I jumped off the ladder just as Krista extricated herself from the harness and chucked it in the back of the truck.
“My God, I have to pee so hard it could cut metal.”
A smile forced its way onto my face as she made a show of holding herself and waddled around the side of the silo. She let out a great cry of relief as I tossed my backpack into the bed of the truck, prompting a snort from the ladder above.
“Pee shivers?” Jaesung yelled, leaping down.
“Fuck yeah!” Krista called back.
I pulled myself into the truck bed. “Are we over being quiet?”
He shrugged and climbed in after me. “The owners aren’t actually home.”
I shoved the backpacks up next to the cab and, sweating now from the climb down and the extra insulation, I shrugged off the down jacket. A rush of frigid air hit me, but it was like walking into an air-conditioned building after hours in the Miami heat. Actual licks of steam curled off Jaesung's back.
“Whew, that’s brisk,” he said, and dropped his jacket onto mine.
I glanced around for Krista and found her leaning against the grain elevator, her phone against her face. I’d left mine inside the truck cab—Morgan had been silent for over a week, so there’d been no reason to take it with me.
“Who’s she even calling at three in the morning?” I asked. Jaesung leaned back, following where I was looking.
“Alina probably.”
“Who’s Alina?”
He started, meeting my eyes. “She hasn’t told you about Alina?”
I shrugged. “Guess not.”
He licked his lips and winced. “She probably forgot you didn’t know.” He leaned against the cab, plucking off his gloves. “Alina is Krista’s girlfriend. She’s been in a psych ward for a few months, under suicide watch.” He stopped flexing his fingers, cocked his head, then nodded. “Pretty much because her ex husband is a dick. And there’s a kid involved, which makes everything worse.”
I glanced at Krista again, at the way she cradled her phone against her cheek. At Rinkenburger’s, she’d taken a phone call that had upset her and gotten drunk. That had been Alina too.
I winced. My first night at the dog rescue, I’d assumed that the biggest worry in Krista’s life had been the size of a bridesmaid’s dress. It wasn’t running for her life or dealing with the murder of her mother and a lifetime of fear and slavery, but it wasn’t the superficial, petty problems I’d assumed, either. A thread of guilt tightened around my gut.
“Hey,” Jaesung bumped my shoulder with the back of his hand. “You’re not allowed to stress on your birthday.”
“It’s three hours past my birthday.”
“We haven’t slept yet, so it still counts.”
Krista had settled against the silo, looking for all the world like she’d forgotten we existed.
The chill was getting to me, but I found I didn’t want to put my jacket back on. It was bulky and constricted my movements too much, and my muscles were still too warm for its insulated heat. I sat on the truck’s back gate.
Jaesung glanced back at Krista. “She'll be awhile. So…” he pulled out his phone, and for a second I thought he was just going to stand there, browsing the internet while I waited without entertainment. “It occurs to me you’ll probably be around for Gene and Sanadzi’s wedding.” Seeing my confusion, he elaborated. “It’s in about a month.”
I nodded, but the only reason I'd still be here was if Morgan hadn’t gotten in touch. I didn’t want to think about that. Then again, I also didn’t want to think about leaving. It made the warm place in my chest go tight and painful.
“I guess,” I said.
He seemed too wrapped up to notice my moment of hesitation. Or maybe it just looked normal for me.
“Anyway, there’s… well. They had everyone in the wedding party and local guests go to this workshop because of a reception video they want to film.”
I lifted my eyebrows. “A workshop?”
“Yeah.” He squinted, unhappy with his explanation. “Anyway. You taught me some constellations, so, I’m showing you what we learned so you won’t look like a loser.” He hit a button on his phone, and music leaked out. It was slow, a decades-old song. He held out a hand.
I lifted my gaze from his hand to his eyes. It hadn’t hurt me yet to trust Jaesung Park.
I took his hand. Some of the tension released from his shoulders and he tugged me to the middle of the truck bed. It was still slick with refrozen snow. His other hand found mine, directed it to his shoulder, and he took my waist.
