Three Days to Dead

Chapter 11

54:15

“Where’s your team?” I waited until we were back in Wyatt’s car, with Rufus wrapped up in a blanket from the trunk, and us well on our way to get some drive-thru coffee, before asking the question foremost on my mind. I twisted around in the front passenger seat to face him.

“No idea,” Rufus said. He’d taken on a bit of color since we helped him limp out of the refrigerator. “I’ve been locked up for the last thirty-odd hours, so they could be anywhere in the city, probably looking for me. My kids are loyal, too.”

The last was directed at Wyatt, but he kept his concentration on driving.

“Could you convince them to help us?” I asked.

Rufus shook his head. “I’m still not convinced I’m going to help you, so how about one step at a time? You really don’t remember anything between telling Wyatt that you were going uptown, then waking up in a new body?”

“I really don’t, and I wish people would stop second-guessing that. Do you think I like not knowing where I was or what happened to me?”

Wyatt grunted. Okay, so he knew what had happened to me, but I still couldn’t bring myself to ask for those details. Instinctual revulsion at those goblins had been enough to hint at the torture they’d inflicted; I didn’t need it drawn out in pictures. And yet I knew that my desire to remember everything for myself was costing us precious time. Time we couldn’t afford to waste.

“Okay, you guys know what happened the night I was found,” I said. “Since I can’t seem to get it together, tell me your side of what happened. Who was there? Who said what? Maybe it will jog something.”

“I got the page in the afternoon and called in, like usual,” Rufus said. “The message said you’d been found, and that my team was needed on the scene. When we arrived, Wyatt, Amalie, and her guard, Jaron, were already there. So was Tybalt, but no one else from Kismet’s Triad. Kis told me later that the others were on patrol down by the docks and couldn’t get there in time. That’s everyone.”

“One of your team was missing,” Wyatt said. A small amount of accusation tinged his words.

Rufus flared his nostrils. “Tully and Wormer were there. Nadia didn’t respond right away.”

I knew the three by name and by the occasional joint operation. We’d met maybe half a dozen times in our careers, which wasn’t unusual in our line of work. Death followed us around, so it was better to maintain a distance. Befriend only your two Triad partners, and keep everyone else at arm’s length.

And Tybalt … I think I punched him in the face once.

“It was a train station on the old track,” Rufus said. “Part of the abandoned passenger line that followed the river over the Anjean tributary and into the East Side. No one was guarding it, so they must have heard us coming….”

“Or been tipped off,” Wyatt added.

Rufus quirked an eyebrow at the back of Wyatt’s head. “Would you like to do the telling here?”

Wyatt raised a dismissive hand, attention never wavering from the road in front of him.

“We found you downstairs in some sort of basement,” Rufus continued. “Old offices or storage or something. Amalie could still sense the immediate presence of others, so I sent Wormer and Tully out on recon, just to make sure we were alone. You were …” His mouth twitched, eyebrows knitted, as if he couldn’t quite reconcile his memory with the woman watching him from behind a stranger’s face. “You were dying. Wyatt went nuts when he saw you.”

Bright spots of color flared on Wyatt’s cheeks. His jaw clenched, knuckles stretching white against the steering wheel. In this new body that desired him and its short-term lease on life that practically begged me to do some stupid things with it, I liked the idea of him going crazy protective. Just not with so much at stake.

“Tybalt tried to keep him back, but we couldn’t … Help didn’t get there in time. You never said a word.”

“But I was conscious?” I asked.

“Conscious, but I don’t know if you were lucid. You tried to talk, but nothing came out.”

“Regardless, I saw the people in the room. You, Wyatt, Jaron, Amalie, and Tybalt.” Wyatt was convinced I’d been afraid to speak in front of someone present that night. Afraid to speak in front of either a respected Council sprite, her aide, a fellow Hunter, or a Handler. None of those thoughts was comforting.

