Three Days to Dead

“Yes, that’s it,” Wyatt said.

“How do you know it will keep its part of the deal?”

“How did you know before that Max wouldn’t spill his guts?”

“Point taken.”

Gremlins don’t understand deception. It’s a very human trait. For many of the Dregs, especially those who are more animal than others, things simply are. Gremlins need food. In return for food they don’t have to steal themselves, they will grant a favor. It doesn’t even occur to them to not hold up their end.

I followed him across the balcony, back toward the stairwell. “Too bad human beings aren’t more like gremlins,” I said. “Then we probably wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“I hear that.”

“So Chalice is almost taken care of.” My voice echoed around us, and I reminded myself to whisper. “What’s our next step, O Great Mastermind? Max was a dead end. Any other suspects on the list of people present the night I died?”

Wyatt stopped on the steps; I grabbed the rail to halt my own forward movement and avoid knocking him down to the next landing. He tugged back the sleeve of his shirt, twisting his wrist to check his watch. The glowing face lit up with the time—barely after ten. I watched the seconds click by, ticking away the last few days of my life. One, two, three seconds that I would never get back.

“I think it’s been long enough,” he said, breaking the silence.

“Long enough for what?”

He turned his head and looked up at me. Something hard and angry flickered in his eyes. “To talk to Rufus.”

* * *

Rufus St. James was Wyatt’s mirror opposite. Another well-known Handler, Rufus exuded the patience and understanding of a wizened gnome lord, and was slower to anger than any human being I’d ever met. His Triad was as elusive as mine had been infamous, preferring stealth and secrecy to a reputation as swift dealers of punishment. Probably why they were still alive, and we were all (technically) dead.

Wyatt took us to the east side of Mercy’s Lot, far beyond the last of the apartment buildings and row homes. I considered asking where the hell we were meeting Rufus, but the hard line of Wyatt’s jaw (he was going to break his teeth one of these days) kept me silent. His path took us to the weedy parking lot of an abandoned fast-food restaurant. An empty strip mall occupied the other half of the lot, every storefront covered with graffiti. The sounds of the city seemed so far away from this ghostly part of town. Oddly stronger, though, were the lingering threads of static that still tickled the edges of my senses.

He parked around back, careful to obscure his car from passing motorists. Judging by the potholes we’d hit, I doubted many people ventured into this area, especially after dark. It felt like the perfect Halfie feeding ground.

A brand-new padlock secured the rear exit of the restaurant. Wyatt produced a key and let us inside. Faint odors of stale grease and humid air made me sneeze. I followed Wyatt through a dusty, grimy kitchen, toward a huge, walk-in refrigerator.

“Why are we meeting Rufus here?” I finally ventured to ask.

Wyatt looked at me over his shoulder. “Because this is where I put him.”

I gaped at the refrigerator, noticing for the first time that the temperature controls were set to forty degrees Fahrenheit. Wyatt had kidnapped a fellow Handler and held him in an industrial fridge? More than unexpected, the realization was downright horrifying.

Hear that, Chalice? This is the guy you’re so keen to sleep with.

Wyatt tugged the handle. The door squealed open. Cold air wafted around my ankles, sending gooseflesh tickling across the backs of my legs. I didn’t want to look, but felt compelled to follow. If Wyatt had Rufus locked up in a fridge, he had a good reason for it. I refused to believe that Wyatt had completely lost his grip on reality.

Rufus sat in the center of the room, legs tucked oddly beneath him so that his ass rested on his shoes rather than the cold floor. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, and held both arms tightly around his waist. His pale skin was nearly translucent, contrasting harshly with his strawberry blond hair. Freckles dotted his face and neck like pockmarks. He shivered so continuously, he appeared to vibrate. I saw no chains, no restraints holding him in place. Bright hazel eyes glared first at Wyatt, then at me.

I didn’t dare speak. Rufus didn’t seem to have the strength. For a moment, the gentle thrum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the room.

“Ready to talk now?” Wyatt asked. “Or do you need a few more hours to chill?”

The pun fell flat, and I could have punched him for even uttering it. Rufus ignored him, his attention still on me, trying to puzzle me out. Unlike Wyatt, Rufus was a powerless Handler, known more for his extreme intelligence and tactical mind. He was measuring his chances, observing his situation. Considering the latest unknown variable: me.

“You’re a fool, Wyatt,” Rufus said at last. “Born one, and you’ll die one.”

Starting out with a verbal challenge—not good. I expected Wyatt to usher me back out of the fridge and slam the door, giving Rufus more time to “chill.” Instead, he asked, “How’s that?”

“For believing Tovin.” Wyatt arched his eyebrows, the only indication that Rufus’s words surprised him. “For your insistence in holding on to the naïve idea that people like us get happy endings. How can you think for a second you’ll get away with what you’ve done?”

“It’s not about happiness anymore, Rufus. Right now it’s about justice for Evy, and stopping what’s about to happen.”

“Ah yes, the infamous deal between goblins and Bloods. Why is it no one else has heard of this? Why isn’t the brass all over it, Wyatt? You’re putting yourself up against a dozen other races, and for what? There’s no cause; no effect. It’s all in your head.”

“Is that what they’re saying? Poor Truman has lost his mind, so let’s bring him in for the public’s safety?”

“No, for your safety. Everyone knows you’re powerful, and now they think you’re insane. The old Wyatt Truman would never have tortured a friend for answers that don’t exist. The old Wyatt Truman wouldn’t have made a freewill deal to resurrect a wanted murderer just to further his fantasy of redemption.”

Wyatt lunged. I blocked him and was nearly bowled over for my efforts. I pressed my hands against Wyatt’s shoulders, holding him still. Fury flickered in his eyes, bright as fire and just as dangerous. I held my ground, my own temper peaking.

A freewill deal.

I’d questioned the bruises on Wyatt’s abdomen, as well as his simmering anger, in the were-cat’s apartment when I questioned his investment. Magic isn’t cheap, and it’s often dangerous. Because it breaks that tenuous barrier between life and death, I’d been unable to imagine the price Wyatt had paid to bring me back. Nothing seemed like enough, and I had never pondered such a huge sacrifice.

A freewill deal is exactly how it sounds—the willing trade of one’s free will in exchange for magic. Only the most powerful mages in any species can perform such a bargain, resolve tested by the beating and contract signed with blood. Wyatt had traded his free will in order to give me three more days.

“I’m the one who will be dead again in two and a half days, not you.” In some ways, he would die. He would be subject to the will of his master for the rest of his natural life. Way longer than my three days. All for what was in my head.

No pressure.

“Wyatt, don’t,” I said.

The tone of my voice drained away some of his fight, and Wyatt took two steps backward, hands fisted by his sides. I pivoted and looked down. Rufus gazed at me, eyebrows knitted together, lips slightly parted. His eyes darted back and forth, studying me. Understanding what he’d just seen.

“Who are you?” Rufus asked.

“A wanted murderer,” I said. “Nice to see you again, Rufie. How’s Tully? Still addicted to sunflower seeds?”

His mouth curled into a silent O. “Evangeline?”

“In someone else’s flesh.”