The instant I realized what this posture meant, I laughed. “Are you teaching me to dance?”
“I’m gonna do my best.”
“I’ve never danced once in my entire life.”
“Neither had some at the workshop. You’ll be in good company. Step back on your right foot. Step.” He pushed against my hand, grip on my waist tightening. I stepped back, and his foot followed mine. “Bring your left foot back and shift your weight to it.” I shifted. “And shift back to your right. Step forward on your left. Keep tension in your arms—I can steer you that way. Step. Shift-shift, step. Shift-shift, step.”
I watched my feet and his, overcome by the absurdity of learning how to dance in a truck-bed, in the middle of a snowy field, when there were Sorcerers after me and a meteor shower still streaking by above. Also, a little, because his hand was on my waist and his shoulder was firm and steady. I had a weird urge to laugh and pull away.
“Stop looking at your feet,” he said. “You’ve got it.”
I looked at his turtleneck, too afraid to look at his face when we stood so close. He steered me easily—shift-shift step, shift-shift step—until the rhythm of it sank in. Then he pushed against my hand and pulled my waist, turning me under his arm. I fumbled, but he caught my side and pushed me backward into step, chuckling. “Nice.”
“So is this it?” I asked. “Your martial art?”
“Ballroom? No. I learned a little, but that’s not it. Turn.”
This time it was more graceful, and I remembered to step backwards at the end.
Krista laughed. I twisted my head, thinking it was at us, but she wasn’t looking our way. Unfortunately, I forgot to step forward when Jaesung stepped back. His feet slid on the ice in the truck bed, and he pitched forward. He grabbed my shoulder for balance. I caught him around the ribs but wasn’t braced for the sudden weight. We staggered.
“Damn ice,” Jaesung said, catching his footing. He drew back and a sharp pain jerked at my head.
“Ow!” I grabbed his wrist.
“Shit, sorry! My watch. Your hair's caught.” His hand slid around to my back, pulling me forward. Then both arms circled my shoulders, and he plucked at the hair that had tangled itself in the strap. It brought me almost against him. My fingers pressed into his ribs, which radiated heat right through my knitted gloves. His chin hovered against my temple.
It would have been easier for me to turn around but neither of us suggested it. He untangled his watch and set his hands on my shoulders. Enough of my heat had been leached away by the air or displaced by the unsteady flicker in my chest that I was shivering again.
I wanted to lean in, to see what it felt like to press my forehead into his neck and have his arms tighten around me. They would. He wasn’t hiding his attention. If I was honest, I knew what he wanted. What I couldn't decide was why I wanted it back. Because of that warmth in my chest? Or did I just crave the comfort of arms around me, someone to insulate me from the world—anyone?
I stepped away. His fingers dropped from my shoulders, the moment broken.
Luckily, Krista returned soon after, because Jaesung and I had run out of things to say. We piled into the cab, wrangling coats and seatbelts. Krista tilted sideways and grabbed my phone out from under her.
“Looks like you got some love, birthday-girl,” she said, and tossed the phone into my lap.
The screen showed two missed calls and a text,
all from an unknown number. My stomach fluttered. Morgan must have chucked his phone and gotten a new one. That would explain why he hadn’t responded. Was it his idiotic idea of a birthday surprise to tell me he was okay?
As the truck trundled back between the fields, I pulled off my glove and swiped the lock screen, hunching so my coat obscured it from line of sight. A single word, no punctuation, sat stark in the message field.
Answer
Uneasiness pressed in around my lungs. Nothing about the message was off; it was just the kind of stark, utilitarian text Morgan might send. But a shudder built in my spine.
A photo attachment hovered beneath it. I curled my fingers into a fist, rubbing my thumb along my knuckle. Somehow, without seeing it, I knew that picture would end the fantasy of peace.
My thigh pressed warm against Jaesung’s and, as I stared down at the attachment, Krista scanned through the radio. The truck pulled onto the main road just as she stopped on some loud, bass filled dance music. Above, the darkness of the sky was shot through with meteors. This was the life I might've had if things were different.
