Kelly Meding - Wrong Side of Dead

“Lest we lose the last of the Coni?”

“We haven’t lost the others yet. They’re just misplaced.”

The corner of his mouth quirked. He looked at me full-on, and the simmering hatred in his blue eyes startled me. “Three stories up from this spot is where Jolene and I lived. After she died, I left Sunset Terrace and moved east, closer to the river. Remaining with the Clan only reminded me of the pain. I survived the massacre because I had turned my back on my people.”

“If you’d been here, you’d have died, too, Phineas. And who would have protected Aurora and Joseph when they needed you?”

His nostrils flared. He looked away, over the landscape of cement.

“What is this?” I asked. “I’ve never seen you play the self-pity card.”

“I prefer to think of it as self-reflection.” He lifted the object in his lap—a knife. Fourteen inches from hilt to tip, it gleamed a reflective gold. The blade curved to both sides, divided like a trident missing its center prong. Intricate patterns and swirls decorated the base of the blade where both halves came together, and the handle appeared to be some sort of smooth bone carved with similar patterns.

It looked deadly.

“I told you once that the Coni were a warrior race,” he said. “Centuries ago, we left behind our savage ways and embraced peace. We chose a life among humans rather than as mythical beings apart from others. We were one of the first Clans to integrate. One of the first to propose what is now the Assembly.”

“Do you think the Fey are punishing you for that?” I asked.

“They punished us for being powerful, and because it played well with their other plans. Two hundred and twelve of us were Coni, Evy. We were a force to reckon with, even against the Fey’s magic. To anger all of the bi-shifting Clans at once? The Fey would stand no chance in a direct battle.” He snorted. “As if they would dirty themselves to fight their own battles.”

He had a point. I’d never seen a sprite outside First Break without the use of a human avatar. A few faeries, yes, but they were less powerful than their fellow Fey. Demanding that the Triads destroy the Coni and Stri Clans could have ended with humans and Therians at each others’ metaphorical throats, on the edge of open war. It hadn’t (by some miracle), which threw a lovely monkey wrench into the sprites’ plans. Left them scrambling and improvising, which they don’t do well.

“What’s the knife for, Phin?” I asked.

“Until about five centuries ago, our elite guard carried them as symbols of their status. Only a few survived, and one has been passed through my line. The others were destroyed during the fire.”

I studied the gold knife and its twin blades—one for each branch of the Clan. Coni and Stri, separate and together. Its age surprised me.

“For me, this is no longer about the Watchtower or the city’s best interests,” Phin said, his voice cold. “It’s about my Clan. I will do whatever it takes to find them and bring them home.”

“I know you will. So will I.”

“Walter Thackery will die by this blade.”

As much as I wanted to argue and lay claim to killing Thackery, I didn’t. Phin hadn’t said who would wield that blade, after all, which left all sorts of things open for interpretation. “We have to find him first,” I said.

“Something tells me we won’t have to wait long.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes.” He turned his head slightly, giving me three-quarters of his profile. “Don’t react, but we are being watched.”

I tensed. “Wyatt’s in the car.”

“The opposite direction, about two o’clock.”

Damn him and his Therian eyesight. All I made out in the shadows between two faraway streetlights was a dark blob. “What is it?”

“A wolf.”

Terrific .

5:35 A.M.

I tried swallowing, only my mouth had gone dry. “Just one?”

“So far,” Phin replied. “He’s upwind and making no effort to disguise his presence. Larger than your average wolf.” His nostrils flared. “I know that scent.”

“Wolf Boy?”

“Yes.”

“Shit.” I still couldn’t make it out, and really, really hoped that Wyatt stayed put inside the Jeep. Werewolves moved damned fast; it could cross the distance between us in seconds. I had a pair of knives strapped one to each ankle and a switchblade in my rear pocket. I’d also been up close and personal with a werewolf, and I remembered its thick, sturdy muscles. Killing one with a single knife hadn’t been easy.

“I’m going to stand up. Stay put.”

“Okay.”

He handed me his knife, then drew up slowly. I kept my eyes far away from his naked ass as he did so, then held up the sweats when he asked for them. He got them on without incident or warning, which I took as a good sign. Maybe the new wolf was just there to spy on us.

“Slowly now,” Phin whispered, extending his hand. I took it.

We both heard the low growl—from the opposite direction.

“It’s at your seven o’clock,” he said.

The Jeep. I looked. I couldn’t fucking help it. The Jeep was barely visible, a good thirty yards away, and in between the circles of light. Smack in the middle of the light nearest the Jeep was the second werewolf, its gray coat glistening, hackles raised, attention fixed—on a Jeep with zero protection in the form of a roof or windows. Wyatt sat perfectly still behind the wheel, though I had no doubt he was preparing to summon some sort of weapon.

“Can you teleport over there?” Phin asked.

“Yes.” Easily.

“Weapons?”

“Got ’em.”

I was standing now. A third growl, distinctly different from the first two, echoed behind us. Three of them, and they had us surrounded. Fan-fucking-tastic .

“Can you teleport to safety?”

“Not the way they’re spread out,” I said. No matter which way I went, I’d be too close to one of the wolves.

“I can fly you out.”

“Then they’ll just attack Wyatt.”

The first wolf stepped into a pool of light. Its black-and-white pelt gleamed and its eyes seemed to wink. It came a few steps forward, head low, no longer showing teeth. I calculated how quickly I could pull out the switchblade. As the wolf drew closer, Phin’s wings appeared. He kept them tucked close to his back, prepared without showing outward aggression.

The other two wolves hadn’t moved; Wyatt remained still.

At less than ten feet away, the black-and-white wolf shifted. The familiar, faint tingle of Break power crawled over my skin. I passed the fancy Coni blade back to Phin, who held it loosely by his thigh. Any direct threat from us would get someone killed quickly.

A teenage boy continued walking toward us, a mirror image of Wolf Boy—same narrow build, blond hair, and flashing silver eyes, right down to the straight point of his nose. Hatred hung around him like a bad smell, almost a physical presence. He stopped an arm’s length from Phin. He had no weapons in his hands and was completely naked—but I had no doubt he was the most dangerous person in our threesome.

The two males sized each other up, observing and assessing in such a blatantly alpha, testosterone-coated manner that I wanted to crack their heads together. I couldn’t check on the other two wolves without taking my attention away from the boy in front of us, and I desperately wanted to make sure that Wyatt was okay.

“Coni.” The boy’s maturing voice cracked despite his attempt to appear menacing, and he spoke as if those four letters tasted foul in his mouth.

“Lupa,” Phin replied, his voice just as frigid.

“Surprised to see us alive?”

“I was surprised last month when the first Lupa showed his ugly face, but like most vermin, where there’s one—”