by Kelly Meding
“Me, too.”
He nuzzled my cheek, and I broke first. I turned my head until our noses touched, mouths aligned. The cuts on his lips terrified me on one level, but deep down I knew I’d be okay. I’d survived the bites from Wolf Boy a month ago; I’d survive a kiss from Wyatt. But he needed to initiate it.
The hand on my cheek slid around to the back of my neck, a loose hold.
Please …
The gentlest brush of his lips sent my heart galloping. It was all I needed to capture his mouth in a desperate kiss. All of my love and need tried to show itself, and he responded in kind, kissing me hard. Nothing existed except our questing mouths and our bodies pressed together, hearts beating, hands holding and pressing. Somehow I ended up with my back against the wall and I didn’t care, because it was Wyatt holding me there.
I wanted him in a way I’d never thought possible, and I didn’t care that it was the wrong time, place, circumstances—wrong everything. He was hard against my hip, my jeans the only real barrier between us. It had been almost two months since we’d been together in any meaningful way. Hard, fast, and dirty had been part of my old life, but goddamn I’d take a little of that right now.
Except Wyatt was my gentle. Wyatt was my slow and nice. If we had sex like this, up against a wall in a haze of desperation, he might regret it after. Might blame the wolf for his lack of control. He did self-hate way better than I did, and I wasn’t about to give him another excuse.
I also wasn’t about to drag him into the city without taking the edge off, first.
My hand slid between us, beneath the gown, to grasp his erection. He gasped into my mouth. I managed an awkward stroke, and my own arousal surged at the deep (and very human) growl that it elicited from Wyatt. He thrust into my hand, mouth still working mine. My lips tingled; our kiss tasted faintly of blood. Harder, faster.
With a choked cry, he pressed his face against my shoulder and came, spilling warmth over my hand and wrist. He shuddered and gasped. I worked him through it, my free arm tight around his shoulders, holding him close until both of our heartbeats calmed to a reasonable pace.
I wiped my hand on the hem of his gown, then threw that arm around his waist. Our clinch became a hug—an embrace of souls I never wanted to end. The outside world wasn’t allowed to invade the little bubble of peace we’d created for ourselves—only I couldn’t stop it.
A shadow in the doorway reminded me of our deadline and, with regret, I gently squeezed Wyatt’s neck. “You okay?” I whispered.
He loosened his hold and pulled back. His eyes were red, cheeks streaked with tears, but he smiled. Nodded. “Thank you.”
I pressed my left palm flat against his cheek and looked right into his silver-rimmed eyes. And I smiled back. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m being pretty selfish this time.” At his curious look, I said, “I can’t lose you again.”
He leaned closer and kissed my forehead. As he pulled back, his nostrils flared and he tensed just a little. “Phineas is outside.”
“How do you know?” His back was to the door.
“I can smell him.”
“Oh.” That was going to take some getting used to.
“Dare I ask what I smell like?” Phin said as he stepped into the doorway. He had a bundle of clothes in one hand and a knapsack slung across his chest, likely holding our weapons. His expression was unreadable.
“I wouldn’t ask, no,” Wyatt said without turning around. “Gina’s not back.”
“She’s meeting us in the garage.” He put the clothing bundle down on the foot of the bed. “I’ll wait down the hall.”
“We’ll be right there,” I said.
The clothes he’d brought were Wyatt’s, right down to the black sneakers. I handed the items to him one at a time—boxers, jeans, polo, socks—as he dressed. I didn’t know how we were going to get him past Dr. Vansis, or anyone else who didn’t like our plan. Hopefully no one would be dumb enough to try to stop us from leaving the compound.
Wyatt peeled away the last of the bandages on his arm and neck. The wounds had scabbed over and looked nowhere near as raw and infected as they had only a few hours ago.
“You want me to rebandage those?” I asked.
“They’re fine.”
“Ready to go?”
“No, but I suppose we don’t have a choice.”
Did we ever?