But things were not different. I needed to stop kidding myself.
I un-clenched my fist and tapped the attachment. The picture swam up onto the screen: dark room, dirty concrete floor; the Hellhound mandala sketched out in blood. Beside it lay a familiar shape, his brindled fur matted and torn—Eamon.
It was like falling back into ice water. Every inch of me seized up. Thoughts crashed against each other and I fought with my lungs, trying to batter myself back into control. I thought the Guild had caught Eamon, but they didn’t have the Hellhound mandala. I’d destroyed the only copy of the spell. The one other person who might have had it memorized was dead.
Should have been dead. I’d watched him die.
The truck shuddered into a pothole, knocking me into Krista. The text had told me to answer. That could only mean Gwydian was alive. He had Eamon.
He was coming for me.
Chapter Eighteen
If Krista or Jaesung noticed anything was wrong, they didn't acknowledge it. As they dragged the gear upstairs, I edged around the exam tables to the kennel, trying to look busy while I begged my phone not to ring. Not until I figured out what to do.
The weight of Eamon's broken, bleeding form dragged my brain into blackness. How had I been almost happy an hour ago? How had I let myself forget the danger my pack still faced?
My phone burned like a coal in my pocket. What would happen if I threw it away? If I gave up on Eamon, gave up on Morgan ever finding me, and concentrated on staying alive? It was the likeliest way to survive. I could hunker down here. I might not be invisible to the Guild, but they would never let Gwydian continue unmolested. They would take care of my problem for me.
Only, if Gwydian had Eamon, it was likely he had more of my pack, and the Guild had always seen them as acceptable sacrifices. Especially if they were under an enslavement spell.
An enslavement spell that Gwydian would use if the others hadn't mutilated their tattoos. Not that he couldn't just make another tattoo.
Then there was the rogue Sorcerer on the ice. If my Guild harasser was right, Gwydian had several on my tail. And if one bounty hunter found me, more would do the same, and they wouldn't have any code against hurting Krista or Jaesung or Sanadzi.
Poo-stank pawed at his cage and gave a low woof for my attention. I patted his neck and forced myself to breathe. Upstairs, Krista and Jaesung's footsteps traced paths across the kitchen and living room. Their voices were low, muffled.
I let my head bang into the bars of Poo-stank's cage and closed my eyes. What if we'd been attacked at that farm, stuck on top of a grain elevator with no way to run? God, I'd put them in so much danger tonight.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. I opened my eyes. In front of me, Poo-stank's black-tipped ear flicked toward the sound.
My gut was a solid stone as I pulled the phone from my pocket. The unknown number displayed on the screen. Fear crashed over my back in a cold, bright surf. I shuddered and hunched over, holding onto the cage bar for balance.
On the other end of the line was the man whose kind eyes had haunted my nightmares since I was four. And now he had Eamon, and the spell to twist him into the same demonic beast he'd made my father.
Answer.
But would he even stop if I did?
My throat went thick and tight. I forced myself to stand, walking from the small circle of light to brace myself against a pillar. I tapped the green icon and lifted the phone.
I said nothing, just forced myself to breathe, forced myself to press the phone to my cheek.
"Helena?" The soft voice made my breath hitch, my stomach turning to poison. It was the voice I knew—the cadence and the tone, but the quality of it was wrong. Raspy, as if he'd been choked, or swallowed a hand full of glass shards.
Smoke inhalation from the explosion. He'd survived, but not unscathed. That made it worse.
"Helena, I need you to come home."
Fear at my back, unrelenting, every day. Violence, and my fingers dug into some stranger's shoulder, holding him down for torture, for blood. For magic.
"Helena, I know you're there," Gwydian rasped, his Scottish accent softening the edges of the words. "Eamon is here. Answer me, Helena. I don't want to hurt him."
"That's bullshit." Fear strangled the words.
He made a soft, disapproving grunt. "Now, that is unkind. All I want is to help you help your friends.”
