Wildblood

Chapter 11

11

Miya

“Got your keys?” Miya asked as she wrestled with the front door. The wooden slab sat wonkily in the frame, and she yanked it to force the latch into place.

Kai fished his keys from his pocket and dangled them off his middle finger.

Miya rolled her eyes, then made for the stairs. “You’re the one who always forgets them.”

He’d been quiet all morning, the vestiges of last night clinging to him like a sticky film. They’d woken up in each other’s arms, limbs tangled and hearts heavy, neither saying a word until restlessness whittled away their inertia. Miya wanted to talk about what’d happened—what she’d seen in his nightmare—but Kai had sealed it away by sunrise. He’d stonewalled her.

He smiled wryly. “Left a note on the door to remind myself.”

“I appreciate you not having to break into our apartment every other day.”

Kai tsk ed half-heartedly. “I could pick the lock with my eyes closed, Lambchop.”

“I prefer the notes.”

He’d mentioned an ADHD diagnosis from childhood, though it’d fallen by the wayside amid everything else. After Alice found him bloodied and injured in the woods, he barely spoke—refused to talk about what’d happened. Uninterested in other kids, he spent most of his time alone, distrustful of others. Post-traumatic stress disorder seemed the obvious culprit. But when his teachers complained of inattentiveness and months of homework piling up, ADHD was added to his file. Alice drove him from Granite Falls to Seattle every week for therapy despite barely scrounging up the gas money. Defiant to the end, his progress stalled out, and after puberty hit, the therapist tacked on conduct disorder. Apparently, the institution lost sympathy when he didn’t grow out of his trauma by his teens.

The labels racked up like my one-night stands , he’d told her the first time they’d talked about it.

The longer Miya lived with him, the more his behavior made sense, from his constant thrill-seeking to his tendency to zone out and litter the apartment with empty candy wrappers. When life was an unyielding bid for survival, he operated on pure animal instinct, but the need to blend into society—to be a part of it—exposed how differently he functioned. It also made his line of work more palatable for her; he couldn’t endure ordinary employment even if he had the paperwork to make it possible.

Noticing her withdraw, Kai gave her a sidelong glance. “Lambchop…”

“If you’re going to act like everything’s fine, then so will I.”

He deflated like a party balloon. His arms came around her waist at the bottom of the stairs, and he hauled her close. “I don’t know how to talk about it.”

Miya slackened in his hold. He was telling the truth. “You’ll have to figure out how to talk about it eventually. If you don’t, it’ll only get worse.”

To that he tightened his grip, his fingers threading gently through her hair. He’d always been like this—preferring touch to words. All those sharp edges, tempered by his capacity for affection. She relished the raw intimacy they shared, but it wasn’t enough. Ivan Zverev had clearly rattled Kai, but until he was ready to talk, she could only resent his silence.

Miya reluctantly peeled herself away. “I’m meeting Crowbar at the King of Spades.”

Kai dropped his arms and nodded. “I’ll be at the Confessional.”

“Say hi to Connor for me?”

“Yeah, will do.”

A smile ghosted his lips as Miya turned to leave, shadows clinging to the tired lines of his face. Sorrow gathered there, waiting for him to take notice.

Miya tore a piece of garlic bread from the loaf and offered it to the domovoy. He greedily snatched it up and stuffed it down his gullet. Behind her, Bastien carried boxes of produce into the kitchen, yelling for Crowbar to stop dawdling and help him.

“Chill, man, I was fridging the eggs,” she griped as she passed him on her way out.

“Still got bottles to bring in,” he called over his shoulder, disappearing through the double doors. He was utterly hulking, his head nearly grazing the top of the frame.

Crowbar scoffed and stomped outside, then brought in the last of the boxes. As she unpacked the bottles behind the bar, Bastien joined her. He tossed his bleached dreadlocks over his shoulder and wiped his brow, his dark skin beaded with moisture.

“I’ve got some new recipes for the kitchen,” he said excitedly. “Crab cakes with a southern flare, my custom blend mac and cheese, fried catfish, cheesy grits, cornbread, black eyed peas with ham hock and rice?—”

“Easy, man, we don’t have the funds for a menu that size,” Crowbar dashed his hopes. “Pick three entrees and a few bar snacks, all right?”

