Shattered (the Spellbound Series Book 2) (13 page)

              Jenna nods, and lowers her weapons. They seem to vanish into thin air right before my eyes; as far as I know, she isn’t a spellcaster, so I don’t know how she’s doing it. “Why didn’t either of you tell me?,” she asks. The authoritative voice is gone, replaced by that of the Jenna I’m used to.

              Rachel’s still freaking out over her best friend pointing a gun in her face, so it’s me that answers. “We thought you were normal. We wanted to try and keep you safe, as far away from all the insanity as possible.”

              “Well, you did a great job. I was pretty surprised.”

              “Bigger question, what the hell are you? And why didn’t you say anything to us?”

              “I’m a hunter. And I kept you two in the dark for the same reasons.”

              “A hunter?,” Rachel asks. She seems to have regained enough composure to speak in an even tone. “What do you hunt?”

              There’s a brief pause before Jenna replies, “You. I handle contracts on people like you. Metahumans.”

              “But, why?”

              “It’s sort of the family business. My parents work for a government division devoted to preserving the secret of metahuman existence from the general public. And that sometimes means eliminating those who take too many human lives, or somehow otherwise put the supernatural world at risk of exposure.”

              I suppose I’m not horribly surprised by the existence of hunters. In a way, it makes sense. There had to be
something
in place to keep the supernatural world in check. And it explains so much about Jenna; how muscular she’s gotten, how evasive she is about her “job”, all the weapons and armor hanging up around her house, and other little quirks that I’ve usually taken in stride merely because she’s Jenna. But one minor detail’s bugging me. I ask, “If you’re so dedicated to keeping things a secret, why would you pull a gun on someone in the middle of a waiting room?”

              Jenna shrugs. “My friend was in danger. And I saw the way she threw you, and knew she wasn’t normal, so I reacted the way I normally would.”

              “With a bullet to the shoulder?”

              “I try not to kill anyone that I don’t have to.”

              I look around at the unconscious bodies of our victims, and find that none of them are anything
but
unconscious. Any gunshot wounds on them are in their shoulders, or their legs. Jenna must have incredible aim to consistently avoid hitting anything vital.

              “What about the security cameras?,” Rachel asks. “They would have still captured everything.”

              In response, Jenna reaches into her pocket, and pulls out a tiny device with only one button on its surface. “The security feed here is transmitted via wireless relay. This little gadget scrambles the signal.”

              “Where did you even get that?”

              “One of the many tools of the trade. All hunters are human, so we rely on gadgets and weak spots to keep up with our targets.”

              “Well jeez, I’m a little jealous now. Given the choice between werewolf and Batman, I’d rather be Batman.”

              I’m barely even listening anymore. Ever since looking down at the bodies, I’ve been having trouble tearing my eyes away from them. It takes a full minute to realize I’m not actually focusing on them, but on their blood. The tiny splatters where someone coughed it up, the puddles from wounds that weren’t sealed quickly enough, and the swaths coming down the walls as battered bodies slumped against them all have my complete attention. It isn’t until Jenna snaps her fingers in my face that I remember anything else around me. Irritated by my own fixation, I ask, “What? What is it?”

              “I asked you, do you think you could use some of your mystical powers to help clean this place up? I could call in a crew, but they might take a while.”

              My mind forms the answer, but I can’t get it past my lips. I’m too focused on Jenna herself. My heightened senses lock in on the slight flush of her skin, and the sound of her heartbeat. I can almost see the blood surging through her jugular, and imagine myself-

              Holy shit. I can’t bring myself to complete the thought; Jenna’s one of my best friends, and even if she weren’t, I’m sickened that I would consider what just flashed through my mind. My stomach turns, and I’m pretty sure I have mere seconds before breakfast makes its reappearance. I have to get out of here, away from all this blood. Away from any warm body.

              “I’m sorry,” I tell Jenna, “I don’t think I can help. I really have to go.” I cover my mouth, partially because I’m in danger of puking right on her, and partially to hide the fangs I can feel beginning to protrude from my gums. “I’ll see you two later!,” I call over my shoulder as I make a beeline for the exit.

              I make it as far as the staircase before my stomach sheds its contents. For a moment, I lean against the wall, panting and sweating, and then I force myself onward. I should feel bad about leaving the mess where it is, but I don’t. The most important thing right now is to keep moving.

***

              The problem with living in New York City is there’s almost nowhere you can escape to when you want to be alone. The streets are always teeming with a constant stream of people, many of whom don’t even live here. Eventually, the effects of the vampire venom in me fade, and the fangs recede, but I keep running anyway. It’s no longer just about making sure I don’t bite anyone; I’m ashamed of myself.

              I consider just heading home, since my mom won’t be there, but I remember that Nick was eager to know about how things went at the clinic. (Well, maybe
eager
is too strong a word – he mostly just wanted to be sure that the procedure didn’t kill me.) I’m already near Central Park, so I just walk alongside it until I reach the condo, the warmth of the sun creeping into my skin until I forget that I was in a horrible mood. It’s too hard to stay upset on such a beautiful day, at least for me.

              I’m not the only one enjoying the weather. When I let myself into the condo, the first thing I see is Landon standing by the floor to ceiling window that overlooks the park. He’s got on a dirty, paint-splattered shirt, and a look of concentration he only wears when he’s hard at work. He grunts at me when I greet him, and I step around his easel to see what he’s working on. It’s a snapshot of Central Park in the moment; radiant and green, with multicolored masses that I assume he’ll refine into individual people milling about. He’s even captured the sunlight glinting off the buildings looming over the park on the West Side.

