Kelly Mendig - Three Days to Dead

“It is a Sanctuary,” Isleen said. Her voice adopted a sharp edge, revealing her protectiveness of the place. “It is no longer meant for its original purpose.”

Alex held up his hands in surrender. “I meant no disrespect.”

“I risk much by bringing you both here. The wrong person could do great damage with the location of a Break. Irreparable damage—”

“We aren’t telling anyone, I swear,” I said to stave off her speech. I knew the risks. I also knew I didn’t trust anyone outside of that room, except for Wyatt. I sort of still trusted Rufus, but that could swing either way. It all depended on his phone call at dusk. Still nearly two hours away.

“A Mo’n Rath is a private ritual,” Isleen said. “Do you wish your friend present?”

“I trust him.”

Under Isleen’s direction, I lay on my back in the middle of the plush carpet, arms at my sides, toes pointed up. The fibers were soft and smelled faintly of dust. Isleen knelt at my head. Cool fingers massaged my temples in gentle circles. Tension fled my body, replaced by relaxation and a vague sense of safety tempered by intangible power. I closed my eyes.

She placed her palms over my cheeks, thumbs still on my temples, skin unnaturally cool. She spoke words that I didn’t know. They sounded vaguely Latin, peppered with garbled nonsense. My mind began to wander, and rather than fight, I let it. I was both there and elsewhere, drifting along like a leaf on the wind. Back through recent memory: the car chase, interrogating Rufus, my first meeting with Alex. Into impenetrable darkness that seemed to last forever.

Until it spit me back out into dim lamplight.

And Wyatt’s warm, comforting embrace.

May 14th

Lights from the street cut intricate patterns across the thread bare carpet of the motel room, shifting from red to green to blue and back again, all in time with flashing neon signs. I cannot sleep. Too many thoughts plague me. Fear of what lies ahead, affection for the man next to me, uncertainty of our futures.

Wyatt’s arms tighten around my middle. I tense, but he does not wake. He is dreaming, muttering. It may be a nightmare, but I allow him to sleep. If he wakes, he may want to talk. I don’t. I have committed a grave error by sleeping with him. I gave him an attachment, and Handlers cannot function if they are too attached to their Triads. It is their job to order us into dangerous situations. Into certain death, if need be.

How can he do that after proclaiming he loves me?

I consider sneaking out, setting off on my mission without a good-bye. It is useless. He is no Hunter, but he will know when I get out of bed. There is no sneaking away from him. But I cannot continue to laze about. I still have to clear my name and find justice for my murdered teammates.

My fingers slip around Wyatt’s. I draw his hand up to my mouth and kiss his knuckles. He stirs. His breathing quickens. He is awake.

“I have to go,” I say without looking at him.

“I know.” He kisses my bare shoulder. “Can I ask where you’re going?”

“Uptown around Fourth Street. I know someone there who might be able to help with information.”

“Who?”

“I’d rather not say.”

I stand up, feeling no shame in my nudity as I search for my clothes. Wyatt sits, the blanket tight around his waist, and I am glad. I fear he will try to stop me or, worse, insist on going with me to see Max. He surprises me by doing neither. He simply watches while I dress and finger-comb my short hair back into order.

“You’re sure this person can help?” he asks.

“Pretty sure.”

I go to the sink and splash cool water on my face. The terry towel is rough as I pat my skin dry. I turn. Wyatt stands in front of me with a sheet bunched around his hips. Uncertainty etches lines around his eyes and brackets his mouth. I want to reassure him, to force that uncertainty away, but I don’t. Wyatt believes in me. It is the only reason he isn’t begging me to stay.

“The protection barrier on the motel will last two more days,” Wyatt says. “Come back here when you’ve talked to your friend.”

“I will.” I check the digital clock on the nightstand. The sun won’t rise for a few hours, so I’ll probably have to wait for Max to return. “I should be back before noon.”

“If you find out something—”

“I’ll call.”

“Be careful.”

“Do you really think you have to say that?”

“Yes.”

I throw my arms around his shoulders and hug him before I can stop myself. His arms snake around my waist. The sheet whispers to the floor. I press my face into his shoulder, inhaling the scent of him—musk and cinnamon. Burning it into my memory. I know I may never see him again. I want to take this with me.

“I’ll be careful,” I say. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

He chuckles. I pull away before anything else is done or said. I have to get moving before sunrise. At the door, I pause and look back. He still stands with his back to me, but is watching me in the mirror. I wink. He smiles.

And then I go.

The library is closed, but I make easy work of scaling the back wall. A metal gutter pipe provides adequate handholds. I climb quickly on pure adrenaline, positive of assault at any moment. The rear alley is quiet, but that means little. Things always seem to go dead silent right before a sneak attack.

I swing over the edge of the wall. In the dim light, I find the cement path and avoid making noise on the gravel bed. The entrance to Max’s lair is around the next corner. The sky is still black, but the barest hints of blue peek out over the eastern horizon.

Silent steps carry me down the path. I pause every few yards to listen and sniff the air. At the corner, I stop, alarmed by the faint sound of voices. Low and hushed; nearby. Too close to be coming from the street. I close in on the entrance to Max’s home. Each step brings those muffled voices closer.

Max. I know his voice, so unique because he is a gargoyle. Not as unnatural as Smedge’s, but just as stony. The second voice is female. The cadence surprises me, as does the familiar lilt to her words. She’s a Blood.

I creep closer to the entrance and listen.

“… a disaster for our two peoples,” the Blood says. “You know I speak the truth; you cannot deny the implications.”

“I deny nothing,” Max replies. “But I also admit to nothing, Istral. If what you say is true, it is your problem, not mine.”

“But it will become everyone’s problem. Do you wish to be ruled by the goblin Queens?”

“No more than I wish to be ruled by humans, but that is how things are. If the balance of power changes, the gargoyles will adapt, as we have done for centuries.”

“Your statement reeks of cowardice, dear cousin.”

“Merely discretion. There is a reason my kind no longer adorns the spires of human cathedrals. We know when to not interfere in the affairs of others.”

The conversation confuses me. This Istral is a vampire; her use of “cousin” confirms it. Why isn’t she talking him into the Alliance, rather than against it? Unless even the Bloods are divided on the matter. I can use this.

“You are foolish to allow the actions of others to determine your fate,” Istral says.

“Gargoyles have survived in Man’s world for centuries longer than vampires, Istral. Don’t discount our methods so quickly. You could learn from our experience.”

“I would sooner stand in the sun without protection.”

He’s getting her riled up. Good old Max. Related or not, gargoyles and vampires don’t get along under the best of circumstances. They have different temperaments and opposing viewpoints on the place of Dregs in Man’s world.