32. Nat
32
Nat
while on the hunt
I surge forward, heart racing, panic in my blood, ready to shove organs back into their spots and yank together the patchwork of Sin’s lovely skin.
But I’m alone.
In my bed. The sheets are bright and clean.
The bedazzled tongue stares at me from its place on the wall.
There’s a storm in my ears, a sickness turning in my gut. Slowly, sweat rolling down my back, I transfer my attention to the bathroom door.
Shut.
Dread drains into my veins like oil painting the wings of a bird. My lungs constrict around nothing, empty.
Have I done it? Have I killed him? Did I rip him to pieces, stand, wash my blade in the sink and discreetly click the door closed behind me before diving into bed in a dreamy thrall?
Stupid question.
I know better than to look.
Know what’s exactly behind the door. What manic thrall Natasa does to males she loves.
Loved .
New tremors crack down my chest, my throat swells, iron tipped wasps nest in my stomach.
Quietly, I set bare feet onto the carpet and race for the hall, haunted by images of a broken neck and red shimmery blood spilling onto towels monogrammed with our name. I scratch at my throat, realize my hoodie’s gone and I’m left in a blue ribbed tank top. I probably took it off when it got dirty. Bloody.
No. No. No .
I close the door behind me. Cringing at the creak in the hinge.
This can’t be happening.
Again.
Once is a tragedy, twice is a pattern.
I stumble through the halls, tripping over seams in the floors, knocking frames from hooks, hands slipping on drywall, vision unfocused. The walls close in and darken, and I stagger into the too bright kitchen, search the counters. Self-hate keeps the sobs from pushing between my lips.
“Uh, hey Nat,” a voice calls out to me. Drake. My mouth runs dry, eyes growing numb to the sting of tears. Before killing him can cross my mind, Drake speaks again. “Forks are outside already. Come with me.”
Why? For some sick and twisted confession? “No.”
Voices float inside from the yard, and I have three kitchen knives in my hands, another on deck, bare feet finding center to fight when Sin enters through the sliders with a carafe of berry colored punch in his hand.
It feels like I’m sucked into a black hole. Lungs collapsing in, vision plunging into darkness. A brittle, curling gasp parts my lips.
My stomach twists.
There’s not a scratch on him. He’s grinning and swaggering, and healthier than I’ve seen him. Full blown warrior in black fighting leathers, knife belt fully loaded. He’s even cut his hair.
I can’t breathe, piecing it together. He’s alive.
“Just in time, darling.” Sin sets the carafe down and smoothly takes the knives from me, one by one by one, not questioning my punishing grip. I feel the smooth brush of his lips against my palm before he lets go of me. “We’re having a dinner party.”
And then his hands are on my lower back, gently nudging, and I’m tumbling foot over foot into the night.
I have the distinct impression that he’s smiling at me. My vision is blurred, the back of my eyes burn. I struggle to take everything in.
Humid evening air swallows my skin, a rumble of thunder shakes hastily strung yellow lights. The plump moon is high in the sky, casting silver light throughout the trees, coating them in white gold. The massive oak dining table that previously resided in the house spans my dirt pit. Food and candles flood the top, and surrounding it, half standing, half sitting are the Blackguard.
Back ramrod straight, Atlas heads the table, a spot made for him, dressed in a decadent tailored navy suit to match his eyes, hair tucked back over pointed ears.
On his left, Lev’s broad shoulders shake with mirth as he tilts back a flagon of ale, amber droplets splashing into his thick beard. The flickering candlelight plays across his weathered features. He too seems so at ease that I can scarcely reconcile this male with the throbbing black aura nestled around him.
Luke’s booming laugh startles me from my inspection, and Meda, the lone female of the guard, claps her hands triumphantly, shouting for a top off.
“That’s me,” Sin whispers to my ear, gracing me another kiss, before rushing to fill Meda’s cup with his pitcher.
For nearly a full minute, I watch in silence, toes gripping the dirt.
Is this a dream?
Then, in a voice so gentle, it barely reaches me, Rune says, “Sit by me. I won’t bite.”
I glance at the blonde seated nearest to me, napkin hung over a wide thigh, bulging muscle tucked into a peach polo, green eyes the shade of fresh poplar.
The black tattoo of the curse makes a rash of his neck, red and splotchy. And of the Blackguard, other than the mortal, he has the lightest aura. A nearly friendly black. Almost dark gray. Until someone says something about Rune and biting , a joke, and the color dives into pitch black, undulates furiously around him. Laughs rise. Rune doesn’t smile, nor does he push me. Attention returning to his watch, flipping through apps.
If I had my wits, I’d ask.
Instead I turn. Next to Rune, Drake sits in his usual gray Henley, gloved fingers tapping against his plate. Quiet, watching.
