Chapter 12
TWELVE
If you need assistance, reach out to
enclave personnel.
CIPRIAN
My new plan is going great.
Grinning, I wash my hair under the lukewarm stream of water trickling out of the showerhead. This apartment may not be growing on me, but the supernatural community here on the Fringes isn’t half bad.
Alistair is the perfect example. Like half the people I’ve met at the Naked Fang, he’s panting after Celine.
Relatable, honestly, but he’s far more interesting than the others.
There’s an undercurrent of ruthlessness behind his bored stare.
He talks without saying anything, and it makes you want to open up.
The rush I got knowing I might reveal something critical to him while we talked last night was the most fun I’ve had in ages.
At this point, I’m almost positive Roscoe is dead. I’ll figure out who did it and kill them, but in the meantime there’s plenty of other things going on for me to poke my nose into.
The mysterious appearance of the kid, for example. My instincts are screaming that Celine and Luca know more than they shared with me. I picture Luca’s piercing stare and Celine’s pursed lips. They will be difficult to crack, but fuck, do I want to try.
Even thinking about the two of them makes me hard. Groaning, I drop my hand to my growing erection, then stop. I should up the stakes. No coming until I’ve gained Celine’s trust and can do it inside her—preferably after driving her over the edge until she’s too hoarse to scream anymore.
I bite my lip, uncurling my fingers and bracing my hand on the side of the shower. My hard dick stares up at me angrily, and I laugh. It’s used to getting its way. This self-imposed celibacy isn’t going to be easy.
“It’ll be worth it,” I say out loud, soaping the rest of my body, then cursing as the water goes ice cold. “Motherfucking cheap-ass plumbing.” Since I’m not a hardcore masochist, I finish my shower as quickly as possible and wrap the threadbare towel around my waist.
Hot water shouldn’t be a luxury. The heat of my annoyance keeps me warm as I dry my hair with a hand towel I find stuffed in the back of the cabinet under the sink.
The air conditioning unit kicks on, rattling angrily from its perch in the window.
I salute it for its service and dress as quickly as possible, shoving my feet into my sneakers.
I sit on the couch to tie my shoelaces, and a roach scurries out from under the ancient piece of furniture.
“Fuck!” I squawk and stomp my untied sneaker at the intruder.
It dodges, showing more athleticism than half the shifters on the enclave’s payroll.
“Surrender now,” I tell the roach, grimacing as it wobbles across the floor, its segmented, turd-colored carapace reflecting the light from the single hanging bulb.
“It’s on, bitch,” I whisper.
Legs bent, I stalk my enemy into the crusty, attached kitchenette, lifting my foot slowly to avoid spooking it.
Only when I’m looming over it like a made-for-TV kaiju do I drive my foot down—there’s no way it will be able to avoid me this time.
Sharp and slick as a switchblade, four slender wings shoot out.
I gape in horror as the asshole takes flight, then begins executing aerial maneuvers with the skill of a fighter pilot.
“Gods! Shit, fuck!” I duck as it dive-bombs my face, then do what any apex predator with millions of years of evolution on his side would do in this situation: I get the fuck out.
Grabbing my keys, I push through my front door, lifting it an inch to get it latched. The sun slaps me in the face, and I soak it in for a second as my heart rate slows. This doesn’t make me a coward. I’ve got bigger game to hunt, anyway.
This barely functioning, roach-infested apartment is a long way from where I grew up.
Our wing of the compound—pretentiously named the Hall of Nightmares by Mom—is sterile enough to do surgery in.
Gleaming marble surfaces offset by cold, rigid artwork that would be happy to make you bleed if you gave it half a chance.
My every need was met—as long as it didn’t involve emotions. That I had to get next door. Callum and I got used to borrowing empathy from our shifter neighbors, like humans asking for a cup of sugar.
It wasn’t a terrible way to grow up. My parents love us, despite what Callum has convinced himself of.
They handled his manifestation badly; I’ll give my brother that.
But Cal got to leave and create his own life with his best friend.
A life that’s never had room for me. Not when I have to carry Dad’s legacy on my fucking back.
I swallow my anger and shake my head. Much like a roach roommate, no one enjoys a bitter bitch, and Callum deserves to be happy.
