by Rainy Kaye
Clattering resounds on the roof, as if the ceiling is going to cave in. The exterior walls continue to receive a beating. The din drowns out Remy's reply to me.
I grab his hand and lead him out of the room, into the unlit hallway. “If Gwendolyn sent Matteo, then she probably sent the mercenaries when Matteo went missing.”
“Missing?”
“He's hiding out here from the shadows! Follow along.” I growl. “He never went back to Gwendolyn, so doesn't it make sense that she would try to send someone else?”
Remy nods, though I can't tell if he really agrees, or if he's just afraid I've gone rabid. I feel like I'm losing my damn mind, so it's probably a safe bet.
“What are you thinking of doing then?” he asks, holding the candle out down the hallway to get a better look at our surroundings. We are alone, and the only people I can hear are in Matteo's room behind us.
“Well, I already met Gwendolyn, and she didn't recognize me, so that tells me she didn't realize I was the changeling.”
“Okay. . . “ Remy says hesitantly. “I don't know where she went, though. I have no way of getting in contact with her.”
“I know, but someone does know how to reach her.”
He scrapes his thumbnail on the candle in his hand. “Who?”
“The mercenaries.” I take a deep breath, pushing down how entirely bad of an idea this is. “If I turn myself over the mercenaries, they're going to take me back to the other changeling, right?”
I don't want him to agree to it. I would rather if he try to talk me out of it—I would be convinced so easily—but he tightens his jaw and says nothing.
“I need your help, Remy,” I say softly. “I need you to take me to them.”
He shakes his head. “Nope. Not happening.”
“It's the only way to find out who is looking for me. Then maybe I can—maybe we can—stop the shadows.”
I know it's a dirty move; the curse and what it is doing to him, and likely his brother, is his only real weakness. The struggling discomfort on his face says he doesn't want me to go, that he would switch places with me in an instant to keep me away from the mercenaries. But it doesn't work like that.
“If I'm a changeling, then that means I'm a fae. And that means the shadows will eventually get me too.”
I hold my breath and wrap my arms around myself, ready to have my plan and ego smashed on the rocks of his dismissal. That he really wouldn't care if I became a dark fae, as long as he and his brother are safe. That maybe he wouldn't really share the elixir with me, if it came down to it.
But then, with one arm, he pulls me in and holds me against his chest, and I suddenly hate that the first time I get to be close to him, is likely the last time. But I'm also thankful that it ever happened, even for a minute. One of those moments in life that I will remember when I'm wrinkled and old; I'll love my husband, but I'll never forget when Remy held me against him in a way that said I mattered. Right in the middle of the world falling apart.
Then he lets me go and leads me down the hall, around the couch, and out the front door. A gust carrying snow and impending disaster snuffs our candles. Hunched over against the cold, we hustle as fast as our slippery soles allow us.
He takes the driver seat, and I crawl into the passenger side, flipping on the heater. It valiantly fights against the cold.
He throws the truck into reverse, pulling out on the road. The truck feels less sure under us, like a small error will have devastating consequences.
“Where are we going?” I ask, tucking my hands under my legs for warmth.
“To get you sage oil,” he says without looking at me, “before I drop you off at the mercenaries.”
10
After some hustled searching, Remy and I locate sage oil at the single big box store open at this time of night and in this weather. Unfortunately, they sell it only in small bottles, so we clear their inventory and pick up a larger empty one. Since no one open stocks batons, I'm out of luck, but I do find warmer clothes, including a jacket and non-slip boots. And a new backpack.
We check out, the line crawling by as I worry about the storm reaching its apex before I have a chance to stop it. Then the line moves way too fast when I remember that means surrendering to the mercenaries, who are probably going to be beyond delighted to retaliate for all the times I've clunked them on the head.
When we finally make it through the line and pay, I dip inside the restroom and quickly change out of my old clothes into the new, warmer layers. I combine most of the sage oil into the larger bottle and slip it into my backpack. What I consider as the essentials has drastically changed over the last few months.
On further thought, I keep one of the smaller bottles of oil in my jacket pocket, in case of emergencies—such as the mercenaries taking my backpack in the next few hours. Hopefully, they won't search me too thoroughly. I am waving the white flag, after all.
I try to pad my mind with bravery, but it's a difficult task when a freak blizzard caused by an evil fae is rattling the windows and doors, and thumping on the roof. Even worse, I have to head back outside into it.
“If only they sold tire chains,” I grumble at the white coating the ground. I relinquish to the passenger side again, placing my backpack on my lap and hugging it close to me.
Remy takes the wheel and whips us out into the road. For not having been in the human world long, he sure knows his way around. At least in the fae areas.
“So, where, exactly, are we going?” I cringe a little. The Order takes up meeting space at raunchy strip club. Finding Matteo ended with us nearly trapped with a bunch of strumpets.
I can only guess where the mercenaries chill in the human world.
“They have a house not far from here,” Remy says, then adds, “It's near a portal.”
Like that is somehow supposed to comfort me?
“How would you know that?” I eye him, unamused.
“Word gets around,” he says. “Our area in the human world is small, and we need to know who owns what territory.”
