Frost Page 7

  To that, Floriza had patted the counter fondly. “Nowhere safer than here.”

  Steph shook herself, forced her fingers to turn off the water on the faucet she was using. She’d all but run into one of the three bathrooms as soon as the private elevator had opened up into the penthouse, saying she needed to wash her hands before helping with the guys’ injuries.

  Which was true.

  Just not the whole truth.

  The ride — she sighed — had taken its toll.

  Why was she so worked up over Dom? Why him? Why now?

  But instead of her mind concentrating on those questions — the important questions — her brain kept returning to the same thing.

  Why not now?

  The timing hadn’t been right a decade ago. She’d been too young, then too vulnerable after the kidnapping. Not to mention dating Seth.

  But now? With ten more years of experience each?

  Yeah. They might just be a good fit.

  Which was why she really needed to stop hiding in the bathroom.

  Steph shored up her spine, dried her hands, and walked into the living room. “You alive out here?”

  It was a really ill-timed joke considering what they’d just gone through, but at least Morgan chuckled.

  “Give me thirty seconds, and I’ll be good to go, sweetheart.”

  Dom groaned. “Ditto.”

  “Seriously, I’m not your sweetheart.” Only Dom was allowed to call her that and for reasons she wasn’t fully willing to embrace as of yet. “I thought we’d been over that already. Leather. Endearments. Pencil dick. Remember?” She shoved Morgan down when he made to stand. “Lay there and recuperate. It will do no one any good if you pass out. You’re our ride, remember?”

  He complied, collapsing back onto the sofa he’d bee-lined for as soon as they’d entered the room.

  It was covered in beige and green fabric, a sculptural piece of furniture that was ugly as hell and had probably cost more than the entirety of her bank account.

  Dom had taken the identical loveseat, and while they weren’t actively bleeding any longer, the dirt and grime from the attack, the sticky wounds… She thought back to the remnants of her former apartment—

  Fighting the Dalshie was hell on furniture.

  With that in mind, she turned and retrieved every towel from each of the bathrooms. She couldn’t prevent the stains already in the dainty floral print, but she could stop further ones.

  And hopefully send Floriza enough money to cover the cost of cleaning. Last thing she wanted was for the girl to lose her job because they’d trashed the penthouse.

  “What is it?” Dom asked as she lifted one booted foot then the next and tucked towels underneath.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Just relax. Try to save your energy.”

  Steph moved to Morgan and repeated the process. He’d rolled onto his face, and the wound on his back looked awful.

  The Dalshie’s magic had sliced through both his jacket and the cotton shirt underneath. And though the fabric was black — so she couldn’t see the bloodstains — the smell permeated the air.

  The bite of iron was sharp, burned her nose, but the gummy sensation of his blood soaking into the fabric and leather was worse.

  He’d been hurt because of her. Because she’d had to go back for her possessions. Possessions that meant nothing in the grand scheme of things.

  Okay, they meant something to her.

  But certainly not more than someone’s life, and that was what they’d almost cost.

  “I’m sorry,” she said as she used the towel to gently pat the wound. “It’s kind of dirty, should—“

  Morgan flipped over in a movement so fast her eyes couldn’t track it. But she did register the slight wince at the action, the way the lines at the corners of his eyes tightened, deepened.

  Her fault.

  He snagged her hand, smiled softly up at her. “What’s with the guilty face?”

  She shook her head, forced her expression to go carefully blank. The remorse could come later. After they were safe. “No guilty face here. But you’re wound is filthy. Should I clean it?”

  “Nope,” he said. “We don’t get infections like you guys.”

  “Oh.” She hadn’t known that, and a tinge of jealousy coursed through her. So many Forgotten had died because they hadn’t had access to medical care. There were no healers in their ranks, and while they were healthier than typical humans, they had often lacked the sterile supplies and medicines that might have helped so many of them when they had gotten seriously ill or injured.

  Dom had done his best. But the Forgotten were poor and had needed to rely on plant-based medicines more often than not.

