Chapter 5 Jenga tower
Eva
Vodka was a terrible idea. Cloves were worse. My whole damn life was a series of terrible ideas stacked on top of each other like a Jenga tower waiting for one good breeze.
Thanks, Mom.
I stumbled up the rickety stairs to my apartment, my keys scratching against the lock. The apartment was a tiny space with a view of a brick wall. But it was mine.
I slammed the door and locked it, then slid the chain into place. After that, I jammed a chair under the doorknob. Because why not? It’s not like any of that would stop what I saw tonight, but pretending felt better than the truth.
I slid down the door until my ass hit the floor, the blood from my ear painting a warm line down my neck. Fuck this. I scrambled back up.
Jacket, boots, dignity; everything hit the ground in a pile. I entered the bathroom and turned on the light. The bright, yellow glow made me look like death’s hungover cousin.
I leaned in close to the mirror and pushed my hair back from my left ear. The black ink of the wolf eating the moon was stark against my pale skin. And right behind it, the birthmark was starting to glow, a faint, sickly silver. The bleeding had stopped, but the mark throbbed. It thumped in time with my heart like it was trying to crawl out.
“What the hell is happening to me?” I whispered to the corpse in the mirror.
Cold water on my face didn’t help. Neither did staring at the girl who suddenly looked twelve again, hiding under a church pew while some preacher screamed about devils in the moonlight.
My stomach flipped. The room tilted.
I needed another drink. Five more drinks. A lobotomy.
I walked into the kitchenette and settled for the last beer. Twisted the cap off with my teeth, took a long pull, and leaned against the counter. Cheap Formica was the only thing in the room that wasn’t spinning.
A torc. A six-foot-eight nightmare with silver eyes who looked at me like I was already his. A wolf the size of a pickup truck running beside my bike at triple digits, silver eyes glowing, wearing the exact same torc around its neck.
Impossible.
But my body remembered him in ways my brain couldn't comprehend. A heat low in my belly, nipples tight, a pulse between my thighs that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way he’d mouthed one word:
Mine.
Beer sloshed over my shaking fingers.
“Get a grip, Eva.” I slapped my own cheek, light and stinging. “Just another Tuesday.”
The room went quiet, the only sounds being the hum of the mini-fridge and the distant wail of a police siren. I drank the rest of my beer and then grabbed my phone.
I had to contact the buyer; there was no other way to pay rent. I'd just lie. Tell them the torc was gone. A complication. It happens. They'll be pissed, but they'll get over it.
I pulled up the number and typed out a message.
"Change of plans. The target's been moved. Need more time."
I hit send before I could change my mind. Almost immediately, the reply came back.
"Unacceptable. We want the torc. We know you saw it. Get it. Or we collect from you instead."
My blood went cold. How the hell did they know I saw it? I hurled the phone onto the couch as if it were on fire.
Tomorrow could deal with tomorrow’s bullshit. Tonight I crawled into bed fully dressed, boots still by the door in case I had to run again.
I stared at the ceiling and waited for the moon to shut the hell up.
It didn’t. The moon continued to speak—not with words, but with pressure behind my eyes: a low throb that matched the ache between my legs and the one in my birthmark.
I rolled onto my stomach, shoved my face into the pillow, and told it to fuck off. It didn’t listen.
Sleep came in fits.
Every time I drifted off, I found myself back on the catwalk, silver eyes holding me like a butterfly pinned to cork. Each time I jerked awake, my panties were soaked and my heart was pounding like it wanted to break out of my chest.
At some point, the room became too bright. I cracked open an eye.
Moonlight streamed directly through the blinds, casting silver bars across the bed like prison stripes. One of those bars landed right across my throat. I sat up quickly, breathing heavily, sheets tangled around my legs.
The birthmark was burning now, hot enough that I almost expected to see smoke. I stumbled to the bathroom, flicked on the light, and yanked my hair away from my ear.
The crescent no longer glowed. It was bleeding through the ink, this time bright red, steadily dripping onto my collarbone.
My gaze flickered up, and carved into the mirror, fingertip-deep in the steam I hadn’t made, was one word in handwriting I didn’t recognize: SOON.
I didn’t scream.
But the beer I drank earlier came up quickly and violently, splashing the sink, the floor, and my bare feet. I gripped the porcelain until my knuckles turned white, staring at my reflection as the words slowly faded, as if they’d never been there at all.
Except the blood on my neck was real. The taste in my mouth was real. The ache low in my belly was real.
I rinsed my mouth, spat, and looked myself dead in the eye.
“Tomorrow,” I told the girl in the mirror, voice raw, “you get that torc, you get paid, and you get the hell out of Tennessee.”
She didn’t look convinced. Neither was I.