Trial by Thrall (Trial #2) Page 11

  The deaths of my predecessors accelerated at some point ten centuries ago, and it doesn’t appear to have anything to do with our natural lifespans. We started getting whacked more often. It’s yet another mystery whose significance I can’t possibly decipher without additional information.

  A pang of heartache hits me as I study my father’s name. Beside it is my mother’s, and the place to list his death is blank. It’s a reminder of the oath I took to myself, the one that’s fallen to second priority as I try to navigate the trials.

  I put the Book aside and pull out the iPad I keep stashed in my backpack. The footage from the night at the bar, when my father died, is on this iPad, along with every bit of information I could find out about that night.

  It’s not much. In fact, I didn’t even know the names of those who went to the bar with him until my trials began.

  I pop the video open and tap it to play. The grainy footage from a security camera across the street shows my father entering ahead of the three supernaturals. I watch the same thirty seconds over and over, scouring every inch of the scene, pausing to zoom in and even staring at the faces of Ben and Tristan to convince myself they were really involved in this.

  Since meeting them, it’s so hard for me to believe they were. Or more accurately, it’s impossible for me to believe they’d kill my defenseless father in cold blood. Neither Ben nor Tristan, each of whom has a dark streak, is the kind of man who would murder a man just to kill him.

  Ben admitted to killing my great-great grandfather because his father believed the Kingmakers knew how to cure the wolves. This is a reason I understand. Even so, he did so unwillingly, claiming to have drawn the short straw. And Tristan, who can feel someone die, doesn’t strike me as the kind who can kill without mercy or cause.

  Either one of them is lying, or this leaves the vampire. It’s always possible he did it, though I find it hard to believe he would go third in the trials knowing I would know it was him by the time I got to him.

  I’m missing something. My instincts are whispering, and I can almost feel the emotions of those on the video with my fae empathy. The more I focus, though, the harder it is to grasp and define those feelings, and I’m left where I’ve been for over a month.

  Four men go in.

  Three come out.

  Four in.

  Three out.

  Four.

  Three.

  It’s the same thing, over and over.

  “There has to be something here.” I wipe my face.

  I keep watching, and my eyes fall to my father’s face. He was difficult to read in person, gruff, calm and quiet. He rarely left the house, and whenever I was home, he was in the study. He had no life, no friends, no apparent interest in the world outside his office. I alone saw his softer side, his smile, and he showed both to me frequently.

  I’m learning I really didn’t know him as well as I thought. Maybe he went out to bars every night when I was at college, or maybe he was the neighborhood drug dealer before my high school friend. It’s impossible for me to learn the truth, because he was too private for anyone but him to know.

  In the grainy footage, he’s dressed as he often did in a sports jacket and jeans. His dark hair is short cropped, his beard trimmed and neat, and his features stoic to the point of bored. Tristan follows several feet behind him, Ben second and the vampire third.

  The footage the police gave me has a time gap, because they said no one else entered or left the bar during that time. It plays for twenty seconds then skips to ten minutes later, when the three candidates file out in the same order and walk down the street. They don’t talk to or look at one another. Each goes his separate way at the nearest intersection before they disappear from the camera’s view.

  I loop the video and set the tablet beside me on the couch, leaning my head back as I watch it.

  Four in, three out.

  Why was my father at the bar in the first place? According to his letters, he knew this was the day he was going to die. I doubt my reclusive father would be going for a drink his final night alive. It’s even more bizarre to consider he went because this was where he chose to die – and with the three candidates?

  Four in, three out.

  God, this is maddening.

  And then I do something I haven’t done before. I look at their feet. It’s too blurry to see their shoes, and I’m trying to remember which pair of shoes Daddy was buried in when I notice it.

  Four men.

  Five shadows.

  “No way.” I grab the iPad and watch the loop again and again and again.

  The shadow is unmistakable. Someone else was in the space between my father and Tristan. This is important, even if I can’t see who it was, even if it looks like no one was there at all. I obtained this footage directly from the police, the human police, who have no need to hide the presence of a supernatural who doesn’t want to be on camera. Either the original footage was tampered with before the cops got it, or …

  What clan can become invisible?

  Snatching my phone, I break my moratorium on not texting Ben and send him and Tristan the same message.

  Who else was with you at the bar when my father died? I know there was a fourth supernatural.

  My hands shake as I set the phone down. The presence of a fourth predator that night feels like the most important discovery since the Book began talking to me, and also like a distraction to take my mind away from the fact I don’t want my father’s murderer to be Ben or Tristan.

  No one responds within the first five minutes, and I start to pace, replaying the footage with the hope of seeing something else new.

  The doorbell chimes, and I pause mid-pace. Tristan said nothing about visitors, just that I shouldn’t leave the apartment. Tossing the iPad on the couch, I answer the door. A tall fae with a shy smile stands in the hallway.

  “Hi, Leslie. I’m Conor, Tristan’s personal assistant.” He holds out his hand.

  “Hey,” I say. My focus is split between him and the urge to dive for the phone I left on the couch, should I hear it vibrate with either Ben or Tristan’s response. “What’s up?”

  “Tristan sent me to bring you downstairs.”

