won’t fight back. You used to fight back, Kate Kane.”
I slapped her hand away. “What can I say, I guess you beat me.”
“But you didn’t have to stay beaten.” She leaned very close, gazing into my eyes like she was looking for some bullshit spark of self-respect or whatever.
I grabbed her by the hair and kissed her aggressively. Honestly, I was a bit surprised that she kissed me back, but she did—at least for a moment. “If you’re going to make that into some big put-your-past-behind-you moment,” I told her, “I’m going to fucking punch you.”
She smiled. “You’re your own woman,” she said. “I might need you soon. Whether you meet that need is up to you.” And with that, she left me to go do important werewolf stuff. Why did I always wind up with women who had actual things going on in their lives?
I fell back onto the bed which, despite everything it had been through in the last half hour, was still absurdly comfy in the way only something designed for the very rich could be. Tara hadn’t been entirely wrong. I was wallowing. But I felt I had legitimate cause to wallow what with all the many, many deaths that were following me around. Sighing, I tried to at least finish what Tara had started before she got distracted by something she genuinely cared about.
Aaaand it wasn’t happening. Great. Probably a good sign you needed to get your life in order right the fuck now was when you couldn’t even get up the energy to wank properly.
2
Buses & Contacts
For a handful of minutes, I tried to make myself comfortable in the wreckage of the bed. Somewhere at the back of my mind, I wondered what was going on with the werewolves. If this had been a normal house I’d probably have been able to hear whatever they were talking about, because posh people talk loud and I have pretty good hearing on account of my mother being a primal spirit of the hunt. But this wasn’t a normal house. It was the kind of house that had wings, and whatever secret discussions Tara was having were probably going on across the border into a different county.
With an effort of will that I wished somebody had seen and could be proud of me for, I sat up. My foot clattered against the breakfast tray that was still lying upended on the bed, and with an attack of something vaguely approximating virtue I got up and cleared it away. The sheets were an unsleepable-in mess, but I figured I’d at least saved some maid and/or footman from having to risk cutting her and/or his hands on the wreck Tara and I had made of the crockery. Perhaps one day I’d be in a relationship that didn’t have collateral damage. But I hoped not.
I dressed. I’d steadfastly resisted keeping a change of clothes at Safernoc because that made the whole arrangement too relationshippy, but Tara had done what I should have known she’d do, and bought me one anyway. Which was infuriating, slightly hot in a problematically controlling way, and maybe kinda sorta for the best because I was there most days lately and Tara tended to subject my wardrobe to more than the usual amount of wear and tear. Suited but not booted—I wasn’t quite rude enough to wear my DMs while I mooched around the bedroom of a woman I was banging—I sat down on the edge of the bed and began the heartburn-inducing ritual of checking my phone. I tried to avoid it wherever possible, because while the steady stream of where are yous and we’re worrieds had finally ebbed to a trickle, there was basically nobody I wanted to hear from.
On this particular morning I had a “just checking in” from Eve, a “your minutes have refreshed” from my phone company, a “please call me” from Ashriel, who could profoundly go fuck himself, a “you don’t know me but I think I might have some information you’re looking for” from some random, and a “please rate your order from the Happy Wok Chinese Takeaway” from some website I’d ordered food from.
I hit delete a bunch of times, then realised that one of them might have been important. Shit. How did you un-get-rid-of stuff again? I eventually found the undo button and sat there looking at a series of messages from a total stranger.
You don’t know me, but I think I might have some information you’re