Iron (The Warding Book 1) (40 page)

I slid into the car and pulled the door shut behind me. When I turned onto the street, he remained standing where he was; a sentinel half lost in shadow, watching me disappear into the night. I made it to the highway by memory alone, so blinded by tears that everything was just about one big blur. Gannon’s plea rang in my ears the whole way.

I was more lost than ever, and I was about to go off alone into the unknown. To be honest, I was scared shitless. Why wasn’t I feeling elated; triumphant? I had done the impossible. I had found the Lynx; the invisible man. I had kept my end of the blood pact and had gotten away scot-free, severing all my ties from a fae Prince with my soul intact (except for maybe that shadowy corner that had realized it liked hunting down the monsters). I should have been jumping for joy. I should have felt proud, at the very least.

Only, I wasn’t.

There were no streamers and confetti; no sense of accomplishment for having done something so incredible. Everything felt wrong. Instead of whooping with delight, I was breaking apart inside; trying to hold it all together when all I really wanted was to bawl like a baby. My life was a joke; a waste—a terrible cycle of fucking things up and having to choose the best next step from a batch of very bad options.

Finding the Lynx wasn’t the grand achievement I had thought it would be. It hadn’t solved any of my problems or theirs. Texas Pete was still beyond my reach and Kaine & Co. were still trapped in my world. Nothing had changed. What was running away really going to solve? I rallied against my fate; against the way
nothing
in my life ever worked out the way I intended.

The Lynx’s face floated into my mind. That sad, sympathetic look on his face as he had almost caressed my cheek was going to haunt me for the rest of my freaking life. Why had I questioned him? Why couldn’t I have just left things nice and vague and easily ignored?
As it was, something about that admission just resonated too damn deeply inside me to disregard. I had never felt like I belonged in my family. I had never felt like my mother loved me as freely or deeply as she loved my sister. I had long ago blamed it away on our personalities being so poorly matched—but what if it was something more?

What if that lost, disconnected feeling I had had all my life was real? What if I was so much more than a girl who had inherited some ancestral power? Those “what ifs” were going to be the death of me.

…or would they? A chill coursed through me and I sat up straighter. I wiped the tears off my cheeks and the snot from under my nose. Maybe I just wasn’t focusing on the right “what if.”

Six months ago, I had wished on my birthday cupcake, hoping to figure out who I really was. What if the Lynx had just given me the first solid clue to the answer my soul was seeking? Maybe it wasn’t what I had been hoping for, and maybe it had just made my life a hell of a lot more complicated, but, maybe that was just what I needed too. Hadn’t I already proved that I fared the best in the face of adversity?

I hadn’t gotten a handle on the big picture things I had once thought were so damn important, but maybe I had been wrong in assuming they were so important all along. Instead, I had found that I was much braver, much stronger, and so much more adaptable than I had ever thought I even had the capacity to be.

Maybe finding the Lynx hadn’t brought about the ticker tape parade of victory that I had thought it would—but hunting did. Protecting people, saving innocents, stopping the bad guys? It went against everything I had ever thought was right or that I knew about myself, but I loved it. I lived for it. It brought a peace to my soul unlike anything I had ever felt had before. It wasn’t the answer I had expected to find, but wasn’t all that still something to be proud of?

The realization blazed through me like an electric shock. I
was
proud of myself, inner demons and all. I hadn’t figured it all out, but at least I knew I was capable of so much more than the “me” on the night of my birthday had ever thought she could be. I wasn’t the useless, broken little girl hiding inside the woman anymore. I was scared, but who wouldn’t be? I wasn’t sure what awaited me in the future—but who was? I didn’t have all the answers but no one did. One thing was for damn sure: I was never going to find any more answers by sitting there; trapped by fear, feeling sorry for myself. That defining moment where I could stand up tall and fight or let myself shrivel with fear had come—and I hadn’t let fear hold me down.

My grip on the steering wheel tightened. I was making my move. Maybe I wasn’t sure who I was just yet—at least, not completely—and yeah, I still had a lot of questions to answer and a long road ahead to walk to find them, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to stop until I found out.

