Rune Thief: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Isabella Hush Series Book 1)

by Thea Atkinson

  KILL ME. NOT LIKE I hadn't heard that before. What was it about me that brought out such violent instincts in men? Whether or not it was an implied threat, it was still a threat. Unless I'd just pilfered this guy's stash, then I didn't deserve it. It wasn't my fault. It had never been my fault. I had to remind myself of that. A violent man was a violent man. It had nothing to do with me. It wasn't the result of me somehow massaging his baser side into an angry reflex. It was all about him. Dammit. Scottie had made that reaction far too normalized and it pissed me off that I went there first. It had been so long since my instincts didn't drive guilt to the front immediately that I found myself constantly talking myself down from moments like this. And that pissed me off too.

  I shook him off. At least I tried to. He had a death grip on my shoulder with those daddy long leg fingers of his, and he kept scanning the room with that restless gaze then back at me. He had the look of a guy who thought I was about to whistle for the cavalry and figured he'd take 'em all on.

  He doubtless thought he was scaring me, but after Scottie, I wasn't easily impressed that way. Not by mere words at least. He'd have to do a hell of a lot better.

  His fingers dug into my skin through my jacket and I winced but refused to let anything show on my face. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Instead, I tried to twist sideways out of his grasp and when that didn't work I tried another tactic.

  Sore as my leg was from the dog bite, I recoiled my foot and drove it hard and fast into the soft spot beneath his kneecap. Easy enough to do since sitting on the stool with short little legs like mine put me right about level to his knees.

  He swore out loud in a language I didn't understand, but I didn't need to know the linguistics of it to know he was calling me something nasty.

  I pulled my foot back again, thinking a second round might be in order, but he twisted just enough to the side to avoid the hit.

  He loomed in close, pressing his body near enough that I could smell sandalwood and patchouli, both fairly exotic scents even for a man with his coloring. I was in the middle of telling myself that maybe he was of mixed descent and came from a culture where women were expected to act a certain way. Violence was easier to understand if it's justified. But then that hand on my shoulder slipped around the back of my neck as a means to control me.

  While I couldn't help the way my chin lifted under the pressure of his fingers, I let go any kind rationalization I was doing for his benefit.

  My response was very much like a cat being petted against the grain of its coat. I let fly a load of spit, but it missed its mark and fell to a splat on the floor between us.

  I wondered where Fayed had gone and tried to look back over my shoulder to catch his eye. He wasn't behind the bar anymore. I looked over the stranger's shoulder for him. Not tending after any of the other patrons either. I'd been to the bar dozens of times while I'd lived in the city and I had gotten to know some of the regulars. They never so much as spoke to me, but they let me be, and that was about as much as I wanted.

  This night, none of those regulars were here. In fact, the room itself was empty except for four dark and lean men clustered around a table.

  They had the look of predator about them. A barely concealed perception of power controlled tightly within a container about to burst. While the man next to me was being a dick, he didn't have the same sort of presence, and I only truly realized it when I was able to compare him to the others.

  He was scared, I realized. Something had him on edge.

  Four sets of eyes lingered on me and the outcome of my skirmish. I caught one man scanning my face before letting his glance drop purposefully to my chest. One of his companions leaned into him and whispered something in his ear. They both laughed.

  Something inside me burned.

  I tried to pull my shoulders square, to gather some sort of dignity and command to my voice. I had let this get too far already. I was going to gather my things and I was going to get out of here and I was going to go home and sleep off my own frustration. I leveled the guy with a calm but cold stare. Give him a chance to defrost along with me and rethink the way this was going to go.

  "I'm going to ask you nicely to let me go," I told him.

  "What are you watching me for?" he said, refusing to give in.

  He was obviously too far gone into whatever was making him edgy to even listen to reason. I yanked hard enough that I should have been able to dislodge his grip. It didn't and I ended up glaring up into his eyes.

  I traced one bulging red vein to the tear duct and realized he hadn't blinked once since he'd stood over me.

