Warrior Fae Princess (Warrior Fae 2)

He ran his thumb over the small dimple in her chin. “We’ve been over this. Whether or not we get answers, we’re going to the Flush. We’re going to get you help.”

She sighed and shook her head as Dillon got out of the van. Yasmine joined him before sliding open the side door.

“This is going to be a bad joke if I’m not warrior fae,” Charity mumbled, waiting for Devon to get out of the car.

“Vlad has put a lot of effort into trying to capture you,” Dillon said, standing beside Yasmine. “If a vampire that old thinks you’re warrior fae, then you’re warrior fae. He wouldn’t make a mistake that big and end up getting barbecued for his efforts.” He smiled supportively. “We’ll get you help, no problem.”

“I have to agree with the boy,” Barbara said, climbing out after them.

Dillon scowled at her, clearly not impressed with being called a boy.

The sticky warmth of the humid late afternoon wrapped around them. Garbage littered the cracked and worn cement, and potholes peppered the street. Trees leaned over broken fences and weeds strangled the run-down and forgotten yards.

The tiny, ramshackle house crouched in front of them, its paint peeling. One of the windows was covered with graffiti-scrawled particle board, and another had a ripped screen.

Yasmine picked up her shoe and glanced at the bottom. Her mouth twisted in distaste. She put it back down gingerly, trying to find a patch of cement that wasn’t stained or splotched. Good luck.

Andy strolled over from the second van, somehow not at all bothered by the tension with the new pack members.

“So this is where you grew up, huh?” he asked Charity, stopping on Devon’s other side. He probably didn’t want to get tossed again. “A little spot of paradise.”

Charity huffed out a laugh. “At least we owned our own home. That was kind of a big deal in this neighborhood.”

As Devon took in the crime-riddled surroundings, noticing a used needle on the curb and a discarded little baggie commonly used for drugs up the sidewalk, his stomach twisted for Charity’s stolen childhood. There was no playing in these streets, no friends having tea parties or football games on this front yard. Hell, she couldn’t have felt safe crouching behind the tiny dwelling’s bar-covered windows. The empty bullet casings twinkling in a patch of weeds by the van tires said as much.

He took a deep breath and smoothed over his expression. She’d lose her shit if she thought he was pitying her, and get all kinds of embarrassed if she sensed his disgust for the ramshackle house. This wasn’t her fault. She’d had no control over this. And the fact that she’d made it out alive told him she could make it through anything. He was damn proud of her, when it came down to it—something he would tell her when they were away from the broken crack pipes and human feces. At the moment, he didn’t trust that sadness wouldn’t leak into his words. His childhood had sucked, but compared to this, he’d grown up in Wonka’s chocolate factory.

“Is that a chalk outline?” Rod took four steps down the sidewalk and bent down to take a closer look. “It is. Holy shit.”

Dillon and Cole both peered at the cement.

“I didn’t realize they did chalk outlines—I thought that was only in the movies,” Steve said, leaning up against the van with one ankle crossed over the other. His pose said boredom, but his flicking eyes, touching each window in every decrepit home surrounding them, said he was on high alert. He felt the danger of this place, and the lion in him was securing the territory.

Charity’s eyes hadn’t left the weather-beaten front door. A strange rigidity had crept into her body. “They do it when it’s a homicide. If they feel like looking into it, that is.”

“Let’s get this done.” Devon lightly grabbed Charity’s arm and directed her along the disheveled walkway toward the blackened front stoop.

“Is it always this quiet?” Cole said.

“Not when you’re present,” Steve replied.

Charity looked at the sky before letting Devon lead her forward. “At this time of the day it usually was, yes. Later in the afternoon it’ll get busier, then the evening and night will see the most action. I was always behind a locked door at that point, not that it would’ve helped if someone had decided to come in.”

Devon barely kept from rubbing her back in support. From the sound of her voice, she didn’t need it. This had been her reality, plain and simple. She probably recognized the horror of that, but she clearly hadn’t given in to it. His pride rose in tandem with the sadness.

“A couple people looking out their windows,” said Barbara, sounding like a SWAT team member.

“They won’t bother us. It’s the guys loitering or strolling up the street you have to worry about.” Charity stopped in front of the door. “I hate being here.”