Wrong Side Of Dead (36 page)

I almost didn’t hear him whisper, “I was.”

“You are,” I said.

“I want to be, always.”

“I want that, too.”

He turned his head and pressed his cheek to mine, breath tickling my ear. His skin was rough with stubble, his hair damp. The sweet hint of cinnamon I’d always associated with Wyatt was gone, replaced by something else—foreign and still somehow familiar. Our bodies remained apart by a few meager inches. It was too far …

“I love you,” he said.

“Me, too.”

He nuzzled my cheek, and I broke first. I turned my head until our noses touched, mouths aligned. The cuts on his lips terrified me on one level, but deep down I knew I’d be okay. I’d survived the bites from Wolf Boy a month ago; I’d survive a kiss from Wyatt. But he needed to initiate it.

The hand on my cheek slid around to the back of my neck, a loose hold.

Please …

The gentlest brush of his lips sent my heart galloping. It was all I needed to capture his mouth in a desperate kiss. All of my love and need tried to show itself, and he responded in kind, kissing me hard. Nothing existed except our questing mouths and our bodies pressed together, hearts beating, hands holding and pressing. Somehow I ended up with my back against the wall and I didn’t care, because it was Wyatt holding me there.

I wanted him in a way I’d never thought possible, and I didn’t care that it was the wrong time, place, circumstances—wrong everything. He was hard against my hip, my jeans the only real barrier between us. It had been almost two months since we’d been together in any meaningful way. Hard, fast, and dirty had been part of my old life, but goddamn I’d take a little of that right now.

Except Wyatt was my gentle. Wyatt was my slow and nice. If we had sex like this, up against a wall in a haze of desperation, he might regret it after. Might blame the wolf for his lack of control. He did self-hate way better than I did, and I wasn’t about to give him another excuse.

I also wasn’t about to drag him into the city without taking the edge off, first.

My hand slid between us, beneath the gown, to grasp his erection. He gasped into my mouth. I managed an awkward stroke, and my own arousal surged at the deep (and very human) growl that it elicited from Wyatt. He thrust into my hand, mouth still working mine. My lips tingled; our kiss tasted faintly of blood. Harder, faster.

With a choked cry, he pressed his face against my shoulder and came, spilling warmth over my hand and
wrist. He shuddered and gasped. I worked him through it, my free arm tight around his shoulders, holding him close until both of our heartbeats calmed to a reasonable pace.

I wiped my hand on the hem of his gown, then threw that arm around his waist. Our clinch became a hug—an embrace of souls I never wanted to end. The outside world wasn’t allowed to invade the little bubble of peace we’d created for ourselves—only I couldn’t stop it.

A shadow in the doorway reminded me of our deadline and, with regret, I gently squeezed Wyatt’s neck. “You okay?” I whispered.

He loosened his hold and pulled back. His eyes were red, cheeks streaked with tears, but he smiled. Nodded. “Thank you.”

I pressed my left palm flat against his cheek and looked right into his silver-rimmed eyes. And I smiled back. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m being pretty selfish this time.” At his curious look, I said, “I can’t lose you again.”

He leaned closer and kissed my forehead. As he pulled back, his nostrils flared and he tensed just a little. “Phineas is outside.”

“How do you know?” His back was to the door.

“I can smell him.”

“Oh.” That was going to take some getting used to.

“Dare I ask what I smell like?” Phin said as he stepped into the doorway. He had a bundle of clothes in one hand and a knapsack slung across his chest, likely holding our weapons. His expression was unreadable.

“I wouldn’t ask, no,” Wyatt said without turning around. “Gina’s not back.”

“She’s meeting us in the garage.” He put the clothing bundle down on the foot of the bed. “I’ll wait down the hall.”

“We’ll be right there,” I said.

The clothes he’d brought were Wyatt’s, right down to the black sneakers. I handed the items to him one at a time—boxers, jeans, polo, socks—as he dressed. I didn’t know how we were going to get him past Dr. Vansis, or anyone else who didn’t like our plan. Hopefully no one would be dumb enough to try to stop us from leaving the compound.

Wyatt peeled away the last of the bandages on his arm and neck. The wounds had scabbed over and looked nowhere near as raw and infected as they had only a few hours ago.

“You want me to rebandage those?” I asked.