Bastien made a high-pitched wail that had no right coming out of a man that big. “Fine. I’ll stick with the crab cakes and the mac. Fried pickles and hush puppies for the bar.”

The domovoy glanced up, his greasy little paws clutching Miya’s last offering of garlic bread. He licked his nose, eager for Bastien’s newest concoction. It was a pity no one could see him; of everyone who frequented the bar, the domovoy appreciated Bastien’s cooking the most. Kai lived off it whenever he caught the Louisiana chef puttering around, but he was rarely as animated as their little house spirit.

Crowbar nodded. “Maybe some nachos for the basic bros and a fried chicken bucket for the potheads.”

The domovoy smacked his lips, and Miya grinned. “You’ll have at least one customer.”

“Your angry arm candy with a black hole of a stomach?” Crowbar shot Miya a warning glower. Bastien was terrified of spirits, courtesy of his upbringing in the deep south where he oscillated between Louisiana and Georgia. His aunt was a Manbo, and between her tutelage and a community of fiercely devout Baptists, Bastien’s respect for the supernatural teetered on fear. Christianity had done a number on him, and his aunt’s world was dark and deep enough to instill a fretful reverence for the unseen.

Miya had no idea if Vodou spirits were anything like Slavic ones, but she figured they didn’t quibble over national boundaries the way humans did. Ideas migrated like storm clouds, and no culture was insulated from their influence.

“Uh, yeah,” Miya feigned. “Kai adores your food. He’d eat a leather shoe if you cooked it.”

She didn’t mention that the haint blue ceiling had little effect on the domovoy. Of course, it wouldn’t; he wasn’t a haint, but a docile guardian of the home. At least, while they kept him well-fed.

“Tell him to stop by. I need someone to sample the goods before they go live.” Bastien gave Crowbar a hearty slap on the back. “All right, gal, I’ll be back tomorrow when this place opens. You two have fun.”

Crowbar groaned at the mention of fun . The King of Spades was closed on Mondays, which meant they usually spent it on housekeeping. She and Miya would burn the day unpacking stock, re-vamping the décor, and experimenting with different table layouts. Not that they had many tables.

“There’s no rush,” Miya reminded her as Bastien gathered his things and headed out. “We can take breaks.”

“How about a break before we begin?” Crowbar proposed once Bastien was out the door. “I’ve got a new cocktail for our special menu, and you look like you could use a drink—mornings be damned.”

Miya pouted at the callout. She gave the domovoy’s furry cat ears a scritch, then headed for the stools. “Do I really look that glum?”

“You look tired,” Crowbar clarified. “But now that I know you’re glum, what’s eating you?”

Grumbling at the giveaway, Miya climbed onto one of the stools. “I’m worried about Kai.”

“Uh oh.” Crowbar grabbed the white rum and St-Germaine from the shelf and flipped it in her hand. “Is he getting into more trouble than he should?”

“Not exactly…” she trailed off, watching her friend collect a lemon, Angostura bitters, soda water, purple luster dust, and a bundle of herbs. “What is that?”

Crowbar pulled apart the mint. “Hang on, I need the dry ice.”

“Sounds fancy…”

The bartender’s eye sparked with glee as she measured out the ingredients. “I call it the Dreamwalker. Purple, sweet, but not without some herbal bite and a dry ice smoke show.”

Miya felt her heart swell in her chest. “You named a drink after me?”

“Come on, girl. You’re a badass. I mean, I had to ask Kai for some of the details about your whole witchy getup. Can’t say he’s too good at giving descriptions, so if you’ve got any alterations you’d like to make?—”

“No, no, it’s perfect.”

“I know you like mint, so I found a way to include it.” Garnishing the glass with the sage sprig, Crowbar pushed her violet concoction across the bar, the milky vapors wafting from the glass and cascading over the rim like an ethereal fog.

Miya took a careful sip. “Holy shit—that’s amazing.”

Crowbar crossed her arms over her chest, puffing with pride. “It’s going on the menu. Now”—she got to wiping off the counter—“what’s up with our prizefighter? Did he lose or something?”

Miya’s shoulders slumped as she let out a long sigh. “Actually, yes…”

Crowbar dropped her cloth. “I’m sorry, what?”

