Kelly Meding - Wrong Side of Dead

“Stop a sec,” Milo said, panting as he drew up next to me.

“He was in a coma,” Phin said. “Did Dr. Vansis bring him out?”

“No, the machines just started going crazy. He woke up on his own and began yanking out the tubes.”

Christ .

“Evy, he’s different,” Milo said.

No, no, no, no …

My feet carried me forward. Kismet blocked the door to Wyatt’s room, hands braced on either side of the frame. Her profile was pale, jaw set. I touched her shoulder. She turned her head and her horrified expression crushed any lingering hope I’d had.

I don’t want to see this. Can’t know this. Oh God, please .

She moved out of the doorway, and I stepped into it, greeted by another growl. Low, warning. The bed was empty, blood-dotted sheets rumpled and tangled with abandoned wires and tubes. Wyatt was huddled in the corner, the linen gown he’d been dressed in twisted around his waist. The bandages on his neck and arm were torn, exposing the injured flesh below. Face covered by his hands, he rocked gently back and forth.

He was growling.

“Wyatt?” I said.

The growling stopped, and his entire body tensed. Ceased rocking.

I swallowed, mouth too damned dry. “Wyatt, it’s Evy.”

He raised his head, hands slipping down his face to cover his mouth. His eyes, once as black as coal, now twinkled a deep silver. No recognition there, just fear. And pain.

And something else I’d seen directed at me from him only one other time in my life—betrayal.

My heart fell to pieces.

BEFORE

Friday, July 11

Watchtower

“What do you mean he got away?”

This is the fourth time someone’s asked me that question since we returned to the Watchtower, and this time it’s Isleen’s turn. She towers over me like a skyscraper, all white hair and tall, thin frame. I don’t even bother straining my neck to look up from my spot on the floor outside the infirmary, where I parked myself half an hour ago to wait for news on Milo.

So far everyone’s gotten the bulk of the story from Marcus, but they inevitably come to me when they find out Felix is now infected. Astrid came first, then Phineas, then Baylor. They want to know how. They also want to know why he got off the bus alive and is at large in the city. The former question I can answer; the latter question I can’t. Not really.

“He surprised me and he got away.” It’s my canned response, and it’s really the only one I have.

My healing palms itch like hell. I rub their bandaged surfaces over my jeans-clad knees, at once furious and desolate. One more name to add to the list of people I’ve failed.

The noise level in the corridor is pretty high. Humans, Therians, and vampires alike are trolling the hall, gossiping about the bus accident, the human Hunter who was turned, and hoping for more details than I’m laying out. I want to find a quiet corner somewhere and hide for a while, but I won’t leave until I know Milo will be okay. It seems the very least I owe him now, and my heart aches for what he’s lost.

Isleen seems to accept my explanation more readily than anyone else. “Then I am sorry for your loss, Evangeline.”

“Thanks.”

The conversation quiets just enough to catch my attention. Bystanders part, creating a kind of path for two sprinting figures. Gina Kismet doesn’t pause to look at me. She slams through the door and disappears inside the infirmary. As the door swings shut, her companion stops. I don’t have to look up to know it’s Wyatt.

He crouches in front of me and covers my hands with his, squeezing tight. I hazard a glance at his face; his expression nearly undoes my composure. Sympathy and regret are all I see. Not a trace of blame or anger. I’d almost rather he be mad at me for fucking up. He doesn’t say anything. Just holds my hands.

My throat tightens. God help me, I will not cry in front of all these people.

“Come with me,” he whispers.

I let him pull me to my feet. Let him hold my hand as he leads me away from the crowd. I stare at the back of his neck and struggle to retain my tenuous grip on the last threads of my restraint. He stops at a door, enters a code, and a lock springs free. Inside.

He shuts the door, and I blink at the glare of light. The weapons locker. I was given a tour of it last week—a chance to geek out over the vast array of guns, knives, swords, and explosive devices assembled by our combined forces. It’s arranged not unlike a store, separated by types of weapons, stacked on shelves and some displayed openly. The biting scents of gun oil and leather tickle my nose.

“Are we going out?” I ask, confused.

“Not for a while,” he replies, circling to stand in front of me. He reaches out, then freezes. “You looked like you needed some privacy.”

Amusement quirks my mouth. “So you thought immediately of the weapons locker?”

“Well, you and weapons are fairly synonymous in my mind.”

If anyone but Wyatt said that to my face, I might be offended, but I can hear the affection in his words. “Thank you.”

He reaches for me again, and I tilt my head to show him it’s okay. His palm cups my cheek, thumb brushing the corner of my lips. Heat blooms in my chest. I’ve missed his touch, missed this intimacy I’ve had only with Wyatt. We’ve seen each other only in passing these last ten days. Given each other the space we both needed.

I miss him .

“Don’t blame yourself for what happened to Felix,” he says, shattering the magical quiet.

I snort rather rudely and step back, out of arm’s reach. “Yeah, right.”

“It isn’t like what happened to Alex.”

My hand rises, reaching for the cross necklace. Too late, I remember I’m not wearing it. Haven’t very often since coming to the Watchtower. The silver is poisonous to Therians, and wearing it around them is rude, even if it’s a personal keepsake. It’s wrapped in a scrap of silk and tucked safely inside my trunk.

“It’s exactly like what happened to Alex,” I say. Those warm feelings disappear, trampled by equal parts guilt and anger.

Wyatt shakes his head, jaw set, determined. “No. Felix was a Hunter.”

“Was, Wyatt. Was. He hasn’t been on patrol since he was hurt. He hasn’t been training. You saw what that hound did to him.” My chest hurts at the memory of those few hours in the cabin, as he lay suffering on an old mattress while Thackery’s hounds kept us trapped inside.

“He survived, Evy.”

“To become what? He couldn’t walk from the car to the waiting room without sweating through his shirt. He was in pain all the fucking time. He was no more capable of fighting that Halfie than Alex would have been, but he did it anyway because it’s what he was fucking trained to do!”

I’m screaming, and I hate it. I’m not angry at Wyatt. I’m furious at myself for failing another person. You’d think with all my recent experience at it, I’d be immune. Far from it—every new failure compounds the hurt, increases my shame. Makes me wonder why the hell Fate keeps seeing fit to let me live while better people die.

“If you’d been Felix,” Wyatt asks, “would you have done anything different?”

The question works as well as a slap across the face. Goddamn him for knowing me so well. I shake my head no and turn away, examining a tray of immaculately shined blades without really seeing them. My eyes burn. The tray blurs.

Hands slide over my shoulders and gently squeeze. “When I heard you were involved in the crash and that one of ours had been infected, I panicked.” His voice is strained, the fear impossible to mistake. “I know you’ve been training with Phin, but you’re also still recovering, and for a few minutes …”