We fed Isleen the highlights of our captivity and escape and time in First Break. Its existence seemed to surprise her, if the quirk of one slim eyebrow was any indication. I left out details of its location and our exit through the tunnels. The Fair Ones had trusted us enough to let us leave; I wouldn’t betray their trust by giving them up. I also left out the discovery of my Gift; some information I just won’t give to a Blood.
“You are certain Tovin is at this nature preserve?” she asked after a long pause.
“No,” I said, “which is why we’re on our way there now. We had hoped for some Triad backup, but I get the feeling that’s on the rocks once this gets around.”
Her attention flickered to the fire behind us. I turned and felt the heat of it on my face. So much destruction, so much loss.
“Until they get it out and get the fire marshal in,” Wyatt said, “there’s no way to know how or where it started. I just know that we could have walked out sixty seconds later than we did.”
“You two were either very lucky, or you were intentionally spared,” Isleen said.
“I’m banking on luck,” I said.
“I thought you didn’t believe in luck,” Wyatt said.
“I also said I don’t believe in fate, but look at me now. I feel like a character in a fucking Greek tragedy, where all the gods are sitting back and having a good laugh at my expense.”
“Not gods,” Isleen said. “Mortal creatures with a thirst for power. The Fey have waged a silent war against my people for centuries. If Tovin succeeds in his plan, this Tainted One will help him destroy us.” She stepped closer, a spark of anger in her violet eyes. “My people will not act on suspicion. You know this as well as I, but the half-breeds are abominations, and assistance will come if I say I have seen a nest in this place. Tell me there is a nest, and I will take you at your word.”
The improbability of that statement struck me momentarily speechless. Wyatt squeezed my arm, silent encouragement, and I said, “There’s a nest of Halfies there.”
“Good enough. Where is this location?”
I told her about the preserve and the gas station, all the while observing her for signs of deception, some hint she would pass this along to the wrong person. I found none. “Three o’clock,” I said. “We’ll meet you there.”
“Agreed. I will bring all of the help I can. Good luck to you both.”
“We’ll see you in a few hours.”
Her willowy frame bolted to the side of the roof, and she vaulted to the next building. She moved like a shadow, disappearing the instant she landed. I had always envied the Bloods’ ability to move like water—smooth and silent, or fast and furious, but always with intent.
“What do you think?” I asked.
Wyatt pulled me against his chest, arms wrapping around my waist. I leaned back, content in the warmth of his body for as long as I could have it.
“She’s lying,” he said.
“You think so?”
“Not her intention to help us, but her reasons. She isn’t in this to stop Tovin; he’s just an excuse. A way to justify it to her kin and get them to help her in her real goal.”
That much I could have guessed. Vampire royalty put on airs, much worse than any Fey, and thought humans beneath them. Pure bloodlines, they said, kept them strong—another reason the half-Bloods were so hated by the Families. The Bloods I knew tried to differentiate themselves from humans by suppressing their baser emotions: lust, greed, hate, envy. The human sense of vengeance was seen as most distasteful of all, because it drew on desire rather than logic.
I was tickled to see a daughter of the royal lines so hell-bent on revenge for the death of her sister. As much as I wanted to believe she was trying to help us, we were simply a foil. A means to an end, and that end was finding Kelsa, the goblin responsible for Istral’s death. And mine.
“On the bright side,” I said, “we know she’ll show with her people.”
“We just can’t be sure she won’t stab us when our backs are turned, just to save guessing on whether or not we can beat Tovin.”
“Then we don’t turn our backs.” I spun us so I could see the razed and ruined tenement that held the bodies of our allies. It was a terrible way to die, and I prayed they’d died quickly. An entire Triad—three Hunters and their Handler—wiped out. The Triads would recover their losses; they always did. Bastian was excellent at recruiting Hunters. I just didn’t know how they’d replace Rufus.
If a Tainted was loosed, how long before the rest of the city learned of its Dreg neighbors and our mission of secrecy became obsolete?
We stood together, our faces caressed by the heat of the fire. The odor of smoke and wet pavement made me want to sneeze. I held tight to Wyatt’s hands—the only calm we would get before the oncoming storm.
Activity on the street increased. Paramedics emerged from their ambulance with a stretcher and medical bag. They pushed it closer to the front entrance of the building and waited. I strained to hear the shouts of frenzied voices. Moments later, two firemen burst from the front doors in a cloud of gray smoke, carrying a grown man between them. The man was badly burned on his hands and chest, and his face was streaked with soot and sweat, but I still recognized that hair.
My mouth fell open. “Holy hell.”
Wyatt grunted.
I watched the paramedics strap Rufus St. James to their stretcher and wheel him toward the ambulance. He was tucked inside, and it sped away with its precious cargo.
“I don’t believe it,” Wyatt said.
“How did he survive that?”
“I don’t know, but Rufus used up the last of his nine lives on this.”
We waited a few more minutes, hoping for one more miracle to be carried out of the burning building. After a while, it became obvious she wouldn’t. Nadia was gone.
“We should go,” I said.
Wyatt nodded. “You know, I just realized something.”
“What’s that?”
“We still don’t have a car.”
Cars ripe for stealing were in easy supply on the streets of Mercy’s Lot. Hot-wiring skills, however, were lacking. After I broke into a late-model Chevy POS, Wyatt tried unsuccessfully to start the damned thing. Finding the correct wires was harder in real life than on television, so we moved on to Plan B.
“We are so going to Hell for this,” I said as I struggled to hold on to our victim’s legs while Wyatt carried him by the torso. A few more steps and we had the unconscious man in the alley, nestled comfortably among a pile of plastic trash bags and empty crates.
“You doubted that anyway?” Wyatt asked.
He palmed the man’s car keys and led the way back to the street. I kept expecting someone to shout at us, or police sirens to break the quiet of the night. Music still drifted in from far away, but this block seemed mostly asleep. Good news for us; not so much for our randomly selected victim.
Wyatt unlocked the small, blue car and I slid into the passenger seat. The vinyl was cracked and foam puffed out. The floor was sticky, the carpeting worn completely through. I glanced at the dash. At least it had a full tank of gas.
“I feel like I should leave an IOU or something,” I said.
“I feel like we’re doing him a favor by stealing this piece of shit.” Wyatt turned the engine. It sputtered, strained, sputtered again, and finally roared to life. The “check engine” light flashed. Thunderous rap music blasted from the speakers; I turned the radio off.
Towering tenements and crumbling businesses were replaced by trees and gently sloping hills. Soon we would pass the city limits, enter the scattered homes of the valley’s end, and wind our way up into the mountains north of the city—a majestic sight I often admired from a distance and rarely ventured into. Nature was nice, but I was a city girl.
The clips of ammo in my pockets made sitting still uncomfortable. I squirmed, aware of warmth against my backside. A hand on the seat found nothing amiss there, but did locate the source in one of my pockets.