Kelly Mendig - Three Days to Dead

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“For what?”

“This.”

“I think you’re entitled, Evy.” One of his hands found mine, and our fingers curled together. “I can’t imagine being where you are now. Everything you knew has turned on its head, and you’re doing your best to cope with it.”

“I keep hoping I’ll wake up and be grateful that it’s all just a nightmare. A great big, freakish nightmare.”

“I wish it was.”

He squeezed my hand, and my stomach fluttered. As urgent as our job was, and as much as I knew we had to go find the next clue, I was perfectly content to sit there for a while. I was safe in Wyatt’s arms, protected by someone as strong as me—though perhaps more powerful; I’d just seen him harness the sun.

Gentle fingers brushed a lock of hair away from my cheek and tucked it behind my ear. He rested his chin on my shoulder, seemingly as at ease as I was in our impromptu embrace. I could see his profile in my peripheral vision. His brow was knotted, his lips pursed. I smelled the faint odors of coffee and sweat, and a more basic scent. One I couldn’t readily put my finger on. The basic scent of a man, perhaps? It was feral, strong, and heady.

And arousing.

I closed my eyes, falling into the scent of him. I remembered the taste of him—but how? We never had a physical relationship. He was my boss, not my lover. So why did I remember the gentle bruising force of his kisses, the hard knots of muscle on his back and shoulders? I shouldn’t know those things.

Until perfectly rendered memories sped through my conscious mind, finally released from their prison. Not everything, but enough. My eyes flew open.

Wyatt tensed. “What is it, Evy?”

I clutched his hand tighter, pulling strength from him and feeling no shock or shame at what I now knew had happened. Only measured relief. “I remember something,” I said. “I remember us.”

May 11th

The empty boathouse reeks of tepid seawater and day-old fish—sure signs that multiple goblins only recently vacated the premises, since neither fish nor boat have seen its cobwebbed interior in at least a decade. It’s a smell I know, specific to goblins, and as always, it makes my stomach churn.

Ash steps out from behind a pile of moldy sails, her flashlight cutting patterns in the dust and grime. “So much for our hot tip,” she says.

“You need better sources,” I reply.

“I haven’t heard your troll offer up anything lately.”

I shrug, in no mood to play Who Has the Better Snitch? The goblins are no longer here, but this stretch of the Black River docks is notorious for drawing the after-dark crowd. Something worse may be along soon, and we’re one man down. Jesse split an hour ago to swing by Wyatt’s apartment. Our Handler has been out of contact all damned day—not normal behavior for him. Not at all.

Jesse should have reported—

Ash’s cell phone chirps. She fishes it out of her pocket and checks the screen. “It’s Jesse.”

Think of the devil and he calls .

She frowns, then types in a text message. Something chimes back. She puts the phone away. “He needs us at the Corcoran train bridge ASAP.”

“Did he say why?”

Her almond eyes crinkle with concern. “The message said he’d found Wyatt.”

My stomach bottoms out. I’m sprinting for the car, beating back fear with a mental stick. We’re nearly a mile away on the wrong side of the river, and the drive over is interminable. Ash is quiet, stoic, so composed next to my constant fidgeting. The Korean American yin to my Barbie-girl yang. I’m grateful for her centeredness; it means I don’t have to drive.

It occurs to me to call Jesse and demand to know exactly what he’s found, only I don’t really want to know. Triads survive the death of a Hunter; few survive intact and effective after the loss of a Handler. Wyatt is our glue. He has to be fine.

The train bridge is a black smudge against the navy night sky, a wrought-iron overpass that towers above two intersecting alleys and half a dozen abandoned construction sites. Corcoran Place is a known Dreg neighborhood—a trashy section of downtown with no actual stops along the train route. No one goes there on purpose. Except us.

Jesse is leaning against one of the iron pylons as we approach. He stands straight and jogs over to meet our car. Ash parks in the quiet alley, and I am tumbling out before the engine is off.

“Where is he?” I demand, circling to the front of the car.

“Where’s who?” Jesse asks, thick eyebrows knotting quizzically. He looks over my head as Ash’s car door slams shut. “What’s going on? You paged me half an hour ago to meet here. Did you stop for kimchi on the way?”

Ash snorts. “Bite me, taco boy.”

I reach up and ball my fist around the front of his shirt. “Where the fuck’s Wyatt?”

“Hell if I know,” he says. “He wasn’t home.”

Ash appears by my side and gently unhooks my hand from Jesse’s shirt. “Then why’d you text that you’d found him?” she asks.

Jesse blinks. “I didn’t text you.”

The knot in my stomach pulls tighter. “You didn’t ask us to come here?” I dread his reply.

“I thought you paged me.”

“Shit.”

As if my angry curse is their cue, a swarm of Halfies descend from the shadows—from beneath abandoned cars, between pylons, seemingly out of thin air. One leaps onto the hood of the car. I count thirteen, all moving with trained ease, as a fighting unit. Not something I associate with wild packs of half-Bloods.

Three against thirteen—bad odds.

We create a triangle, backs to one another as the Halfies close in their circle. My gun is holstered around my ankle, along with my two favorite hunting knives. A dog whistle is on a cord around my neck, hidden beneath my T-shirt.

My knot of fear loosens. Adrenaline surges. Good or bad odds aside, this is what we live for. They won’t get us without one hell of a fight.

Only they aren’t attacking.

This just won’t do. “Hey, Jesse,” I say loudly, “know what’s uglier than a dead half-Blood?”

He grunts. “What’s that?”

I look right at the spike-haired Halfie on the car hood. “A live one.”

It launches at me. Without the superior speed and agility of a full-Blood, the attack is awkwardly managed, but it signals the others to converge. I drop to one knee, pull my gun, and blast an anticoag round right into Spike’s throat. Blood sprays my arms and face, heavy, and stinking of old coins. I surge to my feet, replacing gun with knives, and seek another victim.

Ash spins between a clot of Halfies, taking down two with precision kicks to the temple. The self-proclaimed love child of an international jujitsu champion, she makes martial arts look easy. I envy that. My own moves are powerful, but always feel forced, unbalanced.

Jesse, on the other hand, swings his double-blade ax through the onslaught like a lumberjack.

My feet are swept out from under me, and I hit the pavement hard on my back. A Halfie is on top of me, hands clawing at my neck. It rips the corded dog whistle away. I swing a blade at its throat, but it leaps away, whistle in hand, before I can connect. I’m back on my feet and in the fray before one of the others can take advantage of my prone position.

The Halfies’ numbers are quickly cut in two, but they are infuriating me with their collective attacks on my partners. Again and again, I pull them off or kick them away.

What? I’m not worth the effort of trying to kill?

A Halfie with dyed blue hair knocks Ash to the ground and straddles her stomach. I drop a knife, grab my gun, and blow the blue head out sideways. Someone stumbles into me. I lose my balance and roll, coming back up on my knees to the sound of Jesse’s surprised shout.