Wildblood

Chapter 53

53

Miya

The King of Spades was a second home to Miya, so when Caelan asked to visit the bar after a morning curled under a blanket with Ripper, she was happy to oblige.

“I owe your friends an apology,” the teen insisted. Had it not been for the domovoy forcing the leshy out, then Ama running interference with Pyotr, Caelan would’ve been on her way to homicide.

Disguised in sunglasses, scarves, and too-large hats, they shut the blinds and flipped the sign on the King of Spades as soon as they arrived, closing for the day. The first thing Caelan did after shedding her getup was offer the house guardian half a fluffernutter. His head tilted as he examined the morsel, unaccustomed to anything quite like it after his many gourmet feasts. Ama joined them at Kai’s request—more muscle while he was away. Eyeing the sandwich on the floor, Gavran roosted on his favorite beer tap, and Crowbar sipped on a citrusy gin and soda while shouting at Bastien to stop carrying crates stacked three miles high.

“You’ll blow your back out!” She shook her head when he ignored her, shuffling things around in the kitchen.

Caelan took her seat at the counter, timidly apologizing for the trouble she’d caused. Both Ama and the bartender exchanged perplexed looks, then laughed.

“None of this is your fault,” said Ama. While she’d blamed Kai, she never held any of it against Caelan. For that, at least, Miya was grateful.

Crowbar whipped out a pint glass. “Relax, girl. You don’t have to carry the world on your shoulders.” She poured the teen a swallow of beer. “To take the edge off. Just don’t tell anyone. Wouldn’t want to lose my liquor license.”

Caelan’s eyes lit up at the illicit beverage. “I can keep a secret.”

Ama rolled her eyes. “You barely gave her four ounces.”

“So she can gulp it down fast in case the cops come blasting through the door!” Crowbar said with mock offense.

“This is why we should move to Europe,” Ama chided. “Far more sensible liquor laws.”

The entryway bell gave an eerie chime, the hinges on the door screeching as someone stepped into the King of Spades .

He looked more mountain than man. Broad and muscular with sable hair tied back into a knot, an angular face mottled with fading bruises, and cool umber eyes. He wore no jacket, only a long-sleeved T-shirt, track pants, and broken-in sneakers—like he’d stopped by for a drink in the middle of his daily run. Yet something was off. He seemed uninterested in the establishment and simply stood there, scanning the room.

Ama’s head snapped in his direction, her snowy mane suddenly static. Her fingers tensed on the countertop, and the corner of her lip twitched as the man’s gaze fell on her, and he slowly inclined his head.

It took Miya all but ten seconds to put the pieces together.

She jumped in front of Caelan, Ama joining her the same instant. “We still have time.” Ten hours to be exact, but he must’ve known that.

Crowbar swore and backed away while Caelan nearly tripped out of her stool. Gavran cawed in warning, and Bastien rushed in from the kitchen, grabbing his friend’s arm.

Ivan Zverev smiled—an odd thing on such a terrifying man. It was warm, pitying even, and he shook his head. “Sorry. Plans change. My employer’s getting impatient.”

“What’s the point of a deal if you’re going to break it?” Miya challenged.

“I’m a man of my word.” The smile fell from his face. “Unfortunately, some things are worth more than my honor.”

Ama sniffed. “Money?”

“Not money,” Zverev corrected, “but what it buys.”

Miya bit down on her lip. Zverev was desperate to close the contract and get paid for a reason. “What’s Pyotr got over you?”

He fixed her with a stony stare, and she scrabbled for Caelan’s hand, eyes sliding to the domovoy. The house spirit bristled at the intruder, but beyond a bit of mischief, he was powerless against the living.

“Odd…for a human to make a home with monsters.”

An evasion, which only confirmed Miya’s suspicions. “Not all monsters have claws and teeth.” She squeezed Caelan’s fingers. Gavran spread his wings with an assenting croak, then glided over to perch on Miya’s shoulder. “Some are made from the shadows that live in your dreams.”

