeding to death. Her eyes are wide, glazed, a beautiful shade of lavender. Alive with light, fighting. She looks at me until the light fades, and I am lost in a dead woman’s eyes.

  “Do you know who she was?” Max asks.

  “That no longer matters,” Kelsa says. “Our peoples must look to the future.”

  “I only look to the present.”

  “Then you may die in the here and now.”

  “Your bullets can’t pierce my skin.”

  “Perhaps not.” A flash of orange light glances off the stone by Max’s feet. “But morning sunlight will, and we have mirrors.”

  Oh no.

  Max retreats to the shadows. The reflected light dances just out of reach. I only half see him. He is calculating, pondering the risk of a direct attack. I don’t know the numbers behind me. At least three. “The gargoyles will not be your allies,” he says. “It is not our way, and no amount of coercion will change that fact.”

  “I actually expected as much. I do not want your help, only your word.”

  Max’s eyes flicker to me, and back up to Kelsa. “As part of what agreement?”

  “Complete neutrality in all matters. You will do nothing and say nothing about this to the Triads. You will report nothing you witness to the humans or the Fey Council. They are off limits.” Another kick jostles me. “Talk to no one.”

  Max is silent for a ponderous eternity. I want to scream, beg him not to agree, but can say nothing.

  “What of her?” he asks, pointing to me. Yes. Yes!

  “She is not your concern. She is wanted elsewhere, and will be paid handsomely for.”

  Her tone sickens me. If I could move, I would vomit. Kelsa and her goblins are not here for Max or Istral. They were tracking me. I led them to Max. It’s my fault Istral is dead. But why do the goblins want me? Who will pay for me? I am a rogue. I have—

  “She has no value,” Max says.

  “On the contrary.” Kelsa’s feet move into my line of sight. Black boots, soft soles. Silent and deadly. “Your word?”

  “What do I receive in return?”

  No, Max. Please.

  “The same,” Kelsa says. “Non interference. Your people will be allowed to continue as you are now under our rule.”

  Max laughs—a deep, grating sound that vibrates the floor. “You assume too much, goblin, but I agree to your terms. You have my word that I will not interfere with the humans or your plans.”

  “Good.”

  I am lifted up and slung over someone’s shoulder in a fireman’s carry. All I can see is sideways. The bricks of the tower as we pass out of Max’s lair and onto the roof. Then something is tied over my head, and I see only darkness.

  * * *

  I wake with no memory of passing out. Dark engulfs me, thick and oppressive. I am on my back, with something soft beneath me. Cold metal encircles my wrists and ankles. I pull. Chains rattle on both sides of my head, more at my feet. Fear twists my stomach. I’m not dead, but this is so much worse.

  The dark turns to dimness. A thin line of light peeks from beneath what could be a closed door. The room is small. I can see the outline of the mattress I lay upon, flat on a dirty cement floor. The walls are bare. Handcuffs bind my wrists to chains, which are studded to the wall above my head. Shackles hold my bound ankles, similarly anchored.

  I tug. The cuffs bite into my wrists. I rock my lower body and push/pull with all of my strength. Nothing. The chains are solid. I collapse, panting. My body tingles—probably a side effect of the numbing drug.

  In the dark, bound to a mattress in a dark closet of a room, I realize something else—I am completely naked. My clothes are gone, nowhere to be seen. I go through a mental checklist, testing various parts of my body, but nothing aches. Nothing feels violated. The torture hasn’t begun.

  Gooseflesh prickles my arms and stomach. I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Is Wyatt worried yet? Has he started looking for me?

  He won’t know where to start. I only told him I was going uptown. He doesn’t know Max, and Max won’t go to Wyatt. He gave his word to not interfere.

  Betrayal stabs my heart with its icy knife. Max owes me nothing, but it still hurts. He let the goblins take me. If what Kelsa said is true, they are going to sell me to someone. Or have sold me.

  I watch the line of light beneath the door, searching for shadows. Movement. Any indication of life outside of my little prison that smells of mildew and dust. I swallow, but my mouth is dry.

  Time passes.

  * * *

  Bright light startles me. I squeeze my eyes shut against the glare sending bolts of pain into my head. Feet shuffle. The pain lessens, but never quite dissipates. I slit one eyelid open, testing. The light is bearable. Both eyes this time. I want to rub them, wipe away bits of sleep, but my hands are still bound.