  Sometimes it hadn’t been enough.

  Her quiet response made something flash across Morgan’s face. Was it regret? Sadness? His own special brand of guilt?

  Then his face cleared, and a rueful smile curled his lips. “Well, not traditional infections, anyway.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “You mean turning into a Dalshie.”

  A quick nod confirmed her thoughts.

  Steph knew all about how the Dalshie had come to be, having grown up with their very mention eliciting nightmares. It had been the Forgotten’s very own version of Voldemort from the Harry Potter books.

  The Dalshie were pure evil, used dark magic. But they were also related to the Rengalla.

  They were former Rengalla, those who’d been corrupted by their powers and consumed with darkness.

  The Dalshie were scary as hell. They literally had no moral compass and would do anything to achieve their goals — whether that was murder or torture or using innocent humans as lab rats in their efforts to create magical drones.

  Which was how the Forgotten had come to be.

  Luckily, the Rengalla had stormed into that concentration camp almost eighty years before, an act that had enabled the Forgotten to escape.

  For the most part.

  They might have gained their freedom, slipped away from their torturers, but the Dalshie had pursued them for decades, had managed to kill off or capture many of their number.

  But by the time that Steph had been born, the Forgotten had been… well, Forgotten.

  Or so they’d thought.

  They’d squeaked out an existence in a secluded forest in Northern Tennessee, selling plants and crafts to local humans to supplement their income. It had been tough, each of them working to pull their weight so the group as a whole could survive.

  They had. Quietly. Peacefully.

  Until Daughtry — who apparently was a very rare type of Rengallan oracle — had shown up in their midst.

  Until Daphne and Tiffany had been kidnapped.

  Until now.

  “Yeah,” Morgan said, drawing her out of her thoughts, “I mean the Dalshie.” He shoved his feet against the cushions, leaving a large swathe of ash on the pale fabric of the sofa. When she tried to wipe it off, only smearing the grime into an even larger stain, he said, “Leave it. The Rengalla have a special fund for this. I’ll have Mason wire some money to the hotel for the cleaning cost.”

  “You have a fund for this?” She swept a hand out, encompassing not just the sofa but the room — the very large and exceptionally expensive room.

  He shrugged. “Yup.”

  “Nuts,” she muttered, not even able to imagine the amount of wealth the Rengalla must have if renting out and then paying for the cleaning of a penthouse suite didn’t even cause one moment of hesitation. She knew personally how much this room cost per night, and it was a damn sight more than her monthly salary.

  Dom snorted and shoved to his feet. “You have no idea. The things the Rengalla have, spend money on. It’s completely, totally nuts.”

  “Hey, bro. You benefit from that—“ Morgan raised his hands, did air quotes. “—particular brand of ‘nuts.’“

  “Not disagreeing with you.” But he winked at Steph, and she couldn’t stop the grin from spreading
across her face. He mouthed, “Nuts,” and she giggled.

  Morgan frowned and crossed his arms, his wince at the movement far less pronounced than a few minutes before. “I don’t enjoy feeling like I’m the butt end of a joke.”

  She and Dom looked at each other.

  “Butt end?” she murmured.

  Dom nodded. “Yup.”

  They were silent for another long moment. Then Dom’s lips twitched, his eyes glittered with amusement. She grinned in response. They burst out laughing.

  It was stupid and juvenile.

  And it was just like old times.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Dom stared at Steph, watched the way her smile — slightly crooked in one corner — lit up her face. She was beautiful.

  The knock on the door made him straighten painfully off the couch, barely biting back his grunt of pain.

  Of course Steph noticed. She touched his shoulder, gave him a gentle shove back. “It’s just Floriza.”

  Maybe. Maybe not.

  Dom saw that Morgan must have agreed with him because the LexTal stopped Steph when she would have walked toward the front door of the suite.

  “Stay with him,” he told her when she began protesting.

  “I’m fine—“ Dom began. He didn’t need a babysitter. He needed Steph safe.

