Blood & Wine

22 | Eden

Dasher did not come home. Calla held me all night, and I wept. All she told me was that she had sent him away because we couldn't help him, not then.

Something else I had failed at.

And even though Mary Meredith and I had had that talk about me being young and dumb, I still felt stupid, like I couldn't do anything right or help anyone. Because, after this, I would fail Calla, too. No Coven, no Calla. I'd end up alone and lonely.

How you were always destined to be, something mean and nasty whispered to me.

I wanted to ask Fynley about Dasher so badly, but something stopped me—mainly the bruises littering his face, his arms, and the puncture marks in his neck. Fynley had a deep scowl on his face, and he walked limply. "Take him back," he demanded.

"Dasher did that to you?" I asked. The club was packed with werewolves, none of them my cousin, all of them playing pool and drinking. Their laughter erupted every few minutes, bouncing around the empty club. Rock music was playing over the speakers, but not loud enough I couldn't hear their voices.

When I walked in, they ignored me. Only Jagger looked up, nodded at me, and studied me carefully before looking away. I wondered if he saw the pure exhaustion in my face. I hadn't slept a single wink, and I had a busy day before coming here. I wondered if I wore the guilt and hurt on my face or in my eyes. I wondered if he saw past my put-together exterior, the tight dress and high heels, flawless make-up, and saw what I really was right now—a mess.

I tried to focus on Mary Meredith's words, but I found no solace in them.

Fynley nodded once and almost winced. He gave that dark look to the werewolves. "Leave," he commanded them, and they stopped what they were doing immediately and set their stuff down, walking out. "Follow me."

The command in his voice made me not follow him. Also, I studied those wounds. Dasher had done that? Dasher, a new werwolf? What had caused that? What had made him attack him so viciously? Was he still mad at—

"Wicked witch, are you coming?"

I looked up to see Jagger standing in the middle of the hallway, the one that was usually closed off during operating hours. The club itself was intimate but could still hold up to five hundred people—and usually did—with a stage made for live bands that played a variety of music: sometimes rock, sometimes rappers performed, he also had salsa night. Two stone pillars were in the middle of the room, posters stuck to them advertising something. The bar was in the back, a mirror behind it, the counter long and black. He also had sofas on the side, but, unlike my club, there was no VIP section roped off for guests. Club Lust was solely for drinking and dancing.

I started to argue with him, but I didn't have the energy. I followed him down the hall and to the last door, my heels clopping on the concrete floors. He wasn't dressed very nice, wearing a pair of faded sweats and a college sweatshirt the looked like he had literally pulled it from the bottom of some pile and thrown it on minutes before meeting me.

He held the door open for me and closed it behind me. "You look tired."

"No, I don't." I didn't look tired.

"Well, you are tired," he argued. "You aren't yelling at me, annoyed with me, or staring at me."

"I am annoyed with you." I was now. I was more concerned with my cousin, though. If Fynley looked like that, how did Dasher look? Was it worse? Better? Was it even my job to care anymore? Calla had sent him away, and he had left. Chasing another werewolf over family, over Coven.