“I think you did, but you wouldn’t tell. At least, not around the people who were there when we found you. Even though you were dying, you didn’t talk. I could see in your eyes that you wanted to, but something frightened you into silence.”
“Something or someone,” I said, uncertain which I preferred. “So that’s why you brought me back? To pick my brain about those final moments, only I can’t remember them?”
“That was the plan. Obviously we didn’t account for this specific contingency.”
“That’s a pretty big fuckup, Wyatt.”
He had the temerity to smile. “You don’t look like you, but you sure as hell sound like yourself.”
I flipped him a one-fingered salute.
“And I get to be selfish about something,” he said, fishing his wallet out of his old jeans. “I can apologize to you.”
A novel experience: bringing someone back from the dead to apologize for getting them killed in the first place. “Well, you’re forgiven.”
“You may want to wait on that until you get your memory back.”
I didn’t know if that was simply self-deprecation (not something he did well or often) or said in earnest (much more likely), so I kept quiet.
“Let me see your shoulder,” he said.
“It’s fine.”
“Now who’s downplaying?”
I turned around. He lifted my hair up and away, so much more than used to be there. I had kept my straight blond hair cut short, just above the shoulder. The weight of Chalice’s wavy locks continued to startle me. Gentle fingers stroked my shoulder around the itchy spot. My stomach again fluttered at his touch. That was weird.
“Incredible,” he whispered. “It’s already starting to heal.”
“Really?” I reached back and touched the wound. Sure enough, a thick scab had formed, and it was barely sore to the touch. I checked the laceration scar on my arm—gone. Track marks, as well. “Cool. So is this a side effect of the spell, or does Chalice have superhuman healing powers we didn’t know about?”
“Who?”
I spun, striking a pose for him. “Chalice Frost, the chick we brought back to life. And since we’ve circled back to that, how did I end up in her and not in someone … I don’t know, graceful?”
“I’m not sure. We had a former Hunter ready for you, a girl about your age who had died two days ago. She was trained. I don’t know why you jumped to this body, and neither does the Elder who performed the spell.”
I studied his face, searching for truth and finding a blank stare. He was trying so hard to keep emotion out of this, but it continued to leak through in his words and his actions. Maybe he didn’t know what went wrong, but it was high on my list of things to find out. Soon.
“In the long run, I guess it doesn’t matter why,” I said. “Granted, having a body that does what my brain tells it would be nice, but we all have our crosses to bear. So if the Department put up for the spell to bring me back, is it safe to assume they won’t kill me on sight?”
Wyatt flexed his jaw, then chose that moment to pick up his soiled clothing and dump them into the room’s only waste can. Slow, deliberate movements. He was buying time again.
“Magic has a high price, Wyatt, and nothing is more costly than this.” I poked myself in the chest, smearing a spot of blood that had transferred from him to me. Ick. “Who paid, Wyatt?”
“The brass doesn’t know,” he said, back still turned. “Neither do any of the other Triads. I don’t trust them, not right now. It’s one of the reasons I was staying cloaked.”
I got into his face, pleased that I now stood eye-level to him, rather than six inches shorter. It made intimidation easier. Height and size made up for the brute strength Chalice’s body lacked. He didn’t back down, but he did keep his eyes fixed on the floor.
“Who paid?” I growled, both eager and terrified to hear his reply.
His nostrils flared as he exhaled hard through his nose.
I moved in, leaving only the tiniest cushion of air between us. I could smell him—blood and sweat and aftershave, the barest hint of coffee on his breath. The minuscule space was alive with electricity. The short hairs on the back of my neck tingled. Was he doing that, or was it my imagination? I hooked one finger beneath his chin and pressed until his eyes met mine.
Inky black pools teemed with frustration and worry, and with something else I didn’t dare label. Something so close to desire that it scared me.
“Who?” I asked.
He swallowed. “Me.”
I stepped back, eager for distance after hearing the response I both wanted and feared. Wanted because it meant he was convinced of the importance of what I knew—convinced enough to put up an enormous price. Feared because of the price he had likely offered in return. I thought of those bruises, and my stomach roiled.
For humans, the use of magic exacts a physical toll—always painful, sometimes even crippling. Gifted have little choice in the matter, but magical spells can be purchased for the correct price; often the price includes a promise of silence, because black market magic is frowned upon by the Council. Faeries selling spells will up the ante to include proof of sincerity on the part of the buyer. Sadistic creatures, no matter what books say, faeries are rumored to require a physical beating as that proof.
Fey magic isn’t cheap. What the hell had he gotten himself into?
“I must be repressing one hell of a secret,” I said, hoping to de-emphasize the enormity of what it meant to me.
He tilted his head up slightly, then back down in a curt nod. “You were with them for almost three days, Evy. When we found you, you were dying. You were mostly lucid, but someone in that room scared you into taking your secret to the grave.”
“And you thought that I’d wake up and give you all the answers you needed, right?”
“Something like that.” He furrowed dark eyebrows. “I never expected memory loss.”
I hopped up onto the wooden laundry table and leaned back on the palms of my hands, legs swinging freely. “Guess you should have used your price for a séance and saved the trouble of resurrection, since it’s obviously doing neither of us any good.”
His hand jerked. I’d struck a nerve. Good. My own nerves were well frayed. I wanted to share the wealth.
“We just need to jog your memory,” he said, slipping first his wallet and then the yellow jewel into his jeans pocket. “I’m not calling this a loss yet, Evy. Not until the clock’s run out.”
Breath caught in my throat. Right; the clock. I forced an exhale, but my heart continued to beat too fast. “Wyatt, how long do I have? I know that spells like this have a shelf life, and if you were expecting an instant replay, you wouldn’t have bargained for a lot of time. A week? Five days?”
His shoulders slumped. “Three days.”
Hell. Seventy-two hours. I shivered. Was that enough time? It didn’t feel like enough, not if we were running cold.
His hands gently squeezed my knees, offering silent support. I looked up, right into his eyes. One of his hands reached up and brushed a lock of hair away from my cheek, carefully tucking it behind my ear.
I caught myself staring at his slightly parted lips, wondering … what? No, not wondering.
No. “Do you have a plan?” I asked.
He nodded, the intensity of his stare never wavering. “I want you to talk to Smedge. He would always talk to you, give up what he knew when you asked. He won’t talk to me. I’ve tried.”
Smedge, one of my most loyal informants. One of my strengths as a Triad Hunter was my ability to get Dregs to trust me, even if they had no reason for it. Maybe it was my smile, or my all-American blond-haired, blue-eyed looks. It didn’t matter, as long as they talked. But I hadn’t spoken to Smedge in weeks.
“I don’t think Smedge ever liked you,” I said.
“Bridge trolls don’t tend to like human males, period.”
“Too true, but he
