Wildblood

Chapter 61

61

When Kai stumbled into the King of Spades, a silence heavier than granite greeted him. Miya sat at the bar, her face buried in her hands and an untouched glass of gin between her elbows. At the chime of the bell, she spun on the stool, the despair bleeding from her murky green eyes.

“You look like shit.” Her voice wobbled as she clapped a bandaged hand to her mouth, but Kai could see the smile through her fingers.

“I feel like shit.” The words came out raspy, and he swallowed down the soreness in his parched throat. With a grumbling sigh, he worked his fingers through his unruly hair, thoroughly matted with blood. His T-shirt was the only thing that didn’t look like it’d been dragged through mud, courtesy of a vigorous cycle at the laundromat-turned-crime scene.

“Sergei?” Miya asked as she kicked off the stool.

Kai locked the door and joined her. “At home being a stubborn cunt.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t want to go to the hospital.”

“No more of a stubborn cunt than you.” She threw her arms around him, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Exhaling shakily, she ran her hands over his sides to make sure he was in one piece.

He pressed his cheek to the top of her head and curled his elbow around her waist. “I’m fine,” he promised. “Just a little bruised and concussed.” The sound of pattering footsteps on the second floor snagged Kai’s attention. He broke away, his eyes turning to the ceiling. “Where are the brats?”

Miya played with the end of his belt, her gaze averted. “Upstairs with Crowbar and Ama. Ivan behaved himself—dropped Caelan off, then skulked out of here with his tail between his legs. I asked for some space while I waited for you.” She looked up at him. “Did you want to see them?”

“Later.” He gently moved her aside. “First, I need a shower. Then, I need a drink. After that, a solid nap or a raucous fuck. I can’t decide which yet.”

Miya choked on a snicker, some of their usual levity returning. “One, then the other.”

She hadn’t asked about Pyotr. Kai didn’t know if he should confess or if she already knew. “About Zverev…” he began.

“I don’t think he’ll be bothering us,” said Miya. “I’m still not his biggest fan, but I know what grief does to people.” She sighed, leaning back against the bar. “I saw what he was after. When he attacked us, we threw everything we had at him. I even…” She swallowed as if it left a bad taste in her mouth. “I invaded his psyche. I never want to do that again.”

Kai raised an eyebrow. “Have you graduated to mind-reading?”

Miya shook her head. “It wasn’t that. I ripped into his subconscious and yanked out his fears. I saw this old man…I think he was sick?”

“O’Neil,” Kai guessed. “Owns a flower shop in Charleston. Looks like he means something to Zverev, and Pyotr promised him money for chemo.”

Miya’s brows drew together, her lips forming a silent oh . “I guess O’Neil’s not going to make it.”

“No,” said Kai, his chest feeling tighter than it should’ve. “But even if Zverev got the money, there wouldn’t be any guarantees. He’s a grown-ass man. He needs to cope with the loss—use the time he has left instead of stitching together a few extra months.”

He remembered Alice’s final weeks. She was in agony—unable to laugh without a morphine drip. Even if chemotherapy eked out a paltry deferral on death, it seemed cruel, more for the living than the doomed.

“You’re right,” said Miya, her validation followed by a wavering pause. “So, Pyotr…”

Kai met her gaze, resolute. “How much do you want to know?”

“Did he suffer?”

“Yes.”

Her chest rose and fell with a stifled breath, and she nodded her acceptance. “I’m not na?ve enough to think there’s a moral high ground here.”

Kai broke into a crooked smile. “He still has eyeballs if Gavran wants to peck them out.”

“Let’s keep that between us.” Miya wrinkled her nose.

He chuckled ominously, then headed for the stairs. “If I’m not out of the shower in twenty minutes, come slap me. I probably blacked out from the concussion.”

Miya started after him, utterly aghast. Before she could berate him about getting medical attention, he disappeared into the upstairs hall, his maniacal laughter echoing throughout the King of Spades .

Everyone knew Kai Donovan was home.

It took three rounds of aggressive shampooing and half a soap bar to scrub out the blood and grime that’d accumulated. Although Kai had joked about passing out, he did swoon a few times when the water got too warm. His brain felt like scrambled eggs in a steamer. At one point, he had to sit his ass down in the tub and let the water run over him like some melancholic freshman who’d just gotten dumped. He passed those moments of vertigo brushing his teeth and spitting out the coppery remnants of his deicide. Fortunately, by the time the drain ran clear, the dizziness subsided.

