Chapter 8
Gunnar’d taken a few gates in his time, but never a single-use. It was a ring of blue metal about the diameter of his fist. Audrey recited the correct incantation, and they left the prison behind.
Unlike a fixed travel gate, which felt kind of like wading into an ocean, then getting rolled carefully back onto shore, this shit was like being tossed into a whirlpool and pissed out at full force into a brick wall.
They both stumbled when they arrived, and he caught her arm before she fell face first onto the linoleum flooring of her kitchen unit.
Gunnar’s ears hummed, his sinuses aching. Audrey ripped away from him and puked in the sink. He leaned against the counter and closed his eyes for a few seconds, his equilibrium returning. The vomit gave him something concrete to center on. He wasn’t much better off than her, he wagered, just better at containing it.
“Sorry,” she gasped. He cracked an eye, found her bent over the sink as she flipped on the water.
The white noise grounded him further. He pushed away from the countertop, mumbled, “Don’t worry about it.”
She apologized too damn much. Audrey grunted, and he chuckled at her embarrassment as he took in their surroundings. His first impression? Being an esquire must pay fuck all. The place had two small bedrooms down a narrow hall, a bathroom about as big as a cupboard, and a sitting area barely large enough for two folding plastic chairs and a matching table.
It was clean, meticulously so, which only helped so much with the peeling paint and cracked flooring. The carpet was threadbare and stained, and she’d tried to hide it beneath her meager furniture. Mismatched bookshelves were lined up next to the front door, stuffed to overflowing, papers sticking out every which way with more piled on the floor. The place smelled like her, bright and warm, the sensation aided by the canary yellow of her handmade curtains.
Blue sky and cityscape taunted him through the window, but Gunnar controlled the twitch in his hindbrain because he wasn’t being hunted. He didn’t need to escape this place.
He didn’t believe it yet, not entirely, his instincts ratcheted high. It wasn’t every day one got judged by a pantheon of gods, he thought with a smirk, less so that it turned out well.
“Sorry,” Audrey murmured again, shutting the water off. She set a full glass next to his elbow at the counter. She drained a glass that didn’t match his. When she was done, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Then she grinned at him. A big, goofy grin. When he cocked a brow at her, the expression thinned. “Sorry, I just . . . I believed we’d get you out. I always did. But you’re here, and . . .” Audrey blew out of breath and gestured at him. “You’re here.”
She seemed far too comfortable about that fact.
“Sooner we get this shit sorted, sooner I can be gone.”
Her disappointment soured her scent. “I . . . well, I made up the second room for you. I put some things in there for you too. Clothes and stuff. I figured . . .” Audrey gave him a smile that was more of a grimace. “You might want to change, or whatever. Then I can show you the options Theodore mentioned.”
She wrung her fingers as she watched him, like a fucking puppy waiting for any scrap he might toss her. Gunnar grunted, left the glass untouched, and strode away from her down the hall.
“I can make food, if you’re—”
“Don’t bother, won’t take me that long.”
He tucked into the room before she answered, scanning for escape routes in long habit. The door to her room across the hall was open. Both rooms had simple cots, but they were clean, and so were the linens. She had a few plastic storage tubs and an electric lamp in hers, nothing else he could see from this vantage. His cot was the same—hardly the worst place he’d found himself.
But he couldn’t shake his sudden, violent dislike at how she lived.
Likely not the worst she’d had either, and he liked that less.
Gunnar shook his head. He didn’t need an opinion on the matter at all. Grabbing the heavy canvas backpack from the floor, the nicest thing in the entire apartment, he tugged the largest compartment open and overturned it.
A canteen tumbled out, along with waterproof matches, flint and steel, a substantial first aid kit, and sunglasses. A hunting knife—damn good quality too, with an eversharp rune etched on the blade. A plastic rain poncho, a tarp, and enough rope to rig up a small tent or hammock. Field rations, enough for around two weeks in a stretch, a packet of jerky, and a chocolate bar. Two pairs of shoelaces, a bottle of multivitamins, a travel sewing kit, and a plastic bag with all the basic toiletries. A paper map of the ESC York hub, published seven months ago, along with a compass. An analog wristwatch, brass with a fabric band.
