Iron (The Warding Book 1) Page 2

  “Nope.” To prove her point, Jenni licked the remaining icing off of the candle. Her mouth thinned into a line as she looked at me. “You’re still a little pale. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  I shrugged and made a show of looking down at my arms. “Me, pale? How could you tell?” She rolled her eyes at me again but that frown didn’t go away. I said, “I’m fine. Promise. Apparently I’m just too old to be out drinking past midnight anymore.”

  “Psh—there’s no such thing. I’m living proof. It’s like riding a bicycle or something. You fall off? You just get right back on.”

  “I think that one is about never forgetting how to do something or other, but close enough.” My stomach was happy now that is was filled with the fuel of a major sugar rush, but my headache dug in its heels, threatening to split my cranium open if I moved too fast. The freaky migraine-halo glow around everything had died down, but I sensed a date with a hefty dose of Excedrin in my future.

  Jenni disposed of the plate and pulled out a damp rag to wipe up the evidence of our little calorie splurge off the bar. “Can I get you that coffee or do you need to go?”

  I pulled my cellphone from my pocket and considered my options. Tomorrow was going to suck, no two ways about it. My boss was going to be her usual useless self, talking about her damn kids all day to whatever poor soul she could waylay, while the rest of our tiny four-person department answered a zillion phone lines. Nothing would change that. An extra hour or two of sleep might help keep me from strangling her with her own headset for another day, however. I shook my head. “Nah, I better go. Besides, I think the shock of getting old has sobered me up.”

  Her mock-pout still lacked the sympathy I thought I deserved. She said, “Not old, just older. Gimmie a sec. I’ll call you a cab.”

  I turned around in my seat and slowly scanned the bar in hopes that I would catch another glimpse of the nearly forgotten Mr. Hottie’s backside one more time. No dice. It appeared that he and his little friend had ducked out while I had been busy trying not to yack on my birthday cupcake. Perhaps his little friend had gotten cold feet. Fake ID or no, she hadn’t been fooling anyone. Well, except maybe Rodrigo. Which reminded me…

  I slipped off my stool and took a moment to curse myself for wearing heels. They were so not my thing—give me sneakers any day—and Jenni’s insistence that I wear them seemed even dumber now, since they certainly hadn’t helped me land any male companionship throughout the night. I retrieved my cute little burgundy leather jacket from the rack at the end of the bar and waved her back over before shrugging into it. “I’m gonna go to talk to Rodrigo for a minute, then I’ll wait outside. Some fresh air might not be the worst idea.”

  She came around the bar and engulfed me in a big hug. “Okay. Text me when you get home so I know you got there safe, okay?”

  I planted a big ol’ sloppy kiss on her cheek before letting her go. “You bet. Thanks for everything. You’re the best.”

  She batted her eyelashes and held a hand to her forehead in her best swooning damsel impression. “I know. I am, aren’t I? You’re just so darn lucky to have me.”

  “Totally am. Talk to you later.” After another quick hug, I made my way carefully to the door, stopping to lean casually against the wall of the alcove where Rodrigo was glued to his phone. The sight of a big, burly guy who was tattooed from head to toe playing Angry Birds with furious concentration made me smile. I cleared my throat. “That’s a dangerous game you’re playing there. I’ve heard it’s a hard addiction to ditch once you start.”

  Without looking up, he smirked. “Damn right. Blame the wife. She put it on my damn phone.” He scowled at the glowing screen. “Stupid game.” He slipped the phone back into his pocket. “Hey, it’s your birthday isn’t it?”

  I groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, they stop being fun this late in the game don’t they? Happy birthday anyhow.” Despite my whining, I accepted his hug with good grace.

  “Thanks.” I liked Rodrigo. He and his wife Sarah were good people, and they had their first baby on the way. Mr. Gilroy was a pretty easy going boss, from what Jenni told me, but if he caught word of anyone underage in his bar, it would be Rodrigo’s ass on the line. “Hey, I know it’s none of my business, but what was the deal with that girl who came in here earlier? She looked waaaaay too young, no matter what her ID said.”

  He gave me a puzzled look. “What girl?”

  “She was in here about five, maybe ten, minutes ago, with some tall, not-so-dark and handsome hottie.” I described them both and watched his look of confusion deepen.

