Lost Paladin: A Dark and Twisted Urban Fantasy (The Broken Bard Chronicles Book 2)

by eden Hudson

  Because suddenly that’s all that matters—the way it hurts and feels so… It’s like when I get tattooed, except more intense. It’s sharp and soft and I want more of it.

  She tears away from my wrist.

  “Get out,” she says. Her eyes are shut tight, her hands white-knuckling the counter.

  I swallow. It’s as loud as a gunshot.

  The vamp spins around and shoves me toward the door. “Get out!”

  I stumble back to the Explorer. Get in and just sit there, staring at the dashboard. My heart’s still racing and I can’t get my breathing under control.

  “Shit.” I grab the steering wheel with shaky hands and rest my forehead against the top. A drop of blood falls from my wrist onto the knee of my jeans.

  Everything feels different. The cold feels colder. I can feel the inside of my coat sleeves rubbing against my arm hair, the blood and saliva drying on my wrist. I curl my toes in my shoes, feel my socks sliding against the bottom of my feet and have to stop.

  Every inch of my skin feels alive, electric. Like all my nerves were dead, but that bite jumpstarted them. It’s too much. Over-stimulation. I lean my head back against the headrest, take a deep breath, and blow it back out.

  What the hell just happened?

  Her tongue—cold and wet—and the way she was sucking…

  I want to hit something. I want to get into a fight. I want to yell and smash stuff and bleed.

  My stomach growls. Apparently I’m hungry, too.

  No, not just hungry. Starving. I can’t remember if I ate yesterday or not, but I don’t want just whatever’s at the cabin. I want something good. I’d kill for some taco pizza right now.

  Just thinking about it is making my mouth water. I haven’t had pizza since Ryder was alive. Whenever he wanted to order one from the gas station, I bitched about how much it cost and about having to drive into town to get it and how we had food right there in the fridge if he was hungry.

  “It’s not just about being hungry, Sunshine,” he would say. “Anyway, assholes don’t get to vote. Come on, Tough, let’s go get us some fucking pizza.”

  My stomach growls again.

  For once I don’t really feel like over-thinking this. If I do, I’ll just decide I can’t have it. I’ll make up excuses about how someone’ll probably slash my tires again while I’m waiting for them to cook it and how people will think I’m a stoner for ordering a pizza at one-thirty in the morning and how I should’ve been less of an asshole when Ryder was alive and Tough was still at home.

  I turn the key and put the Explorer in gear. I’m going to go get me some fucking pizza.

  Tiffani

  I don’t know how long I dragged my half-body across that sea of hot broken glass. I had to stop and rest so many times that I lost count. At some point along the way, I started crying. Back in the real world, I could’ve healed a hundred times over already, even re-grown the bottom half of my body. In Colt’s mind I was some sort of human thing, not alive enough to die and not undead enough to heal. For some reason, he was too determined for me to change that.

  I didn’t even know where I was going. No idea what I was looking for or what I would eventually do once I found it. This was pointless.

  I could leave. Give up and go back to my own mind.

  The second I began to consider leaving, I could feel my body returning to full strength, unharmed and intact.

  I’m not doing that, damn it. Immediately, I dropped back onto the glass, a solid smack that made a sound like a fallen chandelier. Shards of pain embedded themselves in my face, chest, and palms.

  So, that’s how this is going to be? I asked Colt.

  No answer.

  Fine. I reached out and tried half-swimming, half-pulling myself through the glass.

  Pain is a strange motivator. It kept me moving, but at the same time it forced me to find a way to escape what I was doing.

  I wanted to remember the first time I saw Colt, but I couldn’t. It would’ve been in the bakery, probably as an infant. Shannon came by nearly every day after we worked things out, and I went to a lot of trouble never to see her anywhere else. If I could’ve banned her from coming by the bakery, I would have. If I could have made myself move far away from Halo, I would’ve. But I’d never had any willpower where Shannon was concerned.

