Tooth and Nail (36 page)

As evening approached, I finally snapped off the TV and shut down the computer. I stretched out on the sofa. Victorious, yes. But was I satisfied?

Not by a long shot.

That bastard had destroyed my family for a little bit of fun, then—driven by his apparent hatred of both races—didn’t hold up his end of the bargain with Dad. He forced me out of hiding to transform and take him on. Then my transformation shattered my relationship with the man I loved.

He slowed progress to the Olde Way by stealing human children’s innocence, and I didn’t doubt we could shake that off and catch up. But I had no idea how many children he’d gotten to or for how long, or—

Riley Clayton had said he wasn’t working with the midnight fae, but that they could very well pick up where he left off.

I put two fingers to each of my temples and tried to press the inevitable conclusion out of my head, but I couldn’t do it. The midnight fae could have slipped into the psyches of the most affected, most vulnerable children, and expanded their hate and hurt until their still-growing bodies couldn’t contain it anymore and it exploded out of them in fists and screams and guns.

Until it turned them into demons.

Those kids, those hate-infected newly psycho kids, they could influence other kids. There were plenty of kids who never tasted Smile Wide who were just sad, hurt, lonely kids out of circumstance. They could be easily influenced by their midnight fae-puppeted peers.

This was out there now, out there in my city, in Washington. The corrupt politics of this city wouldn’t be able to compete with the corruption inside these kids, a dark manifestation of something I didn’t know yet.

I hoped I wasn’t right. I hoped he wasn’t right. But I knew we were.

I hated Clayton all over again. It was easy to hate him. I’d succeeded in beating him down, but I
needed
him to suffer for hurting me, and for opening the door—however unwittingly—for a different evil to take root and grow. I wanted him to live in torment, to crawl on bloody knees and shake his fist in the air, screaming my name. I wanted him to cry at night at his failure. I wanted him to never experience a moment of happiness or peace.

But it was over now, and I’d beaten him. Clayton had to know the only thing he could do for himself was to fade into obscurity. My job was done, and my next task was to pick up the pieces of the things Clayton had broken and glue them back together.

Superhero movies never showed this part, did they? The bad guy lost and the good guy won, and the good guy was satisfied. You never saw him wondering,
well, that’s done, but now am I supposed to do with the mess he left me with
? You never saw him wrestling with the unresolved rage and conflict within himself. It was all neatly wrapped up into a happy ending.

I fell asleep on the sofa wondering what it would take to secure my happy ending, and I knew I’d settle for Avery walking in the door and telling me he was ready to try.

>=<

When I woke up, I was alone and my back hurt. I glanced at the time on the cable box and slammed my knee on the ground as I scrambled to grab the remote and turn the TV on, skimming through channels until I landed on Avery.

He’d decided on the red tie. He and Graham Wright were laughing about something I’d missed completely, but I could tell even before either of them spoke again that the interview was going well.

I piled a few pillows behind me and sank my aching back into them as I watched Avery, the famous man I had a crush on, finish his interview.

“So,” Graham said, “looks like there’s some interesting stuff happening in D.C. today. A dentist,” he said to the studio audience with his trademark snaggle-toothed grin, “created toothpaste that is so bad for kids, they’re yanking it from the market.”

Oh, no.

“That’s right, Graham. In fact,” Avery said, leaning forward, “I’m taking the lead on this issue because I find it profoundly disturbing that this might have been routinely rubber-stamped by the FDA. As district attorney, I’m seeing to it that this case is investigated thoroughly.”

Oh, no. Avery just couldn’t get mixed up in this now.

“You think this Doctor”—Graham consulted a blue index card—“Doctor Riley Clayton set out to hurt kids on purpose?”

“I’m not saying that,” Avery said. “I don’t know that to be or not be the issue. What I am saying is that the public deserves assurance that the products they buy and rely on to take care of their kids’ health are safe. We’re going to get to the bottom of this toothpaste situation, and hopefully get measures in place to avoid another near-crisis.”

“Tell us the truth,” Graham said. “Do you floss every day?”

“Well,” Avery said with a sheepish smile.

“Because,” Graham told him, “you look exactly like the kind of person who does. The kind of person the rest of us pretend to be.”

