Page 41 of Snag
The pledge saunters over to Zaya, sliding a new slushydrink toward her across the bar without asking if she wants a refill. From my perspective, she barely acknowledges him. As it should be.
He shouldn’t even be breathing the same air as her, let alone looking at her like he’s ready to beg for scraps. She could burn him through with a mere look, smirking while she leeches every last drop of —
My beast presses forward. Not enough to move me, but enough to exert pressure against my skin. Still, the typical red haze of the cu-sith’s consciousness, the need to destroy and fuck everything and everyone up, doesn’t flood through me.
With the cu-sith’s reawakening, my truth-seeking abilities are back in full force. I’ve also got this weird sense — currently lodged at the back of my throat like a malignant tumor — that I might be able to speak with the beast’s voice. Except the cu-sith only ever says one thing:die,die, die.
That’s new.
And I hate new shit.
After Zaya unleashed hell on the unwitting Outcast shifters, all because she wanted an excuse to flaunt herself in front of the entire clubhouse, I got maybe a couple of hours of sleep in my SUV. After transforming back into my human self, I couldn’t stand to be around people. At all. The lies — even if meant to be simple platitudes or minor twists of the truth — that flow freely from every human I get within a few feet of are a constant stabbing to my already beleaguered brain.
I couldn’t block that deluge of thoughts— or more specifically, of intent— all through the early-morning hours. Too many people were already up and fucking yammering to each other while I was still trying to get somesleep. I had to abandon my suite — in this very fucking hotel — and retreat to my SUV in the parking lot like some fucking novice.
That extreme sensitivity — walking around like a lie detector riddled with live wires — finally eased a couple of hours ago. Though I’m still avoiding people in general. And my fucking phone. One check-in call with fucking Shaw this a.m. and I thought my brain was going to explode from the shit he constantly spews. Both Rought and Rath have been all up in my messages, but I’m just deleting them unread.
The beast shifts back within me again, finally freeing my limbs and my mind enough that I push myself toward Zaya. Weaving through all the empty tables between us and heading for the bar. She’s wearing a dramatically long black dress painted with dark-red flowers and green leaves. Roses, maybe. The long sleeves cover her arms. Her light-brown hair is loose and wavy over her shoulders, and the blue of her veins are a sharp contrast to the pale skin of her neck.
She’s still too slim.
And something is off about the outfit.
The cu-sith’s claws prickle across my mind. Again.
A warning? A wariness?
I shove the beast back hard, fucking pissed that I have to do so. I’m not some newly manifested shifter. I’ve held this beast at bay for thirteen years now.
Zaya’s back is to me, and there’s no mirror behind the bar, but it’s still odd that I step right up beside her without her noticing. I don’t think she’s faking it. Even though I can’t normally sense an awry’s lies from the truth, I’m adept at reading body language.
Zaya is playing a word game on her phone.
That is so utterly mundane, it gives me pause.
The beast is shoved down deep within me, but I can still feel the ghost of its claws prickling against my brain warily. What could possibly concern the death god that inhabits me? The beast thinks Zaya is its mate. Soul bound by the universe and all that shit. It doesn’t give a fuck that she abandoned us, then ignored us for over a decade. So its cautious quiescence is disconcerting.
“Reck,” Zaya purrs, straw in her mouth, face angled slightly toward me. “Fancy meeting you here.”
I can’t see her eyes through the dark-tinted black sunglasses she’s wearing. Indoors.
I unbutton my suit jacket and slide onto the stool next to her, forcing myself to maintain my distance when I want to lean into her intimidatingly. I’m wearing my typical black suit over a white shirt and black tie. It marks me as an agent of the Authority almost as much as the badge in my pocket does.
Stupidly, I can still recall the contemptuous energy that emanated from Zaya outside the room at the Crescent Moon Inn— at the suit, at the badge, at her classifying me solely by those things. “Your type …” she said.
The awry have always sneered at authority in any form— and the Gage family even more so. As if they’re above it all. Better than the rest of us. They don’t need to follow the rules that govern all of those, all of us, with immense power.
“Don’t you have better things to be doing, Zaya?” I ask scathingly. “Day drinking? That’s beneath even you.”
“Even me …” Zaya murmurs, sounding oddly amused as she takes a long, slow sip, draining the last of her first drink.
The donkey or marmot shifter-fuck sidles up to thebar between us. His gaze is on Zaya as he asks me, “What can I get you, brother?”
“I’m not your fucking brother,” I snap, resisting the urge to reach over and slam his face into the bar. He’s flexing Outcast affiliation. But no matter what my uncle wants, even after all these years, I’m not an Outcast. I never will be. I made other choices. Choices I can never walk away from.
I’ll die with this Authority badge in my pocket.
I just want to take my fucker of a father with me when I do.