  Maybe that was the real reason I had kept from making a move on Colt all these years, even knowing how he felt about me. Maybe it had been a belated attempt to exercise some control. Or maybe it had been punishment for all those times I’d given in to Shannon.

  Thinking back, I did have one memory of a day that she had come by with the boys. Sissy was in kindergarten, Shannon was eight months along with Tough, and Ryder was driving her crazy. He spent the whole time they were there touching things he wasn’t supposed to, yelling, banging the salt and pepper shakers on the table, and making messes. After the third time Ryder stood up and started bouncing on the booth seat, Shannon grabbed him by the arm and swatted him on the backside.

  “Stop,” she said. “Just sit down and eat your turnover.”

  When she came back to the counter, she was rubbing her eyes.

  “I don’t know what to do with that kid, Tiff. Spanking doesn’t work. Yelling doesn’t work. Timeouts, making him clean his room, begging him, bribing him—nothing works.”

  As if to prove her point, Ryder got up and started bouncing in his seat again.

  “Ryder Gauge Whitney!” It wasn’t quite a shout, but echoed off the walls. Mom-voice, Shannon used to call it.

  Ryder dropped back onto his butt, a grin on his chubby little face.

  Shannon sighed and let her head drop onto the counter. I could smell the tears welling up in her eyes.

  “It’s fine, hon.” I rubbed her shoulder. “He’s not hurting anything.”

  “All those times Dad said he hoped I would end up with a little brat just like me,” she said, her voice bouncing off the countertop, “I was really praying he wouldn’t get his wish.”

  It’d been almost forty years since I found out I could never have children, a little over seven since Danny had taken Shannon from me and given her everything I’d always wanted. I loved her, but sometimes I felt so jealous that it made me sick. Even if motherhood was as exhausting and frustrating as it seemed, I would have given anything to have what she had.

  She lifted her head and looked over her shoulder at Ryder, who was shoving his fingers into the middle of his turnover, then licking the blueberry filling off of them.

  On the other side of the booth, Colt was sitting quietly, kicking his legs while he ate. When he saw Shannon looking at him, he waved. She gave him a thumbs-up. He went back to eating.

  “Hey, at least I made one good kid.” Shannon laughed. “Maybe he’s Danny’s. Or maybe I’m working my way up.” She rubbed her round belly. “Maybe this next little guy’ll be an angel.”

  In the middle of the scorching broken glass sea, I laughed. Tough an angel. I’d forgotten that Shannon said that. The idea of any of the Whitney boys as angels was downright hilarious. Even Colt. He might have been Shannon’s good little boy in that memory, but he damn sure didn’t stay that way.

  For a second, my heart hurt as if a piece of the broken glass had gotten lodged inside. Black hair, blue-green Whitney eyes, long eyelashes, cheeks still round with baby fat. There was so much coming in the next twenty years of that little boy’s life that he wouldn’t be able to escape. Wouldn’t want to escape.

  In the broken glass sea, my hand hit the flat heat of solid dirt. The shore.

  Colt

  The lights in the bakery are on when I pull up. I shut the Explorer off and hop out. The door’s locked, so I knock on the glass.

  A few minutes pass. Maybe she’s in the shower. Maybe this is one of those rare, rare times when she sleeps. I’m about to go when movement inside catches my eye.

  Tiffani’s in the kitchen. I can see her through the order window, taking a pan out of the oven and looki
ng around for a place to set it.

  That’s when I realize she’s got full sheet pans on all of the cooling racks and every flat surface. Cookies, cinnamon rolls, some weird layered pastries with cream coming out the front, donuts, three giant pans of tiramisu, bread knots, scones, croissants, some square yellow cakes sitting next to one of those icing bags.

  There’s nowhere left for her to put the pan she’s holding. She tosses it at the corner where her big trashcan is.

  The bakery could be catering a party or something. That would explain all the different desserts. But not why she trashed that last pan. This is something different. Something that looks a whole hell of a lot like me cleaning the cabin or reorganizing the arsenal.

  I should go. Tiffani won’t want me here. I wouldn’t want anybody to see me like this, especially not some loser I barely knew.

