The Tracker's Secret: Sunderverse (Mate Tracker Book 2) by Ingrid Seymour (the gingerbread man read aloud .txt) 📗

“I’m afraid, Rosalina. What if I hurt you?”

“You won’t.”

“How can you be so sure? My wolf... it’s untamed, and I don’t even know what I do when I shift. I’ve had a couple of weird dreams since that night. They’re just flashes of fangs and teeth and blood, but I have a feeling they’re real. Something happened that night. Bad stuff, and I can’t remember.”

“If that’s the case, then even more reason to talk to the mage and get your questions answered. You’ve managed not to shift today despite everything that happened. You’re strong. You’ll figure this out. I know you will, but you need help.”

I nodded, trying to soak in her positive, supportive words. It wouldn’t do to wallow in negative thoughts. I had to get this under control. There was no other alternative.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll call Damien Ward.”

Chapter 8

THE NEXT MORNING AT 7 AM, Rosalina and I found ourselves driving downtown under a sky thick with gray clouds. We had tried to get Damien Ward to meet us in a public place, but he refused to do that, insisting that he was in no mood to leave his home and if I wanted to see him, I had to come to him. According to the creepy mage, he had done enough for me and my mother already. I almost told him to go to hell, but Rosalina snatched the phone from me and set up the appointment.

His “house” turned out to be a five-story building on a corner lot, located on Olive Street. It was made of dark brick with veined marble arches that rose from the ground level to the third floor. The roof was flat and two honest-to-god gargoyles flanked its corners. It looked to have been built in the 1800s and had a Goth feeling about it that made me think of haunted houses and old horror films. It had a crumbly appearance as if, at any moment, it might fall to pieces.

As I parked my Camaro across the street, my phone rang. It was Mom. I ignored it, doing my best not to get angry.

“You’ll have to talk to her sooner or later, Toni,” Rosalina said. “You can’t keep ignoring her forever.”

“Are you sure about that? I might just as well block her.”

She shook her head. I knew she was right, but I wasn’t ready to talk to my mother, and I had no idea when I would be.

Rosalina and I got out of the car and walked shoulder-to-shoulder toward Damien’s front door. She folded her hand in mine, which let me know she was also getting a weird vibe from the house. My shifting symptoms began as soon as I laid eyes on the place and grew the closer we got. I had to stop to take a few deep breaths before reaching the door.

Slowly, I lifted my hand to knock, but before I could, the door slid open and Damien Ward appeared on the other side.

“Hello,” he said with a smirk, his ink-blotch pupils shrinking with the sunlight. “I’m delighted to see you are on time. I hate tardiness.”

I stared open-mouthed. He was wearing jeans, a T-shirt and an apron stained with what looked like tomato sauce. He wasn’t wearing his dark glasses, his ridiculous top hat, or his cloak, and if not for his coppery eyes, he would have looked like any other guy in full domestic bliss.

“Follow me,” he said, turning on his heel and walking through a lavish foyer that absolutely did not match the outside of the house.

Rosalina and I stepped inside, and the door automatically closed behind us, which we barely noticed since we were glancing around with our jaws unhinged. The interior was the epitome of modern. The décor, the materials, the furniture, they all screamed rich asshole. The walls were painted a light gray with white trim. The furniture was angular with straight lines and metal accents. The art on the wall was contemporary and contained in simple black frames. The huge marble staircase that led up to a wrap-around landing was ornate and from another era and should’ve clashed with the rest of the scheme, but it seemed to fit right in.

What the hell? This mage was confusing, a little walking contradiction.

“What’s up with his pupils?” Rosalina asked in my ear.

“No idea,” I whispered.

“Are you two coming or not?” His voice came from deep down the corridor through which he’d disappeared.

We followed the sound, still staring at everything in confusion. Past an arched doorway, and the sight that greeted us—a massive, industrial-looking kitchen—only added to our bewilderment.

Caged lights hung from a tall ceiling, illuminating a wide island with polished concrete countertops. The cabinets were plain, painted gray, and had no handles. A large window sat above a steel farmhouse sink the size of a bathtub. Images of a fairy forest played on the window’s surface, some kind of mirage spell, for sure. Open shelves on the wall were filled with implements that looked like they belonged in a lab and not a kitchen.

“Take a seat wherever you want,” Damien said from his place in front of a huge, stainless steel gas range fit for a restaurant.

We picked tall stools in front of the wide island, which featured a normal-sized sink and built-in cutting board.

“Nice place you have here,” I said, watching him stir the contents of a pot as tall as a toddler.

He grunted in response, too intent on his cooking to acknowledge me. If his idea had been to put me at ease with his domesticity, he had accomplished his goal. It was a genius plan, really, because I couldn’t muster any fear for a man wielding a ladle and wearing a dirty apron.

My nose twitched as I tried to identify what he was cooking, but there were no scents in the air. Odd.

“There,” he said, making a racket by beating his ladle on the