The Shopgirl's Prophecy (Beasts of Vegas Book 1) (11 page)

Snark fairly leapt from Ali’s tongue. “Why don’t you go prep for an ambush, or whatever?”
And leave me alone
.

“The area is clear. For now.” Roz was so snide, so grating. Just one more thing Ali wouldn’t miss when she was gone.

Connor was different. She might actually think of him, and not in an I-really-hated-him kind of way.

“Why did he say you were dangerous?” Roz pressed.

Ali’s skin prickled from her wrists to her shoulders. “I need to go home.”

“Not until either you or Connor explains a few things. Sorry.” She didn’t look the least bit apologetic.

“I’m not asking.” Ali tried another tack. “Connor won’t even remember me when he wakes up.” She’d be a small dip on his road to utter self-destruction. Some weird girl he’d found and helped that one time.

Roz stared her down. Obviously, arguing wouldn’t sway her.

“You can’t tell me where to go or how long to stay. I’m a twenty-two-year-old woman.”

For once, the other girl didn’t have a sassy retort. Instead, she seemed distracted. “Something your uncle said…”

Ali flinched. It was beyond foul to bring up Uncle Sully’s dying words. That was private. “He didn’t call me anything.” Lie. He’d called her a name, but it didn’t mean anything. He’d been running on empty and mixed up her name. It happened all the time.

“No, he did.” Roz backed away, purpose flaring behind her eyes. “I’m going to find out who the hell you are.”

#

Connor didn’t so much wake up ninety minutes later as his eyes popped open and he was instantly conscious of everything around him as if his senses were in overdrive. It was night. He was alone in the room, but he heard people rustling nearby.

With a flick of his wrist, he checked his watch. Four and a half hours had passed since he’d rolled up on Oleksander and his horde.

Connor snapped into a sitting position and sucked in a deep, chest-swelling breath. He poked hard at the bandage still taped to his breastbone, but felt nothing, not even a twinge of pain. Scared, he scrambled off the bed and slammed through the bathroom door.

He jerked his cotton robe, standard hospital issue, off his shoulders, and dumped it on the floor in order to stare at himself in the cracked, dusty mirror. He was whole again. His stiff knee—better. His blown up hip—fixed. His wrecked hand—healed. He peeled the lumpy, bloodstained gauze from his chest, and tiny black stitches fluttered like broken spider legs past perfectly pink skin to the ground. The gash and the sliced flesh had disappeared.

Impossible. No one repaired chest wounds in a matter of hours.

Fear a drug in his veins, Connor yanked on some jeans and tore down the hallway looking for Roz. She’d used magic on him without his permission. He found her sitting cross-legged on the floor of an otherwise empty exam room, her laptop on her knees.

“What the fuck did you do to me?” he demanded, swinging the door so hard the doorknob buried in the plaster wall behind him.

Her eyes widened, but she didn’t freak out, just got real still. “Nothing, I—” Roz stood and raked her gaze over his bare chest. Her mouth tightened as her eyes registered his improved condition.

Even scaring his friend didn’t ratchet down his anger. “Did you speak spells over me?” Patience became a forgotten virtue. “Answer the goddamned question!”

“Yes,” she answered, “but protection and healing spells. I’m not strong enough to do this.” She waved her hand at his new, unscarred skin. “You know that.”

“Then what is happening to me?” Connor curled and uncurled his hands, muscles jumping up his arms and across his shoulders. Open, close, open, close. But the old knife wound had healed.

All the blood drained from her face. “There’s a ninety percent chance it’s…” She couldn’t even say the alternative aloud.

 “Have you been watching the clock?” The vampire virus hibernated for up to six hours inside its new host. Six hours to know for sure, one way or the other.

“Since I found you?” she asked, checking her watch. “Uh, four hours and twenty-two minutes.”

The breath left him in one, long exhale. “You know what comes next.”

“We— we’ll deal with it. But right now, we have a bigger problem.” She turned her laptop around and flashed him the screen. She was on the Seer Ilvane’s website reading the Anya from Nadvirna prophecy.

Before leaving the University of Chicago, Connor had scoured every word Ilvane had ever written concerning the Destroyer, though he hadn’t read them since. Roz usually handled the research. He wracked his brain for the original prophecy.

“Ali’s uncle mentioned it,” Roz said. “Do you remember?”

