Three Days to Dead

by Kelly Meding

  “Took them from a Halfie nest once. Be careful, they’re pretty old,” Rufus replied.

  “Nice.” Wyatt closed the lid and put it back into the trunk.

  I plucked two more clips of fragmenting rounds. The back pockets of my jeans bulged with the ammunition, creating a false sense of security. In the past, having those weapons made me feel powerful, invincible. Knowing I wasn’t invincible anymore—and in fact, likely to die again very soon—made me feel like a fake. I was putting on a good show for Wyatt, even though we both saw the only real outcome of today’s planned assault.

  “We’re going to need a car,” I said.

  “So will we,” Nadia said. “We have ours. Good luck with yours.”

  Helpful as always.

  Wyatt pulled a light jacket off a coat hanger and slipped it on, effectively hiding his weapons. He walked over to Rufus, offered his hand, and tilted his head. Rufus looked first at the offered hand, then at Wyatt. The two men shared something in that look—silent encouragement, a parting of ways, maybe even an apology—and shook.

  “See you on the flip side, man,” Rufus said.

  “Yeah, you too,” Wyatt replied.

  We left as cautiously as we’d entered and exited through the rear door of the building, back into the stink of the alley. It had cooled off significantly, enough for me to wish I’d borrowed a jacket, too. We headed for the street end of the alley.

  “We’ll go a few streets over,” Wyatt whispered, “then look for something we can drive.”

  “You ever hot-wired a car before?”

  “I’ve seen it on television. How hard can it be?”

  The explosion shook the ground. I pitched sideways and found myself on the mucky concrete, with Wyatt on top of me. Heat swirled around us. Bits of wood and brick and rubble peppered my exposed shoulder and cheek. He grunted. The roar of fire pushed through the thundering of my heartbeat and drowned out all other sounds. I turned my head, hazarded a look up. Windows and chunks of wall had blown out. Smoke billowed, acrid and thick.

  The fifth floor was engulfed in flames.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  4:04

  We watched the grisly scene from the roof of the building across the street. Tenants were evacuated into the street, many in nightclothes. Some clutched small children wrapped in blankets. Fire trucks arrived and poured water on the spreading flames. Police put up barricades, herded reporters, and tried to keep order amid chaos.

  Wyatt and I stood side by side as the last of our allies were taken from us. I wanted to cry for Rufus and the brave spirit he had been, only I had no tears left. Wyatt was not so lucky. Unshed, they pooled in his eyes, creating a glassy, faraway look.

  “Ten years,” he said quietly. “I worked with him for ten years, and now …”

  I tried to think of something sympathetic to say, but it all felt hollow. Trite. “Could it have been those grenades?” I asked instead.

  “Doubt it. I don’t buy this as an accident, Evy. The timing was too perfect.”

  “Do you think Nadia was right? Are we walking right into another of Tovin’s traps by going to the preserve?”

  “I don’t think we have a choice anymore.”

  “As if we had one before.”

  He grunted.

  “We still stick to the plan,” I said. “We recon the preserve and get our bearings, and then we retreat to formulate our attack plan and hope the other Triads don’t blame this on us and really do show.”

  “If they don’t show? Without any help, it’s suicide.”

  He seemed to miss the irony in his words. “Wyatt, we don’t have a choice, even if there’s no one left to help us.”

  “I would not say that,” said a lilting, female voice. It came as though carried on the wind, and might as well have been a phantom, since we hadn’t heard anyone approach.

  We pivoted in tandem. Wyatt reached for one of his guns, while I crouched and wrapped one hand around the handle of a knife. Twenty feet away, in the middle of a gravel roof she’d made no noise walking across, stood Isleen. Alive. She held out empty palms. Her calm expression never changed.

  “I am no threat to you,” she said.

  “Holy shit, I thought you were dead,” I said, standing. I quashed the very real urge to race across the roof and throw my arms around her neck. Never in my life had I been so happy to see a Blood.

  “Even half-breeds know better than to kill one of their royalty, Evangeline.”

