Wrong Side of Dead

Chapter Eleven

Friday, July 11

It should be easy, and it isn’t. I’ve done this move hundreds of times in the past. Emphasis on past, I guess, since my sixth attempt at a spinning roundhouse kick ends the same way the first five did—with me flat on my back.

“Fuck!” I slap my palm on the mat to put a little power into the word. My frustration level is topping out. Ten days of training has put a little muscle back on and increased my flexibility, but my coordination is shit. Granted, Chalice Frost didn’t seem like the most acrobatic chick before she died, but this is ridiculous. Like riding a bike that won’t let me take off the damned training wheels.

Phin looms above me, his face upside down. He’s been my dutiful teacher since the day I asked for his help, in between his duties to the Assembly and assisting Astrid in readying our tactical squads.

The squads have started patrolling, getting out and making ourselves known. The Triads have expanded, is the word on the street. We’re feeding the existing fear to create a new reputation for the Watch. The challenge has been folding five active Handlers, sixteen Hunters, and a dozen trainees into the ranks of existing vampire and Therian volunteers with as few issues as possible. Matching up temperaments and skill sets is like a chaotic game of Memory.

Or sudden-death overtime.

“Again?” Phin asks, reminding me of my aching back.

“You’re a sadist.” I sit up fast, nearly clipping his chin with my forehead. “I used to be able to do this without thinking.”

“You used to be an entirely different person.” He circles around and offers his hand. A quick jerk and I bounce up to my feet, sore and a little sweaty. “Again?”

“Fine.”

The seventh time is not the charm, but it is my lucky number. As Phin yanks me back to my feet once again, his phone beeps from its place on the floor. He retrieves it. Checks the message while I stretch a little.

“I’m needed in the War Room,” he says, frowning. The War Room is what we call the conference area in Operations—which means something’s up. Something that doesn’t include me because Phin grabs his shirt on the way out the door.

Terrific.

I snatch a towel from the stack in the other room and dry off as I amble out of the gym, unsure of my destination. Maybe a shower. But a shower will only relax me, and I’m warmed up, keyed up, and eager to do something, dammit. I haven’t been out in the field in what feels like forever. More than almost anything, I hate feeling caged. Although the Watchtower is a far cry from a tiny utility closet in an abandoned train station, it’s starting to feel just as claustrophobic in terms of my freedom.

Maybe I can talk someone into doing a little two-man patrol. I need out.

After I change into jeans and a T-shirt, I nearly smash right into Milo at the living quarters entrance. He’s in regular clothes rather than his patrol outfit, but he’s definitely on his way somewhere.

“Hey, sorry,” he says.

“Are you heading into the city?”

He blinks rapidly. “Uh, yes?”

“That wasn’t a trick question, Milo.”

“Oh, sorry. I’m taking Felix into the city for his appointment with a pain management specialist.”

As soon as he speaks, the object of conversation hobbles around the corner and into view. Given the horrific injuries he sustained weeks ago at the claws of a genetically engineered hound, Felix looks good. He’s upright and mobile, even if he manages to hide the pain he’s in constantly because of nerve damage. He’ll probably never go out on patrol again, but Astrid agreed to let him come in as an Operations communications coordinator—which is a fancy way of saying he monitors our phone calls when we’re out. It isn’t what he’s used to, but he’s here with Kismet, Milo, and Tybalt. His family.

I envy that through all of the drama and injuries of the last few months, the four of them are still together. My heart aches for Jesse and Ash, and for the closeness I once shared with Wyatt.

“Hey, Evy,” Felix says, offering a pained smile. “You gaining weight?”

If I was any other kind of a girl, I’d slug him for such a thing. As it is, the observation is a compliment. “A little, yeah. One of these days I might even be able to do a roundhouse again.”

“You always seem to manage anything you put your mind to.”

“Mostly.” I clear my throat. “Listen, you mind if I tag along with you guys today?”

His eyebrows furrow. “You want to come to my doctor’s appointment?”

“Not particularly, no, but I need to get out of here. I haven’t left since I first arrived—Phin hasn’t signed off on me being fit for patrolling—and I’m going a little stir-crazy.”

