Stifled (Summoned Book 2) Read online

  My tools are spread out on the ground underneath the broken window. I scrabble with wet fingers across the dirt for one of the screwdrivers. Then I turn and bolt in the direction of my car.

  No keys. No goddamn keys.

  The chant is back in my head.

  Mud forms on my shoes and the bottom of my pant legs as I course through the brush. I skid to a halt at the car and duck down at the back, placing the teapot on the ground. Somehow, I steady my hands enough to unscrew the license plate. The screws plunk to the ground, one after the other. Then I yank off the plate.

  My gaze darts across the ground for a rock. I'm in the damn desert. A rock can't be too much to ask for.

  Apparently, it is.

  With a growl, I push to my feet and grab the tea pot. Here's hoping this thing is porcelain. If not, I'm screwed.

  I approach the passenger side of the car, back up a few feet, then chuck the teapot at it. The window shatters.

  Porcelain it is.

  I shove out the glass, flip the lock, and yank open the door.

  I grab all of the papers from the glove box. That should be everything identifying the owner of the car. If only I had ever thought to learn how to hot wire.

  I cram the papers, license plate, and screwdriver into the backpack with the laptop. My hand touches something that jingles. I push aside the papers.

  Keys.

  Not my keys, but I'm not opposed to stealing a vehicle right now. Otherwise, I will have to take the 2-10 across the desert until I reach the road and then thumb a ride. That is, if I survive that long of a walk.

  I grab the keys, zip up the bag, and head back toward the house. I'm sure Thor will be around there somewhere, swinging his mighty hammer. I just need to find what these keys belong to so I can get out of here.

  Sirens blare in the distance. I stop, looking around. There's no one for miles. No one should have heard us. The cops can't possibly know the house was broken into.

  Unless. . .that box on the wall had been a security alarm. He had been pressing a duress code to alert the security center to call the police.

  Now I have no choice but to find a vehicle. The police will comb the desert, and the brush doesn't provide much for hiding. I pick up my pace, bag thudding against my back. If I can reach the front of the house before the police pull in, I might be able to make a clean escape. Hoping he parked his vehicle nearby.

  And hoping he hasn't left yet.

  I round the side of the house. I stop short. Leaning against the wall is a motorcycle.

  Of course. He had been in riding gear.

  I look down at the key in my hand. This is my only chance, but I've never been on a motorcycle before. It can't be too difficult.

  I shove the key into my pocket and head for the back door. Talking spills from indoors. I could just take the bike and go, but I'm not stupid.

  Well, not that stupid.

  I crouch under the broken window and peer through. He has his back to me, conversing on his phone.

  The sirens cut, and car doors slam. He jerks straight. Then he stalks to the front door past the helmet still on the floor from the scuffle. He throws open the door and storms outside.

  With the backpack that's starting to feel like I'm carrying a small shuttle, I pull myself up and over the windowsill. I land in water up to my ankles, the carpet squishing under my feet. The big speckled fish is lying dead to the side.

  I slosh through the water to the door, pick up the helmet, and dart back outside. Time is short. Once he steps back inside and realizes the helmet is missing, he'll come looking for me. I slip on the helmet, then lift and straddle the bike.

  This isn't quite how I anticipated my death but it's as good as any.

  I glance over my shoulder, toward the front of the house. People are chattering loudly. I can pick out the man's voice, but not what is being said.

  Probably describing me. They're going to start the hunt any second now.

  I locate the controls on the bike, take a deep breath, and crank the ignition. The engine roars. I squeeze the accelerator—and I'm off, straight through the backyard and into the brush.

  For a minute, I think I got away without being chased. Then the sirens break through the air.

  God dammit.

  I strain to keep the bike upright and accelerate. The desert whizzes by, dust billowing around me. I thought I knew which direction the road was, but now I'm not so sure. Not like I have many options. I'm afraid to try to turn this thing. Pretty sure I'll wind up meeting the ground and there are plenty of rocks everywhere now that I don't need them.

