Requiem for the Dead (5 page)

The shop has been empty ever since.

A few blocks down, I spotted the familiar shape of my old residence. The building housed a couple of businesses, including a kitschy jewelry store, as well as the walk-up apartments on the second and third floors. I'd lived in one for four years with my old Triad partners Jesse and Ash. We'd abandoned it for good several months ago, but I couldn't stop a pang of guilt as I thought of my dead partners. And grief, too.

"Ash's birthday is next week," Wyatt said suddenly.

"Is it?" I was never good at remembering things like that, and our random birthday celebrations usually involved cheap cake and cheaper liquor, followed by maudlin comments about being happy to have made it to another birthday.

"Yeah. She'd have been twenty-eight."

It was a good age, since few Triad Hunters ever lived past twenty-two—kind of ironic, since that's how old I was when I died my first death. My new body was twenty-seven, and I had no idea when her (my?) birthday was.

"What's that face for?" Wyatt asked.

"Huh?" Had I been pulling a face?

"You looked confused for a second."

"Just wondering which birthday is technically mine now. When Evy Stone was born, or when Chalice Frost was born."

"What about May twentieth? The day you came back to me?"

I gave him a smile. "I can go with that."

His face went blank. "Stop."

"Stop what?"

"Stop the car."

I was in the middle of traffic and not very good at parallel parking, so I went up to the next block and found a small lot. He was already out the door before I shut off the engine, so I had to scramble to catch up. Back down the block. He was practically jogging. The foot traffic was pretty thin for a Sunday afternoon, but I still had to dodge a few bodies and angry glares.

"What is it?" I asked when I finally caught up with him.

He'd stopped across the street from our old building. His nostril twitched and his eyes were dilated. "I smell them. It's faint, but it's here."

"Right here?"

"Over there." He pointed at my old building.

I wasn't even going to ask if he was kidding, because I knew he wasn't. I steered him through traffic so he didn't get splattered by both his inability to find the crosswalk and his inattention to anything except the scent of those pups. He led us inside the dank, cement stairway that reeked of urine and sweat and old things—disgusting and familiar. I'd trod these steps a thousand times before in my old life, and a few times in my new one.

Wyatt pushed through the fire door at the top of the stairs, and we exited into a cement block corridor. Industrial doors marked the apartments, and we walked down to my old unit. He tilted his head, listening. "Their scent is here, but it's not fresh. I don't hear anyone inside."

"How would they know to come here? It's not like we ever introduced ourselves."

"It's possible one of them followed Jaron or Token here."

True. A few months ago, a goblin-human hybrid named Token had tracked the dying sprite Jaron to our apartment, and a little tussle had ensued. We learned later that Token was only one of many hybrid experiments being used by Walter Thackery. "Too bad they didn't leave a note taped to the door," I said.

"Maybe they left one inside."

"Something tells me the super changed the locks."

He smiled, then held his hand out, palm up, fingers pointed toward the lock. The air hummed with magical energy as Wyatt harnessed his Gift. Metal grated. The mechanism from the inside of the lock appeared on his palm, summoned right to him. He could only summon solid objects, and his control had been off a little since his change, but he was getting the hang of it again.

I turned the knob and the door opened. "You do realize this is officially breaking and entering?"

"It's not the first time."

"Good point."

So we broke into my old apartment. Which turned out to be okay, because it didn't look like anyone was living there except some squatters. It was empty of furniture and the appliances were missing from the kitchenette. The cement floor was scrubbed and bare. The only signs of our squatters were the pile of blankets in the far corner of the living room, and the black garbage bag overflowing with what looked like takeout containers. The place smelled closed up and stale, but not overwhelmingly gross, even with the old food containers.

I checked the window, which looked out onto a rusty fire escape. It was unlatched and open just wide enough to slide something thin through, like a pocket knife. "This must be how they get in and out," I said.

He'd crouched next to the blankets and held one close to his nose. "It's the pups." His eyes had gone perfectly silver.

"They're living here?"

"Yes. Or crashing on occasion. The scent is old, so they haven't been here in at least a day or two."

