Free Obsidian Curse by Barbra Annino

Justice, I know you can’t turn away from it or it’ll consume you from the inside out.”
    His words tore through me and for a moment, I was stunned. Everything he said was so personal, so intimate. It was like he had his finger on the pulse of my subconscious. As if he could read the map of my soul with the touch of a button. I stared at him in bewilderment for several heartbeats.
    When I regained my composure I said, “Are you always this dramatic?”
    “Yes. It’s my one flaw.”
    “Besides your name.”
    He smiled. “Besides my name.”
    I turned away from Blade to wash the pizza grease from my hands and to think.
    He was right about one thing. I knew what it was like to feel forgotten. To feel as if there was no hope, no justice in the world when it came to the people we loved the most.
    Except I had found justice for my parents. And didn’t Blade—irritating as he may be—deserve the same for his?
    I took my hat off and ran my fingers through my hair, forgetting I still had a wad of Bit-O-Honey stuck in it. Then I plopped the hat back on my head.
    Blade gave me a curious look as if he had completely forgotten to ask me about something, and since I still didn’t know how much he had seen on the street with Pickle—or if he could see Pickle—I stopped him as soon as he opened his mouth.
    I held up a finger. “Rule number one. No questions.”
    He grinned. “Is that a yes?”
    I nodded. “I’ll help you. On my time. On my terms.”
    He smacked his hands together and said, “Yes!” Then he picked me up and swung me around.
    “Okay, rule number two. No touching, no picking up, no swinging of any kind.”
    He set me back down. “Sorry.”
    “Now tell me about the smoking gun.”

Chapter 11

    I looked at Thor, whose eyes were growing heavy as he snuggled deeper into the sofa. “What do you think, buddy? Did I just make a huge mistake?”
    He pawed at the air, grunted, and flipped onto his back to settle in for a nap, unconcerned about anything but his full belly and his sleepy head.
    While I was waiting for Blade Knight to retrieve something from his car, my phone made a typing sound, indicating I just received a text.
    It was from Chance. I hate fighting with you.
    I texted back. Me too.
    Chance: You know you have nothing to be jealous about.
    Me: And you have nothing to be nervous about. I’m not afraid. Not of you. Not of us. It’s complicated right now, but there are things I need to tell you. I will as soon as I can.
    Chance: I know you will. TTYL. xoxo.
    Me: XOXOXO
    I slipped the phone into the back pocket of my jeans as Blade Knight walked through the door carrying a beat-up-looking camel-colored satchel. He carefully closed the door behind him.
    He set the bag on the counter. I pulled a stool up to where he stood and hopped onto it.
    Blade launched right into the story. “I moved into my first foster home with only one box of belongings. That was the rule. Take only the essentials, leave the rest. Over the course of the years of being shuffled around from one dysfunctional household to another, I had forgotten all about the box.”
    He looked at me, eyes dark, defiant. Sincere. I felt for him in that moment. For the frightened little boy he must have been.
    Blade ran a hand over his face. “When a person is under that much stress, with no room to breathe in between blows, the only way to survive is to bury it. All of it. Lock away every bit of garbage, every shred of fear, so no one can find your vulnerabilities.”
    “Because vulnerabilities can get you killed,” I said softly.
    He was taken aback by that remark and gave me a curious stare.
    “I wrote a story on repressed memories,” I said, which was complete baloney. I knew all about the dangers of exposing your weak spots strictly from experience.
    Blade nodded, satisfied with that answer. “I repressed so many memories, my therapist had to use a shovel to dig them out. All but one. That one, I still kept in here.” He pointed to