Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
Protect the supernatural community.
CIPRIAN
I’m not exactly sure what’s going on, but I’ve heard enough shit hit the fan over the years to recognize the sound.
So, when Celine tears past me on the couch and my gut tells me to follow, I listen to it.
Slipping into my shoes, I throw on last night’s shirt and run down the stairs, skidding into the street in the nick of time.
She’s slipping her helmet over her hair when I plant my feet in front of her bike and clear my throat.
“Going somewhere, hot wings?” I let her livid glare bounce off me like rain on an umbrella. If only I could have done the same when Alistair pushed my buttons earlier.
“Get out of my way,” she says, her knuckles bone white against the handlebars.
“You know, if I’d known I’d get this little sleep while staying at your place—and not a single reason for it would be sexy—I might have turned your offer down.”
Celine glances at the empty staircase that leads to her unit, anger seeping from every pore. “I don’t have time for this,” she snaps.
I pretend not to hear her, scratching my elbow and adopting a casual stance. “I thought no one was going around alone for now. Something about safety in numbers.”
“Look, Ciprian, I’m not doing anything crazy,” she says, sounding, well . . . pretty fucking crazy. “But this is my apartment. I need a little space. Some alone time.”
I hear a slight waver in her voice and frown. “Makes perfect sense. Can I come with you?”
Celine stares up at the sky like she’s begging a deity for patience. I’m familiar with the expression. Mom loves it.
“If you come, I wouldn’t be alone,” Celine argues.
“Sure you would,” I say. “We would just be alone together.”
“Only an extrovert could come up with something that stupid.” She glances again at the stairs, then yanks the top case open and pulls out another helmet, slamming it viciously into my gut. “Get on and shut up. I mean it, Ciprian. You’ve got to be quiet.”
“I can do that,” I say. “You don’t even have to take me seriously.” Bile rises in the back of my throat as I repeat what Alistair said. Celine revs the engine, and I choke it down, straddling her bike and shoving the helmet on before she can hop the curb or run me over.
In the next breath, we’re off. My heart leaps into my throat as she takes the curve too fast and we lose the rear tire for a heart-stopping second. We’re supernatural and sturdy as fuck, but a high-speed crash would kill us both—fast healing or not.
With my hands gripping her hips, I hold on for dear life and do my best not to scream.
If Celine wants quiet, that’s what she’ll get.
Maybe it will help her drive. When we hit traffic on the freeway, I say a prayer of thanks.
Am I grateful for rush hour? That’s embarrassing as—fuck, my relief was premature.
She’s a lane-splitter.
Every hair on my body stands up. I want to close my eyes, but I’m too godsdamn pragmatic. If a turn comes up, I’ll need to lean, or leap clear of the fiery wreckage if she loses control.
A trickle of someone else’s fear hits me as Celine veers around a big truck, clearing the chrome grille with only two inches to spare.
I soak it in, enjoying the snack and the temporary kinship with all the other poor fucks she’s scaring to death.
My fear tank is nicely topped off by the time we exit—a testament to how recklessly she’s driving.
While I’m scared shitless, I’m also oddly at peace. Somehow, the idea that we could end up pinned to a cactus or wrapped around a bridge abutment is freeing. It’ll be my own fault, at least, since I decided to climb on the back of her bike.
I wanted to know where Celine was going, but I didn’t do it for the enclave or Dad or even myself. I did it because I was worried about her. Letting her take off—alone and upset—was too much for me to stomach.
When we slow down to weave through a grid of narrower residential streets, I squint in confusion at the road signs, then laugh. We’re only a couple of minutes from Celine’s apartment. That death-defying, law-breaking race against our own mortality was completely and utterly pointless.
What a woman. I’m proud of her for putting me through the paces, although she might not have been trying to scare me at all. Pressed tightly against mine, her body is twice as relaxed as it was when we started this ride. Something tells me she needed this.
Celine parks next to Luca’s car, tugs her helmet off and hangs it on the handlebars. “You don’t see anything,” she says. “You don’t hear anything, and if you even think about asking a question—”
“You’ll drive off a bridge with me tied to the front of the motorcycle.”
“No. I wouldn’t risk my bike like that.” She blinks at me, a smile tilting the corner of her mouth up. “I’d toss you off myself.”
“Got it,” I say, following her to the home ahead.
Celine knocks, and a good-looking older woman opens the door. She’s visibly frazzled, and her eyes narrow as she spots me. “Who is this?”