Miya chewed on her lip, then took a generous gulp of her namesake cocktail. She relayed what Kai had told her, sparing no detail about his run-in with Ivan Zverev. Crowbar was so stunned that she pulled up a stool, her jaw slack as she stared at Miya, bug-eyed.

“His match with Zverev shook him up—reminded him of a past he has no access to,” said Miya.

Crowbar leaned back. “Well, fuck.”

“And there’s nothing I can do. He’s gone for the day, probably hiding at Connor’s. I mean, he told me he didn’t know how to talk about it.” Another hefty gulp.

“He’s a cis dude.” Crowbar waved a hand. “Asking him to unpack his shit is like trying to get a gaggle of murderous geese to cross the road faster.”

Miya nodded, thumbing at the condensation on her glass. “Life’s taught him that anger and spite keep you alive. I love his resilience, but trauma doesn’t just go away. It’s with you forever.”

Crowbar’s gaze drifted to her knees as she picked at the loose threads of her torn jeans. “He lost his parents pretty young, yeah?”

“When he was ten. He still treats it like some distant event he has no connection to. Doesn’t help that Alice died of lung cancer when he was sixteen.” Miya smiled softly. “He really loved her, and I think watching the life seep out of her really messed him up.”

“Twice orphaned.” Crowbar plopped her cheek into her hand. “Think he’d go to therapy?”

Miya shifted on her stool. “Alice took him when he was a kid, but it was mandatory. He doesn’t deny the diagnoses, though it took him a while to admit he’s still struggling with PTSD. I’m not sure he’d go without a fight.”

Crowbar hummed. “It’s a tough pill to swallow when you’re a rambunctious punk who can’t go ten minutes without picking a fight. Must’ve made him feel helpless.”

“Yeah,” Miya acknowledged. “Not his style.”

“Well, I hope you can get him into therapy. Sounds like he could use it.”

“Me too.” She sighed wistfully, then snickered after a lull. “Can you imagine Kai in a therapist’s office?”

They blinked at each other, then burst into giggles.

“He’d glare a hole right through the shrink’s skull,” Crowbar gasped.

“And she’d tell him to use his words!”

“I’m sensing some tension right now,” Crowbar feigned with rote compassion and a stiff spine.

Tears stung Miya’s eyes. “He’d have an aneurism.”

“Good thing he heals fast.”

Cursing loudly, Miya choked on her drink, hacking as the rum burned her throat. The front doors burst open then, and she half expected an eerie fog to waft into the King of Spades as Ama’s perfect silhouette parted the morning glow. She raised her arm and shook a paper bag that dangled from her hand. “I come bearing gifts.”

Crowbar’s eyes lit up. “Are those?—”

“Beignets…a little taste of home.” Ama grinned, pleased with herself.

Crowbar leapt over the counter and threw her arms around Ama, then landed half a dozen kisses over the white wolf’s face. “I’ve been begging Bastien to make me some of these, but he’s been so preoccupied with his menu.”

Ama lathered up the attention, playfully whisking the pastry bag out of Crowbar’s reach every time she tried to snatch it. “Who needs Bastien when you have me?” She caught the bartender’s lips, then surrendered the beignets.

From the corner of her eye, Miya caught Gavran swoop down onto a lamppost outside. He pecked at the window in greeting, and she smiled tenderly and waved in return.

“Anything interesting happen today?” Crowbar asked as she shoved a beignet into her mouth, the tip of her nose stained with powdered sugar.

“No, not really,” said Ama. “But there was this scrumptious-looking man at the patisserie…”

Crowbar’s cheeks puffed like a chipmunk’s as she chewed on her treat. “Stop tormenting me with your bisexual whiles, you vixen.”

Ama wrapped an arm around Crowbar’s waist and nuzzled her cheek. “Please, Dahlia, men aren’t worth the trouble.”

They both shot Miya a pitying look, their lips pursed as they held back their titters.

“Hey, I have no complaints,” Miya protested.

“Liar,” Crowbar accused, and Miya’s mouth hung open in affront.

“Well, you already know my verdict.” Ama threw Miya a pointed look. “Attractive but insufferable.”

Crowbar tutted. “I think he’s a good egg. Definitely easy on the eyes, though.”

