Blood Heir (Aurelia Ryder, #1)(35)

“Yeah,” the tech said. “I’ll get my tools. If it doesn’t work tomorrow, let us know.”

The tech came back with his toolbox, and we walked down Peachtree Circle, heading south, toward civilization. My leg started hurting again. When I got home, I’d chant it into regeneration.

Peachtree Circle ran into 15th street. It used to be a three-way intersection, and now it was more like a small roundabout, with the west end of 15th cut off by heaps of debris from fallen condominiums. The only way out was down the other end of 15th, southeast.

A small shopping plaza had sprouted in the round intersection, only two shops: a pirogi stand manned by a smiling blond man and a convenience bus operated by an older, brown-skinned woman. The bus sold first-aid supplies and necessities: salt, toiletries, bandages, and so on. The pirogi stall sold delicious pirogi. I had sampled them this morning on the way to St. Luke’s. The intersection was (now) deserted, except for a lone beggar sitting on a ratty blanket by the debris.

The tech waved at me and headed to his van, sitting by the pirogi stand. The beggar eyed me. Thin, old, with skin the color of dark chestnut creased by wrinkles, he hugged his knees on his blanket. His thin greasy hair hung in long strands over his face. His shoes, beat-up old boots, waited next to him. Grime stained his bare feet. He held himself in that careful way people do when moving meant pain.

He looked so alone.

Wind fanned me, bringing with it a hint of stale urine and the thick scent of a human body that hadn’t been washed for far too long.

I walked up to the bus. The old lady was packing up for the day and pretended not to see me. I refused to move. Finally, she squinted at me. I pulled out forty bucks and put it on the counter. “Men’s socks and aspirin.”

She looked past me at the beggar, then at me, sighed, put two pairs of socks on the fold-out shelf and added a small bottle of aspirin, twenty pills.

“Thanks.” I took myself to the pirogi stall, bought the mushroom flavor—less chance of rat meat that way, and took it and my bus purchases over to the beggar.

He shied away from me, scrambling backward. I left the stuff and twenty bucks on the edge of his blanket and walked away.

By the time I got home, less than a mile away, my leg was in full protest mode. I walked into the house, locked the door behind me, and headed into my sanctuary. I reached the door and stopped.

Someone was inside.

I didn’t hear anyone, I didn’t see anyone, but I knew with absolute certainty that someone had broken into my home.

I walked through the doorway, shut the door behind me, and slid the heavy bar in place, trapping the intruder inside with me.

Quiet. Water gurgled in the stream bed. Plants spread their leaves, eager for the light.

I cracked my knuckles.

A dark shape lunged at me from the left, flying through the air as if he had wings. I sidestepped, gripping the intruder by the arm, and flipped him in midair, using my entire weight to drive him down. His back slapped the limestone. He flipped, legs over shoulders, bounced up like he was made of rubber, and crouched ten feet away, a big grin on his face.

Damn it, Conlan. “You need to work on your pouncing.”

Grey eyes laughed at me. “You need to work on your hearing. I stood five feet behind you for a whole minute before I walked into your house. You never turned around.”

So he’d snuck in before the magic hit. Explained how he got past my wards. “Remind me, what did I say about not blowing my cover?”

He shrugged. “Who’s here to see us? I don’t see anybody.” He made a show of looking through the plants. “Are you hiding witnesses in your pretty shrubs?”

The problem with Conlan was that he had his father’s unshakeable confidence and his mother’s mouth. He was also Roland’s grandson. He’d spoken in complete sentences when he was eighteen months old, and he cracked complex incantations like they were sunflowers seeds when he was five. Math was child’s play, engineering was a fun amusement, chemistry was a hobby, and he took none of it seriously.

His eyes shone. “Do you have food?”

And he was a nine-year-old werelion. “Maybe.”

I headed to my fridge. Tamyra Miller had stocked it to my specifications. Let’s see. What could I make that would be fast and filling?

“Ham, chicken, venison?”

“Yes!”

“Normally I charge one hug per meal, but for you it’s free.”

I wasn’t a fan of forcing hugs on children. If he wanted to give me a hug, he knew I would welcome one.

He pretended to sigh, came over, and hugged me. He did it very carefully, using a fraction of his strength, aware that he was hugging a human. I’d finally seen my brother in person after eight long years.

“Hey,” I told him.

He grinned at me and broke free.

I pulled out a chunk of salted smoked ham, wild mushrooms, four slices of bacon, and some cheddar and mozzarella, got a cutting board and my cleaver, and stocked the fire in the stove. Conlan settled into a chair by the kitchen table.

“You really aren’t glad to see me?”

“Of course I’m glad to see you. But now your scent is everywhere and Ascanio knows where I live.”

Conlan wrinkled his face, showing me a hint of a fang.

I set the pan onto the fire, tossed bacon into it, and started dicing ham into bite-sized chunks.