  Royalty? No shit. I’d have to ask her about that. Later. “How did you escape?”

  “I was never taken, only drugged and tied up in one of the empty mall storage rooms. It took my Family time to locate me, and it took me almost as long to locate you.”

  “And how did you find us?”

  A soft sigh escaped, as though the litany of necessary questions bored her. “I was following your friend. I spotted him earlier today on the street. The change was easy to recognize. I trailed him to the hospital, and then here when the humans took him. I was correct to do so.”

  Her story made sense, even though the foundation lay on her happening upon Alex in the street. I hated coincidence, but didn’t necessarily discount her explanation because of it. She’d always showed a keen interest in discovering the truth. That didn’t appear to have changed.

  “You’ve been watching the building the whole time?”

  “No, an hour ago, I spotted an osprey on the roof of the building. It flew away, and I attempted to track it. I failed. When I returned, the fire had already begun.”

  “I wasn’t accusing you—”

  “You said an osprey?” Wyatt asked.

  Isleen nodded. Dummy me finally caught on. “The only osprey in this city are weres,” I said. “It was a surviving Owlkin?”

  “I believe so,” she replied, “so I attempted to follow it. We are not friendly with shape-shifters of any ilk, but we know what your Triads did to them.”

  I flinched.

  “Do you think the survivors blame Rufus’s team?” Wyatt asked. “That they’re targeting them?”

  “The Owlkins were always peaceful,” I said. “I can’t imagine them burning down an entire apartment building out of spite.”

  “Watching his people being slaughtered by supposed allies can change a man’s perspective on vengeance, Evy.”

  Good point, and we finally knew Owlkin survivors existed. But it didn’t help us in our impending fight, not even a little bit. If Wyatt was right, the Owlkins may have just cut us off from our only backup. Unless …

  “Can you help us, Isleen?” I asked.

  “That depends on the information you share. Why did the half-breeds take you, and how did you escape?”

  We fed Isleen the highlights of our captivity and escape and time in First Break. Its existence seemed to surprise her, if the quirk of one slim eyebrow was any indication. I left out details of its location and our exit through the tunnels. The Fair Ones had trusted us enough to let us leave; I wouldn’t betray their trust by giving them up. I also left out the discovery of my Gift; some information I just won’t give to a Blood.

  “You are certain Tovin is at this nature preserve?” she asked after a long pause.

  “No,” I said, “which is why we’re on our way there now. We had hoped for some Triad backup, but I get the feeling that’s on the rocks once this gets around.”

  Her attention flickered to the fire behind us. I turned and felt the heat of it on my face. So much destruction, so much loss.

  “Until they get it out and get the fire marshal in,” Wyatt said, “there’s no way to know how or where it started. I just know that we could have walked out sixty seconds later than we did.”

  “You two were either very lucky, or you were intentionally spared,” Isleen said.

  “I’m banking on luck,” I said.

  “I thought you didn’t believe in luck,” Wyatt said.

  “I also said I don’t believe in fate, but look at me now. I feel like a charact
er in a fucking Greek tragedy, where all the gods are sitting back and having a good laugh at my expense.”

  “Not gods,” Isleen said. “Mortal creatures with a thirst for power. The Fey have waged a silent war against my people for centuries. If Tovin succeeds in his plan, this Tainted One will help him destroy us.” She stepped closer, a spark of anger in her violet eyes. “My people will not act on suspicion. You know this as well as I, but the half-breeds are abominations, and assistance will come if I say I have seen a nest in this place. Tell me there is a nest, and I will take you at your word.”

  The improbability of that statement struck me momentarily speechless. Wyatt squeezed my arm, silent encouragement, and I said, “There’s a nest of Halfies there.”

  “Good enough. Where is this location?”

  I told her about the preserve and the gas station, all the while observing her for signs of deception, some hint she would pass this along to the wrong person. I found none. “Three o’clock,” I said. “We’ll meet you there.”

  “Agreed. I will bring all of the help I can. Good luck to you both.”

  “We’ll see you in a few hours.”