"The way you helped my mother into a bullet?" My chest pulsed, the turquoise fire shuddering into my veins. Anger swarmed into my brain, scribbling out the instinct to back down, to be careful and do what this man said. "Go to hell."
The voice on the other end chuckled, and the smoky rasp of it sent crackles down my legs. My power was threatening to snap. I clenched my fist, thinking of my feet as roots, imagining all that power pulsing down into the concrete floor, through the skin of the earth and into her own veins.
"Bring me the book and I’ll let him die. No more spells necessary."
I felt myself shaking against the pillar. Its cold, smooth surface seemed too still, too solid. The scaffolding of the world was crumbling yet everything around me was painfully static.
"W-why do you need it? You remember the spells."
“Knowledge is more valuable when it's scarce.”
I snorted. “You think I’m sharing those spells? Like I’d get out of your control just to hand my leash to the Guild. I’m not an idiot.”
"That's very good to hear," he said. The dangerous softness of his accent raked down my spine. "Very good. Now. I want you to take the book, and come to me in Miami. Can you do that?"
I swallowed, ignoring the pulse in my stomach, the thrashing fury in my brain. Eamon was as good as dead, and if he had the others, I couldn't rescue them. I couldn't go toe-to-toe with Gwydian. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Still, I had to drag the words out of me. “I’m not going back.”
"No? Mm, that's not what I wanted to hear." I heard him moving on the other end of the line, shoes scuffing on concrete. He sounded so conversational, as if we were talking about something unimportant. He grunted, and another sound started up. A voice, whimpers shivering over the line—a man past the point of prideful silence. I heard the muffled sound of a gag, and then the shuddering whimpers rose in volume, in urgency. A smothered cry of panic, the sound of heels jittering on the floor. Then a scream.
My knees shook from under me, buckling at the force of that sound. I slid down the pillar, a hand clapped over my mouth, because I knew that voice. Knew the way that scream sounded. And I was close to screaming back.
Morgan.
My entire being rejected it. I dropped the phone. It clattered to the concrete, a bright rectangle of light. The scream faded. A whisper replaced it, tinny with the distance from the speaker.
"What happens next is up to you," Gwydian said. "Come home, or I can send them to fetch you."
> My diaphragm was spasming. The desperate air wheezed past my sinuses, creating a high, uneven hiss in my nasal cavity.
Poo-stank whined in his cage. One of the smaller dogs gave a growl, followed by a yap.
"Helena," Gwydian's soft, raspy voice said. "Answer me, Helena."
I couldn't listen anymore. It was over. It was all over—he had caught everyone I cared about. Everyone that mattered. And he would kill them. Or turn them all into monsters, like my father, and send them after me.
I clenched my eyes shut. Morgan, twisted and bulging with fangs, lunged at me. The sight was too easy to imagine.
Poo-stank barked, and I jerked up. I muffled the scream with my fingers, nails digging into my cheeks. The bright square of phone was beneath me—a leash to Gwydian. I fumbled for it with my free hand, ending the call, and hurled it away from me.
It clattered to the concrete and spun under the bottom shelf of a sink. There it stayed, like a bomb.
My hands rattled against my face. I heard the wheezing in my throat, a sound that didn't have strength to be more.
"Hel?"
Footsteps on the stairs, the shifting shadows of someone coming down. The dogs were making a racket. I had to get up, had to scrape myself together—whatever it took to keep them from asking questions.
But what point was there? Everything was over. Everything was gone. The thoughts flitted into my brain and vanished. I had no strength to fight this.
"Hel?" Jaesung's voice was beside me. Fabric rustled as he crouched next to me.
My hands refused to leave my face. My knees trembled, breath shuddering. I'd never experienced this malignant despair. It seeped from my bones, curled through my guts and grew in hard, vicious clumps—a fast-moving cancer. It was too big for my body. I would crack open. I'd go crazy.
Hands found my shoulders. "Breathe, sweetheart. Come on."
Unleash (Spellhounds Book 1) Page 16
