Chapter 2
Nelle
Graysen and I stepped aside as two mechanics headed out of the garage.
They gave me a wary glance before bowing, then greeted Graysen with easy smiles, trading quick pleasantries.
After wiping away the grease coating their fingers, they stuffed the dirty rags into the back pocket of their overalls and disappeared down the corridor. Then it was just the two of us.
An underlying smell of grease and gasoline washed around me as I followed Graysen into the garage.
The enormous space was clean and orderly, the quiet hum of overhead lights amplified by its sheer size.
Luxurious black Mercedes-Benz limousines were parked beside silver Bugattis and gleaming white Maseratis, along with the muscle cars the brothers favored—Ford Mustangs and Dodge Challengers—all customized with a post-apocalyptic edge, their matte-black bodies fitted with superchargers and additional funnels.
Graysen left my side and moved to a row of utilitarian lockers beside open metal shelves stacked with car-care products, oil canisters, and shammy cloths.
The locker creaked as he opened it, and he ducked down to pull out a canvas bag and a slouchy burlap sack.
But it was the shovel that made my eyebrows rise when he slung the long wooden handle over his shoulder and hurried to catch up with me.
“What’s with the shovel?” I asked as we threaded our way through the garage.
“Roadkill.”
“You’re collecting roadkill?”
“It would seem so,” he said, offering nothing more.
The slap of my annoying ballet flats on the smooth concrete was overly loud as I quickened my pace to keep abreast of Graysen’s leggy stride.
We passed an area set up like a mechanic’s shop, and my gaze roamed over the car hoisted on the lift, engine parts and tools splayed across a workshop table in organized chaos.
I assumed this was where Graysen spent most of his sleepless nights tinkering with his latest project.
I was about to ask him about it when something else snagged my attention.
Strangely, among all the millions of dollars’ worth of vehicles, was a small, boxy car, as bright red as a sun-ripened tomato. It was a hatchback, and old, judging by the look of it. “Are we taking your clown car today?” I cheekily asked, gesturing toward it.
He cut a surprised glance to where I pointed. To my astonishment, his gaze flashed, not with amusement, but with a bit of fire and hurt. “That’s my mother’s Honda City,” he replied gruffly, his posture stiffening.
“Oh.” Shame instantly burned my cheeks, and I anxiously twined my fingers together as we walked by the little car. “I’m sorry for being so rude.”
His eyes softened when they met mine. “You weren’t to know.
It was her first car, and she’s rather sentimental about it.
She saved for years to buy it, and despite all this,” he waved a hand at the rows of expensive sports cars, “she still prefers to drive it as her runabout. Economical with mileage, she likes to point out.” He smiled, though a touch of melancholy lingered.
“I look after it for her. Keep it running.”
“That’s really nice of you.” I glanced away, wincing at how lame it sounded.
He shrugged. “Yeah, well, I have plenty of time.”
Graysen turned inward, and I followed him to a Mustang. He opened the passenger door, and a curl of air unfurled from inside, rich with that unmistakable brand-new-car scent. I drew an exaggerated breath. “New?”
He huffed a laugh. “I needed a replacement. My last Mustang got blown to pieces and turned into scrap metal.”
I couldn’t stop the smug smirk. Despite everything before and after, it had felt glorious spinning his car up into the sky with a brace of wild wind before obliterating it with wyrmfire.
Graysen strode to the back of the vehicle, popping open the trunk.
I was about to climb into the passenger seat when something peculiar caught my eye—a cracked piece of plastic.
A taillight, I realized, torn clean off a motorcycle.
And there was more. A scrap of leather, shards of a broken mirror, the edge of a wheel jutting past the Mustang.
All of it completely out of place in a garage this immaculate.
I couldn’t imagine Graysen nor the servants leaving anything strewn haphazardly to litter the floor.
Curiosity spiked, and I hurried toward the mess.
A row of parked Ducatis stood near Graysen’s Mustang, but the one directly behind the car lay tipped on its side.
Its wheels were buckled, scratch marks marred the black paintwork, and gruesome dents gouged the metal body.
Sections of the fairing had cracked away entirely, exposing twisted wiring and the warped frame beneath.
It looked as if it had been smashed, dragged across the floor, and rammed until it was a mangled mess of metal, rubber, and plastic.
“What happened to that bike?” I breathed, my eyes wide.
Graysen casually dropped the shovel and bags into the trunk before glancing at the twisted remains of the Ducati. “Oh, Jett’s?” He slammed the trunk down. “I went for a drive last night, and I didn’t see it when I was backing in.”
“Really?” I drawled, squinting at the brightly glowing commercial lights. Graysen also possessed night vision, so I called bullshit on him mistakenly not seeing his younger brother’s bike.
“I might not have seen it a couple of times,” he added, rocking back on his heels and rubbing his fingertips under his chin, trying hard not to grin.
“Passive aggressive much?”
He pinched his thumb and forefinger together. “Just a little.”
I propped a hand on my hip, giving him a long, considering look.
He’d obviously had anger issues to burn through last night.
“Was that after you found out what Jett did yesterday?” Graysen had sent Sage down the escape tunnel to find me, so it made sense that he’d discovered what his younger brother had done earlier—hunting me down with a malicious game of cat and mouse.
He nodded, jaw tightening as his lashes lowered over eyes gone dark with a violent surge of emotion before he shuttered it away.
The same emotion punched through my veins in a flash of heat.
I lurched forward and kicked the broken taillight, sending it skittering across the concrete to strike a metal locker. Jett Crowther was a fucking asshole.
Graysen’s deep voice rolled through the space between us. “Feel better?”
