The Curse (Belador #3)(25)

She took her time following Tristan, watching for any sign of nonhuman presence nearby. That she didn’t sense any felt strangely wrong since she ran into Nightstalkers around every corner in Atlanta this time of night.

Make that morning.

Midnight had come and gone a half hour ago. Tzader and Quinn would wonder where she was if she ran really late meeting them, but she couldn’t reach them without using telepathy.

Taking that risk this close to getting answers would be foolish.

At the front door, Tristan opened it and walked in.

A female voice came into Evalle’s mind, whispering, Trust those who’ve earned it and no others.

Evalle stopped in mid-stride.

That voice. Who was talking to her? She felt no Belador power behind the voice, and it was the same female that had spoken to her at the most unexpected times in the past month. As soon as she got some time off, Evalle was going to ask her witch friend, Nicole, if she could help Evalle figure out who was communicating with her.

I don’t need voices in my head right now. I’m out of my element as it is out here in the country. That should be enough to deal with, but unease of a different kind still snaked down her spine.

She didn’t like anything about this setup, from the location to the house. Climbing three rickety steps, she entered a stuffy-smelling room where an old geezer sat in a ragged recliner that faced the door. Clear tubes ran from a nasal mask over his ears and down to a mobile tank next to his chair.

Taking care with his tubes, he unfolded to a tall, thin body with skin that gravity had pulled at for many years. His cheap brown suit hung on his bony frame. Wrinkled brown eyes watched while she finished her assessment, but she needed only seconds to figure out the most damning trait.

“You’re a Belador?” she asked the old guy.

“Yes.”

Tristan stopped between them and turned to her with a big grin, his arms opened wide in an “Am I good or what?” look.

She braced her feet apart, ready for battle, and pointed at Tristan. “This is the last time you screw me over.”

“What’re you talking about?” Sincerity rang through Tristan’s voice.

“He’s a Belador.”

“So?”

“So you could have told me that. But you didn’t, which makes me wonder why not and why this guy didn’t want Tzader or Quinn involved.” She shot Tristan a withering look. “Or maybe this is the traitor and you’ve brought me into a trap.”

“What?” Tristan dropped his arms.

The man across the room spoke in a shaky voice. “I asked Tristan to not tell you I was Belador, Evalle.”

“Why?” She kept both men in her field of vision, prepared to bust out the blades in her boots at the first wrong move.

The withered old man said, “Because you would have wanted to check me out with Tzader or someone else.”

True. With Conlan O’Meary on the loose, no possible lead could be held back. She cut Tristan some slack for the moment and directed her questions at the Belador. “Who are you?”

“Sam Thomas. I once fought in battle beside other Beladors, just as you do.”

“I take it you’re not with the Beladors as a warrior now.”

“I left.”

“Nobody quits.”

“You’re right. That’s why I left after a battle almost seven years ago. I’m sure they counted me as dead or forever missing since bodies are sometimes vaporized in battle.”

How could he just walk away after having been accepted as a full Belador warrior? She’d give anything to have what he’d tossed aside. To not be shunned as a half-breed. And he’d sworn the same oath she had. She didn’t hide her disgust when she said, “So you just deserted?”

Sam sighed heavily and the air came out with a rattle. “I didn’t leave during a battle. No one was at risk when I disappeared and became another statistic. You would condemn me for wanting a life?”

She caught his point—that she of all people should understand wanting a normal life—and discounted that excuse for the crap it smelled like. “You want me to believe you walked away from the Beladors so you could play golf and spend time with the grandkids? Not buying that, Pops.”

“Let’s just say I’m supporting the tribe in my own way.”

She let that go for now. “Where have you been since leaving the Beladors?”

“Around, but I’m not here to talk about past history.”

I’m not either. “What do you want to talk to me about?”

The wrinkles on Sam’s face rearranged into a crooked smile that ended with a grimace. “Can we sit a spell? Got a bad back.”

She took the single chair facing him, which didn’t match any of the other furniture. Not entirely true. Every piece in the room sported rips that belched stuffing. “What do you know about the traitor?”

Tristan settled onto a lumpy couch. He piped up, “Sam knows more than anyone at VIPER.”

Evalle sent him a scathing look intended to say, You don’t have a speaking role.

Tristan grumbled, “Whatever,” and propped an elbow on the back of the couch to support his head.

Taking his time to speak, Sam said, “To begin with, the traitor will lead the Medb to Brina if you don’t stop him.”