“I hear that.”

“No one’s going to wring my neck for taking you into the city, are they?” Milo asks.

“I doubt it. No one ever said I couldn’t leave, I just haven’t yet.”

The guys exchange a look.

“Come on,” Felix says. “We’ll get some burgers or something afterward.”

Considering the diet of lean protein, complex carbs, and vegetables (weight gain without inducing high cholesterol was apparently the point of such a diet) I’ve been on since my abduction, the idea of a juicy hamburger with the works and a pile of crispy fries makes my mouth water. It must also affect the look on my face, because Felix laughs.

The walk from the living quarters to the parking area isn’t unusually long, but Felix is red-faced and sweating by the time we reach the corridor outside Operations. He accepts silent help from Milo, draping his arm across the slightly shorter man’s shoulders and leaning some weight on him. To the former Hunter, the show of weakness must be almost as painful as the nerve damage causing it.

Milo has the keys for Kismet’s Explorer, and he helps Felix climb up into the passenger seat. The hair on the back of my neck prickles. I glance over my shoulder.

Marcus is watching from the entrance to the parking area. He nods at me, then turns and walks away. I stare at the vacant spot where he stood just a moment ago, confused.

“Evy?” Milo asks. “You okay?”

I shake myself out of it. “Yeah, fine. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

The appointment is at 4:30, which means the schedule is already backed up by about an hour. The fact that the doctor’s office is in a wing of St. Eustachius Hospital next to the Emergency Room has me on hyperalert. Two of the staff members here once saw me as a frozen corpse, and I don’t need the recognition. Not to mention that, the last time I was here, Felix lied to my face about Wyatt being attacked by a were-cat and then utterly failed at kidnapping me.

Unfortunately, we can’t discuss these amusing anecdotes out loud in a waiting room full of normal people here for their own appointments. So we trade magazines and stare at the news program playing on the room’s only television. As far as mundane tasks go, it’s oddly refreshing.

Felix is more restless than I am, and I don’t know him well enough to guess if it’s physical pain or hospital memories. Forty-five minutes past his appointment time, he leans a bit toward Milo, who’s sitting between us, and whispers, “You know what this feels like? It’s the same damned waiting room.”

My ears perk, but I don’t look up from the article on fall fashion tips I’m trying to pretend I want to read.

“The day you guys brought Lucas in and were waiting for word,” Milo replies.

“Yeah.”

“The Hunter Kismet was involved with?” I ask. Two heads swivel in my direction, two pairs of eyes wide and curious. “Um, girl talk.” Something occurs to me. “Shit, tell me you both knew.”

“We knew,” Felix says. “We’re just surprised she told you.”

“If it helps, she told me right before I went off with Thackery, so she probably didn’t expect I’d repeat it.” My intention is humor, but the words don’t come out that way. They’re almost sad. And now that the topic is open, I crave the conversation. “How long did you know about it?”

“Tybalt and I suspected for a while, but the way she acted when Lucas died kind of proved it. We told Milo about it a while after.”

Makes sense. “He was a good Hunter?”

“One of the best. Great physical fighter, quick thinker. He never judged you, no matter your past.” Felix falls silent, withdrawing the way one does when memory overcomes you, his face shadowed with grief.

“You and Tybalt didn’t judge me, either, when I showed up,” Milo says.

Felix’s entire body seems to flinch, and I suddenly feel like an intruder in a private conversation. “I did,” he says. “I was awful to you those first couple of weeks.”

“Because your best friend had just dropped dead in front of you from an aneurysm, Felix. I mean, after I came out.”

The simple way Milo says it, especially in front of me, is astonishing, and it leaves no doubt as to his meaning—and it’s an answer to a question I’ve been unable to articulate for a while now. Since the hounds attacked the cabin all those weeks ago and I started wondering …

I have no idea what my face looks like, but it catches Felix’s attention. His raised eyebrow, in turn, gets Milo to look at me. “Dude, not judging,” I say to Milo. Then to Felix, “But if you had given him a hard time, I’d have to punch you in the head retroactively.”

