Warhead (Blue-Eyed Bomb Book 4) Read online

  I stood at the top of the steps. “Yeah, I got that much. And I can only assume that’s because the Northside pack blames the Southside for their alpha’s murder.”

  “But it was not the Southside pack that killed him.” His words were not a question, and every hair on the back of my neck stood on end.

  “No. It wasn’t.”

  “Did Death take him, I wonder?” he said as he took a step closer. The eye tattoo nestled in a sea of images on his forearm flared to life, emitting a near-blinding light. “Did Death start a war…”

  His hand clamped down on me, and his eyes glowed and went distant, as they always did when he was taken by a vision. I waited, doing all I could not to let the pressing dread I felt take over. But the troll made that hard.

  “Death cannot win…”

  When he pulled away, the look in his eyes was wild and feral. I retreated down a step.

  “What does that mean?” I asked. “What did you see?”

  His eyes scanned the border of his property, searching for something I couldn’t find.

  “Time for you to go home, Daughter of the PC.”

  Without so much as another glance my direction, he rushed into his tiny home and slammed the door, leaving me halfway down the steps with burning questions in my mind and fear blooming in my gut. Damascus was many things, but easily rattled was not one. In fact, I didn’t think he could be fazed by much at all. But something had him spooked in that moment, which only inspired the same dread in me, even if I wasn’t privy to why.

  What I knew I wasn’t willing to do was disregard his warning.

  I bolted toward the gate, the faint outline of a ghost forming along the fence as I neared. I dared a glance long enough to see that it wasn’t Quinn. I wasn’t willing to stop and deal with any newbies at that time.

  “Sorry, man. You’re going to have to take a number,” I yelled as I hopped the chain-link. Then I ran through the streets of Chicago, never stopping until I got home.

  Chapter Four

  The house was empty when I tore through the sliding door, breath coming in ragged gasps. Supernatural or not, nobody was meant to sprint that fast for that long. Nobody.

  Clearly, TS and I needed to start running again.

  Without an impending interrogation, I made my way to my room and locked the door. I got out the gameboard Damascus had given me and put the pointer in the middle of it. I needed to call Quinn to tell me all he knew. I had to get justice for him so he could rest.

  “Okay, Quinn,” I said, closing my eyes. “Come tell me what you know…”

  The slightest breeze rustled my hair, and I looked up to find the handsome young warlock’s ghost staring down at me. He looked so confused, I wondered if he even knew he was dead yet.

  “Do you know who I am?” I asked. He stared at me without moving. “Use this to talk to me. You just have to make the piece move. That’s all.” I pointed to the board in front of me. His gaze drifted down to it, then to me again.

  The pointer never moved.

  “Oh boy,” I said, panic rising. I shot to my feet and reached for his ghostly hand. It slipped right through mine, and he recoiled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

  He held his transparent arm up in front of his face and joined me in my panic. He looked like he was going to bolt at any second. Damascus hadn’t exactly gone over what to do with a ghost that didn’t realize he was a ghost, so I was flying blind. Not my favorite thing to do, but one I was familiar with all the same.

  Thankfully, help soon arrived.

  A gorgeous ghost with long red hair appeared, her flowing dress pooling at her bare feet. Reah took one look at Quinn and me and intervened. They shared what appeared to be a silent conversation, though neither of their mouths moved.

  “Reah, can you help him?”

  YES

  “Okay, I need to know who killed him. Did he see who did it?”

  Quinn looked to Reah, and she pointed at the board just as I had earlier, only this time, the instructions sank in. Quinn focused on the letters like he was staring down an enemy. Then the light scuff of plastic on cardboard sounded through my room.

  W-E-R-E-W-O-L-V-E-S

  “Good. Okay, that’s really good, Quinn. Do you know their names?”

  NO

  “Shit…all right. Do you know which pack they were from?”

  NO

  “Dammit!” I yelled and Quinn flinched away. “No, not you. You’re doing great. I just…I need something to help figure out who did it and why. Do you know why?”