Chapter Twenty-Five

June

Gannon was right, of course. Smug bastard always was.

A life on the run was no picnic. Making a break from my past might have started off in exhilaration, but the luster quickly faded. Running was tiring, lonely, and crazy expensive.

I got as far as Ohio before the endless days of equally endless highways jaded my already weary soul. I spent a few penny-pinching nights spent sleeping in my car, spacing out my pricey motel stays, but in the end, it wasn’t enough. My dwindling bankroll was being consumed by my belly and ever-hungry gas tank at an alarming rate. So, I stopped and settled in to what I figured was likely my first stop in a long series of get-up-and-go’s.

I wasn’t exactly enamored with my new life but it was good enough for the moment. I had found a cheap motel that rented by the week and had gotten a job waiting tables at a quaint but run down greasy spoon just off the interstate. It was something straight out of a 1970’s stereotype; all white and red checkered linoleum and matching, cracked pleather seat cushions.

It was owned and run by a craggy faced woman named Maureen, an aged Southern belle with suspicious eyes and a two pack a day habit; the kind of woman who had seen some things and heard it all. I had no doubt she kept a loaded shotgun in that cluttered little closet she called an office. I don’t think she trusted my flippant story of a wanderlust-lead life one bit but she asked blessedly few questions. I was pretty sure she thought I was on the run from an abusive ex and didn’t dissuade her from that assumption. That was a lot easier to swallow than the truth.

The routine of my new life was pretty boring, compared to the stress of the fight-or-flight days I had left behind. Okay; scratch that. It was mind-numbingly boring. Mental Vicodin, if you will. Each day, I got up when the alarm on my phone blared to life, showered, slapped on some mascara, and headed over to the diner to wait on a spotty flow of tables for six or seven hours. My off the books employment deal included a charitable staff meal at the end of my shift, so I always packed away as many free calories as I could before heading back to my room. I didn’t have much to do there really, except watch crappy network TV on a sagging, spring-punctured mattress, so that was the sum and total of my nights. Unless a rollicking trip to the nearest Laundromat to wash my grand total of five outfits was required, of course. Wild times, those.

The next morning I would wake from a night of nightmares and fitful sleep, to repeat the process all over again. It was the epitome of a mundane existence; one that demanded nothing of me and gave nothing back in return. I had no clue what to do next. Every option seemed just as soul-anesthetizing as the one I was living through, so why bother? If I had thought my old life was sad and pathetic—with my nights of drinking with my bestie, endless varieties of amusement on Netflix, and a kitchen full of whatever suited my fancy—I finally realized what a whiny little brat I had been. The old adage was true and I hadn’t realized how good I had it until I was tossing and turning on a musty, strange mattress with only Jimmy Fallon for company.

Even those frantic months running around the city with the fae, expecting danger to find me around every corner, had been better than the hum-drum fake life I was living. I ached for the tear-jerking, deep belly laughs Mairi and I had shared while watching silly stand up reruns on my couch. I missed the sweet, motherly way Seana would brush my hair back as I scarfed down the mile-high stack of pancakes she had made me before a day of training. Hell, I even missed creeping through dark, stinky alleyways with Gannon; knowing we were righting a terrible wrong. Sharing that manic grin when we closed in on our prey. The way his eyes would sparkle in anticipation…

Perhaps Kaine’s lying royal ass was the only thing I didn’t miss.

A million times a day I found my cell in my hand, my fingers hovering over Mairi’s name. I tried to accept my new life, my new loneliness, but the truth was, I was desperate to hear a friendly voice or see an encouraging text—only, I couldn’t. The promise I had made to her went unfulfilled. I had to keep the break clean, even if it ached like hell. Reconnecting with the things I was missing would only make the pain last longer. I knew that; I did. It was just so hard to let go…

I was caught in one of those moments, phone in hand, resistance wavering, when Maureen’s gravely drawl snapped me back to reality. “Hey, dollface, you wanna stop daydreamin’ and help that fella over at table eight?”