              While inspecting the unfinished painting, I ask, “Is Nick home?,” unsure of whether or not I’ll get a verbal answer.

              To my surprise, Landon lets his concentration slip for a moment, and replies, “Yeah, he’s in his room. What’s up?”

              “Nothing, I just want to talk to him.”

              “No, I mean why do you look like someone close to you just died?”

              I frown, and look at my reflection in the massive glass in front of us. I hadn’t realized I looked so haunted; that explains why people on the street were giving me my space. “I’m fine,” I lie. “I just didn’t get a whole lot of sleep.”

              “Uh huh.” Landon dabs a little more color onto his paintbrush, and says, “What you need isn’t sleep. You need a creative outlet.”

              “What do you mean?”

              “I’ve noticed you have a tendency to keep everything bottled up until you’re ready to explode. You should try letting out all that feeling in a productive way.”

              I shift uncomfortably where I stand; I wasn’t prepared to talk about my feelings with my boyfriend’s roommate. “I write once in a while, does that count?”

              “Of course. But unless there’s a piece of
you
in it, it’s just words. Without soul, art is just meaningless splashes of color, or empty words on a page. Sure, whoever looks at it can interpret their own meaning, but you also have to make it mean something to you.”

              “So what’s the meaning behind this one?,” I ask, gesturing at the current painting.

              Landon turns back to me, and smiles. “Summer in the city is one of my favorite things. So naturally, instead of actually going out and enjoying it, I’m replicating it.”

              A pair of arms wraps around me from behind, and a voice by my ear says, “That looks good so far, but it would be prettier if it were autumn.”

              Landon rolls his eyes, and turns back to his work. “Art isn’t always about being pretty, Nicholas.”

              Nick laughs, and comes around to my front. “How did your appointment go?,” he asks.

              “About that… can I talk to you upstairs?”

              “…Sure?”

              I grab Nick by the hand, and lead him up the few flights of stairs to the roof. We could have talked in his room, but I’m not sure just how sensitive Landon’s werewolf ears are, and I want as few people knowing about my condition as possible. I let go of Nick’s hand as we walk into the rooftop garden, which is mercifully empty aside from the growing tomatoes and peppers. Nick catches my eye when I turn to face him, and asks, “What happened?”

              I take a deep breath. Nick doesn’t have to know about the Lost showing up, but I planned to tell him as much as I could. “Nothing really. There were just… complications.”

              “Yeah? Such as?”

              “Well, someone died.” Which is technically the truth.

              “Are you alright?”

              “Yeah, just shaken up.” Also the truth.

              “You couldn’t go through with it, could you?”

              My heart speeds up, and I give Nick an almost imperceptible shake of my head. I’d accepted what I had gone to the clinic to do, but after what happened, and after having more time to think about it, I’m not sure if it had been the right thing to do.

              “What do we do now, then?,” Nick asks.

              “I don’t know… Nick, how do you feel about all this? What do you think I should do?”

              Nick’s brows furrow until the worried lines on his forehead appear. “It’s your body, so it’s your decision-“

              “No, Nick, I don’t want your nice guy bullshit answer. Just tell me what’s actually going on in
your
head. I want
your
opinion.”

              “Fine.” Nick takes a deep breath, and says, “I feel like… if it comes down to it, I’m ready to be a father…”

              I can tell there’s more to his sentence, so I ask, “But…?”

              “But I don’t think you’re ready to be a mother. Not yet.”

              I lean against one of the wooden supports holding up the garden. Nick’s right, I’m probably not ready. And I’m not even sure if that’s what I want. I mean, maybe someday, but right now… I’m not sure I’m up to the task. Before he can guess what I’m thinking, I ask, “Since when do you even want kids?”

              “Since always. For a while there, I didn’t think it would ever happen, and I was pretty bummed. I actually like kids, most of the time.”

              “You hide it well.”

              “I have to. Guys have to constantly pretend we’re indifferent to children. If we openly like them, people think we’re pedophiles. If we openly hate them, people think we’re assholes. It’s a ridiculous double standard.”

              “Nick, do yourself a favor? Never complain to a girl about ridiculous double standards.”

              “You’re right. Sorry.”

              I study Nick’s face carefully for a moment. He took the news that I’m still pregnant much better than I thought he would, so I can’t understand why the lines on his forehead are still prevalent. Just to be sure, I ask, “What’s wrong?”

              Nick shrugs, and sticks his hands in his pockets. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

              “What is it? Maybe I can help.”

              “I don’t think you can…” I glare at Nick until he continues, “It’s about the file that Navarro gave me… the one on my maker.”

              “Yeah? What about it?”

              “I’ve tracked down every lead I could find. Last known identity, last known address… it’s like this woman completely vanished into thin air. Either I don’t have the resources to find her, or she’s gone.”

              “Why do you want to find her so badly?”

              There’s a lengthy pause before Nick answers, “I don’t know yet.”

              That’s all Nick has to say; I know him well enough to know that he’s conflicted on what to do with the information he’s been given. He’s probably torn between tracking down and killing his maker for all the grief that the vampire life has caused him, and finding her out of curiosity, to find out why she did what she did to him.

              I don’t know whether my boyfriend is plotting revenge or seeking answers, but I do know I’m going to do what I can to help. Maybe tackling his problems will give me the perspective I need to figure out my own. “You’re right, I can’t help,” I tell him. “But I think I know someone who can.”