  Morgan sighed and gave her a shove. “Stay with the idiot and don’t let him hurt himself. I don’t have a fund for that.”

  Oh, it was on.

  Dom glared at Morgan’s receding back, a barb on the tip of his tongue. He managed to bite it back because — and only because — Steph was actually staying at his side, out of harm’s way, and not rushing toward a potential enemy at their gates.

  Morgan checked the peephole, grinned over his shoulder at them, and threw open the door. “What did you bring me, baby girl?”

  Floriza smiled, a flash of bright white against olive skin. But it wasn’t friendly. Nope. That smile was shark-meets-seal, and Dom was happy to not be on the receiving end of it.

  Floriza slammed a bag into Morgan’s arms before bending to retrieve another one. “I’m not your baby. Now stop looking so damned pretty and make yourself useful.”

  Morgan laughed and glanced over his shoulder at Steph. “I can see why you two are friends. Both of you are hot and feisty. I like it.” He snagged the second bag from Floriza’s hands and tucked it under his arm before closing the door.

  Steph made a choking sound, and Dom turned to face her.

  “Oh Lord, she’s going to kill him.”

  They looked back, Dom half-expecting to see steam pouring out of the other woman’s ears.

  Except it wasn’t. In fact, Floriza’s face had softened, and her deep-chocolate eyes were warm. “You’re not as bad as you seem, baby,” she said. “Now let’s get you guys patched up.”

  Floriza pushed the table aside and squatted in front of Dominic. “Let’s see.”

  “I’m fine.”

  She rolled her eyes. “If you were fine, you would already be out of here. Clearly, you’re injured, and the sooner I can see those wounds, the sooner I can get you out of my penthouse.”

  “Dom,” Steph said. “She’s a nurse.”

  “Was,” Floriza said. “But not too long out of practice to deal with these paper cuts.”

  A thread of amusement wove through him. Of course she was right. The sooner he was patched up, the sooner they got out of there.

  And as much as Dom hated to let someone else see him hurt, the truth was that he wasn’t ready to teleport hundreds of miles. The journey wasn’t easy on the body, and he might end up passed out, bleeding out, unable to help Steph.

  That was, if Morgan could even teleport all three of them to the Colony. He wasn’t in great shape, despite the façade he was putting on. They might end up in freaking Antarctica for all Dom knew.

  With a wince, he shrugged off his shirt.

  Steph gasped and dropped to her knees next to Floriza. “Dom! Oh my God.”

  “It looks worse than it is,” he said.

  “I don’t know, man,” Morgan said. “It doesn’t look good.”

  Dominic glanced down at the injuries on his shoulder and his side. Blood had soaked through the bandages, dark red against the white. New, smaller cuts littered his torso, sharp, stinging slices from the debris that had been flying through Steph’s apartment.

  “I’ll heal,” he said. He would. He’d had worse. “My bigger concern is the teleport—“ Morgan cleared his throat and Dom bit back the word. Idiot. He’d been about to spill the Rengallan equivalent of state secrets. “The transportation.”

  “Pressure bandages,” Floriza said and pulled the gauze free from his wounds then doused his side with a bottle of antiseptic. He bit back a curse because it stung like a mother.

  “I can do that,” Morgan said. He flicked his eyes to Floriza, a not-so-subtle indication that it was time for her to leave.

  “I guess my services aren’t needed after all.” She smiled as though she had heard Morgan’s undertone then pushed to her feet. “I’ll go.”

  Steph followed suit and hugged her friend. “Thanks, Flor. For the room and the first-aid kits… and—“ Her voice dropped. “—for not asking questions.”

  “I told you before. There are more things in this world than heaven and earth.” She smiled, pulled back. “I always had the feeling that you were one of them. Call me when you’re safe.”

  “Be careful,” Morgan said, his normally joking voice serious for a change. He gave her a business card. “The Dal— the people who were after us are extremely dangerous. You don’t want to get in their way. If anything happens, just call.”

