Page 14 of Snag
I look down the hall to meet Doc Z’s gaze, ready for her questions and condemnation. She blinks back tears, shakes her head, and drops her eyes.
Beside Doc, Precious rasps, “At the salon. The dire mage took Kris to get to me. Get me away from the pack house protections.”
Still seated at the base of the stairs, DeVille pivots to look over his shoulder down the hall. His spine stiffens, shoulders squaring.
Next to Presh, Doc Z’s face crumples. “At the salon? But … when Cay and I were there? But who … we would have scented dire essence … we should have …” She presses a shaking hand over her mouth, to contain a sob, maybe? To try to weather the realization that she could have intervened if —
“Maybe if you weren’t so worried about getting in my brother’s pants,” Precious spews viciously. “And gossiping about shit you shouldn’t be talking about in public, you would have!”
Doc Z actually stumbles back from the young awry, hitting her shoulder against the kitchen doorframe.
All of Precious’s sudden anger drains from her. Sheburies her face in her hands and sobs — the force of her grief racking her small, blanket-swathed form.
DeVille heaves to his feet, hobbling, then using the open edges of the stairwell risers and the walls to get to Presh.
Doc Z reaches the sobbing teen first, pulling Precious against her chest and holding onto her tightly. Tears silently roll down her own cheeks.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Precious whispers, voice muffled against her hands still covering her face.
Reaching the two of them, DeVille wraps himself around Presh from the other side. The trio hold each other for a moment, just navigating their combined grief.
When Precious finally drops her hands from her face, resting her head on Doc Z’s shoulder to look down the hall toward me, I meet her gaze steadily.
Unvoiced promises pass between her and me, threading through and along the tie that instantly bound us together in the bathroom of the Choices Cafe only three days ago. I had never felt a connection snap into place like that to anyone before.
And now I know thewhy, don’t I? I’ve seen the foundations of our soul-deep connection in black and white, in the photographs lining the walls of the suite’s second bedroom.
Precious is a blood sibling to the three people who were my soul-bound mates. Whoaremy soul-bound mates?
“Breakfast?” I ask, shoving away all the confusing thoughts and the ramifications of those revelations unfolding all around me. Food and more sleep will make navigating all of that, all of this, easier.
Presh nods, just once. “Breakfast.”
Doc Z releases the young awry, running her hands over her own face to brush away the streaks of tears. “I squeezedus some orange juice.” She heads back into the kitchen without another word, her back stiff, fingers curled.
“You’re suffocating me, Andy,” Presh grouses, complaining.
DeVille — who Presh insists on calling Andy just to piss him off — huffs and releases her as well.
But he doesn’t move more than a step away, still holding onto the wall, then the countertops, to support himself as I join them, and we cross into the kitchen together.
TWO
I slip awayfrom the eating area off the kitchen, leaving Gigi to not-so-subtly interrogate the others in attendance— aka gathering ammunition— as Cayley and Rath cook up another round of breakfast for everyone. Or maybe it’s now an early lunch?
The kitsune shifter took off after Coda and Gigi arrived, only to reappear with enough groceries to feed a small army. Which isn’t an inaccurate assessment of the power gathered around the overly full breakfast table. The eggs, milk, and butter I found in the fridge earlier — presumably also thanks to Cayley — were apparently only enough to make muffins, scalloped potatoes, and feed the bottomless pit DeVille calls a stomach.
Gigi took one look at Cay — the patch-decorated leather jacket, the skintight black jeans, and the perfectly manicured maroon nails — and decided they were destined to be friends. Gigi doesn’t have friends. She has responsibilities, of which I assume I’m one, but I’m honestly not sure the combat mage even likes Coda. But Cay’s answeringsmiles are just as sharp edged, so I have no doubt the two will find a level just below outright mayhem and maiming.
Neither Rought nor Coda have yet made an appearance in the main house.
As I cross into the mudroom for boots and the back door, Rath’s gaze is heavy on me. I have no doubt he wants to discuss Mack’s photographs. But between that expectation and the smell of frying bacon, I need to focus elsewhere, on something actionable.
The dire mage.
Also, what the fuck happened to my Aunt Disa? And why the fuck whatever sheknewwas coming — with enough time to order an ice-cream maker and for Mack to curate his photographs — wasn’t worth a phone call to me, her supposed successor?
And to solve both of those nagging issues, I need Coda.
