Page 1 of Heimlock

1

Three Days After The Weyr Reunion

If one could win an award for epic pity parties, I’d be a gold medalist right now. My acceptance speech would be something along the lines of, “ Another award? It’s a nightmare-come-true. I’d like to thank all of the terrible people who brought me here!”

Alas, it’s a pity party of one, kept in the confines of my shuttered bedroom. No audience to witness the way I curl into these wrinkled sheets. The shower’s calling my name like a siren song, but the energy won’t appear. Dozens of missed calls and texts plague my phone’s screen. They’ll want to know if I’m okay. When I admit the truth, that I’m decidedly not okay, they’ll want to come over.

No, I’d much prefer to stew in my regret all alone.

My father shouldn’t have been at the Weyr reunion. It was for the whole extended family to spend time together, but he was an outcast, exiled years ago.

I’d paid for letting my guard down.

My first time seeing him in almost two decades should have been the last time he breathed. Fynn stopped me, and I let him, but a stronger man would’ve overthrown him and ripped flesh from bone. Would sleep come easier if Racidious Gleanscale didn’t walk this world?

One day, I’d like to find out.

My stomach growls again. I turn over to stare at the wall, refusing to obey. The pain is a physical reminder of what festers behind my shiny mask. Since I can’t crack my ribs apart to bare my blackened heart as proof, this is the best I can do.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

My eyes bolt open, adrenaline pulsing in my veins at the pounding on my front door.

“Trinte! Open up! It’s me, Kyrielle!”

Fuck.

Why in the Hells is she even here? If I scream for her to go away, will she listen?

She must be psychic because she snarls, “I’m not leaving until I get proof of life!”

Well, that answers my question. Groaning, I sit up. Reality swims in my vision from ‌lack of food. When was the last time I ate? Yesterday?

Grabbing a T-shirt off the floor, I pull it on. The front door’s knob jiggles. “Trinte! I’ll burn down this front door, I swear to the goddesses!”

“Okay!” My voice echoes across the apartment. The jiggling stops. Snatching a random pair of pants from a wrinkled pile of laundry, I pull them on while I hop toward Kyrielle’s impatient voice.

“That’s not proof of life, Trinte! Open up right—”

I fling the door open, hissing at the bright light. Holding a hand over my brow, I blink at the orange dreamsicle standing in front of me.

Kyrielle peers at me with fireburst eyes, tangerine hair, and a ball of fire ready in a palm. Her iridescent orange wings flick impatiently. The expression contorting her face is nothing short of fierce. It’s difficult to hide my shock at her random appearance, but a miniscule part of my heart thumps with appreciation.

But we aren’t friends. Sure, we’ve texted to coordinate things for Fynn and Orliana. Yes, we hooked up once months ago. None of that warrants this unexpected appearance.

“I’m alive,” I say dryly. “Satisfied?”

“No.”

Extinguishing the fire in her palm, she shoves past me before my tired brain can register what’s happening. The door slams into my leg. Swearing, I clutch my knee while shutting it.

The blazing tornado of a woman plants orange tipped hands on her thick hips and peers around my less-than-clean apartment.

With a flourish of my hand, I snark, “Yes. Please. Come in. Make yourself at home.”

Seeing my space with new eyes, shame has my shoulders bowed forward. Kyrielle takes in the random bits of laundry and trash on the floor. Plates in the sink. Curtains pulled tight.

Like I said, this pity party is one for the ages.