He kept a spare set of clothes at Crowbar’s for the same reason he had them squirrelled away at the Confessional: he expected trouble. It wasn’t a bad impulse, but in hindsight, he realized it was a little fucked up. While limping back, Sergei told him he was done with organized crime, though he wasn’t stupid enough to think he’d ever be free of the underworld.

“What’ll you do?” Kai had asked, only half-interested at the time.

“Partner with the Confessional,” he’d said. “I’ll set up fights, work as an independent contractor. You could continue your business without worrying about less savory entanglements.”

It wasn’t a bad plan. Kai liked knocking out overconfident cock-blossoms for cash, and a manager free of the mob cut him loose from any dangerous strings. After the stunt Pyotr pulled with Connor, Kai doubted Bratva would be allowed anywhere near the Confessional. The fact that a dozen of Pyotr’s men bit the dust while storming the place sent a warning to other factions about violating neutral territory. The message was clear: fuck around and find out.

When Kai dragged himself downstairs, the whole gang had piled in around the bar. Half the shelves were empty, a bin of broken bottles tucked in one corner. Remnants of the brawl with Zverev, no doubt. Alina and Caelan sat next to each other, both alive and nursing a beer—courtesy of a naughty bartender perched in Ama’s lap behind the counter. Gavran roosted on a beer tap in front of Miya, and she plucked a nacho off a plate that Bastien had left for them to snack on. The chef stood by the kitchen doors, wiping off his hands. His forearms were covered in medical gauze, and as soon as their eyes met, he shook his head and unleashed a flurry of Louisiana gibberish Kai was glad he couldn’t make sense of.

“You better bring me some more respectful customers next time,” Bastien threatened, then grabbed his jacket. Giving Crowbar and Ama a tight hug, he told the raven to behave himself, then rounded the bar to slap a hand on Kai’s shoulder. “I’m clocking out. If another one of your cousins comes barreling in, I expect you to handle it. Family business and all.”

Kai groaned through a reedy laugh. “I owe you.”

“Damn right, you do.” Bastien gave him a light shake, then left the building with a parting holler.

Kai glanced at Ama, offering a curt nod—a silent thank you. She smiled in turn, a glint of apology in her sunlit eyes. Then, all attention shifted to the fetch and her human double.

Alina was the first to speak. “Miya told me about my dad.”

Nausea churned in Kai’s stomach. He didn’t regret what he did, though he hadn’t expected it to hit him so hard when faced with the kid he’d orphaned. He shoved his hands into his pockets, not knowing what else to do with them. “Yeah, I killed him.” Unceremonious but honest.

“I know.”

He ground his teeth behind pursed lips, then met the girl’s probing gaze. “You’re not angry.”

“I’m sad,” she confessed. “I hate that I’m sad. He was the only parent I knew, though I don’t remember ever liking him. I hated him, but it still hurts.”

“It will,” said Ama, her tone wistful. “But it will also get better.”

“You can stay here,” Crowbar chimed in. “There’ll be police investigations and all kinds of nonsense in the meantime, but you’re old enough and smart enough to apply for emancipation if you’d like. We’ll help take care of you until you figure out what you want to do.”

“You two in the market for more strays?” Ama asked, looking between Miya and Kai.

“No,” said Kai, “though I’d like to talk to one.”

At that, Caelan looked up. She’d been mousy the whole time, her beer barely touched while Alina’s was half empty. Kai thought the girl who’d lost her father would be more of a mess than the one who’d axed a demonic bungee cord, but loss was a complicated thing. Alina was grieving, yet she could taste her freedom. She really believed she’d be okay one day. Caelan was also bereaved, though she should’ve felt free. But by the slope of her back and the sag in her shoulders, Kai knew she’d never felt more trapped.

“We’ll be outside,” Crowbar said, then pulled Ama from the bar. Alina made to join them, but Caelan grabbed her wrist, shooting her a pleading look to stay. They barely knew each other, yet something still tethered them—a strange comradery shared from a common crucible. When the door clicked shut, the King of Spades thickened with unbearable quiet.

“I can’t feel it,” Caelan whispered, flexing her fingers on the counter.

Kai frowned, glancing to Miya for a hint.

“The dreamscape,” Miya supplied. “She’s been cut off from it.”

Kai blinked, unsure of the problem. If that was the only consequence, it seemed like a win. “I guess that…must be weird?” he offered uselessly.