Felix grins, and it brings a lightness to his pain-pinched face. A nurse arrives and calls him to come with her. Milo helps him stand, then waits until he shuffles off with the nurse before he sits again. Deciphering emotions isn’t really my strong suit, but I’ve had some very recent experience in the realm of unreturned feelings.

“Does he know?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

Milo laces his fingers in his lap and asks, “Know what?”

I resist rolling my eyes. “How you feel, dumbass.”

“About what? Felix and Tybalt are brothers to me. I’d do anything for them.”

“So not what I meant.”

He heaves a put-upon sigh. I’m not letting it go and he knows it. “It doesn’t matter, Evy. It’s my problem.”

“Problem?” The description throws me a bit.

“Yeah. I let myself fall in love with my very straight partner, so it’s my problem.” He finally turns his head and glares at me. “Can we talk about something else now, please?”

“Okay.” I fully intend to change the subject. Instead, I add, “I’m really glad he didn’t die.”

Milo blinks, then smiles. “Me, too.”

After finally leaving the hospital with a pain med prescription for Felix, we settle into a booth at a nearby greasy spoon called McHale’s and each order the biggest, greasiest burger on the menu. They come with heaps of fries, pickle spears, and free soda refills. It’s nice, pretending to be normal college-age kids for a while—even though we are anything but—and I love every moment of it.

It’s after nine o’clock before we unanimously agree it’s time for our trio to return to the Watchtower. We settle the bill and tumble into the street, walking slowly out of some unconscious need to make the trip home last as long as possible. The Explorer is parked a block away in a public lot.

We’re closer to downtown than to Mercy’s Lot, so I’m not actively looking for Dreg activity. It just seems to pop out of nowhere and ruin my night.

Four individuals at a bus stop catch my attention, and not in a good way. Two guys and two girls, all about our age, and all sporting telltale silver streaks in their hair. They hang off one another like couples in lust, but they’re hunting. Watching.

And about to board the bus pulling to a stop in front of the signpost.

“Fucking hell,” I say. “Halfies, two o’clock.”

Milo and Felix go instantly rigid, one word putting them on high alert. We’re only a quick sprint away, and Felix shocks me by taking off first. It’s an awkward gait, more limp than run, but Milo and I don’t catch him before he’s up the bus steps behind the Halfies. We climb on after him and dump change into the meter.

The Halfies have clustered near the back, standing in the crowded rear and hanging on to the ceiling bars. There are no empty seats in front, so we mirror them and stand. I angle so I can watch them without being obvious. A surge of adrenaline has my pulse pounding, my blood flowing.

I didn’t come out tonight looking for a fight, but by God, I’ll enjoy this.

Halfies aren’t like the other nonhumans. They don’t get equal consideration. They’re uncontrollable abominations, and they’re always considered “kill on sight.” Or in this particular instance, “kill when not in full view of a busload of people.”

Milo has his cell out and is texting someone. Probably Kismet, so she knows what’s happening. I catch Felix’s eye and mouth “Weapons?” He shakes his head no. Then he mouths, “In the car.”

Shit.

The bus rattles along to the next stop. Several people board and disembark, but the Halfies stay put.

Milo puts his phone away. “Kis says Marcus’s squad is nearby. He’s going to intercept and follow the bus until they exit. She says don’t engage unless necessary.”

Normally, an order like don’t engage will rile me up enough to do just the opposite. Only we’re sans weapons of any kind, and the Halfies have at least twenty other people to use as human shields if we get frisky. Human shields they could turn into more Halfies with one little bite.

At the next stop, several people get off. Felix sits in the closest empty seat. The route appears to be taking us into Mercy’s Lot.

Milo jumps, then fishes his cell out of his pocket. “They’re behind us, following,” he whispers as he puts it away again.

Two stops later, we’re down to eight civilians, plus the driver. Milo and I take seats across the aisle from each other, Milo just behind Felix. As the driver reaches to pull the door shut, a familiar face slips on board. Marcus doesn’t look at any of us as he drops his coins into the meter, then takes a seat near the rear, between us and the Halfies. The odds are a little more even, and Marcus has the added bonus of being Therian and immune to the vampire parasites that turn humans into raving Halfies. Not to mention that, according to Tybalt, Marcus can shift into a huge-ass jaguar.