Miya and Ama’s eyebrows shot up as they stared incredulously at the barkeep.

“What?” She shrugged. “I’m gay, not blind.”

“Nobody tell him,” Ama warned, pointing a stern figure at each of them.

A chorus of mirthful laughter erupted throughout bar, warming Miya’s bones. She loved Crowbar and Ama. They’d become family—sisters as much as they were friends.

“As if he needs to be told,” Crowbar guffawed. “You just don’t want to give him ammo in your endless dick-waving contest.”

“It wouldn’t kill you to be nice to him sometimes.” Miya nudged Ama’s shoulder.

The white wolf narrowed her eyes. “It’s not like he’s very nice.”

“I know this might come as a shock”—Crowbar mockingly squeezed her girlfriend’s hand—“but he responds quite well to sincerity.”

“Sure, once you get past six feet of snark and fragile masculinity.”

Whistling in surprise, Crowbar cast Miya an expectant stare.

Miya flung her hands up. “I’m biased. You defend him.”

Crowbar cleared her throat and turned back to Ama. “I’ve seen worse.”

“Oh, good,” Ama deadpanned.

Miya smiled ruefully, her finger tracing invisible patterns on the bar top. “He’s working on it.”

Crowbar reached for the tequila and poured them each a shot, then raised her glass in a toast. “To my favorite women in the whole world, and that hot guy who’s working on it.”

Miya winced as the liquor burned down her throat. Neither Ama nor Crowbar bothered with the citrus or the salt, so she toughed it out, swallowing until the bitter taste faded.

Ama’s bright amber eyes snagged Miya’s half-finished drink on the counter. “How’s that new cocktail menu going?”

Crowbar slammed her shot glass down and grinned. “Almost finished”—she winked—“and I’ve finally hammered out the drink named after my beloved: the White Wolf.”

Ama’s perfect mask of breezy indifference finally cracked as a glimmer of excitement crossed her features. “What’s in it?”

“It’s basically a birthday cake in a cup, specially brewed to suit your sweet tooth.” Crowbar fired off the ingredients, counting them on her fingers. “Kahlúa Salted Caramel, vodka, and heavy cream shaken together, then topped with whipped cream, caramel sauce, and sprinkles.”

“Jesus, you’re perfect,” Ama cooed adoringly. “Make me one?”

Crowbar reached for the vodka. “Anything for you, pups.”

Miya privately wondered how Kai would react to being called pups and suppressed a cackle. His disdain for domesticated animals was legendary, and while he seemed to maintain a begrudging respect for the occasional feral cat, dogs topped his list of man-made blunders.

Sitting shoulder to shoulder, Miya and Ama busied themselves with drinks that looked far too pretty for consumption. Crowbar sat across from them, her arms folded on the bar top as she scrutinized their reactions.

“So, we’re out of leads for Caelan?” Ama asked as she spooned the whipped cream from her drink.

Miya nodded. “I have an idea, though.”

“Go on…”

“Anyone who’s been touched by the dreamscape leaves a trace in the physical realm.” The bukavac had confessed to seeing a girl who fit Caelan’s description pass through the dreamscape and into the waking world. “If we swipe a personal item from Caelan’s home, I might be able to track her.”

“How does that work, exactly?” asked Crowbar.

“The object is like an anchor,” Miya explained. “If I plug into it while I dreamwalk, I might be able to pick up on something, like an energetic trace. It’s not an exact science; sometimes I get images, memories, but usually, they lead somewhere. Hopefully, we’ll find a clue to Caelan’s whereabouts.”

Ama nodded, taking a hefty slurp of her liquid birthday cake. “A solid plan. How do we get into her home?”

Miya drummed her nails against her glass. “We can talk to her parents. Make up a story about how we’re investigating teen disappearances and?—”

“Or we can just break in while they’re out and grab something from the girl’s bedroom,” Ama interjected with a casual shrug.

Crowbar snorted but offered no alternative, leaving Miya to fend for herself. “I guess…as long as we don’t get caught.” She frowned. “Too bad Kai isn’t here. He’s perfect for breaking laws.”

Ama scoffed, downed the rest of her drink, and flipped her hair over her shoulder as she stood. “Please, Miya. I can break laws too, and I’ll look twice as good while doing it.