Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
Volunteering too much information is a great way to bury yourself.
CELINE
This fucking guy . . . He’s hitting on Luca. I watch from the hallway, agitation making my wings flutter. They’re heavier than usual tonight. “Damn that demon,” I mutter.
“You could always piss on him or something.” Imani leans against the wall next to me, her lips curving into that annoying smile she gets when she thinks she knows something.
“What?” I snap, irritated that I got caught spying.
“You heard me.” She gently nudges my right wing lower to get a better view of the bar. “What I haven’t figured out yet is which one you’re more jealous of. You could always piss on them both to be safe.”
“That’s gross,” I murmur, only half listening to her.
“I guess you could always lick them,” she teases. “Or suck them . . . off.”
Sputtering, I crane my head to gawk at her, then smack her in the face with my wing when she laughs out loud. “Dammit, Imani, I’ll drown you.”
She covers her mouth and gasps. “I should pretend that upset me. What kind of friend tosses her bestie’s trauma in her face?”
“The kind who squares up to fight that trauma every day by her side,” I deadpan, giving her a deliberately invasive once-over.
“Oh, stop it, I soaked this morning.”
“Fully submerged?”
“Head and all,” she groans. “It sucked.”
“Good.” I nod with satisfaction.
“Wow.” Imani tsks. “Some best friend—saying my pain is good.”
I roll my eyes. “This from the best friend deliberately misunderstanding me.”
“Babe, I understand you perfectly, which is why I let you focus on me while you collected yourself.” She tips her chin toward the bar where Luca and Ciprian are laughing, their heads almost as close together as ours.
“You need to decide what you want. This thing with Luca is fun to tease you about, but I don’t want it to blow up in your face. ”
I open my mouth to deny everything, then close it again. I can’t bullshit her or myself. Not when I’m lurking in the hallway like a creep.
“You could come clean and tell him how you feel,” Imani suggests.
I wince. “That sounds—”
“Smart.”
“Dangerous.”
Imani sighs. “Why would it be dangerous? You know who Luca is—your emotions are safe with him.”
“Do I?” I wonder out loud, thinking about Luca with what I hope is pragmatism and not rose-colored glasses.
He killed for me, but that doesn’t mean his loyalty is everlasting. He could get sick of me. Affection—love even—can warp into something insidious if everyone involved isn’t on guard. I’ve seen it happen, and I’m not interested in repeating the cycle.
“Of course you do,” Imani scoffs. “The real question mark for me is how you feel about the demon.”
“I feel nothing for Ciprian,” I say quickly. My eyebrows shoot to my hairline when my gut twists uncomfortably. That was almost a lie.
Imani rolls her bottom lip between her teeth, then shrugs. “That may be true, but I would be way more convinced if you weren’t that quick with your answer. You can’t deny there’s a spark.”
“He’s hot,” I acknowledge, seeing no reason to deny the obvious.
“You think a lot of people are hot,” she says, laughing. “I’ve never seen you stalk them during your break before.”
“Fuck you,” I hiss, pushing off the wall and brushing past her as I prowl down the hall.
Laughing again, Imani follows me into the dressing room, where a handful of other dancers are either getting ready for their next sets or taking a break.
“What’s funny?” Brandy asks, pausing to glance at us as she slides into a pair of uncomfortable-looking fishnet tights.
“Imani is delusional,” I say, crossing my arms. “She thinks I’m in the market for a man.” A chorus of boos are the response I get, and I shoot Imani a triumphant grin.
She rolls her eyes and settles in at her makeup station. “Because that’s exactly what I said.”
“What about the rich, blond one?” Brandy asks, yanking the fishnets up the rest of the way, then grinning. “He knows that Roscoe creep—the one with the coins—so that’s a red flag, but you could put that smart mouth of his to good work.” She winks at me.
“What?” I frown. “Ciprian asked you about that guy? When?”
“I bumped into him at the grocery store, of all places—gods bless it. We got to chatting. It was nice, but he didn’t flirt with me once or try to look down my shirt, which was kind of refreshing. I think he’s smitten with you, honestly, Celine. And those eyes of his are—”
“But he asked you about Roscoe?” I interrupt her chatter as delicately as I can. Brandy is a gem, and I’d do almost anything for her, but she can’t tell a story efficiently to save her life.