  Tiffani pats her pockets for her cigarettes, digs them out, and turns toward the door.

  She sees me and stops.

  I lift one hand in an awkward wave. I should leave. She probably wants to be alone.

  I start to head back to the Explorer.

  The bakery door opens at the same time as I grab the driver’s side handle.

  “Here to see about Tough?” she asks.

  “I can come back tomorrow,” I say.

  She shrugs. “The cinnamon rolls will be cold by then. Coffee’ll just be a minute. Unless you have somewhere to be.”

  My stomach growls, loud. With the vamp hearing, there’s no way she could’ve missed it.

  Tiffani pulls the door open wider and nods at me to come in.

  ***

  I never used to care much for sweet stuff—for any food, really, other than to fill the hole in my stomach when I couldn’t ignore it anymore—but Tiffani’s cinnamon rolls are so good. And with the way I’ve been these past few months since she bit me… It’s like I can finally appreciate how good food can be. I used to just eat so I wouldn’t be hungry anymore, but lately I’ve been savoring the way stuff tastes.

  But even Tiffani’s awesome-as-hell cinnamon rolls aren’t enough to make this less awkward. I swallow a bite and look her way. She’s at the counter, The X-Files playing on her computer. Except she’s not watching it, she’s looking at me out of the corner of her eye.

  I feel my face get hot, so I clear my throat and say, “That used to be Mom’s favorite show. She had the box set when we were kids.”

  “She’s the one who got me into it,” Tiffani says.

  I can hear Scully’s dog yipping while Mulder tries to tell her about the case he’s working.

  “This is a good one,” I say.

  Tiffani nods.

  I look down at my coffee. Adjust the handle so it’s parallel with the edge of the table.

  The noise from the show stops. Tiffani gets up and brings her computer over to my booth.

  “Scoot over,” she says.

  I move closer to the window, and get my coffee and plate out of her way.

  She puts the computer down, adjusts the screen, then sits next to me and hits play.

  I wasn’t lying when I said this episode was a good one. The ones where Scully’s trying to have a life outside work but Mulder just keeps bothering her are some of my favorites, but this morning I can’t pay attention to the show. I haven’t sat this close to someone in a really long time. I don’t think I’ve ever sat this close to a girl who wasn’t my mom or sister.

  My leg starts bouncing under the table, and I have to keep adjusting the handle of my coffee cup, making sure it’s perfectly parallel to the edge.

  Tiffani glances over at me, but doesn’t say anything.

  After a while, she shivers. Digs into her pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and an old metal lighter. She shakes one out of the pack and puts it to her lips.

  “You smoke in here?” I say.

  She shrugs. “It’s my bakery.”

  “Yeah, but that shit reeks.”

  “I’m the only one who ever smells it.” She taps her nose. “Super-smeller. I air the place out, humans have no idea.”

  “Still,” I say. “It’s gross.”

  She lights up. “Nobody’s forcing you to stay.”

  I feel myself smile.

  We go back to watching the show. I was lying when I said smoking was gross. That’s something I picked up from Sissy and Ryder, a hold-over from elementary school. I like the way cigarettes smell. Like burning paper with a tang of something else.

  Then I take a drink of my coffee and taste the smoke.

  “Tastes like cigarettes and ass,” I say.

  Tiffani doesn’t look my way, but she half-smiles. Not quite enough to show her fangs.

  “Aaron, my ex-husband, used to smoke.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out. “I wouldn’t let him do it in the house. Didn’t want the smell in my clothes.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tiffani tap the filter on her thumb. One tiny curl of ash falls off.

  “He died yesterday,” she says. Her expression hasn’t changed.

  I adjust the handle of my cup again. “Was it sad? For you, I mean. Him dying.”

  “It shouldn’t have been,” she says. “Hadn’t talked to him in more than fifty years.”

  The episode keeps playing. Tiffani finishes her cigarette and puts it out in her palm.

