3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Dakota

“Where is my wife?” a man pleaded at the Guildhall's front desk, his hands pressed flatly against the beige countertop. “Julia Sinconi. She was in a car accident a week ago, and she was brought here. I understand that she was arrested afterward. There’s a record of her release, but she’s nowhere to be found.”

The receptionist’s long fingernails clacked against the keyboard. “I’m sorry, sir, but there’s no one here by that name. Did you call the Iron Guard? I can provide their phone number for you.”

The man rested his forehead against the counter, then lifted it. “I’ve called them six times in the last day alone. They said she’s probably holed up in a shack somewhere doing distills and to wait for her to return. She's never done distills. Never . And we have two kids at home.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t have information to give you,” the receptionist responded, her brown eyes staring at him. She snapped her gum as she pointed at the bulletin board on the wall next to her, where a piece of paper with the details of a Distills Anonymous class was pinned. “Why don’t you take one of those? I’ve heard people find them helpful.”

“She’s not an addict,” the man reiterated, his voice raising in frustration. He paused to run his fingers through his short hair, tugging on the ends. “I just fucking said that to you—“

"Is there a problem here?” another male voice interrupted, one that was so familiar to Dakota that she grimaced at her computer screen.

The man rounded on the Deputy Ranger of the Iron Guard, Ethan Sullivan, who appeared through the whoosh of automatic doors that brought in a rash of dry heat. “Yes, there’s a problem! I cannot find my wife—“

Dakota rose quietly from her seat at the alchemist’s desk to sneak away, but Ethan’s gaze slid toward her and pinned her against the nearest tiled column. “Contact the Iron Guard again, and be sure to check the other Guildhall on the other side of the city. Sometimes people are dumped there after—Dakota!”

She cursed under her breath, tucking a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. “Ethan, what a surprise,” she said dully, turning on the toes of her sneakers to face him. “What are you doing here?”

Ethan Sullivan graduated the same year Dakota and Lyra had, though he ran in a different social circle than the two. He was pompous and cocky as a teenager, always walking around the halls with an arrogant hitch to his step that never wavered, no matter how badly the school team lost their Friday night games. Now that he was nearing thirty-one and had the last twelve years with her father as his mentor, that pompous and cocky attitude took on a dangerous edge.

“Looking for you. I called you last night. Twice.”

Dakota’s smile was tight, and there was an uneasy quiver in her stomach that hadn’t been there a moment before. “I was with Lyra. It was a late night.”

Ethan’s hand lifted to brush the edges of his mustache before rubbing the stubble on his chin. Just like her father. “Go out with me tonight. I know you don’t have plans with Lyra on the days she's bartending.”

Dakota shifted on her feet, her sneakers squeaking against the newly waxed linoleum floors. She had no interest in discovering why Ethan knew her best friend’s work schedule. “Can’t. I’m in the distillery tonight. Getting ready for the equinox.”

Ethan took a step toward her. The melding scent of his sharp cologne and the tang of distills were an unwelcome reminder that her least and most favorite things were suddenly colliding—a violent storm overtaking her safe harbor. “Tell them you’re getting off work early. I made reservations at that new upscale restaurant downtown.”

The unease in her gut renewed. Ethan didn’t seem to notice the tenseness to her shoulders or how far she leaned away from him without moving her feet. Or, if he had, he decided to remain that close to her anyway.

“No, thank you, Ethan. I’m really not interested.”

There was a flash in his eyes, a shadow of disbelief that quickly settled on impatience. “It took some convincing to get on the list,” Ethan chided. He settled his forearm on the wall above her head, lowering his head until his rancid, coffee breath caressed Dakota's cheek. “Dinner's at seven.”

“Alchemist!” a voice called, and the pink-haired mender from the week before dipped her head beneath Ethan’s outstretched arm. “Gunshot wound landed in the lobby.” A stretcher whizzed down the hall, the occupant letting out a string of colorful curses that would have made the Banished Gods blush. The receptionist bit her lip to keep from grinning before turning a semi-solemn face back to Julia Sinconi's husband.

It was either a happy coincidence or an intervention of fate. Regardless, relief rippled through Dakota as she ducked away from Ethan’s advances, all too eager to put as much distance between them as possible. She sent the mender a look of deep appreciation, leaving Ethan in a swirl of dissipating black mist leftover from the man on the stretcher. “That couldn’t have come at a better time.”

