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Looking between the two of them, I notice the flush on Grace’s pale cheeks as Blair’s gaze lands on her. I don’t want to go home yet, but the meddling romantic in me can’t resist the opportunity to encourage whatever is simmering between them. “I should get home. Be responsible, seeing that I have to work tomorrow. You two have fun!”
A hint of disappointment flashes across Grace’s face, but it morphs back into a shy smile when Blair replies, “Oh, we will.”
I say my goodbyes to my friends and get a surprising number of compliments as I make my way out of the venue. Guess my friends weren’t lying about my performance.
Carrying the praise and post-performance adrenaline to my car, as I start the engine, a reckless thought fills my mind. Why didn’t Max reply to me? If he ever cared for me, he should’ve at least had the courtesy to let me down after I poured my heart out to him. He doesn’t get to pretend like I don’t exist. Fuck that. I need him to tell me he doesn’t want me if I’m ever going to move on.
My flaring temper leads the way as I drive, taking me to Max’s house instead of back to my apartment. On the way, I rehearse an inflamed, passionate speech, but when I pull up to his place, the house is dark and his car isn’t in the driveway.
What the hell?
So not only did he not show up to my performance after I begged him to, but he’s out doing something else? Somewhere in my mind—the part that houses logic and not my temper—I know I have no right to get angry at him. That doesn’t keep the curses from spilling from my lips as I drive home.
The anger fades by the time I’m parked, replaced by a yawning hole in my chest where my love for Max resides. When I get inside my apartment, I strip myself truly bare—removing the makeup, brushing out my hair, showering, and slipping into bed. I check my phone, then decide that has to be the last time I look for something from Max—I need to move on and stop torturing myself. He doesn’t want me anymore.
I delete all his voicemails, then our conversation history. I know I should delete his number too, so I avoid being tempted to reach out again in a few days. But I don’t. As determined to move on as I am right now, I still can’t let go of that last kernel of hope.
I’ll delete his number in the morning. Maybe.
41
Of all the ways I imagined I’d die, perishing from an improperly treated stab wound while tied up in a musty closet wasn’t on the list. Shot by a philanderer I exposed or cursed by a powerful monster for sticking my nose in their business, sure. But here I am, surrounded by moth-eaten sweaters, as I try to focus through the gnawing pain in my side.
I guess I should back up a bit.
When Kelly called me on Saturday afternoon—which feels like a lifetime ago—she was frantic. Apparently, after I gave her the evidence about her wife’s lie and affair, she asked for a divorce, but Lydia refused to sign the papers. She went over to the house they used to share every day, begging for Kelly to take her back and apologizing for her deception. That is, until Friday night, when Lydia called Kelly instead of visiting, and told her she’d found a way to make things right and would show her in the morning.
But Lydia never showed up the next morning. Kelly was convinced something was seriously wrong. As I spoke to her and heard her panicked crying as she asked me to help her find Lydia, a sense of dread seeped into my veins. All I wanted to do was message Mona back, but I couldn’t ignore the foreboding urgency inside me telling me that if I didn’t help Kelly, something horrible would happen. So I put off replying to Mona and set out to find Lydia.
I went to her old workplace, restaurants I’d seen her frequent, and even Nightlight, but she wasn’t at any of those places. Of course she wasn’t. She was at the one place I’ve desperately tried to stay away from—that cozy apartment building on Poppy Lane.
The sun had set and steady rain poured from the sky as I arrived at the place where everything started. Storm clouds rumbled not too far in the distance, adding to the ominous tension suffusing my body.
All the spots in front of building 600 were taken, so I had to park a street over. My pulse pounded as I approached the building, and my eyes reflexively checked Mona’s windows. The warm light inside me made me ache with the need to see her. But securing Lydia’s safety had to come first.
Turns out, you shouldn’t try to rush through breaking into someone’s apartment. I was sloppy. Too eager to get this over with, so I could go to the apartment upstairs and hold Mona in my arms again. Desperate to kiss away all of her apologies and start anew. I didn’t take the time to check for wards as I picked the lock on the door to 613. Didn’t take the handful of minutes needed to shroud myself in a proper obfuscation cloak. And I certainly didn’t expect for that fucker to come at me with a knife when he sensed me breaking in.
So here I am, bound and gagged in that asshole’s closet. He shoved a bandage against the stab wound in my side and thank the gods he missed anything vital, but the wound hasn’t fully closed. My magic makes me sturdier than humans, but even a monster like me can only lose so much blood before it kills them. I’m cold and shaky, and the more time that passes, the harder keeping my eyes open gets.
* * *
“Stop crying!”A cruel, reedy voice hisses out a curse, the sound jostling me back to consciousness. Shit, how long have I been out?
“P-please just l-let me go!” a soft voice whimpers between heaving sobs.Lydia.
“Why would I do that? You said you’d do anything if I helped fix things with your wife.Anything.”
A sharp cry of pain rings out from the room outside the closet and I strain futilely against the bonds. Gods dammit! The bastard is hurting her and I’m stuck in here. I curse my lack of any spells that I could use to free myself. Hide myself or find hidden things, sure. But free myself or aid the helpless woman in pain, no. Shit!
The sick bastard growls in delight as Lydia whimpers. “Mmm, your anguish tastes so good. How could you think I’d let you go after tasting this again?”
“We made a deal…you can’t…” Her words slur together in pain.
The man lets out a cruel laugh. “We did. My end—fixing things with your wife—is satisfied by getting you out of her life. Stupid bitch, you really think she’d ever want you back after your lies? It’s better this way—for both of you.”
“N-no…” Lydia trails off into a choked sound of despair.
“That’s it. Perfect.” He moans and I hear the rustle of movement outside the closet door. I close my eyes and pretend to be unconscious just as the door swings open. “Hmm, now what am I going to do with my intruder?” he muses to himself. I sense him crouching next to me and bite back a gasp of pain as he shoves two fingers against the wound on my side, then draws them away. “He tastes good, too. Almost as much despair as you, sweet Lydia,” he calls out.Did this monster just taste my blood?
