Kelly Mendig - Three Days to Dead

“What’s it like?” he asked.

“What’s what like?”

“New life.”

Good fucking question. “Kind of like looking through a camera lens. Everything is sharp and in focus, but doesn’t feel quite real. My body is taller, and Chalice has a lot more hair.”

“Chalice?”

“Frost.” It still felt odd to say her name like she was an individual. More and more, we were becoming the same person. One unique identity, rather than two sharing one space.

“Did you know beforehand?”

I blinked. He really needed to quit with the cryptic questions. “Know what, Rufus?”

“About the supposed union between Bloods and goblins. This thing that has Wyatt so hell-bent on breaking every single rule.”

Oh, that. Yes. “No,” I said.

“But you are absolutely certain now that he’s right about this secret alliance? No doubt in your mind?”

I had doubts about a lot of things, none of which would go away until the last of my memories returned. The only thing I didn’t doubt was Wyatt, because he’d given me no cause.

“I think Wyatt believes in this enough for both of us,” I said. “He believed enough to give up his free will in exchange for my help. I’m not the only one on this three-day timetable, and until my memory returns and I know it, too, he’ll know for me. Someone set me up for murder, Rufus, and until I find out who, Wyatt is the only person I still trust.”

“Not even me?” It was matter-of-fact, a question with no hint of anger or surprise. Just curiosity.

“Not even you.” Maybe Chalice’s roommate. He seemed nice and completely oblivious to Dreg dealings. Not that I had any reason to contact him again before the clock ran out.

He blew hard through his teeth. “I feel like I need to apologize to you.”

“For what?”

“For my part in what happened to the Owlkins. I know you were friendly with them, and I’m sorry.” I closed my eyes, silently begging him to shut up. He said it anyway: “My team led the assault.”

Fists clenched in my lap, I tried to keep from flying at him. “You were following orders.”

“That doesn’t help me sleep at night.”

“Good.”

I glanced at the restaurant’s side door. A young couple bounced out, each carrying a supersized soda cup and matching silly grins. Still no sign of Wyatt. Rufus fidgeted in the backseat. His eyebrows were knitted, his mouth drawn into a tight line. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have guessed he was having a bowel movement.

“You okay?”

He flinched and didn’t look at me. “I need to use the facilities.”

I knew it. “Go ahead. I’ll make sure Wyatt doesn’t drive off without you.”

I smiled. He didn’t.

Rufus slid out of the backseat, letting the blanket fall to the cracked vinyl in a puddle of blue terry. He slammed the door and limped past me, around to the front of the car—the roundabout way of getting to the building next door. He stopped in front of the bumper, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his jeans. He stood there.

The short hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Warning lights flashed in my mind. I looked around, getting a three-sixty of the parking lot and all access points. Our side was against a slat-wood fence, ten feet tall and bordered by bushes and parking spaces. The back of the lot bordered the rear of a rotting apartment building, rusty fire escapes practically falling off the brick, and no street access. The opposite side of the restaurant—which I couldn’t see from there but vaguely recalled from driving in—was another stone barrier, the freestanding wall of a rubbled strip mall. It was a box canyon.

I opened my door, snagged the knife from my ankle sheath, and lunged, knocking Rufus backward and pinning him beneath me. His head cracked off the blacktop. He yelped.

“You son of a bitch.” I pressed the serrated blade to his throat. “How long have they been tracking us?”

“I don’t know,” Rufus gasped, eyes wide and wild. He didn’t fight back. “Probably since I got out of that damned fridge. The brass is tabbing all of us, Evy. They’ll be here any minute. You need to run.”

I blinked and pressed the knife harder, drawing a speck of blood. “Run right into a fucking trap that your pals set up for me? No thanks.”

“Before they get here. I believe you now, and I didn’t before, I’m sorry. I can still help, but you need to get away right now.”

I looked over the hood of the car. Two black sedans were in the opposite-turn lane, and as I stared, the first turned left into the parking lot entrance. It crept forward, tinted windows glaring with specks of sunlight. “Goddammit.”

“Hit me. Hit me and run. There’s a pay phone on the corner of West Elm and Tierney. Be there at dusk and I’ll call you.”

“Wyatt.” I lunged toward the restaurant, but Rufus grabbed my wrist. I stumbled sideways, nearly falling on top of him.

“I’ll help you get him back, Evy, but right now hit me and go!”

I did, without further thought or hesitation. Fingers numb and wrist aching, I bolted. Across the rocky pavement, toward the back of the lot, eyes on the lowest rung of the fire escape. My heart was thundering in my ears, and adrenaline surged through my veins.

Voices shouted. Gunshots pinged the blacktop by my feet. Something grazed my ankle with liquid fire. Each step was agony, but no other shots connected. One foot on a trash can lid vaulted me up to the fourth rung of the rusty escape ladder. Up I went, scrambling for each purchase. At the first landing, a peppering of gunfire shattered the nearest window. I hurled myself through, tucking into a tumble. I hit rough carpet, and glass dug into my arms and shoulders.

I sprang up into a crouch, in the middle of a dim living room, ripe with the odors of last night’s binge. Empty bottles and paper wrappers littered the floor and tables. A trash can was piled high with garbage of every variety. But no one came running at the sound of my inauspicious entry.

The ceiling exploded bits of plaster as more bullets flew in from the destroyed window. I ran toward the front door, leaping awkwardly over an upholstered ottoman and almost tripping over my own feet. Chalice’s feet. Why couldn’t I have been resurrected into a ballet dancer? I fumbled with the door’s chain—on, so someone had to be home—and turned the dead bolt.

“What the blue f—?” A man’s voice turned into a startled yelp, punctuated by a thud. I didn’t stop, didn’t turn, simply yanked open the front door and ran.

A long, bare cement block corridor greeted me. I spotted a red “Exit” sign and jerked left, heading toward the fire door. I slammed through it and hit the cement stairs at a dead run, down two at a time, adrenaline feeding me more speed than felt natural. My ankle was numb, probably leaving a trail of blood for anyone with two eyes to follow, but I couldn’t stop to wrap it. I had to keep going. To get away before they had me cornered.

I burst through the first-floor door and emerged in a dimly lit lobby. An elderly woman stared at me over her cane. Her mouth dropped open, and a thoroughly gummed cigar fell to the threadbare carpet. I tore past her, toward bright sunlight and a pair of double glass doors. Past a row of metal mailboxes and a closed door with “Manager” printed in choppy block letters. Back outside into warm spring air.

And the wail of police sirens.

The west wall of the apartment building butted up against a grubby mom-and-pop grocery. The windows were papered with ads dated two years ago, but still advertising “Fresh! And Cheap!” produce. I stopped on the cracked sidewalk, under the protection of a red vinyl canopy, and tried to catch my breath. Calm my heart. Think straight.