“Thalia,” the mender said, holding out her hand. “Happy to help. The Iron Guard around here is something else.”

“Dakota.” She shook it as they moved down the hall. “And you have no idea.”

Thalia grinned. “And that’s where you’re wrong because, unfortunately, I do. I met your father last week, remember? Very charming.”

The two women rounded the bend leading to the Guildhall’s emergency ward, and Thalia swiped her badge against the security control pad. The lock clicked, and the double doors parted, revealing a dozen people loitering outside the nearest trauma bay. The monitor's beeps echoed into the hall, barely covering the continued threats and curses from inside.

“Stick around, and you might be lucky enough to find out how charming he can really be,” Dakota said as she peeled away. James waved a hand above the crowd, three menders jostling past to enter the bay.

“Gunshot wound to the shoulder,” James explained after she muscled through the throng, angling his chin toward the bay. “From what I understand, you had quite a deal of them in Blackdon.”

“It certainly was the specialty down there." Dakota reached into her pocket to count the distills. “I’m more comfortable than I want to be.”

“I’ll let you take the reins on this one. I’ll be out here if you need anything from me.”

Dakota’s heart thrummed in her chest, excitement and doubt pulsing to her fingertips. Her own trauma. Her first trauma. James trusted her enough to head a trauma. She couldn't screw this up.

Pain, Euphoric, Healing, Blood Replenishing . She repeated the order like every bit of her training would leave her mind if she didn't. Thanks to the riots, when people thought of Blackdon, they thought of gunshots. Which meant she saw her fair share. But without a fully licensed alchemist in the room? She could do this. It was just her and the patient.

Pulling on a pair of blue gloves, Dakota brushed past the two men standing near the threshold, keeping her head down as she shoved through the chaos. The man barked a shout of defiance when Thalia guided an IV needle into his tattooed arm. Another mender leaned over with a pair of shears, preparing to snip through the patient’s bloody T-shirt.

“You cut this jacket, and I’m going to shove that pole so far up your ass you’re gonna be tasting metal!”

“Sir, we have to get your clothes off so the alchemist can see your wound,” the mender tried to reason with him. Fruitlessly, Dakota thought, though she appreciated the effort.

The patient leaned forward and ripped off his jacket, tossing it onto the chair in the corner of the bay. He let out a hiss of pain as he dramatically fell back—his body so taut that he trembled. Fresh blood restained the front of his shirt. “There. Do your fucking worst.”

Time to intervene—if only for the mender's sake, who appeared to be debating whether strangling him would be worth losing their job.

“Sir, my name is Dakota. I’m going to be your alchem—“ She halted, and the entire world narrowed to her and the man on the stretcher. All that confident adrenaline flooding her veins leaked from the soles of her shoes and collected into a puddle at her feet. She was light-headed. Was she even breathing? The white walls surrounding her had shrunk, pressing in on her from all angles.

Ace McCoy was there. He was right there, covered in the black mist spilling from his gunshot wound. He didn’t notice it—none of them ever did. Her father had once threatened to have her committed to the local institution for hallucinations if she didn’t stop talking about it. She never mentioned it again.

The last time she had seen Ace was at his graduation party, where he was pounding on his bedroom door. She could still hear the rattle of it in the frame, and the sound thundered like a prisoner in a cage, a memory begging to be released.

“Alchemist?” Thalia asked as she tightened the end of the fluid tubing to Ace 's IV before unclamping the saline bag.

Dakota swallowed. It was just a gunshot wound. She could do this. No matter that it was Ace McCoy. No matter that her most and least favorite things were continuing to collide. “Mender, trauma shears.” The shears were plopped in her open palm, and Dakota slipped the hem of his T-shirt between the blades. “We’re cutting off your shirt. I need to get a better look at your injury.”

She made the mistake of glancing up at him. His once sparkling brown eyes were now unsettlingly lifeless. He still bore the confident swagger of an invincible teenager, but a new and scornful bite to his glare made her want to wither away. She didn’t, instead meeting him with the same intense scowl he had deemed her worthy of.