  So I keep going straight.

  Straight through the desert, straight through the brush, and straight over the edge of a ravine.

  The bike hits the rock side. The air is knocked from my lungs. The bike bounces again. My head cracks against something hard, jarring my sight. The world has no direction. Pain spikes through my leg.

  My back slams into the ground. A crunch resounds in my ear as the bike skids on its side. It halts only a few feet from where I lay.

  I give it a sidelong look. My lungs burn as they expand with air.

  I roll over and try to push off the ground. Everything aches, even the tendons in the back of my neck and down my wrists. I force myself to my feet. My right ankle flares, deep in the joint. I brace my hand against the side of the ravine and transfer the burden off my ankle.

  This isn't good. I shift the backpack and lumber a step. Another flare erupts at the ankle.

  The additional weight from the backpack isn't helping, but I will deliver this damn laptop to Lyle even if all that is left is the space bar.

  I remove the helmet and drop it to the ground as I stagger forward. My hand goes back to the stone side, and I make my way one painful step after the other along the ravine.

  At least the sirens are gone. That's one way to lose the police, I guess.

  Eventually, I come to a slope and halt to gaze up at the top. The sun shines down in my face. This is the shortest incline so far, but I might as well be trying to climb Mt. Everest.

  I reach up and grab a rock, get a firm footing, and pull. After two steps, my sole slips and I eat gravel. I keep going, hunched under the weight of the bag and grinding my teeth against the burning pain in my ankle. It feels weak, but I have to put pressure on it. Just for a few more steps.

  The rocks scrape my fingers and my legs where my pants are torn. I reach the top of the ravine, grab a thorny brush with one hand and push down with the other. Despite every muscle protesting, I haul myself over the side.

  I shrug off the bag and drop against the ground, panting the hot desert air. My shirt is stuck to my body with sweat. The jacket has to come off. I'm sweltering.

  I remove it and pull to my feet. A road lays up ahead.

  Asphalt has never looked so beautiful. I grab my jacket and bag and make my way through the brush. When I reach the road, I limp along it until a car approaches from behind me.

  I turn and put out my thumb. The car cruises right by.

  Asshole.

  I continue walking. My mouth is drier than the ground. I'm sure Bear Grylls explained it a dozen times, but I still don't remember how to get water out of the desert. So I just trudge along and hope a car gets to me before the vultures start circling.

  About ten minutes later, another engine approaches. I turn as a silver Chevy pickup makes it way toward me. I put out my thumb without much enthusiasm.

  The truck slows.

  Without even glancing at the driver, I hustle around to the passenger side and crawl in. The seat is a plushy little piece of heaven, and the air conditioning is so cold it leaves goosebumps.

  I rest my head against the seat and close my eyes.

  “What happened to you?” The driver sounds concerned.

  I guess I don't look so swift.

  “Fell,” I say without opening my eyes. “Was hiking and fell down a ravine.”

  “I see that,” he says.

 
“I just need to get to my hotel in L.A.”

  “Not the, uh, hospital first?”

  I open my eyes to look at him. He's mid to late twenties with olive skin and dark features. Everything about him reeks of normal.

  I'm a little jealous that picking up a mangled hitchhiker is the most adventurous thing he's done all week and probably his entire life.

  “No, just my hotel, please,” I say, then lean back and close my eyes again.

  Maybe someday I'll have enough control over my own life to be unexciting too.

  ***

  Back at the hotel, I knock on the door. I am too exhausted to bother pulling out my wallet for the key card.

  Syd opens the door. She nearly falls forward, mouth open. “What the hell, Dim?”

  I shuffle inside, drop the backpack on the floor, then lower face-down onto the bed. I'm pretty sure I will never move again

  She approaches the bed. “What happened to you?”

  “I thought the jacket came with the ability to ride motorcycles,” I say into the mattress, then turn my head—painfully—to look at her. “Let's just take that stupid laptop to Lyle so I can lapse into a coma.”