“Yeah.” She nods, a bright smile splitting her face. “I had barely finished picking out my avocados. You know they’ve been bad for weeks. Not a decent one to be found, but I managed to get four nearly perfect ones. Then I saw him.”
I grit my teeth, alarm bells ringing in my head. “And he randomly asked you about Quarter Guy?”
“Now that you mention it, it was kind of odd. I didn’t think much of it at the time. I told him how Roscoe threw that coin at you, and he thought that was a dick move. Which shows good sense on his part. Honestly, who wants to be friends with the kind of weirdo that throws change at strippers?”
“No one,” I say, letting the subject drop before I can draw more attention to the situation. I don’t think anyone in this room is a snitch, but I won’t burden them with my secret either.
The skin between my shoulder blades itches ferociously.
That’s twice now that Ciprian has mentioned Roscoe.
For a close friend, that might be expected, but for an acquaintance in the Fringes .
. . it’s a major red flag. The money he dropped on my dance, the obvious flirting with Luca at the bar tonight. Is he on to us?
I don’t make it a habit of asking questions about the supernaturals around me. Most don’t welcome that kind of interest. Maybe demons are more loyal to each other than I realize. Ciprian doesn’t strike me as the same type as Roscoe, but they don’t go around labeling themselves, so I can’t be sure.
With my suspicions activated, my conversation in the hall with Imani seems silly. Ciprian is nothing to me but a threat wrapped up in pretty packaging. If he suspects we were involved in Roscoe’s disappearance, I’ll have to handle that.
Dammit, Luca. This is trouble we don’t need. It was a knee-jerk reaction to turn the demon to stone, but he was watching out for me. Now it’s my turn to return the favor, I need to figure out the best way to do it without tipping Ciprian off.
Is it too much to ask for one quiet night? By the time Imani and I take the stage to debut the duet we’ve been working on, I’m pissed.
“This is going to be fun,” Imani whispers, her hand dipping to my hip as we spin around each other, never far apart, but never quite as close as our feral audience wants us to be. “Go easy on me, babe.”
I nod and settle my energy before lifting her by the waist. Imani arches slowly—curling her legs until her body forms a near perfect circle in the air.
The crowd claps, a few of the wolf-whistles loud enough to drown out our music.
I soak up their collective surprise with satisfaction.
My strength is deceptive, and there’s no one in the Fang more flexible than Imani.
Waiting for the beat to drop, I tighten my grip on her hips in warning, then toss her up and to the side. She flutters like a ribbon in the wind, catching the pole with one hand as I leap up to join her, curling my body around the chilled metal.
This routine takes skill and concentration, so I wall off my frustration and focus on the music. Rotating and grinding on the pole, we push ourselves to put on the best show possible, skin brushing skin in a sensual dance that requires equal parts grace and athleticism.
When it comes time for our final move, I climb aggressively to the top of the pole, holding on with my thighs and dropping backward.
With my wrists crossed, I grasp Imani’s ankles, making sure my hold is firm, then squeeze her three times to let her know I’m ready.
We’ve only tried this move twice in rehearsals, swearing to each other that we’ll do an easier finish if either one of us isn’t feeling it.
If Imani isn’t sure, she won’t let go of the pole.
But she’s as into it as I am, because she throws herself into a reverse dive, trusting me to keep her from falling eight feet face first. Raw adrenaline explodes in my veins like gasoline poured over an open flame.
My thighs tighten, tremble, then lock around the pole, supporting both of our weight.
We spin as one, my wings flaring proudly under the lights. Imani stretches one arm toward the crowd and tucks the other gracefully over her head. The momentum of our spinning keeps her body outstretched, an arrow in flight as we rotate.
By the time we’ve spun from the top of the pole to the bottom, all I can hear are cheers. Imani plants both hands on the stage, doing a controlled back handspring as I release her ankles and follow suit.
The adrenaline rush that hits me is better than drugs. Better than sex. Imani and I brought them to their feet. These aren’t the catcalls of the chronically horny—this is genuine admiration. Earned. Demanded. Delivered.
With my head held high, I collect the money with Imani, my face split in a fierce smile. Freedom is this moment, doing exactly what I want with my friend at my side. If I could bottle it, I would.
The euphoric triumph doesn’t last.
Barely twelve hours later, I find another abandoned angel steps from my apartment. This one is bleeding profusely; one small vestigial wing nearly severed from his back.