“You don’t get it.” Distress was a fog over Caelan’s eyes. “It feels like I’ve lost one of my senses—like I’m missing a limb. I can’t see the domovoy. He could be anywhere or gone completely, and I have no way of knowing. The leshy too. He was my friend, and now he’s dead. Even if he weren’t, we’d be separated forever. Everything is just”—her eyes scanned each of them, searching—“muted, less vibrant. I don’t even know what I am anymore.”

Alina halted the fetch’s spiraling with a gentle touch on the arm. “I can’t even pretend to know what you’re feeling right now, but what you’re saying—the world being muted, losing its color—I get that. I’ve felt that way for a long time.” She hesitated, clenching and unclenching a fist in her lap. “I lived my whole life under Pyotr’s thumb. To be honest, I don’t know who I am either, but maybe we can find out together.” Gingerly, she took Caelan’s hand. “Like sisters.”

Kai wanted to tell Caelan that the domovoy was still there, still obnoxious, and still solely concerned with his next pretzel. Only Miya could see him now, but Kai felt him like a shade without substance. His gaze trailed down the length of Caelan and Alina’s stools, something on the floor snagging his attention. He saw the elongated lines of wooden legs, the warped oval of the cushion, but only one was filled with the shape of a person. The other was empty.

His eyes drifted to Miya, who wore a somber expression. She knew exactly what he’d seen.

Caelan didn’t have a shadow.

The fetch took a deep breath, hiccupped on a sob, and rubbed her eyes with the ball of her hand. “I thought you’d hate me,” she said to Alina, who emphatically shook her head.

“It’s my fault you’re here. Besides, I’ve always hated being an only child. Having a twin sounds way more fun.” She beamed, suddenly the brighter of the two, and squeezed Caelan’s hand. “I’ll give you a minute with these weirdos. Find me with the cool people outside.”

Hopping off the stool, she gave Kai a curious glance—like she didn’t know what to do with him—then scurried from the bar.

“Who’s she calling weirdos?” he muttered, miffed that Ama was allegedly more interesting than him.

“Hey,” Caelan started, poking his arm. “Can I stay with you guys?”

Kai’s heart sank into his gut as he bit back a wince. “Don’t you miss your parents?”

“I do,” she said, then faltered. “I just…you get me better.”

“Friends are supposed to get you better.” He gave Caelan a nudge. “It wouldn’t be right to hide you from them. I know you’ve still got some demons, but the one that was getting between you and your family is gone. They deserve a chance.”

“And we’re not going anywhere,” Miya added, pushing off the counter to join them. “If you decide it isn’t working, we’ll lend you a hand.”

“I still want to stay with you,” Caelan pressed, now targeting Miya.

“You can’t live with us,” Kai said, gently clasping her shoulder, “but you can come over whenever you want. Fuck up some unicorns and force me to make you marshmallow puke sandwiches.”

At that, Caelan lit up like a summer bonfire. “Really?”

“Sure”—Kai shrugged—“as long as you clean Ripper’s shit box.” Miya whacked his arm, and he grinned. “Ursula also needs a cat sitter.”

“That’s your job,” Miya reminded him with a glare.

“No one said I had to do it alone, Lambchop.”

The trepidation melted off Caelan’s face. She trusted them—trusted that they meant what they said. “Maybe I can tell my parents I found my long-lost twin,” she joked darkly.

“It’s kind of true, though.” Miya wrapped an arm around Kai’s back and leaned into him. Caelan’s origins were obscure enough to make the story believable. “Alina’s right. You could be sisters if you wanted, regardless of what your parents decide.”

“Maybe I’ll talk to her about that,” Caelan mused aloud, then looked up at Kai. “I think you were right—what you said to me earlier. You find other things to fill the void.”

Kai hung his head, hiding a smile. “Hopefully you’ll manage faster than I did.” He was pretty sure she would.

If Caelan’s family had been anything like Alina’s, he would’ve let her monopolize his living room in a heartbeat. But her parents had never given up on her. Even when they were wrong about her affliction, they cared enough to try. They just didn’t have the tools to understand what their daughter was going through. Some families were worth abandoning in favor of bonds that were chosen. When Mikhail Zverev died, the shell left behind was handed over to a crotchety old woman named Alice Donovan. She nurtured that husk of a boy, gave him a place to grow new roots and fill the chasm beneath his flimsy skin.

Why did it take him so fucking long to realize? What she’d seeded in him did more to protect him than any of his rage or resentment. No matter how callous the world had made him, he’d been loved by someone who’d chosen him, and in turn, he’d chosen to love back.