A Lonely Magic (2 page)

Huh. That was strange.

Fen let her hand drop to the ground. The asphalt was cold under her fingers. What was she doing again?

Pills. Right, pills. Pick them up. Take them. That was what she was doing. And why was that exactly?

“Are you well?” It was the boy’s voice.

Fen looked up at him. Maybe he wasn’t a boy. He looked bigger than he sounded. Who was he?

“May I help you?” he asked her.

Crack.

Fen swayed upright, onto one knee, as she covered her ears. Shit, that noise hurt.

The boy’s mouth fell open. His hand lifted like he would say the pledge of allegiance. Very patriotic but maybe not the best time? But something oozed through his fingers and he crumpled, falling to his knees beside her, his face twisting.

“Call for help.” The boy gasped the words.

Fen didn't understand what was happening. She needed to focus. She pinched herself hard, taking a bit of skin on the top of her wrist and twisting it brutally. The pain gave her a moment of clarity.

A stranger wanted to kill her. A boy appeared out of nowhere. A loud noise. Put them all together…

The gun. Of course. The boy had been shot. She needed to get help.

“911,” Fen said, her mouth stiff and numb. “Got it.” She looked around. Her phone was in her bag and her bag must be here somewhere.

“No.” The boy moaned. Green ichor was seeping through the fingers clasped across his chest.

Green blood. Great, she was hallucinating. Weird hallucination, though, bleeding green.

“You need an ambulance,” she tried to say. The words didn’t sound right. She squeezed her eyes shut, stuffing her hands in her pockets, trying to think. Her crystal felt cool under her fingers.

Help
, she thought. The logical part of her brain wanted the word to be frantic, but it wasn’t. She felt quite peaceful. Placid, even.

The boy tilted sideways, sliding to the ground.

Help with what?
A voice in her head sounded surprised.

The boy? The one who’s bleeding green? At my feet? The one who’s shot? The one who’s…

Her thought stopped there. Dying. Was she dying? Was he dying? She didn’t know.

Carefully, she let her knee down and then her hands until she was on all fours next to the boy. She could feel the asphalt under her hands, the hard road under her knees. She could see grey pavement, brick walls, the metal dumpster, the boy’s flesh, the green blood leaking through his fingers.

He opened his eyes. “Who are you?” he whispered. His lips, they were so pale. White almost.

Fen stared at them in fascination. White lips, green blood.

God, these were good drugs. Seriously good drugs. Except for the part about them killing her.

“I can’t,” she whispered.

“Can’t what?” he gasped.

“911. I’m sorry.” She folded down, down, down, until all she could feel was the cold pavement. She needed to find her phone. She needed to call for help. She needed…

…to go to sleep.

A Strange Awakening

Fen didn’t want to wake up.

She was so comfortable, so cozy.

But her instincts nudged her, pushing insistently at her sleepy mind.

Something was wrong.

She was warm. Solidly warm, as if every bit of air danced at the same seventy-two degrees, no drafts from the windows, no uneven blasts from the ancient radiator. Her blankets weren’t weights over her, piled high the way they should be, but a gentle pressure, while the soft sheets caressed her skin.

Her bare skin.

Fen stiffened, keeping her eyes closed with an effort.

What the hell?

Where were her clothes? Where was she?

She peeked out between her eyelashes, not fully opening her eyes.

Sunlight. A lot of it. Far more than her apartment ever saw, more than any place she’d ever lived saw.

Warmth, a comfortable bed, sunlight—she was definitely not home.

Shit.

Had she picked some guy up? Gone back to his place?

But she didn’t do that. Not anymore. There’d been times, sure. She’d been flailing. If a guy wanted to pretend he liked her for a few hours, hell, she took it.

But it never worked. They were using her and she was using them. Her bitterness, grief, anger… she’d learned quick enough that sex wasn’t a band-aid, and that the world didn’t hold a band-aid big enough to cover what she’d lost.

So what the hell was she doing here?

She dredged up her last memory.

The bookstore. She’d been at the store. And then… the alley? Her brain felt fuzzy, her thoughts heavy as if she couldn’t quite kick them into gear.

She needed coffee. Not just a cup, an ever-flowing pot.

“I’m aware that you are awake.”

The voice—deep, dark, determined—sent a shockwave ricocheting from her brain down her spine straight to her core. It was like being drenched in warm chocolate, a complete overload of flavor, entirely captivating.

Her eyes flew open and she turned her head to the man standing by the side of the bed.

Holy hell, who was he?

Flawless skin. Gorgeous golden eyes. Drop-dead beautiful.

She licked her lips.

His arms were folded across his chest. The controlled energy in his body made it look as if he would start tapping his foot with impatience any second, but he was motionless. “What are you doing here?”

“Who are you?” she whispered.

“You have got to be kidding me.” The words sounded wrong in his voice. He should have been reading romantic poetry. He glared at her. “I ought to be asking you that. Does your mother know you’re here?”

“My mother is dead.” She tried to keep her voice flat, but didn’t succeed.

“What?” He recoiled, arms dropping, stepping back, away from her.

This guy wasn’t the boy who’d saved her. And he also wasn’t the creepy dude who’d been planning to kill her. Who was he?

“Which city?” he demanded.

She pushed herself upright, clutching the blankets to her chest. What a weird question. Why did he want to know that? But her mouth opened and answered automatically before her brain could override it. “Zion.”

