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Braxton wraps one arm around my back while laying his other hand against my chest. “Asha,” he says, “Asha, look at me. Look at me. Feel my hand against your chest. My hand is the weight, nothing else. Okay? Now, lift it with your lungs. Ready? Deep breath.” I lock onto his eyes, which hold me in their supportive embrace. My lungs inflate and the hand rises, lifting with my bosom. Braxton lessens its pressure, as though pulling off the invisible weight. “Good, good,” he praises. “Release.” I let the air stream through my pursed lips. “That’s very good. Now with your next breath you’re going to lift my hand right off your chest. Ready?” He nods and I mirror him. Through flared nostrils, he pulls a long intake of breath from the air and I follow suit. As my chest inflates, the pressure of his hand steadily relents until he removes it entirely and I feel the burden lift with it.
I can breathe.
Trouble’s curled up beside me and the sensation of his soft fur pricks my consciousness. The world comes back into view. Panic peels away to reveal the night and the rooftop and the three concerned men gathered around me. “You good?” Braxton asks.
Am I? My heart is racing. I feel sweaty, but I’m not caught in the darkness. Or consumed by my thoughts.
I nod. “Yes.”
“Good.”
“That was impressive,” Orson comments, smiling at me as he tucks my hair behind my ear.
“Little trick I picked up while overseas,” says Braxton, rising back onto his feet. He offers his hand and lifts me off the ground. “Anxiety’s a real killer. Gnaws at your senses, makes you vulnerable. You need a quick way out when you’re in the shit.”
“Could’ve used that technique in prison.”
Really? I glance at Orson, then back at Braxton. Knowing they understand this helps a little. It makes me feel less… alone. Less broken.
“Thanks, Braxton,” I say, grabbing his hand and squeezing it, still trying to get my heartbeat to return to normal.
He smiles back at me. “Don’t mention it.”
With the immediate concern allayed, the boys turn their attention to the grotesque scene arranged for us on the rooftop. Orson steps into the circle and crouches to examine the bodies more closely. His curiosity is undaunted by the macabre. “Three days old,” he says.
And it’s strange the way they’re able to look at this through logical eyes, as a scene they have to investigate, and not like a person, seeing other people dead. I need to be like them. I need to find whatever door inside of me I can’t seem to close, and close it so tightly it can never get out again.
Braxton looks on dubiously. “Three days? How do you know? Did they offer forensics courses in the slammer?”
“Rough guess,” says Orson. He taps his nose. “Mostly based on smell. I don’t pick up any rot, which I read once happens after three days. Pair that with the satellite imaging of magical decay, and that squeezes your window into a certain timeframe. Roughly seventy-two hours ago.” He rises again and reviews the grim message from his towering height. “I don’t suppose there’s any doubt as to who this was meant for.”
Who? I wish I could laugh, but nothing about this is funny. Instead, I grimace. “No.”
He turns to me. “Your brother knows we continue our pursuit. Knowledge of which precludes the element of surprise.”
“Which means?”
Orson looks uneasy. “Well, surprise would be preferable, especially against such a powerful foe.”
“He knows we’re coming for him, so he should be feeling pretty cocky about his control on this situation, but this tells me otherwise,” Braxton says. “The only reason he’d waste his time with something like this is because he’s trying to throw us off our game. It might mean he’s afraid.”
Orson looks unconvinced, which is how I feel about it, too. Whatever Simon is now, I don’t think fear exists in his new constitution.
“Asha,” says Orson with a very direct tone. “This soiree he’s invited you to. The one he intends to make a bloodbath. Do you suppose that bloodbath exempts your Blood Pack, or would his violence be indiscriminate?” He steps over the bodies to approach me, his two-tone eyes gazing intently into my own. “I know you’re not inside his head, but you seem to still possess some sort of connection. Do you think you could say with any degree of confidence which case it is?”
I search my heart for the answer. I want to believe whatever’s left of Simon would prevent him from slaughtering his own packmates. But I also know that I can’t blind myself anymore with hope. One way or another, I fail to predict his behavior. I simply don’t know what this new Simon will do, or whether a shred of my brother remains to protect his kith and kin.
“Honestly? I don’t know. I just don’t.”
Orson looks thoughtful. “So, you have no instinct, one way or another, if during the Blood Mage party, Simon will just kill everyone, including the innocent?”
No. I don’t. I wish I did, but I don’t.
Orson reads the uncertainty and frustration on my face. “Why don’t we send the Enforcers in first, liberate the Blood Pack, neutralize the Blood Mages, then leave Simon to us?” He looks between the brothers for approval. “Doesn’t that sound better than facing two threats simultaneously while protecting hostages at the same time? We could set a trap. With a little advance preparation, we could?—”
“It’s not going to work that way,” says Max. I turn back and see his face has darkened. A touch of hangdog slumps his features. I already know before he says it. The Enforcers have been nothing if not a disappointment. “I’ve run a similar idea past my superiors. The variables are too great, Carl says. We don’t have a count on Blood Mages, the site hasn’t been mapped, it’s too difficult to formulate a tactical strike.”
“But it’s plenty safe to send in the expendable unit,” Braxton scoffs, his handsome face twisted in anger.