A muscle feathered in his jaw. “Give me the girl, and I’ll leave quietly.”

Ama stepped up to bar his path. “You know that’s not going to happen.”

Miya herded Caelan back where Crowbar intercepted her. “How the hell did he find us?” the bartender asked.

Zverev’s eyes drifted to Crowbar, his mouth quirking as he tapped his nose—an answer to her question.

Bastien retrieved a baseball bat they’d mounted over the bar, ready to swing, but Ama shot him a warning look. Only as a last resort , she seemed to say.

The white wolf had no patience for idle chitchat. She launched herself at Zverev, fearless of the consequences. A wolf was a wolf, after all. She was almost a whole foot shorter, but that did nothing to deter her, her ferocity outsizing her stature. Zverev braced for impact, expecting a head-on assault.

Ama veered right. Kicking off a table, she rapidly changed her angle, flying down at Zverev with a swinging elbow he couldn’t evade. Bone connected with bone, and Miya swore she heard a crunch as Zverev’s head whipped sideways, and he collided with the wall. Kai would’ve quipped about drawing first blood, but Ama had the playfulness of a chainsaw when she fought. Before her opponent recovered, she took out his knee with a punishing sweep, then drove her own into his sternum.

Another crack, a grunt from Zverev. Swooning back, he grabbed Ama’s forearm, then shoved her as he righted himself, the force of it staggering. She flew into the stools, braced her arms against the counter ledge, and flipped over the bar. Reaching behind her, she closed her fist around the neck of a vodka bottle, then flung it at Zverev. He twisted away and blocked the shattering glass, but Ama grabbed another, then another, throwing bottle after bottle until the ground was littered with translucent shards. Little did she care—her boot soles were made like concrete. Snatching the rum, she hopped over the bar again and whaled on the goliath still guarding his face. His arm was bleeding, beads of broken glass embedded in his skin. The bottle smashed against his shoulder as he ducked his head, but Ama wasn’t finished. She pulled her elbow back, then thrust the sharpened ends straight into Zverev’s side, pushing him toward the wall. No hesitation, not an ounce of compunction.

Teeth bared, his giant hand wrapped around her arm, resisting her as she tried to sink the jagged crown of glass deeper. “You’re as vicious as he is,” Zverev strained, gradually pulling himself off the bottle end.

“Don’t insult me,” Ama snarled. “That puppy is only vicious when he’s angry.” Her lips peeled back into a sickle grin, her eyes like amber balefire. “I’m just vicious.”

She twisted the bottle, slicing into his inner forearm. He released her, yet he seemed no worse for wear despite the gashes and the stab wound.

“He barely feels it,” Caelan whispered, her voice trembling.

Crowbar shook her head—a refusal. “That’s not possible.”

“He’s desperate,” Miya realized. “He’s not really fighting—doesn’t want to—but he can’t leave empty-handed.”

His eyes flashed to Miya, his lip curling as though her words bittered his tongue. Then, as quickly as Ama had beaten him back, he slammed a fist into her ribs, the smack of minced muscle turning Miya’s stomach. Zverev lifted Ama in one smooth motion, then threw her across the bar. The white wolf let out an enraged roar, her spine hitting the ledge of the counter so hard that she lurched, winded by the collision. Blood blossomed on the back of her shirt where she’d struck the hard lip of wood. Forcing air into her lungs with a painful rasp, she steadied herself, determined to chase Zverev away.

“There’s no winning this,” he told her, his tone absent of triumph. He sounded sad, sorrowful even. Maybe he wanted Ama to win, but some warped honor code dictated he fight.

He was too strong. Ama could take almost anyone—even give Kai a run for his money—but what good was that when a single hit from Zverev could trounce a living god? He’d battered Kai into a sorry state, and Ama wasn’t faring much better. Her body was smaller, easier to harm, and Zverev looked like he had steel between his skin and his bones.

“Let’s go together.” Bastien adjusted his grip on the bat. “I may not be much against that , but I’m better than nothing.”