“What are the mercenaries, anyway?” I press, part of me hoping for more clues but the majority of me just wishing to keep talking so I don't have the brain power to freak out.
Because I would very much like to freak out now.
Remy glances at me with a puzzled expression. He's silent so long that I think he suddenly forgot how to speak English.
Then he says, “Well, they find missing people, protect your stores, or take out your enemies. Who does that stuff here, then?”
“Uh, the police, security guards, and hitmen, in that order,” I reply, ticking it off on my fingers. “The mercenaries are a one-stop shop, I see.”
“They pretty much just take care of whatever you have a problem with,” Remy adds, and then we both seem to catch his slip up at the same time. The air between us bristles.
It becomes so uncomfortable that I'm forced to speak what we are both thinking: “Someone has a problem with me.”
Remy lets out a slow breath, and then he places his hand on my thigh. “It'll be okay.”
He doesn't actually know if that's true or not, but the sentiment is appreciated. I'm pretty desperate at the moment; I'll take sentiments right now.
I stare down at his hand on my leg. “Did you hire mercenaries to find your brother, too?”
“I did. Well, I tried to. They took the offer, and then the next day declined it.” Remy shakes his head. “They never gave me a reason. Told me not to come around anymore. I was pretty. . .pissed.”
“Oh, no.” I look up at him. “Uh, are they going to be upset at you too when we show up at their playhouse?”
His expression turns bleak. “I'm not really...going to be seen.”
I swivel around to glare at him. “What does that mean?”
“Right, they're totally going to believe that I just happened to find you, happened to know who you are, and happened to know they're looking for you. That makes perfect sense.” He hesita
tes. “You're going to have to pretend to wander in on them. Lead them for a little chase.”
“And then let them catch me,” I finish the thought.
I push his hand off my leg, and then regret it. It had been comforting, and now he probably thinks I don't like him.
Do I like him?
I turn to assess him again, though it likely comes off that I'm just deciding if I should push him off a cliff or a mountain. He's cute—I've established that much—but he's also strong-willed and, let's face it, he's got himself wrapped up in all sorts of bad ideas in some vain hope that he can rescue his brother. I mean, how much aww is that?
A lot.
This whole mercenary situation isn't his fault, and there's really no point for me to be mad at him, no matter how much I would like someone to yell at.
I take his hand, trying to act like it's the most normal thing in the world, and hold it on my lap, our fingers tangled up together.
He glances at me, and a little grin cracks his hardened expression. My heart flutters, and I wallow in how much I enjoy this kind of attention from him. I return the smile, turning on my own charisma. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and fix my gaze on him, undressing him with my eyes and lingering on the best parts. He shoots me another look, chuckling and slightly shaking his head.
I laugh and then lean in seductively. “What's so funny?”
“Your shirt is on inside out.”
I jerk back, letting go of his hand and looking down. He is correct.
“Whatever.” I growl and pull my jacket closed. “Finish explaining your world to me, Remy Glenwood. . .” My voice trails off.
Matteo had implied that was Remy's last name, but wasn't that the name the Storyteller called one of the feuding families? One of the cursed families? I want to ask Remy about it, but I keep my mouth shut. He either won't know the answer, or he already knows, and has been withholding it from me. The former is useless; the latter means he's dangerous.
Filing away those thoughts for later, I try to pick up the conversation where we left off, casually. “So, anyway, I guess I still don't understand the difference between the mercenaries and Matteo?”
“Matteo isn't a mercenary,” Remy says, sounding vaguely baffled by my confusion.
“So why would they hire Matteo and not the mercenaries to come for me? Or why not just the mercenaries, and why bother with Matteo at all?”
“From what he said, Gwendolyn sent Matteo.”
I shake my head. “I'm still not following this.”
“Okay, well, let's put it this way,” he says. “Mercenaries don't normally deal with portal-related issues, because the portal is rarely open. They're people you hire for day to day stuff. Gwendolyn chose Matteo to help when she opened the portal. They've been acquaintances for a long time. That's how I even know her at all. I don't know why or how the mercenaries got involved, but I assume when Matteo didn't return, Gwendolyn sent them next.”
I was hoping somewhere in all this, I would find a reason not to go through with my own plan. But all it did was convince me this is our only option: Matteo doesn't know anything useful, and Gwendolyn apparently didn't recognize me as the changeling she was after. Probably because all she did was open the portal. She's not really looking for me. Someone else is.
The only way to find out who that other person is requires me to let the mercenaries return me to their employer. Then we will know who the fat spider is that wove this web.
I suspect it will be Franjo.
The truck comes to a halt at the curb, and I peer through the passenger window. Nestled off the street hides a small house, with the front screen door twisted on its hinges and a flourish of graffiti on the garage.
It's a crack house. Charming.
I give Remy a disapproving look, but he gestures toward the building.
“Your stop, my lady.”
I glance at the decrepit house, with snow piling on its roof and coating the yard. It shouldn't be snowing this much. It shouldn't be snowing at all. Something tells me this is just the beginning of what the Order is planning.
Time to get this over with.
