Paddy and I bought corned beef sandwiches on rye at a small deli. He took one bite of his dill pickle and grimaced, so I snatched it away and ate it before he could toss it into the trash. We sat at a small, rickety table set out on the sidewalk. The table even boasted an umbrella with most of the fringe still intact.
We ate quickly, mindful of the lunch crowd which turned tables into highly desired objects, and continued our stroll.
When we found ourselves outside a small, upscale shoe store with a wicked pair of Jimmy Choo pumps in the window, I couldn’t resist.
Paddy stoically endured the half hour it took me to try on six different pairs of shoes. He checked for messages on his cellphone and grew increasingly impatient each time he saw the sales clerk head for the store room for yet another pair of shoes.
I admit the more agitated he became, the more interest I suddenly developed in a new pair. I had fun. Not as much fun as I had when I shoe shopped with Murphy because he liked it and gave me honest opinions when I paraded around the store in a pair of potential new shoes, but I enjoyed myself.
I had narrowed down my choices between a pair of Stuart Weitzman ivory crochet espadrilles and a pair of Vera Wang Lavender leopard print ballet flats when Paddy’s phone rang. He’d been in the middle of another hopeless search for new text messages, and the noise startled him so he nearly dropped the damn thing. He caught it before it escaped and, with a grateful smile, pressed talk.
I didn’t pay attention to the call because I had a serious decision to make. Just as I was about to definitely settle on the espadrilles—perfect for summer even if they were twice as expensive as the ballet flats—Paddy snapped his phone shut.
“Stanzie, we need to go.” Something in his voice was off and all thoughts of shoes fled my mind.
With a mumbled apology to the sales clerk, I hastily retied my Chucks and followed Paddy out to the sidewalk.
A cab idled at the curb and Paddy hailed it. Some people have taxi magic, others, like me, don’t.
“What’s wrong?” I asked as the cab pulled into midday traffic and headed for the river.
Beside me, Paddy looked extremely tense. “I’d rather wait and explain at the hotel. Liam needs to hear this too and I don’t want to do it twice.”
That made sense, but it also made for an uncomfortably silent ride. Luckily, it was a short one.
* * * *
Murphy was still in bed when Paddy and I entered the hotel room, but he was awake. He turned his face toward the door as we walked in. He’d obviously heard us in the hall. Although he didn’t bother to hide his tired expression, he appeared a lot more rested than he had the day before.
One look at Paddy’s grim face and Murphy knew something was wrong. He sat up in bed, the covers pooled around his waist. He was naked—Murphy preferred to sleep naked unless it was freezing cold outside—but he was completely unselfconscious about it.
So was Paddy. He moved to the edge of the bed and had me sit by Murphy. I’d had some time to think about it in the cab ride and figured I knew what Paddy had to say.
Councilor Jason Allerton’s bond mate had died. Allerton had left her on her deathbed to come to the last day of the tribunal and he’d told me it was simply a matter of days, maybe hours, before she passed away.
“I’ve afraid I’ve got some bad news.” Paddy’s voice was hushed as he prepared us for the blow. I braced myself and felt Murphy’s breath on the back of my neck. It was unexpectedly comforting.
“Bethany Dillon died this morning,” Paddy told us and even though I was prepared to hear about death, it was not hers I’d expected.
* * * *
Reflexively, I spit out a mouthful of something foul. For a moment I am dazed, not knowing what I look at but then it comes to me. Shredded skin. I am staring at shredded skin.
Vomit chokes my throat then sprays in liquid chunks against the dirt wall. It smells of blood and bacon and I puke again. When I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, it comes away bloody but I am not hurt. It is not my blood.
Bethany is very quiet—I recall she is there and after that I remember where we are. I can hear her hammering heart almost as loudly as I can hear my own.
The stink of blood and terror is overpowering, but underneath it all lurks something worse. Death.
I am in a corner behind the metal hospital gurney. I use it as a support so I can stand because my legs are weak and unresponsive.
A figure sprawls in the dirt by the ladder. A man’s body dressed in jeans and a t-shirt that is now more red than white. Face up with throat torn away in ragged chunks. Sightless eyes stare up at absolutely nothing. A mouth contorts in a silent scream of both terror and rage. Nate is dead and my wolf has killed him.
I clap a hand to my mouth not sure if I am going to puke, laugh or scream. If not for the gurney, I would collapse to the ground.
I told you not to kill him. Inside my head my voice is mournful. Wolf-on-human violence could have been excused in this situation, but there is no defense for deliberate murder. My wolf hadn’t even hesitated. I remember everything with a vivid suddenness that makes me cry out, my voice muffled by my hand.
He deserved it. He fucking deserved it. My voice is loud in my ears even though I don’t speak aloud. Loud as if to drown out the very treachery of the thought itself. He. Deserved. It.
“Stuh—Stanzie?” Bethany sounds very young and scared, but also hopeful. If she can see Nate’s ravaged body, it doesn’t freak her out the way it does me. “You shifted back. Can you get me free? Please?”
For the first time I can see her. When I do, I start to cry. Her body is a mass of bruises and burn marks. The wrist and ankle restraints have chafed so badly she’s bled and her wounds are infected. I can both smell that and see the swollen red streaks that ooze a puslike liquid. Her hair might have been blond, but now it is a matted, greasy mop of indeterminate brown. Blue, feverish eyes lock to mine pleadingly.
“Hang on,” I force myself to say past tears that clog my throat. There is no time for crying. I have to look for the keys in Nate’s pockets. That means I have to go near him and face what I’ve done to him up close.
* * * *
Someone made a sound like an injured animal and a split second after I heard it, I realized it had been me.
Murphy leaned his forehead against the back of my skull. The spot where I’d hit it when Nate had knocked me into the woodpile in the shed was still sore. Every morning for a week, I’d woken with the sick residue of a headache. Murphy avoided the sore spot with his forehead, but his lips were a millimeter from it. I wondered if he knew it was there. If he remembered it was there. He’d found it the night I’d gotten it, but he’d been gone for the next three days so maybe he’d forgotten.
“How?” I didn’t even recognize my own voice, twisted as it was with anguish and bewildered anger. We’d gotten her out of that root cellar alive. How could she be dead now?
“Infection,” Paddy watched me closely. “She had a miscarriage while she was...in the root cellar and although they did a D-and-C, it was too late. Infection had already set in.”
“From the beer bottle. From being raped by a beer bottle,” I snarled. Paddy winced, his face pale. I sucked in my breath as the whole world narrowed to a small pinhole while black spots performed a macabre dance across the tiny expanse that was left.
I wasn’t even aware I’d gotten up until I was halfway across the room. I had nowhere to go and no idea what to do, so I stopped, my shoulders hunched.