In a vain attempt to get a little control over my life, I’d broken into Jaxson’s auto body shop, stolen my car, and was chased by the damn werewolf alpha himself down the back alleys of Magic Side. To cap the night off, I’d gotten jumped by the very psychos I was trying to avoid. Not to mention, the horrifying image of Sam ripping through her clothes and shifting into a wolf was now burned into my memory forever. I’d never be able to look at her the same.
What a freaking mess.
Terror wasn’t something I experienced anymore. It was just a part of my life.
I sat up and groaned. Every part of me ached. The mattress felt like it had seen a lot of use since the late eighteen-hundreds, and my ass and lower back missed the motel.
The LaSalles’ guestroom had apparently been decorated by a blind person with a side job at a thrift store. There might have been a theme, but I was too overwhelmed to find the connection between framed antique sketches of pineapples and jaunty sailboat bookends.
God save me.
I’d learned about these people less than forty-eight hours ago, and now I was staying with them. Temporarily.
Still, it was insane. But so was this city. Either way, I would need to find my own place once the rogue wolves were behind bars. Or dead.
Maybe somewhere in southern France.
At least I had my car back.
Well, not technically, but kind of. In theory, the Gran Fury was currently sitting in another auto body shop in a part
of the city run by demons. I assumed that was going to raise a whole new set of problems, but still, no one was holding it ransom at the moment. As soon as Zara installed the magic regulator and the Fury was up and running, I’d feel a bit more in control, and the extreme weirdness of the situation would be more bearable with a viable exit plan.
California. Texas. Cabo San Lucas. It didn’t matter.
Until then, I would have to make the best of a bad situation.
It was like the woman in my dream had said: You cannot outrun your fate, Savannah. They’re coming for you. Beware the wheel of fortune. It does not stop. Time is ticking. You need to learn who you truly are so that you can stop the ones who are coming.
Fate had nearly got me, this time.
I showered, and while the hot water ran over my skin, I tried to figure out what to do. No matter how much I disliked the idea of working with Jaxson, I needed to help him stop the damned rogue wolves. Clearly, they were hunting me, and I had to find out why. There were three things I could do.
One, I’d make a scrying potion with Uncle Pete and use it to spy on the wolves.
Two, I could go with Jaxson to the fortune teller. I would have scoffed at that notion three days ago, but apparently dream warnings and fortunes were a real thing.
And finally, I could mine the LaSalles for information about my parents and my magic. Maybe I could figure out why the wolves were hunting me from that.
In the worst case, I could probably learn to blast them.
I hopped out of the shower, dried off, and dug through my bags. At least, after everything that had happened, Casey and I had been able to go back and get my stuff. Jaxson would have probably agreed to just about anything to get us out of pack territory, especially after the hellfire Casey had unleashed.
Once I was dressed, I staggered down the stairs and wandered into the kitchen. Someone had left a yellow sticky note on the coffee pot: Make yourself at home, and help yourself to anything.
I shook my head in disbelief. Somehow, I had gone from having no family to having a dangerous and untrustworthy family entangled with dark secrets, and then straight to living in their house in under forty-eight hours.
Well, supposedly, adaptation was the key to survival.
I put a kettle on and rummaged around the kitchen for tea. The first cupboard I opened was loaded with boxes of sugar-coated kids’ cereal. I smirked. Casey, one hundred percent.
How was he still eating this kids’ stuff in his twenties? I hadn’t had sugared cereal since I was fifteen, because it rotted your brain and teeth and attention span. I preferred donuts…which, okay, weren’t much better, but at least my guilty pleasure didn’t come with a prize in the box.
My fingers twitched. I grabbed a box of Count Chocula and poured myself a huge bowl and topped it with milk from the fridge. Then I plopped down at the table and dug into the sugary goodness.
I could adapt however I damned well wanted.
Halfway through the bowl, my stomach started to rebel against the sickly sweet milk and sodden marshmallows, but a rising sugar craze drove me on, spoonful after spoonful.