While the audience laughed, I groaned. Just when I had kicked Riley Clayton to the curb, Avery was going to pick him up and shake him until he rattled. As much as I’d just been thinking Clayton should have gotten more grief, I didn’t want Avery to be the one to give it to him. As long as Avery was involved, I was still involved. Shit.

Graham thanked Avery for coming on to the show and as they stood to shake hands, I watched my boyfriend, along with millions of faceless viewers. I wondered when I would see him again. Even though I hoped with all my heart it would be tomorrow, I had a terrible feeling that it wouldn’t, that our relationship was done.

And I had a more terrible feeling that Clayton
wasn’t
done.

CHAPTER 22

"I
need to see you.”

As much as I’d wanted to hear those words, I was hearing them from the wrong person. “Mahoney,” I said into the phone, “It’ll have to wait. I’ve got some stuff to take care of here.”

I hoped he wouldn’t ask what stuff, because I didn’t want to confess I was committed to camping out under the blankets in bed all day with the phone, waiting for Avery to come home or call. I’d gotten zero sleep last night, scripting what I’d say if he walked in the door today, and planning how I’d try to find him and change his mind if he didn’t. “Listen,” I said to the Digger, “if this is about our deal, we can talk another time.” That is, after I’d consulted Frederica, et al., for advice on how much I could tell Mahoney about the fae.

“It’s not about that,” he said. “It’s Clayton.”

“What about him?” I sat up partway, and my hair rubbed against the sheet, crackling with static and zapping my earlobe. “Ow. Did he contact you?”

I heard a loud muffle, as if he’d covered the phone with his hand, then the line cleared again. “Gemma,” he said. “It’s really important that you meet me now.”

“Just tell me what’s up,” I said.

“I can’t,” he said, and I sat up straighter, pulling the sheets away from me. His voice was as flat as a floorboard, with no trace of his trademark cockiness. No bragging about breaking the biggest story of his blogging career, no coaxing me to give him the information I’d promised, no teasing banter with a glaringly obvious ulterior motive. Nothing.

That’s how I knew things had gone very wrong.

“Is he there?” I asked. “Is he with you right now?”

Say no
, I begged silently. At a keyboard, Mahoney was a force of nature. But he’d be no match for a scorned and shamed half-fae.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Can you meet me at your boxing gym?”

I glanced at the clock. Quarter after noon. “I’m leaving now on my bike. But it’s still going to take me a little while.”

“I’m there now,” he said. “I’m out front. Just—you have to get here.” A note of panic broke through his monotone. “I’m sorry. He made me -”

He was cut off and I heard scuffling. I stumbled out of bed, scooped up the same pair of jeans I’d worn yesterday, and held the phone with my shoulder as I jammed one leg in. “I’m on my way,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything. Can you hang on?”

He didn’t answer. I fell onto the bed to shove my other leg into my pants. “Hang on,” I said, my own voice cracking. “Greg, hang on!”

The only response was a disconnection.

I threw on a T-shirt over my sports bra and pushed my feet into sneakers. I rushed over to the dresser, grabbed a fistful of my belongings—house keys, loose change, Fae Phone and cell phone, the tooth pouch from Reese—and stuffed it all into my hip pockets.

As I bolted from the condo, I tripped over one of Avery’s running sneakers, keeping myself upright by slamming my arm into the door frame. Dreading I might be too late, I prayed to whatever fae gods existed that my screw-ups wouldn’t hurt anyone else but me. I banged the door shut behind me and ran.

>=<

My bike brakes screeched in protest when I got to Smiley’s. I hopped off the bike before it came to a full stop and shoved it against the front wall. Panting from the exertion of riding here at top speed and trying to stay on my wobbly, sore legs, I looked around. No Mahoney.

“Mahoney!” I yelled. The only other person on the street, a man in a dirty denim jacket walking a Chihuahua, eyed me and hurried around the corner, his dog clicking frantically after him. “Greg!”

I was about to head inside when I heard it: a soft moan. I slipped into the narrow space between Smiley’s and a Chinese take-out place and pushed around a bundle of white trash bags until I uncovered a man’s foot in a flip-flop. I threw off a few more bags to find Mahoney in a T-shirt and long shorts, his eyes half-closed. His blood everywhere.

“Greg!” I yelled into his face. “Wake up! Wake up. Stay with me. I’ll get you help.”

“Gem-“ he said, and his right hand curled, clutching at air. “No,” he breathed. “Don’t help—me. He has him. Clayton … ” He coughed and the blood ran harder down his white shirt. “Clayton has him.”

