Kelly Mendig - Three Days to Dead

“I was thinking something a little less mythical, and a bit more tangible. Information.”

He is ignoring every single sarcastic retort, stuck on some imaginary idea of forgiveness and a fairy tale ending. I’m doomed, and he knows it. Still, a small part of me wants to believe him. To believe that there is a chance I can come out of this with my skin intact.

“What sort of information?”

“Tovin told me something else, the reason he summoned me, but we shouldn’t talk about it here,” Wyatt says. “You never know who’s listening. I have a hotel room not far from here. It’s under a protective barrier, so no one will find us. We’ll talk about it there.”

It can still be a trap. At least here, in this dirty boxcar, we are on familiar territory. I’ve hunted and killed here. I know all of the hiding places. But I trust Wyatt, because nothing he’s said sounds like a lie. He’s smart and skillful, but he’s never been good at lying to me.

“Fine, let’s go,” I say.

We don’t speak during the ten-minute walk to the West Inn, a two-story motel with bad parking lot lights and dirty windows. It’s quiet, private; the sort of place we need. It’s nestled just on the edge of Mercy’s Lot, surrounded by strip malls and consignment shops.

We reach the motel in the middle of the night. Foot traffic is nonexistent, but I still pause before crossing the street. No cars, no signs of life, just gentle quiet, practically unheard of in a city our size. Wyatt crosses first, palming his room key. He has a room on the very end, closest to the street and farthest from the office. I eye all possible exit points and escape routes—one front window, a path across the parking lot or to the sidewalk, no direct access to the second level or roof—before following.

I expect attack at any moment and am relieved to reach the door safely. My skin tingles as I cross the threshold and pass through the protection barrier. He closes the door, turns the lock.

The room is small, barely large enough to accommodate a pair of full beds. A plastic table and chairs are pushed to the front corner, nearest the single window. Hideous striped drapes are drawn shut, blocking out roving eyes and neon streetlights. Rumpled clothes lay in a pile by the bathroom door. Toiletries cover the vanity area.

“You’ve been here awhile,” I say.

“A few days. Even before I talked to Tovin, I was worried. Worried that something was going down. I wasn’t sure who to trust. I didn’t want to be anywhere I could be found.”

Not even by me. I spy an electric water kettle on the room’s cheap bureau, and next to it a box of instant cocoa packets. A smile steals across my lips before I can stop it. I want to be angry with him, but all I am now is tired. And smelly. Coated in sweat and ash and blood.

As if reading my mind, he says, “There are fresh towels in the bathroom, Evy. Go clean up and then we’ll talk.”

I want to argue, to get the inevitable taunts and blame-tossing out of the way first. Instead, I brush past him, eyes on the bathroom door. I can do a better job of ripping him a new asshole when I don’t feel quite so much like death on a cracker.

An hour later, I sprawl on one of the beds in a borrowed T-shirt, and feel more or less human again. More or less, because I never have felt completely human.

Hunters are recruited for many reasons. Most often, it’s because we’re smart, strong, and we like violence. It’s also a better alternative to jail. The recruiters see potential for strength, cunning, and obedience. We are generally orphans, usually unwanted, and always unmissed, taught to think only about the next kill. To follow one leader and trust in groups of three—our Triad.

They had hit the mother lode with me: orphaned at the age of ten, and in foster care until my arrest at the tender age of fourteen. I celebrated my eighteenth birthday with a breaking-and-entering bust that brought me to the attention of the Metro Police. I led them on a merry chase through Mercy’s Lot while resisting arrest, and accepted a one-way ticket to Boot Camp in lieu of jail time. Anything was better than jail.

At least, I used to think so.

Jesse and Ash had lost their senior teammate a week before I was assigned to Wyatt. They took to me faster than he did. He said at least once a week that I didn’t have what it took to be a Hunter. Times have changed.

Wyatt hands me a steaming porcelain mug. I inhale the rich scent of the cocoa, soothed by the gentle aroma of chocolate. The hot mug burns my fingertips, but it is a welcome pain. I sip. It scorches down my throat and warms my belly.

He sits on the edge of the bed, intent on me. “Tell me about it, Evy.”

“About what?” I ask, playing obtuse. Buying time to summon the words. He is silent, not playing along this time. I clutch the mug in both hands. My skin heats.

So I do. When I get to the part about Jesse’s death, Wyatt slides up the bed until he can touch my arm. I don’t draw away. I find a tiny measure of comfort in his touch, his warmth. He brushes my tears away with his hand. He offers what I needed two nights ago—unconditional love. Acceptance of tragedy and the promise of hope. I put the mug down on the room’s single nightstand and surge into his arms, burying my face in his shoulder. He holds me, hands stroking my back, his voice soft and murmuring empty words.

“They didn’t tell me,” he says. “The brass said nothing about Jesse being turned, just shot in the back.”

“What about the Halfies?” I ask, lifting my head. “Their bodies wouldn’t have had time to decompose.”

Wyatt shakes his head. “None were found, just Jesse and Ash. Someone set you up, Evy. Someone who wanted all three of you dead.”

I rest my head on his chest, drawing strength from him. His arms tighten around my waist. His heart, thudding so close to my ear, speeds up. He shifts. I remember his words from an hour ago: a happy ending for us. What sort of happy ending had Tovin seen? I love Wyatt, as much as any person possibly can, but not in a romantic way. I never had those feelings for him, and I don’t have them now.

I close my eyes, but all I see is the fight that killed my partners. My friends. I see how fiercely they pile onto Jesse during those first moments. I see Ash, black hair a blur as she becomes the warrior I have always longed to be. The fight is so well coordinated, unexpectedly so for Halfies. They move in packs and fight dirty. This is more planned, more focused—just not on me.

My eyes snap open. I must be remembering it wrong. But as I replay the battle from first blow to last, I keep reaching the same conclusion. After my initial taunt, none of them made a move on me. And the remaining Halfies scattered when Ash fell, and I was the last human standing.

Fucking impossible.

No, I am just tired and way beyond stressed. That line of thinking screams “inside job,” and I’m just not going there. Not until I can think straight again. “I don’t understand, Wyatt,” I whisper. “Do the Triads—?”

“Right now, I don’t trust the Triads. Or the Council, for that matter. There’s no way to know if one of them is in on this yet. But we could get them to listen to you.”

“You mentioned that before. About information?”

He releases me, and I miss his embrace. I feel cold without it. He paces to the other side of the room, hands balling into fists. I can almost see imaginary wheels turning in his head. “Tovin has been hearing rumors for a few days now, mostly through informants and the gossip train, about a possible alliance developing between the goblin Queens and one of the Blood Families. And now I’ve started hearing them, too.”