I heard Phin and Dr. Vansis arguing before we reached the outer office. I squeezed Wyatt’s hand and held tight, as much for his courage as for my own.
“—still don’t know how infectious he might be to others,” Vansis was saying. “You’re putting thousands of people at risk.”
“We’re only putting me at risk,” I said, earning their collective attention. “I’ll be at Wyatt’s side the entire time we’re out there. Even if he bites me, I don’t think it’ll do anything other than bleed. I’ve been infected before and beaten it.”
Vansis scowled. “And if he’s not finished changing? If he attacks someone who isn’t you?”
“Phin has weapons. We’re all prepared to use them.”
“You’ll shoot your lover dead to save an innocent?”
I couldn’t seem to say yes.
“She knows that’s what I want,” Wyatt said.
“That didn’t answer my question,” Vansis replied.
“No, it did,” I said. “And I don’t plan on having to find out.”
“No one ever does.” He glanced at Phin, whose expression remained frustratingly neutral. Phin could make a fortune at high-stakes poker with that face.
“This might be our only chance to save Ava and Aurora.”
“I know. I won’t stop you, but please be cautious with him.”
“We will. The vampires?”
Vansis shook his head. “Three of their own healers are on their way with some specialized equipment. Maybe they’ll be able to find something I can’t.”
“We need to go,” Phin said.
We had a long walk from the infirmary to the garage and absolutely no way to hide Wyatt from sight. The Therians lingering in the corridor would smell something odd about the man with us, no matter what we dressed him up in, so we chose to walk with our heads high. Humans and Therians stared at us. A few texted messages. Someone even growled.
But no one was dumb enough to get in our way.
At the entrance to the garage, two figures lingered in our path, arms crossed over their chests like a pair of silent sentries. Milo and Marcus were certainly the last two people I’d expect to try to interfere.
“Astrid couldn’t be bothered to stop us herself?” I asked as we drew near.
Marcus frowned. “She’s choosing to not acknowledge that this is happening. She can’t condone Truman’s leaving the premises, but she does believe your decision is correct.”
“So why are you here?”
“To help.”
“Really?”
“We want to go with you,” Milo said. “Since we’re both technically wounded and not on duty, no one will look too hard if we aren’t here.”
The show of solidarity planted a little seed of pride in my chest. To Marcus (who’d lost his walking cast at some point in the day) I asked, “You’re defying your Elder?”
“Technically, no,” Marcus replied. “Not unless he finds out you’ve removed Truman from the premises and I’m assisting you and he orders me to bring you back. Then I’ll be defying my Elder.”
At that moment, I really, really liked Marcus. “Terrific. Then let’s go.”
We left the mall parking lot without incident or alarms. Kismet drove, with Phin riding shotgun. Marcus and Milo took the rear bench seat of the SUV, while Wyatt and I sat together in the middle. Without being asked, Kismet pulled into the first burger joint she passed and ordered a bunch of food off the value menu.
Wyatt worked his way through a bag of cheeseburgers with all the grace of a stumbling drunk, devouring three in the time it took me to choke down a grilled
chicken sandwich.
“All right,” Kismet said after we’d settled lunch and gotten back on the road. “It’s three-twenty. Anyone have a thought on a good place to start?”
Looks were exchanged, but no one spoke.
“I do,” Milo finally said.
I twisted around in the process of unwrapping a second sandwich. “Where?”
“Amalie’s avatar was also the lawyer handling the property where the Lupa lived, right? Isn’t her name Edwina Fair?”
Damn, I’d actually forgotten about that connection during all the chaos around Wyatt’s infection. “Right.”
“Where does she live?”
Next to him, Marcus pulled out his cell phone and checked something. “A development called Forest’s Edge. 345 Applewood Lane.”
It sounded familiar.
“Forest’s Edge?” Phin repeated.
“Yeah, somewhere northwest of here. Why?”
Phin made a rude noise. “Because that’s the neighborhood where Michael Jenner lived.”
Chapter Twenty-four
3:40 P.M.