“A little bit,” I replied, pinching my forefinger and thumb together like he’d just done.
He grinned, patting the rear spoiler of his car. “Come on, there’s a Horned God we need to find.”
I hastened to the front passenger door, ducking into the car and wriggling about on the plush leather seat until I got comfortable. The moment I settled, I kicked the gods-awful shoes off and curled my toes into the soft mat, sighing in contentment.
Graysen slid into the driver’s seat, leaning over to help me with the seatbelt.
Once behind the wheel, he unhooked the Wayfarers from his shirt and slipped them on.
With a quick press of the ignition, the car roared to life, and he wrapped his hand around the gearshift.
Then, with a booted foot, he gunned the Mustang, the throaty growl of the engine filling the cabin and sending a thrill racing through me.
The harnessed power vibrated beneath my seat, eager to be unleashed.
Graysen drove us out of the garage, punching a couple of buttons so our windows rolled down.
Blistering sunlight poured across the Mustang’s hood, catching on the warped funnels and the exposed upper edge of the supercharger in a harsh metallic glare.
We merged into the middle of a chain of black Escalades awaiting our arrival, and as the convoy rolled out of the Keep, we rattled over the drawbridge where bushy white flowers crowded thickly beneath it.
The floral ditch circled the fortress like a modern moat, its pale petals echoing the tangled ivy and wild roses climbing the Keep’s brutal walls.
I sank back into my seat, relaxing as Graysen quickly shifted through the gears and the convoy picked up speed along the driveway.
Then, with a jolt of startlement, I latched a hand on the open window and leaned out.
Wind tore at my hair, whipping it about.
There was something I hadn’t noticed when I’d first arrived at the Crowthers.
Not that I’d had any time nor desire to admire the estate’s landscape when his family surrounded me, fighting to bring down my wyrm with harpoons.
“What is that?” I pointed to the tall, circular structure near the Keep.
Graysen glanced over, following my line of sight. “That’s the rookery for our Birds of Prey.”
My eyes widened.
Birds of Prey.
They were otherworldly creatures, not-quite-alive like Sage, able to swift through the wraith void.
They dreamed in the space between realms and hunted the dying, or rather, those fated for unnatural ends.
The Birds were foreseers of the murdered, at least that’s what I’d learned about them from old texts.
I twisted around in my seat to keep the rookery in view as we drove by.
It wasn’t like my mother’s wrought-iron aviary with the silver birches and fluttering bird life.
Old stone, with cracked and eroded white-gray blocks, formed this one.
Bigger, too—several stories high, with dark openings ringing the crumbling top.
I could almost imagine climbing the inner steps, leaning out of one of those narrow windows to gaze across the horizon at the forest and rolling hills beyond.
As for the Birds of Prey themselves, with their humanoid features… I’d read about them, but I’d never come face-to-face with one.
And then the rookery vanished behind us as we entered a copse of trees, plunging into somber green as the thick canopy swallowed the sun.
A moment later we burst into brilliant sunlight on the far side, and as I settled inside the car again, I raked my fingers through my wind-tangled hair.
The lane wound through a vast field toward the imposing gatehouse, an ominous crackling rising from the twin monoliths that loomed like giants reaching into the sky.
It would seem that the Crowthers had righted the monoliths after I’d tried smashing them down.
After I razed the greenery with wyrmfire and cracked the earth with violent quakes, the field had been tended to and smoothed over.
Now, the first green shoots of a new lawn softened the battle-scarred earth.
A loud grinding noise competed with the car’s engine as we slowed down.
The massive adamere gate rolled beneath the ground, and the iron gates opened up, with the secondary fence of magic warping the air surrounding it and emitting a low hum.
I nervously gripped the edge of the seat as we cruised through the open gates.
Graysen’s voice was pitched low and concerned. “Relax.”
Despite his words, I still feared the collar encircling my throat would cinch too tight. And…
…nothing.
I blew out a pent-up breath and sagged into my seat.
Graysen leaned over and opened the glove box, rummaging around before tossing me a spare pair of sunglasses.
Clasping the gold-rimmed Aviators, I popped them on, even though they were too big for me.
It was nice to sit back with the sunlight dimmed into a tinted shade and poke my hand through the open car window with the rush of air buffeting my palm and freedom spinning through my fingers.
Graysen didn’t put his foot down to lose the shadows like he’d done a few weeks ago when we’d run off to Ascendria together.
We traveled fast, faster than the speed limit, but this time we were in a four-deep convoy of our own, with several Escalades ahead and behind.
I assumed the vehicles were all loaded with guards and weapons.
“Being a little over the top with security,” I commented. With Zrenyth’s magic collaring me, I couldn’t exactly run away.
Graysen rapped his thumb on the leather-bound steering wheel before replying, “Orders from my older brother. It’s not so much about you, but more about this Barbie Doll Ken friend of yours.”
I blinked. “You think he might try to steal me from you?”
“Maybe.”
The sultry breeze blustering into the car tossed stray strands of hair across my forehead, and as I brushed them aside to tuck the locks behind an ear, an odd thought crossed my mind. Did Silas Boon want to save me, or did he have a more sinister agenda?
I glanced at Graysen flicking through his music, finally deciding on an old remake with a gritty thumping bass and western twang to it.
He caught me staring and beamed back. In that moment he looked so boyish and unguarded that a strange sensation, like delicate wings fluttering, erupted inside my chest. Last night he’d given me something I desperately needed.
As our bodies molded around each other, he pieced me back together again.
He’d been right. I didn’t need anyone else to save me. I was going to save myself.