  When I realize I’m staring, I make myself look at the show again. I’ve been stabbed and shot and beat the hell out of before. I even got Tased once, the day before Ryder and I dropped out of high school. But I can’t remember ever having been burned. I wonder what it feels like. I wonder if she’s doing it because it hurts or because of the heat.

  Tiffani wraps her arms around her stomach like she’s trying to hold in the warmth.

  Does she know she’s been leaning closer and closer to me this whole time or do vamps not notice that sort of thing?

  “You could lean against me if you wanted,” I say.

  She looks at me like I’m crazy.

  “If you’re cold.” I point at the way her upper body’s angled toward me.

  “Hell,” she says.

  But she scoots over and presses her arm against mine.

  Cold isn’t quite the right word to describe what she feels like. Even through our long sleeves, her skin sucks the heat out of mine, but I don’t complain or pull away. I can’t remember the last time someone touched me. I didn’t even realize how badly I missed it. Not in a sexual way—can’t miss something you’ll probably never have—just basic human contact.

  Maybe my brain forgot how to want things. Maybe I’m even more screwed up than I am crazy.

  When the episode ends, Tiffani slides out of the booth. “I need to get ready to open.”

  That’s my cue. Get lost before someone sees my vehicle sitting out front and decides they would rather starve to death than eat in the same bakery as Colt Whitney.

  I take my plate and cup to the order window, reach through and set them in the slop sink, then go grab my coat. Head for the door.

  “Colt.”

  I turn around. I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard her say my name. Might be the first time anyone’s said it since I kicked Tough out. When you don’t have anyone to talk to, it gets kind of hard to keep track.

  “Thanks. For…” She gestures at the booth with her cigarette pack.

  My heart’s pounding and my face is hot. It feels like I’m about to do something stupid. But maybe she doesn’t have anyone else to talk to, either. Why else would she have told me about her ex dying and being upset?

  “You’re welcome. Tiffani.”

  Tiffani

  On the shore, my body returned and my wounds healed. Not the painful crawling of vamp healing, just an instant restoration.

  I stood up, brushed a few pieces of broken glass from my shirt, and patted my pockets for my cigarettes. Empty. Colt knew I smoked, but hadn’t considered the pack and the lighter I would need to do it.

  Far away, almost on the horiz
on line, I could see Mikal. She stood beautiful and terrifying with her wings outstretched, towering over an ugly, hunched creature cringing at her feet. Even at this distance, the super-smeller picked up the reek of human waste, rotting garbage, and something like blood poisoning.

  So that was where I was headed.

  Need a cigarette, I thought. I imagined I had a lit one between my fingers.

  Colt didn’t know how smoke tasted except for second-hand, but I’d brought enough of my own consciousness with me to recreate the flavor. I figured I deserved to waste a little of my concentration on the luxury. Especially after all that glass. I took a long drag and let the smoke curl in my lungs.

  It didn’t mask the smell coming from the creature, but it was familiar, and the cigarette gave me something to focus on besides what it meant that Mikal was here.

  You can’t go over there, a voice said.

  Ryder had appeared. Spit bottle in one hand, the other hand hooked on his back pocket.

  I thought you were supposed to be helping him, I said.

  He don’t want you here, Ryder said. This is me helping.

  I took another drag off my cigarette and sized him up. He was translucent in places. As I watched, he flickered in and out of existence.

  What do I have to do? I asked. Fight you?

  Ryder spit a stream of tobacco juice into the bottle and scraped his lip on the rim. Be a damn short fight, sweetheart. No, I’m just going to warn you. Take a fucking hint already. Leave.

  I took a step toward Mikal and the creature.

  Don’t! Ryder yelled. But he didn’t make any moves to stop me.

  Another step. No glass or razor wire.

  I exhaled and started walking.

  An explosion from under my shoe tore my leg off at the hip.

  Colt

  “What do you think?” Tiff asks, nodding at the lobster tail pastry I’m eating.

  “Tastes different,” I say. “Last time you made these they were good, but… This time they’re amazing. What’d you change?”