“Zion,” he repeated. “Zion?”

“Zion, Illinois,” she said, starting to feel annoyed as she glanced around the room.

Huge windows. Enormous. And a fantastic view out over Chicago and the lake. Fancy furniture, a deep, plush carpet, and the bed she sat on was bigger than bedrooms she’d lived in.

He didn’t respond, just stared at her.

“Suburb of Chicago? It’s not exactly Timbuktu,” she added, and when he still didn’t say anything, “Although maybe it’s Timbuktu for rich people.”

No way did a guy who stayed in a place like this spend time in her former hometown. Not that it was a bad place. She’d definitely lived in worse since she’d left. But it was nothing like this.

His expression was unreadable, his voice abrupt as he asked, “What is your name?”

“Fen,” she told him, tilting her chin up and scooting back in the bed. She wasn’t scared, she told herself. Waking up in a strange rich guy’s bed—it didn’t happen every day, but she had nothing to be afraid of. Right?

“Fen?” he repeated.

“Are you going to echo everything I say?”

She’d just find her clothes. They were nowhere in sight, but maybe he was the kind of guy who hung his crap up every night. Or maybe some maid type did that for him. Either way, she’d find them and clear out of here. He must want her gone as badly as she wanted to be gone.

“Sorry.” A little smile played around his lips. “It’s an unusual name. Felicia.”

It was her turn to glare at him. How did he know her name? He must have looked in her bag, found her ID. “Don’t call me that.”

“It’s your name, isn’t it?”

“I go by Fen,” she told him, her voice firm. She wasn’t scared, she told herself. She wasn’t scared. But her mouth felt dry and something drove her to add the explanation. “It’s Felicia Elizabeth Naylor. My full name. My initials are Fen. I like it better than Felicia.”

He spread his fingers as if letting something go and said, “What can you tell me about what happened last night?”

“Last night?”

He opened his mouth and then closed it. A corner of his lips quirked up. “The time period preceding your arrival here, yes.”

She stared at him. Her brain still felt fuzzy, but she thought he might have just made a joke. “Was that funny?”

“Apparently not.” He took a step closer to the bed. “But I didn’t wish to provoke you by continuing to echo your words.”

Fen rubbed her face. Okay, he was making jokes in his incredible voice and almost, sort of, smiling. And he hadn’t killed her yet. So maybe he wasn’t on the side of the guy who’d tried to murder her last night. Maybe he’d helped her and the boy?

“The boy,” she said, remembering the blood. “What happened to him? Is he okay?”

“Injured. Did you do it?”

“Did I—?” Fen’s eyes widened. Still clutching the blanket, she scooted all the way across the bed until she could slide out on the opposite side from Amazing Voice Guy. She stood, trying to look dignified while simultaneously yanking the blanket free and wrapping it around herself.

“No, I didn’t,” she said, keeping her voice firm. “And if you thought I did, you should have called the police.”

Would that have been better? Yeah, maybe. Or maybe not. The thought of explaining to the police… about Zach, about the guy who wanted to kill her, about the pills… oh, God, it was an unpleasant image. Would they believe her? She’d sound like a crazy person.

“I still can if you’d like.” He hadn’t moved from where he stood, but his eyes had narrowed and his mouth was no longer smiling.

“What I’d like is my clothes. My clothes and to get out of here.” Fen knew she must look like an idiot, standing in a blanket, her hair probably sticking up every which way, her face sleepy, make-up a total mess. It made it tough to sound as firm as she felt. But she wanted to go home.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

“Why not?” Her voice cracked on the words.

“My brother bled extensively,” he said, his voice quiet, as if he were gentling her like a stray dog. “Much of the blood wound up on you. Your clothes were soaked in it. They’re being cleaned now, but I cannot say they will ever be wearable again.”

Fen swallowed, imagining the scene he’d found in the alley. The darkness, the blood, her unconscious body, his brother wounded and bleeding next to her. She shuddered. “Is he in the hospital? He saved my life, I think.”

“Can you tell me about that?” he asked, still keeping his voice soothing.

“I…” She closed her eyes. She wanted her clothes. She wanted to go home. She didn’t want to be here. But when she opened her eyes again, she told him what she remembered, as coherently as she could.

“I see,” he said when she was done.

If he did, it was more than she saw. “If you can get me something to wear, I’ll get out of your way.” She needed to get to Zach, tell him what had happened. Promise to say nothing and get him to defend her from his crazy friends.

“I’m afraid that might not be possible.”

She bristled. “What does that mean?” Home, home, she wanted to go home. She wanted her own dingy walls around her, not this glossy splendor.

“Someone wants to kill you, yes?”

Did he have to put it that way? It sounded so bleak. And so not American. What was the deal with ending a sentence with a question? Was that part of the thing with his voice? His accent—if he had one—was barely noticeable, but something about the way he said his words was subtly different. Is that what made him sound just so, so delectable?

“Are you American?”

His eyebrows lifted. “Does it matter?”

“Maybe.”

He was still for a moment, unnaturally so. Fen shifted the blanket higher, brain finally starting to shake off the sleepiness and the drugs. Shit. Something about him—she was scared again. He was scary. It wasn’t the eyes. It wasn’t the taut energy. It wasn’t the voice, still pushing every button she had. It was…

“Are you a vampire?” she blurted out.

Arrangements

He laughed, head back, stiff face breaking into pure charm. And then he waved at the windows. “Sunlight, right?”