  Her willowy frame bolted to the side of the roof, and she vaulted to the next building. She moved like a shadow, disappearing the instant she landed. I had always envied the Bloods’ ability to move like water—smooth and silent, or fast and furious, but always with intent.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  Wyatt pulled me against his chest, arms wrapping around my waist. I leaned back, content in the warmth of his body for as long as I could have it.

  “She’s lying,” he said.

  “You think so?”

  “Not her intention to help us, but her reasons. She isn’t in this to stop Tovin; he’s just an excuse. A way to justify it to her kin and get them to help her in her real goal.”

  That much I could have guessed. Vampire royalty put on airs, much worse than any Fey, and thought humans beneath them. Pure bloodlines, they said, kept them strong—another reason the half-Bloods were so hated by the Families. The Bloods I knew tried to differentiate themselves from humans by suppressing their baser emotions: lust, greed, hate, envy. The human sense of vengeance was seen as most distasteful of all, because it drew on desire rather than logic.

  I was tickled to see a daughter of the royal lines so hell-bent on revenge for the death of her sister. As much as I wanted to believe she was trying to help us, we were simply a foil. A means to an end, and that end was finding Kelsa, the goblin responsible for Istral’s death. And mine.

  “On the bright side,” I said, “we know she’ll show with her people.”

  “We just can’t be sure she won’t stab us when our backs are turned, just to save guessing on whether or not we can beat Tovin.”

  “Then we don’t turn our backs.” I spun us so I could see the razed and ruined tenement that held the bodies of our allies. It was a terrible way to die, and I prayed they’d died quickly. An entire Triad—three Hunters and their Handler—wiped out. The Triads would recover their losses; they always did. Bastian was excellent at recruiting Hunters. I just didn’t know how they’d replace Rufus.

  If a Tainted was loosed, how long before the rest of the city learned of its Dreg neighbors and our mission of secrecy became obsolete?

  We stood together, our faces caressed by the heat of the fire. The odor of smoke and wet pavement made me want to sneeze. I held tight to Wyatt’s hands—the only calm we would get before the oncoming storm.

  Activity on the street increased. Paramedics emerged from their ambulance with a stretcher and medical bag. They pushed it closer to the front entrance of the building and waited. I strained to hear the shouts of frenzied voices. Moments later, two firemen burst from the front doors in a cloud of gray smoke, carrying a grown man between them. The man was badly burned on his hands and chest, and his face was streaked with soot and sweat, but I still recognized that hair.

  My mouth fell open. “Holy hell.”

  Wyatt grunted.

  I watched the paramedics strap Rufus St. James to their stretcher and wheel him toward the ambulance. He was tucked inside, and it sped away with its precious cargo.

  “I don’t believe it,” Wyatt said.

  “How did he survive that?”

  “I don’t know, but Rufus used up the last of his nine lives on this.”

  We waited a few more minutes, hoping for one more miracle to be carried out of the burning building. After a while, it became obvious she wouldn’t. Nadia was gone.

  “We should go,” I said.

  Wyatt nodded. “You know, I just realized something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We still don’t have a car.”

  * * *

  Cars ripe for stealing were in easy supply on the streets of Mercy’s Lot. Hot-wiring skills, however, were lacking. After I broke into a late-model Chevy POS, Wyatt tried unsuccessfully to start the damned thing. Finding the correct wires was harder in real life than on television, so we moved on to Plan B.

  “We are so going to Hell for this,” I said as I struggled to hold on to our victim’s legs while Wyatt carried him by the torso. A few more steps and we had the unconscious man in the alley, nestled comfortably among a pile of plastic trash bags and empty crates.

  “You doubted that anyway?” Wyatt asked.

  He palmed the man’s car keys and led the way back to the street. I kept expecting someone to shout at us, or police sirens to break the quiet of the night. Music still drifted in from far away, but this block seemed mostly asleep. Good news for us; not so much for our randomly selected victim.

  Wyatt unlocked the small, blue car and I slid into the passenger seat. The vinyl was cracked and foam puffed out. The floor was sticky, the carpeting worn completely through. I glanced at the dash. At least it had a full tank of gas.

