Twenty-three

Hours after Zaire had left and a long, night drive to Isaac’s later, Quinn nestled deeper into the velvet pillows of the window seat in Isaac’s upstairs library, as far away from Molly as possible, feeling numb. Molly refused to accept the fact that Isaac would always put his family first, and gold-digging, wannabe fiancée remained a step below sister.

Quinn sighed. As a matter of principle, she refused to be anyone’s whipping boy—or girl. Not that Molly’s snide comments disguised as polite conversation could do any more damage to what Zaire had left behind. He wouldn’t come back for her. She knew that to the bottom of her soul.

Her heart contracted as if a shadowed fist reached between her ribs and squeezed. After all the years of wandering aimlessly and trying to figure out what she was, now, she knew. But she still had zero clue what to do with it beyond unintentionally killing people or endangering innocents. There had to be a reason she was who she was. Inheriting a dreamcaster gene was too much of a glitch to be a fluke, and finding Zaire was in no way a coincidence. She only had to determine the why of it all.

She slouched, her oversized sweater and faded jeans keeping out the winter chill but not the ice in her bones. Another identity crisis she could handle. Losing Zaire was a different story, a tragedy, and nothing could force her to read to the end.

Wolfgang butted her hand, a small comfort, and she slid her fingers through his fur. She traced a lazy raindrop rolling down the cold windowpane. Any future with Zaire hinged on Braden’s safety, but even if Braden were tucked away from the Crows, Zaire would use his freedom as an excuse to slink off and die. Once again, despite his heartfelt promise in the well, he’d left her to deal alone. As if she were better off without him.

She ground her teeth together, both to fight the pooling tears and to vent the burn of frustration. If he thought she’d let him off the hook after all these years of waiting for him, and just sit back and say goodbye without a war, he didn’t know her at all. Then again, it was hard to start a war if she couldn’t locate her opponent. She slumped.

“Hey, Q.” Stephanie joined her, a mug of something steamy in her hands. “Drink?”

Quinn accepted the cup and took a sip. Two different kinds of hot burned her throat, and she coughed. “Irish coffee? At eight a.m.?”

“Whisky does a girl good.” Steph smiled serenely and swiped her cup back before Quinn spilled it. “And makes Molly more tolerable. What the hell does Isaac see in her?”

“A case for unsolved mysteries.” Quinn thumbed away a stray drop of coffee from the corner of her mouth. Steph’s expression was calm, her eyes clear, as though last night hadn’t happened. “You holding up okay?”

Steph took a swallow, sat, and folded her long legs on the window seat, looking out the window to the elegant landscape beyond. Isaac had a talented gardener, the best money could buy—Molly had made sure of that—and a security team that included trained dogs who bit first and barked later. Safest place Quinn could think of in a pinch. Unlike a certain, bullheaded V’alkara, she kept her promises.

“I’d love to say that last night was nothing more than a hallucination induced by too much tequila and a brain malfunction, but that would be a lie.” Steph leaned into the pillows with a sigh. “Rationality is a curse sometimes.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Quinn managed a little grin.

Steph smiled back, meeting her gaze. “All those times you talked about Zaire before you knew his name or knew for certain he existed…I thought he was Quinn Carmichael’s carefully crafted fantasy, conjured by a girl’s daydreams and a lonely woman’s unrealistic romantic ideals.” Her full mouth flattened. “I had no idea.”

“I always suspected—hoped—he was real,” Quinn whispered. “I just wasn’t sure he’d ever find me. Or that I’d find him.” She laid her head back against the wall. “I don’t know which is worse, never meeting him, or finding him and then losing him.”

“Are you going to tell Isaac?” Steph took another sip, watching her over the mug’s rim.

Quinn paused. It was a question she’d pondered since arriving at Isaac’s late last night. With Zaire gone, he allowed her the courtesy of a temporary reprieve before the impending interrogation tonight after he got back from work. She kept very few secrets from Isaac, but if who and what she was endangered her family, it required careful consideration before acting.

In the sleepless hours last night, she’d scrutinized every detail from the moment Bob had walked into their hideout. He hadn’t looked at her even once. If he knew what she was, he surely would’ve paid more attention. He’d been there solely to bait Zaire into obedience, and if the Crows were desperate for dreamcasters, she guessed they’d send more than a single, expendable messenger. As it stood now, her identity was still secret.

“Probably. Maybe.” She bit her lip. “I worry my family enough. Then again, I don’t want him to be caught off guard if something does happen.”

“Protecting the people who matter to us requires tough decisions.” Steph assumed her professional tone, ready to dish out advice.

Quinn sighed and resumed gazing out the window.

“I…might’ve made a mistake,” Steph murmured.

