Page 50 of For Dear Life

“We didn’t argue. Marci finds me disagreeable and informed me of such. Besides, she isn’t a shifter. Nobody will kill her.” I look over my shoulder to where Leif stands in front of the vending machine. Is the decision what to eat that important?

“I admire your confidence, Violet.”

“Thank you.”

A man in a crisp, charcoal gray suit approaches the desk, closely followed by another. Witch energy hits me and I study them closer. The sharp cut of their suits accentuates slim, athletic physiques. One has a dark wave of black hair, slicked back neatly and not a strand out of place, adding a touch of suave sophistication to his appearance. The other shares a well-groomed appearance but more artfully styled hair. Quite the contrast to the scruffy humans and their ailments and injuries.

They strike a perfect display of authority that would easily persuade the nurse they’re here for a legitimate reason.

Especially as one shows the nurse an ID card or similar, and I nudge Rowan. “Look.”

The nurse finds the men worth conversing with and I watch, pissed when they’re not dismissed to a waiting seat.

Why are they here? Witches have their own, private medical facilities—which doesn’t assist the ‘them and us’ conflict with humans. Like the shifters, humans wouldn’t know that Oz isn’t fully alive any longer, or that his brain’s practically dead. As far as I know, shifters deal with minor medical issues themselves, and only use human hospitals if the shifter suffers life-threatening injuries.

Such as convulsions and abnormal bleeding on the floor in a bowling alley.

The witches shouldn’t be here and are clearly not ill or injured. From the supe council? They’re official looking in their suits and with the cards they’re showing the nurse. Rowan swears and slumps down in his chair, yanking up his blue jacket hood to obscure his face. I merely straighten and watch.

As one witch speaks, the other turns and takes a casual look around, hands idly in his trouser pockets. His gaze rests on me for a few seconds, but his expression remains unchanged. I search for my phone.

As I hold it on my lap and subtly take a photo, Rowan slaps my hand. The witch makes to walk over, but he’s interrupted by the second one who points at the double-doors to my current dream destination.

Rowan almost falls from his seat as someone hits him in the back. I twist around in mine in case said person attempts to assault me too and look straight at Leif’s own broad back.

“Get out,” he growls, not turning. “I know them.”

“But I was about to get through—” I point at the doors even though I hadn’t quite decided how I was about to get through. Point-lessly since Leif isn’t facing me.

“The witches have seen us. We need to leave.” Rowan stands, looking between Leif and the door.

“Who are—” he begins, but Leif’s already almost out the other door in long strides.

17

VIOLET

I’m torn between asking Rowan to follow Leif while I follow the witches or go with him to our friend.

I leave with Rowan

Leif isn’t in the now-empty hospital entrance, and when we make our way outside, he also isn’t on or near the bench by the bus stop. Or anywhere on the smoothly paved approach to the hospital building.

“Where is he?” Rowan asks.

I walk to the edge of the sidewalk and look in both directions, focusing all my senses. “This way.”

Leif’s scent takes us along the side of the ER and to a tree-lined path that leads towards another part of the hospital grounds.

“The trunks aren’t large enough to hide behind, Leif,” I inform him, approaching the muscular guy’s position semi-hidden behind a maple tree. Low bushes also run along the dark pathway, and I push my way through.

“I’m not hiding; I don’t want the witches to see me.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” I ask.

“How do you know the witches?” asks Rowan.

Leif’s silent, and his aura thickens. “Memories.”

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