“I stopped listening after he told us Oleksander had been there.”

A board creaked in the hall, and he spun. Ali stood behind him, her eyes as wide as milk caps.

“Lord in heaven,” she breathed.

It all fell into place. Her uncle’s confession. Olek. Ilvane.

“I know who you are,” he rasped, his eyes locking on hers. “And you have some goddamned explaining to do,
Anya
.”

Chapter Eight

Ali’s breath caught in her throat, a wave of panic and awe washing over her. Connor stood in the doorway, the bandages gone and the flesh of his abdomen pink and new. But she’d watched the doctor cut him open, had seen his insides, and yet no proof remained that any of it had ever happened. Roz’s magic was one thousand percent more powerful than Ali had anticipated. If she carried this kind of mojo in her arsenal, what couldn’t she do?

Connor crossed his arms and leveled his dark gaze on her.

Ali sputtered. “When I left, you were coughing blood. I thought you were dying. How—”

“I got better.” The muscles in his chest bunched as he tilted his head to the side, examining her. “The funny thing is, Anya, the Oracle’s words are online. Every one of them.” His eyes narrowed. “You have a prophecy written about you too.”

Roz sidled next to him, her gaze sizzling. While Connor was tense and controlled, Roz was a stick of dynamite ready to pop. A witch with a mess of pent-up power looking for any excuse to blow.

“I— I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit,” Roz exclaimed, too loudly for the small space.

Ali jumped, and her pulse pounded through her head.

“I’ve read your prophecy,” he said.

“That’s impossible. I don’t have a prophecy.”

“Yes, you do,
Anya
.” He said the name slowly, over enunciating, lending it a threatening note.

“Wh— what?” She laughed awkwardly. Alina. Her name was Alina. Always had been.

And then she remembered her dad’s secret safe deposit box and her uncle’s dying words,
Your name is Anya. From Nadvirna
. Her smile vanished.

“You’re a very important person,” Connor said. “Your family thought so. And Olek. Even the Oracle is scared of you.”

 “My uncle was bleeding to death,” she snapped at him, at them both. “He didn’t know what he was saying.”

Connor hadn’t forgotten. Shit. He’d heard Sully mess up her name, and apparently, Connor had put some cosmic meaning behind it. There wasn’t any, but there’d be no convincing him. So, that’s where the “dangerous” business had originated. Was it too much to hope he didn’t know her secret after all? That he’d been obsessing over her uncle’s final words and not the darkness inside her? Because that would be so much easier to deal with.

“He sounded like a man letting go of a secret.”

Not even close. But let Connor fixate on a new tangent. Who cared what her uncle called her by mistake?

“My name is Alina. I was born in Odessa, Ukraine, but moved to London as a baby.”

She considered herself British. If it weren’t for her dad’s barely noticeable Slavic accent, he too could have passed for a native British citizen. The Ukraine was in her blood, but she wasn’t a part of any of it—the land, the people, and definitely not the language. She’d lived the last twenty-two years—her whole life—in the Hampstead area of London with her dad. English was her only language.

Connor showed her the laptop’s screen, briefly, and then quoted: “‘Anya from Nadvirna will stand with Oleksander the Destroyer during his final battle.’”

She laughed again, couldn’t help it. This was completely absurd.

Roz moved around Connor, shielding him. “Oleksander was at your family’s house looking for you. What I want to know is—did you send him there?”

Coherent thoughts fled. Send him? That was the last thing she’d do. That son of a bitch had butchered her family. Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, but she refused to cry.

“You’re… My name is Alina. This is—”

“Not according to your uncle,” Roz scoffed.

“He was delirious. My name is Alina.”

How could she make them see sense? It was so simple in her mind. Sully had slipped up and called her the wrong name. It happened to people all the time. Sick and dying people became confused. So what? She wasn’t Anya. She wanted to scream it at the top of her lungs, but her emotions were already a roiling tsunami surging under the surface. She couldn’t let it loose. No screaming. No crying. No furious rages.
Control it
.

The witch inched nearer, crossing into her personal space. Ali fought the urge to back up.

“Was it all very funny to you?” Roz asked. “Crashing the bus? Killing those people? Did you laugh while they burned? Knowing we’d see the smoke and come running?”

That may have been the vilest, most insulting… Ali took a breath, barely keeping herself in check. “My cousin was on that bus.”