  Floriza tilted her head to the side. “You’re right. They are dangerous.” She handed the card back. “But we — this place — have our own ways of protecting ourselves.”

  At the door, she paused, looked back, and met each of their eyes in turn. To Dominic. “Be safe.” Morgan. “Be smart.” And finally Steph. “Be open to the possibilities.”

  Then she was gone, the silence in her wake heavy.

  Morgan finally broke it. “She’s hot but weird as hell.”

  Steph snorted. Dom shook his head.

  “Alright then,” Morgan said. “I’ve got an idea about those pressure bandages.”

  “You’re a bastard,” Dom growled between clenched teeth.

  Morgan chuckled. “I’d be calling me worse if I was in your shoes.” Strands of magic, of green and brown and gold, hovered in the air and wrapped Dom’s torso.

  Tightly. Almost so he felt as though he couldn’t breathe.

  That wasn’t nearly the worst of it.

  The magic stung where it made contact with his skin, a just-on-the-wrong-side of pain coupled with the burning sensations of the bandages rubbing against his open wounds.

  Morgan was a bastard for having thought of it. A smart bastard, but a bastard nonetheless.

  “Hang on.” Morgan let the magic go, and it seeped into the cotton of the bandages, sliding through to rest against his skin.

  Dom grunted and bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood.

  Cool fingers touched his temple. “It’ll be alright.”

  He opened his eyes, stared at Steph — at the concern on her face, the way her lips were pressed tightly together — and he could have kicked himself for giving her yet another thing to worry about.

  “Yes. It will— Shit!“

  Morgan settled another layer of magic against Dom’s torso.

  “Sorry. Last one, I think.”

  Black was intruding on the edges of his vision. “I’m fine. Don’t use too much.”

  “I’ve got plenty of juice left.”

  Lucky bastard.

  Morgan had turned the corner, his magic flowing back in, his wounds slowly knitting themselves back together in the annoying way that all Rengalla possessed.

  As if it weren’t bad enough that they had all four types of elemental magic and lived more than a thousand years
but they had to have accelerated healing too?

  Sometimes… sometimes Dom really wanted to say FML and go live in Tahiti.

  By the time Morgan finished laying the final layer of magic — a combination of Air and Fire magic that he’d said would both hold its shape and Dom’s guts in place at the accelerated speed of teleportation as well as help cauterize the wounds, Dom was ready to pass out.

  He hadn’t. Of course he hadn’t.

  It was just that his eyes slid closed, and only very distantly did he hear Steph and Morgan talking.

  “Will you be able to teleport us back?”

  “Let’s give him some time to recover, and I’ll get us to the Colony.”

  The couch shifted, and Dom recognized the clean feminine scent of Steph. It relaxed him, let him fall further away from reality.

  “Okay.” A beat of quiet. “I don’t really understand what all of the fuss is about. If you can teleport, why not just bring us now? It should only take a couple of seconds, right?”

  Morgan’s laugh was soft. “Not exactly. It’s about seven hundred miles, and while I can travel fast, that distance will take about ten minutes.”

  “That’s not really that long, you know.”

  Dom’s lips curved; his eyes stayed closed.

  “It is when you’re injured, and your body isn’t meant to travel at speeds like that,” Morgan said. “Look, I shield the Rengalla — and myself — when we travel, and still some of them are affected by the acceleration and deceleration to reach top speed. We possess all of the elements, are able to control earth and wind, fire, and water.” He sighed. “That makes us less susceptible to those changes in velocity, but some still have a hard time handling it.”

  There was a creaking sound, which Dom thought must be the spindly armchair straining under Morgan’s bulk.

  “A human, or a human-plus like you and the rest of the Forgotten, are at risk. Your brains, your organs, your skin isn’t as tough as ours. And I wouldn’t want either of you hurt.”

  “But didn’t you teleport him here?”

  “I did teleport him here. When he was healthy and with a special shield, as well as at a lower speed—“