Page 15 of Snag (Conduit #2)

FOUR

A most determined Presh and an equally grumpy DeVille are waiting for us at the top of the second-floor stairs, both glowering at Coda’s back as the tech heads down to the main floor.

DeVille is fully clothed, and his splint has been removed, but he’s clearly still favoring his leg.

Doc Z must have stopped in to check on the teens at some point during Rath’s and my argument.

Or I lost more time to that nothingness that keeps trying to —

Presh waves a phone in her hand, presumably indicating it’s my device. I must have left it in my room at some point. Though as I think about it, I’m pretty sure it was charging downstairs earlier.

I definitely don’t like this forgetful thing I’ve got going on. At what point do I become a liability to those around me?

I’m also not too pleased with the expression on the young awry’s face. She’s geared for an argument. I might have Coda to thank for that.

“I need some pants,” I say, heading it all off. For a moment, at least. The sweater I’m wearing is fine, though the fair isle yoke and drop sleeves are a little restrictive. But the ankle-length gathered silk skirt I’m wearing is really not meant for early March.

I veer into my bedroom, Presh on my heels, then Rath after her. I narrow my eyes in warning at Rath over my shoulder, and he miraculously realizes he doesn’t have my permission to enter my personal space. He steps back to hover in the open doorway instead.

DeVille leans against the hall across from the door, eyes shut, head back, as if he’s going to attempt to nap upright.

My bed has been made, which is sweet of Presh.

She’s abandoned her cocoon of blankets somewhere, swapping it out for black leggings and a black-printed T-shirt under a lilac hoodie.

The print on the shirt is a faded Outcast MC logo.

The hoodie matches one of the washed-out stripes in her pastel rainbow hair.

Already fairly certain that I don’t have anything appropriate to wear that’s clean— otherwise I wouldn’t have been traipsing around in a silk skirt all morning— I stumble over my suitcase in the entrance of the shallow walk-in closet.

Presh peers over my shoulder. “Pinky dropped it off at the gate earlier. Doc Z brought it up when she checked in.”

A note is taped to the suitcase. I pull it off to read it.

Thank you, Conduit.

For protecting my Grinder.

I’m in your debt.

— Patricia ‘Pinky’ Wood

Essence stirs around my hands, then settles into my skin.

Ah, fuck. That’s … not good .

Pinky, aka Patricia Wood, is the mage who oversees the Outcast MC’s cleaning — both for their legitimate business and their bloodier dealings.

She and Grinder are chosen mates. She and I haven’t even met yet, but despite my death-induced hazy memory, I know exactly what the mage is accepting a debt for.

At the Crescent Moon Inn on the outskirts of Cannon Beach, the morning after dying while doing a terrible job of rescuing Presh from the Cataclysm bikers, I was nudged by the universe with a glimmer of a knowing .

From that nudge, I had Grinder take off his cut and leave his motorcycle behind the motel— allowing us to avoid an altercation with a group of unaffiliated shifter bikers.

That’s the protection Pinky is referring to in her note.

But it’s the declaration of being in my debt that bothers me.

Given the deliberate use of both her full name and biker handle, it’s obvious that Pinky knew what she was doing with this note. Grinder is aware of who my aunt was, and seems to be a believer in the whole goddess/worship/religious connection that occasionally comes with being the Conduit.

I don’t like people owing me favors that I haven’t earned. Or that I don’t intend to collect. It’s dangerous. For them. Because the universe can randomly decide to call in that chit whenever it pleases.

Admittedly, anthropomorphizing the universe might not be that rational on my part. But when your entire life is randomly fucked with by a power outside anyone’s control — even my own — it can come off as incredibly mercurial.

Focusing on my concern over Pinky’s now-sworn favor, rather than obsessing over the unfathomable why of the universe, I crouch to open the suitcase.

It’s neatly packed, including all new cosmetics and skin creams. Mage brewed, though not my usual brand.

Such things aren’t easy to obtain on short notice, but I have no doubt these are almost as good as my own.

The suitcase also holds clothing and belongings I never expected to see again.

After shedding my mostly ruined clothes at the beach where Breaker had died — where I had died — I left everything else at the motel, neatly bundled with all the towels Presh and I had used to clean up.

My suitcase thankfully held enough clean clothing for both of us.

I have an indistinct memory of Grinder grabbing that bundle, expecting him to have it burned because that’s the most efficient way to deal with residual blood or essence.

