“Where? Who can help us with this?”
I kiss her on her forehead. “Come on, I think I have an idea.”
Chapter 3
Morgan
If I had to choose a guardian to fight with at the end of the world, I’m not sure it would be Dylan.
Not that I don’t think he’s worthy; he’s strong and capable, quick and smart, confident and secure. But, he’s also emotionally disconnected at times, making it a struggle for us to comfort one another. We’re both a little lost, definitely on edge, and as we walk down the long, narrow hallway beneath Tran’s magic shop, I really miss my other Guardians.
“Find a table,” he says as we enter the seedy, underground bar. A flare of magic ripples over me and I give the bouncer a questioning look.
“Disarming wards. No magic in here,” the burly man replies.
“I doubt I’m much of a threat.”
He looks me over and I can’t help but stare at the twisting rope of tattoos around his neck. They look like they’re moving. “Sure, sweetheart, that’s what dangerous ones all say.”
Dylan nods as he steps through and I feel his fingers leave my back as I step into the room and he walks toward the bar.
Seriously, where’s Sam or Damien when I need them? Ugh, scratch that. The despair that lives around my heart roars.
I know they’d have us in a quiet, unassuming corner already with drinks on the table. I glance back at Dylan, who’s engaged in a conversation with the bartender, a girl with smooth skin and fiery eyes. More than one customer looks between me and Dylan, making some kind of connection. I forget that the Raven Guard is notorious. I wonder if they know what happened to the others—how fast does news travel in the supernatural world?
The place is packed and there’s definitely an interesting vibe. An energy—disabled powers or not. Having never been here, I have no idea if it’s normal or not, but I suspect everyone is aware of the virus ravaging the city and came down here to drink their worries away.
Probably like every other bar in the city.
A familiar-looking man catches my eye as I search for a table; he tilts his head my way. His eyes are so very dark, but there’s a calmness rolling off his person and something that makes me want to go over to him. Even stripped of his magic, I can tell he’s powerful.
“No,” a voice says in my ear. Dylan’s voice. He presses his hand against my back, steering me in the opposite direction. “Not tonight.”
“Who is that?” I ask, feeling the tug as we walk away.
“You don’t recognize him?” An open table appears against the back wall. I’d just looked over here. Did he conjure it out of thin air? I shake my head at Dylan’s question. “That’s the Shaman from the fights.”
“Oh,” I glance back. The Shaman is still watching me. “I thought he was a good guy.”
Dylan laughs as he pulls out my chair. I sit and he scoots it in, like a proper guardian and gentleman. When he’s in his own seat he says, “Everyone in here has various shades. The Shaman can feel your pain. He wants to cure it—but every fix comes with a price.”
“How do you know?”
“Despite this form, I’ve lived a long life, Morgan.” He looks across the room and locks eyes with the Shaman. “He is older than I am.”
The concept is overwhelming. I feel childish and naïve. Which I probably am, compared to the others in the room. Yet, I sense their awe when they look at me. They must see past my body. Past my flesh and into my soul, where I don’t feel young at all.
“So you bargained with him?”
A flicker of anger tics at his jaw. “Why do you think we agree to the monthly fights? Our talents, tactics, and weaknesses are not meant for display. They are for battles and war.”
“What did you trade for?”
“We needed information.” His jaw tightens. “On you. Just a hint about where you were. If you were alive or not.”
I reach for him under the table, grappling for his fingers that are curled tight in a ball. A tiny shard of ice around my heart melts. “You feel shame over that?”
He looks away, and even though he doesn’t answer, the truth is written on his face. A chunk of the despair I’ve felt over the last few weeks chips away as the need to make Dylan feel better, to feel loved, rises in my chest. He refuses to meet my gaze and just as I’m about to force the issue, he looks over my shoulder with interest.