“I’ve been to Nevada. Didn’t have time for the strip though.” The memories of playing nice with the south-western king, fighting side-by-side with Lucian, racing back to the private air strip hit me with a pang. There’s a lull in our conversation then. I signal the bartender for a second margarita.
“And make it a double!” I holler to him as he measures out the tequila.
I’m not driving. Might as well enjoy myself.
Marc’s only halfway through his Mexican beer.
He picks a leftover sautéed bell pepper off my plate. Eats it with zero apology to me. It’s like we are exactly where we were before. Comfortable familiarity.
The bartender delivers my margarita and I lift it to my lips. Salt and lime and everything perfect. Right in a glass. Could I ask for more?
I turn my attention back to Marc. His square jaw covered in light blondish stubble. His hair is messily spiked. That’s a trending fashion. He may look somewhat like Grayson, but it’s clear they’re very different people. I wonder how much he might have inherited from his mother.
His eyes. So different from Gray’s cutting blues.
But not much else. Maybe his easy going personality. But are personalities learned or inherited? I guess behaviors are learned. Personalities inherited. His mom. What was she like?
“There was never a chance for me and you, huh?” He asks as I study him.
Taken aback, I can’t help the smile and half-laugh that escapes me. “No. But you know that.”
His thumbnail works the corner of the label on the beer bottle worrying it.
“Yeah. I guess I do. Now.”
I shake my head at him, and take a sip of my margarita, pushing the plate in front of me away.
“Why are you here?” I ask him, “And don’t say it’s because of this prophecy bullshit.”
He tips his beer bottle back, draining the last little bit.
When he sits it on the bar top, the bartender materializes in front of us.
“Another sir?”
“Yes. And two shots of your finest tequila too.”
I raise an eyebrow at his order.
“Gonna need a little liquid balls to get this out.”
A tumble of trepidation hits me like a volley to the gut. So this isn’t some nice, friendly, how-you-doing, nice-place visit. I hope its not another attempt at a marriage proposal eigher.
When the bartender delivers the tequila shots, I quickly down them myself and signal for two more and another margarita. The warming fire is expanding from my belly out to my limbs.
Liquid balls and I-don’t-give-a-fuck. That’s what those shots were.
The bartender pours two more shots, and I let Marc have one this time.
“All right. Hit me with it. I’m ready.” I tell him. That third shot didn’t even hit my tongue. Just straight to the belly and into my bloodstream.
“When you left…” He starts, shakes his head, takes another deep pull on his beer.
I don’t say anything, waiting him out.
“Grayson’s a changed man.”
I lean back in my chair. I have to admit, I was on the edge of my seat, leaning to him, ready to hear some bombshell.
“So you don’t call him ‘Dad’ anymore?” It’s deflection. Picking apart a small detail while I process his non-verbal communication. What is he really trying to tell me?
He’s silent, unhappy that I pointed out their connection. He doesn’t want to be in his father’s shadow anymore. Can’t say that I blame him.
“You know, you’ve always had a little bit of spitfire in you. Never turned it on me before.”
“Things change.”
“That’s just what I’m trying to tell you.” He huffs out a breath.
“Dad,” He emphasizes, “Went totally nuts after you left.”
Something I can’t identify squeezes in my chest.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s lost his...political veneer.”
Political veneer. The words echo inside my brain. Yeah. I’d agree with that. The Grayson that I rode eighteen hours inside the Tahoe with. He’s a killer. Hard, hungry, and on the edge. Hardly the honorable man I’d left two years ago.
I lift one shoulder up and drop it down. “So what?”
“God, Indy. Don’t be blind.”
I mentally scratch my head. Why is he telling me this? What does he want me to see?
The alcohol is kicking in, and I can’t see past what’s in front of me. An old friend. A brother.
“Do you believe in this prophecy business?” I ask.
“Yeah. Maybe.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know.”
I smile a little at his honesty. “Have you talked to Glory and Justice about it?”
“Glory. Yeah. She’s in the skeptic boat. Justice is all in.”
That’s not unexpected of them. A swelling of want hits me. For the first time in two years, I have a yearning to see my sisters. See my family.
If I am the sword, then it’s probably best I don’t see them. Stay away and let them live their lives. Happily ever after.
“Two more shots.” I ask the barkeep when he comes within range again.
“Look. All I’m saying is: Don’t ice him out. He doesn’t deserve it. Hell. None of us do.”
I punch shots four and five back quickly.
“Are you saying this as ‘one’ of them? Or simply a man of the pack?” I ask directly.
Things change in two years. I’d never expected Marc to become one of the Guardians, but with whatever secrets they hold, it shouldn’t surprise me.
“Does it matter?” He returns.
Circling. I don’t like it. He is one of the Guardians.
“Fuck. Marc. Work on your abilities to lie a little. That wasn’t even subtle.”
He feels a hundred years younger than me in that moment. I could wrap him around my finger so quick, his head would be spinning into next week. I’m not sure what the secret-select warrior Guardian club taught him in the past two years, but it’s not soft skills.