  YES

  My eyes went wide. “You do? Was it because you were following them? Because you intervened in the fight?”

  YES NO

  “I don’t understand. Was there some other reason why they wanted you dead?”

  K-N-E-W T-O-O M-U-C-H

  “About what?”

  W-A-R

  Holy. Shit.

  “What war, Quinn? What war did you know about?”

  P-A-C-K W-A-R

  Reah looked at me with a motherly expression. Poor Quinn was still so rattled, and now I knew why. He had been silenced for what he’d learned while following the wolves home. I just needed to figure out which ones had his blood on their hands.

  “Which way did you go when you left the bar, Quinn: north or south?”

  The pointer didn’t move.

  “Which pack did you follow: the Northsiders or Southsiders?”

  The game piece lay still and silent.

  “Jenkins told you to watch them to make sure they left the neutral territory without incident. Did you do that?”

  NO

  “Why not?”

  L-O-S-T T-H-E-M

  Shit.

  “So you got ambushed?”

  I didn’t really need to ask that question. The memory I’d relived had made that pretty clear in hindsight.

  YES

  “Fuck…”

  Reah stepped in front of me, demanding my attention. With another look at Quinn, she all but silently scolded me for grilling him so hard when it was clear he was struggling. Unlike the other ghosts I’d met who had seemed stuck in a detached-like state, Quinn was not. I had no clue what it meant, but Reah seemed to.

  Maybe that was her influence.

  Just as I opened my mouth to thank Quinn, Reah gave him a nod, and he disappeared.

  “How did you know I was even finished?” I asked her, not really expecting a response. Her irritated expression would suffice.

  With her looking on, I tucked the board under my bed and headed downstairs. I needed to tell the others what I’d learned, even if it wasn’t nearly as damning as I’d hoped it would be. We really needed murder victims who’d seen their killers before they died. It would have made our nifty little triplet trick a whole lot more helpful.

  I texted Nico to tell him what Quinn had revealed, including the bomb drop about the brewing war. He texted back that they were grilling the Northsiders at the moment but would be home soon enough. The information I’d given him did little more than confirm that a werewolf had killed Quinn. Unfortunately, with tensions already running high in the supernatural community—especially with the PC—we couldn’t afford to employ the methods of old. ‘Kill first and ask questions later’ had worked a lot better when their numbers were larger and the lands they protected far less vast. Now, a more diplomatic approach needed to be taken. I really hoped Alek was with him, since that was not one of Nico’s gifts. And even through texts, I could tell his frustration was mounting.

  With nothing but time and my racing thoughts to keep me company until the others returned, I headed for the liquor cabinet. Whiskey would keep me busy in the interim. It was really good at distracting me.

  I was rummaging through the cupboard when TS walked in, looking as exhausted as I felt. He never looked tired—never. I grabbed an extra glass for him and placed them on the kitchen island.

  “I see your night went about as well as mine,” I said, pouring liquor into t
he tumblers until they were full. He glanced at the glasses, then back at me, his expression incredulous. “I mean, I’ll drink yours too, if you don’t want it.” My remark was met by an outstretched arm, beckoning the booze. “That’s what I thought…”

  “I returned home, only to be called to the crime scene in your friend’s territory.”

  “I figured.”

  “Nico said you didn’t learn anything from the body,” he said, eyeing me cautiously. “Have you learned anything since then?”

  “Let’s see,” I replied, propping my elbows on the counter across from him. “I saw a random glitchy ghost, then ran past some drunk kid who puked up burrito all over his friend—I think I got some on my boots—and then I talked to Quinn’s ghost, who couldn’t really tell me anything we didn’t already know. So I learned I’m popular with ghosts tonight, and frat boys are lightweights who like Mexican. That’s about it.”

  “Is that what that smell is?” he asked, doing all he could to hide his amusement.

  “Maybe. Can you magic that away for me?”

  “Is the scent endangering your life?”

