Memories

Prologue

The pace she'd set wasn't one of those hopping jogs that burned out your calves; it was a full-body sprint alongside the towering warehouse shelves that had her panting. She tore across the concrete, lungs, and thighs on fire with each long butt-kicking stride. One arm pumped at her side, and the other clutched a stolen package to her chest as if her life depended on it, and it did. Her entire world would be out of her reach forever if she didn't return with it. Though at the moment, her very life was being threatened for taking it in the first place.

But she was far more afraid of the mysterious people blackmailing her than the humans gunning for her from behind, which didn't make it any less frightening when more shots were fired—whimpering as the thundering pops and hiss of bullets scattered around her.

She whipped around the next corner so fast her sneakers slid, free arm reaching out to stop her fall and failing. Something had twisted when she'd dropped, half hanging from one of the shelf beams. Ignoring the pain was easy enough because she couldn't feel it beneath the rush of adrenaline that hadn't stopped coursing through her veins since she'd gotten caught. Hualing herself upright, she drove herself forward into a sprint, hating that those precious seconds had cost her distance. Their booted feet were closer now, gaining on her.

They didn't need their guns; there was no way she would make it to the plane doors in time. So perhaps they were cruel or impatient because the next bullet fired buried high in her leg. She crumbled down onto one knee before the momentum carried her forward, sliding on her chest and smashing her face on the concrete.

The adrenaline wasn't enough to cover the white-hot pain that laced up and down her new wound, aftershocks skating up her hips and midsection—blood splurting out her busted nose and into her mouth, her face scraped and raw.

She sobbed, sliding her arms beneath her so that she could push herself halfway up, reaching out with one arm for the crumbled package, which had tumbled from her grasp.

But it wasn't the package she was grabbing for; it was an image of her family and fiance. Their faces were as she wanted to remember them, smiling at her from across the table as they all sat down to their regular Sunday diner. If these were to be her last moments, she didn't want to think about how she'd last seen them—staring at her in bewildered confusion and suspicion when she'd shown up at their door. There had been no ounce of recognition on her fiance's face when she'd returned to their shared apartment in the city. Nor did she want to remember the week of near-crazed paranoia as she wandered the city streets, homeless and hungry, before her tormentors had revealed themselves to her.

She didn't need this package to save her life; she needed it so that she could get her life back. Dying here wasn't an option, which was why she continued to crawl and reach for the box despite the pain that rendered her leg useless.

Fingers trembled as the guards gathered around behind her, speaking in some harsh, jumbled language she didn't understand. She didn't even try to, and in the brief silence that followed, she heard the click of guns. Fingers brushed the box, sliding it closer, and then suddenly, it wasn't just the box and memories focused in her line of sight.

Shining, black boots hovered just over her outreached hand.

Hovering wasn't something a human could do, so she craned her neck to better look at her would-be savior. Hope shone through the pain that hazed her vision, though it was quick to die when she took note of the unique golden hue that glittered over his emerald stare. Eyes filled with loathing as he peered down at her. His features were smooth, unmarked by time and experience. He was young and, the freezing look he then speared the guards was any indication, cold. But worst of all, he was a warlock, and now she wasn't sure if he was here to help her or kill them all and take her package for himself.

"I need this one alive and her package," he mused aloud.

It was unclear whether they understood the boy's old English since she couldn't understand the guards' harsh response. But she didn't need to understand their language to know they didn't agree or care what he had to say. Their tone would have been enough, but their weapons' raising made it clear they planned to fire again.

The warlock wasn't alarmed by the threat to his life; his calm expression never changed, "but they said nothing about what to do with witnesses and threats, so I suppose I'll have to use my imagination."

A snap of his fingers and flames sparked to life over the humans' skins and clothes. Faster than a blink, they were in flames, startled screams turning into wails of pain. The stolen package was forgotten; their guns clattered to the floor and their bodies as they attempted to roll out the fire.

The heat of it was enough to make her flinch away in reaction, twisting around from where she was still half sprawled on the ground to witness its brutality.

Yes, they had attempted to kill her, but they had been doing their jobs. They didn't deserve this, and they didn't deserve to die.

"Please," she begged, a hoarse whisper as she turned to stare up at the warlock. "Please, don't do this!"

"But I'm having so much fun," he replied, though he had no actual infliction in his voice to indicate he was feeling anything at all. His booted feet finally touched the ground, and he bent to gracefully scoop up the package in one hand while the other hooked beneath her arm to yank her roughly upward.

She stumbled to bring herself upright, her lousy leg trembling with renewed pain. Though if he noticed the wound, the blood, or the grimace on her face, he didn't mention it or seem to care. Instead, he steered her forcefully towards the plane doors and away from the still screaming bodies withering behind them.

"Wait! You can't leave them like that! You monster! Please, they're in pain!"

"My pleasure is their pain," a quick wisp of a smile curled the corner of his lips, though it was gone just as fast as it had appeared.

She gasped, struggling to stumble after his long stride and ignore the wave of black-spotted dizziness flashing across her vision. She was losing blood still, had lost too much.

"M-my leg, I'm losing-"

"I'm well aware of your injuries, girl. Now shut up and get in the car."

He yanked her the last few feet to a black SUV parked just outside the hangar doors, leaving her swaying by the passenger door before he moved to slide into the driver's seat. For a moment, she stared at him through the darkened window, trying to form a coherent, logical thought and failing. Finally, she opened the door and fell into her seat, whimpering as she maneuvered herself into the vehicle.

"Wrap up your leg; you can dress it properly when we arrive at the motel."

He tossed a roll of bandages onto her lap, and she snatched it greedily; the last thing she wanted to do was bleed to death.

"Who are you?" Her head rolled to face him, but her eyes trailed past to the now-still flames of the humans they'd left behind.

"Your partner, since you can't seem to do anything yourself. Now take my advice from earlier and shut up."

It was a long and silent ride after that, through the bright city of El Paso to its dark outskirts. She wouldn't and couldn't remember anything they passed by or possible landmarks; she hardly remembered stumbling out of the car to follow the young man into a motel room.

He dropped a bag onto the nearest bed and shrugged towards the other before shutting himself in the bathroom, without the courtesy to ask if the girl with a bullet wound wanted to go first to wash away the blood she was covered in. She'd had enough for one day, wasn't sure she even had the energy to stand beneath a hot spray of clean water. So instead, she laid back carefully on the mattress, too tired to crawl beneath the covers, and closed her eyes.