Page 36 of Thorns from the Fall

I’m more pissed off that Gwyn put a hole in Remy’s jacket than I am about the wound.

“I’m surprised you haven’t gone in by yourself,” Margot says when I approach. She’s wearing a pair of Nico’s pants and a giant hoodie that almost goes down to her knees. Hair up with no makeup on, she was probably already in bed when I called.

“The wards,” I say, gesturing as the building fades away once more. I keep the real reason to myself. Sure, the ward failing and magic being fucked up isn’t ideal, but I’m scared to go in by myself because I’m not sure what I’ll find. I’d expected to have to work my ass off to get him back. I’d expected to have to kill an original vampire, strangle Gwyn, and barely survive getting to this point.

And before that, I’d thought he was dead.

This is a shock to my fucking system. Every moment spent looking for him, researching who might have hurt him, and then allowing myself to be torn to shreds by a woman I thought I loved—has led to this moment.

And I’m scared that the Remy I find won’t be dissimilar to the man who’d been on the brink of death the last time I’d dragged him to the compound. When Margot passed Gwyn’s warning along to me, a flashback had slammed against the back of my eyelids with force, and I didn’t want to handle it alone. Despite having a vampire body, quick to heal, demon blood doesn’t behave like other substances. Remy had reacted like a human coming off of opioids. His pain had been pure enough to make him sick, and I’d cleaned up so much vomit.

I dealt with his addiction and depression by myself the last time, and it hadn’t done anyone any favors, but this time, I appreciate the value of friendship.

Or a paid assistant. Whatever.

“It’s nearly faded; just come on,” Margot says, reaching out a hand past where I stand on the border of the ward.

One step up, then two, and it feels like ice is being dumped on my head as I step through. Soon, the ward will be gone along with Hale’s magic.

I hope he kills Gwyn for it. I’m sure he won’t, but I count on him hating her.

It doesn’t matter that she didn’t make the choice to change him, but she’s the reason Hale is here in Chicago. She’s the reason my uncle wanted to attack and she’s the reason he’s dead.

Gwyn deserves every bit of fury tossed in her direction.

“Which unit is it?” Margot asks, and I check my phone. She’s opening the door for me, holding it with a look on her face like I’m inconveniencing her.

“D,” I say, and she’s marching up the stairs before I put my phone back into my pocket.

“He’s probably asleep,” I say, considering it’s late and what else is there to do but sleep when you’re being held captive? Gwyn barely did anything but sleep when I kept her locked away in the compound.

“Ah, you’re right. Maybe we should wait until morning,” Margot says as she reaches the landing and turns to go up another flight of stairs.

“You think?”

“No, you dumbass. You’ve been waiting for this moment forever. Since before he disappeared. Why put it off because he’s asleep? He can sleep at the greystone. Hell, he could go back to the compound and sleep there since your father is dead.”

“Yeah,” I mumble, not bothering to respond with a biting remark. I wish there wasn’t an aching pit in my stomach, uncertainty mixing with fear.

“It’s this one,” Margot says, stopping in front of the door marked with a crooked letter ‘D.’ There’s a doormat on the ground that makes me do a double-take. It’s one of those brown fiber ones, featuring a cat wearing a cowboy hat printed on it. A speech bubble drifts over its head with the word ‘meowdy’ inside.

My eyes narrow on the offending pun rug, and I step directly onto the cat’s face. There’s no resistance when I turn the doorknob, giving Margot a curious look because it isn’t locked.

“There was probably another ward here,” she whispers.

I open the door to find an empty apartment. The moonlight streams in, illuminating the bare floor in a long, narrow living room. There’s no furniture to be seen. Turning, I make my way into a kitchen without a stove.

Did they remove it because of his mental state?

Pulling open a drawer, I don’t find any utensils, and I’m curious how the fuck they’ve been keeping him fed. Margot opens the refrigerator and immediately closes it.

“It’s full of Gwyn’s blood,” she says, and the waft of air from the refrigerator shutting confirms what she’s said. My brother is sworn to her—which is the only reason she’s letting me take him now.

I poke a finger into the trash can, pushing the swinging lid inward, and all I see are those microwavable plastic soup containers that you can drink straight from. Has he been living on soup and blood only?

For over a year, my brother had been kept away from me, with nothing but the bitch’s blood and fucking Campbell’s chicken noodle soup.

Past the kitchen is a hallway, and I realize there are no doors on any of the rooms. The bathroom is missing its mirrors as I walk past it, and I begrudgingly appreciate the precautions that have been taken with my brother. It doesn’t matter though, because maybe, if she hadn’t fucking kept him locked away, he wouldn’t be suicidal to begin with.

---