Misery Happens (18 page)

Devon certainly did not fit into my idea of a perfect relationship, yet somehow he’d wormed his way into my reality. I couldn’t say I loved him. That all-consuming emotion was reserved for Lucen. Yet when I remembered worrying about him never recovering from Raj’s curse, I was sickened. When I considered what I’d have risked to try to save him, I couldn’t say where I’d have drawn a line. I couldn’t give him up.

“That’s not normal either,” I said lamely. “I wasn’t supposed to form an emotional attachment to him.” The plan had been the opposite. Devon was supposed to help me separate sex from emotions.

“No, but is it so horrible to care about other people?” Lucen’s expression was as sarcastic as his tone. “I’m the one of us who’s supposed to have a heart of stone here.”

I smacked him in the chest. “Go ahead and make fun of me when I’m trying to have a moment of truth.”

“I would never make fun of you for having a moment of truth. I’m merely pointing out that I don’t understand how your brain works.” Lucen reached over and flipped me back onto the sofa, raising himself above me. “Normal is an illusion that makes people miserable. The most important thing is doing what makes you happy. Are you happy?”

“Happy as I can be under the circumstances. Are you?”

“Nothing makes me happier than you being happy for a change. Except maybe knowing two of the people I care about the most also care about each other.”

I slid my arms around Lucen, pressing myself tighter against his body. It was amazing how the simple act of holding him could bring me such peace and security when I knew how little of either of those things existed. “So you’re not upset with me?”

“For thinking me less than perfect? No. Those of us who aren’t perfect are allowed to make mistakes.” He brushed my throat with his lips and slipped one hand down my side.

It occurred to me to respond to the insinuation that he was perfect, but his almost perfect fingers gently probed at the gap between my shirt and my jeans, and my interest in trading barbs vanished under his touch. Gasping, I arched my back to give him better access to my body. Desire burned away the last traces of my guilty conscience, and the heat of Lucen’s skin spread along my stomach. I raised my head to find his mouth, wishing I could bury myself in him.

The need I’d had to repress for too long had awakened. Though I wanted to savor the moment since I might not have many more, my body urged me to go faster. It was funny how I’d once only thought of Lucen as a creature of lust; we’d had so little time to indulge in it lately.
What’s important between us isn’t sex,
he’d told me once, and I understood that. After all we’d been through and all that was to come, I could give up his touch if I had to. But oh, how I’d miss it.

I grasped the hem of Lucen’s shirt, and a noise startled me. Glancing up, I discovered Devon standing in the doorway, rubbing his tired eyes.

“You are not going to ruin my sofa.” He pointed toward the bedroom. “In here or somewhere else entirely. Have some pity on me.”

I fell back against the cushions, overcome by a fit of silent laughter. No, this was not what I’d imagined my normal relationship would be like, but there was something hilariously mundane about it anyway.

Chapter Eighteen

I jolted awake to the sound of Prince singing he was going to party like it was 1999. Disoriented, it took me a couple seconds to figure out I was in Lucen’s bed and that the owner of said bed had changed my ringtone yet again after I fell asleep.

Certain the noise had woken him up along with me, I made a point to kick him as I lunged for the phone. “Yeah?”

“Do you always answer your phone with yeah?” It was Mitch’s voice on the other end.

Yawning, I checked the clock and was dismayed to discover it was only ten in the morning. “You’re not the first person to ask me that. I thought you were Tom. Not many people are cruel enough to call me at this hour.”

“The sun’s been up for hours.”

I forced myself upright, ignoring Lucen’s death glare. “I’m on pred time. Weren’t you up late working with Claudius?”

“Not that late. What were you doing at that satyr’s apartment all night? Hold on, never mind. I’d rather not know.”

“For the record, I was nursing a sick friend.” Technically, that was true. Lucen shoved me toward the edge of the bed, and I grudgingly got up and went into the hallway. “I assume there’s a reason you called before noon.”

“Grace is flying back to Chicago today.”

This information startled me so that I banged my toe on the edge of the railing. Grace had continued to refuse all training, and it certainly made sense that the Gryphons wouldn’t want to put her up in Boston forever. But I’d never considered what would happen to her—or to any one of us—when our mission was over. Assuming we survived.

Still, if we really were going wheels up, as Tom liked to call it, in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, Grace might as well go home. She was of no use here, and being stuck in Boston probably only made her more unhappy.

Wincing from the pain, I sat on the top step. “I guess it makes sense. What does this have to do with me?”

“I thought we could do something nice for her. Take her out for lunch or something before her flight.”

This time when I winced it had nothing to do with my throbbing toe. “It’s a kind gesture, but I think she’d appreciate it more if I didn’t come along.”

While Mitch had maintained some degree of contact with Grace since she stormed out of our training, my attempts to talk to her had been rebuffed. She’d never answered so much as a single text I’d sent. I wasn’t sure if it was because she and Mitch shared a more similar story and had spent more time together than she and I had, or if my involvement with Lucen and the other satyrs had been too much for her to handle. Echoes of my conversation with Lucen last night played through my mind because I suspected it was the latter. I also suspected Grace would not be the first human for whom I was too
not normal
to accept.

