Three Days to Dead

Chapter 10

55:20

I balanced the bakery box in both hands, careful to not drop and ruin the expensive treat inside as I ascended the rickety metal staircase. Wyatt led the way up, taking the steps two at a time. The interior of the service stairwell smelled of forgetfulness and disuse.

We had returned to downtown. Wyatt had left me in the running car while he ran into a bakery and, moments later, returned with a white box. I hadn’t opened it, but a sticker on the side said “CSCK—Cherry Top.” Given the shape and weight of the box, I silently translated that into “Cheesecake—Cherry Topping.” I had kept my questions to myself, even when Wyatt drove us back toward Mercy’s Lot.

Halfway there, he had said, “You know, you’re showing amazing restraint.”

“With what? The cheesecake?”

A tiny smile. “No, with not asking me about the night you died. And who else was in the room.”

“You’ll tell me when I need to know something.”

“Fair enough.”

After reaching the outskirts of Mercy’s Lot, he had parked in front of an abandoned potato chip factory and said we needed to head to the top level.

Six flights up I smelled it. Faint at first, and then gradually stronger—the eye-watering stench of fermented sugar. I felt like I was walking into a distillery, and that clued me in as to who we were visiting.

Gremlins are the cockroaches of Dregs. They live short lives in the dark (eight days is the record), reproduce like bunnies, and are hard to kill. They are also hermaphroditic. On the fourth day of their lives they produce and fertilize litters of twelve, which are fully grown within twenty-four hours. Gremlins are as notorious for causing havoc with machinery as they are for having a sweet tooth. Existing almost entirely on a sugar-based diet, their waste created the alcoholic smell that permeated the upper floors of the factory.

I’m still waiting for some brave soul to start marketing Gremlin Piss Schnapps.

Flexible as putty and ugly as sin, the eighteen-inch-tall creatures didn’t fear the Triads. Instead of death and destruction, they specialized in causing trouble and occasional mayhem. We had no reason to hunt them. Their only natural enemies were gargoyles—as a crunchy snack or sport hunting, I didn’t know—and their own brief life spans.

On the seventh level, I began to hear the scuffling sounds of small feet racing back and forth. They knew we were there; it was only a matter of seconds before they sent an emissary. Gremlins did not speak to outsiders en masse. They rarely showed their full strength, and given the size of the factory (and the stink), there could easily be thousands of gremlins breeding in the shadows.

We reached the eighth floor. A reinforced fire door blocked the top of the stairwell. Wyatt banged his open palm against it.

“Ballengee be blessed,” he shouted. His voice bounced off the enclosed space, and I clutched the bakery box closer. More scuffling preceded a single set of footsteps.

A lock turned on the other side of the door. Wyatt pushed. The tiny creature scrambled away and disappeared. I followed Wyatt into a haze of odor so thick my eyes watered. It felt heavy against my skin, like a fog of liquor fumes. I held my breath, but it did no good. The stink was everywhere, seeping into my pores, so strong I could taste it.

We stood on the upper balcony of a catwalk that overlooked a cavernous production area. To my left was a row of offices, the doors gone and glass broken out of every window. The open area below caught my immediate interest. Hundreds of gremlins scurried about on those multi level floors. Dozens of nests, made of cardboard and shredded debris, dotted nearly every available space. The din of their chatter and daily activity sounded like faint machine-gun fire—constant and sharp. Huge metal vats (likely old deep fryers) were filled with pools of amber liquid.

“They certainly took the term, ‘ piss pot’ to a literal level,” Wyatt said.

I snorted, but could not drum up laughter. The sight of so many Dregs in one place startled me. I had never seen such a gathering, nor been invited into the heart of this community. Whatever “Ballengee be blessed” meant, it worked to gain their trust.

“Why for come you?”

The tiny voice startled me. I spun around and nearly dropped the cheesecake. Barely twenty inches tall, an elderly gremlin gazed at us from the floor. Its long, apish arms and knob-kneed legs were wrinkled, with yellowish skin that seemed transparent in places. A round, distended belly hung low. Tall, rabbitlike ears stuck out from its oval-shaped head at perfect right angles, accented by tufts of green fur. More green fur covered the top of its flat head. The gremlin smiled, revealing two rows of tiny teeth in a mouth that seemed too small for the width of its head. Red eyes blinked, shifting from me to Wyatt.

“I would like to buy a favor,” Wyatt said.

The gremlin tilted its head, a very thoughtful (and human) gesture. “Payment?”

Wyatt nudged me. I opened the top of the box and squatted down. The gremlin peered into the box. A whistle of delight turned into a shriek, and it rubbed clawed hands together. I pulled the box away before the little critter could drool all over it.

“Favor?” it asked.

