Matter of Truth, A (8 page)

Cameron leans down next to me, too, and we do a three-way
hug, and while it feels good—their love and acceptance are more than I
deserve—I can’t help but think Will’s wrong. Because, it’s not okay. And I’m a
fool for ever thinking it could be.

After spilling my guts to the Dane boys and crying until I
blacked out, the Tracker appears at the diner during my shifts for three days
straight. He orders pancakes, inhaling them like he’s starving, swearing I’m a
goddess for serving him the best things he’s ever eaten. I don’t doubt his
honesty; once, while he raved about them, he lost his stutter.

Being constantly on edge, waiting for the anvil to drop, or
at least the Guard appearing and literally dragging me back to Annar at any
moment, though, is too much for my rapidly unraveling nerves. I’m not lying
when I finally break down and tell Paul I’m sick and need to go home. Once I’m
there, standing in my small bedroom in a small house that has felt more like a
home than the one I shared with my parents most of my life ever had, I debate
whether or not to cut my losses and leave like I did before, with nothing but a
handful of doctored paperwork and cash.

It’d be simpler, that’s for sure. Cameron and Will don’t
deserve this. My baggage is too much for me to carry, let alone burden others
with.

At the door, I’m just about to leave my keys behind when I
spot an envelope bearing my assumed name. Hands trembling, I rip it open.

I’ve been accepted to the University of Alaska Anchorage.

Part of me is elated, another is furious, yet another is
incredibly saddened. I fudged my transcripts, but I ensured they reflected my
true grades. To know that I got into a school of my choosing is fantastic—but
to what end? It’s not like I’ll be able to go anyway. Not with Annar breathing
down my neck.

I was so naïve, thinking I could ever be something other
than what I’ve been told to be.

I shred the letter into tiny pieces. Then I shred the
envelope. I collapse down into the ring of tattered, unrealistic dreams below
me.

So it only makes sense that this is when the screaming I
haven’t heard for over eight months fills my ears.

I’m on my feet and at the large bay
window in the living room, searching the white neighborhood for any sign of the
Elders. They’ve gone silent; it was more of a burst rather than the continual
siren I’d grown accustomed to over the years. Although, come to think of it,
the last time I was attacked, by a singular Elder no less, it was silent.

If they’ve found me in Alaska . . .

I snap the blinds shut and slide over to one of the walls,
willing the house to become impenetrable. A massive earthquake could strike
Anchorage and this would be the only building left standing, I’ve made it so
sturdy. The windows melt into something better than bulletproof. The roof is
hardened into a tough shell. If they’re going to get me, it isn’t going to be
in this house.

I weigh my options. If the Elders are here, and the Tracker
knows it—well, the Guard is probably on their way. When I was last in the loop,
capturing Elders was a high priority for both the Guard and the Council. Which
means . . . maybe the Tracker isn’t here for me. Maybe he was scouting the
region for Elders and stumbled upon me in some twisted sick joke of Fate’s. But
if the Guard are coming, there’s an excellent chance Kellan will be with them,
or even Jonah; the Guard had long believed the twins to be more effective
working in tandem against the Elders. As much as I want them, miss them, need
them, there’s no doubt in my mind that their lives have vastly improved in my
absence. Letting anyone find me would be setting them back.

I could run. It’d be the safest thing, especially since I
refuse to let the Dane boys get caught in the crosshairs of whatever war the
Elders are fighting against Magicals. The nons I love are painfully fragile,
and I’m not exactly simpatico with any Shamans at the moment.

But, if I leave the house, it’d be me against who knows how
many Elders. I could maybe hold my own against a couple, but against a large
group?

Etienne’s words swarm my memories: as long as a Creator
lives, the worlds will be okay. It’s the vacuum that will cause havoc. The last
time there wasn’t a living Creator, the worlds fell into chaos.

I need to stay alive
.

A strangled gasp of a scream sounds nearby. I jump, and then
double jump when the backdoor slams shut.

