In Plain Sight by Hope Anika

Chapter Twenty-Four

Goddamn rain.

The sedan slid precariously atop the slick grass.

A stout metal gate and a long wooden fence had prevented Max from driving straight onto the lot; instead, he’d taken the bike path, his tires skidding off the narrow strip of pavement, sending him careening toward the rising river. Then the path veered away from the river and two large tents suddenly appeared, rising like shifting white sentinels. He hit the brakes and skidded to a stop less than an inch from their exterior walls.

He’d called Rye. No answer. Then he’d called Fiona. Still no answer.

And he’d known he was too late.

Dolan was here.

It’d taken him fifteen minutes to travel the thirty-five miles back to Green River; he’d flown down the freeway like a bat out of hell. If it hadn’t been for the torrential rain—which had slowed most of the traffic down, allowing him to weave wildly in and out of the long lines of cars—he never would’ve made it so quickly. That he’d hydroplaned most of the way and not perished in a spectacular, fiery crash was pretty much a miracle.

But he’d made it. Finally.

He threw open the door and exited the sedan. Instantly, he was soaked. The midway was dark, lit only by a line of tall street lamps that periodically dotted the river walk. They were more decorative than illuminating, and in the rain, were little more than a faint halo of golden light.

The rides were still, the tents shuttered, the show completely shut down, which he hadn’t expected, which wasn’t good, because he’d figured the crowd would force Dolan to wait, but there was no crowd, the entire lot dark and unmoving.

Goddamn it!

The rain fell in sweeping sheets; it was all he could hear. He ran toward the midway and headed for the spot next to the river walk where Fiona had set up, his heart a panicked drum in his chest. Adrenaline speared through him, sharpening his senses. The hunter within him stilled, eager, and hungry for the fight.

He thought about Fi, who he’d dragged into this whole crazy mess, who’d helped him even though he’d been nothing but a selfish prick; about Rye, who always had his back and pushed him relentlessly to be a better human being. About Thea and Ares, who he’d so thoughtlessly put into danger, but mostly about Selena, who’d trusted him to keep her safe.

And he ran faster.

Past the tents, the food trailers, the funhouse. The rain slapped his skin; urgency beat at him. He was running past the line of bulldozer games when he heard something that sounded like a gunshot and he slid to a stop, frozen, listening hard. But it wasn’t gunfire that greeted him. It was…

Music.

Lively music, emanating from one of the trailers behind the games. Music filled with multiple guitars and enthusiastic trumpets. Mariachi music?

He went still.

Blood, screams, and a mariachi band.

That’s your Oracle’s prophecy, Rye had told him, clearly skeptical. But Max had taken note. Because Thea was never wrong.

The music picked up gusto; laughter followed. Max didn’t move, listening. And then he turned his head and froze.

He stood next to Thea’s tent. The sign was knocked over, and the faintest hint of pale pink light kissed the hem of the canvas. A second later, he heard a voice.

Her voice.

And his blood went cold.

For a moment, he stood frozen, uncertain. He needed to find Lena. Blow a hole through Leland Dolan. But he trusted his gut, and his gut told him to go into the tent.

His grip tightened on his Glock; he began to circle the tent. He knew the tent; he’d helped Thea paint it. There were two openings, one she used as its entrance, and one she opened only when it was hot. He searched through the folds in the canvas until he found the line of Velcro that held the canvas together.

Frigging Velcro. Might as well announce himself with a blow horn. But then thunder suddenly cracked above him and rolled out across the sky like a line of monstrous bongo drums, and he pried apart the Velcro as quickly as he could, using the low boom of sound to mask the protest of the Velcro as it separated. But he didn’t step through. Instead, he stood at the opening and looked carefully through the narrow gap, into the tent.

Another wild shot of adrenaline speared through him.

Thea.

She stood next to the table in the middle of the tent, bathed in the pink light emanating from the large oval chunk of rose quartz stone that sat in the center of the table. The Telling Table, handmade by her great grandfather. Covered by a brocade of red velvet embroidered with golden stars and white moons and ancient, mysterious runes. Items of power, she’d once told him. He hadn’t believed her then.

He did now.

Leland Dolan stood across from her, swathed in black, water slicing down the fine planes of his handsome face. In his hand, he held an SR-15. A weapon designed to kill as many as possible, as quickly as possible.

Goddamn psychopath. As if that was necessary. It spoke volumes about who Dolan was, his arrogance and entitlement and certainty that nothing—and no one—could touch him. Like he was some gangster from the 1930s.

Dolan and Thea.But no Fiona, no Rye. And no Selena.

Dread bled through Max. If she wasn’t here, but Dolan was—

A ripple in the velvet brocade that covered the table caught his attention. It was slight, just a faint movement, but not a result of wind. Someone was hiding beneath the table.

Selena?

It was possible. If she’d been running from Dolan; if Dolan had followed her here… Thea would’ve known they were coming.

She would’ve been ready.

Sudden, fierce pride seared him. Athena the All Knowing wouldn’t flinch or flee; she would meet the danger head-on and kick its ass.

“Prepared?” Dolan scoffed, and Max realized he was replying to something Thea had said. “To do what? Tell my fortune?”

“Fortune implies you have a future,” she replied in a cold, distant tone. The hair at Max’s nape bristled in unease; warning hissed in his hindbrain. He saw the same awareness reverberate through Dolan, but Dolan was too stupid and arrogant to heed it.