Wyatt loosed his grip on one side of the wheel and reached across the seat. He gently squeezed my knee—a show of support, or an effort to keep me from voicing my thoughts, I don’t know. Either way, I kept those fears to myself.

“Where is Tybalt now?” I asked instead.

“Probably on a routine patrol,” Rufus said. “Kismet’s Triad has kept tabs on the east side of town by the tributary. My team was the only one dispatched to locate Wyatt; everyone else is on regular duty.”

“Locate?” Wyatt snorted. “You would have put a bullet in the back of my head, if you’d had the chance.”

“Bullshit, Truman. Our orders were to bring you in, not kill you.”

“Yeah, leave that job to your bosses.”

“They’re your bosses, too.”

“Not anymore.” He glanced up into the rearview mirror. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I don’t exactly work for the brass anymore. I have a funny feeling my credentials have been revoked. Being labeled a danger to myself and society can do that.”

“I was doing my job.”

“So was I.”

The testosterone levels in the car were reaching a dangerous high, and I swallowed a sarcastic comment about bringing out rulers. It wouldn’t help diffuse the situation, because I was staring at a pair of alpha males. Both wanted to prove their point, but at the moment, I didn’t care who was the bigger man. I needed their collective attention.

“Hey!” I said. “Dead person here, working on a strict timetable. Can we concentrate, please, and save the shit-slinging for my after-afterlife?”

“Evy—” Wyatt started.

I spun in my seat, pointing one finger at him like a teacher berating a belligerent child. “And don’t think I’m ignoring what he said about a freewill deal, Truman. We’ll be talking about that at a later time.”

He clammed up and steered the car into the parking lot of a Burger Palace. The ancient chain never installed drive-thru windows. They were notable for being the only place in town to offer a five-alarm chili cheeseburger and guarantee a refund if you ate the whole thing. Jesse did it once, and then spent the entire next day vomiting it all back up.

“I’ll get the coffee,” Wyatt said. “Anyone want food?”

“Turkey burger with everything, and a side salad,” Rufus said.

I bit my lower lip to hold back laughter. Interesting choice after being locked up for a day and a half. Wyatt looked at me, but I shook my head. Watching Wyatt disappear inside of the Burger Palace’s redbrick walls, I felt an unfamiliar sense of separation. Since that moment we met outside of the pay phone booth, we had not been more than ten feet apart.

I grasped the door handle, overcome by the urge to follow him, to maintain that physical proximity. Keep him close where I could protect him.

I was being foolish. He’d be back in five minutes with coffee and food and a smile for me. And probably a frustrated glare for Rufus, who kept staring at me like I was a particularly fascinating museum exhibit. I picked at the corner of my bandage. The itching had stopped. It finally seemed safe to look.

“What’s it like?” he asked.

“What’s what like?”

“New life.”

Good fucking question. “Kind of like looking through a camera lens. Everything is sharp and in focus, but doesn’t feel quite real. My body is taller, and Chalice has a lot more hair.”

“Chalice?”

“Frost.” It still felt odd to say her name like she was an individual. More and more, we were becoming the same person. One unique identity, rather than two sharing one space.

“Did you know beforehand?”

I blinked. He really needed to quit with the cryptic questions. “Know what, Rufus?”

“About the supposed union between Bloods and goblins. This thing that has Wyatt so hell-bent on breaking every single rule.”

Oh, that. Yes. “No,” I said.

“But you are absolutely certain now that he’s right about this secret alliance? No doubt in your mind?”

I had doubts about a lot of things, none of which would go away until the last of my memories returned. The only thing I didn’t doubt was Wyatt, because he’d given me no cause.

“I think Wyatt believes in this enough for both of us,” I said. “He believed enough to give up his free will in exchange for my help. I’m not the only one on this three-day timetable, and until my memory returns and I know it, too, he’ll know for me. Someone set me up for murder, Rufus, and until I find out who, Wyatt is the only person I still trust.”

