Elle Jasper - Everdark

Well damn. Didn’t see that one coming. Frickin’ frackin’ newling at the Sunoco. Go figure. He must’ve gotten loose from whatever changed him. Great. Freeroaming newlings.

I leapt up just as he lunged; we met head-on. He was wild, uncontrolled, unaware of his powers. I was not. Just as his fangs dropped, I reached for the blade sheathed at my back. The silver flashed in the early-morning light, and the newling’s eyes widened. A nasty snarl curled his inhuman lips.

“You’re her,” he murmured, and shoved me.

Just then Eli appeared, Luc and Zetty right behind him.

The newling’s eyes grazed both, then back to me. “Later,” he said, his voice not matching the newling face. With a fierce shove, he flung me against the wall. By the time I scrambled up, he was across the parking lot and disappearing into the dense copse of tall planted pines behind the Sunoco.

Grasping my knees, I breathed hard, catching my breath. First, I kept my eyes trained at the tree line. Then, the silence drew my attention to my parking lot companions.

Luc stood, frowning. Zetty stood, frowning more.

Eli took off after the newling.

“What the freak is wrong with you, Riley?” Luc said. He shoved his fingers through his hair, staring hard at me. “Do you honestly think you can handle everything by yourself?”

I rose and met his gaze. “Sure. Why not?”

Luc continued to stare for several seconds, as though trying to see something, then blinked. “Unbelievable.”

I jammed the blade back in its sheath. “What?” I asked.

Luc shook his head. “Never thought I’d see a head harder than Eli’s. Do you have a problem asking anyone for help, or just from me? Or Eli?”

I shrugged. “I had him, Luc. If I’d needed help, I would have definitely asked.” I scratched my jaw. “He said, ‘You’re her.’ What’s that supposed to mean? And why was he out here in the early morning, alone? Don’t newlings usually run in groups? At least, for a while?”

“Usually,” Luc said, and led the way into the store. “But we’re dealing with Romanian magic—or so Ned says, and I tend to believe him. There’s no telling what we’re up against anymore.” He rounded on me as we stopped at the pile of junk food sitting on the floor where I left it. “Which is why you freaking need to call for help”—he tapped my temple—“when something’s going down. Got it? Or do you really want to see Eli kick my ass?”

I glanced at Zetty, whose dark gaze remained fixed on mine. He merely shrugged.

A cynical laugh slipped from my throat. “Whatever, Dupré.” I bent down and gathered my junk food, then headed to the cooler. “I gotta tell ya—I’m pretty sick of hearing how Eli’s going to kick everyone’s asses for me getting into trouble.” I flung open the cooler, grabbed a Yoo-hoo, and let the door slam shut. “Where is he, anyway? It’s been too long.”

Eli walked through the front door. He shook his head. “He’s fast. Got away.”

Luc and Zetty followed me up to the front. The cashier, who’d stepped out the front to smoke, was just making her way back behind the counter. I set my junk food on the counter. “You can add this stuff to the gas,” I said. She rang it up, looking at me uncertainly the whole time.

“Receipt?” she asked.

“No, thanks, “I responded, scooped up my stuff, and left.

My cell vibrated. I dumped my junk food in my driver’s seat and grasped the phone from my back pocket. I glanced at the screen and rolled my eyes when I saw Phin’s name. I answered. “Hey.” Eli glared at me.

“The next time you pull something like that, Riley I will personally kick your ass,” Phin said.

I hung the phone up and flashed him the bird.

I was really, really getting tired of all the ass-kicking threats.

Already, I was getting irritated, and it wasn’t even eight o’clock in the morning yet. I opened my gas cap, lifted the fuel nozzle, and jammed it in. “Aren’t we going to go after him?” I asked about the newling. “He’s pretty close to Savannah.”

“No,” Eli said, leaning against the Jeep’s fender. “I told Papa. He and my mother will take care of it. Just like I will take care of you.”

I eyed Luc in the rearview; his grin spoke volumes. Finished pumping, I stuck the nozzle back in the pump, screwed the gas cap back on, and looked at all three of my Jeep occupants. “Let’s get out of here.”

I’d already had enough newling excitement for one morning.

Twenty-seven miles later we merged onto US 17 North. I’d shucked out of my jacket, and cars filed down both lanes. Palm trees and live oaks dripping with Spanish moss gathered along the highway, along with the occasional Gullah woman, sitting out beneath a pitched half tent, or a beach umbrella, in a plastic and metal lawn chair with a quilt spread on the ground and dozens of sweetgrass baskets for sale. Small country stores advertising homemade peach preserves and boiled peanuts, along with fruit stands, gathered at the edge of the highway. In between those fruit stands were pieces of plywood nailed to trees: PEACHES, WATERMELONS, PECANS, FIVE MILES. It was all unique, very South Carolina. Very Charleston.

“You like it here,” Eli said, peering at me behind a pair of aviators.

I regarded him behind my own pair of shades and smiled. “I remember my mom taking Seth and me here, to Folly Beach, when we were very young,” I said. “We’d stay at the Holiday Inn, and Seth and I would hang out at the ice machine, eating it by the handfuls. Nice memories.”

“They’re good to have,” he answered. “Hold on to them.”

It was the best piece of advice I’d been given in a while.

By the time we drove the sixty-plus miles to Charleston, the sun drove harshly into the open top of my Jeep. Overhead, white fluffy clouds drifted in a sky of pure blue, and the breeze that whipped at my face and my ponytail, felt warm, at times smoldering—typical dog days of summer. One would never think such ease and beauty would lead to immortal monsters jabbing their fangs into the hearts of humans, or crazy vampire cult fight clubs taking place while the city slept. Or worse—newlings hanging out at the Sunoco, waiting for victims. Fucked up, I tell ya.

More palms and mossy oaks stood along old neighborhood streets as we hit the historic district. Spearing the sky was the tall, spindly spire of St. Michael’s, and farther along Church Street, the well-known and aged French Huguenot Church. I downshifted with the slower traffic along Market Street, glancing over at the Gullah women and their wares in the city market. Sweetgrass baskets of all shapes and sizes and strip quilts covered the market stands, filled with goods varying from fruit preserves to handmade jewelry. We didn’t stop; instead, we continued toward the harbor, following Phin, east of the Ashley River and all the way to South Battery. We pulled in behind the two trucks Phin and Jack were driving. We were parked on the driveway of a large, white, three-story historic home. It looked like something out of Southern Living magazine. I’m talking full-front verandas, large-paddled ceiling fans, white rocking chairs, and dozens of huge green Boston ferns, and flanked by tall palms, crepe myrtle trees, and aged magnolias with large, waxy green leaves. It sat in the famous line of battery houses overlooking Charleston Harbor. We pulled around back and parked in the shade. I threw the Jeep into neutral and yanked the emergency brake.

I looked at the battery mansion before us. “Whose place is this?”

Eli looked at me over his shades. “Belongs to Jake Andorra, but he won’t be here. It’ll just be us.”

“So where’s Jake Andorra if he’s not here?” I asked, unfastening my seat belt and sliding out the Jeep’s door.