Kelly Meding - As Lie the Dead

“We?” I tried to recall what he’d told me about that story—what I’d thought was simply a brief history of the Triads’ birth. What had, in fact, been a snapshot of his own life. “You and your brother?” It felt so odd to say those words.

Even odder to see him nod. “Nicky … Nicandro hated that restaurant. Hated working there after school. His revulsion made sense afterward.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he was Gifted, too, Evy. He had precognitive abilities, but he had no control over them. Usually he couldn’t figure out what the hell he was seeing or why. He told me he thought his visions about the restaurant involved us, that he was saving our lives by keeping me away that night.”

Being born Gifted is extremely rare. It requires that the birth take place over a Break—a magical hot spot. They exist all over the city, but none of them in hospital delivery rooms. The odds of two people in the same family being born … Wait. “Wyatt, were you and Nicky twins?” I asked.

He scrubbed both hands across his face, then looked at me with red eyes. “I was six minutes older, but he was always trying to protect me. I guess he did, since we lived and our family died.”

A hundred questions whirled through my mind, all eager for answers. But Wyatt seemed willing to tell the story at his own pace. I turned to face him more directly and just listened.

“I know the Fey came to us because they sensed our Gifts,” he said, speaking as much to me as to himself. “Nicky and I were three months from eighteen, so no one objected when our supposed aunt showed up to take temporary custody. She offered us help with our Gifts and opened up the entire Dreg world to us.”

“Amalie?”

“In her avatar form, yes. She and her sprites were a driving force from the start. I fell headfirst into training and never looked back. There were seven of us those first couple of months, learning to track and to fight—how to turn a specific Dreg’s strength into their weakness. All of the things we teach. Then we started hunting.”

“Rufus?”

“He was there—the last of the first seven to be recruited. We couldn’t stand each other, actually, not for a long time.”

My mouth twitched. Rufus had admitted the same thing two days ago. Funny how that hatred had grown into a solid friendship over the course of a decade.

Wyatt inhaled deeply, held it, then exhaled hard. “Nicky hated it, every minute, and for a while I hated him. I thought he was weak. I was so angry at everything we’d lost and at the people who’d done it, I couldn’t see straight. Killing goblins and Halfies and anything else we were sent after … it let me feel something, when the rest of the time all I felt was numb.”

Boy, could I commiserate with that state of mind. “What happened to the bounty hunters who killed your family?”

His expression became thunderous. Deadly. “Eight months after the fire, we were really no better than those bounty hunters. Amalie fed us information through her sprite aides, and some of her other Fey contacts tried to guide us in the field, but we had no chain of command. Nothing that really worked, so we did what we wanted.”

Hearing the tumultuous beginnings of an organization I’d always seen as rigid and uncompromising was as disturbing to me as it was a relief. It was difficult to imagine Wyatt ten years ago, his fury at life driving him away from his own brother, blinded by vengeance for the dead. So unlike the man I knew—and yet, still so much the same.

“It was ten years ago last month. By sheer luck, I found out who one of the bounty hunters was. I wanted to rip his lungs out through his throat and wear them like wings. Nicky tried to stop me, wouldn’t let me leave our apartment. He said if I went after this guy, I’d be killed, too. I was so angry, I didn’t care, and I told him so. We fought, and I pushed him.”

Although Wyatt’s voice remained calm, he looked lost, caught up in the memory of such awful pain. I could guess how his story ended, and I wanted to stop him from saying anything else. Wanted to save him the emotional agony. But something thick and heavy clogged my throat and stole my voice.

After a deep exhalation, Wyatt said it: “Nicky tripped and hit his head on the corner of the dining table. It fractured his skull and killed him instantly.”

I don’t know when I’d started to cry—tears skimmed my cheeks. His story broke my heart—his tone of voice as much as the content. He’d spoken with a matter-of-fact clarity usually reserved for unemotional topics while still loading each word with fury and humiliation. Admitting to the tragic consequences of his temper had to have been as hard to verbalize as my own earlier monologue had been for me.

“I think he knew it was him or me,” Wyatt said, his voice almost a whisper. “He knew one of us was going to die that night, so he did what he always did, and he protected me.”

“Because he loved you.” I almost choked on the words, the perfect echo of Wyatt’s own death. Taking a bullet meant for me, risking permanent death to make sure I wasn’t the one to die.

“Yeah.”

Ten years last month.

A memory returned with a sudden rush of clarity. I was barely a week over the flu and home alone when I found him in front of the apartment door with a bottle in his hand. It was the only time in my life I’d seen Wyatt drunk. And not just a little drunk—totally and utterly hammered. He’d muttered something about an anniversary but never elaborated. I hadn’t asked, and he eventually passed out in my room. But not before he kissed me—something I’d written off and filed away as a liquor-induced Bad Idea. We’d never spoken of the uncomfortable encounter. Hell, I hadn’t even thought of it again until today. I’d put myself to sleep with a couple of Jesse’s lagers and convinced myself I’d dreamed the kiss.

Did Wyatt remember it—or anything he’d said that night? Would things have been different between us if I’d pried the information out of him then? If I’d kissed him back?

It didn’t fucking matter. Not anymore.

I stood and crossed the room, unsure if he’d want me or turn away. He leaned back in his chair, arms open, eyes sparkling. I curled into his lap, and it should have been awkward. I should have been embarrassed by the position. I wasn’t. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, while he looped one around my waist and the other around my knees. We hugged each other, speaking volumes in the silent embrace.

“I went out and killed the guy anyway.” Wyatt’s voice rumbled through his chest and into mine, breath hot on my neck. “I hated that I could do it only once. We never did find the second one.”

Drawing back a bit, I met his gaze. “After ten years?”

“After ten years.”

“What would you do now if you did find him?”

His eyes unfocused as he went somewhere internal. Considered what I’d asked. It gave me hope that he hadn’t answered right away. “I honestly don’t know, Evy. I’m not Andreas Petros, son of a Greek immigrant, anymore. I buried him with Nicandro and the rest of his family.”

I touched his face, featherlight, tracing features I knew by heart. Strong jaw, straight nose, perpetual stubble, thick eyebrows. The man I knew and cared for was right there, a man named Wyatt Truman. I believed him when he said Andreas was gone. I also knew what it was like to carry the anger of another lifetime. It would always simmer beneath the surface, waiting for the right spark to be struck and ignite an inferno.

Wyatt tilted his head to the side. “Are you sorry you asked?”

“I wish I’d asked sooner. It’s amazing the things we don’t know, even about people we consider our closest friends.”