Page 1 of Blood of Vengeance

One

Locklyn

Being hit on sucked donkey balls. Being hit on at four in the morning while pumping gas in the freezing cold after working all night at a dive bar was some sort of sixty-ninth level of hell bullshit.

“Yo, baby. Let me get your number.”

I rolled my eyes and prayed to the gas pump gods that the numbers would scroll faster, doing my best to ignore the man approaching from the other side of the lot.

“C’mon,” I whispered, keeping an eye on the person and clinging to the coat that wasn’t anywhere near warm enough for a Detroit winter. “Let’s go, let’s go.”

In a moment of luck the likes of which I had never experienced, the digital screen flipped to show twenty dollars, and the pump clicked off. Thanking the universe for the bit of fortune I’d been shown, I returned the nozzle to the holder, screwed the cap on my tank, and rushed around the front of the car right as the man reached my trunk.

“Hey, beautiful. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to know your name.”

Sure you do. “I got a man. I don’t need another.”

“If you got a man, what’re you doing out here pumping gas so late? If you had a man, he’d be taking care of that for you.”

I hopped into the driver’s seat and slammed the door, locking it behind me. I didn’t know what men he knew, but none of the ones I’d ever dated would have given two shits about how much gas I had in my tank, let alone would have made sure to fill it for me. Someone lived in fairy-tale land, and that person sure as hell wasn’t me.

The old beater I drove coughed and sputtered, but she started, granting me the escape I so desperately needed, though not before I heard the man scream out an insult and bang on the hood of my trunk. Typical—he called me baby and beautiful until he didn’t get what he wanted, then he spewed some C-U-Next-Tuesday attitude and aggression. But he was a man who’d fill my gas tank for me? Right.

I drove to the apartment I shared with my best friend, parking two blocks away in the only free spot I could find. I would need to wake up by nine to move my car or risk getting another ticket I couldn’t afford to pay. Not fun but normal. Sleeping in short shifts because of the parking rules in my neighborhood had become my lifestyle.

“That you, Locklyn?”

I sighed and closed the door behind me, exhaustion making my bones hurt but the scent of something warm and yummy keeping my attention. “Yeah, it’s me. What are you doing up?”

Zella—all five-foot-two of my favorite person on earth—peeked around the corner, a tired smile tugging up her pale lips. “I’m pulling a double shift at the hospital because they’re offering overtime this week.”

“Don’t wear yourself out.”

She gave me a quick hug as I passed, tucking her head against my shoulder for just a second before moving toward the stove. “I need the money, and the work is easy. Way easier than being on my feet all night like you.”

The woman didn’t lie. Zella had waitressed at a white-tablecloth restaurant in Grosse Pointe Shores when I’d met her, earning sweet tips and rubbing elbows with the richest of the rich on the daily. Unfortunately, an autoimmune condition had made that sort of job impossible, so she’d been forced to quit and take a job a little less physically demanding. Working at the hospital didn’t always fill her wallet the same way a good week at the restaurant had, but her pain level had dropped since quitting. Having access to health insurance had been another pro in her book, especially with the health issues that seemed to be piling up for her.

“Come,” Zella said as she headed for the counter, her near-constant limp barely noticeable. “Let’s eat. I haven’t seen you in days and need my Locklyn time.”

That right there—the simple gift of wanting to spend time with me. That’s what made Zella so special in my world. I would have given anything to that woman. “You didn’t have to cook to spend time with me.”

“I know I didn’t have to, but I wanted to. Breakfast for me, dinner for you.” She slid onto the barstool, setting my plate in front of my spot. I took my seat and dug in, the need for food overriding my need for sleep. At least for a little bit.

“Have you talked to your father?” Zella asked out of the blue. Or maybe not so out of the blue.

“Have I been saying his name in my sleep again?”

“Sometimes.” She kept her eyes on her food, pushing and yet not overstepping any boundaries I may have had in regard to my fucked-up family situation. “I know you were worried about him.”

Not past tense—I worried daily about the man. Or shifter. Because the guy everyone knew as Chiggy wasn’t human. At least, not all the time. But even Zella didn’t know that, which made talking to her about the current lack of communication that much harder.

“He hasn’t answered my calls, and I keep having these dreams about him. In the desert.” I sighed and stared at my plate, no longer hungry. “They’re creeping me out.”

Zella nodded, setting her fork down gently before pushing away from the counter. “Think it’s time to take a trip?”

A trip. To the desert. To check in on the man who had sent me away and told me to never come back there again. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re going to keep worrying.”

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