  “I remember the dude, but he didn’t have a girl with him.”

  “Really? Maybe she slipped in after him or something? It definitely looked like she was with him. She got all freaked out when she saw me looking at her.” I was a bit lit, true, but I didn’t think I was drunk enough to start imaging that sort of shit. I turned back to scan the bar again, hoping I had been wrong and they were tucked away at one of the tables in the dark corners. “Sorry, Jenni distracted me with a cupcake. Maybe they left after I spooked her.”

  “Shit, that’s all I need right now.” Rodrigo stood and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Thanks for the heads up. I’ll take a look around and make sure.”

  If he hadn’t been so engaged in flinging little red birds at pigs, he might have been more up to speed on who was coming and going—but I kept that thought to myself. Feeling pretty noble for having my good deed of the night, I waved goodbye to Jenni and turned toward the door just as it opened inward. Perhaps if I had been one less sheet to the wind I could have avoided slamming head-on into the poor stranger who came through the door, but that was so not the case given my wobbly state. I grabbed a handful of the guy’s coat to keep from bouncing off his rather solid chest and falling to the floor, though it was a near thing. I righted myself fairly quickly and tried to brush the tangled mess of my hair out of my eyes as I looked up at the newcomer. “Sorry about that! I’m usually not this cl—”

  The words died in my throat. Fear alone kept me from jerking back and falling flat on my ass. I went rigid as my mind tried to process what it was seeing. Towering a good foot and a half above me, there was nothing human in the face that looked down at me. Ringed by a shaggy mane of thick, black hair, the proportions of his head were all wrong. The jaw hung too low and the forehead bulged like a shelf above deeply sunken, piggy eyes. His deeply wrinkled skin was the mottled blue-gray of a week old corpse pulled from the river. My stomach dropped for the second time that night.

  I looked back over my shoulder, trying to keep the panic off my face while hoping to see someone coming to my aid. Jenni and Rodrigo were chatting by the end of the bar, caught up in some tale that involved a lot of spastic arm-waving on Jenni’s part. The couple seated at the closest table returned my stare with puzzled looks of their own for only a split second before returning to their intimate conversation. No one seemed phased by the hulking Neanderthal blocking my path.

  My brain screamed Oh my God, oh my God! and tried to run and hide in the corner of my cranium, but a calm, collected center I was surprised to find I still had deep inside took over. It told me to keep my cool and not lose my shit. Something seriously fucked up was going down and, given the calm of everyone else in the bar, I had the inkling that that thing might be me. I turned back. My voice cracked, but I kept it from trembling too much. “Sorry there, sir. Didn’t mean to run into you like that. I might have had a few too many tonight.” It was a struggle to keep my ditzy grin from faltering, but I played it up like a champ.

  He cocked his head to the side like a puzzled dog, and I took that moment to edge around him toward the door. He turned slowly, never letting me out of his sight. Those dark, piggy eyes seemed to be all pupils, with no whites to speak of. His massive nostrils flared as he leaned in and sniffed at me, jowls wagging with each deep breath. His mannerisms were so bizarre, so canine, that they made my skin crawl.

&nb
sp; “That’s a killer mask by the way. Super realistic.” It had to be a mask, my piss-scared mind reasoned. He was just a day early, that’s all. Must be a real Halloween lover. A pasty, stinky, seven foot tall Halloween lover. All of that was thought in the most hysterical tone an internal monologue can muster, I’m sure. And, of course, I didn’t believe a word of it. It seemed to take forever before I felt the reassuring solidity of the door against my palms. I yanked it hard and kept that smile plastered on my face. “Happy, uh, pre-Halloween. Sorry again for, you know, running in to you and all. Have a nice night!”