Stopping by once out of morbid curiosity for their new Pack-mate made some sense, if I looked at it sideways. But living here? It was like—"Do you think they want to be caught?"

"It's possible." He dropped the blanket and stood. "They've lost their family, and they don't know where to go. They may be putting themselves in my path so that we can meet."

"Or so they can follow Amalie's orders to kill you."

He nodded. "Also possible."

"So what do you want to do? Hang out and hope they come back?"

"No," he said without hesitation. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. After a few beats, he opened them again. The silver had receded to a thin line around the iris. "No, they may not return today or at all."

"We could always come back later and bug the place."

"We could."

He didn't sound very on-board with that idea. He grabbed the bag of trash and started rifling through it, sending up stronger odors of old food and rot. I took a step back, curious, but trusting him. He produced a few squeeze packs of mustard. Ripped one open. Spent a good solid minute using that mustard to write his cell phone number on the wall above the blanket pile, very careful to not smear any of the characters.

I guess when you traveled without pen and paper, you left notes any way you could.

"Think they'll know who it's from?" I asked when he didn't sign his name.

"They'll smell me here."

Living around Therians for the last few months kept that from sounding as strange as it ought to. "We should go then."

He followed me out with no small amount of regret. He wanted to find those three Lupa boys before they hurt someone else, but he also wanted to find them for himself. They were blood now, whether they liked it or not. And Wyatt never turned his back on family. He'd lost his real family to violence eleven years ago, and now he clung to the few personal relationships he managed to create. He'd never forgive himself if they were killed by one of our many enemies.

Or by one of our few allies.

#

We didn't return to the Watchtower until around seven pm, having spent the rest of the afternoon wandering aimlessly around the city. We did manage a decent sit-down dinner at a tiny Italian bistro that had seven tables, a short bar, and a funky smell that was either old cheese or dirty socks. But the food was decent, not a single person besides our waiter bothered us, and it almost felt like a real date.

Almost.

Wyatt was distant the entire meal, and I knew it was because of the Lupa pups. And I didn't even mind it, because I'd texted Gina Kismet while he was in the bathroom. She was at the Watchtower preparing phase one of Operation: Trust Me. Phase two was my job, and I got to it as soon as we arrived by separating myself from Wyatt with the excuse that I wanted to check on Milo's head. He bought it and headed off to Operations.

Kismet met me inside the empty storefront that we'd chosen earlier in the week. It was down the corridor near the gym area, across the hall, tucked back in the corner near the under-construction department store which would one day become an obstacle course training center—if the Watchtower was around long enough for it to be finished. Our location had once been a bank branch center, so it had a fantastic little safety deposit box area in the back, complete with steel walls and a prison-bar door that we'd fashioned an exterior lock for.

It was empty of the old safety deposit box lockers, which gave us a space that was about ten feet by fifteen feet, with smooth walls and a solid cement floor. Kismet had put a small cot mattress inside, as well as a few folded blankets, and she'd sprayed the room down with lavender-scented air freshener. Lavender was, according to Astrid, something of a Therian aphrodisiac, so I figured what the hell?

"How was he today?" Kismet asked as I inspected her handiwork.

"Focused. We may have a way of getting the pups to contact him, so I think he's also hopeful."

"That's good. He'll take it insanely hard if they're killed or captured before he finds them."

"I know."

Kismet was Wyatt's oldest friend, nine years and counting, and they knew each other in and out. They'd also betrayed each other several times in the last few months, only to reconcile and become friends again. It was one of the oddest love-hate-love-even-more relationships I'd ever seen, and she was growing on me as well. She was the closest thing I'd ever had to a girlfriend, and the only person in my life who listened when I talked about my and Wyatt's sexual problems (Milo and Tybalt got that
look
on their faces and plugged their fingers in their ears). Operation: Trust Me was her idea.

Whenever we were alone like this, part of me wanted to ask for more details of her friendship with Wyatt. All I really knew was that Wyatt recruited Kismet into the Triads when the entire organization was still in its infancy. The rest of me—the part that didn't like to dwell on the past—kept silent. It wasn't my business, and like her confessions about falling in love with her own Hunter once upon a time, it was something she could tell me if she wanted to.

