Requiem for the Dead (34 page)

With the whiskey poured, we six raised our glasses.

"To Tybalt," Kismet said.

"To Tybalt," we said in unison.

The whiskey burned its way down my throat to warm my stomach.

We left the seventh glass behind, untouched.

Wyatt didn't lead me straight back to the car, which surprised me. We detoured into another part of the cemetery, and he stopped in front of a simple headstone with the word Petros on it. I studied it, not comprehending, until I looked down at the other words engraved in the marble. Delius. Corissa. Dates of death exactly the same, almost twelve years ago.

"My parents," he said. He pointed to two smaller headstones on the left. Salena. His sister, who died with their parents. Nicandro. His brother, who died almost a year later.

"I don't come here often," he said when I didn't speak. I had no idea what to say. "The past is the past, and I need to let it go. Andreas Petros died a long time ago. Even Wyatt Truman, the person I became after, died with the Lupa infection."

Hearing him say that hurt something deep inside of me, even though I knew more than anyone how true it was. How death wasn't always physical or permanent. Sometimes it left you changed and all you could do was adapt.

"I want to let go of everything, but I can't. Not yet."

"Why can't you?" I asked.

"Because I still don't have one answer that I've wanted since my family was murdered."

Oh God.
"The second bounty hunter."

"Yes."

Twelve years ago, a group of Halfies had stormed a Greek restaurant and begun killing and torturing the occupants, including Wyatt's parents and sister. A pair of bounty hunters who'd been tracking the Halfies found them, killed the Halfies, and then made the awful decision to burn the place down—survivors included. The knowledge of vampires couldn't get out, and no one would be able to forget what they'd seen. That was how the bounty hunter in charge justified murder.

Ten months later, Andreas and Nicandro Petros had found the lead bounty hunter, and he paid with his life. The second bounty hunter had never been identified.

At least, not until a few months ago, when Rufus St. James told me in confidence that he had been the second bounty hunter. Young, inexperienced, deferring to the guy who'd taken him in and was teaching him the ropes, he'd gone along with the slaughter of innocents. Rufus had kept that secret from Wyatt for a decade. Now both of us were keeping it from him.

"How do you know he's still alive?"

"I don't. I also don't know that he's dead." He took my hand. "Evy, I want to let the past go. I want to focus on now. On you and the boys and keeping a lid on the pressure cooker that this city has become."

"But you need to know first."

"Yeah, I do. Does it make sense?"

"It makes perfect sense. You know I'd give you the name if I could." So damned true. Rufus hadn't sworn me to secrecy. Sometimes I thought he'd told me so I would tell Wyatt, and then it would be out. But this wasn't my secret to tell, and if Rufus wanted absolution, he needed to see the priest himself.

"I wish I'd been able to know your family," I said.

"You'd have loved them. We were a very stereotypically boisterous, food-loving Greek family. My mother was an excellent cook. Her stuffed grape leaves were the best in the country." His voice cracked under the weight of so many memories, so much loss.

I wrapped my arms around him, and we held each other for a while. Enjoyed this brief moment away from the rest of the world and the dangerous lives we led. For a few minutes, we were the only people who existed. The only people who mattered.

Movement in the corner of my eye caught my attention. I pulled back, startled that someone had approached and gotten so close without either of us noticing. My heart jumped at the familiar blue eyes staring back at me.

"Phineas?"

He smiled. Phineas el Chimal looked exactly the same as when he'd left five weeks ago and seemed none the worse for wear. He wore casual clothes and didn't look tense or worried. Only relieved.

"You're home," I said and launched myself at him. He caught me in a tight hug, and I inhaled the mountain stream smell of him, the scent of flying and freedom.

"I'm home," Phineas said. He pulled out of the hug, probably because of the warning growl from my overprotective boyfriend. "I heard about Tybalt, Evy. My sincere condolences."

"Thank you. Not that I don't like you being back, but why did you come home? Did you find more Coni?"

His expression shuttered. "No. I had no luck in that search. I did, however, find something that will help in our struggles with the Fey."

"What is it?"

"Allow me to show you?"

Wyatt and I followed him down a gravel path toward an older section of the cemetery. A handful of garden crypts stood here, aged and mossy, beneath the shade of an ancient weeping willow. Phineas paused next to one of the crypts.

"If you pull a dead body out, Phin, I swear—" I began.

"My surprise is very much alive," Phineas said. "I need you both to keep an open mind. I believe my companion holds the key to defeating Amalie."

I glanced at Wyatt, whose nose was wrinkled in a way that suggested he smelled fresh dog shit. He looked more suspicious than alarmed though.

"Okay, I trust you," I said to Phin. "What's the surprise?"

"Brevin," he said.

I didn't know the word, which turned out to be a name. A small figure walked out from behind the crypt. About four feet tall, his body inhumanly thin, like he'd been pulled and stretched. Silver hair. Pointed ears and sharp, angular eyebrows.

I'd seen a creature like this once, many months ago. It had sought to destroy me, to destroy everyone I loved, and to stick a demon in my body when it could no longer have Wyatt's. This wasn't Tovin, because Tovin was long dead.

"An elf," Wyatt said, a dangerous growl in his voice. "A fucking elf holds the key to defeating the Fey? Are you serious?"

"Perfectly," Phineas said. "And I believe that once you hear Brevin's story, you'll agree."

To say I was stunned would be an understatement. My first death had been machinated by an elf, his entire purpose to bring a demon over from the other side of the Break where they'd long ago been banished. Everything I am today is thanks to that fucking elf.

This was one story I couldn't wait to hear.

A lot goes into publishing a novel, and sometimes I think even more goes into self-publishing one. But I absolutely must start with Jonathan Lyons and Anne Groell, who gave Dreg City a chance and who championed it no matter what. I hope this book does them both proud.

Nancy, you are outstanding as a friend and as an editor. Your patience, support, and your hilarious emails kept me sane when I wanted to throw it in, and I thank you for that. Melissa, my best friend in the world, one of my biggest fans, thank you for everything you do. Nick, my biggest fan, for giving me the confidence to try something new.

To my sister and my parents, you mean the world to me. You let me play in imaginary worlds, and you never look at me askance. I love you all so much.

Thank you to all of the bloggers and reviewers who have supported me all these years. I'd try to name you all, but I'd probably forget someone, and I don't want to forget anyone, but you know who you are.

Thank you to my writer friends, especially Kelly Gay and Alison Pang, and the members of the League or Reluctant Adults. We are part of a fantastic community of UF writers, and I'm grateful for the support. More thanks to Howie Weinstein, Bob Greenberger, and all of my Shore Leave/Farpoint writer friends. You guys are invaluable to me.

Robin L., you created a fantastic cover. Thank you for being so true to these books and coming up a beautiful representation.

And a shout-out to everyone else who helped get this book into your hands: Nancy M., Melissa H., Mario A., Jed C., Karen K., and Gabrielle. Thanks to everyone who answered one of my bazillion Facebook or Twitter questions about self-publishing.