Beside the bag sat neatly folded clothing. Shorts, two pairs of pants. A sweatshirt, two T-shirts, and a thin long-sleeved shirt. Six pairs of boxer briefs, six pairs of socks, and a black wool hoodie. Leather gloves. A pair of steel-toed boots waited on the floor near the cot’s edge.
It all smelled new.
Gunnar repacked the bag, then stripped off the suit and prison-issue skivvies, tossing them to the room’s far corner. The underwear, jeans, and T-shirt worked well, all dark colored. The socks were soft, and the boots fit like a dream.
He sat on the cot as he laced them up, trying to figure out what this girl was about.
Why did she live like a damn roach, even though she had a good job and a title to match? It was like she’d skimped to make sure he had everything he needed. She wouldn’t have known until today if he’d be out, yet it was clear she’d worked on this gear for weeks, if not months. Maybe longer.
Gunnar stuffed the other clothing into the backpack and hauled it over his shoulder. Best to get on, not waste time thinking about it. He’d be gone, and she could do whatever she wanted.
When he emerged, she waited in the kitchen unit, which had a two-burner gas stove, the sink, and a half-fridge. She’d covered the counter in more papers, and he recognized her tight, looping handwriting. Audrey smiled up at him, though it didn’t light up her entire face this time.
“The clothes fit? Shoes too?”
He cleared his throat. “Yeah.”
“Good.” Her gaze fell to the backpack, but she kept her expression cool. She smelled unsure. Not afraid or anything, just unhappy. “I . . . They didn’t give you a full explanation on the reparations?”
He shook his head, annoyed by the slight shake in her hands. He didn’t like her nervous, not when related to him. Gunnar wanted to throttle the archivist then, wondering what the fucker had said to her when he’d taken her aside before they used the gate to her place. When he didn’t reply, too busy grinding in his own head, she gestured to the paperwork.
“It was part of why I had your name changed so early. They created your reparations account when the revised Accord passed, same as for any imprisoned vileblood. Yours, however, remained empty until they granted your parole. Since you didn’t have any next of kin, they allowed me to take on the role of trustee, since I was your representative for your parole case.”
Gunnar didn’t know how much money was in that account, only that they’d calculated it based on years imprisoned. Being that they’d caught him the first time when he was five years old . . .
Pieces shuffled into place, uncomfortable in his mind, and while Audrey didn’t smell like deceit . . . “So what? You decided since you helped me get out, you get my money?” She blinked up at him, confusion on her scent, but this was the only fucking thing that made sense to him. He took a few steps forward, leaning on the counter across from her. She didn’t retreat, only watched him with her brows furrowed. “I ever say I wanted you as my trustee? I don’t remember that fucking conversation.”
She flinched at his harsh tone. “No, but . . . You didn’t have anyone else who would qualify. Not even Theodore, since he was acting as my advisor, not your counsel. It’s stupid,” she said, her frown deepening. “If I didn’t step in on your behalf, you would have lost your reparations.”
“And you just forgot to mention this until now.” He waved a hand around the room. “Once we’re here, on your turf, so you can what? Tell me your terms where no one can hear you?”
“My terms?”
“Oh, you’re just going to give me my money, huh?” Gunnar chuckled. “Nothing in it for you? Like getting out of this shit stain of an apartment? Get yourself some clothes that actually fit you right?”
Her arms hugged around her middle; she glanced down at her worn taupe suit. “No.”
“No?”
“I don’t want your money. I just didn’t want you to lose it. There are limits to what you can take since you’re on parole. It’s spaced out over three-month intervals until you finish your parole, and then whatever’s left defaults to your name. When that happens, I’ll no longer have access.” She didn’t look at him. “There’s an ESC branch a few blocks from here. We can go tomorrow morning. I’ll take out as much as possible and give it to you.”
“Do it now.”
“They’re only open for a few hours in the morning for this type of thing. They need an overseer present who has the proper magical access to alter the accounts.”
He inhaled, deep, and her face jerked up, the flush crawling across her cheeks hardly pretty. A bit of anger peppered her scent now.
“I’m not lying. I didn’t gain access as trustee until after they ruled in your favor. The account didn’t exist until then.”
She wasn’t lying. She smelled hurt and angry, but she was telling the truth.
“What do you want?”