The fool.

“And you’re implying I do not?” A patronizing curl curved Leland’s mouth. “How delicious. You’re trying to frighten me.”

“The future is consequence,” Thea told him, her features a mask so aloof and beautiful she seemed carved from stone. Ice. And it was deep, part of her. But she burned, too. Max knew; he remembered. “People seek reassurance and hope, but it’s repercussion that awaits them.” Her head tilted, and she stared at Dolan with her pale, eerie winter’s gaze. “Fate is recompense.”

Something flickered across Dolan’s face and was gone. “Karma’s a bitch? That’s your otherworldly prediction?”

“Oh, she’s nothing so faithful or loyal as a bitch.”

Max grinned savagely. He couldn’t help it.

He’d missed her.

“Karma,” she continued, “is a repository. A collector and recorder of deeds. Every act of goodwill; every sin, harvested.”

“Consequence is a human construct,” Dolan sneered. “Man’s attempt to control other men.”

“For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction,” Thea replied, almost gently. “This is the natural law. What goes up, must come down; this truth is omnipresent and far greater than any written by the hand of man.”

“God,” Leland spat. “Spare me.” He lifted the rifle. “This is divinity.”

Thea began to walk toward him—what the hell was she doing?—and Max stepped into the tent, using the canvas as a shield. He watched her covertly from behind the dark fabric, her graceful, unhurried movement, and he grew tense and angry.

Don’t you touch him.Don’t you dare.

But he knew that was her plan.

That was her power.

An icy wave of cold air washed over him. The fine hair across his frame shivered; goosebumps lifted across his skin. Energy filled the tent, a dense, prickling, dark heaviness that even Dolan reacted to. He wanted to step away when she halted before him; Max could see it.

But he didn’t.

“Come out now, Selena,” Dolan said flatly. “Or I will fill this foolish gypsy full of holes.”

“Only Roma are gypsies,” Thea told him, and in her voice was an echo of the darkness curling through the air. “My people come from a different continent.”

“You are either very stupid or very brave,” he said. His finger caressed the trigger of his weapon. “Selena!”

The tablecloth rippled again, and Max willed the girl to stay put. But the brocade was flung aside, and Selena emerged, climbing to her feet to stare defiantly at Dolan, her hands fisted, her hair a wild green crown atop her head.

Dolan’s brows rose. “Dear God. You should thank me for freeing the real you.”

Selena only stared at him, her emerald eyes glinting. Hate, Max thought. True, and pure, and hungry for vengeance.

He could relate.

“You can’t have her,” Thea said matter-of-factly. “She belongs to us.”

“Us.” Dolan snorted. “There is no ‘us.’ Just you. Me.” He pointed his rifle at Selena. “And her.”

“I know you can sense them,” Thea said softly. “Pressing against your skin, scraping at your bones. Whispering in your ear, seeking entrance.”

Another wave of gooseflesh skittered down Max’s spine. The heaviness in the tent thickened; the canvas walls shivered. The light emanating from the rose quartz seemed to grow. Dolan stilled, his gaze narrowing; his hold on his weapon tightened.

Max stepped inside the tent fully, but no one noticed.

“You’re wasting your time,” Dolan told her derisively.

“Wherever you go, whatever you do, they’re with you. A stray sound; a flicker in your periphery; the dreams that awaken you. They await.”

“Await.” He scoffed. “Await what?”

Thea reached out slowly, carefully, her pale gaze holding his, and gently laid her hand upon his chest. Everything in Max rebelled as he watched, but interfering was not an option.

The dark, churning energy in the tent seemed to swell as she spread her hand over Dolan’s black heart, and as he stared down at her, something that might have been incredulity shaped his features.

“This,” she said.

In an instant, his expression changed. His eyes widened, and like a switch flipping, went suddenly vacant; his mouth went slack. A violent shudder shook him. And then he screamed.

It was a hellacious sound. Filled with horror, and terror, and nightmares only Dolan could see.

Nightmares he’d caused.

Thea stepped back, and he fell heavily to his knees. Guttural cries barked in his throat. Color bled from his skin. He dropped his rifle and grabbed his head. His fingers pulled at his hair as he writhed and jerked and fought an invisible, internal enemy; tears leaked from his eyes, and his nails drew deep, bloody gouges down his cheeks.

Selena marched over and grabbed the SR he’d dropped.

Max was right behind her, but Thea said, “No. He isn’t worth it.”

The girl stared at Dolan. She hefted the rifle into her arms and aimed it at him. “It might be.”

“Taking a soul stains you,” Thea told her. “It’s an inescapable mark, and with it comes consequence. No matter its justification.”

“I want him to die,” Selena said starkly.

Max did, too. Because if Leland Dolan was alive, she would never be safe.

“He’s already taken too much from you,” Thea murmured. “Don’t let him take what’s left.”

For a long moment, Selena didn’t move. Max only waited. She had no idea he was behind her.

But Thea knew. Thea always knew when he was near, and he could tell from her body language that she was well aware of him. But she didn’t turn, didn’t look at him, didn’t deign to acknowledge his presence at all.

Furious with him. Which he’d well earned.

He was just glad she still felt something.

“He doesn’t deserve to live,” Selena whispered. “And I have nothing left to lose.”

“Sweetheart, you have everything to lose.”

“I don’t,” Max said and put a bullet in Leland Dolan’s brain.