Kidnapped|Book 4|A novel in the Blue Moon series| An Avengers fan fiction series|

28- She'll Come Home Soon

I don't think I failed Calc!!! YAAAAAAY!!!! (I still might have hahaha)

Sorry I don't have time for a nice fancy edit :( :(

Ily all!

I finished planning out the last two books, and I'm just telling you, get pumped. It's gonna be epic.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

~Nobody's POV~

Peter and Max walk through the street towards the Calen's apartment building at around noon. It's a beautiful day, despite the circumstances, with the cold temperatures nicely balanced by a sunny sky. Max is on the phone, talking in a heated voice with his brother, who is due back in New York that evening, and Peter's hands are in his pockets dejectedly. To Peter, this entire search has been fruitless, like looking for a needle in three haystacks, one for each realm.

As the two men walk into the apartment building, Max swiping his identification, Peter's phone vibrates. Peter doesn't even need to look to see who is texting him.

From: Jack

anything?

From: Peter

nope; ky's coming back tonight though

From: Jack

bloody hell

Peter pockets his phone and follows Max up three flights of stairs. They technically could use the elevator, but for both of them, the exercise gives them something worthwhile to do.

"Yeah, talk to you later, just make sure...yeah, okay, bye," Max hangs up, and like Peter, shoves his phone away. Taking a deep breath as they walk down the hall, Max says, "This isn't doing a damn thing. And now Angelique's not picking up her phone either?"

"She could just be busy," points out Peter.

"She was supposed to take the apartment watch, not watch Gilmore Girls," says Max, "She should be picking up the phone."

"Relax, I'm sure it's nothing," says Peter.

At that moment, they open the door.

"I take that back," says Peter.

Nothing appears ridiculously out of the ordinary, except for the fact that in the hallway leading to Thea's room, there are pieces of paper and photos strewn around; and in the kitchen, Klaka is whimpering shrilly. The half-wolf, which has grown quite big in the past month, is lying on the ground, blood running down his shoulder from a gaping wound.

"Peter, call Bruce," says Max, hurrying to Klaka. The dog whimpers, and feebly licks Max's hand with his sandpaper tongue. Max strokes the top of Klaka's head, stands, and then strides into Thea's room. Peter follows quickly, his phone held to his ear.

"Dear God," says Peter.

Thea's room is a mess. The paper and photos have fallen from her nightstand, littering the carpet. Her lamp has crashed, the lightbulb cracked and the shade smashed against the bed. The dresser across from her bed, which usually houses Thea's books and assorted knick-knacks looks as though it got slammed by something heavy; books, shoes, and Thea's jewelry box have fallen off the shelves. The corner of the rug has been mussed and rolled up.