Page 7 of Snag (Conduit #2)

TWO

I slip away from the eating area off the kitchen, leaving Gigi to not-so-subtly interrogate the others in attendance— aka gathering ammunition— as Cayley and Rath cook up another round of breakfast for everyone. Or maybe it’s now an early lunch?

The kitsune shifter took off after Coda and Gigi arrived, only to reappear with enough groceries to feed a small army.

Which isn’t an inaccurate assessment of the power gathered around the overly full breakfast table.

The eggs, milk, and butter I found in the fridge earlier — presumably also thanks to Cayley — were apparently only enough to make muffins, scalloped potatoes, and feed the bottomless pit DeVille calls a stomach.

Gigi took one look at Cay — the patch-decorated leather jacket, the skintight black jeans, and the perfectly manicured maroon nails — and decided they were destined to be friends.

Gigi doesn’t have friends. She has responsibilities, of which I assume I’m one, but I’m honestly not sure the combat mage even likes Coda.

But Cay’s answering smiles are just as sharp edged, so I have no doubt the two will find a level just below outright mayhem and maiming.

Neither Rought nor Coda have yet made an appearance in the main house.

As I cross into the mudroom for boots and the back door, Rath’s gaze is heavy on me. I have no doubt he wants to discuss Mack’s photographs. But between that expectation and the smell of frying bacon, I need to focus elsewhere, on something actionable.

The dire mage.

Also, what the fuck happened to my Aunt Disa? And why the fuck whatever she knew was coming — with enough time to order an ice-cream maker and for Mack to curate his photographs — wasn’t worth a phone call to me, her supposed successor?

And to solve both of those nagging issues, I need Coda.

The rain has increased enough to leave small pools of water on the weathered back steps. Ignoring my continued confusion over the general neglectful upkeep of the property, I hike up my silk skirt so I don’t trip over it for the dash through the rain from the back of the house toward the barn.

The rig that Gigi parked behind the barn is now in the driveway, leaving Coda’s sleek trailer all but hidden from view between the barn and the orchard. Though the still-winter-bare apple and pear trees don’t offer much protection.

I assume the truck is a rental and needs to be returned. Which means Coda and Gigi are planning on staying. For a while, at least. And oddly, that pleases me. Comforts me?

I usually don’t like people in my space.

But how much of that individualistic behavior might have been tied to what’s been stolen from me ?

I skirt the shiny black-metal cargo container, looking for the entrance. A single satellite dish is affixed to the top, and two more have been set up on the peak of the barn. I have no doubt there are more, or will soon be more, that I can’t see from this low angle.

Coda has put Rought to work rather efficiently.

I find a door about a third of the way along. But it’s high enough off the ground, the container still set on the wheeled trailer, that I have to strain to reach the handle. The door swings open outwardly easily enough when unlatched, but with nothing to step on, my skirt is going to be —

Rought appears in the doorway. Reaching down for me, he effortlessly swings me up into his arms. His energy instantly wraps around me, and I shamelessly cling to that, to his warmth, even though I haven’t been outside long enough to get truly chilled.

I also haven’t been away from him long enough to miss his presence quite as much as I obviously am.

“Close the door,” Coda snaps from somewhere deeper inside.

When we first met in Belize— or rather, when we rescued each other from the mercenaries hunting the awry tech— Coda’s accent hinted at Latin American origins.

But after all these years, it’s a more neutral North American now.

Even as the political landscape on this continent tends to keep Coda elsewhere as much as possible.

With the essence they wield over tech and the digital realm, Coda can work from anywhere and still reach every part of the world they wish to reach.

Between the Authority and the Federation, North America isn’t that friendly to awry.

It isn’t that friendly to other unaffiliated essence-wielders in general, though there are pockets where the awry and those with essence are protected and nurtured.

At least as much as that’s possible when those without the ability to wield essence, aka the nulls, vastly outnumber us, and power-hungry individuals or organizations hunt us.

The Phrontistery Academies are one such pocket. Fortified by generations of protection — both financially and literally — the academies’ primary objective is to nurture talent.

Which is exactly why that’s where I should send Precious. With DeVille.

