Edward felt his body bounce uncontrollably and uncomfortably against the seat beneath him.
Then it stopped—and inertia dragged him backward and sideways, sinking him into the plush backrest as the car veered into a smoother path, or lane, along which it drove with a gentle, calm hum.
Edward could tell the car was expensive. It had that extravagant feel and atmosphere—an expensive engine, unmistakable, its quiet power given away by the hum alone.
He had been awake for some time now—not very long, though, since it had only been a few minutes. When he'd woken up, he'd found both his hands and legs bound with plastic yet rigid handcuffs. They rendered him completely helpless, even if he had tried to resist.
His face and head were covered by a black cloth that allowed only the tiniest sliver of light to seep through, and he could feel the presence—and intimidation—of an imposing figure seated right beside him. He knew it was the man from the school hallway.
He knew he had been kidnapped.
But he did not panic—at least, not on the outside. He tried his best to stay composed, careful not to alert the man of his consciousness. So far, it seemed to be working, buying him time to think—time to come up with some sort of plan.
He needed to elope. He knew that much. It was one of the things his dad had taught him while playing Shanghai during his younger years.
Don't let them reach the destination—that was the first rule of the game.
Come up with a strategy to outmaneuver them—that was the second.
But then came the conundrum of the third rule: Mark the way.
How was he supposed to do that with his head covered?
Edward felt terribly flustered. Terrorized. Everything seemed to crash down on him — harder and deeper — boring into the very last speck of his soul, hanging by a fragile thread. He was being pushed to the wall, cornered, and he hated it. It was too much.
"For Christ's sake," he grumbled to himself, "why does a boy like me have to deal with this much at such my age?" It was really daunting. "Am just sixteen. Sixteen. For Christ's sake—SIXTEEN."
"Don't worry, Gustavo," the man beside him said, pulling the cloth from his face. "Kristov will do you the pleasure of explaining what your parents couldn't."
He yanked the cloth off Edward's head and tossed it into the boot. "Just you wait."
The aggressive tug violently jerked Edward's head backward, his neck nearly snapping. It bounced forward again, settling just in time to be assaulted by the glaring rays of the sun.
They were driving through a forest. The light came in flashes—intermittent.
"Great attempt, though," the man's voice came again.
Edward snapped his attention toward him, an indescribable lump lodged in his throat.
"If it weren't for how loud your thoughts were, you might've actually been capable of carrying out an attempt."
What?! I beg your pardon?
"Tune down your thoughts," the man clarified, his tone suddenly vile.
Fear truly began to settle into Edward then. And just as it did, a brief flash of sunlight illuminated the man beside him.
Edward froze.
Ice-cold froze.
He hadn't thought it possible for a person to be as big and intimidating as his dad. Never. Or perhaps he'd been living in a bubble? But how? How could this man be so strangely similar—yet so different—in build and presence from his father?
And how… how could he read minds?
"I'm a werewolf, darling," the man said casually, his facial features—his blue eyes and brown hair—once again being lit by the flickering sunlight. He sneered. "And I don't read minds. I overhear them—when their owners, such as you, keep thinking aloud like that."
Edward was dumbstruck.
The man resettled his arms over the backrests, scoffed, then continued, "Funny how you keep comparing me to your father, though."
He glanced back at Edward. He was in an awe trance. He went on—his eyes now hidden in eerie shadow, yet sparkling with quiet, unsettling glee.
"When your mom's the real candidate."
Edward didn't know what he meant, but he didn't think his mind could handle being any more knotted. He had had enough.
"Now settle down and relax," the man added. "For there's no escaping. You should've realized that the moment that needle plunged into you."
----------------
Anita and Mdachi were standing between an intricately curved fountain and a bench when Miridald hurtled toward them.
"Where's he?" she demanded breathlessly.
"We haven't found him, auntma," Anita answered, gesturing around the area. "The bench is where we normally sit when we come here." She pointed to it. An old lady was seated there, feeding a cluster of pigeons. "But he's clearly not on it—or anywhere around," she added, sweeping her hands in a circle before letting them fall to her sides. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay," Miridald said lightly, though the distress was still evident. She hurried off again, just as frantic as before.
"Why don't we just try calling him already?" Mdachi asked once auntma was far enough away. "All this searching is just stupid."
"Mdachi," Anita scolded, "Don't say that." She pulled him toward a tree. "You don't know what she's going through, okay?"
"Why—are you defending her?"
"What do you mean?"
"She's the one who brought this upon herself—and upon us—"
"Mdachi!" Anita sounded genuinely disappointed.
"What? Why are you blaming me now? She's the one we should be mad at—not me."
"I'm not blaming anyone, Mdachi—"
"Is she the one who killed him?" Mdachi suddenly asked.
"What?" Anita was stunned.
"Killed Hallington?"
"Excuse me?"
