Chapter 14
EIRA
I breathe in the air of my adopted hometown as Tezra unhooks me and presents his portable reader.
The second I pay, he taps out a salute.
‘See you around, Eira.’ Then he winks out of existence.
I chose an alley without cameras, tucked between a closed florist and a law office that keeps banker’s hours. I waste no time pulling on my disguise: dark wig, switched contacts, reversed jacket. One of many survival kits I’ve perfected over the years.
Five minutes later, I’m in the long-term car park where I store my bike. I have three other modes of transport hidden across the city, including a battered pickup with fake plates and a compact sedan no one looks at twice, but today I crave two wheels and open air.
Maybe the wind will strip some insanity out of my bloodstream.
Like the intrusive thought of Valentin Moretti’s mouth on mine. His breath warm. His fingers sliding—
Netheris fire, stop.
The bike roars to life beneath me, louder than necessary because I twist the throttle like it personally offended me. The vibration rattles through my bones, and I glare at the idiot in a nearby car who shoots me a look.
Yeah. Take a fucking number, my dude.
Charlotte welcomes me like an old friend, no questions asked.
Streetlights flicker on as dusk deepens across brick storefronts. A couple laughs outside a wine bar. For one weak moment, I consider detouring for coffee at my usual place, maybe a slow loop past the river.
But home pulls harder.
Ten minutes later, I turn down a narrow road bordered by oak trees heavy with Spanish moss. My cottage sits tucked behind a gentle curve, whitewashed brick softened by ivy, shutters painted sage green.
Picturesque. Unassuming.
More importantly, invisible.
I bought it through twelve shell corporations layered so carefully even I sometimes need a spreadsheet to remember which name owns what. No Hannigan money, traces of my father or trace of scandal.
Aunt Fiona, my only remaining relative moved to Europe four years ago, fleeing the disgrace that followed my father’s death like rot.
I doubt she’d recognise me now.
I kill the engine, and the silence settles thick and welcome.
Inside, the house smells faintly of cedar and lemon polish. Everything is exactly where I left it. No disturbed air or foreign scent.
I check anyway.
Perimeter wards are intact, motion sensors quiet. Windows sealed. Internal cameras clean.
Safe.
Or so I tell myself.
I head straight for the bathroom and turn on the tap. Steam rises in lazy spirals as the tub fills hotter than necessary. I strip and slide into the water until it laps at my collarbones.
The heat seeps into me slowly but dammit, it doesn’t chase him out.
The rooftop. His hand at my throat. The way he held me suspended over nothing.
How he erased Malachi’s touch, voice dangerously low when he said, You do not touch her.
My stomach tightens.
Why?
Why does he want Lyra so badly? Why does it feel like something is tightening around him too?
I sink lower into the bath, stifling a half-desperate, wholly aggravated moan.
I want to call Selphine.
I do not want to call Selphine.
Calling the witch means admitting I’m in deeper than planned. It means enduring whatever poetic dressing-down she has prepared for my stupidity.
But I need answers more than pride.
An hour later, clean and dressed in a soft cotton robe, I stand in my kitchen staring at my phone like it personally offended me.
‘Fine,’ I mutter, thumbing the call button before courage deserts me.
She answers on the third ring. ‘What have you done now?’
I close my eyes briefly. ‘That obvious, huh?’
‘You only call when you’re either bleeding or frightened.’
‘Good news,’ I say dryly. ‘It’s only one of those today.’
Silence stretches.
I lean against the counter. ‘He’s not going to stop, Selphine. He’s not searching like a man collecting a debt. He’s searching like…’ I hesitate.
‘Like what?’ she presses.
‘Like he’ll burn cities if he has to.’
A beat. ‘And does that frighten you?’
Fucking fuck yes, it does. ‘A little.’ The words settle heavier than I want.
‘Does he know who you are?’
‘No.’
‘Has he touched your mind?’
I hesitate. ‘Briefly. With my permission after I made sure my walls and barricades were locked down tight.’
The silence sharpens. ‘How deeply?’
‘He tested my defences after I showed him the information he needed,’ I say carefully. ‘He probed. Nothing more.’
‘And you allowed this?’
‘It was a dare,’ I snap. ‘He wasn’t supposed to take it.’
‘You dared an ancient predator to invade your thoughts,’ Selphine says flatly. ‘And you’re surprised he obliged.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Yes, yes, roast me later. I’m aware I was a reckless fool.’
‘You are fortunate it was only reckless. Not bloody suicide.’
I scrub a hand down my face. ‘Do you have any idea why he wants her so badly?’
A pause. ‘I have some idea.’
I straighten. She says nothing for a full half minute. ‘Do you feel like sharing,’ I ask tightly, ‘or are you going to leave me with my ass hanging out?’
‘Language,’ she snaps.
I snort. Rich, coming from a woman who swears like a dockworker when she thinks I’m not listening.
‘Please,’ I say more quietly.
Selphine’s voice shifts, something older threading through it. ‘There are forces in motion around him that are not merely personal. Not merely political. And you are standing at their centre whether you understand it or not.’
‘That is spectacularly unhelpful.’
‘You will understand soon enough.’
This whole day has been one giant boil on my ass, and I yawn despite myself.
‘Go to bed,’ she orders.
‘I don’t want to. I’m contemplating getting hammered off my tits before I crash. I don’t want another damn flying sex dream.’ The half lie mocks me on its way out.
‘What did you say?’
I grimace. ‘Nothing.’
‘It was something. Tell me or never call me again.’
The vehemence in her voice startles me.
‘Fine,’ I mutter. ‘It was a dream. Rooftop. Falling. With him. It got a little… heated.’
Heat rises to my cheeks.
‘Congratulations,’ I say dryly. ‘I’m apparently describing erotic nightmare material to someone old enough to have invented gravity.’
‘Describe it,’ she commands.
‘What? Why?’
‘Don’t question me, child. Describe it to me.’
Kill. Me. Now.
I hesitate, then comply, recounting the rooftop, the fall, the heat of his body, the way the dream twisted into something more intimate than terror.
The things he said.
Selphine interrupts twice for details. Tone. Exact words. When I finish, she’s quiet for too long.
‘I need to reconsider your protection,’ she says.
‘Reconsider it how?’
‘A different angle. Stronger fortification. Something less… passive.’
‘That sounds expensive,’ I mutter, because everything with Selphine is. Money. Blood. Sanity. ‘And how much is this new angle going to cost me?’ I ask.
Silence.
‘Selphine?’
The line goes dead. I stare at the phone.
Because, of course.
I bypass the tequila and make chamomile and honey tea, because apparently that is my coping mechanism now. I check the locks again as I sip. Reset the perimeter wards. Turn out the living room lights.
The house is quiet.
Safe.
I exhale, letting the warmth and comfort blanket me.
Then I head towards my bedroom, exhaustion finally dragging at me.
I push the door open. And freeze, clouted by the memory of another bedroom. Another invasion.
Valentin Moretti is lounging in the armchair in the corner of my room, one ankle resting over the opposite knee, hands folded loosely, as if he’s been waiting for hours and patience is simply another accessory he wears well.
His gaze lifts to mine.
Calm.
Cold.
Knowing.
‘Sit down, little hunter. There’s much we need to discuss.’