  “It’s endangering my ability to keep this drink down…”

  “Close enough.”

  Seconds later, the sour smell of regurgitated beans and tequila disappeared.

  “Thanks,” I said with a smile.

  “Any time.”

  “So…wanna tell me why you look like you’re going to drop dead any minute? Because I’ve never seen you like this, and I need you to assure me it’s not because you’re actually going to drop dead—I’d feel like a total dick for saying that if you did.”

  He smiled above the rim of his glass. “And we wouldn’t want that, would we? A guilty conscience would be your undoing, no doubt.”

  I prayed my expression didn’t fall like my heart did. He wasn’t that far off, only instead of guilt, it’d be my lies. In the face of my growing panic, I took another sip, then feigned confidence.

  “Nothing will be my undoing, TS,” I said, headed for the couch, whiskey bottle and tumbler in hand. “That’s why I have you and Nyx, remember?”

  He never responded, so I flipped on the TV and dropped onto the couch TS had magically fixed after Nico had torn the warehouse apart to defend my honor. It didn’t even squeak.

  “Shall I join you, or would you rather be alone so you can forego any sense of decorum and start drinking whiskey from the bottle like I know you would prefer?”

  I found a cheesy ‘90s movie and tossed the remote on the coffee table.

  “The couch is big enough for two,” I said. He grabbed his glass off the counter and walked toward me, his eyes friendly but cautious. Then he sat on the arm of the sofa, as far away from me as he possibly could and still be considered on it at all. “That looks super comfy,” I said before downing half my drink. “If you’re worried my alcoholism might rub off on you, I’ll slide over.”

  I edged over to the far cushion, and he sat down.

  Silence stretched out between us for a minute, and I took another swig of my booze, fearing if what had been the most normal conversation we’d had in days would devolve into a serious talk about my behavior. About me avoiding TS. About why I had been so flustered in the bathroom.

  I knew he’d see through my flimsy excuses eventually; he was too smart not to. But I wasn’t ready yet to admit my feelings for him. There were just too many unknowns looming for me to dive headfirst into what could turn out to be a watery grave. If I admitted I loved him only to find out he didn’t feel the same way, there would be no taking that back. Our relationship—the one I clung to for more reasons than I could count—would be forever altered in a way I couldn’t fix. Possibly doomed, if Muses was right. Until I knew more, it was a risk I was unwilling to take, even if Jenkins was convinced it was a slam dunk.

  “So what is this that we’re watching?” he asked, staring at the TV like it had offended him somehow. In fairness, it was a ‘90s romantic comedy—it likely offended half the population with its tropes and stereotypes—but I loved it regardless. It was one of my favorites.

  “10 Things I Hate About You,” I replied, taking another sip.

  “Is it an ode to Muses?”

  I spit my drink halfway across the room before my laughter rang out.

  “I think we’d need a few more than ten, don’t you?”

  “At least.”

  I wiped my mouth on my sleeve, then grabbed the bottle. TS had already called me on my poor manners with alcohol. No point in pretending any longer.

  “It’s about a guy that gets paid to get close to a girl and take her out so her younger sister can date.”

  “Sounds charming…”

  “If you overlook the premise, the story between the two main characters is super endearing. They grow to love each other despite their imperfect situation—until the lie blows up in their faces.”

  I took a nice long draw from the bottle while he stared at me from the corner of his eye.

  “Which they always do—”

  “Right, but it all works out in the end.”

  Silence.

  “For them,” was his only reply.

  “I mean…I’m sure it works out for others too, but yeah. It all works out for them.”

  “So now that I know what happens, do we still have to watch it?” he asked, eyeing a ridiculous party scene with disdain—probably because he’d seen me act that way at plenty of bars in our time together.

  “Yes, we do, because the best scene hasn’t happened yet, and I’m not missing it.”

  He turned to face me. “And what scene is that?”

  I swallowed hard. “The one where she realizes that she doesn’t really hate him at all, even though those feelings are tearing her up inside.”