“A computer wipe,” Wyatt replied. “I need all traces and records for the name Chalice Frost erased. Every data source, every police file, all of it. After today, she doesn’t exist. We need paper copies of everything dropped at this address.”

“Chalice Frost,” it repeated. The tinny voice did not match its horrific appearance. It seemed better suited to a tiny human being than a creature of nightmare. It took a slip of paper from Wyatt. “Will done be. All is that?”

“That’s all, and I need it done in two hours.”

“Less.”

“Good.”

The gremlin extended its clawed hands toward me. I looked at Wyatt; he gestured toward the bakery box. I handed it over. The small creature grabbed it and hobbled off, probably to gorge its latest brood.

“That’s it?” I asked.

“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.”

Rufus closed his eyes and, if possible, went paler. When he again looked at me, grief and resignation warred for dominance. “I’m so sorry, Evy, that he pulled you into this fantasy. He should have let you rest in peace.”

“Yesterday, I might have agreed with you, Rufus, but today? Not so much. Wyatt isn’t crazy. Something is happening; we heard it this morning from a gargoyle. The races are choosing sides, and something’s about to blow.”

I crouched in front of him, trying hard not to shiver in the chilly room. “Now, I’m thinking one of two things is happening here. Either the brass know what’s coming down and are trying to cover it up by making an example of me and Wyatt, or—are you ready for this? — someone in the Fey Council is keeping us in the dark. They aren’t talking to your bosses, so nothing comes down to you. The Triads stay running in circles, hunting one another, while something else much more sinister takes place right under our noses.”

Rufus sneezed, and a tremor racked his body. “Why did you kill your partners?”

I blew air between my teeth, creating a frustrated whistle. “I didn’t; not really.” I explained it again, as it had happened. The mere fact that Jesse had been turned before death shocked Rufus as much as it had shocked Wyatt. Nothing like a dose of truthfulness to wake you up to reality.

I sensed warmth behind me. Wyatt stood to my right side, so close I felt his heat. Tension vibrated from his body. Rufus shifted his attention between us, coming to some sort of silent decision, weighing my words against Wyatt’s actions.

“Why would they lie?” Rufus asked. “About Jesse, I mean.”

“Like she said,” Wyatt replied. “To keep the Triads off balance and hunting one another, instead of sniffing around what’s really going on. If the attack on my Triad was a setup from the get-go, we’ve all been played for fools. You and Baylor and Kismet have been so wrapped up in hunting—first for Evy, and then for me—that you haven’t had time to notice anything else happening.”

“Like a consolidation of power?”

“Precisely.”

It made a horrifying kind of sense. Handlers had a free hand to run their Triads as they saw fit, doling out assignments and keeping tabs on the activities of their Hunters, but even the Handlers had bosses (the brass) to report to—three officers in the upper echelons of the Metro Police Department, whose identities were carefully guarded. Especially from the regular police department.

Triads are isolated, only allies to one another. The real cops can’t help us; normal people barely notice us. Turn us against one another and we fall apart; change the status quo and the center can’t hold. As Triad Handlers, if Rufus, Baylor, and Kismet received a Neutralize order from the brass, they followed it. No questions. Just action.

“We need to find out who got rid of the bodies,” I said.

Rufus blinked. “Which bodies?”

“All of the Halfies that Ash, Jesse, and I killed that night. The ones that support my version of events.” I swallowed against a lump in my throat. “I had to leave them to call for backup, but I was blindsided by Kismet’s team before I could get back to the site. They already had orders to Neutralize me for murdering my teammates. Less than ten minutes after they died, I was wanted.”

“So someone set you up,” Rufus said.

It was exactly what Wyatt had said a week ago. Someone on the inside knew how to get us to that train bridge, and how to get nine other Triads to turn against me. To focus all of their energies on finding and Neutralizing me, instead of paying attention to the Dregs.

“Yeah, someone set me up.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Rufus said, shaking his head.

“Of course it does,” Wyatt snapped. “It makes perfect sense. And it was also a terrific excuse to massacre the Owlkins, one of the largest Clans that sympathized with our species. We’ve been chasing our own asses for the last ten days, while the Bloods and goblins have been amassing power.”

I crouched, getting eye level with Rufus. He didn’t look away. “Rufus, I need your help,” I said. “I don’t have all of my memories back. I don’t remember the final three days of my—Evangeline’s—life, or anything that happened while I was captured. We need to piece this together, and we can’t do it alone. We’ve only got two days to prove that Wyatt isn’t nuts, that I’m not a traitor, and that there is some sort of plot against humanity brewing in the Dreg world.”

His hazel eyes captured mine for a moment, as though attempting to see past Chalice’s plain brown irises and into my soul. To see the person I’d once been, who lurked deep inside of the shell of a woman he didn’t recognize.

“On one condition,” he said.

“What’s that?”

He glared over my shoulder. “Hot coffee and a blanket.”