Steph never apologized—ever—because she was always right, at least in her own head. Quinn swiped the spiked coffee from Steph’s hands and swallowed a scalding mouthful, waiting for the burn to slide down her throat and into her stomach before handing it back. “I thought I heard you confessing to an error. Two delusions in less than twenty-four hours. I’m losing it.”

“Hardy har.” But Steph’s smile was grateful. She was terrible with talking about her emotions. “My relationship record is what it is, and I’m not saying it’s wrong or that I’ll change my process—until Isaac begs me into bed, of course—but I should’ve had more faith in your assessment of Zaire, how much you matter to each other.”

Quinn shrugged, having no idea what to say. She knew she mattered to Zaire, but the extent of his care was a mystery.

He’d stayed with Jenny and Braden.

“When he looked at you, Q…” Steph fiddled with an invisible string on her sleeve, and her throat bobbed. “When he looked at you,” she continued, her voice soft, “with that desperate longing as if he’d sell all his vital organs and then hand-deliver his soul to the devil on a platinum platter to keep you safe, I got it. Knowing there’s someone out there who’s meant for you, the chocolate chip to your cookie, the yin to your yang…that’s worth surrendering freedom and jeopardizing your heart.” She lifted her gaze, and her eyes gleamed with unexpected tears. “I thought I was protecting you and instead, I hurt you both, and I’m sorry.” She rushed on before Quinn could hug her or do anything close to mushy. “But that’s only part of what I came here to say. I heard what Zaire told you, that you’re nothing together.”

Quinn tucked her knees closer to her chest, trying to hold the pieces of herself together.

“That’s total BS.” Fierce blue sparks flashed in Steph’s eyes. “He said that to protect you. Period.”

Smiling through her tears, Quinn nodded. “I know.”

“Good.” Steph sipped her coffee and gave Quinn a clinical appraisal, clearly giving her time to prepare for whatever she was about to say next. “So, my number one patient, what are you going to do about it?”

The personal challenge was exactly what she needed. Setting Wolfgang down, Quinn stood and straightened to her full five-foot height. “First, I’m going to find Braden.” She’d found him once before, and this time, she would pinpoint his location. If he was with Zaire, even better. “After that, I’m going to kick Zaire in the head until he sees things my way.”

Steph nodded, acknowledging her vow. “And then you’re going to do what you should’ve done way back in your Montana cabin when you had him handcuffed to your bed.”

Quinn cocked her head. “Which is?”

Steph’s smile was slow and scandalous. “Handcuff him to your bed again and keep him there for at least a week.”

***

Zaire strode into the center of the Crows’ compound without slowing, Bob’s carcass slung over his shoulder. The demons muttered and screeched in his head, back to full strength, muffling his brisk steps and the clanging door behind him. He ignored them as best he could, just as he ignored the men scrambling away like ants from beneath an upturned log. He marched straight to the kitchen, where most of the vermin would be eating breakfast. While he refused to eat with them—ever—he had to go there to collect his food.

This wasn’t the Crows’ headquarters, only a small outpost. There were others, that much he’d heard. He’d been allowed only the sparsest details about his captors, and hadn’t met the leader, didn’t even know his name. He suspected the majority of the Crows didn’t know, either. That fact alone made him wonder if a V’alkara gathered the Crows…or someone, something else.

He burst through the swinging doors, savoring the wave of silence that rolled out before him, and stalked straight to Gibson, the captain of this particular Crow squad. He dumped Bob’s corpse on Gibson’s plate of eggs and bacon to a chorus of demon howls in his head.

Gibson met Zaire’s gaze as he leaned over the table. Unsurprising. Gibson had been raised V’alkara, not Crow, and he would never show fear, even when it was warranted. Most Crow recruits were V’alkara captives who hadn’t yet passed through the trials of training, too weak and undisciplined to be called a true V’alkara. Most Crows had never met Purgatory’s Missing Prince, had no inkling of the damage he could wreak through emotions alone. Gibson was an exception. He’d been there when White still feared Zaire enough to keep him chained.

Zaire offered his cruel, ancient smile, learned from a lifetime spent with unwanted spirits. He didn’t need to see fear to sense it. The shadows curled around his wrists, a silent threat as he placed the box with Braden’s finger on top of Bob’s unmoving chest. “Did you order this?”

A glance down at the box and Gibson shrugged, his eyes icy, a testament to his training. “I did it myself. Next time you take an unauthorized leave of absence, it will be a hand.”

In less time than it took to blink, Zaire withdrew his knife, sliced down, and collected the last two fingers from Gibson’s left hand. As Gibson screamed and clutched his wound, blood flowing between his remaining fingers, the other Crows swarmed Zaire.

He didn’t resist.