The faintest tinge of pink climbs into his cheeks. It’s not the tequila making him blush, after all, he only had one shot.
“Maybe I just value our friendship too much to lie to you.”
“So what’s the club want then?” Might as well cut to the chase.
“To work together. That’s all.”
I sigh. Information exchange. It’s not a hard bargain. I’d come to the same conclusion myself. I needed to speak to Justice, Glory and see my mother’s handwritten journals myself. And not the e-copies. I want to put my hands on the real deal.
I want to know exactly where, how, and when this gate opened and just what beings are coming out of it.
Hell, I want to gather up all possible firepower and mount a defense. I can’t stand the thought of the human sheep out there facing their worst nightmares just because some mystical gate has appeared in their backyard. If there’s one thing that always gets me, it’s the innocents, the underdogs. And that’s not because I’m some prophesized ‘sword.’ It’s because I’m half-human myself.
“I wouldn’t have stuck around if I hadn’t already planned on it.” I tell Marc.
He gives a smile. “I told Dad you wouldn’t let us down.”
His blind confidence in me is so sweet it hurts.
Chapter 25
There have been leaks. Instances where the Otherside has come through. I’d been doing my research. Using the help of ye ‘ole Google, I’d been finding and filing all the strange news articles. Cross referencing with police reports.
Thirty-two active missing persons in the Rocky Mountain area. Twenty two of those had occurred within the past six months.
Twelve alien abductions or witness of unexplained phenomena. Temporal portals, strange gatherings of beings...etc.
Eight animal attacks.
Four dead by lightning strikes. In the past month. Not atypical for a summer. But I noted them just the same.
>
Two cases of bubonic plague.
And one curiously well-preserved human-sapien hybrid mummy. Well, that’s what the archaeologists are labeling it. I am putting my money on some type of fairy.
Two weeks had passed since Marc had come to my apartment and taken me out to dinner.
I hadn’t reached out to Glory or Justice yet; for some reason my hand only ever hovers over the phone when I try. Stymied.
I’d hung a blown up map of the Colorado and Wyoming areas along my apartment’s living room wall, and push-pinned all the collected incidents - as I am calling them - in their reported locations.
I start visiting the library, reading up on fairies, demons, angels, and demi-gods and myths from various religions. There is little-to-no-point trying to read up on werewolves and vampires - it seems more than half that information is stuff I already know.
“You should try the Sacred Text Archive.” The young librarian’s voice tells me when I put my three books on top of the counter.
“What’s that?” I ask as I hand her my one-week old library card.
“It's a free online encyclopedia basically. Covers all these subjects and more.” The computer beeps as she scans my card and hands it back to me.
“Thanks for the tip. Sacred Text Archive.” I repeat the name out loud so I won’t forget it. I drop the books into my backpack and head out into the parking lot.
Pulling on my helmet, I feel the vibration of my phone in my back pocket.
I check it, oddly pleased that someone has reached out to me after two weeks of radio silence.
It’s Grayson. A package came in the mail for you today.
I’ve come to the conclusion I can’t avoid him forever. I’d need to reach out at some point so I could get my paws on my mother’s journal.
Playing the lone wolf sounds cool in theory, but in reality it means missing out on a lot of critical information.
Deciding I can play nice, go over there and get the lay of the land, I text him back.
I’ll come by this afternoon.
I start my bike, climb on, and decide it’s a nice enough day to take the scenic route. And maybe once I’m over there, I can take a nice, long run over the hills, and through the woods.
It’d been a while since I let my wolf out to play.
I park in front of the house, noting that the usual mix of cars and trucks is not out front.
Must be an off day for the pack.
I push open the front door with a “Hello? Anyone home?”
No one answers. I drop my keys in the bowl on the sideboard, and my backpack at my feet.
In Grayson’s first floor office, I find the basket that Gretchen puts the mail in and has always sat on the edge of his power desk. I pick up the small stack and start rifling through it to find if there is anything addressed to me.
“Ahem.”
I’d seen him approach in my peripheral vision. Grayson.
“Hey, I thought you said there was some mail for me?” I drop the letters back in the basket and turn to him.
He comes more fully into the room, stopping at the side table, and pulling the top off his liquor bottle.
“Will you stay for dinner, Independence?”
I can’t get a full read on him. His question has a tone of casualness, but has a slight something to it. He pours a dash of the scotch into his glass and turns to me.
He’s wearing slacks that hug him in all the right places. A black collared shirt under an army style black sweater. His beard seems not as long, and I watch his throat muscles work as he takes a sip of his drink. His hair is slicked back, one braid in the mass, into a man-bun.
Polish over the wild.
The little bit of ink peeking out of his collar catches my eye. I’d like to ask him about it.
A thump of passion hits me in the gut. A swell of attraction. He looks like a man I could devour.
And even though I don’t like to admit it, this is the reason I’d been avoiding the house. The reason I absolutely could not stay here.
It used to be that I hero-worshipped him with innocence. But I’m seeing him now with a woman’s eyes. A woman’s desires.
I narrow those eyes at him. “Where’s my package?”
Was there even mail for me? Or was that a way just to lure me here?