“They’re fine.”

“Ready to go?”

“No, but I suppose we don’t have a choice.”

Did we ever?

I heard Phin and Dr. Vansis arguing before we reached the outer office. I squeezed Wyatt’s hand and held tight, as much for his courage as for my own.

“—still don’t know how infectious he might be to others,” Vansis was saying. “You’re putting thousands of people at risk.”

“We’re only putting me at risk,” I said, earning their collective attention. “I’ll be at Wyatt’s side the entire time we’re out there. Even if he bites me, I don’t think it’ll do anything other than bleed. I’ve been infected before and beaten it.”

Vansis scowled. “And if he’s not finished changing? If he attacks someone who isn’t you?”

“Phin has weapons. We’re all prepared to use them.”

“You’ll shoot your lover dead to save an innocent?”

I couldn’t seem to say yes.

“She knows that’s what I want,” Wyatt said.

“That didn’t answer my question,” Vansis replied.

“No, it did,” I said. “And I don’t plan on having to find out.”

“No one ever does.” He glanced at Phin, whose expression remained frustratingly neutral. Phin could make a fortune at high-stakes poker with that face.

“This might be our only chance to save Ava and Aurora.”

“I know. I won’t stop you, but please be cautious with him.”

“We will. The vampires?”

Vansis shook his head. “Three of their own healers are on their way with some specialized equipment. Maybe they’ll be able to find something I can’t.”

“We need to go,” Phin said.

We had a long walk from the infirmary to the garage and absolutely no way to hide Wyatt from sight. The Therians lingering in the corridor would smell something odd about the man with us, no matter what we dressed him up in, so we chose to walk with our heads high. Humans and Therians stared at us. A few texted messages. Someone even growled.

But no one was dumb enough to get in our way.

At the entrance to the garage, two figures lingered in our path, arms crossed over their chests like a pair of silent sentries. Milo and Marcus were certainly the last two people I’d expect to try to interfere.

“Astrid couldn’t be bothered to stop us herself?” I asked as we drew near.

Marcus frowned. “She’s choosing to not acknowledge that this is happening. She can’t condone Truman’s leaving the premises, but she does believe your decision is correct.”

“So why are you here?”

“To help.”

“Really?”

“We want to go with you,” Milo said. “Since we’re both technically wounded and not on duty, no one will look too hard if we aren’t here.”

The show of solidarity planted a little seed of pride in my chest. To Marcus (who’d lost his walking cast at some point in the day) I asked, “You’re defying your Elder?”

“Technically, no,” Marcus replied. “Not unless he finds out you’ve removed Truman from the premises and I’m assisting you and he orders me to bring you back. Then I’ll be defying my Elder.”

At that moment, I really, really liked Marcus. “Terrific. Then let’s go.”

We left the mall parking lot without incident or alarms. Kismet drove, with Phin riding shotgun. Marcus and Milo took the rear bench seat of the SUV, while Wyatt and I sat together in the middle. Without being asked, Kismet pulled into the first burger joint she passed and ordered a bunch of food off the value menu.

Wyatt worked his way through a bag of cheeseburgers with all the grace of a stumbling drunk, devouring three in the time it took me to choke down a grilled chicken sandwich.

“All right,” Kismet said after we’d settled lunch and gotten back on the road. “It’s three-twenty. Anyone have a thought on a good place to start?”

Looks were exchanged, but no one spoke.

“I do,” Milo finally said.

I twisted around in the process of unwrapping a second sandwich. “Where?”

“Amalie’s avatar was also the lawyer handling the property where the Lupa lived, right? Isn’t her name Edwina Fair?”

Damn, I’d actually forgotten about that connection during all the chaos around Wyatt’s infection. “Right.”

“Where does she live?”

Next to him, Marcus pulled out his cell phone and
checked something. “A development called Forest’s Edge. 345 Applewood Lane.”

It sounded familiar.

“Forest’s Edge?” Phin repeated.

“Yeah, somewhere northwest of here. Why?”

Phin made a rude noise. “Because that’s the neighborhood where Michael Jenner lived.”

Forest’s Edge was aptly named for its proximity to the mountains that surrounded the valley’s sprawling city. It was several minutes west of the up-and-coming neighborhood of Parkside East (my new body’s former address), and it took us twenty precious minutes via the bypass to even get there. It was polar opposite of the Watchtower’s location, and miles north of the historic district.