Forest’s Edge was aptly named for its proximity to the mountains that surrounded the valley’s sprawling city. It was several minutes west of the up-and-coming neighborhood of Parkside East (my new body’s former address), and it took us twenty precious minutes via the bypass to even get there. It was polar opposite of the Watchtower’s location, and miles north of the historic district.
A fancy white gate announced we’d arrived at the community of condos. Dozens of freestanding buildings, with simple, modern architecture and between four and six homes per, dotted long, intersecting streets. They’d been built around existing trees, so decades-old and hundred-foot-tall oaks and maples lined many of the streets, giving the five-year-young development a homey, lived-in feel.
I wondered how many other lawyers called Forest’s Edge home.
We rolled down all the windows in the SUV. Community signs announcing “Children Playing” and “Slow Please,” right at the gate, were a perfect excuse to trundle along toward our destination. Wyatt slid closer to his door and leaned his face out the window.
I didn’t know what I could say to encourage him, so I kept my mouth shut.
As we drew closer to the sign for Applewood Lane, Wyatt closed his eyes, eyebrows furrowed, nostrils flaring. All I smelled was fast-food grease, so I hoped he was having better luck. Phin and Marcus were both intently sniffing the air out their respective windows in a way that was almost comical.
Soon after Kismet turned onto Applewood Lane, Edwina Fair’s home appeared, a third-floor condo in a building of six. Kismet parked across the street. Some nearby residences had cars parked, but many residents didn’t appear to be home. Good for us. The middle of the afternoon on a hot summer Saturday wasn’t prime time for folks to be hanging around the house.
“Anything?” I asked.
“Not the Lupa,” Wyatt replied. When he looked at me, more silver had crept into the black of his eyes. “But I sense magic. There’s a Break around here, a Sanctuary.”
Terrific. Was I that exhausted from my early-morning teleportation session that I’d fried my Break sensor? I barely felt the level of magic I was used to and hadn’t really missed it until Wyatt mentioned the increase. Would I even be able to teleport if I needed to?
“Well, now what?” Kismet asked. “Are you going to ring her bell and ask if she’s harboring fugitive werewolves?”
“Might as well,” I said.
“Evy—”
“If Amalie is in her avatar, then she knows we’re here. Before she died, Jaron told us that Amalie can sense anyone who’s been in her true presence, which Wyatt and I both have.”
“Sense how?”
“I’m not completely sure. At the very least, she knows we’re both alive. At the most, she knows we’re practically on her doorstep right now.”
“If she’s still using her avatar,” Marcus said. “Edwina Fair has not been to work in several days. Her employer stated she requested a brief leave of absence.”
“How brief?” I asked.
“Through the weekend. Apparently, she’s due back on Monday.”
I glanced at Wyatt. “Ready to knock on an old friend’s door?”
“As I’ll ever be,” he replied.
We climbed out our respective sides, and I met him by his door. A yellow sports car drove past, its music blasting bass even though the windows were all up, keeping in the air-conditioning and the worst of the noise. Walking across the street toward 345 Applewood Lane, with Wyatt by my side, felt right for so many reasons—solving a mystery, impending danger, a possible fight. I had a knife by my ankle, a gun at my waist hiding under my T-shirt, and a blast of adrenaline setting my heart pounding.
It was an old, familiar buzz, and I’d kind of missed it.
We took the stairs quickly to the third floor. The curtains were drawn in all the windows, and a brightly colored floral doormat decorated the stoop. The door had a silver knocker and a bell.
“Anything?” I asked.
Wyatt closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, held it. On the exhale, he looked at me. “I smell death.”
Terrific.
“Do you sense the Lupa at all?”
“No. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to feel, but I don’t feel any different.”
Awesome.
I rang the bell. Twice.
“Maybe she’s out getting her nails done,” I muttered, then banged on the door with a closed fist. “Ms. Fair, are you home?”
Wyatt grabbed the knob. It turned, and the door creaked open. “I’ll be damned,” he said.
“This isn’t good.”