“Who?” I asked, gently guiding him upright and laying him against my shoulder as I stood.

He flopped against me as I half pushed him over my back. His voice hissed against my sweaty shirt. “He has—McCormack.”

Avery. Oh, God. Oh, God.

I staggered under his weight and dragged us both to the front door, where Shirley and Not-Rocky were now chatting. Shirley was locking the door. Smiley didn’t work on Sundays, and the regulars took the responsibility of closing up early.

“What the hell?” Not-Rocky asked, dropping his gym bag to help me with Mahoney. Shirley twisted back around and unlocked the door, kicking it open, and the three of us managed to get Mahoney in and lying on the floor.

Even fully occupied, the gym was a dim cave. It was even darker now, with no lights and the blinds on the two tiny windows drawn. Mid-afternoon sunlight squeezed in between two broken blinds, and dust danced in its wake.

“Are you okay?” Not-Rocky asked me, cupping the back of my head and glancing down at my blood-stained shirt.

“I’m fine. It’s all him.” I looked down at Mahoney, who had shut his eyes again. His chest rose up and down and his breath rasped through his parted lips. The blood came from his nose—and his ears.

“Oh, no,” I whispered. “It’s all me. This is all me.”

“Who is this guy?” Not-Rocky asked.

Mahoney groaned and his arm twitched. I grabbed his wrist. “Where’s Clayton?” I demanded. “Where’s Avery?”

He shook his head back and forth, back and forth, his eyes still closed to the world he was leaving. “Don’t know,” he mumbled. “You have to—you have to find them. He killed me. He’ll kill him.”

My heart iced over.

“S-s-sorry,” he said, his body convulsing with shivers.

“It’s okay,” I whispered, even though it really, really wasn’t. I let go of his wrist.

Shirley pulled off his black track jacket, rolled it up and put it under Mahoney’s head as Not-Rocky grabbed the first-aid kit off the wall and pulled out rolls of gauze. “I’m calling 911,” Shirley said as I pulled out my own phone and speed-dialed Svein.

“No one is calling anyone.”

We all turned.

Clayton stepped out from behind the ring, from the darkest corner of the room.

“Who are you?” Shirley demanded, just as Not-Rocky said, “How’d you get in here?”

Clayton moved a little closer, and Shirley broadened his chest and stared him down. Not-Rocky, crouching beside Mahoney on the floor, stood up.

“You did this?” Not-Rocky asked, pointing at Mahoney. “You beat the crap out of this guy? He needs an ambulance.”

“You need to shut up and get out,” Clayton said, and despite his words, his tone was affable. He smiled at me. “Gemma, tell them.”

“Guys,” I said, and dropped my phone. First Greg, then Avery. I couldn’t let two more people I cared about walk into this fire. “Guys, I’ve got this.”

“Yeah, guys, she’s got this,” Clayton echoed. “Go on home. Gemma and I have some unfinished business to take care of.” He cut his eyes to me, and it became clear to all of us how he intended to finish it.

“Not goin’ anywhere,” Shirley said, moving to stand in front of me. “And right now, your business isn’t with her. It’s with me.”

I laid a restraining hand on Shirley’s cement block of a shoulder, and he gently lifted my fingers and pushed me further back behind him.

“Then why don’t you come on over here?” Clayton said, smirking. “And we’ll get down to that business.”

“Surely,” said Shirley.

If this was my first encounter with Shirley, and if he was coming at me the way he was coming at Clayton now, I’d be praying for a quick end. In one motion, Shirley cracked the knuckles of his right hand and pulled his elbow back to deliver his championship punch.

But all he hit was air, because Clayton vanished.

Shirley’s back was to me, and I couldn’t see his face, but I’m sure he was blinking in confusion. He turned his head to the right and the left, then pulled his arm back in to his body, raising both fists in front of his face to defend.

But even Shirley couldn’t stop what he couldn’t see coming.

The heavyweight champ’s right knee suddenly buckled. He struggled to stay upright, but then he clutched at his stomach with a cry of anger before an invisible force slammed into his skull. He spun and crashed to the floor like a solid slab of granite.

Clayton materialized, looked down at the unconscious Shirley and laughed out loud. “Riley Clayton in a KO!” he shouted, throwing one arm up in the air.