“We know exactly what you’re up to.”

“I’m not up to anything!” Uh oh. Pressure built behind her ribs as the force inside her strained for release.

Pain. She needed the clarity of pain. She clenched her right fist and smashed her elbow into the plaster wall. Ow. Better. She did it again. Harder. Pain vibrated through her arm, numbing her fingers. She gauged their reactions. Connor watched her, but he didn’t seem to think she was anything but angry. Good.

Without warning, he reached out and—rip—tore the gauze from her throat. She flinched, but there was nowhere to run.

“Look all you want,” she taunted. “The cut’s still there.”

Roz wouldn’t let it go. “Are you infected? Are you working for Oleksander? Did you set the fire so we’d save you, and you could lead him straight to us?”

“No.” The thing inside her was there—it was always there—but it was safely back in its box. For now.

“Anya from Nadvirna,” he repeated, stressing each syllable, “will stand with Oleksander at his final battle.”

She rounded on Connor. “Stand with him? Are you insane! He killed my family. He’s a monster. Stand with—”

“She’s too dangerous,” Roz said, so calmly. “We have to kill her.”

Alina stumbled into the wall, her blood freezing to slush in her veins.

He shook his head. “Before we do something stupid, can you whip up a spell so we’ll know whether she’s telling the truth?”

Ali took another step, further separating herself from them.
Kill her
. These were not the good guys. Psychopaths. Both of them.

Connor stared at her with laser intensity. She couldn’t stand it for longer than a millisecond. Roz’s magic had done more than just heal him. It had altered him.

“Yeah, probably,” Roz said.

Ali’s voice dropped. “That’s not necessary.”

“Afraid we’ll catch you in a lie?” Roz taunted.

“I don’t lie.” A secret wasn’t the same thing as a lie. Her secret was kept to protect the people she loved. A secret didn’t count.

“Do you need time?” he asked Roz.

“No.” She cracked her knuckles. “I got this.”

“Come inside.” He gestured for Ali to join them in the empty exam room.

She cast a final look down the hall for Maria—for anyone—but no one appeared to back her up.

Connor pulled the doorknob from the plaster and shut it, sealing them inside.

“How does this work?” he asked.

Roz spoke to him, but her gaze remained on Ali. “It’s a lie detector spell. If she tells a lie, her body chemistry will adjust slightly, triggering a reaction.” She seemed pleased with herself. “Every time she lies she’ll get a wart on her face.”

Ali gasped. “Absolutely not.” There was nothing in the world worth maiming herself for. She grabbed for the doorknob and freedom, but Connor’s hand closed over hers. He was stronger than she was. And warm, unusually so.

“As long as you tell the truth,” Roz said, “you have nothing to worry about.”

“You are not putting warts on my face.” She stared pleadingly at Connor. He couldn’t permit it. He’d cared for her, once. He’d been nice. He wouldn’t allow Roz to scar her…right?

“Do this. Please. For me,” he whispered.

“You’re scaring me,” Ali admitted.

Connor bowed his head. “I don’t know who to trust anymore. I saw the Oracle, and she told me you’re dangerous.”

Fear was a punch to her gut. “I’m not. I’ve never hurt anyone in my entire life.”

“I want to trust you, but there’s been too many coincidences. Too much we don’t understand.” His dark eyes bored into hers. “I won’t let Roz hurt you.”

“She did this?” Her eyes fell upon the healed chest wound, and her fingers stopped just shy of touching the smooth, clear skin. Heat, though, radiated off him. “She healed you?”

Connor refused to answer, and Ali withdrew her hand.

“Nothing to worry about,” Roz broke into their private conversation. “Just tell the truth.”

Exactly what was Roz, and her magic, capable of? Pain? Curses? Boils? Hair loss? How dirty was dirty?

She held the witch’s stare for three long seconds and knew Roz would play as dirty as she could, dirtier than Ali could fathom, to protect herself and her friend. She didn’t call her power—yet—but she didn’t need to.

Ali’s gaze traveled the expanse of Connor’s chest. He was stronger and faster than she. And Roz could bring a person back from the brink of death. Ali would never escape them.

She had zero options. Running would only compound her problems. She was no track star. They’d catch her and force her to do it anyway. Warts were removable, right? Freezable, or something. If it came to that. Ugh.