Kelly Meding: As Lie the Dead

“We also need to figure out where we’re going,” Wyatt said. “A motel’s a good idea, but we need food and fresh clothes.”

“What about the were-cat’s apartment? The one we stayed in a few days ago?”

He shook his head, slowing the car for an approaching intersection. We were coming out of the forest, into the outskirts of the city, and the road expanded into four lanes. “He’ll be back in town today.”

“Damn.” It was my best idea. “I don’t suppose they kept our old place on Cottage?”

“It was the first place the Triads ransacked when you went rogue.”

Figured. The two-bedroom apartment on Cottage Place was a hole, but it had been home for the last four years. I’d inherited the closet-sized single room from the dead Hunter I replaced, while Jesse and Ash bunked in the moderately larger second room. It was big enough for sleeping in and close enough to Mercy’s Lot for convenience hunting. I hadn’t been back since the night before my partners were killed. It never seemed necessary. I had no personal possessions to collect, nothing sentimental to mourn.

Maybe it was why I kept the cross necklace close. I reached into my back pocket and pulled it out. A smudge of blood darkened one corner of the silver cross, but the words etched on the back—“Love Always, Alex”—were still visible. A little piece of her and a little piece of him.

“It’s a safe place to rest for a while,” Wyatt said.

My head snapped sideways. He was right, and I hated it. I didn’t want to go back to the apartment Alex and Chalice had shared; I just didn’t see much of a choice. The Triads knew about it, but now that we were on their side again, we didn’t have to worry about a sneak attack. Kelsa knew me as Chalice, but she was dead—no reason to think the goblins had a clue. Isleen and her Bloods had no reason to attack us.

“What if Alex told the Halfies who he was?” I asked as I put on the necklace. “They could know about the apartment.”

“Most of them are dead, Evy.”

“The patio door is busted out.”

“Then we won’t stay long. But frankly, it’s our best option.”

“Fine.”

The city passed by in a familiar blur. South into Mercy’s Lot, then west on the Wharton Street Bridge, and into the nicer neighborhoods of Parkside East. I directed him to the correct block, more out of some strange instinct than actual memory. Chalice knew this place; it was part of her. The first time I was here, three days ago, I’d felt uneasy in the clean, wealthy surroundings. Coming back today felt natural. Like home.

I pointed out the building when we passed—just another apartment complex with clean walls, decorated balconies, and underground parking structures. Wyatt drove around the block and down an alley between the freestanding buildings. He parked near a row of Dumpsters. We wiped the car down before we exited.

“We’re going to attract some attention,” I said. The neighborhood was waking up around us, more and more cars emerging onto the road for their commute into the city. I joined him in front of the parked car.

Wyatt looked at his shirt, one sleeve dirty white and the other dark red. “Maybe we’ll start a trend.”

“Or a panic. Her apartment’s a block away, on the fifth floor.”

“You could—”

“I’m not teleporting us.”

“You may have to anyway, once we get to the door.”

I tilted my head. “And why’s that?”

“Do you have keys?”

My hands went to my pockets. I hadn’t had Chalice’s keys since … Well, I wasn’t sure. Two days ago, when I returned to her apartment to ask Alex for help, I let myself in with her keys. After that? “I must have put them down in the apartment. Shit.” I spun and slammed my heel against the car’s fender. It scuffed but didn’t dent. I didn’t feel any better for it.

“It’s not the car’s fault, Evy.”

“It’s nobody’s fault, right? It just happened.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “What the hell—?”

Metal screamed and squealed. Glass shattered, tinkled to the ground, and pinged off nearby metal. Rubber popped; air hissed. Bits of debris hit my left arm and cheek. Wyatt grunted and we fell sideways, away from the noise. Pavement scraped my other elbow.

Something heavy had landed on the car. I looked up at a male figure, semi-backlit by the lightening morning sky. He stood on the sunken roof of the car, back straight and arms by his sides. Tall, lean, and muscular, in jeans and shoes and nothing else. I stared, my mouth falling open as two new shadows fell across us.

Shadows cast by his twelve-foot wingspan.

7:02 A.M.

First instinct screamed, “Gargoyle!” Common sense shot it down immediately. He was out in sunlight, with no sign of crackling or scent of scorching, and any gargoyle that short would be laughed out of its species. No, the winged man looming over us was something new and different.

I hated new and different.

The creature didn’t advance, but I never took my eyes off him. “Wyatt?” I asked.

“Never better,” he replied.

“Wyatt Truman?” the stranger said. I expected a bigger voice, something godlike to go with the strange angel wings. His was raspy, like someone who’d just inhaled a lot of smoke, and a little sharp. Not quite high-pitched, but definitely a few octaves above average.

The air behind me shifted. Could have been Wyatt standing; I wasn’t turning away to verify. “Yes,” Wyatt said.

I took stock of my meager weapons. I’d ditched the gun back at Olsmill. Still had one knife in the ankle sheath, just a quick reach away—

“Are you Evangeline Stone?”

My foot jerked. With the backlight going on, I couldn’t tell if he was looking at me or not. “Depends on who’s asking and why,” I said. Using both hands for support, I carefully pulled my legs beneath me, planted my feet, and stood, taking care not to startle him. Until I knew what he wanted and how he knew our names, he was Handle with Care. Wyatt shifted to my left flank.

“You don’t look like Danika described you.”

Air caught in my throat, and my thoughts slammed to a halt. A gentle girl from a gentle race of shape-shifters, the young were-falcon had been killed during an ill-advised Triad raid on their colony. A raid intended to capture me—only I’d already turned tail and run. And in one of the worst brass decisions ever made, the apartment complex housing the were-colony had been burned to the ground, killing over three hundred Owlkins. Danika was another of many friends I’d lost in the last week of my life.

“Danika’s dead,” I said.

The stranger nodded. “And I grieve for her, as I’ve grieved for the rest of my people.”

“You’re an Owlkin?” Not possible. They shifted from human to bird form. I’d never seen or heard of an Owlkin—or any other were, for that matter—who could half morph.

“Disappointed?”

I glared, my cheeks heating. “No, surprised. For a second there, I thought I’d stepped into some cheesy B movie and angels were falling from the sky.”

He had the gall to laugh—a joyous sound I should have found irritating. Instead, it made me want to smile. “Then I’m sorry for my entrance,” he said. “Surprise is usually the best way to get honest reactions from people.”

“Well,” Wyatt said, “my honest reaction is anger. Did you really have to crush that car?”

The Owlkin looked down. “I guess I didn’t think that one through.” He leapt from the car, landing on the concrete as gracefully as a ballet dancer. Air whipped around us from his brown and gray wings, which he tucked in closer to his back. “My name is Phineas el Chimal.”