He’s been starving his incubus for years, as if there’s something shameful about a good, hard orgasm.
Thankfully, his self-hatred is Sheena’s problem now. I’m tired of worrying about him.
I slide my sunglasses on, squinting in the blinding sunlight even with their protection. Since it’s early afternoon, I’ve got time to ask around about Roscoe again and see if I can uncover anything.
For the next few hours, I retrace my steps, finding the same dead ends.
Frustrated with my lack of progress, I head to the grocery store.
While I’m filling my shopping cart, I bump into one of the dancers from the Naked Fang.
I can’t remember her name, but witch magic clings to her like a thick perfume.
The perky witch giggles when she spots me.
“I’m surprised you can afford that,” she says, pointing to my cart. “Given how much money you dropped at the club last night.”
I smile, shrugging bashfully, as if I’m embarrassed about dropping a grand on Celine’s dance. I’m not. It was a fucking good dance. “I got carried away, I guess,” I mumble.
“I’ll say.” The dancer giggles again.
With her tan face scrubbed free of makeup, she looks innocent in a way that’s wildly at odds with some of the moves I saw her do at the club. Gods, women are amazing like that. I’d love to see Celine running errands on a random day off.
The witch tosses some produce into her basket, then glances back up at me. “When can we expect you back at the club? I’m sure I don’t have to tell you; you were a big hit.”
“Oh, you’re too sweet.” I grin. “I’ll get back there soon.” Lifting my head sharply, I raise my eyebrows to indicate I’m processing a new, exciting thought. “I’m actually trying to find a buddy of mine. He was supposed to meet me at the club a few weeks back, but he never showed.”
“Is he as generous as you?” she asks, winking at me mischievously.
“You might know better than I do,” I admit. “He loves to hang out there.”
Curiosity sparks in her eyes. “What’s his name? I know all the regulars.”
“Roscoe. He’s a big demon, looks like his mom dropped him on his head a time or two,” I joke, chuckling when she laughs too.
“I remember him. You two share similar tastes. He’s obsessed with Celine, or he was.” She pauses, her smile fading. A wisp of fear trickles out of her, and her next smile is forced. “He hasn’t been in for a few weeks. The last time I saw him, he threw a coin at her on stage.”
“Dick move,” I say reflexively, and mean it.
The dancer’s smile smooths out around the edges, and her stream of fear cuts off. “I’m sure he thought it was funny, but the rest of us agree with you.” She reaches to her left to grab a pack of assorted nuts from the display. “Anyway, it was good seeing you. Don’t be a stranger.”
I accept her dismissal, waving to her, and then finish my shopping.
Her story isn’t exactly a smoking gun, except Luca didn’t mention any of this to me when I asked him about Roscoe. Did they kill Roscoe over a quarter?
Luca’s loyalty to Celine seems unshakable, so it’s possible. Having seen them around each other, I’m starting to believe there’s nothing in the world he wouldn’t do for her. Lying to me would be second nature to him.
I respect that, but unfortunately it makes my job harder. Earning Celine’s trust while pumping her for information will be all but impossible, and if she ever finds out who I really am . . . Shit, let’s hope I’m as good at lying as Luca.
Even though I’m itching to go back to the club and follow up on the lead, I wait three days, plotting my public persona.
The witch from the grocery store did more than give me a tip; she also reminded me it’s not normal for an average demon in the Fringes to drop a grand in one night.
Reminder one: appear less rich. I’m not going to rip holes in my shirts, but I do need to act aware of my spending in a way I haven’t had to before. Tipping Celine a thousand dollars was a good time I shouldn’t repeat. At least not for a while.
When I approach the club this time, I don’t trip over a strange child. Thank the gods. I hope the little boy is okay, but that’s as far as our interaction will go. One day, when he’s famous for inventing a new, weird genre of music or something, he can thank me in his memoir.
Hot wind gusts through the alley, tousling my hair as I open the door and step inside. Combined with the wave of magic from the human-repelling ward, it’s a creepy sensory experience. I shake it off, glancing around the club, and do my best to see it through new eyes.
The Naked Fang is dimly lit, with spotlights beaming down from the ceiling.
A long, narrow catwalk-like stage runs nearly the entire length of the room, with a pole planted in the center.
