Chapter 31 #2
Excited by the discovery, we search the rest of the entry points quickly and thoroughly, but there’s no other sign that anyone else has been here.
The scuffed door swings open, and Celine and Harry step through, closing it behind them. I glance at Celine’s wings, noting the differences in the feathers. Not the same.
“No sign of forced entry,” Luca says. “And you were right, Harry—the wards didn’t go off at all.”
“Definitely an angel,” Celine mutters, the deep groove returning to the center of her forehead. I ignore the urge to smooth it out. That’s not my place. If she wants to frown, she can.
“I guess the kids didn’t know anything?” Luca asks, glancing at the closed door.
“Nope,” she sighs. “They can talk about growing up and their parents, but they get stuck every time I press them to tell me how they ended up here. It’s like a record-scratch moment in their memory.” Her frown grows, taking over her entire face.
“Trauma can cause memory loss,” I say, vaguely remembering a lecture I mostly slept through during my supernatural psychology class at Starfall Academy.
“Yeah, but these reactions are too uniform. The trauma response wouldn’t be identical for this many different kids.”
“You suspect something,” Harry says, her strange yellow eyes sharpening.
“More like someone,” Celine admits. “Except some of the pieces aren’t adding up. Regardless of who is doing this, though, I don’t think they plan to hurt the children or you. If they wanted to, they could have last night.”
Luca’s phone buzzes, and he pulls it out of his pocket and clears his throat. “Alistair found a spot for the overflow kids,” he says. “He’s going to call you to coordinate, Harry.”
Celine nods, but her eyes are far away. She studies the wall as I study her, watching as her wings subtly twitch, then sharpen into knives.
As Luca talks quietly with Harry about transferring some of the kids to the new location, I notice he doesn’t mention the feather I found.
Since I was told in no uncertain terms to shut the fuck up, I keep it to myself.
Everyone is tight-lipped here, even among their allies. They clearly like Harry, working with her closely and trusting her to keep these kids safe—but they aren’t fully transparent with her.
Lies may be optional for the enclave, but here on the Fringes they’re a way of life. Withholding details is innate, almost like breathing. I don’t know how anyone ever truly relaxes while knowing that everyone around them could be blowing smoke up their ass.
It’s a subtle but major difference from how I was raised. The enclave has seen its fair share of betrayal, don’t get me wrong. Just ask my dad about witches, then stand back and watch the vein in his forehead pulse, but information is usually readily available.
You’re a hypocrite, Ciprian Casanell. I silence my conscience as we leave Harry’s house.
The tension is so thick we may need an axe to cut through it.
My shoulders clench, rising incrementally the longer the silence drags on.
Luca’s quiet anger is an exact match for my family’s brand of rage.
You would think I would be numb to it by now, but instead it’s like he’s pouring lemon juice in a paper cut.
“Luca,” Celine begins, her voice stiff.
“Not now,” he says. “You’ve made your feelings clear. We can discuss the break-in when we get back to your apartment.”
“But—”
“I said not now.” Luca doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t even look at us, but Celine flinches as if he slapped her.
I keep my mouth closed. Of all the things that aren’t my business in any way, shape, or form, this is at the top of the list.
Luca wrenches his car door open. The metal complains loudly about his rough treatment. Celine watches him drive away, then heads for her bike, her wings flipping between so many settings that it’s clear her head is spinning.
I hesitate before holding her leather jacket out to her. In this mood, I’m not sure I’m brave enough to climb on the back of her bike.
She snatches it from me, lips pursed. Her wings shudder but don’t retract. She closes her eyes and tries again. This time, they don’t move at all, shifting instead to sharp-edged blades.
Is stress the cause? At first, I thought fear triggered the knives, but I can’t sense any of that from her. Besides a whiff here and there, fear isn’t an emotion Celine she seems to have much of.
“Is this a supernatural neighborhood?” I ask, glancing along the street at the small but well-kept urban block. There are no front yards, only a row of squatty entryway steps flanked by rusting cast-iron railings. A handful of pots with assorted drought-resistant plants litter the stoops.
“Yeah, why?” Celine snarls, glaring at me like the trouble with her wings is my fault.
I hide my smile, unbothered by her grumpiness. “Let’s take a walk,” I suggest.
Ignoring me, Celine rolls her eyes and then closes them again. Her fingers curl as she concentrates, but her wings, still in blade mode, remain stubbornly in place. I suspect they’re the only thing protecting me from a grisly death.
“Fine. Let’s go for a fucking walk.” She takes off down the street, each step echoing. With her hands balled against her thighs, her wings’ gentle, rolling bounce is comically at odds with the rest of her furious march.
Again, I keep my mouth firmly shut as I match her pace. The only way I’ll gain any ground with the beautiful angel is by letting her come to me. Hopefully, it won’t take long. I’m not a fan of uncomfortable silences.