Chapter 3: Hotel Sanctuary

The Riverside Inn looked like the kind of place people went to have affairs or hide from the law. Which, I supposed, made it perfect for hiding from supernatural assassins.

Jake had driven us through what felt like half the city, taking random turns and doubling back multiple times before pulling into the motel's poorly lit parking lot.

"Room fifteen," he said, handing me a key card. "I'm in sixteen, right next door. Don't open your door for anyone except me."

"How do I know it's really you?"

"I'll knock three times, pause, then twice more. If anyone knocks differently, call my cell and hide in the bathroom." He handed me a piece of paper with his number. "And Sarah? Turn off your phone. If I'm right about your ex-husband, he can track it."

I stared at the phone in my hand—my lifeline to the normal world. "What if there's an emergency at school? What if—"

"What if you're dead?" Jake's voice was harsh. "Your principal will survive one day without being able to reach you."

I powered down the phone and followed him to my room. The space was exactly what I'd expected—two double beds with faded floral comforters, a television that probably predated cable, and carpet that had seen better decades.

"It's not the Ritz, but it's safe," Jake said, checking the windows and bathroom. "These rooms are warded against supernatural tracking. The owner's an old friend who specializes in discretion."

"Warded?"

"Protected by magic. Think of it like a supernatural security system." He paused at my door. "Get some sleep. We'll start your training tomorrow."

"Training for what?"

"Staying alive."

After he left, I sat on the edge of one of the beds and tried to process everything that had happened. Twelve hours ago, I'd been a normal divorced teacher. Now I was apparently some kind of witch hiding from murderers in a seedy motel.

I thought about calling Lisa, my best friend, but Jake's warnings echoed in my mind. Don't trust anyone completely. The prophecy had mentioned betrayal, and I'd already learned the hard way that people weren't always who they seemed.

I changed into pajamas and tried to sleep, but every small sound made me jump. The air conditioning unit clicking on. Footsteps in the hallway. Car doors slamming in the parking lot.

Around midnight, I heard the knock—three times, pause, then twice more.

"It's Jake," came his voice through the door.

I let him in, immediately noticing he'd changed out of his leather jacket into a black t-shirt that showed off more muscles than I'd expected.

"Couldn't sleep either?" I asked.

"I don't sleep much on cases." He was carrying a laptop bag and what looked like a small arsenal. "But I brought you something that might help."

He set the weapons on the dresser—two knives, a can of pepper spray, and something that looked like a high-tech taser.

"I don't know how to use any of those," I protested.

"You'll learn. But first, we need to work on your abilities." He opened his laptop and showed me a video of a woman moving objects with her mind. "This is what full control looks like. Right now, you're like a loaded gun with a hair trigger. Dangerous to yourself and everyone around you."

"I broke one coffee mug."

"Today. What happens tomorrow when you're angry and every piece of glass in a ten-foot radius explodes?" Jake's expression was serious. "These abilities respond to emotion, Sarah. The stronger you feel something, the stronger the manifestation."

"So I'm supposed to never get upset?"

"You're supposed to learn control." He closed the laptop. "But that takes time we might not have. So for now, we focus on survival skills."

He spent the next hour showing me basic self-defense moves, how to hold a knife properly, and where to hit someone for maximum impact. His hands were surprisingly gentle when he adjusted my stance or corrected my grip.

"You're stronger than you think," he said after I managed to flip him over my shoulder. "Most people hesitate before violence. You don't."

"Is that good or bad?"

"In your situation? Good." Jake pulled himself off the floor, and I tried not to notice how his shirt had ridden up, revealing a flat stomach marked with several scars. "What made you so willing to fight back?"

"Growing up in foster care, I guess. You learn to stand up for yourself or people walk all over you."

Something shifted in his expression. "How many homes?"

"Seven, from age three to eighteen." I sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted. "My adoptive parents died in a car accident when I was three. After that, it was a series of temporary placements."

"That's why Rebecca chose you," Jake said quietly. "Foster kids develop survival instincts early. We're harder to kill."

"We?"

"Five homes for me, from age eight to sixteen." He leaned against the dresser, arms crossed. "Military after that, then private investigation."

"What happened to your parents?"

Jake's face went carefully blank. "They died in what I thought was a random home invasion. Turned out to be supernatural hunters looking for artifacts my mother had hidden."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It made me who I am." He moved toward the door. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow we start training for real."

"Jake?" I called as he reached for the doorknob. "Why are you really helping me? Rebecca said you had personal reasons."

He paused, his hand on the door. "Because I know what it's like to lose everything to these people. And because..." He turned to look at me, and something in his eyes made my breath catch. "Because you deserve better than what happened to those other women."

After he left, I lay in the darkness thinking about the way he'd looked at me. Like I mattered. Like I was worth protecting.

It was a dangerous thought, considering the prophecy's warning about trusting the wrong person. But as I finally drifted off to sleep, I couldn't shake the feeling that whatever was happening between Jake and me was the most real thing I'd felt in years.

I woke to sunlight streaming through thin curtains and the sound of my stomach growling. The digital clock read 8:47 AM, and I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept that late.

A soft knock interrupted my thoughts—three times, pause, then twice.

"Morning," Jake said when I opened the door. He was carrying two coffee cups and a bag that smelled like heaven. "Thought you might be hungry."

"Starving." I accepted the coffee gratefully, inhaling the familiar vanilla scent. "How did you know I like vanilla lattes?"

Jake's expression flickered with something I couldn't identify. "Lucky guess."

But as I took a sip of the perfect latte—exactly the right temperature, exactly the right amount of sweetness—I couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't a guess at all.

Just like Adrian in my favorite novel, Jake seemed to know exactly what I needed. And after everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, that should have been comforting.

So why did it make me more afraid than ever?