“Don’t I get a Pain distill?” Ace drawled, lifting his hand to cut a path through his dark blonde hair. Wet blood from his fingers stained his locks red.

“After I look at your shoulder,” Dakota responded simply as she began to cut.

“I’ll tell you what I told that mender—” Ace said, his glare staring her down with enough venom that Dakota was sure it would curl the frame of the motorcycle he certainly rode in on.

“And I’m telling you that if you come anywhere near my ass, these shears are going up yours.”

Thalia gaped at Dakota from the other side of the stretcher, the blood pressure cuff in her hand still hovering above Ace’s left bicep. A bark of laughter behind her quickly turned into a cough.

Dakota cleared her throat as she finished snipping the soft fabric in half, carefully peeling the cotton away from the bullet wound. “I apologize. That was unprofessional.”

Ace’s smirk didn’t reach his eyes. “Old habits die hard, don’t they, princess? How long has it been? Eleven years?”

“Twelve,” Dakota corrected him as she gazed at the entry wound. “I’m going to administer your Pain distill; get you comfortable. Then we’ll start working on your…” She trailed off, the tattoo covering the flesh over his heart catching her eye. It was a blackbird; its wings spread wide, a date from years ago etched into its leg. No, it was a—

“Raven, yeah,” Ace spat, that venom transferring from his glare into his voice. “She was killed two years ago. Considering how close you two were, we half expected you to show up at her funeral.”

A lump formed in the back of Dakota’s throat, one that was threatening to close off any passage that allowed her to breathe. “I didn’t know. ”

“No, you fucked off to Blackdon as soon as shit got bad,” Ace retorted, his lip curling in disgust as he stared at her. “Didn’t bother looking down from your pedestal to see how the rest of us cockroaches were doing after that night.”

Dakota opened her mouth to reply, but a pair of shoes skidded against the linoleum, cracking through the room like a whip.

“Callum, I got here as quick as I could. Brought the extra clothes like you said—hey, wait a second. I know you!”

Dakota broke away from Ace at the newcomer's announcement and glanced over her shoulder. Logan. That was his name, right? He was shaking a finger at her, a disbelieving smile splitting his lips.

“I met you at Lyra’s bar last week, remember? She never said you worked here. Damn, I bugged her for your number for days afterward,” Logan went on, obscenely unaware of the ratcheted tension. He hit the man next to him with the back of his hand, the sound a thump against the silence that blanketed the bay. “Vice, did you know—“

“You stupid fucking idiot. Learn to read the fucking room,” the second man, Rocco, said as he lurched forward to grab Logan by the collar of his shirt and toss him from the bay.

Dakota stopped listening to Logan. In fact, she stopped paying attention to anything at all. A sudden coldness expanded in her core, an iciness that pierced her soul like a curse under Callum’s gray-eyed stare. He was different than the last time she saw him, though that was to be expected. Gone was the carefree eighteen-year-old boy she had once been in love with, and in his place was a hardened man with a broad chest, sculpted shoulders, and the hint of a beard on his sharply cut jaw. His hands and arms bore more tattoos, and she didn’t glance down to see if her name was still inked near his thumb. She didn’t want to know.

The expression on Callum’s face was closed-off, but not enough that Dakota couldn’t read what was etched there. And she hated that she still recognized that look, even after so many years. Anger. Fury. Bitterness. Irritation. She had comforted that look—again and again, kissing away the scars of the Brotherhood.

Then, for a moment, she was sixteen and riding on the back of his motorcycle for the first time. The wind tangled her hair, her arms wrapped around his waist, and her chest pressed as tightly against his back as she could manage. He lifted her hand to kiss her palm, a dazzling smile reaching toward her from over his shoulder.

Any hint of that smile was gone, wiped away with his years in prison. How many that was…Dakota still didn’t know. Lyra had kept her promise—too well, it seemed. Callum’s gaze briefly dropped to her hip, an involuntarily inquisitive look in his eyes. A pressure built in her lungs, the forgotten breath hammering to be released. She wouldn't cry. Wouldn't hyperventilate to the point of seeing stars. Wouldn't puke—was it Callum’s sudden appearance? The news of Raven’s death? Both?

Either way, she did the only thing she knew how to do.

She bolted.