We’re traveling north, into the outskirts of Mercy’s Lot, and the stops will likely become fewer and farther between. Getting off with the Halfies is going to look suspicious no matter what we do.

One of them, a stocky boy in a ratty denim jacket, breaks off and shuffles to the front of the bus. The girl he was hanging on steps closer to where Marcus is sitting, her too-red lipstick smeared across her lips like blood. My stomach knots. This isn’t going to be good.

Denim Jacket pulls a handgun out of his coat and presses it to the bus driver’s temple. I tense, heart hammering. Someone behind me gasps, then shrieks, catching the attention of the other passengers.

“Turn left up here,” Denim Jacket says.

The driver, an elderly man who’s probably seen it all and then some, merely nods. He won’t be playing hero today.

“Anyone who wants a bullet in their fuckin’ head,” Denim Jacket says to the entire bus, “please try and fuckin’ stop me.”

Someone begins sobbing rather loudly, but no one speaks up. DJ has the gun; DJ has the power. Too bad he doesn’t know who four of his hostages are and what we’re trained to do. We just need to get that gun away—

A peal of laughter from the rear of the bus drags my attention behind me. The other Halfie male has a second gun, and he seems far less stable than his buddy. It’s bizarre to see the quartet acting as if they’ve actually planned this.

The idea makes me ill.

I take stock of the eight civilians. All between twenty and thirty years old, give or take. All in relatively good shape, probably decent health. Are the Halfies hunting for food? Or something else entirely?

Old instincts have me turning to ask Wyatt his opinion—only he’s not here.

The driver follows directions, taking us off the bus route and into a partially abandoned part of the Lot. We pass a defunct Burger Palace building—I’ve been here, months ago. Road traffic is thin, foot traffic almost nonexistent. If the car with Marcus’s team is still following us, they turned their headlights off and are keeping a good distance.

“We should fucking do something,” a voice behind me whispers. Male, angry.

I turn around just far enough to give him a deadly glare and mouth “no” with as much emphasis as possible. He’s in his late teens, bulked up, probably a high school wrestler who thinks he can be badass against a couple of stoned punks and their girlfriends. And he looks just stupid enough to get us all killed.

Stupid wins—he lurches sideways at DJ’s girl. Hoping to get her into a headlock and threaten a man with a gun? I have no idea, and it doesn’t matter. Red Lipstick snarls and punches Stupid in the nose before he can rise halfway out of his seat. He drops back down, howling, clutching his bleeding nose.

At the head of the bus, DJ growls. Someone in the middle of the bus sobs.

“Looks like someone thinks he’s a hero,” DJ says, baring his fangs for the first time. Gasps rise from the other passengers. He levels his gun at Stupid. “I look forward to tasting you.”

Stupid grunts behind his hands.

DJ angles his wrist sideways and squeezes the trigger. His gun roars.

Milo cries out.

The bus driver jerks the wheel and hits the gas. I tumble out of my seat and into the aisle. Passengers are screaming, and then the entire bus tilts. Tumbles. I crash into someone, then a seat, a window. Metal shrieks. Maybe me, too, until everything comes to an abrupt, crunching halt.

Someone’s beneath me, or maybe they’re on top of me; I don’t know whether I’m upright or not. My jaw aches. I smell blood, rubber, gasoline—not good smells. The snarl of a large cat precedes a piercing shriek. Someone kicks my leg, and then the world seems to focus again.

The bus is on its door side, its passengers trapped in a dark maze of broken glass and bus seats. People are moving around, panicking. My first thought is for the Halfies and who they’re about to bite. My next is for my hands, pressing down on something warm—blood. Shit.

Milo’s beneath me, clutching his abdomen. His eyes are open, wide, a little dazed, even in the faint light seeping in from outside the wrecked bus. He looks at me, then past me. His eyes widen.

I twist and bring my right arm up, driving my fist hard into DJ’s gut. He grunts and steps back, trips over someone (Felix, I realize), and lands on his ass. I grab a shard of glass and tackle DJ. Slam him flat on his back and drive the glass into his Adam’s apple. Blood spurts from his mouth and throat. It splashes my shirt and neck. I press deeper, aware of the glass slicing my palms, cutting halfway through DJ’s throat before he quits fighting.