  “Downstairs … to a meeting?” I look down at myself. I brought jeans and sweatshirts, not dressier clothing, since I knew I’d be exiled from their headquarters. “I’m not really dressed for anything business-y.”

  “Not a meeting. To the treatment center.”

  “Oh.” I study him. “I thought he didn’t want me down there.”

  “There’s been a … situation.”

  “He’s not hurt is he?” I ask.

  “No, no. But someone he cares about is,” Conor replies. “He sent me to get you.”

  I hate that I’m mentally leaping at the idea of saving more fae-bies while also acknowledging something seems off about this. Tristan was clear about me not going near the treatment center, and if something bad happened where he wanted me there, I think he’d tell me himself.

  “Okay,” I say after a pause. “Let me get my shoes.” I close the door before Conor can object and stare at the door, uncertain why he wants me down in the nursery when his leader has forbidden it.

  This feels … icky. I can’t really explain the instinct except that it makes my skin crawl and my insides twist. But, there’s an easy solution. I stay locked in Tristan’s apartment and call him to verify.

  This is my plan, until I turn around and see the two fae – a man and woman – standing inside the balcony door. Normal people have to worry about bugs flying in if they leave the windows open. With fae, apparently there’s always the chance someone shows up unexpected in your home if you leave the windows open.

  My eyes drop to the phone on the couch, which is closer to them than me.

  The two exchange an uneasy look with one another, as if they’re just as weirded out right now as I am.

  “So … hello.” I break the awkward silence first.

  �
�You’re the Kingmaker?” the man asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “And it’s true what they say? You can heal our children?” the woman seconds.

  Uh oh. I’m starting to piece things together. I clear my throat. “Yes, but –”

  “You are a godsend,” she whispers. “Life is sacred among the fae, to save one is the ultimate gift. To take one incurs the ultimate curse, a penalty so terrible, it eats the soul of anyone who commits such a sin.”

  They’re looking at me with a combination of admiration and resentment.

  “Okay. That’s interesting.” I glance towards the kitchen and Tristan’s knife block. “Why don’t I call Tristan so we can all sit down and talk?”

  “Please know that we do not wish to harm you, and we ask your forgiveness in advance for any pain we cause,” the man adds. It’s then I see the knife in his hand.

  This is definitely not good. Their shared pain is faint, like that of the babies when I’m close enough to feel them.

  But … I understand. I don’t need to pick up on their pain in order to know where they’re coming from. The idea of leaving the babies in the nursery to die kills me.

  “Look, you don’t have to do anything you might regret,” I say carefully. “If you want me to heal more babies, I will. You don’t have to force me. I’ll go with you.”

  “It’s not that easy,” the man says.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Dylan. This is my mate, Aoife.”

  “Nice to meet you, Dylan, Aoife.” I force a smile. “Let’s all go downstairs together. I’m completely okay with it.”

  Dylan is gripping the knife hard enough for his knuckles to turn white, and Aoife’s expression is torn between regret and determination.

  “Open the door,” she directs me quietly.

  “We’re in agreement? No stabbing needed?” I ask, eyes on Dylan.

  “No stabbing,” Aoife says and rests a hand on her husband’s forearm. “Please open the door.”

  I’m not at all reassured by her calm response or the idea of letting in a third person who wants to drag me to the basement. With no other options, I do as she says and open the door to Conor.

  He offers a nervous smile at the couple on the opposite side of the room.

  I’ve had my share of dealing with shady people, from boyfriends to drug dealers to the kind of people you only meet at underground drug parties and raves, to Ben’s former lover, who tried very hard to kill me. My experience, and the expressions on their faces – worry, determination and fear – are enough to tell me these three aren’t criminals. I sense wild hope among them, an unwillingness to hurt me, and absolute desperation. It makes me feel like I’m being kidnapped by a group of twelve year olds who want me to take them to an R-rated movie and don’t know how to ask.

  These are good people in a bad situation.

  “I’ll go with you,” I repeat. “You have to know that Tristan will feel anything you do to me, no matter how far apart we are. We’re fully bonded for this week. You don’t need to use violence.”

  Aoife and Dylan look ready to nod, and Conor clears his throat.

  “We, uh, understand the trials,” he says. “That’s why …” he lifts his hand, “I’m here. My gift is to numb pain. You won’t feel anything they do to you.” His explanation is almost apologetic.

  “Great. Thanks for the thoughtfulness.” Is my attempt to remain calm fooling anyone? I’m two seconds from screaming. “You have to know the danger in going down this road, in defying Tristan. This is totally your decision. I won’t resist. But if you want to walk away now, I promise not to tell him anything about this.”

  “That’s not an option,” Aoife replies with a glance at her husband. “Our daughter is dying.”

  “If it costs us our lives to save hers, we’ll do it,” Dylan states firmly.

  I agree with them. I agree with Tristan. There is no right answer and no matter what, someone gets hurt. Right now, that someone appears to be me, if I don’t cooperate.

  “Well, let’s go!” I say somewhat cheerfully. “Lead the way, Conor.”