  I backed out on to the sidewalk and yanked the door shut as quick as I could. My hands remained clenched on the handle, like I was somehow going to hold the damn thing shut against a hulking Goliath like that. My head whipped about, frantically searching for the cab, a cop, a passerby—anything. My former tipsiness was good and gone but my legs were shaking like they would give out at any moment. My fortitude was so not improved by the utterly fucking vacant state of the street. Just me, a handful of empty, parked cars and two street lamps for as far as the eye could see.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  The door was pulled open and I let go to avoid being sucked in with it. I stumbled back, forgetting my already precarious balance, and tripped over my own feet in a pathetic attempt to keep myself upright. I went down on my ass, yelping from both from the pain and the cold wetness of the puddle I had landed in as it instantly seeped through my jeans. Goliath stood over me and I got a real good look at his Herman Munster sized shit-kickers. He glared down at me with those black, beady eyes. Huge, jagged teeth were revealed as it barked something at me. His voice sounded like marbles being crushed in a steel vice. I wanted to throw up. I couldn’t make out a damn word but I was pretty sure he wasn’t speaking English.

  I scooted myself back inch by inch toward the street, pain forgotten, trying to put distance between myself and the demonic pyscho. If my eyes had widened any more, my eyeballs would have fallen out of my skull. I was pretty sure if I showed fear in the face of this thing, it would be just as bad as showing it to a wild animal, but I failed to keep the shrill note of hysteria out of my voice. “Look, I’m really sorry but I can’t understand you. I don’t speak… whatever the hell it is you’re speaking!”

  Panic, apparently, did not do a damn thing to temper my smart-ass gene.

  He let out a deep Rottweiler-like growl and took another step forward. He straddled me with ease and this time there was obvious rage in his tone, though his fast, guttural words were no clearer. I shook my head in small, quick jerks, afraid to take my eyes off him for too long. The remaining foot and a half to the street seemed miles long. Where the fuck was that cab? “I said I can’t understand you, buddy. Please, just let me go. Whoever you are, I don’t want any trouble. I can forget I ever saw you, trust me!”

  With another low, angry sounding growl, he reached down for me. A hand the size of a dinner-plate grabbed me by the front of my jacket and hauled me up into the air like I weighed nothing at all. I screamed long and loud, hoping someone—any-freaking-one—would hear me and come to my rescue. I clenched my hands in the lapels of my jacket and yanked on them, struggling to keep it from tightening around my throat. My legs dangled in the air and I kicked at him with all my strength, but it was like kicking a brick wall. I was pretty sure I hurt my foot more than I hurt him.

  The creature held me up, his face only inches from mine, and I gagged at the rotten meat stench of his breath. Those large, canine-like teeth appeared again as his fleshy lips spread into what I can only describe as a grin. A horrible, predatory, movie monster grin. The world was spinning. I closed my eyes and held my breath, trying to work up another scream.

  “Put her down.”

  Goliath turned his head, his ragged, matted mane of coarse black hair blocking my view of whatever brave soul had come out of the shadows. A dark, ugly rumbling rose from inside the beast and it took me a moment to realize that he was laughing. I squirmed with renewed vigor, trying to free myself from my coat while it was distracted, but it was no use. I had the upper body strength of an inchworm and he had me held tight. It was getting hard to breathe. I gasped out, “Please, get help! Call the police!”

  Goliath said something again in that broken glass voice, and this time I could have sworn it sounded like he was mocking my unseen knight in shining armor.

  The out-of-view stranger was not deterred. “I said, put her down. Now.”

  Oh brave, stupid soul. I had the sinking feeling we’d both meet our ends soon, smeared across the sidewalk by this crazy freak of nature. As if some part of my thoughts were heard—and not the good part, either—the meaty paw that held me up in the air opened and let me go. I fell to the concrete in a heap and felt a burst of agony blaze as my head bounced off the ground.

  Then everything went dark.

  Chapter Three

  Waking up from taking a knock to the head wasn’t anything like I expected it would be. In the movies, our plucky hero (or the swooning damsel; take your pick) comes to slowly; blinking groggily, with everything before their eyes all bright and fuzzy. Maybe they moan a bit from the pain in their head, maybe not; depends on the flick. Then, as they blink faster, the colors deepen and the details around them start to come into focus. Someone appears from downstage to cluck and coo, telling them to remain still because they’ve just taken a nasty spill. Of course that person either is a doctor or someone will shortly leave to get our hero the doctor…

  Yeah—so not how it happened.