“To help you.”
“In exchange for what?”
She swallowed a few times, then gestured at the paperwork. “I did some research on places that might be good for you. You can’t stay in this hub of the ESC. Anywhere in the Eastern Seaboard Conjunct would be bad. You’re famous and not in a good way.” She gave him a helpless shrug. “We did what we could, but Warden Kushiel made sure the media got involved as soon as we challenged the Vilestars Accord.
“Anyway, the Collation of Creatures is always an option, but I didn’t think you’d like the idea of being confined behind the labyrinth walls, so I didn’t place an appeal for sanctuary. I can, if you want.”
When he just stared at her, because she’d ignored his question, she barreled ahead as she unrolled a world map, pointing as she talked. “There are a few places in Western Europe that aren’t very populated. The Portugal coast has several small Independents who hire outsiders without background checks, magic or otherwise.
“The Sahara is desolate territory, but there’s a propagation project underway. They’re taking anyone willing to work and giving them a stipend and housing. And then out here, in northeast Siberia, I thought this looked the most promising. There’s a second generation Aperien who founded a town of self-proclaimed outcasts, but the territory is rough. She needs hunters to kill off dangerous wild creatures, but she also needs workers in town. Bookkeeping, cooks, stuff like that, so we’d both be able to work. Well, at least I’d be able to do more work than I could digging ditches in the desert.”
There it was.
She’d finally given him the answer, but it wasn’t what Gunnar had expected.
She thought she was going with him.
He laughed, a sharp bark that stopped her rambling. Audrey’s lips pressed in a thin line, and he couldn’t miss the thread of determination in her scent, right beside a ribbon of fear, sticky and acrid.
“We?”
The air went out of her sails, a sunset with none of the lingering warmth. She dropped her gaze, picking at the map’s edge.
“There’s . . . You heard Theodore. I’m all over the ESC media as much as you are.” She waved a hand, her smile mirthless. “‘Enthralled human campaigns for vileblood; is she possessed? Enslaved? Pregnant with his spawn? Brewing with blood madness? What protections for the public will she undo next?’”
“Theo said you got an offer from the Citadel.”
Audrey stiffened. “He had no right to tell you that. And it doesn’t matter, anyway. Theodore helped me instead.”
“That’s what you’re fishing for? You control my money, so I have to haul you around if I want what I’m owed?”
“No, why would you think . . .” Audrey rubbed her face. “No, of course not. You can tell me where you go and I can—”
“Still a leash, knowing where I am so you can tug my chain when you need something, huh?”
She surprised him then, surging around the counter, all five foot nothing, and poking him hard in the chest.
“No!” She poked him again, and he let her, staring down at her as she fumed up at him. “I would empty the account for you tomorrow if I could, and you’d never have to hear from me again if that’s what you wanted.” Her scent lanced again with unhappiness, and she backed away from him as if suddenly realizing how forward she’d been. “You don’t owe me anything. I just thought . . . I wanted . . .”
Audrey laughed then, a humorless exhale.
“You can’t get anywhere tonight. Look at my research, sleep here, and in the morning, we’ll go to the branch. Theodore can help you if you don’t trust me. We can have him write up a magical contract sealing my word that I’ll never ask you for anything if that’s what it takes for you to believe me.”
Audrey, the human who’d stood against Kushiel unflinching, offered him another flat smile before waving a hand at her pathetic kitchen. “Help yourself if you’re hungry. I’m tired. It’s been . . . it’s been a long day.”
She left him there in the kitchen, the linoleum creaking as he shifted his heels.
Nothing from her had been a lie, not since the moment he’d met her for the second time. Her desire to help him was as genuine as anything he’d ever tasted, along with her desire, for whatever fucking reason, to stay with him while she did.
Could her life be so bad she’d take her chances digging in the Sahara or facing down the Siberian wilds? It didn’t make a lick of sense, but the money didn’t matter to her.
Gunnar snatched the backpack, gathered up all the papers she’d worked so hard on, and retreated to the second room. Her door was shut. No sense letting her hard work go to waste. He knew it’d be thorough. Audrey didn’t do anything by halves, he’d learned.
They’d get him some funds in the morning and he’d be on his way. Alone, just like he always had been.
Best for everyone.