“It’s upstairs in your room.”
I make a show of spinning fast to walk out the door. His hand reaches out and snags my elbow just as I make my way past him.
He pulls me to him. “You’ll stay for dinner.”
I pull my elbow from his grasp, ignoring the flare of excitement his touch brings me.
“Is that a question or a command?”
His eyebrow wings up.
“Fine. Food’s good. I like food.” I head out the doorway and up the stairs.
In the room I’d claimed as mine that short time I’d lived here, I find two boxes on top of the neatly made up bed.
One is long, maybe four feet. Brown with an actual mailing label.
The other is plain white and a normal size rectangle. I check the mailing label on the brown one.
From New Orleans. I rip open the top and reach inside.
Encased in bubble wrap. It’s very obviously a sword. I pull it all the way out of the box, and then tip the box upside down to make sure there’s nothing else.
A single white envelope flutters down to the bed.
I pick it up. My name is on the outside in a very old-world flourished script. I open it.
Independence,
I had this made especially for you, Lann bheag, reformed from my very own blade. However it was unfinished at the time of your departure. Please forgive the timing. Wield it carefully, the blade is sharp.
-Lucian
My eyes devour his words. They read affectionately. Quite a contrast from his cool goodbye.
Reformed from his very own blade. And what is his warning really trying to say in the last line?
Frustrated with the subtleties, I rip off the wrapping.
Obviously Lucian knows of the prophecy. I’d like to quiz him on whether or not he actually believes it. But he made it clear there was no future for us. We never had the ‘relationship’ talk and no words of love were ever spoken.
Mutual respect. Base attraction. That’s what we had.
The scabbard is leather, newly pressed and sewn together with careful stitching. There’s Gaelic runes etched into the leather. I’ll have to find a dictionary to discover their meaning.
The hilt is simple and clean. A mimic of his. With one notable difference. At the top, a dark stone is set deep inside. Almost completely enclosed by the metal, with its faceted tip-top peeking out. Small grooves down the handle, which is a slightly darker metal and lightly ridged for grip.
I put my hand on that and pull it out. Double edged down to a nice point.
A pretty and basic short sword. With the exception of the smoky looking stone set in the top. That’s top end.
I give it a twirl. Excellent light weight. A thrust. A slash. It feels phenomenal in my hands. Balanced.
I stab it back in the scabbard. Everyone knows you don’t bring a gun to a sword fight.
Even this nice piece.
I set it on the bed, and sit down.
The blade is sharp.
Why would he have such a sword made for me?
Deciding the mystery won’t be solved without talking to him directly, I turn my attention to the other box.
Lifting the lid, and pushing aside tissue paper, my fingertips graze silk.
There’s a note card resting on top.
Dinner’s at 6. Back patio.
Where Lucian’s handwriting was artful and flowy, romantic even, Grayson’s is masculine, messy slashes.
Annoyance shoots up my spine. He just thinks I’ll put a dress on and play girly-girly to his orders? He’s playing Mr. Fix-up between me and Marc?
God. What insufferable egoism.
I look the dress over more car
efully. Lift it up.
It’s red silk, halter style, with the bands that cover the breasts thinning to ribbons at the top of the shoulders and trailing down the back. The amount of silk at the bottom has me thinking this is either a mermaid cut or straight A-line skirt.
It is a beautiful dress. And for a minute I contemplate putting it on. I’d never had something so nice...so girly - no scratch that - womanly - given to me.
I could just try it on. There’s no harm in that.
No promises in a simple test. It probably doesn’t even fit.
One way to find out.
Chapter 26
It fits like a glove. The ties at the top do nothing to conceal the scar there, but holy bejeezus does this fabric cling and bisect my cleavage to umpteenth sexiness. There’s a high slit on the left that exposes a good amount of my thigh.
There’s no back, and I spin to survey my butt in the mirror. Can see the scar along my ribs there too. A pity. The smooth, lightweight fabric, flows out from my knees and pools on the floor. Like a small train. I’d need heels for this. It is beautiful.
“Oh goodness! Independence! You are breathtaking.”
“Gretchen.” She comes into the bathroom with me, enfolding me in a hug.
“I’m sorry I missed you earlier. Gray said you were up here, so I wanted to come say hi.”
Gretchen is the embodiment of all that I would want in a mother. A goddess in the kitchen, she can whip up briskets and cakes equally well.
“This dress is simply beautiful on you!” Her hand flutters at my shoulder smoothing the tie there.
“Yes, it’s very nice.” I agree. “Did you pick it out?”
“Oh no dear. Grayson did. He did ask me for sizing help...but men can’t be expected to know or understand women’s sizing. I’ve made your favorite for dinner tonight! The scampi in the wine sauce. Fresh French bread. And for dessert, a nice chocolate mousse.”
Her food is phenomenal, but I can’t help the suspicion that swirls in my mind.
“What’s going on here, Gretch?” I gesture to the dress.
“What do you mean?”
I spin out of the bathroom, reaching for the zipper on the side of my hip.
“I’m not wearing this.”
State of Independence Page 10