I shoved my phone back into my back pocket, red-faced. “Yes, sorry! Going right now.”

I weaved my way out from behind the server’s station and down the aisle to the back corner booth, now occupied by a hulking brute of a man, his face buried behind the over-sized, plastic-sheathed menu. I stuck out like a sore thumb in the classic (cough
dated
cough) ambiance of the diner in my black t-shirt, dark washed skinny jeans, and suede knee boots. Still, I poured on all the fake charm I could muster as I leaned against the edge of the opposite booth and cocked my head, ponytail swinging. “Can I get you something to drink while you look that menu over? Cup of coffee, tea, soda?”

“Coffee sounds great. With cream, please.” The menu lowered a fraction and I took a punch to the gut.

My new customer was a troll. Not my troll, obviously, but the features were frighteningly similar: the same sloped brow, wide jaw, and deep-set, piggy little eyes. This one was remarkably well groomed and well spoken, when compared to the memory of my personal nightmare. He wore an Ohio Bobcats jersey and a pair of jeans that had seen better days, his black hair buzz cut short atop his exaggerated, slightly misshaped skull. I was betting his glamour made people think of him as a big, broad former jock. Maybe his features bordered on the Cro-Magnon, sure, but they would overlook it because he reminded them of their high school sweetheart.

I, on the other hand, wanted to scream and run in the other direction. I ducked my head to avoid his gaze, snapping my gum in an obnoxious valley girl manner just to keep my expression from freezing. I scribbled down the start of his order on the little order pad in my hand, glad to have something to do to stop myself from staring. I hoped like hell I hadn’t given myself away. I didn’t think I had—trolls were notoriously slow on the uptake—but I still couldn’t be sure. “Coffee coming right up,” I said brightly. “You need another minute or two to look that over?”

He nodded, disappearing back behind the menu, and I took the chance to dart away. My hands were shaking as I picked out a mug and filled it with steaming coffee. It was a miracle I didn’t spill any. Fuck, fuck,
fuck
. I probably shouldn’t have been so surprised. It was more of a wonder that it had taken just over a month for any fae to wander across my path. But I mean; really, universe? It had to a troll, of all things? I griped the counter and took a deep, slow breath.

“You all right?” Maureen had come up alongside me.

“Yup, everything’s fine.”

Her gaze sidled across the way, to our lone patron. She didn’t know what the deal was, of course, but she was already giving him one hell of a stink eye. “That guy givin’ you any trouble?”

I shook my head. “No, no. Nothing like that. Everything is a-okay. Promise.”

I plastered on my best smile but it wasn’t fooling her. She accepted my lie with an affirmative grunt and walked back over to her seat, her crossword puzzle book spread open on the countertop before her.

I took New Troll his coffee and a little metal carafe of cream, careful to keep my cheerfulness at a realistic level as I served them up. “Here you go. You ready to order?”

He passed the menu to the edge of the table. “Yeah. Tall stack with bacon and sausage. Side of white toast too, if you don’t mind.”

I scribbled it down, hoping my quick pace hid how shaky my hands were. “Sounds good. Maple syrup and butter okay on the pancakes?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He flashed me a toothy grin that I was sure was rustically charming to other people. It made me want to throw up in my mouth. I gritted my teeth and smiled back. A troll had just called me ma’am. I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I turned tail and went to put his order in. I stood by the counter, stealing glances in New Troll’s direction. He was sipping his coffee and gazing out the window at the street beyond; the picture of nonchalance.

Even when his order was ready and I delivered it with another forced smile, all I got was a distracted thank you before he tucked in to the pile of meat and carbs. Not so much as a sidelong glance. He wasn’t even giving me the time of day, really. No more than someone would give a server, at least.

I retreated to the counter while he ate, bewildered and on edge. If he were a spy of some sort, I’d have thought he would be been paying a bit more attention to me. I wanted to consider his disregard a good thing, but my brain was working overtime to read every little nuance. Maybe he was just lulling me into a false sense of security. Maybe he and a few buddies would be waiting outside for me at the end of my shift, just waiting to grab me.