  There was no gauzy curtain that had to be cleared from my lens; not even a sad, pathetic whimper to alert my awaiting friend/lover/doctor to my awakening. Instead, my eyes sprang open and I found myself staring up at a white ceiling. A section just a few inches to the right of me was peeling in a familiar diamond-shaped pattern. It made sense that it was familiar, as it was the ceiling above my bed in the crappy little apartment I had lived in for the past six years. I tilted my head slowly to the side. Ever so slightly, mind you—the teeny-est, tiny-est movement—and waited for that runaway train impact of pain in the back of my skull.

  Only, none came. I raised a hand and tucked it under my head. I felt around with gentle fingers, expecting a lump or some icky, sticky blood or something but… Nope. Nothing but regular, old sleep-tangled hair. I scrunched my nose up in confusion and muttered, “What the…?”

  I was in my own bed, without any evidence of having gotten the crack to the head I clearly remembered getting. I laid there for a good minute and recounted the events of the night. No one in Gilroy’s had shown any interest in the ugly brute as he came through the door. Even the people closest to me had just given me a weird look, like I was that crazy girl at the bar making a scene. I wondered if, perhaps, I had been. Maybe I had hallucinated the whole thing. Jenni’s hand had been the only one to touch my drinks other than my own, which ruled out someone having slipped me something, but there was that sudden, explosive migraine that had nearly knocked me off my barstool. It, like my earlier buzz, was also gone (of course) but I remembered that pretty clearly. Had I suffered a bursting aneurysm or something? Did those even cause hallucinations? At one in the morning, after the night I had just had (or maybe only thought I had just had) the possibility of a solid medical reason for my bizarre night seemed strangely comforting.

  I pushed myself up on my elbows and looked around. I was still fully dressed, the rumpled sheets beneath me just as I had left them that morning. My purse and Jenni’s God-awful stilettos were on the floor by the nightstand, as if carelessly tossed. Granted, that was not as neat as I normally would have been with my expensive bag and borrowed goods, but it was not out of the realm of possibility given the combination of liquor and brain bleed. (The likelihood of having suffered some sort of hemorrhage was all but certain to me at that moment.) The room around me was mostly dark—a sidelong glance saw the deep of night outside the window—but the lamp on my dresser was casting a dull circle of light across the foot o
f the bed. A faint glow reached down the hallway outside my wide-open bedroom door and I recognized it as the familiar blush of my living room lamp left on. The faint murmur of voices told me that I had left the TV on as well.

  I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, scowling. I had a lot of unanswered questions. How the hell had I gotten home? Had I passed out on the street like a drunk? Had someone peeled me up off the sidewalk and poured me into the cab? Or had I somehow stumbled into it on my own, barely coherent? Had the cabbie had to endure some freaky ranting about a terrible super-goon the whole way home? I scrubbed my face with my hands. I couldn’t even face the worst question of them all: how bad would Jenni rip into me after she heard about this?

  I couldn’t make sense of it all. The harder I tried to wrap my brain around it, the less I cared. I was alive. I was home. And while it was probably a good idea to call my doctor in the morning for the next available appointment to get my noggin looked at, the danger I had thought I had been in appeared to have been all in my head. (Because as much as I kind of sort of wanted to believe my brain had gone all loopy on me, my gut told me I’d be feeling a hell of a lot worse if I were in that sort of mortal peril.) I was exhausted. The mere thought of the alarm going off in just a few hours made me want to weep big, fat baby tears. Whatever had happened, it was likely to result in embarrassment of monumental proportions, and I wasn’t up to the amount of self-loathing such antics deserved at the moment. I could chastise myself over my morning combo of coffee and cereal.

  I briefly considered a shower—I felt gross—but the will to follow through did not manifest. I resigned myself to an extra-large helping of self-reproach over breakfast and shrugged out of my jacket. A hanger seemed too difficult to unearth; the doorknob would have to do for one night. As I watched its weight settle against the door, I pulled out my earrings and tossed them on the dresser. The rest of my jewelry quickly followed, forming a small heap. My sweater was tossed in the corner that doubled as a hamper, leaving me in a tank top and leggings; close enough to pajamas for me. Getting to the bra was too much work though. I was going to hate myself for all sorts of things come morning—what was another smidgen for pulling an all-nighter going to matter? The living room light beckoned, though the TV had gone quiet. Maybe I had had the forethought to set the sleep timer. That would be just like me; too messed up to take off my damn coat but remembering to preserve the sanctity of my cherished 42” flat-screen.