I explained as much to Mitch.

He made a sound that suggested he didn’t disagree. “Baby steps. This is why it’s important for you to come with us to lunch. She’s afraid of magic, including her own, and she was tossed into a shitstorm of it. As a result, she’s retreating inward, becoming more set in her fear. This was the wrong way to make her comfortable with magic. She needs a more traditional desensitization approach where she’s slowly introduced to the feared object and allowed to see it’s not going to harm her.”

“Are you going all psychiatric professional on me? I’m not sure I can deal before coffee.”

“I may not have the M.D. or Ph.D. after my name, but I have worked with a number of patients who experience phobias, as well as other anxiety issues.” Mitch sounded amused. “Magiophobia, fear of magic, is a real issue for some people. So are you in?”

I stretched my legs, mulling it over. I was already awake, and though I was dubious whether my presence would amount to anything besides making Grace uncomfortable, I’d need to go to headquarters eventually. “I’m in.”

* * * * *

Rather than bother my satyr bodyguards at such an early hour, I used a simple disguise charm to change my hair color and stuck a large pair of sunglasses on. It wasn’t as good as either using my remaining glamour or being flanked by two badass preds, but it was a whole lot easier, and I didn’t consider myself in mortal danger anymore.

Notwithstanding being caught in the wrong place at the wrong time in The Feathers, no one had made any attacks on my life recently. The sylphs might hate me, but they were fretting over bigger issues along with most of the world. And without Raj wanting to pick my bones for magic use, the rest of the furies hadn’t shown much interest in me.

If I had reason to fear anything, it was reporters. Both I, and the Gryphons, continued to be harassed by journalists both legitimate and ridiculous. Just yesterday evening I’d learned a major, nationwide morning talk show had called the Boston office’s PR person wanting to book me for a segment. When she’d informed me of it, Director Lee’s tone had made it clear that her newly positive regard for me was rapidly fading under my notoriety.

Although I’d assured Olivia I had no interest in being gawked at on TV, it appeared TV was determined to pursue me anyway. Stepping into headquarters right before noon, I was dismayed to discover one of the famous faces on that particular morning show standing in a corner of the lobby. The host was surrounded by various young people all dressed in similar attire, all drinking coffee. Interns. I’d come to recognize the type.

Keeping my back to the group, I casually slumped against the farthest wall and sent a panicked
get down here
text to Mitch. Then I began making a list on my phone while I waited.

On my way over, I’d discovered an email from
Le Confrérie
with news about our departure plans. Devon and Lucen had been right. It was going to be at least another day before we left, and I’d spent the last hour pondering all the things I wanted to take care of before then. You know, just in case the world went on without me. Doing my best to keep Lucen’s optimism theory in mind, I didn’t think of it as a bucket list but rather a list of useful things to do before taking a long trip. It included stuff like call my mother, have a beer with Steph, finish my newest book and pack a jacket.

As I typed, I debated the ethics of using my magic on the talk show people to persuade them to go away in case they recognized me and approached. I was coming down on the side of Screw Ethics when someone came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder.

“Tip from a guy who’s done far too many stakeouts,” said Andre. “Wearing sunglasses indoors means you’re either a giant douchebag or you’re hiding from someone.”

“I am. Hiding, I mean. Is that Monica Reeves over there?”

Andre glanced over his shoulder toward the blonde woman and her entourage. “Yes, I believe it is, and she’s not nearly as hot in real life as she is on screen. Pity.”

“That show she’s on called here yesterday, trying to get to me.”

“Looks like her employer thought sending her here might be more persuasive. Have you considered hiring an agent?”

I lowered my sunglasses so I could appropriately raise an eyebrow at Andre. “Are you serious?”

“Completely. You get someone to handle all the calls and nuisance for you, and they negotiate their cut out of the thousands you get for selling your story. What’s to lose?”

I started to say “my anonymity” before realizing that was already lost. Hence my issue. “If I survive the next few days, I’ll consider it.”

I could sense Andre’s anxiety rising over my words, but he had the sense not to offer false cheer. I wondered how much he knew. “Rumor has it you and those foreign Gryphons are going to be heading out soon.”

“Tomorrow night, allegedly. So you haven’t been recruited to go?”

“Nope. One of the guys on the p-squad is going, but no one else from our office to my knowledge.”

The p-squad—short for pred squad, which was short for their official name—was the Gryphons’ equivalent of a SWAT. They were the men and women who performed the role that the population inaccurately attributed to Gryphons in general—that of kickass warrior.

Most Gryphons were magical detectives like Andre, or they were analysts or charm makers or healers. But the p-squad was the small subset of Gryphons who were the first line of offense when dealing with hostile preds. All Gryphons were trained to fight, but fighting magically and physically superior opponents was the p-squad’s primary duty. It made perfect sense that
Le Confrérie de l’Aile’s
team would be drawn from their ranks, whether in Boston or abroad.

“I need to take you out for a beer before you leave,” Andre said. “If you’re not going to sell your life story to the highest bidder, I need to hear more of it. You working late?”