  He shifted his body away from the TV toward me. “Her love is tearing her up inside?”

  My hands grew clammy. “Yeah.”

  “She loves him even after he deceived her?” he asked. I nodded. “This is why people like movies so much.” He turned back to face the TV. “They want to believe in things that would never happen in real life.”

  Anger bloomed beneath my fear and my buzz. “Forgiveness is unrealistic?” I asked. “Love can’t conquer some things?”

  “Some,” he said, taking a sip from his glass. “But not all….”

  I nestled back into the couch, bottle hugged tightly to my chest, and wondered who had hurt TS—who had created the stain on his soul that had tainted his view of love. As the night wore on and the bottle grew lighter, I wondered if maybe I didn’t want to know the answer to that question. If maybe I was the answer.

  “This is it,” I slurred, reaching to put the bottle down on the table. As I sat back, I teetered and fell sideways, my head grazing TS’ leg. “This is the part where she tells him she loves him.”

  My heavy eyes fluttered closed just as the female lead stood and read the poem to her class that broke my heart every time I heard it.

  “He doesn’t deserve her,” TS said softly as my mind succumbed to the exhaustion gnawing at my bones.

  “We all make mistakes,” I murmured as the darkness slammed into me.

  “We do, Phira,” he replied. I felt something brush against my hair as my head moved, but I couldn’t force my eyes open to look. “We all do.”

  Chapter Five

  I awoke to the jarring sound of Nico shouting my name. My eyes shot open and I pushed myself up on the couch. TS sat beside me, looking as torn from sleep as I could only imagine I did. As I took him in, I realized he seemed closer than I remembered. Then my gaze fell to his lap, and I realized it was where my head had been when Nico had stormed into the warehouse.

  The wrinkles in his jeans and tiny spot of drool were a dead giveaway.

  “Do you ever answer your phone?” Nico asked, looking every bit as annoyed as he sounded.

  “Not when I’m crashed out on the couch, no,” I replied, wishing the empty bottle of whiskey wasn’t sitting on th
e coffee table like a flashing neon sign.

  “Or passed out,” he countered. “Listen, it doesn’t matter now. It’s been dealt with.”

  “Dealt with? What’s been dealt with?” I jumped to my feet, a healthy rush of adrenaline in my veins. “What did you do, Nico?”

  His expression tightened. “My fucking job, Phira.”

  “Did you find out who killed Quinn?”

  The anger in his expression soured. “No. We just put the fear of the gods into the wolves. They know we have the means to find out who did it, between who was at the bar and our ghost-seer. They’ll crack eventually. Neither of the packs wants the PC coming down on them.”

  His hubris, though admirable, might have been misplaced, given the Fates’ assessment of supernatural relations when the whole fight club shutdown was going on. They’d said things were tenuous at best. Nico flexing his PC power over the packs was certain to make things worse.

  “We need to find out more about what Quinn said—about the pack war.”

  “Pack war?” TS echoed. I forgot I hadn’t told him that little tidbit during our drunken movie-watching escapade.

  “That’s what Quinn said. I don’t know if he knew something on the down-low or if he overheard something before the vision we shared began, but he seemed pretty convinced that it had something to do with why they killed him.”

  “Did you talk to Rogan?” TS asked Nico. “The alpha of the Southside pack?”

  “Nah, I was with the Northsiders. Some chick named Charlotte and the dead alpha’s second-in-command. They’re pissed at the Southside pack—think they killed Alejandro.”

  “Mad enough to start a war?” I asked. “Or is the Southside pack hungry enough for power that they want to take over the Northside? Claim it for their own?” I began pacing the room, thinking about what had been said at the bar, but no specifics had been given—just vague, open-ended threats “Maybe Alejandro’s death has tipped the balance too much. Maybe the Southsiders plan to start a war to take over…”

  “Rogan never has been one for second place—or sharing,” TS said. “Maybe he’s testing the waters with Jenkins, seeing if he’ll stand in the way—literally and figuratively.”