“Enough,” I manage to wheeze out between coughs.
“Is it enough?” the Bloodletter asks in a voice as cold as the Alaskan wilderness she has made her home. “Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”
No, I don’t. Not even a little bit. But I’m afraid if I tell her that, I’m going to end up buried under a thousand pounds of sand, so I just nod.
But I do try to focus, not just on what she’s saying but on the deeper meaning of what she wants me to understand.
Her gaze holds mine, her green eyes urging me to think beyond my simple understanding of the world. To recognize that some things have to be believed to be understood instead of the other way around.
It’s a leap of faith, one I’m not sure I’m comfortable making after everything that’s already happened. But what other choice do I have? I can believe or I can get swept away—not just by the sand she is continuing to blow my way but by Hudson’s dark and overwhelming will.
I swallow, knowing there really is no other option for me. And so I close my eyes, lower my defenses just a little, and let her words swirl in my mind, settle in my bones, become my reality.
The moment I do, the illusion of this world fades into something that feels even more right. Something that feels like coming home.
Suddenly, there’s another voice in my head, and it’s not the one I’m used to, the one that warns me of bad things to come. No, this voice is low and sardonic. It’s also familiar—really familiar.
“Well, it’s about time.”
“Oh shit.” My stomach bottoms out. “Did you hear him?” I demand of the Bloodletter. “Tell me you heard him.”
“It’s okay, Grace,” she answers. And if she says any more, I don’t know because—just like that—the world around me goes completely black.
33
It’s Hard to Pick
My Battles When
My Battles Keep
Picking Me
Something isn’t right.
It’s the first thought I have as I slowly open my eyes. My head hurts and my stomach is roiling like I’m going to throw up. I notice I’m lying on a bed, in what I think is a dimly lit bedroom. Which doesn’t make sense, because the last thing I remember is talking to the Bloodletter—right up until I heard someone in my head with a British accent.
My eyes fly open as I remember Hudson, and I bolt upright, then wish I hadn’t as the room spins around me. I do my best to breathe through the nausea and focus on remembering what’s important. Namely, Hudson, and what he did or didn’t do.
Did he take control of my body again?
Did he hurt Jaxon or the Bloodletter, and is that why they’re not here?
Worse, did I hurt them?
I glance down at myself, checking for blood—something I’ll probably do every time I wake up for the rest of my life now, courtesy of Hudson’s little werewolf-hunting expedition. So, thanks for that, Hudson. I appreciate the mental scars.
“Sorry, I didn’t think he’d bleed so much. It was just a little prick. Then again, so is he.”
Oh God. I didn’t imagine it. Damn. I close my eyes and lie back down, praying that none of this is actually happening. That it’s all just a really bad dream.
“Stop talking to me!” I order.
“Why on earth would I do that now that you can finally hear me? Do you have any idea how boring it gets in here? Especially when you spend so much of your time mooning all over the place about my loser brother. It’s nauseating, really.”
“Yeah, well, feel free to leave anytime you want,” I suggest.
“What do you think I’ve been trying to do?” Exasperation colors his tone. “But you got pissed off about that, too, even though it was your idea. No offense, Grace, but you’re a hard woman to please.”
This isn’t happening. It can’t be. The body snatching was bad enough, but now I have to deal with this disembodied voice in my head, too? And not just any disembodied voice but one that belongs to a psychopath with a full-on British accent? How is this my life?
“Hey now, I resent that. I’m not disembodied. At least not completely.”
“I see you’re not even going to argue about the psychopath part.” I shake my head in astonishment.
“It’s called picking your battles. You should try it sometime. You might end up in the infirmary less. Just saying.”
The fact that he might be right about this one specific comment only annoys me more. “Is there a point to this conversation?”