  "What do you know?" he said.

  "Go pound sand," I said. "Whatever I know isn't any business of yours."

  His hand moved to my wrist and he tugged at it, pulling me from the stool and onto my feet. My skin beneath his palm twisted and burned.

  "Tell me now and I won't hurt you."

  "You're already hurting me," I said.

  I wanted desperately to rub the pain away, but I was still clinging to the half-empty bottle of Rot Gut and with it cold in my hand, I was struggling with the idea of hitting him over the head with it.

  I was no delicate flower, but neither was I quite ready to take on a giant, and he was a giant. Now that he was standing, no, looming over me, I could see he was at least six eight, six nine to my five foot three. I'd have to do a jumping jack just to hit him in the crotch. I felt my head sway slightly and wondered if he really was that tall or if the absinthe was already hitting my synapses.

  I thought I felt the slightest fluttering of absinthe's green fairy giving my insides butterfly kisses. Absolutely. The beginnings of a nice blitz well on its way. Except this wasn't a nice blitz.

  I weaved on my feet. I leaned back so my head rolled backwards where I could get a better look at him.

  I smiled at him, although I couldn't for the life of me figure out why. He certainly didn't give off any warm, fuzzy vibes.

  "You're a big one," I said. "What's got you so spooked big boy? Those skinny boys over there chop down your beanstalk?"

  I blamed the absinthe. I never knew how to shut my mouth while under its influence, never quite knew how to separate what I was seeing from what was real. Not that it mattered. The grip on my wrist was all too realistic and the way he looked at me, as though he was trying to work something out that couldn't be true, indicated that whether it was real or imagined, I was about to feel fifty shades of pain.

  I brought the bottle in front of me at shoulder height, tilting the top toward him.

  "You want some?" I said. "Maybe it'll take the edge off that paranoia."

  "You're mouthy for such a little one," he said and leaned in closer. "And you stink."

  I almost thought I saw a gleam of enjoyment in his eye. Shades of Scottie again. Well, I wasn't having it.

  "Listen, buddy," I said, finding bravado from my frustration and intoxication. "Trolls belong in fairy tales. Let me the fuck go."

  The "boys" at the nearby table pushed back their chairs and stood as though I had somehow insulted them instead of the stranger still holding onto my wrist.

  He cast a quick glance in their direction and then at me.

  He smirked. "Toffee," he said. "That's all you are." He sounded relieved. "Nothing but a toffee. Soft and sweet. Maybe you better leave, toffee," he said to me and nodded in the boys' direction. "I happen to know they like them sweet."

  One of them ran a long tongue across his lips. Despite the warmth of the absinthe crawling through my blood, my belly went cold. This was no place for me tonight. Even Fayed seemed to have vacated the premises. I was about to squeak out a confirmation when the man holding my wrist went positively rigid. I watched his eyes flick over my shoulder toward the doorway.

  He let go my hand and was gone as though he were nothing more than a shadow by the time I turned back around to see why he'd released me.

  Relieved and strangely confused, I thought I had suffered enough crazies f
or the night, and if I had got out of it all unscathed, best I beat a hasty retreat out the back door and find my way home before I could get into more trouble.

  I was afraid I wouldn't make it past the herd of boys when Fayed came back into the bar from the back room, carrying a box of whiskey. When he plopped it down onto the counter, the boys eddied their way back to their table and sat staring at him as though he had interrupted something. No doubt he had. I couldn't fault his timing.

  "Gonna call it a night, Fayed," I whispered across the bar. I didn't want those men to hear me, just in case, but I wanted a witness in case something happened. Someone to mark the time for me.

  He sniffed loudly. "Good idea," he said.

  I gave him a wave and staggered to the back door. No sense taking the time to backtrack all the way to the front again. The alleyway in the back of the building was faster route to my home anyway. And I was feeling as though I pushed my luck way too far already.

  A blast of cold air struck my face as I opened the door and it sobered me up enough to remind me just how lucky I was. I was no further down the alley than five steps when someone pushed rudely past me, knocking me into the wall, cheek first. I skidded along the bricks and fell on my hands and knees into a small puddle beside the dumpster.

