Chapter 6

SIX

Asha

The world grows fuzzy through the lens of my panic. Max becomes a dark blur standing at an indeterminate distance. The air seems thin, like there isn’t enough oxygen. I breathe raggedly. It's like sucking air through a straw.

I thought I was done with this. Fuck! I thought I had mastered this. Why does it keep happening? Am I broken into so many pieces that I’ll never be fixed?

The dark blur turns and I hear Max, though his voice sounds muffled, like he’s shouting through layers of fabric. What? I try to call out to him, but my throat is dry and my attempt precipitates a coughing fit. “Asha!” he shouts, just loud enough it reaches me.

I’m receding from the world, shrinking into myself, into a darkness within.

This is my fault. Everything that’s happened. My mother and sister being killed. My pack being murdered and taken. My brother. These people. All of it. My fault.

What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I be normal? Why do I hurt everyone and everything I love?

My body jerks back and forth, shaken by two strong hands clasped over my shoulders. The splotchy shapes gain definition and from the smear of color in my vision Max coalesces. “Asha!” he’s saying, his voice becoming clearer. “Asha. You’re safe. Come back to me. You’re safe. Everything’s okay.”

His words start to cut through the terrible ones in my mind. His voice drowns out my self-hatred. My fear. My overwhelming guilt.

“Asha, it’s Max. I’m right here with you.”

Is there panic in his voice? I don’t know. I don’t know anything.

Except it’s cold. Something under me is hard. Hands slide from my shoulders to my arms, holding me tightly. It’s cold. I’m cold.

“Asha, you’re safe. Come back to me. I’m here.”

And we are… here. Together. Somehow.

We’re seated, facing one another, but I don’t remember sitting down. Though, me falling is more likely. “Max,” I whisper, my voice hoarse.

“Asha, are you okay?” he says, speaking slowly, enunciating.

A headache squeezes my skull like a vice, but I nod all the same. “Yeah.”

“What happened?”

I spy the bodies over his shoulder and it all starts up again.

Their deaths. They’re on me. This is my fault. All my fault.

But then the door to the roof swings open and three figures pour out of the stairwell: one hulkish, another sinewy, and a third squat, blond, and furry. They all come rushing over to me, Trouble beating Braxton and Orson to my side. He forces his furry body into my lap, upturns his face, and starts lashing his tongue against my cheek. It’s annoying, but effective. The dog’s insistent affection successfully distracts me from the mounting anxiety.

Gross. Wet. Ugh. He’s heavy.

This is better. This, I can handle.

Braxton joins us, and Max shifts back to give him access to me. Trouble moves to my side, bumping against my shoulder. It’s like everyone is waiting, but for what?

Braxton wraps one arm around my back while laying his other hand against my chest. “Asha,” he says, “Asha, look at me. Look at me. Feel my hand against your chest. My hand is the weight, nothing else. Okay? Now, lift it with your lungs. Ready? Deep breath.” I lock onto his eyes, which hold me in their supportive embrace. My lungs inflate and the hand rises, lifting with my bosom. Braxton lessens its pressure, as though pulling off the invisible weight. “Good, good,” he praises. “Release.” I let the air stream through my pursed lips. “That’s very good. Now with your next breath you’re going to lift my hand right off your chest. Ready?” He nods and I mirror him. Through flared nostrils, he pulls a long intake of breath from the air and I follow suit. As my chest inflates, the pressure of his hand steadily relents until he removes it entirely and I feel the burden lift with it.

I can breathe.

Trouble’s curled up beside me and the sensation of his soft fur pricks my consciousness. The world comes back into view. Panic peels away to reveal the night and the rooftop and the three concerned men gathered around me. “You good?” Braxton asks.

Am I? My heart is racing. I feel sweaty, but I’m not caught in the darkness. Or consumed by my thoughts.

I nod. “Yes.”

“Good.”

“That was impressive,” Orson comments, smiling at me as he tucks my hair behind my ear.

“Little trick I picked up while overseas,” says Braxton, rising back onto his feet. He offers his hand and lifts me off the ground. “Anxiety’s a real killer. Gnaws at your senses, makes you vulnerable. You need a quick way out when you’re in the shit.”

“Could’ve used that technique in prison.”

Really? I glance at Orson, then back at Braxton. Knowing they understand this helps a little. It makes me feel less… alone. Less broken.

“Thanks, Braxton,” I say, grabbing his hand and squeezing it, still trying to get my heartbeat to return to normal.

He smiles back at me. “Don’t mention it.”

With the immediate concern allayed, the boys turn their attention to the grotesque scene arranged for us on the rooftop. Orson steps into the circle and crouches to examine the bodies more closely. His curiosity is undaunted by the macabre. “Three days old,” he says.