"You know he's going to be pissed about this," Kismet said. She waved her hand at the vault.

"I know. But he'll get over it. He needs this."

"He doesn't trust his wolf."

"I know that, but I trust Wyatt to keep his wolf in check and to stay in control. He's strong enough to do that. He's just afraid to take the risk with me."

"You've been through a lot, Evy."

"And I have no doubt I'll go through a lot more before my nine lives run out. But I cannot stand Wyatt handling me with kid gloves. He needs to stop being afraid of hurting me."

"Easier said than done."

"That's why you're my backup."

She rolled her eyes. "Yay, me."

"Listen, off topic, can I ask you something about Tybalt?"

"The last time you asked if you could ask me something about Milo, I told you to go ask Milo."

"Well, this is actually about you, too."

Her eyebrow quirked up. "Okay."

"Did you know he was involved with the whole Seamus/Prentiss kidnapping thing back in May?"

"Not while it was happening. Marcus approached Tybalt during the Triad's off-time. He didn't tell me until a few weeks later. Why?"

"Just curious. Tybalt has a pretty complex relationship with the Felia Pride, doesn't he?"

"Yes, he does. He was never very close to Marcellus, but he still cares about Astrid and Marcus. Marcellus's impending death is going to hurt all of them. And if Riley is challenged, Tybalt will do everything he can to make sure the Dane family remains in control of the Pride."

"The Pride kicked him out onto the streets, and he's still that loyal?"

"Funny, huh?"

"Yeah." And as interesting as the conversation was, I needed to get my mind on someone besides Tybalt. "Time for phase three."

"Good luck."

"Thanks."

While she went to fetch Wyatt, I stripped and threw my clothes into a pile in the corner of the vault. It was chilly and my nipples pebbled right away. I stretched out on the thin mattress, closed my eyes, and let my thoughts wander. Back to that morning so many months ago when we'd made love in a narrow twin bed—our first and only time since my resurrection. I pictured him naked in my arms, his toned body fitting so perfectly with mine, and felt a familiar warmth between my legs. I held onto those feelings and remembered his hands, his touches, his kisses all over.

I almost didn't hear the bank door open, or the sound of voices. Wyatt would be blindfolded (he trusted Kismet enough to allow that, we both knew), but very soon he'd smell my arousal and know something was up. I sat up on my elbows and watched her lead him to the vault. Inches away from the door, he dug in and stopped.

"What's going on?" he asked, danger in his tone.

"Therapy," Kismet said. She gave him a hard shove, then swung the barred door closed with a clang.

Wyatt yanked off the blindfold as he turned, so he didn't see me yet. He grabbed the bars and tugged, snarling, "What the fuck, Gina?"

She ignored him. Looked past him to me. "You know the safe word."

"Yep," I said.

He pivoted to face me, even as she pushed the vault door almost the entire way shut. Mostly to muffle noise—she didn't want to shut it completely and suffocate us. Wyatt's eyes blazed pure silver and his nostrils flared as he took me in, stretched wantonly on the mattress, completely naked. He backed up to the wall, but had nowhere to go.

"What the fuck is this?" The cold in his eyes had crept into his voice. It wasn't encouraging, but it also wasn't unexpected. We had tricked him, after all.

"Couples therapy," I said.

"Let me out."

"Not a chance."

"Gina!"

I stood up, a little weirded out by my complete lack of clothes. I didn't do vulnerable very well, and not only was I about to put my heart out there for him to take or stomp on, I was doing it while exposed. "Scream all you want, Wyatt. She won't open that door without my safe word, and good luck figuring it out."

"Why are you doing this?" Instead of angry, the question came out as a plea. I hated hearing him like that, but I held my ground.

"Because you need to take the muzzle off and start trusting yourself again. I'm your mate, and your wolf knows it. I'm your lover in every way except physically. I believe with my whole heart that neither you or the wolf will hurt me, and this is the only way I can think to prove it to you."