“He’s with me,” Celine says. My chest puffs up. After being relegated to a couch for the first time in my life, then mostly ignored by the occupants of her apartment, it’s nice to be claimed. Even in this minor way.
“If you vouch for him, that’s enough for me,” the woman says, reaching out to shake my hand. “I’m Harry.” Ah, this is the mythical Harry I’ve heard so much about.
I return the gesture, dipping my head respectfully and noticing her long dark nails. “I’ve heard nothing but good things,” I say, deciding to risk Celine’s wrath by responding. I was raised to be polite, and some instincts don’t die easily.
Harry chuckles, but it’s too brittle to be genuine. “Bunch of liars, all of them,” she mutters, leading us into the house and closing the door.
Luca is inspecting the windows. Wide and squat, they’re multi-paned and low to the ground. He’s bent over when we walk in, and he doesn’t turn around to greet us. I slant a glance at Celine, but she’s avoiding him too. Trouble in paradise?
“Luca told me you would be here as soon as you could,” Harry says to Celine. “Thank you for coming. It’s pretty chaotic back there.”
She points her strangely curved fingernail at a closed door. It’s as old as the rest of the house, stained a rich cherry color and scuffed along the bottom, like it gets closed by careless, swinging feet more than gentle hands.
“Do you want me to talk to them?” Celine asks, shifting her weight and ignoring the thanks.
“If you don’t mind. Anika’s English is incredible—exactly as you said it would be—but some things are hard to explain because of her age.”
Celine nods and visibly straightens her spine, shrugging out of her leather jacket and handing it to me. “This conversation calls for the wings,” she says to no one in particular. A beat later, they pop through the holes in her shirt, fluffy, white, and ridiculously soft and sexy.
During my last text conversation with Sheena, I told her I was developing a Pavlovian reaction to feathers, and I’m starting to think the joke might’ve been a little too real.
“Stay here,” Celine orders me.
I dip my chin, happy to follow her orders and figure out what crawled up Luca’s ass and died while I’m at it. Celine and Harry step through the door to the adjoining room, giving me a glimpse of enough supernatural children to make my back sweat before they close it firmly behind them.
“Is she okay?” Luca’s voice is rough. Given his cold shoulder and her hot anger, I’m convinced he’s the reason Celine tore out of the apartment like her feet were on fire.
“I don’t know anything,” I say, shaking my head.
He sighs. “She shouldn’t have brought you here.”
“I’m not going to fuck up,” I snap, bristling at the familiar stupid implication. Alistair and Luca don’t even know my brother, Callum, but they manage to act just like him sometimes.
Luca turns away from the window, scrunching his face up. “Didn’t say you would, but now you’re more involved. If she took you on a joyride around Vegas, the odds that whoever is watching us saw you are high. It was a dumb risk.”
“I didn’t give her much choice,” I admit. “She was shaken. I didn’t think she should be alone.”
Luca grunts. “Check the entry points.”
Shaking my head at his bossy dismissal, I do as he asks and scan the other windows.
Nothing is broken or split, and the wood along the sill is scarred, but with no fresh gashes.
Like the door, they’re well-maintained, but old.
There are smudges on some of the lower panes, as if someone with tiny legs pressed their even tinier fingers against the glass while looking out.
Beyond that, it’s hard to get a feel for who’s been here. In addition to the thick coating of magic over the entire house, there are so many traces of different supernaturals, it’s impossible to pick out anything specific.
I blow out a breath to clear my nose. “This place is one of a kind.”
“Harry is one of a kind,” Luca says. “And she deserves answers about how someone managed to enter her home in the middle of the night without her knowing.”
Nodding, I swallow my initial suggestion. I’ve been here long enough to know they won’t consider calling the enclave for help with anything. With how my dad and Joshua run things, I’m not surprised, but it does bother me.
A flash of something catches my eye. I bend over, shove the heavy checkered curtains aside, and pull the object free from where it’s wedged in a thick crack in the floorboards.
I call for Luca, and he’s at my side a heartbeat later.
“A feather.”
He runs his finger along the edge, and I nod absentmindedly. It’s big, about the same size as Celine’s, but while hers are as white as freshly fallen snow, this one is the color of freshwater pearls. Not quite gray or white, but a cross between the two.
“This could belong to our mystery assassin,” Luca says, stuffing it in his pocket.