Kelly Meding - Wrong Side of Dead

“I never wanted to fall in love. Not before I died, and not after, but I guess we don’t get to decide who we love. Whoever I am—this person I became the night you died and this body switch was made permanent—this person loves you. I love you. I haven’t said it much, but I like to think you believed me when I did.”

My throat closed; hot tears stung my eyes. “I didn’t want to love you, but I do anyway. And I think I finally grew up and realized a few things. I realized being in love doesn’t exempt you from hurting each other, but when you do, you don’t give up. You fix it. With Thackery … I was a coward, and I didn’t want you to see that side of me. I didn’t want to admit I’d been so weak. That I was weak with Felix. Pushing you away was easier than talking about it, and I’m so sorry for that.”

Warm wetness splashed my hand. I allowed the tears to fall, not caring anymore who saw me cry. “We flirt with death every single day. It’s always around the corner, Wyatt, waiting to take one of us away. And I can’t keep allowing death to control my life. Not anymore. Loving doesn’t make me weak, Wyatt, I know that now.”

Images of him, of Alex and Phin and Aurora and Ava, even of Jesse and Ash—they telegraphed through my memory, reminding me of people I cared about. Loved. Some I’d lost. Others I was still battling against all odds to protect.

“Loving makes me stronger.” I laughed, choked, and wiped my nose on my arm. “That sounds like a fucking greeting card, I know. But it gives me something more powerful to fight for than just honor and nameless, faceless innocents. There’s real power in loving someone, and I know it now.” I leaned down and pressed my forehead to his, aware of the heat of his skin, the machine that drew his breath, the monitor that ticked off the beats of his heart. “I just hope I didn’t learn it too late.”

I sat like that awhile, pretending he felt my presence and could feed off my strength. Sat until my back hurt and my neck ached, and I simply had to sit up again and stretch. He hadn’t moved; I hadn’t really expected him to.

“I have a meeting,” I said. “A meeting that will hopefully lead to a plan that includes reconnaissance, invasion, extraction, and lots of enemy decimation.”

“That was kind of poetic,” Milo said.

His voice startled me right off the bed. I barely had my balance back before snapping, “Make some noise or something next time.”

He leaned in the doorframe, hands in his pockets, wan and fairly simmering with untapped energy—rage, grief, frustration. He wanted to be out in the field, part of the solution, instead of left behind due to his recent gunshot wound.

“Everyone’s buzzing about your information and wondering where you got it,” he said.

I blinked. I hadn’t asked Tybalt, Astrid, or anyone else in Baylor’s squad to keep my informants a secret. They’d just done it. In the Triads, we’d often operated on a version of “don’t ask, don’t tell” when it came to acquiring information. The more people who knew about your informants, the less likely you were to get good info when you asked them. Nice to see that the policy was still alive and well.

“Doesn’t matter where as long as it’s accurate,” I said.

“I know, but the Therians aren’t used to working like that. I did float the idea that you probably got the info from the gremlins.”

“You what?”

He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “Shelby didn’t believe me. The Felia he was with thought it was a ridiculous idea, that the gremlins are nasty little creatures who don’t help anyone except themselves.”

I very nearly laughed. Apparently, humans weren’t the only ones with hidden prejudices against other races. Recalling Phin’s violent reaction to the odor of vats of gremlin urine, I imagined that Therians and gremlins didn’t mix it up very often.

“That is where you went, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “With Tybalt, no less.”

“How was that?”

“Nostalgic.”

“Things have a funny habit of blowing up when you’re nearby.”

A sharp retort died on my tongue. He was right. Rufus’s first apartment, the potato chip factory, the half-Blood in the hospital parking garage, Felix … “They do, don’t they?” I said. “I’m sorry you had to see that happen to Felix.”

Milo frowned. “Felix died two—”

“I know, he died two weeks ago. But that doesn’t make seeing his shell explode any easier, right?” It certainly hadn’t made shooting Alex Forrester in the back of the head any easier for me. The Halfie I’d killed wore the face of a man I’d once cared about; the Halfie who’d blown up in our jail wore the face of a man Milo had once cared about. Loved.

“No, it doesn’t,” Milo said. “At least he’s at peace now.”

“You’re not.”

“No, I’m not. Not even close.” He clenched his jaw, seemed on the verge of adding to his statement. Then he swallowed hard. “I, ah, Gina asked me to stay here during the meeting.”

I didn’t know what time it was, but probably damned close to noon. “Thanks for sitting with him.”

“Nothing better to do.”

“Even so.”

He nodded. A heavy weariness settled over him and he seemed the oldest twenty-year-old I’d ever met. I gave Wyatt’s hand another strong squeeze, and then left.

The War Room was packed with more than just squad leaders—every human ex-Handler, a handful of ex-Hunters, and quite a few of the higher-ranked Therian squad members were there, alongside their squad leaders. The only noticeable absences were the vampires stuck in quarantine.

An unexpected face stood out from a cluster of ex-Handlers near the far wall, and not just because he was sitting while the others were standing. Rufus St. James had been invited more than once to join us as part of the Operations staff. His experience as a Handler was invaluable, and he had a terrific tactical mind. His old Triad had rivaled my own in effectiveness, until they were all killed and he was shot by Halfies, effectively crippling him.

I guess an epic crisis really does bring people together, because Rufus was in Operations, chatting quietly with Nevada, Sharpe, and Tybalt.

He watched my approach with a steady gaze, studying the telltale signs of my minor breakdown. “How is he?” he asked.

“Dying,” I said, in no mood to sugarcoat what my mind told me to be true. Unless Thackery had a cure hiding up his sleeve. I just had to find the bastard first.

Rufus gave a slow nod and blink. “With everything happening, I thought I might be of some use here.”

“We’ve been saying that for weeks, buddy,” Nevada said.

“All right, people,” Astrid said, voice booming around the crowded room, “let’s do this.” She stood near the head of the long conference table, whiteboards behind her covered in scrawled writing. A laptop was open, and a projector light shone against the only clear section of the board. Baylor and Phineas flanked her on either side, with Gina and Marcus nearby. Heads turned and all other conversation in the room ceased.

Astrid looked as agitated as I’d ever seen her. Her long black hair was in a hasty, messy braid, her clothes were wrinkled and dirty, and a soot streak still lingered on her neck. The shadow of her true self seemed to pace just beneath the surface, tail twitching, eager to hunt and punish.

“I doubt anyone hasn’t heard the news by now,” she continued, “but just in case you’ve had your head in the sand these last twelve hours, here’s a recap. First, a half-Blood was captured tonight, brought back for questioning, and a few hours ago he blew up from the inside out. The purpose of this was to infect our vampire comrades with an unknown agent that is negatively affecting a good percentage of them, so they are all in quarantine until further notice.