The Memory Puller (The Memory Puller Series Book 1)
The Memory Puller: Chapter 6

Tristan awoke to the unfamiliar sensation of a foot nudging his temple.

He peeled his eyes open, only to slam them shut against the piercing light of dawn, using his other senses to decipher his surroundings.

Based on the rough surface tugging at his feathers, he’d been sleeping on the ground. And based on the smells—stale piss, rotten garbage, and the creamy, sour funk of spilled Delirium—he was downtown. Dienses Square? What the fuck was he doing asleep on the ground downtown? And why was his head pounding so insistently?

“Rough night?” a deep, craggy male voice inquired, not without a hint of amusement.

Sitting up with a groan and cradling his throbbing forehead, Tristan slowly, carefully opened his eyes, taking a second to focus on an outstretched hand and the striking face of Maksym Rosopa.

Maksym was a councilor in the Vicereine’s government, representing the Heronswood district. Tristan wouldn’t go so far as to call Maksym a friend, but the two acquaintances had a shared interest in shenanigans, especially the kind that had likely taken place at the Midsummer Ball last night.

Maksym’s matte-green wings devoured the early morning light, a few of the feathers just as bent and askew as the male’s wayward clumps of silvery-gray hair. The Windrider wore a crumpled white shirt unbuttoned to the sternum, exposing a pale, muscular chest, and a pair of khaki pants with several questionable-looking dark spots. Mostly in the crotch area.

“Maybe as rough as yours?” Tristan grunted, his tongue a dry, sticky lump in his mouth. He grabbed Maksym’s offered hand and pulled himself to wobbly feet as black dots bobbled across his vision. His head swam as he took a staggering step backward and knocked over an empty Delirium bottle. It rolled away before coming to a tinkling crash next to two others.

Maksym chuckled, placing a strong hand on Tristan’s shoulder to steady him. “You missed quite the party, Saros.”

“Been there, done that,” Tristan smirked, brushing strands of his dark hair out of his face.

Maksym expelled an incredulous breath. “You’re too young to be bored by that scene already.”

Maksym had a few centuries on Tristan, who, at two hundred and twenty-eight years old, was one of the youngest Vestians. Though his charming swagger and natural air of authority inspired most of his fellow Guards to regard him as their de facto leader.

“Birro’s wife was looking for you,” Maksym added with a sly smile.

Tristan sighed, dipping his head into his hands.

Birro, a high-ranking mortal in the colonies’ treasury department, had a pretty young wife who Tristan had made the mistake of fucking during the Harvest Festival at the Vicereine’s palace a few months back.

Not that the sex itself had been a mistake. It had been satisfying, damn near acrobatic, and she’d had a blast. Four blasts, if Tristan wasn’t mistaken. And Birro didn’t give a shit.

But ever since, Birro’s wife wouldn’t leave Tristan alone, seeking him out at every one of the colony elite’s social events. He was running out of polite ways to reject her.

“She the reason you ditched the party last night and volunteered to patrol my district?” Maksym asked.

“I didn’t volunteer, I—”

Fuck.

He was supposed to be in Heronswood.

What the hell had happened last night?

The last thing he remembered was telling his fellow Guards to enjoy the Ball before taking off toward Heronswood from the roof of the barracks. But when he tried to recall anything else from the previous night, he found only pitch-black emptiness in his mind.

He’d suffered through enough Delirium hangovers to know that even a few bottles could wreak havoc on a Fae’s short-term memory, especially one who didn’t drink it often. Entire days could be lost to the emotional symphony the elixir conducted in a Fae’s mind. It’s why he rarely messed with the stuff. Was thankful that, based on the evidence rolling around his feet, he’d only drunk three bottles last night. That he could see, anyway.

He shook his head to clear the fog. “Shit, Maksym, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Maksym laughed, rustling his evergreen wings. “I did a quick sweep through the neighborhood about an hour ago. All quiet, nothing out of place. Except you. You’ve covered for me enough times in the past that I thought I’d return the favor for once, decided to come looking for you before the Vicereine caught wind that you weren’t there. Stopped at the barracks first, but Zephyrus said you hadn’t come home yet. Imagine my shock replaceing you at the tail end of a Delirium bender, passed out on the streets of Dienses Square. Don’t worry though, I won’t say anything to her.”

Tristan nodded gratefully, not needing to ask who her was. “I’ll make it up to you,” Tristan said, clapping the other male on the shoulder. “Go get some sleep. I’ll head over to Heronswood now and do a sweep myself. Maybe something will jog my memory, and I can figure out how in the name of Stygios I ended up here. You know this isn’t like me.”

And it wasn’t. Sure, Tristan had participated in his fair share of devilry over the years, but never while on duty. He prided himself on his work ethic, on his dedication to protecting the inhabitants of the colonies—these Fae and mortals who had taken him in when he’d been at his lowest two hundred years ago.

Maksym yawned. “Alright, I’m off. See you around, Saros.”

Merely witnessing Maksym flap his massive green wings and shoot into the sky set Tristan’s head spinning. Covering his mouth against a wave of nausea, Tristan strode into the street, figuring walking to Heronswood would be less jarring. And would help shake off his dizziness. He had patrol shifts in Dienses Square both tonight and tomorrow.

This fucking hangover better be gone by then.

Tristan strolled down the wide oak-tree-lined avenues that crisscrossed Heronswood, spying nothing out of the ordinary, though the neighborhood was unusually quiet for a Friday morning. No servants milled about, watering flowers, opening windows, or setting out breakfast on the long sweeping porches that graced so many of these palatial homes.

Even the quiet wasn’t suspicious since all Heronswood’s residents were likely recovering from last night’s revelry. Thanks to their supernatural healing abilities, the Fae could easily recover from the indulgences of the Midsummer Ball. Mortals needed quite a few more hours to get their wits back.

Tristan’s headache faded as he sucked in the fresh morning air, then he rounded a corner and came upon the Pagonis manor. His eye caught on something underneath the sprawling oak tree across the street, something glinting like a jewel in the early morning sunlight. His confusion spiked as he approached the object, then skyrocketed when he bent over and picked up a black iridescent feather—one of his feathers.

He’d been here last night.

But what would’ve caused him to abandon his post and head downtown to numb himself with Delirium, a substance he hadn’t consumed in months? Had he gotten spooked by something? He couldn’t imagine such a scenario. He would’ve sprung into action, not fled downtown like a coward.

Or maybe he’d been right, and nothing had occurred here last night. So he’d let his annoyance with the Vicereine and her ridiculous assignment get the better of him, abandoned his post, and sought out a different diversion. But that didn’t seem plausible either.

Tucking the feather into his pocket and finally feeling capable of flight, he cast a gust into the ground and launched into the air, aiming for the northern edge of the city and the barracks.

He ruminated the entire short flight about what could have possibly compelled him to risk sewer patrol and neglect his duties.