“Not even me?” It was matter-of-fact, a question with no hint of anger or surprise. Just curiosity.

“Not even you.” Maybe Chalice’s roommate. He seemed nice and completely oblivious to Dreg dealings. Not that I had any reason to contact him again before the clock ran out.

He blew hard through his teeth. “I feel like I need to apologize to you.”

“For what?”

“For my part in what happened to the Owlkins. I know you were friendly with them, and I’m sorry.” I closed my eyes, silently begging him to shut up. He said it anyway: “My team led the assault.”

Fists clenched in my lap, I tried to keep from flying at him. “You were following orders.”

“That doesn’t help me sleep at night.”

“Good.”

I glanced at the restaurant’s side door. A young couple bounced out, each carrying a supersized soda cup and matching silly grins. Still no sign of Wyatt. Rufus fidgeted in the backseat. His eyebrows were knitted, his mouth drawn into a tight line. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have guessed he was having a bowel movement.

“You okay?”

He flinched and didn’t look at me. “I need to use the facilities.”

I knew it. “Go ahead. I’ll make sure Wyatt doesn’t drive off without you.”

I smiled. He didn’t.

Rufus slid out of the backseat, letting the blanket fall to the cracked vinyl in a puddle of blue terry. He slammed the door and limped past me, around to the front of the car—the roundabout way of getting to the building next door. He stopped in front of the bumper, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his jeans. He stood there.

The short hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Warning lights flashed in my mind. I looked around, getting a three-sixty of the parking lot and all access points. Our side was against a slat-wood fence, ten feet tall and bordered by bushes and parking spaces. The back of the lot bordered the rear of a rotting apartment building, rusty fire escapes practically falling off the brick, and no street access. The opposite side of the restaurant—which I couldn’t see from there but vaguely recalled from driving in—was another stone barrier, the freestanding wall of a rubbled strip mall. It was a box canyon.

I opened my door, snagged the knife from my ankle sheath, and lunged, knocking Rufus backward and pinning him beneath me. His head cracked off the blacktop. He yelped.

“You son of a bitch.” I pressed the serrated blade to his throat. “How long have they been tracking us?”

“I don’t know,” Rufus gasped, eyes wide and wild. He didn’t fight back. “Probably since I got out of that damned fridge. The brass is tabbing all of us, Evy. They’ll be here any minute. You need to run.”

I blinked and pressed the knife harder, drawing a speck of blood. “Run right into a fucking trap that your pals set up for me? No thanks.”

“Before they get here. I believe you now, and I didn’t before, I’m sorry. I can still help, but you need to get away right now.”

I looked over the hood of the car. Two black sedans were in the opposite-turn lane, and as I stared, the first turned left into the parking lot entrance. It crept forward, tinted windows glaring with specks of sunlight. “Goddammit.”

“Hit me. Hit me and run. There’s a pay phone on the corner of West Elm and Tierney. Be there at dusk and I’ll call you.”

“Wyatt.” I lunged toward the restaurant, but Rufus grabbed my wrist. I stumbled sideways, nearly falling on top of him.

“I’ll help you get him back, Evy, but right now hit me and go!”

I did, without further thought or hesitation. Fingers numb and wrist aching, I bolted. Across the rocky pavement, toward the back of the lot, eyes on the lowest rung of the fire escape. My heart was thundering in my ears, and adrenaline surged through my veins.

Voices shouted. Gunshots pinged the blacktop by my feet. Something grazed my ankle with liquid fire. Each step was agony, but no other shots connected. One foot on a trash can lid vaulted me up to the fourth rung of the rusty escape ladder. Up I went, scrambling for each purchase. At the first landing, a peppering of gunfire shattered the nearest window. I hurled myself through, tucking into a tumble. I hit rough carpet, and glass dug into my arms and shoulders.