“As usual.” The elevator doors opened, and Mitch and Grace stepped into the lobby. Struck by an idea, I turned to Andre. “Want to go to lunch instead? I might not have time tomorrow.”

If Mitch’s theory was right and Grace needed baby steps to help her become less fearful of magic, I couldn’t think of a better person to talk to her than Andre. He was funny, an upstanding Gryphon and a totally normal human who happened to be magically adept. It probably also didn’t hurt that he was attractive.

I filled Andre in on my lunch plans, leaving out the bit about how I considered him the perfect Gryphon spokesperson. He agreed, and the four of us ventured out past the peaceful crowd of demonstrators who clung to the building’s front steps like a particularly stubborn imp swarm. Their numbers had dwindled since the attack in The Feathers, but the faithful few continued to hold up their signs. Grace’s eyes were drawn to them as we strolled by, and I got the sense that she’d rather forgo our company for theirs. She didn’t leave though, and while she kept as far from me as politeness would allow, we ended up seated at a nearby pizza place with less discomfort than I’d anticipated.

Despite needing to steer the conversation away from the topic Andre wanted to discuss, lunch went pretty well. But as I bit into my second slice of pizza, three slightly punk men entered the restaurant and caught my eye. On the surface, their appearance wasn’t too unusual. Two of them wore leather jackets that identified them as belonging to a motorcycle club that had been participating in the anti-mager protests. Bright green NO MAGIC buttons stuck to their collars.

At the risk of alarming Grace, I lowered my voice. “See those protesters over there?”

Andre immediately picked up on what I was about to say, and he set down his food, frowning. “Why are fury addicts protesting magic? That doesn’t make sense.”

“All the more reason they shouldn’t trust magic if they’re addicts,” Grace said.

“Maybe.” I was about to let the strangeness of it go, believing my paranoia was getting the best of me after my almost run-in with the media at headquarters. Then one of the addicts nudged his friends.

I couldn’t read an addict’s emotions, and relying on that ability had made me a lousy judge of body language. But I knew I didn’t like that nudge, nor the way the guy appraised me. As if he recognized my face and wasn’t merely out for an interview.

Andre, on the other hand, had years of law enforcement experience to hone his people-reading skills. So when the men raised their hands toward their chests in unison, and Andre yelled at us to get down, I didn’t hesitate. Feeling my speed charms kick in, I dropped to the floor next to him. My chair went flying out behind me and my knees smacked into the hard, red-tiled floor as an earsplitting noise tore apart the restaurant.

Another anti-mager attack was my first thought, but I rejected it almost as quickly. That wasn’t the sound of a curse grenade, and that stench wasn’t magic. It was gunpowder. We were being shot at. What the hell? It took my brain another second to process the situation because it was so unexpected.

Andre shoved our chairs between us and the addicts as flimsy cover. I shifted position in my crouch, trying to push over our table, but it was too heavy. Mitch was yelling something, but the other patrons’ screams and the breaking dishes made it too loud to hear him.

The storm of bullets paused, and Andre went charging. Using a chair as a shield, he dove straight into the nearest addict and tackled him to the floor in a blur of motion. Without Andre’s back blocking me, I could see clearly at last. The restaurant was in chaos. Everyone had dived for cover by now, and the only faces in sight were those of the two remaining addicts. One was reloading. The other had his gun trained on Andre and was searching for an opening to shoot.

“Forget him,” the second addict shouted as he changed clips. “Get those damned Gryphons.”

It was ironic since Andre was the only one of us who was a real Gryphon by my estimation, but Andre wasn’t in uniform, and we were clearly the targets. Without Raj to want us alive, someone must have put out an order to kill us.

From the corner of my eye, I could see Mitch trying to protect Grace, drawing them both closer to the window. My breaths were ragged, and I could smell blood. I had no curse grenades on me, no weapons except for my knife and a body that was hyped up on charms. No doubt it was those charms that had saved me so far. I called on the one for speed to assist me again, and I followed Andre’s example.

Praying for my opening to hold, I burst out from under the table and crashed into the second addict. Before he could fire another shot, we slammed into the floor. Pain roared through my knees, and his gun went flying. I rolled to the side and knocked it farther from his grip. Swearing, the addict threw all his force against me, pushing me into the filthy tiles and pounding my arm. My bones screamed in pain. This guy’s fury master was likely feeding him power, but he hadn’t decked him out in charms. Thanks to mine and the fear fueling me, we were easily a fair match in spite of the guy’s size.

More crashing noises echoed above and the promise of distant sirens wailed, but my attention was focused on the single guy grappling with me. I reached for his gun, and he banged my head against the linoleum. I bit down on my tongue, blood filling my mouth. The gun slid farther away.

Mitch yelled my name as I tried worming out from under the addict’s grip, and I dodged just before I could take a slash to the face. The addict had snatched at a broken plate, and he wielded it above my face like a knife. If I could only free a hand, I could grab Misery, but that wasn’t happening. The jagged ceramic edge inched closer. Desperate, I aimed my knee at the addict’s stomach, but he was suddenly thrown off me.