Instead, Pinky spent a lot of time and essence to scour all of it clean. Including my favorite boots, my unlabeled designer bag, and my knitting. Those last two, I left behind because I was fairly certain the Outcast MC had planted tracking bugs on them. Or that Rought had, specifically.

Since it’s pretty clear that all of the Outcast now know where I live, that isn’t much of a concern anymore. Plus, tracking me is next to impossible. Unless, of course, the universe wants me found.

“Thank you,” I whisper into the aether. Then, deliberately holding the note between my fingers, I press my hands over the clothing in the open suitcase and murmur a second time, “Thank you, Pinky,” in the hopes it will void the debt the mage foisted on me with her note.

No essence stirs under or around my hands. Or the note.

Apparently, saving Grinder from whatever would have befallen him had the unaffiliated shifters happened upon him at the motel isn’t offset by clean clothing.

“Shit.” I sigh .

“Those are your favorite boots,” Presh says, watching me intently.

I chuckle, looking up at her. “Did I say that?”

“More than once.”

I hum quietly, quickly unpacking all my favorite clothing from the suitcase, including my once-again-pristine vegan-leather, merino-lined black leggings, and a thin-knit cashmere sweater that hangs perfectly off one of my shoulders.

I left both, along with my boots, behind at the beach after I killed Breaker.

After I stupidly left Chains alive, because it wasn’t his time to die then. No more so than it was last night.

I change quickly, though for some reason, I don’t swap the unusually sexy camisole-and-panty set that I found in the drawer earlier this morning for my simple sports bra.

Okay, I know why I’m suddenly interested in pretty, lacy things. The timing is just a little inappropriate.

I tuck my necklace under the sweater and the camisole. The large pink diamond caged in its golden threads rests between my breasts, neither warm nor cold against my skin.

“Coda found Bellamy,” Presh says in a rush, as if she’s been holding it in and can’t wait a moment longer, not even for me to finish tying my boots.

“Yes,” I say, slinging the designer bag over my shoulder and double-checking that I have a backup pair of sunglasses. Running a brush through my hair would also be a good idea, but not wanting to delay any longer, I settle on a quick finger-combing-and-ear-tuck combo.

Presh slides my phone into a side pocket in my bag, as if I can’t be trusted to do so myself.

She’s not wrong.

“I’m coming with you,” the young awry says firmly.

From outside the bedroom, Rath shouts, “Absolutely fucking not!”

Shifters have excellent hearing, not that Precious was being quiet about her demands. Annoying shifters also have bothersome opinions and seem intent on foisting their demands off on me.

Yes, I’m apparently still mad at Rath.

I grab a clearly hand-knit brioche rib scarf in a pretty gradient — a light gray through a few shades of purple to black — off a hanger near the door, then step out into the bedroom as I wrap it around my neck.

Even looped twice and with a fringe, it’s long enough to fall to midthigh. But delightfully lightweight.

I have no idea who would have knit such a beautiful piece of art for me to wear. But this time, I allow myself to simply be pleased by the idea that someone cared enough for me to do so, rather than disconcerted.

Presh follows so closely that she’s practically pressed against me, speaking earnestly. She blatantly ignores her older brother hovering in the doorway. “She killed my best friend. I deserve to go.”

Rath crosses his arms, completely blocking our exit into the hall. “You will not set one foot off this property —”

“Fine.” I walk right up to Rath, forcing him to cede the way. He does. “Let’s go.”

“What the fuck?! No!” Rath snarls at my back as I step out into the hall. Presh glances over her shoulder, chewing her lip worriedly. “This isn’t some fucking game, Zaya. Some way to get back at me for some ridiculous grudge or perceived slight.”

Passing DeVille, whose wary gaze flicks between Presh and the dragon shifter at my heels, we continue down the corridor .

“Rath …” Presh whispers, now caught between her brother and me.

“The last time I trusted you, Zaya,” Rath says. “You nearly got Precious killed.”

“Whoa!” Presh pivots, pressing her palms against Rath’s chest. Well, his lower rib cage. The young awry is tiny next to her overprotective brother. Though he’s not entirely wrong. “That’s not —”

I whirl back at the top of the stairs, gripping the post of the walnut handrail. Because I suddenly feel like punching the massive asshole, and I’m slightly thrown by that extreme reaction.