  "Hey," I demanded and craned my neck backwards to catch sight of the jerk that had knocked me over, maybe give him a few choice words.

  The height of him gave him away. Stumbling and weaving down the alleyway as though he was inebriated, the troll from earlier clutched his shoulder as though it was about to fall off and he was keeping it in place.

  I started to call out to him to see if he was okay, when he collapsed right in front of me.

  Half a dozen more feet and I would be able to stick my finger straight up his nose. He hadn't even lurched sideways like I had when he'd shoved me, finding the good fortune of rough brick to graze against that could deflect some of the energy from the fall. Nope. Just straight down. If he'd been a paper bag, he would have been blown up and popped flat all within three seconds.

  It took me all of two heartbeats to realize the jerk who had accosted me in the bar, who had called me a Toffee, whatever that was, was badly hurt. Maybe even dead.

  It took me one more heartbeat to realize I was about to do something stupid.

  CHAPTER 7

  STUPIDITY BROUGHT ON by rash decisions and impulse wasn't something I cultivated if I could help it. Trouble was: I couldn't help it most times. It had got me in trouble all those years ago with Scottie, and I tried like the devil to avoid impulse like I avoided cheap red wine hangovers. But the guy—well, he just sort of collapsed like I've seen no one do before. It wasn't normal, not even for someone who'd been shot, and I'd seen that shit before too.

  Just that one thing should have sent me in the other direction, but I imagined myself running from Scottie all those years ago in nothing but my jammie jams and no one to help me for miles. I'd hidden in a ditch for hours, waiting for daylight so I could make sure that the color and make of the cars going by weren't Scottie's. I still remembered the feel of the nylon hem of my nightdress sticking to my thighs from the wet and the way the dead leaves gummed up between my bare toes. It would've been nice if someone had come by to help me then.

  I imagined the man, prick though he might have been in the bar, might need help the way I had back then and I felt an irresistible urge to do something. The young Isabella cried out for me to help. She egged me forward, carefully at first, crawling forward on my hands and knees for several seconds before I was able to push myself to my feet. My steps were slow and wary, the physical me of the present warring with the younger, barefooted Isabella who cowered in a ditch with muddy water up to her ankles.

  The ache in my calf from the dog bite was a reminder of how ridiculous it was for me to get involved, and the feel of cobblestones grinding into my knees as I dragged myself to my feet reminded me that I wasn't exactly in the better part of town.

  The alleyway stank of old garbage and vomit. Old booze and cigarette smoke, maybe a bit of pot clung to the underbelly of the air currents that wafted by from the main street. Another reminder of its locale. A person could get hurt getting involved down here.

  And he was obviously drunk, probably pissed off someone else in the bar that wasn't as inclined as I was to take his verbal abuse. I'd seen the look of those guys. They didn't look the least bit tolerant.

  If I knew what was good for me, I'd just keep heading home like I planned. I couldn't risk exposure anyway, and if he needed an ambulance and I called 911, they'd want a name. I could offer a fake one, but the best thing to do for my own survival was just to walk away.

  But what kind of person would I be if I did that? Those burly gents in the bar no doubt had a devil of a time at his expense, and although he'd been a bit of a prick, he was in need of help.

  He didn't look so tall now, all curled around himself. In fact, he seemed much shorter than me and that was small indeed.

  He was sucking in air by the time I reached him and the sound of it raised the hair on the back of my neck. My own lungs ached just listening to him strain to breathe. His thin, wax-coated duster had bunched itself up around his torso like a shroud.

  The street lamp overhead washed him in a sort of sickly yellow glow and showed me his face far too clearly for my comfort. I'd seen men die before and I knew that gray pallor that crept up along the throat like the swell of a bloated tide. He wasn't going to make it, not unless he got help fast. I'd never seen anyone swat away Death's cloak when it was lying close enough to smell the mothballs.

