Page 96 of Hunted

Because apparently my subconscious has no dignity and no sense of timing, one moment I was replaying his horrible calm as he said Lyra Hannigan was his, and the next I was back in that impossible half-dream, flying through black sky and silver wind, his body hard behind mine, his arm locked around my middle.

And beneath my palm, beneath the open collar of his shirt, that same throbbing thing I’d felt in the dream before I ever glimpsed it in real life.

I woke with my fingers curled in the sheets and the memory of his refusal lodged behind my teeth.

What was that mark?

Tattoo would be the simple answer.

Unfortunately, vampires and simple answers don’t tend to share postcodes. Most can’t hold normal ink because their skin heals too fast and pushes it out before it sets. I’ve heard of some using traces of silver to slow healing long enough for marks to take, but that kind of vanity usually belongs to younger vampires with too much money and not enough fear, or ancient ones bored enough to flirt with discomfort for aesthetics.

Valentin Moretti is many things. A man who sits still while someone pokes silver into his skin for decoration does not feel like one of them.

So what did I see?

The question hums at the back of my mind, all hooked curiosity and bad instincts, and I force it aside because I have a more immediate problem than mystery skin art.

I’m due back at the Tower.

By morning, he said. Or else.

Hoo-fucking-ray.

I scrub a hand over my face and drag myself up, then move through my routine with clipped efficiency.

Shower. Teeth. Hair.

Clothes chosen for movement over style. Dark layers that won’t catch, flash, or slow me down if things go sideways.

Then weapons, because if I’m walking into a vampire’s nest carrying the knowledge that I am Lyra Hannigan while he’s out there hunting Lyra Hannigan on a blood-bound destiny quest, I’m not doing it unarmed.

Widow’s Fang settles against me with familiar weight.

Mercy Pin. Wire. Bolts. Knuckles. Every piece a reassurance. Every concealed edge a reminder that panic is a luxury and preparation is not.

By the time I’m done, my stomach is tight and empty, my nerves too close to the surface.

I reach for my phone and call Tezra.

It rings. And rings.

No answer.

I frown at the screen and glance at the time. Tezra takes weird jobs and sometimes vanishes into weird spaces. He can technically cover absurd distances in seven seconds, but somehow still manages to be late when his sizeable belly is running on empty.

I wait ten seconds, then call again. Even if he’s mid-run, he usually sends a message as soon as he lands.

Busy. Can’t. You alive?

Something.

Nothing. The second call dies.

I stare at the screen long enough for irritation to sharpen into unease. Not a great start to the morning when my favourite supernatural taxi is ghosting me.

‘Come on,’ I mutter, and try a third time. Then a fourth.

By the fourth, the silence isn’t silence any more. It’s a thing with bones.