I sprang up into a crouch, in the middle of a dim living room, ripe with the odors of last night’s binge. Empty bottles and paper wrappers littered the floor and tables. A trash can was piled high with garbage of every variety. But no one came running at the sound of my inauspicious entry.

The ceiling exploded bits of plaster as more bullets flew in from the destroyed window. I ran toward the front door, leaping awkwardly over an upholstered ottoman and almost tripping over my own feet. Chalice’s feet. Why couldn’t I have been resurrected into a ballet dancer? I fumbled with the door’s chain—on, so someone had to be home—and turned the dead bolt.

“What the blue f—?” A man’s voice turned into a startled yelp, punctuated by a thud. I didn’t stop, didn’t turn, simply yanked open the front door and ran.

A long, bare cement block corridor greeted me. I spotted a red “Exit” sign and jerked left, heading toward the fire door. I slammed through it and hit the cement stairs at a dead run, down two at a time, adrenaline feeding me more speed than felt natural. My ankle was numb, probably leaving a trail of blood for anyone with two eyes to follow, but I couldn’t stop to wrap it. I had to keep going. To get away before they had me cornered.

I burst through the first-floor door and emerged in a dimly lit lobby. An elderly woman stared at me over her cane. Her mouth dropped open, and a thoroughly gummed cigar fell to the threadbare carpet. I tore past her, toward bright sunlight and a pair of double glass doors. Past a row of metal mailboxes and a closed door with “Manager” printed in choppy block letters. Back outside into warm spring air.

And the wail of police sirens.

The west wall of the apartment building butted up against a grubby mom-and-pop grocery. The windows were papered with ads dated two years ago, but still advertising “Fresh! And Cheap!” produce. I stopped on the cracked sidewalk, under the protection of a red vinyl canopy, and tried to catch my breath. Calm my heart. Think straight.

My teeth ached, and I finally noticed that at some point during my flight, I’d bitten down on the handle of my serrated knife—probably right before I climbed the fire escape—and it was still clenched in my teeth. I slipped it back into its sheath, and then checked my other ankle. My shoe was soaked, but the graze had stopped bleeding, leaving behind an angry red gash. A quick sidewalk check revealed no trail.

The sirens grew louder, bouncing over from the opposite block. Distant reminders that I’d left Wyatt behind. Alone.

A figure emerged from the apartment’s lobby door, but he looked the other way first. I ducked into the grocery store, assaulted by frigid air and the yeasty odor of bread. Two ancient checkout counters marked the front of the shop. I smiled at the clerk—a bland girl no older than sixteen. She smiled and returned to her magazine.

I slipped down the first aisle, making tracks to the back room. Two rows over, I spotted a swinging “Employees Only” door. A bell jingled at the front of the store. My stomach churned. I pushed through, urged onward by fear and a feral need to avoid capture. I couldn’t help Wyatt if I were in matching handcuffs, or dead for the second time.

The stockroom reeked of rotting vegetables and stale water, thick and nauseating. But I ignored the stench and navigated a path past a small office—hearing the sounds of heavy breathing, which told me where the rest of the staff was—to another door. This one was next to a loading dock. The wires on the emergency handle were cut. The employees probably used it regularly. A tentative nudge proved me correct. I pushed it open far enough to get a peek into the back lot.

The loading dock was blocked off by three metal Dumpsters. A ten-foot chain fence, topped by razor wire, separated the narrow alley from the lot behind it. The Burger Palace was on my right, catty-corner from my position, line of sight obscured. I ducked outside, staying as close to the trash cans as I could manage without vomiting from the odor of rotting meat and produce. Then I ducked past them to the fence.

Between the scratchy branches of two unruly bushes, I could see part of the parking lot. Wyatt’s car was still in its spot, flanked by the two black sedans, all four doors thrown open. Two men about my (former) age were searching it—Hunters I vaguely recognized, mostly from instinct. The way they moved, analyzed, and searched for clues was instinctual, calculated, and deadly.