"What? Why are you acting so surprised? After everything she's managed to keep to herself, you really believe she couldn't be a suspect?"
Anita was utterly dismayed, but she still understood where he was coming from. "Mdachi…" she began calmly. "I understand how you're feeling right now. I really do." She looked up at him. "But that's just too far off the book. Too. Far. Off. It's simply preposterous—outrageous."
Mdachi was humbled.
"I haven't forgotten what we've been through today," Anita continued, "but through all of it, I was terrified—utterly terrified—but never insecure. Not once did I fear for my life, or for yours."
Mdachi began to feel guilty.
Anita sighed. "Do you believe I'm capable of murder, Mdachi?"
The question hit him like a rifle shot. "What?" he stammered. "Why would you even think that?" A nervous, brittle smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
"Because I kept my identity from you and Edward too."
"B-but yours was different," he defended quickly. "You did it because… because…"
"Because?" Anita prompted gently.
Mdachi remembered. "Because you don't like to identify in the supernatural world. No—it's not that you don't like to, it's that you hate to."
"Yeah," Anita said, nodding. A glint of hurt flickered in her eyes. "You're right. But do you know why that is?"
Mdachi fidgeted with his fingers. "Um… I don't know. You never really said. And Edward said you weren't ready to talk about it yet."
"Yeah," Anita agreed softly. "I'm still not comfortable disclosing that part of my life—the part before I met you guys."
Mdachi looked up, surprised. Before they'd met her?
"Yes, Mdachi. It was before my family and I moved here. We were living somewhere in Westlands, Nairobi, when the tragedy happened."
What tragedy? Mdachi couldn't help but wonder.
"Now, I know I might come off as selfish or self-centered—especially since I know almost everything about you and Edward—but that's just how things are. I'm not ready to let you in on that part of my past. Not now."
Mdachi placed his hands on her shoulders, gently lifting her face toward his with his thumbs. "You're not selfish or self-centered for keeping things to yourself, Anita," he assured her. "I understand where you're coming from—no pun intended. It's okay. You don't owe us—"
"It's not okay, Mdachi," Anita interrupted, removing his hands from her shoulders. "It's not meant to be okay. It never will be."
Mdachi looked confused.
"Just like me," she continued, aiming for her point now, "auntma was wrong to keep what she did from us—especially from Edward. But that doesn't make her a bad person. Not like you made it sound."
She took one of his hands in hers. "You're allowed to feel angry, Dachi. Trust me—I still am. But please, allow her the chance to explain herself, like you've allowed me."
"But she erased—"
"Yes. She did. But she did it to protect him. And she only tried to do it again to us for the same reason."
Mdachi softened.
"I know how you can be when you harden your heart against someone," Anita said gently, giving his hand a squeeze. "But allow her the chance to redeem herself. Hmm?"
With his lips pressed into a thin line, Mdachi nodded.
"Great," Anita said, patting his hand before letting it go. "And just so we're clear, Mdachi—she didn't kill Hallington. She had no part in it. Trust me."
"I do," Mdachi replied. "And I trust her not to have."
"Good. Now let's go find Edward. And no phone calls—at least not now. We both know he won't pick up. We have a better chance finding him off guard."
Mdachi nodded, and Anita grabbed his arm, leading him along the stone-paved pathway in the same direction auntma had gone.
Natasha and Brandon, who had been sitting lazily at a picnic table watching them, eyed them go. Their friends were there with them, but their attention remained fixed on the pair. It was an intriguing sight.
"Let's go rattle four-eyes a bit, babe," Brandon urged, mischief dancing across his lips.
"No," Natasha declined flatly.
"What?" Brandon looked genuinely surprised. Natasha never turned down an opportunity to make someone feel small—it was one of the reasons he loved her. They were perfect sadistic soulmates. "What do you mean, no?" He stood up.
Natasha stood as well, stepping closer and trailing her hand seductively across his chest to calm his down. Brandon smiled, delighted. It had worked.
"I have better plans for them," Natasha mumbled on, "and their other friend too." She hesitated, then looked up into his eyes. "I just need to find an angle."
Brandon's smiled dropped. "Wait," he said, stepping back. "What do you mean all of them? You can't possibly be planning to cross—"
"Anita?" Natasha challenged with a scoff. "How stupid do you really think I am, Brandon? Of course I don't plan to cross her."
Brandon relaxed.
"Not blatantly, at least."
Brandon stiffened again. "What do you mean by that?"
"That's not for you to worry about, baby," Natasha said calmly turning back to him. Seeing the fear still etched on his face, she cupped his cheeks gently. "Just trust me, okay? I'll get back at them for how they humiliated you the other day. All of them."
"Hey, lovebirds!" Frederick's voice boomed jovially from nearby. "The game's about to start. Settle down."
Natasha turned to sit, but paused and glanced back at Brandon one last time.
"I just need an angle," she said softly, a smile playing on her lips.