Henrik. It takes me a minute to connect the dots. Henrik Angel. He’s a character in the Alex Rogue series, a potential love interest. Which means I’m talking to… “You’re Alex Rogue, the private investigator who cracks cult murders.”Fuuuuck. This is Fiona’s character. I’m in one of her fucking stories.
“Shhh.” She looks over her shoulder. “What the hell are you doing? Do you want to blow our cover? Now doyou have the photos from the Milk Cult initiation or not?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t.”
She turns away and takes a sip of her martini. “This is never going to work. Whoever this pretty face is, it isn’t Henrik. This guy’s dumb as a box of rocks. Don’t expect me to hop into bed with him if he doesn’t have a clue about investigating.”
“Who are you talking to?” I look over my shoulder, but there’s no one there. We’re the only ones in this joint.
“Give me time. I’ll try something else,” a small, familiar voice says from somewhere on the other side of Alex. Somewhere near the floor.
“We’re out of time,” Alex snaps. “We’ve been out of time for six months now. You need to get me out of this fucking bar so that I can do what I do best or you can kiss everything you’ve ever loved goodbye.”
“I’m trying!” the small voice cries. So slight. So weak.
I stand from my stool and try to move around Alex, but her hand shoots out and lands in the center of my chest, her red nails splayed like claws. She leans over to whisper in my ear through pillowy red lips. “Trust me, fella, you don’t want to bother with her. Stay here and have a drink with me. I’m much more exciting.” One icy-green eye winks.
Brushing her hand away, I round her stool and see Fiona on the floor, crammed in a nook of the bar near Alex’s left stiletto. All the air leaves my lungs like I’ve been punched in the stomach. Fiona is beat up. No, she looks like she’s been in an accident. The skin under her amber eyes is black and blue, her lip is split, and her pinkT-shirt is soaked in blood from her right collarbone to her left hip, exactly where I saw her scar before. Minor cuts pepper her exposed skin, but it’s the sight of her fingers that will live in my nightmares. Most of her nails are gone, and bone pokes through the tips. Blood pools in her palms as she holds them out to me.
“I can’t free her. I’ve tried everything.” Fiona’s wild eyes lock on mine, tears streaming from their corners.
A heavy chain is manacled to Alex’s slender ankle, binding the character to the bar. It looks like Fiona has been trying to pry the metal cuff off with her bare fingers at the expense of her nails and skin! Fuck, she’s been killing herself to free Alex Rogue. Is this what writer’s block looks like?
Creator help me, I’ve never seen anyone like this inside their head. Dreams reveal a person’s self-concept. Usually people are more attractive in their dreams than they are in reality. Fiona is a wreck. Her hair and eyes are dull. Her skin pale. Her cheeks gaunt. She’s wasting away. Beat up. Destroyed.
“I don’t know what to do,” she weeps, more to herself than to me. “It won’t budge.”
Fortunately, I can help. A dragon’s most formidable weapons are psychic in nature. We can break minds in the same way we inspire them. If I can get inside someone’s head, I can manipulate their dreams, lay chains or break them. This is something I can fix.
I squat down in front of her and place my hands on her shoulders because it seems like the only place that won’t hurt. “It’s going to be okay, Fiona. I’m good with locks.”
“You are?” Her eyes brighten.
“Yeah.” I turn my hand over and manifest a key, then rub my thumb over the manacle on Alex’s ankle. A lock appears in the metal. “There we go.”
She gasps. “That wasn’t there before.”
“It was always there, I’m just helping you see it. But you have to do it, Fiona. I can show you the lock, and give you the key, but you have to turn it. Do you think you can do that?”
Without hesitation, she swipes the key from my palm, leaving a streak of blood on my skin. I watch her fumble with it until it slides into the lock with a click. Using both hands, she turns the key, struggling to maintain her grip as it’s slippery with her blood. The process looks painful, but when that manacle pops off and clatters to the floor, she laughs even as happy tears stream down her cheeks.
Alex hops off her barstool. “Fucking hell, you did it!” She grabs the sides of Fiona’s face and plants a kiss on her nose. “We are going to solve this case and save those girls.”
Fiona nods, and then Alex grabs her purse off the bar and heads for the exit.
My eyes don’t leave Fiona. I scoop her off the floor. She doesn’t even attempt to stop me, just snuggles in against my chest and breathes deep. “You smell so good. Like cucumber and mint and sometimes like the sea.”
“Yeah? You smell good to me too. So good.” I run my nose through her hair. “Like lilacs and new grass. You smell like spring.”
“How are you still here?” Her voice sounds tired, likeshe could drift off at any moment. “Alex is more fun. You should go with her. The fans would love that, her finally falling for you.”
“I don’t care about Alex. Everything I need is right here in my arms.”
“That can’t be right.” She meets my eyes, and it feels like I’m staring straight into her soul. “Do you know who I am? I’m a writer who can’t write. An orphan. No family and barely a handful of friends.” She glances down at herself, at the blood and scars. “I’m damaged. Ruined. I’ve lost everything.” She sighs deeply. “I’m nothing anymore but a pile of broken parts.”
I adjust her in my arms, the lump in my throat expanding into a fist, and bring my forehead to hers. “You’re wrong about that. You’re everything to me, Fiona. Everything. Everything I prayed for. Everything I’ve waited for.” I press a kiss to her lips and taste blood. Our eyes lock.
She blinks and blinks again.