Chairs line the stage, and there are tables clustered at irregular intervals around the room.
Three walls are flanked by booths, and the bar is tucked against the fourth.
A hallway, easy to miss, leads to the bathroom and employee-only areas.
The Goldilocks of strip clubs, the Naked Fang is neither too grimy nor too glamorous.
Where would Roscoe sit? He strikes me as a table guy. I can picture him sprawled in one of the empty ones, a stupid smirk on his face as he throws a coin at the stage. Anger rises, but I let it go. I don’t need to respect the bastard to find out what happened to him.
Making my way to the bar on autopilot, I fantasize about the living nightmare I’ll trap Roscoe in if I find him alive. Part of me hopes he’s somewhere holed up like the weasel he is. That way, I’ll be able to pay him back for disrespecting Celine and wasting the enclave’s time.
“Back again?” Luca’s deep voice hits me, and I toss him a friendly smile.
He doesn’t smile back. Instead, I get the distinct impression he’s sizing me up. I grin wider, then peek deliberately over the bar at his crotch. If he wants to compare equipment, I’m ready when he is.
“I couldn’t stay away,” I say in my most obnoxious chipper voice, swallowing my laughter when he grinds his teeth.
“You zoned out when you walked in,” Luca observes, adjusting a row of clean glasses as if my answer doesn’t matter to him in the slightest. He’s fishing. I love it.
“Troubled mind,” I say, putting on the saddest face I can manage. “Lots of kids who grew up in a chaotic home environment space out from time to time. It’s my burden to bear.” That’s true and something I likely have in common with the average fringe demon.
“Right.” He shakes his head.
“Can I get my usual?” I ask.
Luca quirks one dark eyebrow, the metal of his lip ring glinting as the flashing lights swivel around the room before focusing back on the stage. “You have a usual?”
“Of course! Don’t you know it?” I pretend to be shocked.
“Enlighten me.”
I lean over the bar, unable to resist ruffling his feathers. “It’s where I come in thirsty, and you . . .” I pause dramatically, letting my gaze rake over his body before stopping on his mouth. “Give me what I didn’t know I needed and leave me wanting more.”
Luca stares back at me, his gaze intense.
The tension between us is so thick it could probably bear weight—like, support the second story of a house if it had to.
I lick my lips, drawn in deeper than I intended to be.
The movement shatters whatever temporary hold I had over Luca as quickly as glass hitting concrete. His hazel eyes dart away.
“Coming right up,” Luca says. The words are friendly enough . . . standard bartender shit. Except the jerky way he moves behind the bar is miles from the casual confidence he usually wears as a second skin.
If I were someone else, I’d let him regroup. But I’m me, so I keep watching him closely instead, grinning when he knocks over a tray of sliced limes and curses.
“Am I making you uncomfortable?” I ask, adopting an innocent expression.
Luca looks up, scowling fiercely. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”
“And what is that?” I prop my chin on my hand.
“Flirting. With me. Outrageously.” He licks his lips, mirroring my earlier move in a deliberately sarcastic way. It’s sexy as hell, and my stomach flips.
“Luca, if you think this flirting is outrageous, your previous partners haven’t been doing it right,” I say, scrambling to regain my internal equilibrium to avoid slipping up.
“See?” Luca shakes his head. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about!” He plops an orange drink on the bar in front of me with so much force that some of it sloshes over the rim and trickles down the side. I bend over, licking the spill up slowly.
“Delicious.” I draw the word out, my voice husky, then pick the drink up and sip from the straw with a deliberately loud gurgle. “What were you saying?”
“Unbelievable,” he mutters.
I wink at him, and Luca throws his head back and laughs out loud. Despite my manufactured flirting, I’m struck by the sound. In all our interactions, I’ve never seen him let go, even for a moment. It’s addicting, and I want more of it.
Luca is the kind of classically good-looking guy who ends up memorialized in art, no matter which century or realm he’s born in. The fact that he’s got this sexy grunge thing going on makes him more attractive. Perfection with a lived-in appeal.
No wonder Celine watches him when she thinks he isn’t paying attention. If the two of them weren’t so in denial, they would have ridden off into the sunset together way before I wandered into town. That’s their mistake. I have no problem making a mess to get what I want.