Rought, still holding me tucked firmly against him, reaches out with his free arm and yanks the door closed behind me, shutting out most of the light.

For a moment, before my eyes adjust to the low ambient light emanating from all the tech lining the walls and the low lighting around Coda’s workstation situated at the far end of the container, we’re sheltered within that sudden darkness.

I shove back my unsettling thoughts about sending Presh away. I will if that’s what’s best for her. But it’s … too soon. Too soon to make any other significant changes. For either of us.

Rought runs his hand down my back, fingertips lightly caressing my spine through my hand-knit sweater. I burrow closer to him, then press a kiss just under his jaw as if it’s a tiny secret I’m sharing with him.

He palms the back of my head, angling to press his own kiss to my lips.

I breathe him in, reminding myself — a little shakily — that it’s okay, even if just for a moment, to be this dependent on another person.

It’s okay that his presence steadies me.

After all, that is his purpose according to the universe.

Or it was before those threads of fate were stripped from us.

Who am I to argue with or deny what the universe wove for our souls?

“Fuck off,” Coda grouses, startling me even though the awry tech’s essence permeates the darkened space.

A quick glance in their direction confirms they aren’t talking to me or about us.

“Fuck the fuck right off!” Coda snarls, fingers tapping harshly on their keyboards.

Only three of the dozen screens surrounding Coda’s main workspace appear to be working properly.

The others glitch occasionally as Coda’s fingers continue to fly over the three keyboards set on a narrow desk— if ‘keyboard’ is still the correct terminology for the custom-built tech the awry hacker has rigged to their extensive systems. One of the boards appears to be cobbled together from old mechanical keyboards — the central one, which glows a soft lilac and clacks with each touch of Coda’s fingers.

But the other two are sleek, with nary a letter or symbol on any of their buttons. Keys? Pads? Trackpads?

I really have no idea what I’m looking at.

“Might need to get a dish on top of the main house,” Rought says helpfully. His voice rumbles through his chest, warming me in places that really have no reason to be warm. Certainly not while in the heart of Coda’s command center.

“Is it the intersection point?” I ask.

Coda flinches, then spins around in their chair to glare at me as if they didn’t sense my presence when I entered.

Possibly owing to the set of black headphones they wear, though one cup is skewed behind the tech’s ear.

With their purple eyes darkened by black-rimmed, blue-tinted glasses, the tech appears paler than usual.

Tall but slim, verging on skinny, and with chestnut-brown hair long enough to brush their jawline.

And badly in need of a shampoo. “What the fuck, Zaya!?”

“Hey!” Rought reprimands the tech.

I lay my palm on the center of the gryphon shifter’s chest, and he settles into a glower. Rather than beating Coda into submission.

I once again ignore the inappropriate thrill that runs down my spine at Rought’s display of dominant possession. Over me, about me.

No one protects me. Not outright like that. Not even my aunt did so.

The awry tech completely disregards the pissy shifter. “Stop blocking me.”

“I’m not doing it,” I say calmly, understanding that being at all cut off from their tech — or at least restricted in reach — is going to upset Coda on a visceral level. “You said it was a blank spot, remember? When I first called you from here? Even with one of your phones.”

“Tech works here,” Rought says, just a little unhelpfully.

“Maybe well enough for your insignificant reach,” Coda snaps back at the gryphon shifter, spinning in the chair to turn their back on us.

Rought opens his mouth to retort, but I shake my head at him. He huffs, then nods with a grimace.

I close the space between Coda and me, ignoring that I’m suddenly chilled in all the places that were previously pressed against Rought. Because while I might be willing to entertain the idea of a soul bond, that reaction is just irrational.

Stacked against the walls with wires running overhead, tech hums around us at different frequencies. I have no idea what any of it is or does. Batteries? Hard drives? Servers?

“Don’t touch anything,” Coda mutters, fingers clacking across the keyboard directly in front of them.

The first few times I met or visited Coda in person, I inadvertently dispelled months of the tech’s work with a brush of my arm or hip.

Even before I was the Conduit, my essence instantly canceled out the power of the other awry.

Despite the fact that little trick is usually reserved for spells and such with malicious intent.