Page 30 of Bite Back

ASHER

My phone buzzes. Delilah’s name flashes across the screen, and I hit the accept button.

Heavy pants crackle over the static over the phone line. Goosebumps prick my skin. Something’s not right.

“Hello?”

No answer.

“Delilah?”

Still no answer. Nothing besides her rapid breath. I reach up, scraping my hands through my hair, needing something to grasp. Something’s wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.

And I’m not there.

Shit.

I grasp the situation, even before his voice comes through, cold and steely.

I can’t make out the words. I ratchet the volume up to the max and hold the phone up to my ear, eyes screwed shut.

But however much I strain, all I catch is static and muffled voices.

And I need any and every detail that can point me in the right direction. Towards Luka. Towards Delilah.

It hits me then: I’m more concerned about finding her, than finding him.

I navigate my phone with sweaty hands. I shoot a quick text off to the Academy’s tech department. A demand. Trace, now. They’ll be fast. I’ve done this a million times before. But this is the first time my heart’s been pounding out of my chest. The first time I’ve felt out of control.

Images flash through my mind unbidden. My family on the floor, their bodies pale, splashed with crimson. Delilah on the ground, body splayed out, arms akimbo. Not undead, but dead dead. I take a deep breath, the air rattling on my shaky inhale. Not yet. Not ever, if I have anything to say about it.

She’s strong. She’s a fighter. More than likely, she can handle this with or without my help. But still, a small voice in my brain wars with me. She called me. She wants me. She wants help.

I take deep breaths. I don’t have time to panic. Not now. Not when Delilah needs me.

I head to the closet by the door, where my supplies are stashed. I run through a mental checklist, ticking off the items I need to outfit myself. I still don’t have a location, so I need to be ready for anything.

My eyes never leave my phone as I strap my weapons to my body.

I slit each stake into its holster with a grunt.

I want to move, I need to move. I’ve loaded my body to the brim with weapons.

Run down my checklist and double checked it.

And then triple checked it. The temptation to strap on more holsters and weapons is strong. Just to do something.

But I need to preserve my mobility. A weapon is only useful if you’re able to wield it. And my body, my training, are as much a weapon as any piece of equipment I can strap to myself. I flex my arms and stretch my legs, testing my agility. I’m ready. I stare at my phone, willing it to buzz.

I pounce on my phone the moment it does. An address. Finally.

I bolt out of the loft, the door slamming shut behind me, and bound down the stairs two at a time.

My clattering footsteps echo through the stairwell.

I burst onto the street, cold air enveloping me.

I take off at a sprint, mentally mapping my route.

It’s late enough that the subway’s slowed down, so it’ll be quicker to head there by foot this time of night.

Arms pumping and feet pounding the concrete, my breath comes out in measured pants.

Given the time of night, the streets are thankfully pretty empty.

I dodge the shadowy forms of stray passersby as I head towards her.

With each pound of my feet on the pavement, a single refrain echoes in my head.

Delilah will not die. Delilah will not die. Delilah will not die.

Not if I have anything to do about it.

I’m winded by the time I pull up to the edge of the playground.

I want to barrel in, but that’s not smart.

And I can’t gamble. Not with Delilah’s life.

So I creep along the edge of the lot, masking my movements in the shadows of overgrown trees.

I pick my way towards them, carefully avoiding the leaves and branches that might crackle.

I slink along in the shadows. Do I come closer?

Do I announce myself? Or do I wait and watch and observe more?

I decide on the latter. It’s important to Delilah that she handles things herself. And I’m not going to take that from her. Not when she’s had so much taken already.

Still, though, I draw a stake into my hand.

There.

She’s sprawled out across the ground, limbs stretched out. Her hair fans out beneath her, like a flaming halo.

She’s alone.

And she’s still. So fucking still.

Shit.

I sprint towards her, sinking to my knees. With her arm extended and her face so horribly still, she looks like a portrait of Ophelia, tragic and doomed.

Suddenly, she bolts upright, head swiveling wildly, eyes darting every which way.

“He’s gone. Delilah, he’s gone.”

Tears slide down her flushed cheeks, and I wipe the warm droplets gently with my palm. I scoop her up into my arms, and she crumples into me. She’s not a small woman, but she clings to me like a drowning child. I bury my face in her shoulder, the smell of roses washing over me.

I trace soft circles along her shoulders.

There are things I could say. Things I should say.

That she wasn’t ready to go after him on her own.

That I would have helped her if she’d let me.

I wish I could rewind somehow, redo this.

Give her a different ending. She’s suffered enough disappointment for a lifetime.

But nothing I do or say can fix it, can turn back the clock.

So I do what I can. I hold her until the tears dry up.

Until the sobs turn to sniffles. Until she finally breaks away, staring at me with an unreadable look in her eyes.