I open the door to step out, hoping Remy will stop me, maybe pull me in for a passionate kiss. Something besides letting me go through with this plan. But he doesn't.
“Why doesn't this bother you?” The words slip out, the implication so complex, but they can't be unsaid. In the following silence, I mentally bullet point each meaning:
Why doesn't it bother him that the world is ending and we've been reduced to this half-assed plan? That it might not save any of us? That he can't come with me? That he's throwing me to the wolves? That I could be hurt?
Why doesn't he care about. . .me?
“I think I made my disgust for this situation pretty clear earlier,” he says, leaning in and lowering his voice. The fingers on one of his hands rubs together. “But you can handle this. You have twice now. You even got me some elixir from them, when I couldn't get any for myself.”
His faith in me makes my heart warm, which is nice since the rest of me is freezing, but I also kind of want to be the damsel in distress so he, my hero, can come save the day...and I don't have to confront the mercenaries and wherever they are taking me. But there's nothing Remy can do. This is my battle. He's beside me, rooting me on, but I have to wield the sword.
Or sage oil.
I stare over the top of the dashboard at the broken down house. “You sure?”
“Positive.” He leans in farther, like he's going to kiss my cheek, but whispers, “Even if you can't dress yourself.”
I look down at the inside-out hem of my shirt. . .and laugh. Without another word, I step out of the vehicle and trudge through the cold wind toward the front door. Before I'm halfway across the yard, the truck—and Remy—is gone.
Taking a deep breath, I knock on the door.
The door cracks open, but no one is there. Then I glance down and jump, making a disgusted sound. A person—female, I think—is on the floor, propped up on her knees just enough to stretch and reach the door knob. Her face is sunken in and covered in red blistering sores. Her eyes are wide and unfocused, and she's missing more than a few teeth.
“I need some. . .stuff,” I say, because I'm sure that's the exact lingo seasoned drug dealers use. I internally sigh in exasperation at myself.
“Are you a cop?” she asks in a gargled voice. “You have to tell me if you're a cop.” She wheezes and coughs, sliding back down to the floor.
Another woman, wearing clothes that haven't seen a washer in this side of forever, ambles over on bone-thin legs. She makes Barbie look fat.
“What you lookin' for?” she asks, tearing off a piece of some kind of candy and popping it in her mouth.
“I'd like some crack, please,” I say, and it even sounds dumb to me. I can only imagine the impression I'm giving: some naïve college girl, tired of being a scene kiddie and moving on to the grown up stuff.
At least, I hope that's the worst they get from me.
“We don't got no crack. . .” The woman's voice trails away as her eyes light up. “Oh. I bet we got a little left.”
She turns and staggers through the room. I follow after her. Inside, people are strewn about, some on mattresses, a few more with blankets, but many without anything. Some could be dead, from the state they're in, and no one seems to notice because of the state they are also in.
Pungent acidic smells attack me from every side, forcing into my nose, insisting on being noticed. Urine and sweat and mold and. . .My stomach squeezes, and I try to hold my breath.
But the stench is only half of the problem. The people become increasingly horrifying as my eyes adjust to the dim light. Deathly thin, covered in wounds, shooting up among piles of garbage and pissing in corners.
I'm afraid I'll catch something just being in close proximity.
The woman turns to me, chewing on her candy. “Big Daddy be out soon. He can decide how you gonna earn your keep.”
>
I can't suppress the shudder. “I suppose he's not looking for a cook. I make a mean chili pie.”
She laughs, then coughs on her candy and wheezes so hard she might die right here. Her face turns shades of white and then purple as she doubles over. Finally, she hacks up the candy and spits it on the floor.
“You're a funny one,” she says, sauntering past me. “He gonna to like you.”
She mingles into the slow churn of people and disappears. I guess I have to wait for Big Daddy to emerge, but I'm realizing that calling this a half-assed plan was a serious exaggeration. It's not even that well thought out.
I meander through the filth, trying not to see more of it than necessary. There's a lot going on here that I will never be able to fully purge from my mind, so I just tiptoe through it as absently as possible. Still, I catch the three-way with a toothless woman and two well-endowed men in one room, and the artistic-like smear of vomit in a nearby corner. I step over what I hope is just a bag of rice and turn the corner.
I'm face-to-shoulder with a giant man. He's square-shaped: his chest, his head, even his arms seem to be composed of squares. I raise my gaze to him, timidly.
“I hear you looking for. . .” His booming voice comes to a halt as his face lights up.
He's one of the mercenaries.
It's not difficult to remember to turn and run. I take off down a hallway, heart racing, pulse thudding in my head. I throw open doors, scoping each room for a place to hide. I know I'm supposed to be just leading him on a convincing chase and then resign, but I can only think of how to escape. For real.
There's no way I'm turning myself over to him. No way I'm going to be at their mercy. What sort of crazy idea was this? I shove open another door, dive into the room, and stumble over the moaning squirming pile of people. A closet door sits ajar. I lunge into it, pulling it closed behind me.
I settle down among things I can't—and don't want to—identify. Gasping for air, I pull my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around them, and try to listen. His footsteps pound closer, loud enough I can hear them over the orgy fest happening a few feet away.