  She stares down at me. Then she blinks. “Alright. Let me have my car keys.”

  “About that. . .” I make myself sit, despite how much I don't want to. My muscles feel mushy. “You don't really. . .own. . .a car anymore.”

  She doesn't respond. She doesn't do anything at all.

  “You took that well,” I say, pushing to a stand. My ankle sends a nice little pang up my leg. I wince and then limp to the fridge, pull out a water bottle, and down it while Syd struggles for words.

  Finally, she looks up. “Um, how are we getting to Lyle's then?'

  I laugh. “There's this invention called cabs. . .”

  “Dimitri!” She throws her hands in the air. “What did you do to my car? Why the hell were you on a motorcycle? Why do you look like you went skydiving without a parachute?”

  “Ah, that last bit—good 'un.” I put the half-empty water bottle on the table. “Hey, can you call a cab? I still can't feel all ten fingers.” I gaze down at my hands. “I am supposed to have ten, right?”

  Syd makes a half-scoff, half-surprised noise. Then she pulls her phone out of her purse and orders a cab.

  I stare at the bed, contemplating if it's worth hobbling back over to or if lying on the floor would be easier.

  She ends the call then looks at me, phone barely moved from her face. “So, did my car go up in a ball of fire or something?”

  “Nah, not that glorious. It's actually intact, but too risky to go back for it.” I take the challenge and limp to the bed. “Can you hand me my backpack?”

  She does, but she's still scowling. Like her car is the first thing I've ever destroyed.

  I unzip the backpack and hand her the license plate and registration. “Probably want to dispose of these.”

  “Oh, god, Dimitri!”

  “I didn't kill anyone,” I say.

  She gives me a doubtful look. “No casualties?”

  “Well, there was a fish. He was just chilling, and some bastard stuck a sledgehammer through his tank.”

  “A what?” She gives the license plate an apprehensive look, then sets it and the papers on the table.

  “Yeah, so by comparison, you got off pretty easy. You can say it, though.”

  She narrows her eyes. “I can say what?”

  “That this is why we can't have nice things.”

  She looks absolutely dumbfounded. “It's not funny, Dim.”

  “Hey, I fell down the side of a ravine, so I get to decide what's funny about this.”

  “First off, that's not going to stop anyone from linking that car to me. Second, the cab ride is going to cost a lot of money, and third, now I have to buy a new car,” she says. “I don't find that amusing at all.”

  “It's fine. You're rich.”

  Her eyes smolder. “Yeah, Dim, let's just go blow it all on new vehicles. I'm not Karl.”

  “No, you have boobs. Great ones, I might add.”

  She growls, then storms across the room and starts pawing through our bags.

  I turn to face her. “It's a compliment.”

  “Please, stop,” she says, holding up a hand. “I don't know how you can make jokes right now.”

  She chucks a roll of gauze at me.

  I put up my hands to catch it. “Jesus, Syd. Cease fire.”

  Someone knocks on the door.

  Syd shoots me a ticked off look and crosses the room to answer it.

  The burly man on the other side says, “I think you ordered a cab.”

  “Yep, that would be me,” Syd says, grabbing her purse and my backpack, and clomps outside.

  I push off from the bed and shuffle toward the door.

  He cocks his head. “Need help?”

  “Only if you can tranq that rabid woman out there.”

  His serious face cracks a grin. He's also kind enough to let me use his shoulder as support an arm-length away so I can pretend to retain my dignity.

  When we reach the cab, I crawl into the backseat next to Syd. She gives the driver directions, and we head off to Lyle's house.

  I stare out the window, trying to ignore the agony in my leg, and replay the break-in. Thor had triggered the call to the police, so he apparently belonged in that house. Yet he had come in only to grab the laptop. What's the likelihood he just so happened to want his computer at the precise moment I was trying to steal it?

  I mean, it's pretty obvious bad luck and I have a long history together, but even that is a little much.