HOLY HELL. I made this place Fort Knox and then forgot to
actually lock the doors.

I refuse to go down without a fight, though. Two glowing balls
of blazing energy materialize in my palms. The best defense is offense, or so
I’d heard from all those sportscasters Jonah used to watch.

Something bangs in the mud porch.

I calculate my odds. I’ve got a wall behind me. The front
door to my right. The hallway to the bedrooms to the left. The kitchen to my
front. Another hallway to the laundry room and back door. I erase the entryway
to the hallway and kitchen and bolt the front door. They can only get me from
the one point of entry now.

Goosebumps race up and down my arms, but they’re not from
the frigid February Alaskan weather. My heart hammers in my chest. I can do
this. I can
do
this.

My eyes narrow on the entryway. My hands clench the balls. A
controlled burst of a scream sounds somewhere behind me, outside, followed by a
shadow leaking out of the hall. I hurl the ball in my right hand as hard as I
can at the doorway, switching its properties mid throw to act like a gun
silencer. No need to freak the neighbors out, after all. Plaster and wood explode
in an eerily silent shower leaving the room hazy in dust and smoke.

Something slams against the front door.

And then, “WHAT. THE. FUCK?!”

Will stumbles out from the gaping
maw I’d just created, his clothes covered in plaster, his hair disheveled, his
hands clutching a partially singed, white to-go bag from the Moose on the
Loose. He’s white as a sheet, his eyes saucer wide, and it’s no wonder, because
here I am, standing with glowing fireballs in my hands after destroying part of
his house in an assassination attempt.

I literally have NO IDEA WHAT TO SAY.

Something slams into the door once more, nearly ripping me
out of my skin. The Elders are right outside, and if they didn’t know I was
here before, they do now. The situation has officially hit the fan now that
Will’s trapped in here with me. Thank all the gods that Cameron is at work.

We have to get out of here, stat. I collapse the remaining
energy ball into my fist. “Where’s your truck?”

His mouth falls open.

“Your truck, Will! Where is it?” I stand on my tiptoes and
peer out of the peek hole in the door. I swear, something smiles back at me.
Smoky black shapeshifter? Present and accounted for. Just one as far as I can
see, but one is too many when there’s a Human involved.

But Will isn’t talking. He’s just gaping at me like I’m a
monster. Fine. He can hate me and fear me, but I’m still getting his ass out of
here.

I grab his arm and drag him back from where he came from.
From the back door, I can see the truck. It’s maybe two hundred feet from the
door. A hopeful, quick scan leads me to believe the Elder is still at the front
of the house.

“Do you have your keys?” I whisper. When Will doesn’t
answer, I do something that I’d never done to anyone before. I smack him
straight across the face so hard fingerprints are left behind. I try not to
cringe. “Keys, Will!”

It must’ve been enough to snap him out of whatever stupor
I’d driven him into, because he recoils, flushes bright red, and hisses right
back, “In my pocket.”

“Get them out.” I scan the area again. Another thump sounds
from the front door. Once I hear the jingle of keys, I grab the doorknob.

A hand drops on my shoulder “Wait.”

“There’s no time,” I tell him in return. Realizing that the
back door is creaky, I end up erasing it instead. Will’s breath draws in
sharply, but I grab his arm anyway. “Don’t. Make. A. Sound.”

His nod is quick and jerky.

“On the count of three, we’re going to run to your truck.
We’re going to get in and we’re going to drive as fast as we can. Do you
understand?”

Another jerky nod. “I’m driving, though.”

Fair enough. I match his nod and hold out one finger. Two
fingers. Three. We scramble down the steps, slipping on the icy path, but we
make it to the truck in seconds. “GO GO GO!” I yell, and the truck swerves,
sliding in an arc, but it shoots out the back of the driveway. I redesign the
wheels so ice and snow are nothing to them.

The Elder’s off the porch in a blink of an eye, slamming
into the driver’s side. I immediately reinforce the metal and glass surrounding
us. “Drive, Will!”

“WHAT IS THAT THING?”

