Was I greedy? Yes. Hello. Demon.
I hi-coughed. Remington Weber pulled away, holding my shoulders so that he could survey my face.
“I’m going to get the doctor.” Remi stood. His tone brokered no argument.
My head bobbed in a parody of a nod. “Yeah. Maybe something to eat as well? I'm starving.”
At least that was the truth.
Remi stepped backward; he glanced back once—reluctant to leave. I gave him a sad smile before I began to pace again. The electric energy in my chest was back.
I wanted to reach out with both hands. Tell Hugo that I was his soulmate. Tell Remi that he belonged to me—that I had his back. To hug the stoic Hart and tell him that his latency didn’t matter. To look Jae in the eye, and tell him that I saw him—not just the genteel therapist, but the wicked and cheeky man underneath.
And Davenport...?
What was the problem? I wondered. Oh. Just the tiny little fact I was masquerading as a Hunter, wearing someone's skin-suit to try and catch a murderer while simultaneously falling for several of the men around me.
I screeched to a halt.
Falling for them?
That couldn't be.
Abandoning one mate to save both of our lives was one thing—my mind flashed to Hart, scratching his chest after we had almost slept together. I couldn’t have more than one mate, could I?
Demons only had one Soulmate, as a rule. But every rule has exceptions.
Baphomet-kin were twins but had one soul split between two bodies. Naturally, they would mate in a triad.
Demons were not monogamous. Drudes did not engage in physical relations at all, it wasn’t possible. Our relationships were entirely platonic. Our cluster was a cloud of demons, ebbing, and flowing in number.
It was rare for a Drude to break away from their cluster. I was abnormal by those standards.
Hugo was an outsider, like me.
Callum Hart was latent. Without power. Without a home. Like me.
I rubbed my hand over my face.
I couldn’t do it anymore. It was too much too soon. I wanted to abandon Frankie's body and go back to my life in the city.
Wearing various humans. Doing pointless jobs for Dermot Dirk and eating in luxurious restaurants every night. To hover in the corner of strip clubs and bars, watching the world unfold.
I wanted to pour hot sauce on pancakes and not have to answer questions.
My hands began to tremble. My teeth started to chatter.
I needed to do something before my eyes turned to black oil slicks, and I attacked the first person I saw, flowing through their tear ducts and ripping their mind apart to get to the juicy subconscious underneath the tedium of their personality.
The window was easy enough to Jimmy open. Hidden by the curtains, invisible to the rest of the ward, I made sure to be as quiet as possible. I climbed out, with difficulty. The cold air rushed up my back and reminded me that I wore a backless paper gown.
Best to end an adventure in the same way it started. Dressed like a hospital patient. The only thing missing was a toe-tag, but the second I reached the City, I’d abandon Frankie Gardiner so hard that her body would have road rash.
I didn’t bother to escape through the woods. I had no survival training in the Human Realities. I occupied a body that needed to eat, drink, and shit. I did not fancy my chances of survival in the wilderness.
I bypassed the watchtowers with my shoulders pulled straight. As if I had all the time in the world, and I was right where I was meant to be. The confidence must have worked because I was unaccosted as I walked the worn dirt road through the forest. My feet bled, torn apart by tiny rocks and pieces of gravel. Every step was accompanied by a wince. I did not care.
It took a few hours to get to an actual concrete road. Boxed in by trees, I recognized the single lane that led to Maywood.
I stood on the edge of the road, hopping from foot to foot as I waited for a car to pass. I had been walking for an hour when a large semi roared around the bend. I stuck my hand out like I had seen people do in movies.
The sun was setting. I didn’t want to have to go back to the compound with swirling rage and hunger rolling about my body. The semi pulled to a slow stop twenty yards away from my position.
I did not hesitate to scramble across the verge to hop inside. I had clicked my seatbelt on when I looked across the cab at the driver.
“Where are you heading, ma’am?” His lips curled up in what was meant to be a reassuring smile. The semi had already pulled away and was rumbling down the road before I had even said a word.
“New York.” I blinked, cocking my head to the side to survey the middle-aged man.
Yellowing eyes, the signs of a heavy drinker. A nose with a lump that told me he'd broke it more than once. He was slim, but his arms sagged in a way that told me it was from genetics and not any effort on his part.
The cab smelled like stale cigarettes. The trucker tasted like Lust and Wrath. A combination that would not play out well for any young woman.
At least he had picked me up and not someone else.
“I'm heading to Staten Island, myself.” He reached over to the ashtray and fished out a lone cigarette. Creased in the middle. “What’s your name?”
“Frankie.” My fingers trembled. I glanced out the window, unsure of how long I could keep a handle on myself.
“Duane.” His smile showed every one of his teeth. The front one was cracked, but Duane appeared to have good dental habits. “What brings a pretty little thing like you to the middle of the garden state?”
I shrugged.
“Running from an ex?”
I shot him a look, and Duane let out a dark chuckle.
“Why else would a woman be hitchhiking nowadays?” He lit his cigarette and carefully blew the smoke out of the crack in the window. He did not ask if I minded. His eyes flicked down to my trembling fingers.
“Or rehab.” He suggested. “You’ve got the twitches, missy.”
I stifled a snort. That was an understatement. “Just drive.”
“No need to be rude.” Duane chided softly, but his questions stopped. The sun set slowly; the trees growing long shadows across the road before darkness fell.
We did not pass Maywood, but continued to the freeway, merging with the traffic and sitting in comfortable silence. I watched the signs for NYC and made a note of the miles.
“So, there’s this guy,” I said, my mouth forming my life story without being able to stop. I had been silent for weeks. With no one to talk to about my dilemma. No one knew my true nature. “I kind of like him. He's hot, but he isn't a player. His name is Hugo. We were getting on well, and then suddenly, he's like 'boom! Actually I like this other girl.’ And I’m like... ‘Oh okay.' But that other girl is me, and he doesn’t know that.”
Duane gave me a long look. “Uh-huh.”
“So, I got pissed that he rejected me.” I rambled, manic, with the need to consume sin and terror. “But he didn’t really reject me if you see what I mean?”
My fingernails dug into my thighs through the thin fabric of my hospital paper gown.
“Not even a little bit, missy.” Duane smiled, the hairs on the back of my neck rose. “Are you talking about one of those online dating profile things?”
“Is there a motel around here?” I asked with a crack in my voice. Motels meant sleeping people. I could feed easily and without hurting anyone.
Duane chuckled darkly. “That’s what I was thinking, missy.” He pulled over to a layby. The locks clicked home. I did not move. “How do you suppose you're going to pay me for driving you all the way to New York?”