Page 179 of The Darkest Chase

It never would’ve happened without Talia.

All I have to do is report her as the person who tipped me off, leading to major arrests, and she’ll be rolling in money. Not as much as Xavier’s offer, but enough.

Enough to make sure she’s safe.

Enough to make sure she can save Gerald Grey.

I fish out my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I land on a name I haven’t looked at in over a year.

Jane Henway. My handler—the one I report to, the one who maintains my records and makes sure that anyone sniffing at my background doesn’t trip over the fact that I’m not a big-city cop who just decided to migrate to creepy Mayberry and live the easy life.

She always tells me I never call.

Usually, there’s no reason, and I’ve never liked the little reminders that I have so little to report on our check-ins.

I’ve got a hell of a lot to report now.

I tap Jane’s contact and call, the burn of the liquor turning my guts hot with determination.

It’s past time to kick things up a notch.

I’m going to make damned sure that even if Talia Grey regrets ever loving me, she’ll never want for anything again.

19

DARKNESS PRESENT (TALIA)

When I was thirteen years old, I had my first and only crush.

I never really spent much time around kids my own age.

I just saw them from a distance when I was allowed out for walks around the playground, dragging my oxygen tank behind me like that girl in Bates Motel—I know, I know, there are a few too many parallels in my life, from the creepy murder town to the naïve girl with the oxygen tank who falls for men who turn out to be trouble.

My first brush with trouble was Red Harrow.

His name wasn’t actually Red. I think it was Ryker, but everyone called him Red because his hair was an even louder crimson than mine. That’s what grabbed my attention and made me feel an instant kinship with him. I’d watch him from the bench where I sat with my little tank propped against my thigh, a book open in my lap, pretending to read a fantasy novel.

Actually, I was watching Red.

He was two years older. Fifteen.

Tall and lean and strong, and he’d come to the playground after school to play basketball with other boys his age. He had sun-tanned skin and freckled shoulders that showed in his loose jersey, his muscles flexing every time he jumped.

Even now, I don’t know if I really liked him.

I hardly knew him.

Was I just jealous with how gracefully he moved? With how he could break a sweat and get winded and run like mad for hours without dying?

How he could play and run. How effortless it was.

How he took it all for granted.

In my head, I dreamed he’d notice me and fall in love, and somehow his love would make me strong like him.

Vampirism again—go figure—only more like the Snow White kind where I’d borrow his strength from a kiss.

Even then, I wanted a hero to rescue me.

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