Death, is what I want to tell him. His worst nightmare. How
does one even begin to coherently explain what’s going on? As we speed away,
the Elder hot on our trail, I notice the white to-go bag, sitting in between
us. “What’s in the bag?”

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME? YOU CAN MAKE DOORS DISAPPEAR AND SHOOT
FIREBALLS FROM YOUR HANDS AND THERE’S SOME KIND OF MONSTER AFTER US AND YOU
WANT TO TALK ABOUT THE SOUP I BROUGHT YOU? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND?!”

He has a point. Still, “You brought me soup?”

“Chloe!” His eyes don’t leave the road, but they narrow into
slits. “Priorities!”

I eye the Elder in the side mirror. It’s fallen behind. “You
need to take us out of town. I can’t fight it out in the open all by myself. We
have to go somewhere where we’ll be isolated. Where there won’t be collateral
damage.” Or, at least, I can hope. I snap my fingers. “Take us to Chugach.”

The state park outside of Anchorage would be the perfect
place. Plenty of wildernesses to hide in. Plus, as it’s February, it’s not like
the park will be filled with hikers.

“Fight it? Are you mad?”

“Should we just let it kill us?”

He guns the truck around a corner; we skid for two
heart-stopping seconds before he manages to right us. Huh. I redesign the
wheels once more. “Start talking, Chloe Lilywhite. Who in the hell are you?”

“This isn’t the time—”

“Really? Because I’m thinking it’s the bloody perfect time.
TALK.”

I sigh, my eyes never leaving the twisting black shape
behind us, even though it’s fading from sight. He’s not going to let this go,
and it’s not like I have the ability to make him do so, so I do the
unthinkable. “Fine. I’m . . .”—oh Gods I’m really telling him—“not quite Human.
Not like you, anyway. I’m part of a race of beings called Magicals. More
specifically, I’m a Creator, and that thing back there is what we call an
Elder, which just so happens to be one of the first of my kind, if legends are
to be believed. My ancestors went to war against them and sucked out all their
essences. Since escaping from where they’ve been imprisoned for thousands of
years, they make it a point to hunt us down and kill us out of revenge. I’m
sort of a big get. I stupidly didn’t think about the Elders tracking me down
when I ran away, because I’m clearly an idiot and really only thought about
things like my broken heart, but here one is, and it won’t stop unless it gets
me or I manage to get it first. Chances are, though, that guy who’s been
stalking me at the diner has already called back home and a team is on their
way to take care of it. Which means, if I don’t take care of it first, they’ll
most likely find me, too, and I’m not ready to go back.
Capiche
?”

I’d barely taken a breath, spitting all that out. I don’t
think Will took one while listening, either.

“I didn’t tell you before because telling non-Magicals about
us is forbidden. Chances are, if they find me, they’ll find you, too, and
they’ll punish you by erasing your memory. Which maybe you want after what’s
going on. But I hope you can believe me when I say I was trying to protect you
and your dad from my past.”

The truck spins around another corner. We’re miraculously on
the outskirts of town without more outright attacks by any Elders.

He’s silent for a full minute before asking, “Are you an
alien?”

I nearly choke. My laughter borders on hysteria. “What?! NO.
I am most certainly
not an alien
!”

The truck slides across a lane. Why can’t I get these tires
right?

Another minute ticks off between us. “Was it all a joke
then? Playing . . . what. Friends? With a lowly little peon who works at a
diner in Alaska and his dad?”

“Gods, no, Will!” I tentatively reach out a hand, but his
arm jerks just out of reach. “When I left home, I thought I’d screwed myself
out of any happiness in life. But I met you, and your dad, and Frieda and Ginny
and Paul, and I realized . . .” I swallow. “You’re my best friend. You’re my
family
.
No matter what else happens, I want you to know I will never regret meeting
you.”

He sucks in his bottom lip, eyes glued on the road. I can’t
tell if he’s angry, disgusted, scared, or bored, and that worries me almost as
much as the thing following us.