Page 32 of Snag
My bed has been made, which is sweet of Presh. She’s abandoned her cocoon of blankets somewhere, swapping it out for black leggings and a black-printed T-shirt under a lilac hoodie. The print on the shirt is a faded Outcast MC logo. The hoodie matches one of the washed-out stripes in her pastel rainbow hair.
Already fairly certain that I don’t have anything appropriate to wear that’s clean— otherwise I wouldn’t have been traipsing around in a silk skirt all morning— I stumble over my suitcase in the entrance of the shallow walk-in closet.
Presh peers over my shoulder. “Pinky dropped it off at the gate earlier. Doc Z brought it up when she checked in.”
A note is taped to the suitcase. I pull it off to read it.
Thank you, Conduit.
For protecting my Grinder.
I’m in your debt.
— Patricia ‘Pinky’ Wood
Essence stirs around my hands, then settles into my skin.
Ah, fuck. That’s … not good.
Pinky, aka Patricia Wood, is the mage who oversees the Outcast MC’s cleaning — both for their legitimate business and their bloodier dealings. She and Grinder are chosen mates. She and I haven’t even met yet, but despite my death-induced hazy memory, I know exactly what the mage is accepting a debt for.
At the Crescent Moon Inn on the outskirts of Cannon Beach, the morning after dying while doing a terrible job of rescuing Presh from the Cataclysm bikers, I was nudged by the universe with a glimmer of aknowing. From that nudge, I had Grinder take off his cut and leave his motorcycle behind the motel— allowing us to avoid an altercation with a group of unaffiliated shifter bikers. That’s the protection Pinky is referring to in her note. But it’s the declaration of being in mydebtthat bothers me.
Given the deliberate use of both her full name and biker handle, it’s obvious that Pinky knew what she was doing with this note. Grinder is aware of who my aunt was, and seems to be a believer in the whole goddess/worship/religious connection that occasionally comes with being the Conduit.
I don’t like people owing me favors that I haven’t earned. Or that I don’t intend to collect. It’s dangerous. For them. Because the universe can randomly decide to call in that chit whenever it pleases.
Admittedly, anthropomorphizing the universe might not be that rational on my part. But when your entire life is randomly fucked with by a power outside anyone’s control — even my own — it can come off as incredibly mercurial.
Focusing on my concern over Pinky’s now-sworn favor, rather than obsessing over the unfathomablewhyof the universe, I crouch to open the suitcase. It’s neatly packed, including all new cosmetics and skin creams. Mage brewed,though not my usual brand. Such things aren’t easy to obtain on short notice, but I have no doubt these are almost as good as my own.
The suitcase also holds clothing and belongings I never expected to see again. After shedding my mostly ruined clothes at the beach where Breaker had died — where I had died — I left everything else at the motel, neatly bundled with all the towels Presh and I had used to clean up. My suitcase thankfully held enough clean clothing for both of us. I have an indistinct memory of Grinder grabbing that bundle, expecting him to have it burned because that’s the most efficient way to deal with residual blood or essence.
Instead, Pinky spent a lot of time and essence to scour all of it clean. Including my favorite boots, my unlabeled designer bag, and my knitting. Those last two, I left behind because I was fairly certain the Outcast MC had planted tracking bugs on them. Or that Rought had, specifically.
Since it’s pretty clear that all of the Outcast now know where I live, that isn’t much of a concern anymore. Plus, tracking me is next to impossible. Unless, of course, the universe wants me found.
“Thank you,” I whisper into the aether. Then, deliberately holding the note between my fingers, I press my hands over the clothing in the open suitcase and murmur a second time, “Thank you, Pinky,” in the hopes it will void the debt the mage foisted on me with her note.
No essence stirs under or around my hands. Or the note.
Apparently, saving Grinder from whatever would have befallen him had the unaffiliated shifters happened upon him at the motel isn’t offset by clean clothing.
“Shit.” I sigh.
“Those are your favorite boots,” Presh says, watching me intently.
I chuckle, looking up at her. “Did I say that?”
“More than once.”
I hum quietly, quickly unpacking all my favorite clothing from the suitcase, including my once-again-pristine vegan-leather, merino-lined black leggings, and a thin-knit cashmere sweater that hangs perfectly off one of my shoulders. I left both, along with my boots, behind at the beach after I killed Breaker. After I stupidly left Chains alive, because it wasn’t his time to die then. No more so than it was last night.
I change quickly, though for some reason, I don’t swap the unusually sexy camisole-and-panty set that I found in the drawer earlier this morning for my simple sports bra.
Okay, I know why I’m suddenly interested in pretty, lacy things. The timing is just a little inappropriate.
I tuck my necklace under the sweater and the camisole. The large pink diamond caged in its golden threads rests between my breasts, neither warm nor cold against my skin.