A fancy white gate announced we’d arrived at the community of condos. Dozens of freestanding buildings, with simple, modern architecture and between four and six homes per, dotted long, intersecting streets. They’d been built around existing trees, so decades-old and hundred-foot-tall oaks and maples lined many of the streets, giving the five-year-young development a homey, lived-in feel.

I wondered how many other lawyers called Forest’s Edge home.

We rolled down all the windows in the SUV. Community signs announcing “Children Playing” and “Slow Please,” right at the gate, were a perfect excuse to trundle along toward our destination. Wyatt slid closer to his door and leaned his face out the window.

I didn’t know what I could say to encourage him, so I kept my mouth shut.

As we drew closer to the sign for Applewood Lane, Wyatt closed his eyes, eyebrows furrowed, nostrils flaring. All I smelled was fast-food grease, so I hoped he was having better luck. Phin and Marcus were both intently sniffing the air out their respective windows in a way that was almost comical.

Soon after Kismet turned onto Applewood Lane, Edwina Fair’s home appeared, a third-floor condo in a building of six. Kismet parked across the street. Some nearby residences had cars parked, but many residents didn’t appear to be home. Good for us. The middle of the afternoon on a hot summer Saturday wasn’t prime time for folks to be hanging around the house.

“Anything?” I asked.

“Not the Lupa,” Wyatt replied. When he looked at me, more silver had crept into the black of his eyes. “But I sense magic. There’s a Break around here, a Sanctuary.”

Terrific
. Was I that exhausted from my early-morning teleportation session that I’d fried my Break sensor? I barely felt the level of magic I was used to and hadn’t really missed it until Wyatt mentioned the increase. Would I even be able to teleport if I needed to?

“Well, now what?” Kismet asked. “Are you going to ring her bell and ask if she’s harboring fugitive werewolves?”

“Might as well,” I said.

“Evy—”

“If Amalie is in her avatar, then she knows we’re here. Before she died, Jaron told us that Amalie can sense anyone who’s been in her true presence, which Wyatt and I both have.”

“Sense how?”

“I’m not completely sure. At the very least, she knows we’re both alive. At the most, she knows we’re practically on her doorstep right now.”

“If she’s still using her avatar,” Marcus said. “Edwina
Fair has not been to work in several days. Her employer stated she requested a brief leave of absence.”

“How brief?” I asked.

“Through the weekend. Apparently, she’s due back on Monday.”

I glanced at Wyatt. “Ready to knock on an old friend’s door?”

“As I’ll ever be,” he replied.

We climbed out our respective sides, and I met him by his door. A yellow sports car drove past, its music blasting bass even though the windows were all up, keeping in the air-conditioning and the worst of the noise. Walking across the street toward 345 Applewood Lane, with Wyatt by my side, felt right for so many reasons—solving a mystery, impending danger, a possible fight. I had a knife by my ankle, a gun at my waist hiding under my T-shirt, and a blast of adrenaline setting my heart pounding.

It was an old, familiar buzz, and I’d kind of missed it.

We took the stairs quickly to the third floor. The curtains were drawn in all the windows, and a brightly colored floral doormat decorated the stoop. The door had a silver knocker and a bell.

“Anything?” I asked.

Wyatt closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, held it. On the exhale, he looked at me. “I smell death.”

Terrific
.

“Do you sense the Lupa at all?”

“No. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to feel, but I don’t feel any different.”

Awesome.

I rang the bell. Twice.

“Maybe she’s out getting her nails done,” I muttered, then banged on the door with a closed fist. “Ms. Fair, are you home?”

Wyatt grabbed the knob. It turned, and the door creaked open. “I’ll be damned,” he said.

“This isn’t good.”

My nose verified my trepidation as I stepped inside. Humid, hot air carried the odors of human waste and decay. The air-conditioning was off, the windows were sealed, and the room was stifling hot even with the shade. Something had died in here.

The condo was tasteful and expensive, with chrome lighting fixtures and a black-and-white color scheme, and very little in the way of personality. It was an odd contrast to the colorful doormat. And despite the stink, it was clean and extremely tidy.