Rufus sat on the curb, holding an ice pack against his jaw. A man in a smart suit—a Handler named Willemy, if I recalled correctly—crouched in front of him, his hands moving in circles as he talked. Rufus kept shaking his head, saying little.

The one person I needed to see was missing. He could be in one of those tinted sedans, bound and ready for transport elsewhere. Would he have resisted and forced them to take desperate action? No, he wouldn’t risk getting himself killed. Not now. I just needed to see it with my own eyes.

A telephone rang. Willemy fished in his jacket pocket and retrieved his cell. His drooping frown morphed into sheer delight. He snapped the phone shut and said something to Rufus, who nodded, silent. I squinted at him. From that distance, I couldn’t tell if he was out of sorts from my punch, or if he was just a good actor. Willemy seemed finished with him for the time being. He stood up and faced the restaurant.

The side door swung open. Nadia Stanislavski and Philip Tully emerged, one on either side of Wyatt. His hands were cuffed behind his back, and he walked straight. No limping or dragging, no marks that I could see. Sharp pain lanced through my palm; I loosened my fist, releasing nails from indented flesh.

They led him toward the closest sedan. He looked straight ahead, giving nothing. If he expected me to be there somewhere, waiting for him, watching in the wings, he gave no indication. He would have yelled and cursed had he known I was crouching in the bushes instead of putting miles between us. I wanted to let him know I was there, to give some suggestion of my presence, but I remained a silent spectator, watching as they ushered him into the car and slammed the door.

Nadia slid into the front seat of Wyatt’s car. Rufus climbed in next to her. She followed the black sedan out of the parking lot, taking Wyatt away. One car remained behind, as did Tully. He was perched on the hood, waiting for … who? The person who’d chased after me, most likely. If the entire Triad had come after its Handler, that meant Wormer was tracking me. Or had already lost me; I couldn’t be sure. There were damn few things I could be certain of at that particular moment in time.

My neck prickled. I held my breath. Soft leather soles whispered across the parking lot’s cracked blacktop, kicked the occasional pebble, and came to rest close by my position. I didn’t turn to look. Looking might rustle the bushes that protected me. A cramp lanced through my thigh. I bit my tongue, trying to distract myself from the agony I couldn’t acknowledge. I needed to breathe.

The footsteps moved past me. I let out a shaky breath, then inhaled slowly. My burning lungs wanted to cough. The cramp intensified; tears sparked in my eyes.

Something beeped. Fabric rustled. A man’s voice said, “Yeah?”

Over the phone, someone replied, “You find her yet?”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Tully standing by the sedan with a phone pressed to his ear.

“No. Whoever she is, she’s fast,” James Wormer said.

“Bring it in, then. We need to get back. I want to be there when they question that asshole.”

Wormer snickered, and the sound sent shivers up my spine. “I’m on my way. After what he did to Rufus, I want to hear that crazy fucker scream.”

I closed my eyes, concentrating on the exquisite agony in my leg—using it to stay grounded and ignore my urge to leap out of the bushes and pound Wormer’s face into the pavement. Seconds ticked away. Car engines rumbled. Horns honked. Two doors slammed. I looked again. The sedan was driving toward the parking lot exit.

Briefly, I considered chasing it, but once the car made it to the road, I’d have no chance of following. Handlers and Triads didn’t have one specific meeting place—no clubhouse or police barracks or underground vault. Except for Boot Camp, which enjoyed a quiet corner of the forest south of the city, secured facilities for questioning and detaining Dregs changed on a monthly basis. They could question Wyatt anywhere in the city.

I had no Handler, no car, and no clue as to my next move. I climbed out of the bushes and stretched my aching leg. Long hours before dusk stretched out in front of me, but I couldn’t wait. I had to do something. Just not alone.

Evangeline Stone had no remaining allies. Chalice Frost had one person in her life who just might drop everything and help—if I could convince him I wasn’t nuts.