  Not to mention, he hadn't seemed surprised when I tackled him like a linebacker. Then there's the little part where he came after the laptop with a sledgehammer. He hadn't been trying to hit me with it.

  Smashing the aquarium was not an accident. A few thousand gallons of water is a surefire way to keep a laptop from ever turning on again.

  Unease settles over me; he didn't want the computer. He was trying to keep Lyle from seeing what is on it.

  ***

  When the cab pulls up in front of Lyle's house, I struggle out of the backseat then turn to the driver. “Can you just wait out here?”

  “I have to run the meter,” he says.

  I nod and yank my backpack off the floorboard.

  Syd peeks over the roof of the cab. “Want me to carry that?”

  “How about you get into character.” I limp around the vehicle toward her.

  “It's pretty obvious you're injured.” She heads up the walkway, and I follow. “You need to ice that when we get back.”

  I stop at the front door and let her ring the bell.

  The same maid opens the door, then smiles and says, “I will get Mister Gardner for you.”

  We wait on the patio for a few minutes, and then Lyle opens the door.

  I shove the backpack at his chest. “Who the fuck knew I was coming?”

  Syd gasps my name, but I stomp over the threshold, ignoring the burn in my ankle.

  Lyle grips the backpack, glancing at Syd then at me. “What are you talking about?”

  “A maniac went to some pretty wild extremes to keep this away from me—from you.”

  Lyle raises his eyebrows. “There shouldn't have been anyone there.”

  “Someone didn't get the memo!”

  “Dimitri!” Syd grabs my arm then gives Lyle an apprehensive smile. “Sorry, he got roughed up pretty bad. He's cranky.”

  “Totally understandable,” Lyle says, like she was apologizing about a wary dog.

  He passes the backpack to the maid. She hurries away with it.

  I have so much more yelling I would like to do, but Syd looks worried. She really wants to convince Lyle that we're master and genie, so I keep my mouth shut. For now.

  “Please, come sit down,” Lyle says, gesturing toward the living room.

  We pass under the crazy glass sculpture-slash-archway. He takes a seat in one of t
he leather Queen Anne chairs. Syd and I sit on opposite ends of the couch.

  “I'm terribly sorry for what happened,” he says. “While these are live sites, they actually belong to members. That house was supposed to be vacant. I will talk to the member and see what happened. I'm sure they just forgot to tell the housekeeper.”

  I swallow a laugh. Housekeeper. Right.

  “Miscommunication gets the best of us.” He smiles at Syd.

  If he knew what went down in the last eight hours, he would know just how absurd his lies are.

  He continues to address Syd while ignoring me. “Are you ready for the details of the next test?”

  Syd looks up with a start. “Another test?” She wrinkles her nose. “I'm not sure.”

  Lyle leans back in his chair. “So, does this mean you're dropping out of JiNet?”

  Silence.

  Then she faces him head on, not so much as a glance toward me, and says, “No. We'll do the next test.”

  Once we're in the backseat of the cab, heading from Lyle's house to a car lot, I turn to Syd. “I can't believe you told him we're staying!”

  “I know, I know! I explained my reasons before.” Syd gives a tell-tale glance at the driver. “Let's talk about this later.”

  I slink down in my seat and cross my arms. “I can't believe you trust Lyle.”

  “I don't,” she says. “That's the whole point. I've told you, we need to stay inside so we can figure out what's going on.”

  I don't reply. Nothing she will say around the driver will bring me on board with this plan, and I doubt anything after will, either.

  Ten minutes passes before anyone speaks again, and it's the cab driver as he pulls into a car lot.

  “Does this place work for you?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Syd says, looking in her purse for his payment.

  I step out, gritting my teeth against the pain in my ankle, and scan my eyes over the rows of vehicles.

  A salesman hastens toward me. “Good afternoon! Can I help you?”

  “Yeah, I'm looking for a van,” I say, “because my girlfriend and I are apparently starting a detective agency. We'll need a Great Dane, too.”