“No,” Ama growled over her shoulder.

Bastien jumped over the bar, undeterred. “Swallow your pride, Queen. You can’t win every battle alone.”

Ama clucked her tongue. “Don’t you dare get hurt.”

“This is crazy!” Crowbar pushed past Miya. “I care about these people. Do you understand that?” She pointed at Ama. “This woman is the love of my life, and you’re going to tear through her and my best friend to send an innocent kid to her death? You should be stabbed with a bottle, you psychopathic fuck!”

Miya seized Crowbar’s elbow, hauling her back. “Let them handle it. Someone’s got to protect Caelan if shit goes south.”

“But—”

Crowbar’s protest was cut off as Ama and Bastien charged, splitting the beast’s attention. Bastien took the bat to Zverev’s knees as Ama sprang high enough to graze the ceiling. Anchoring herself to his shoulders, her legs wrapped around his neck. She twisted her body as she pincered his throat between her thighs, using the momentum to yank him down with her.

Miya had never seen a mountain fall. With gravity on her side, Ama toppled him to the glass-littered floor like dynamite incarnate, a plinking chorus echoing throughout the King of Spades. Bastien continued his assault, pummeling Zverev wherever he could.

Crowbar pressed her hands over her mouth, muffling a gasp. Even Gavran proved restless on Miya’s shoulder, his midnight plumage ruffled from the stress as his beak yawned open, and he released a low warbling squawk. Caelan’s breaths grew ragged. She tugged against Miya’s hold, her skin clammy.

“It’s okay,” Crowbar reassured her, bowing over to rub the teen’s arms. Her voice shook as she repeated the words over and over. Perhaps they should’ve fled, but Zverev would give chase, and there was no telling if Ama could keep up. Besides, they couldn’t run forever.

The sharp sound of splintering wood snapped Miya from her dreadful reverie. The bat had broken. Swearing loudly, Bastien tossed aside the scraps, then dove for Zverev. Ama struggled to keep him grappled, bending his arm to a near-impossible angle, her legs squeezing his windpipe hard enough to crush bone. Even with Bastien helping her, they could barely keep him down. Eventually, he’d overpower them, and then what?

Miya had to do something.

She was the Dreamwalker. She could traverse netherworlds and nightmares, but in the physical realm, she was powerless against men with the strength of titans—a human girl with a human body, so easily bruised. Gavran stilled beside her, peering at her through an eye like wet ink. Then, the boy’s voice echoed in her mind.

You are boundless. A creature of chaos. A thing like water and shadow. Water is not beholden to stone; shadow does not yield to material confines. All things crumble, and all light gutters eventually, but the ocean is depthless, and darkness devours everything it hungers for.

The Dreamwalker didn’t care for boundaries. She crossed realms not because she esteemed worldly laws, but because she defied them.

She’d cut the seams of reality to let chaos spill out.

Miya released Caelan’s hand and walked into the fray. When Gavran tried to follow, she rebuffed him with an icy glare. Stay with Caelan.

“What are you doing?” Panic laced Ama’s voice as she tracked Miya’s movements.

“Helping.” Miya dropped into a crouch, then placed her hands on either side of Zverev’s face. Both Bastien and Ama gawked at her, terror leaving them slack-jawed.

“Look at me,” Miya commanded, and whether out of curiosity or compulsion, he listened. His gaze met the Dreamwalker’s, murky green eyes mining for something to excavate. She wasn’t sure what she was doing, but she always followed the roots in the dreamscape. They were like roads, taking her where she needed to go.

People too had roots. Perhaps they led somewhere.

With a steadying breath, Miya imagined herself sinking into the man whose skull she held between her hands—a stone making a new home at the bottom of a dark lake. He was guarded, and she sensed in him a wildness that he’d sealed behind a long-worn mask of human propriety. Yet what surprised Miya was the warmth she felt behind his steely stare. She expected cold but instead found a low simmer of resolve that he’d buried beneath a callous exterior—something to hide his motivations, his weaknesses, the spaces where he invested his care.

