is screaming to fight and survive, and I just can’t reconcile that with knowing I’ll be dead in less than two days. I don’t want to die again.”
“I wish I could take it all back, Evy.” His voice was so quiet, barely above a whisper. “But I can’t. This was wrong. All of it’s wrong.”
He kissed the back of my head. A warm tingle danced down my spine. I thought of the library stairwell and the way I’d reacted to his touch, his kisses. All of this had been complicated by Chalice’s overt attraction to Wyatt, which had, in turn, become my attraction. It elevated my existing affection into something else, into something close to actual desire. Something I couldn’t bear to give in to when no chance of happiness existed for either of us.
“We can’t undo it,” I said. “We can’t change it. Maybe we never could. My part was over, and I was never supposed to be here to stop the goblins or the Halfies or whoever the fuck is involved in this shit, but I am. We’re both in it now, and I’m not going to spend the rest of my limited lifetime rotting away in this stinking cell. It’s not me, and I know it’s not you.”
“You have any bright ideas on getting out?” He thumped the top of my head with the tip of his finger. “Because that crystal is keeping me from using my Gift, and unless you’ve learned how to bend metal …”
“I’m working on it.”
I pulled away, just far enough to turn around. I knelt in front of the bars and took his hands. “No more about the past,” I said. “We have to think about right now and nothing else. No more why’s or how’s or who’s, and definitely no more self-pity from either of us. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“Are you lying?”
“Are you?”
I glared. How the hell did he do that? “Self-pity is your thing, not mine.”
The hard line of his mouth remained. No hint of what he was thinking. Just an enigmatic stare that was getting on my nerves.
“What, Wyatt?”
“It’s just something you mumbled while you were unconscious. You were asking someone to forgive you. Was it Alex?”
“No.” I should have gone along with it and pretended. Opening up wasn’t my strong suit, but I had to tell someone. Wyatt would understand. “I shot an innocent today. He got in the way, and I shot him.”
“Did he die?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“But it was an accident?”
“Yeah, but he’ll never know why he was shot, or what that thing was that was chasing us through the streets.”
“He’s better off not knowing.”
“Doesn’t take away my responsibility.”
“In my eyes, it does. You can’t dwell on one mistake, Evy.”
“Like you?”
He grunted, not pleased by the reversal. “I’m your Handler. Dwelling and self-indulgence are job prerogatives—especially when you’re the only surviving member of a team that I led for four years, surviving intact longer than any other Triad. I have put everything into this job, and everything else on the line for you. Forgive me for being self-indulgent with my emotions.”
I quirked an eyebrow. For someone usually so reticent with his feelings, he was doing an awful lot of sharing. Getting things off his chest and airing some dirty laundry. It had to feel great. He watched me for a minute, mouth pulled into a taut grimace. I wiggled my eyebrows. His mouth twitched. I crossed my eyes.
Wyatt laughed out loud. He tugged me forward, and I initiated our awkward, bar-infested hug. His hands were warm around my shoulders, protective and loving. I never wanted to let go, but cold metal was digging into my left breast. I grunted; he loosened his grip. I pulled back a few inches.
Our faces were so close, mouths nearly aligned. His breath was hot on my cheeks, gently caressing the skin. I stared at his lips and remembered how they felt, how he tasted. The fire his kisses had lit in my belly. I wanted it again, that consuming ache. Knowledge that every inch of his body wanted me, every muscle thrummed with need. I had never felt that before, in my first life. As a Hunter, I didn’t have time for anything personal. Life was about work; pleasure was always secondary. And pleasure with a co-worker was forbidden.
I leaned back on my heels, putting cold distance between us. It wasn’t the time or the place to indulge in such things. An inch of solid steel every four inches was an unbeatable obstacle. Not to mention a painful one.
“No more self-pitying. Right?” I asked.
He nodded. “Right.”
“Good.” I made a show of looking around the cell, pretending to admire my surroundings and take in every (nonexistent) detail of the spartan space. “So, what do you do for fun around here?”
“Shadow puppets.”
“I’m amazed you’re still sane, Mr. Truman.”
“You could count the number of cement blocks that make up your back wall. I’ve done it twice.”
“I’ll pass.”
“Strangely, my count was off by one the second time.”
Once again, his delivery was perfectly deadpan. “I’d only start worrying if it’s off the third time, too.”
“Want to count with me?”
“I’d rather go around my cell and test every single bar for a weakness I might be able to exploit.”
“I tried that, but good luck.”
“Have fun counting.”
The jail cells were old, probably hadn’t been in regular use for fifty years, but they were still solid. Not a single bar jiggled or shimmied, and the lock on the door was sturdy. No scraps of metal to pick it with; nothing but a bucket waiting to be pissed in. My diligence paid off in exhaustion and an hour of time wasted.
Wyatt lounged on his back in the middle of his cell, staring at his cement wall. Probably counting the blocks, as he’d said. I couldn’t tell and didn’t much care. I was geared up, and nudging inches closer to claustrophobia. I couldn’t stand being caged. Tied up was one thing, but walled in was quite another. Just enough room to move around, but not enough to truly stretch my legs.
Metal clanged nearby. Wyatt scrambled to his feet, and we moved to the front of our respective cells. At the far left of the corridor, the cells ended with a steel door. It had a handle on our side, but no lock or window.
More noise from the same direction.
“Someone’s coming,” Wyatt said.
A lock clicked back. I winced at the tight squeal of rusty metal. The door swung inward, casting a rectangle of yellow light onto the bare cement floor. Three figures entered the room.
The two standing upright were Halfies, easy enough to recognize. True vampires look like Isleen: tall, willowy, white-blond, with pronounced fangs and lavender eyes. The process of infection cannot change a person’s height or build, but it does change hair and eye color. Halfies end up with mottled hair, like a peroxide job gone bad, and opalescent eyes that look purple from one direction and their natural shade from another. Half of two worlds, but welcome in neither.
Between them, they supported Alex by his arms. His head hung low, and his bare feet dragged along the floor. He’d been stripped down to his boxers. Bruises, welts, and dozens of shallow cuts covered his torso and legs. There was little blood. I imagined the Halfies didn’t waste a drop.
A guttural snarl tore from my throat. This seemed to startle the Halfies. They paused and exchanged a look. Teenagers, I’d guess, with less than a week’s experience in their new lifestyle. They looked better suited for a homecoming football game than doing interrogation dirty work. Fury hit me so hard that my stomach ached. I clenched the bars until my knuckles cracked. If I could have escaped my prison, I would have gleefully ground their faces into the floor.
“What the fuck did you do to him?” My voice bounced around the narrow corridor and reverberated off the metal bars. One of them—the larger of the pair—winced.