  "It's okay, buddy," I murmured. "You're going to be okay." I didn't believe it for one second, but the words came of their own accord.

  I could feel the flood of urgency starting to shrink my veins away from my skin. My mouth went dry. I recognized all the signs of shock and told myself to breathe slowly. I couldn't let the stress reaction make me stupid. Foolish mistakes happened when the blood washed out of the brain like a tsunami as it flooded its way to the core. I'd seen it time and time again. Too many times.

  I wouldn't be that person. I would be rational. I would make rational decisions that would make a difference for this poor guy.

  That determination lasted until I knelt next to him and saw the way his face had begun to contort. There was no humanness in the way his features screwed themselves into tiny constricted knots. Whatever was causing him pain was dancing an Irish jig across his skin in stilettos. Blood streamed from his eyes and his nostrils.

  Blood. From his eyes for heaven's sake. I heard my own sharp intake of breath and that was the thing that scared me the most. I was afraid, I realized.

  "You're going to be okay, buddy," I murmured, a touch of tightness in my voice that made me wish I hadn't spoken at all. "Help is on the way."

  His eyes rolled back in his head, showing me nothing but the white and his chest arched upward I ran a quick scan over his body head to heel but couldn't find so obvious that I could use any of the long-dormant first-aid training I received back in my lifeguard days.

  "Do you have a phone?" I asked him. "Where are you hurt?"

  I peppered him with questions as I reached out to lay my hands on his chest. Name, where was he from, did he have any family? Ridiculous questions, really, but I was really interested in getting him to respond. Trying to calm him down so that the frenzied heartbeat in my own chest would settle into a more normal rhythm. Let me breathe. Let me think.

  There was still a pulse, though. So he was alive. But he wasn't doing so great. I tried to pull to mind the first-aid training Scottie had made me take years earlier.

  Priorities first. He was breathing. That much I could tell as I leaned my ear down to his mouth. Muttering something I didn't understand. Maybe Latin. He thought he was dying. Giving himself the last rites or begging for forgiveness. The hairs on my body seemed to stand up with each syllable he muttered. Was the air around me getting hotter? Or was it just his breath washi
ng over my skin?

  I ran my hands down along his neck, checking for a pulse. Feeble and timid, the triggering against my fingertips told me he wasn't long for the world. Something sticky and warm met my fingers.

  More Blood. Coming from his ears. I moaned out loud and let go a series of curses I'd heard from some of Scottie's ex-marines.

  His thready pulse quivered beneath the heel of my hand.

  I'd have to call an ambulance. But there was no way I was doing it from my cell phone even if it was my monthly replacement burner. It still had five days left of minutes.

  I chewed my lip, thinking. I'd felt something in his pockets, hadn't I? Maybe one of those things was a cell phone. I needed my gloves. I had to scrabble backward several steps before I found it where I'd dropped it when he'd bumped into me.

  Everything always went into my heist bag in specific compartments. I always tucked my gloves into an outside pocket that was flush against the bag. I yanked them from the pocket and rammed them onto my hands as I ran back and knelt alongside the injured man.

  I ran my hands down along the outside of his jacket, my fingers moving instinctively, searching through the items by touch and processing exactly what they were from years of experience. A wallet. Pack of gum. A pocket knife.

  As if my hands had a mind of their own, each of those got dumped automatically into my bag.

  I checked the other side. Digging in, I felt as though something burned through the gloves. I yanked my hand back instinctively and then sighed at my foolishness because I knew it wasn't possible. Nerves. That was all. I dug back in and wrapped my fingers around something square. I extracted it and threw it into my bag along with the other items.

  I didn't find the cell phone until I reached the fourth pocket.

  There it was. A big bulky thing that was either far too old to be of use or so new, it might have that infuriating optic unlocking recognition.

  "Kelliope," he muttered as he tried to roll onto his side. "Infacto fae mortem."

  Delirious. I hoped he was far enough out of it to feel no pain but I doubted it. He still writhed beneath my hand.