And he did care. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have worked so hard to disguise it.

“What are you hiding, Ivan Zverev?” A sharp pain lanced Miya’s skull as she plumbed deeper, chipping at the emotional wall he’d erected. Darkness peppered her vision, but between the undulating shadows, a shape emerged. A reedy silhouette, a man hunched over a desk as he held a thorny stem. Knife in hand, he plucked off the barbs, each snap crystalizing Miya’s vision. A scarlet rose, a small shop, an elderly florist. When the last thorn was removed, the man stared wistfully at his handywork. Then, he lurched, a moist hack muffled by his palm over his mouth. Something dark and viscous spewed from his thin lips, dripped from his crabbed hand, and dyed the blossom black.

Illness. Death. Boundaries even the Dreamwalker couldn’t flout. All things ended, and the promise of it was a dual blade that both gave time and stole it—slow suffering married to fleeting joy.

“Get out,” Zverev snarled.

Miya dug her nails into his temples, hooking into him like talons piercing through flesh. Something warm and coppery dribbled from her nose, and as she licked her lips, she tasted blood.

“Miya—you’re hurting yourself,” Ama said, her urgency palpable, but she couldn’t do anything to stop her with all her strength poured into restraining Zverev.

“Who’s the old man?” Miya demanded, ignoring the white wolf’s concern. If she could understand why he was doing this, she could figure out how to dissuade him. There was no stopping him by force. Bastien and Ama couldn’t subdue him, and Crowbar had no way of protecting Caelan.

Zverev denied her a response. His thrashing turned frantic as he tried shaking Miya’s influence, but she held fast. Blood ribboned over her earlobes, oozing down her neck. She wasn’t meant to do this—to violate someone’s will so blatantly, to rip the dreams from their mind while they were awake. Dreamwalking was easy; she went to those who reached for her in their sleep, unaware of what they manifested. They didn’t know they were calling for help, luring the Dreamwalker into their hidden world. But this…this was wrong, and it revolted her.

“Miya, stop!”

Ama’s voice was hazy. Red blurred Miya’s vision, her mind and body unable to tolerate invading another person. The image of the old man faded, though she’d grasped enough. He was dying, and Zverev was afraid.

Her grip slipped as Bastien finally caved. With a savage roar, Zverev threw them both off, swiping Miya hard enough to send her crashing into the stools before she hit the floor. Pain shot through her spine, the glass shards a legion of jagged little teeth on her skin. With Ama left as the sole defender, Zverev muscled his way to his feet with the white wolf still clinging to him. He threw his weight into the wall, slamming Ama until she let go and crumpled to floor, heaving.

Miya’s organs felt like they were in the wrong place, her ears ringing as she battled a nauseating wave of dizziness. Gavran’s sharp caw pierced through the cotton in her ears, but before he dove for Zverev’s eyes—a last ditch effort to slow the beast—Caelan’s voice shattered the bedlam.

“I’ll go with you!” She shrugged Crowbar away as the bartender scrabbled for her. Miya saw the guilt swirling in the teen’s expression, and shame quickly followed, seeping into her as she reached for blame. “Please. Just stop hurting them.”

Zverev staggered as he regained his balance. He plucked the glass from his hands, his shirt torn from the wound Ama had inflicted. Scarlet crescents pocked his temples, though they quickly faded, his supernatural healing already kicking in.

“Caelan.” Miya forced herself into a seated position, feeling bruised all the way down to her marrow. “Don’t?—"

“Come,” Zverev interrupted, holding his lacerated hand out to the girl.

Crowbar grabbed the teen, stuttering over her words to deter her, but Caelan had made up her mind. Squeezing Crowbar’s wrists, she shook her head, and the bartender didn’t have the heart to fight her. Defeated, Crowbar let go. There was far too much on the line to justify holding on.

Caelan joined her captor, slipping her tiny hand into one that could crush granite. Quietly, they departed the King of Spades, leaving three barren souls and a wasteland in their wake.