Page 135 of Awry

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I lean closer, close enough to feel the heat of him against my chilly toes.The ink etching over his heart is a rough rendering of an anatomical heart in which flowers and leaves spring forth from severed arteries and veins.It’s harsh, but beautiful.

A word that I assume is a name because it’s capitalized— a nickname, perhaps — is etched along the inside curve of the heart.‘Marrow.’It’s a memorial tattoo?What kind of name is Marrow?

Then the possible meaning hits me— innermost or essential part or core.

I actually jerk away.A hot wash of shame floods through my chest and up my neck and face as I realize I’m standing in the hall ogling a man who lost his soul-bound mate.

Pressing my cold hands to my shame-hot face, I slip down the hall and peer into the next bedroom.Presh is curled under a small hill of blankets, but she looks peaceful.Her life force is once again a vibrant multitude of glowing entwined threads.

DeVille is in the next room, closest to the stairs.He’s sprawled across the bed, quite literally, and snoring quietly.Healing patches are plastered to his chest, arms, and face.The one leg hanging out from under the bunched and crumpled bedding is fully wrapped and splinted.Because his beast hasn’t manifested yet, he can’t simply transform to help speed his healing.But just as a shifter, he’ll heal quickly enough.

I’m pleased he’s alive.

Even as I understand how truly I failed Kris.

With the way the knowing seemed … ambivalent about me dragging her with me, it’s doubly clear that the dire mage had already gotten hold of her.That sort of possession is tricky.It requires a massive amount of power, enough so that I presume an animal or human sacrifice was involved in the initial implanting.Then another sacrifice to power the takeover of Kris’s mind and body.

I close my eyes for a moment, forcing myself to just breathe.Gently and steadily.

I’ve never felt this uneducated, this ignorant in my life.

Coda can help with the dire mage.She’ll be easy to track with a name— Bellamy— and the knowledge that she has ties to the Cataclysm MC.

I ignore the two other bedrooms, fairly certain that Doc Z and Cayley are sleeping within.The conversation with Doc can wait.I presume she’s in the house to watch over DeVille, and maybe Cayley, Rought, and the others I can feel spread around the property.

My stomach growls.And it’s just easier for now to let that pure need-based activity — feeding myself — overtake all other lingering and pending concerns.

I turn back to the stairs— then narrow my eyes at Muta.The death god bushmaster has slithered into the hall behind me and is now intently studying Rought’s face, watching him sleep.From far too close.

I don’t speak because I’m concerned about waking the shifter.I am not up for any sort of exchange of words, let alone the multiple full conversations or possible arguments that are no doubt about to be foisted on me.Instead, I reach along the thread that binds Muta and me — a bond of choice, the energy flowing both ways, initiated by Muta in the moments before my mother’s death — and I give it a slight tug.

Ignoring me, he flicks his tongue at Rought’s nose, smelling him.Then he rears back and eyes the shifter’s neck and chest, as if actually considering curling up on him.I’m surprised.I can also imagine the wanton destruction that might occur should the shifter be suddenly woken by a massive snake looking to share body heat.

I tug the thread that binds me to Muta, then head down the stairs.

Muta slithers after me without further reticence, catching up quickly.Someone has helpfully laid logs in the fireplace in the open family room off the kitchen.I light the fire.Then I pull a large, low-lying velvet cushion out of the built-in cupboard beside the TV niche so Muta can curl up beside it.

I’m all the way into the kitchen, noting bananas in a bowl on the counter that I definitely didn’t buy, when I realize I have no idea how I knew that velvet cushion even existed, let alone where to retrieve it from.

My already hollow stomach grows leaden.

I flipthe last batch of oat-bran banana breakfast muffins out of the tin onto the cooling rack, wishing I had some fresh blueberries.I have no idea where the eggs, milk, or butter I found in the fridge came from, but I’ve put them to good use this morning.And yes, apparently it is morning, and I’ve slept only a few hours.

People have invaded my house— though for some reason, I don’t remotely mind.But they’re all going to wake hungry.I’ve already eaten three muffins from the first two batches myself.

I also have scalloped potatoes in the warming oven already.And I’m capable of scrambling eggs.That’s my cooking arsenal, though.When you live mostly in Vancouver, cooking isn’t a required skill.There’s literally a sushi place or an Indian diner or a Greek restaurant on every corner, each just as good as the next.So I do one kind of muffins, with or without blueberries.Anything to do with potatoes — because forget ambrosia, potatoes are the actual food of life.And scrambled eggs.Not boiled eggs, not fried, and certainly nothing resembling an omelet.

Oh, and ice cream.

Not content with a flickering fire and a velvet cushion, Muta is now lounging across the top of the stove, enjoying the heat radiating up from the oven.I quickly flip all the muffins upright on the cooling rack, singeing my fingers in the process— even as a quiet musical trill draws my attention to a small desk built into the dark-wood wall unit that runs from the kitchen eating area into the family room.A landline used to be plugged into the wall on that desk, but now it holds only my phone and an empty antique vase.

I’m not certain when I last saw my phone.Presumably, I left it in the truck, and someone plugged it in for me.The screen flashes with a text message, and for once, I don’t immediately decide to ignore it.Because only Coda and Gigi can make my perpetually silenced phone trill or flash.

I cross to pick up the phone.Beyond the kitchen window, the remnants of a morning fog — natural, thankfully — has mostly dissipated under a partially cloudy sky, but it still clings lightly to the trunks of the few winter-bare trees nearest the house, including a massive, thick-limbed oak.

The text reads:

>We’re an hour out.We need somewhere to hook up the trailer, but unlike the technocrat, I’d appreciate an actual bedroom and a hot shower.