And it’s strange the way they’re able to look at this through logical eyes, as a scene they have to investigate, and not like a person, seeing other people dead. I need to be like them. I need to find whatever door inside of me I can’t seem to close, and close it so tightly it can never get out again.

Braxton looks on dubiously. “Three days? How do you know? Did they offer forensics courses in the slammer?”

“Rough guess,” says Orson. He taps his nose. “Mostly based on smell. I don’t pick up any rot, which I read once happens after three days. Pair that with the satellite imaging of magical decay, and that squeezes your window into a certain timeframe. Roughly seventy-two hours ago.” He rises again and reviews the grim message from his towering height. “I don’t suppose there’s any doubt as to who this was meant for.”

Who? I wish I could laugh, but nothing about this is funny. Instead, I grimace. “No.”

He turns to me. “Your brother knows we continue our pursuit. Knowledge of which precludes the element of surprise.”

“Which means?”

Orson looks uneasy. “Well, surprise would be preferable, especially against such a powerful foe.”

“He knows we’re coming for him, so he should be feeling pretty cocky about his control on this situation, but this tells me otherwise,” Braxton says. “The only reason he’d waste his time with something like this is because he’s trying to throw us off our game. It might mean he’s afraid.”

Orson looks unconvinced, which is how I feel about it, too. Whatever Simon is now, I don’t think fear exists in his new constitution.

“Asha,” says Orson with a very direct tone. “This soiree he’s invited you to. The one he intends to make a bloodbath. Do you suppose that bloodbath exempts your Blood Pack, or would his violence be indiscriminate?” He steps over the bodies to approach me, his two-tone eyes gazing intently into my own. “I know you’re not inside his head, but you seem to still possess some sort of connection. Do you think you could say with any degree of confidence which case it is?”

I search my heart for the answer. I want to believe whatever’s left of Simon would prevent him from slaughtering his own packmates. But I also know that I can’t blind myself anymore with hope. One way or another, I fail to predict his behavior. I simply don’t know what this new Simon will do, or whether a shred of my brother remains to protect his kith and kin.

“Honestly? I don’t know. I just don’t.”

Orson looks thoughtful. “So, you have no instinct, one way or another, if during the Blood Mage party, Simon will just kill everyone, including the innocent?”

No. I don’t. I wish I did, but I don’t.

Orson reads the uncertainty and frustration on my face. “Why don’t we send the Enforcers in first, liberate the Blood Pack, neutralize the Blood Mages, then leave Simon to us?” He looks between the brothers for approval. “Doesn’t that sound better than facing two threats simultaneously while protecting hostages at the same time? We could set a trap. With a little advance preparation, we could?—”

“It’s not going to work that way,” says Max. I turn back and see his face has darkened. A touch of hangdog slumps his features. I already know before he says it. The Enforcers have been nothing if not a disappointment. “I’ve run a similar idea past my superiors. The variables are too great, Carl says. We don’t have a count on Blood Mages, the site hasn’t been mapped, it’s too difficult to formulate a tactical strike.”

“But it’s plenty safe to send in the expendable unit,” Braxton scoffs, his handsome face twisted in anger.

Max nods, his jaw clenched. “We’ve been given the authorization to move in on our own, but that’s it. But if I were to guess, they’ll have men at the ready to handle the clean up, to ensure the Blood Mages don’t escape.”

My heart sinks. The many implications are bare for all to see. The Enforcers haven’t exactly shown caution throughout their history. Which means this particular case is especially risky. They don’t believe rolling into town with what equates to a small army would result in success, but they’re fine if we make our own play? If they can pull this mission off with all their resources, with all their agents, do they really think a four-person team can manage it?

The math doesn’t add up.

Unless I factor in a cold indifference to our fate. Then it all makes perfect sense. If the Enforcers don’t care about us or my Blood Pack, then it makes all the sense in the world why they’ve left the final battle for us to fight alone.

“Why have they moved into the area, then?” questions Orson.

“They intend to perform cleanup once everything is over,” I say.

The assholes will sit back while we all battle it out, then kill any opponents that survive. Whether we make it or not is unimportant to them. They just want us to take down as many of the Blood Mages as we can before we go.

What assholes.

Hell, it may even be their way of getting rid of me, their little problem. It’s a win-win for them.

Orson shakes his head. Perhaps for the first time, I sense a note of anger in the ordinarily carefree blond. “No help. We’re all alone on this one.” He raises his eyes to Max. “It’s a suicide mission, then?”

A telling silence falls over us. I look over at the bodies and think grimly, Quiet as the grave .