Page 11 of Heimlock

I raise my eyebrows expectantly. “Yours?”

“Trinte.”

“Trinte.” I taste his name as well, enjoying the flavor.

“Two Heimlocks,” the bartender announces, sliding the pints across the bar top. Trinte reaches for both. When I try to grab mine, he lifts it higher than I can reach without hopping.

I laugh, bouncing on my toes. “Knock it off.”

Placing it in my hand with a chuckle, he gently pushes me to walk in front of him. The sea of bodies separates as I move forward — the predator behind me parting any obstacles.

Fire sparks at my fingertips at the deep pleasure this sense of safety offers. Even though I’ve known him for all of five minutes, his consideration has me wanting to skip around like an idiot.

Down, girl. The molten desire appearing low in my belly threatens to weaken my knees. I can’t tell if this makes tonight’s event promising or not. If this is all I get out of the evening, it’s enough.

When we exit the thick of it all, I turn to smile at him. “You’re pretty handy in a crowd.”

His eyes sparkle with amusement. “Glad to be of service to the damsel.”

My distress has never felt so far away.

“Everyone! Please take your seats!” A female Satyr, a brown doe, holds a microphone in one hand and a piece of paper in the other. Her dark eyes scan the bustling bar. “The event starts in two minutes. Men, go sit at the chair designated as your initial starting point. Ladies, you’ll find your seat number behind your name badge.” She claps her hands in dismissal.

Trinte and I look at one another. Inspecting the back of my badge, I see the number eleven. “I have eleven. What do you have?”

Disappointment pulls a frown onto his soft-looking lips. “Twenty-three.”

Matching discontent flares inside me. Sharing a bright smile, I say, “Well, we can continue our conversation soon.”

Trinte raises his beer glass. “To finding something more.”

Excitement finally expands my heart with pleasure. “To finding something more.”

4

Age 18

One by one, I rip out the drawers from the dresser. They slam like anvils onto the peeling linoleum floor. Yanking items from each, I’m frantic as I stuff it all into my one duffel bag.

Boots pound down the hallway. I glance at my closed bedroom door, pulse roaring in my ears. My senses sharpen, beads of sweat pricking my forehead. The boots fade.

Lunging under my bed, I grab out my emergency stash of corals and some of Mom’s jewelry. It’s not much, and the pawnshops won’t offer a lot for stolen goods, but it’ll buy a few meals while I figure things out.

Panting, I look around the room for anything possibly missed.

The picture of Dad and the still-innocent version of me, age eight, sitting in front of the Morestia Mountains. Its glass mountains sparkled in the afternoon light, reflecting rainbows in the air. One of the last good memories with him before he died.

Snatching it off the nightstand, I place it on top of everything else.

The sound of boots reappears. It’s lazier. Alarming.

The jiggling doorknob. Dread scrapes my guts.

“Kyr, open up.”

A cold sweat breaks out at the sound of the voice that haunts my nights. With trembling hands, I zip up the bag. “Go away!”

Huracio chuckles darkly. “Now, little roach, why would I go and do that?”