  A goblin female crouches next to me. Her black hair is loose and wild, framing red eyes and crimson lips that pull back in a snarling smile. I don’t recognize her. I’ve only ever fought and killed males. Goblin society is matriarchal for two reasons—females are born one in every fifty, and species procreation requires the death of the male. Only the strongest, battle-proven warriors are allowed the honor of mating and continuing the goblin lines. Like a bee and its stinger, fertilization is fast and deadly. Females are revered and honored, and rarely venture out in public.

  They certainly don’t do their own dirty work.

  “Evangeline Stone,” she says. It is a challenge as much as a greeting.

  I don’t know her face, but I know her voice. “Kelsa.” It comes out somewhat garbled. I’m thirsty and my throat is tight, but I won’t ask for water.

  “The great Evy Stone,” she says, as though I haven’t spoken. “Murderer of goblins and vampires and those you think beneath you. I’ve long wanted to meet you.”

  “Lucky me.”

  She arches a slender eyebrow. Long-nailed fingers slip into her stylish leather coat and produce a straight razor. She opens it with careful precision. I curl my hands around the cuff chains. My stomach flutters. She runs one fingertip down the sharp edge of the razor. I tense, but there is nowhere to go. The cuffs dig into my wrists and ankles. I grunt.

  Kelsa smiles. “There is no escape from this, child.”

  “Why?” I ask before I can stop myself.

  “Why what?”

  Coy bitch. I won’t give her the satisfaction.

  “I’ve seen what your kind does to mine,” she says. She trails the tip of the razor down the center of my abdomen, too light to pierce the skin but hard enough that I feel every centimeter of her touch. I look at her, not at her hands.

  “I’ve seen the way you kill, slitting them open from groin”—she presses just below my belly button, slicing the skin, and I cry out—“to sternum.” Swiftly her hand moves, drawing another fiery line straight down between my breasts. I hold my breath. Don’t make a sound. “It’s a shame, really. You humans have such spunk.”

  Agony spears my left thigh, matched immediately on my right. Tears spark in my eyes. I bite down hard on my tongue, concentrating on that self-imposed pain. I try hard to ignore the inflicted wounds. I feel blood, oozing hot and thick from every cut. I won’t scream. I can’t.

  She must be taunting me.
If I’m to be sold, why damage me now? It makes no sense. Collectors rarely pay for broken merchandise.

  Kelsa leans down, too far away for me to head-butt her, but close enough to smell her breath—moist and sharp, like metal. “We will have fun, you and I.” Fire bursts across my stomach and I wince. “Oh yes, Evy Stone. Two days of fun … for me.”

  Two days? Until my buyer shows up? Until she gets bored and lets me go? Until her vampire alliance hits its boiling point? Questions without answers, agony without relief—this is my life now.

  She holds up the razor, its edge coated with my blood. As red as her eyes. She presses the blade to my cheek and, in time, I do scream.

  * * *

  Time is lost to an endless cycle of light and dark. She comes and goes without warning—always her and no one else. I doze; she wakes me. I find no rest between our sessions, no respite from the anguish of her torture. She is creative in her methods. Meticulous in drawing blood. Expert in causing pain. In another life, I may have respected her for it. Today I despise her.

  The mattress is soaked with blood and sweat and urine, and it sticks to my skin. Their fetid odors mingle with the wrenching stink of vomit. Burnt flesh lingers on the edge of my senses, but those wounds are old. Fire seems like days ago, though I know it is only hours. Lights come on and the pain resumes. Lights go off and the throbbing takes over.

  I think of Wyatt in those brief moments alone. The soft caress of his hand on my breasts. The fullness of him as he slides in and out of me, loving me. He will come for me. He must be searching. I don’t care if the Triads find me first. As long as the suffering ends.

  The door swings open. I squint, waiting for the light assault. Kelsa stands in the doorway, backlit. Behind her, something shifts.

  “You intrigue me, Evy Stone,” she says. “You endure so much, and yet you don’t ask why. You don’t demand a reason for your suffering. Many lesser women would have broken long ago. I admire you for that.”

  “Go fuck yourself,” I hiss.

  She laughs. “You just don’t see it, do you?”

  “Don’t wanna. Don’t care.”

  “Of course you do, Evy. You care about him.”