  He nods and steps into the hallway. The couple is soon crowded behind me, and I can sense their anxiety. I’m hoping this is the worst it gets, that we go down, heal their baby and they set me free. It’s almost a relief to be forced to defy Tristan, for the choice to save someone to be out of my hands.

  We get into the elevator, and Conor swipes his badge. “Sub-basement five.”

  I really hope they have a second nursery or hid their baby away from the main pediatrics ward, so they don’t get caught. I’m trying to convince myself this adventure will be a quick jaunt and easy deed, until the elevator door opens and I see the bold words stenciled on the wall across the hall from us.

  Morgue

  It’s never a good sign when someone takes you to a morgue. I follow Conor, uncertain what else to do and not convinced they’re going to hurt me when all they want is to save their baby. Dylan has put his knife away. I can always run, though I won’t be able to leave this floor without a badge.

  Before I have a chance to create an escape plan, Conor disappears into a room marked Autopsies. Cold fear bolts through me, and I stop in the doorway.

  So maybe this isn’t just about one baby.

  Five people are inside this room, and none of them are babies. An operating table is prepped and clean with a very, very long tray of medical tools beside it. All five of the people before me are in scrubs, waiting.

  What the … is that a bone saw?

  I step backwards into the hall, starting to panic.

  “Wait, please!” Aoife pleads, blocking my path. She takes my arms, her eyes pleading. “Our goal isn’t to save one child. It’s to save them all! Our people hold certain immunities to diseases, immunities that are found in our blood, tissue and bone marrow. We all donate some of each once in our lives to help the research for a cure and to help cure humans of their ailments. All we plan on doing is taking samples from you.”

  I’m pretty sure they don’t need a butcher knife that size for a blood draw. I can’t say anything, though, because I’m staring at the surgical tools in complete disbelief.

  “Nothing will hurt,” Conor adds, stepping towards me. “I swear it.”

  “She’s a Kingmaker. Her family is the reason the Community suffers. What does it matter if we hurt her?” mumbles one of the others in a surgical gown. All five are wearing masks, making it impossible for me to identify them.

  “Quiet,” another orders the disgruntled man. “Our way is to cause no harm, Ms. Kingmaker, even if we are upset with your family.”

  “I get it,” I say.

  “Why does a Kingmaker rate such a gift?” another complains with wistfulness. “Why not one of us who loves and cares for each child’s life before it’s stolen from us?”

  “Please,” Aoife pleads again. Tears are in her eyes, and I recall how Tristan said every fae couple can only have one child.

  Their pain is … incredible. I feel it, its intensity, and how it binds them all into a state of resignation and despair. I hate that I can relate to them, that I understand that sometimes, good people are pushed to do bad things for what they believe to be good causes.

  I should be running and instead, I’m commiserating with strangers who want to chop me up. This has got to be mainly fae magic that’s keeping me here, because the person I was last week would be halfway to Mexico by now. Unless part of the desperation I sense in the room is my own, after learning what I have from the Book of the curse and the lives I might be forced to condemn.

  Maybe I need this as much as they do, and maybe my gift as a Kingmaker is to cause chaos everywhere I go, because I’m damned good at it.

  “Okay,” I whisper to Aoife. “Okay.”

  Relief floods her features, and she releases me to hug her husband.

  I step into the room.

  The group breathes a collective sigh of relief, as if none of them wants to hav
e forced me. They’ve probably already signed their death warrants. I don’t know what Tristan does to people who disobey him, but I have a feeling he’s going to crack down hard on them after all his talk about maintaining order.

  “Promise it won’t hurt,” I say to Conor.

  “I promise.” His smile is warm, if troubled.

  I approach the surgical table on wooden legs. My heart is racing so hard, my pulse is deafening, and I’m trembling.

  Their pain holds me captive. It’s the pain of thousands of desperate parents who only want their children to live. This is either the bravest or stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Either way, I’m about to do it.

  “Strip out of your clothing and put this on,” a nurse directs me and hands me a paper gown. “Aoife, Dylan, you need to wait outside.” He shoos the couple out, while Conor is given a mask and surgical gown.

  I do as he says and take off my clothes with shaking hands. It’s too late to turn back now and I’m trying to understand if I would, given the chance. I don’t like upsetting Tristan, and I also don’t want people to die.

  I lie down on the cold, metal autopsy table and try not to think about how many dead bodies have been there before me. My question about how the fae cure diseases has been answered, and apparently, I’m about to take one step closer towards integrating with their society.

  “What sports team is this?” one of the masked surgeons reaches for the amulet around my neck.

  “Raiders,” Conor answers. “It’s their old logo.”

  I make a mental note that the amulet, too, is shielded by some sort of magic.

  “Doesn’t matter. Manmade material will interfere with your ability.”

  Conor nods and lifts it over my head. “I’ll hang onto it for you and give it back when this is over.”

  Or bury me with it, if something goes wrong with their plan? I have no idea what the damn amulet does, because it doesn’t do what I was told it should. The Book claims I’m a shape shifter, which makes me think the vampire who gave me the amulet was lying about its true purpose.

  It’s not really the time to think about the stupid charm anyway let alone argue to keep it with me. Straps are tightened around my ankles and wrists, and I swallow hard and stare at the ceiling.