Dace folds my hand in his, gives it a squeeze of unspoken solidarity. “I would go with you, but…” He leaves the sentence unfinished, but we both know how it ends.
Can’t soul jump if you’re soulless.
“It’s better I go alone,” I say. “I need you here to watch over me while I’m gone. But if Suriel sees us, or if you start to feel like you’re losing your energy, don’t hesitate to break the connection and wake me.”
Dace pulls me close, presses a brief, sweet kiss on my lips. His softly whispered, “Be careful, Daire,” the last thing I hear before my energy merges with the raven’s and the two of us become one.
thirty-one
Daire
So far, the raven is turning out to be a very hospitable host. Allowing me to direct him as I please, as we follow the path set by Phyre’s car.
She drives fast and with purpose. Pushing the speed limit until the back wheels begin to fishtail—causing big puffs of dirt to spin in her wake. Still, she handles it well, as though she’s done this before. Refusing to slow until she pulls onto the private paved road that leads to the Richters’ massive, adobe-style compound, where she parks just outside the gate and settles in to wait.
She’s going to kill him? Now? Before most people have eaten their breakfast?
I direct the raven to a nearby tree. Choosing a limb that allows me an unobstructed view, I watch via his small beady eyes as Phyre flips down her sun visor and inspects her hair and makeup in the dirty, rectangular mirror. Satisfied with what she sees, she slaps the visor in place, holds an open palm before her, puckers her lips, and spits. Staring at the small pool of saliva with a gaze so transfixed, I can’t even begin to guess what she’s up to.
Is she bored? Has she completely lost her mind? Is this another method of scrying where she tries to read a deeper meaning in the formation of the bubbles, like some people do with tea leaves?
Her reverie broken by the electronic hum of the heavy, rod-iron gates swinging open, as Cade’s shiny, black, four-wheel-drive truck barrels out. And I watch as she wipes her hand on her leg, leaps from her car, and, with her arms spread wide, jumps right in front of him.
Cade slams on the brakes. Tires squealing in protest, which is surprising in and of itself. I would’ve figured he’d run her right over without looking back.
His truck lurches forward, as he lowers his window and cranes his neck out. “What the hell?” he shouts. “What’re you—crazy?”
“Maybe.” She bats her eyes. Grinning seductively as she makes her way to the open driver’s side window. “Only one way to find out.” She leans against the door and cocks her head to the side, encouraging a spray of curls to tumble into her eyes.
“I don’t have time for crazy,” Cade says, not the least bit intrigued. “As you can see, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“That’s too bad.” She pouts. “I was hoping you’d make time for me.”
“And why would I do that?” His features sharpen, though, if I’m not mistaken, his voice betrays a hint of burgeoning interest.
“Because I feel lonely. Despite all of my friends, I feel like no one truly understands me.”
“And I do?” He shucks a hand through his short crop of hair and snorts with amusement, but Phyre remains undeterred.
“We have a connection, Cade. Don’t try to deny it. You know there’s something between us. And so, I thought that maybe we could hang out. Keep each other company, or something…”
His face remains placid, hard to read. But I notice he doesn’t turn her away.
“I was on my way to town. But then I thought I’d stop by and see what you’re up to.” She runs a slow finger along the rim of the door, but despite the attraction, Cade’s not playing her game.
“I know you live in that dump of a trailer, Phyre. This is hardly on your way to town. Not to mention it’s six in the morning. You in the habit of dropping in on people so early?”
“Not people. Just you.” She lifts her chin, smiles through a halo of curls. “I know you like to go for an early morning run. I thought maybe I could join you?”
Cade looks her over, eyes glinting when he says, “You’re not exactly dressed for running.”
She lifts a shoulder. Tugs on her miniskirt. Remains grinning before him.
“You stalking me, Ph
yre?” His voice lowers, almost to the point of gruff. But I can’t read the tone. Is it desire? Disgust? Will he make her beg for it, because she’s coming dang close.
“Not stalking. More like … admiring,” she says. “There is a difference, you know.”