Clearly unwelcome, Zeke wedges a stool between Meda and Luke. There’s a shout, and more laughter pours out. The sleeves of Zeke’s shirt are sliced so far in, long, scraggly scars running up and down his ribs are visible when he nabs a slice of bread and domes it on Luke.
No one gasps or points. As if it’s commonplace for an immortal to bear such marks. As if he isn’t an anomaly, as if he hasn’t known true horror.
Still out of it, I sit next to Rune, feet dangling in the pit.
The party lives across the table.
Rune, Drake and I exist in a different world. I wonder what horrible things they’re running from.
The leather on Drake’s gloves whines as they clench. Guess I don’t have to wonder what haunts the executioner.
I sit awkwardly and let my mind run, cobbling together answers. Red blood. I’d dreamt of red blood. But Sin’s blood is silver with a sprig of pink.
Had I imagined it all?
Somewhat relieved, I watch the Blackguard laugh, and push and shove. A pang hits my chest. It feels like I’m watching a tape of me and my sisters talking shit around the fire.
I can’t to look away. How effortlessly they get along, creatures from every realm. Mortals, heroes, Demigods. Chire.
Each slicked in a black aura.
Sin catches sight of me staring, drops his hip to rest on the table beside Atlas, folds his arms at me, and grins. Cocky.
It’s a shot to the temple. Lethal. This across the room flirting, the scrape of his stare over me, the little flashes he directs to me between conversations, as if the only important conversation is happening silently between me and him.
Zeke unfurls an ivory, flowery parasol and earns a few curses from Meda and others as he rests it on his shoulder, the feathery edge tickling Luke’s cheek.
His defense is, “Selene was looking at me.”
The Goddess of the Moon.
There’s a pregnant pause where I think everyone’s about to laugh and call him ridiculous. But then his irises turn milky white, and Zeke’s head snaps to me. “You’ve seen a ghost.”
Everything quiets.
Close to me, Drake asks, “Bad dream?”
I let out a shaky breath. Just a dream. None of it was real. Sin is alive, Drake is alive, I’m alive. No blood on my hands, no bodies to hide. The dark urges were just a nightmare.
“Messy,” I offer, aware of the eyes glued to me.
Drake nods, sliding strawberries onto my plate. “Fresh air helps,” he offers in a hushed tone. Luke severs the quiet, recalling the first time Meda had Cinnabon. The phrase creaming her pants sends a flush fanning across the thief’s cheeks.
A hand curves around my elbow, and I quickly pivot to block it. Sin dodges smoothly, smiling as he tucks hair behind my ear. “I thought you would want to sit by me.”
“Uh …”
“Let me guess, you wouldn’t sit at my side even if I were a three-headed dog with good breath.”
His smile feels like the sun. Too bright, too warm, too pure. “Sin …”
“I have a solution.” He sets a chair beside mine, arm to arm, and proceeds to dig the four legs into the earth so that it’s three inches lower than mine. “I’ll sit by you.”
He drapes himself into the plastic chair like nothing’s wrong, like this is normal and we dine together each night. As if I belong. He looks at me and I realize we’re eye to eye.
Exactly how he likes it.
I clear my throat. “You cut your hair.”
It’s completely shorn, trimmed to a white blonde buzz, accentuating his features, making him look like a true son of Ares.
Sin unfolds his arm over the back of my chair, knuckles brushing my shoulder, casual, as if touching me is second nature. “Yes, well, when you have the equivalent of four hundred cups of coffee, you re-evaluate your hair.”
“Most people just get bangs,” Meda interjects, slathering butter on toast. “You went full razor crazy.”
“He did try to kill himself,” Lev points out.
“Accidentally,” Sin argues. Huffy. Teasing as he massages away the tension in my neck. “I was being fucking valiant.”
“What is this dinner then, some sort of midlife crisis?” Luke asks around a mouthful of cheese, dimple appearing in his cheek. “I’m not buying you a Hummer.”
“If this is midlife, I’ll outlive all you fuckers and you should be nicer to me so I don’t roast you at your own funerals.”
“Fucking hell.” Luke groans. “I’m writing you all speeches and if you go off script …”
“You’ll what?” Meda arches a pierced black brow. “Turn into worm food faster?” She snorts into her plate. “Mortals.”
“That’s funny, huh?” Luke taunts. “Maybe I’ll have Nat beat all of you to death first, as you rightly deserve.”
Another spill of laughter.
I’ve had enough. Enough of Sin caressing me. Of Drake smiling. Of Atlas’s fatherly gaze.
I stand, take Sin’s stupid half empty carafe and slam it into my chair. Glass shatters and I wield the biggest shard in my hand like a weapon, sticky red juice gliding down my fingers.
“Someone tell me what’s going on or I will gut each of you on this table like it’s Apollo’s fucking altar.”