“Evy!”

A body hits me from behind before I can figure out who shouted, and I fall forward into DJ. I shove against the weight on me, praying that my skin stays far away from anyone’s bare teeth, and twist. I may have survived an infection a few weeks ago, but I don’t want to go through that particular hell ever again, thank you. The screeching female on my back—Red Lipstick, I think—digs her fingernails into my chest.

I drive my head backward and am rewarded with a solid crunch of cartilage. They never protect their damned noses. Passengers are still screaming, trying to climb out the windows that are now our roof. Marcus is in the back of the bus, in jaguar form, battling the other pair of Halfies with swipes of massive paws and loud hisses.

Felix is on his feet, seeming unsure if he should help me, help Marcus, or help Milo. I pull Red Lipstick’s nails out of my skin and give her another head butt for good measure. The back of my skull aches and my chest stings, but the human-sized tick isn’t sucking my blood.

At least half the civilians are out.

Marcus throws his Halfie male halfway across the bus, knocking down several other freaking-out passengers like a hellish bowling ball down a lane of human pins. The Halfie lands and rolls, coming up next to Stupid, who’s helping a woman climb out a window. Halfie lurches at Stupid. Milo grabs the Halfie’s leg and yanks.

The Halfie growls and reaches for Milo. Felix tackles the Halfie with a shout, and the pair goes tumbling over a seat and out of sight.

Lacking other weapons, I select another large shard of glass and give Red Lipstick the same tracheotomy I gave her late boyfriend. The thick odor of blood sours my stomach. Gross.

Familiar voices shouting outside—our backup has arrived. Awesome.

Stupid once again tries to be a hero by jumping onto the back of the Halfie who’s fighting with Felix. He latches on like a monkey, arms around the Halfie’s throat, and the two tumble sideways onto the glass-strewn floor/side of the bus. All I can see of Felix are his legs.

Apparently finished with his Halfie, cat-Marcus lopes over and hisses in Stupid’s face. Stupid smartly lets go of his hostage. Marcus clamps bone-crushing jaws down on the Halfie’s throat, finger-thick teeth piercing skin. He snaps the Halfie’s neck with a jerk of his own.

I stumble over to Milo, who’s twisted halfway around trying to get a look at Felix. “Hold still and keep pressure on that,” I snap. The sound of my own voice startles me. It was a strangely silent battle, save the shrieks of the civilian passengers.

“Felix,” he says.

“I’ll check on him, just stay.” Adrenaline has me shaking. My heart’s pounding hard enough to crack a few ribs. I grab Stupid’s arm and yank him down. “Put your hands on that wound and don’t you fucking let go, you hear me?”

Stupid nods, and he puts enough pressure down to make Milo cry out. He’s losing blood, but not life-threatening amounts, and I want it to stay that way.

Marcus is making the rounds, sniffing the bodies. I’m positive that whoever’s outside is making sure none of the escaped passengers was bitten. I haul ass to my feet and pick my way over to Felix. He’s curled on his right side between the seats, arms tucked beneath his chin, eyes shut. His jaw muscles twitch, eyes moving beneath the lids. The pose sends a chill racing down my spine.

“Felix,” I say, shaking his ankle. “Felix, are you bitten?”

“Fuck.” The single word is as much an answer as a prayer. “Fuck, fuck, fuck …”

Bile scorches the back of my throat and I swallow it down, suppressing the rising tide of panic. Not again. I can’t watch someone else I care about turn into one of those fucking things. I won’t. “Let me see, Felix.”

“Evy?” Milo shouts. “Is he okay?”

“Felix, let me see,” I say, ignoring Milo.

The eye I can see rolls again, then the lid peels open. I don’t remember what color Felix’s eyes were, but they shouldn’t glimmer with an opalescent sheen. And it cements my greatest fear. My stomach flips and threatens to empty. Tears sting both of my eyes. Shit.

I choke. “Goddammit.”

“Evy! Is he—?”

Felix snarls and lunges.