  “I feel like I should leave an IOU or something,” I said.

  “I feel like we’re doing him a favor by stealing this piece of shit.” Wyatt turned the engine. It sputtered, strained, sputtered again, and finally roared to life. The “check engine” light flashed. Thunderous rap music blasted from the speakers; I turned the radio off.

  Towering tenements and crumbling businesses were replaced by trees and gently sloping hills. Soon we would pass the city limits, enter the scattered homes of the valley’s end, and wind our way up into the mountains north of the city—a majestic sight I often admired from a distance and rarely ventured into. Nature was nice, but I was a city girl.

  The clips of ammo in my pockets made sitting still uncomfortable. I squirmed, aware of warmth against my backside. A hand on the seat found nothing amiss there, but did locate the source in one of my pockets.

  Curious, I fished out the crystal Horzt had given me. It was warmer than it should have been. I turned it over in my fingers, careful of the sharp tip. The size and shape reminded me of high-caliber rifle ammunition, but I had no gun with which to fire it.

  “What are you thinking?” Wyatt asked.

  I lifted one shoulder in a noncommittal shrug and held the crystal lengthwise between two fingers. Bits of light refracted onto the dash in colorful patterns. “I hope this comes in handy at some point, because as far as weapons go, it’s kind of tiny.”

  “Horzt said you’d know.”

  “Yeah, well, until then, it makes a pretty prism, don’t you think?”

  “It could make a nice paperweight.”

  “Yeah.” I pocketed the crystal. Front pocket this time, point angled up so I didn’t stab myself in the thigh.

  We passed the gas station a few minutes later. Carved into a rocky spot on the side of the road, it had limited parking and two badly lit pumps, anchored by a dingy convenience store. The store was closed, and we hadn’t passed another car in ten minutes. It was a good place to meet.

  Another mile up, the road widened a bit and provided a gravelly shoulder. Wyatt pulled off and maneuvered the car into a ditch. Not ideal, but
the best we could do by way of hiding our transportation. Someone would have to be searching for a parked car to notice.

  The chilly mountain air bit into my exposed skin. I slammed the car door shut and stood for a moment in the weeds, breathing the fresh air. Inhale, hold, exhale. It energized me as we began our mile-long hike up the road. A peeling sign advertising the preserve and its entrance a quarter mile ahead was our marker. We veered off the road and into the woods.

  I’d never been in the forest at night. Darkness blanketed us, broken only by thin shafts of moonlight between the towering treetops. Fallen branches and logs marred our path, hidden by layers of last year’s fallen leaves. The breeze whispered past us. Crickets chirped; insects I didn’t know called to one another. Our footsteps were lost to the symphony of the night.

  We followed the descent of the mountain. The preserve was in a valley, half a mile from the shore of the Anjean. One of the park’s two hiking trails ran past the river itself. They’d be grown over by now, but good guideposts if we found one.

  “You smell that?” Wyatt whispered. He stopped next to a towering elm and inhaled deeply.

  I did the same. Hidden on the edges of rotting leaves and dirt was the faintest odor of tar. “We’re close,” I said.

  Not as close as I thought, it turned out. We walked another couple dozen yards before the trees thinned out and the night sky opened up. The odor of tar was traced to fresh blacktop—a sea of it, in fact. It extended far beyond the borders of the old parking lot, on which we stood, to cover every inch of what had once been bare soil. It butted up to the tree line on our side, and into the dim distance. Three buildings stood in the middle of the pavement, the largest and closest being the Visitors’ Center. Just beyond it was an open-air pavilion for picnickers and planned parties. To the right side of the pavilion stood the two-story, bricked Olsmill Natural History Museum.

  More blacktop massed out behind the museum, where the petting zoo had once stood. It appeared to be bulldozed, paved over, gone. Everything on the property, in fact, was paved. Very smart. No better way to keep out the Earth Guardians, especially when your home base was so close to the Break they were commissioned to protect.