My nose verified my trepidation as I stepped inside. Humid, hot air carried the odors of human waste and decay. The air-conditioning was off, the windows were sealed, and the room was stifling hot even with the shade. Something had died in here.
The condo was tasteful and expensive, with chrome lighting fixtures and a black-and-white color scheme, and very little in the way of personality. It was an odd contrast to the colorful doormat. And despite the stink, it was clean and extremely tidy.
We found the source of the smell in the master bedroom. Edwina Fair lay on her bed surrounded by deep purple pillows and an empty pill bottle. She’d been there a couple of days and her face was badly swollen, but I couldn’t mistake that hair—bright red ringlets, long and thick.
The irrational side of my brain expected the dead woman’s sunken eyes to snap open, blazing with blue energy, and for Amalie’s voice to lay some vague threat on us like a creature from a horror movie. But I knew that wouldn’t happen. Sprites could inhabit only living bodies.
Then again, almost everything I’d once believed about the Fey turned out to be wrong, or badly skewed.
“So either Edwina Fair was a very, very disturbed and lonely woman,” I said, “or Amalie helped her avatar commit suicide.”
“Could be both,” Wyatt said as he inspected the woman’s dresser. “Losing hours of your day, not knowing why, probably took its toll. Do you remember Jed Peters?”
It took a moment for the name to click. “Jaron’s avatar?”
“When the Triads cleaned out his apartment after his death, they found migraine medication and prescription painkillers and a lot of unpaid bills. Apparently he suffered crippling headaches and blackouts, which made it hard to keep a job. Doctors were unable to diagnose his illness, so they just kept him doped up.”
“Jaron did that to him?”
“I think so.”
The truth of it disgusted me. The sprites had been recklessly using those humans to communicate with us, with no regard for their health or mental state. Being a sprite avatar had been slowly killing Jed Peters long before his death at Token’s hands. Just as it had likely been killing Edwina Fair long before she swallowed that bottle of pills.
“Un-fucking-believable.”
“This scares me, Evy.”
I turned to fa
ce him, surprised and concerned by the admission. “That Amalie’s avatar is dead?”
“Yes. My money is on Deaem’s avatar being dead, too. The brass collectively killed themselves last month. The Fey are pulling out of the city.”
“It does seem like it.” Deaem had been Jaron’s replacement as Amalie’s second when the latter died almost two months ago. Like Wyatt, I wouldn’t be shocked if a look at recent suicides listed an Asian man of about thirty years old.
The implications of the Fey cutting their ties to the city were staggeringly bad. They lived and breathed the magic of the Break, and they protected a doorway to the place where that magic originated. A place where demons existed.
“Do you think they’d leave First Break?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I guess it depends on what happens next. I feel like we’re trying to cross a frozen river that’s cracking to pieces under our feet, and Amalie’s standing over us with a rock, waiting for the right time to drop it and shatter the ice.”
“Chaos.”
“And a lot of death.”
The enormity of the situation threatened to smash me into the ground. It was too damned much, and I hated it. But hiding wasn’t an option, and it never would be. Looking at the big picture made our task seem impossible. I had to keep us focused on things we could affect. Things that were not beyond our ability to control—like two Coni who needed us.
“I’m scared, too, Wyatt,” I said. “Terrified, in fact. But I can’t think about whether or not Amalie’s dropping that rock. Right now, only two deaths matter to me. The deaths of Ava and Aurora, and those are deaths I can’t let happen. I need to save them. The rest has to come after.”
He was quiet a moment, then looked at me with a familiar and comforting expression of sheer determination. “You’re right.”
We left the apartment as we found it, careful to wipe the few surfaces we’d touched. Without the protection of the brass (a hilarious concept, now that I knew just what the brass had been), we needed to be extracautious about not leaving fingerprints. Our report on the apartment was greeted with similar reactions of surprise and dread from our companions in the SUV.
“I don’t get it,” Milo said. “If all the Fey want is mass chaos and to see humans and vampires and Therians fighting one another, why all the subterfuge? They’re insanely powerful.”
