Chapter 23 Esmerelda
ESMERELDA
My heart thunders in my ears. The possibility of getting caught before I can uncover who put the hit on my family and finally bring them to justice weighs like concrete in my gut.
Justice isn’t just something I want; it’s something I need, more than my next breath.
And being this close, with the stakes this high, makes the threat of dying feel like an especially cruel kind of tragedy.
We crouch at the edge of the perimeter, dressed head-to-toe in black, tight-fitting clothes clinging like a second skin.
It reminds me of a night in college when I watched a S.W.A.T. movie and laughed at how staged it all looked.
Kneeling here, waiting for Silas, the changeling, to exit the warehouse and give us a sign, feels staged too.
But this is very, very real. And there’s no director to yell “cut” when shit gets real.
Before we came out here tonight, Marcus and Serafina had their little “chat” with Silas.
I don’t know what they said, but he staggered out of the basement pale as death—tethered to them by some potion Belvedere concocted—gaunt as a Fear Gorta, and sniveling.
He’d spent half an hour pleading with us, begging not to be dragged into this.
Claimed it was a death sentence either way, that he was damned if he helped us and damned if he didn’t.
But he agreed to lead us to his boss, so Serafina’s god must be scarier than anything the people who hired him could do.
Marcus crawls over and kneels at my side.
“Hey.”
I force a smile. “Hey.”
“You good?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Yeah.”
Gods, this is awkward.
“Is it just me, or is this awkward?” Marcus asks, voice pitched low, speaking my thoughts out loud.
A soft laugh escapes me. “It is a little.”
He leans in, his warm breath ghosting over the shell of my ear.
The intimacy of it makes my pulse stumble.
“Esmerelda, don’t be awkward with me. You came on my tongue last night, and you weren’t awkward when you were doing that.
I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you woke up.
I had to make sure the changeling understood the brief. ”
Heat rushes through me, coiling low in my belly.
Gods. I didn’t even realize how badly I needed to hear that, to know that he cared enough to explain.
The reassurance slides under my skin, settling in places I didn’t know were raw.
Who knew I’d be the girl who clung to scraps of tenderness in the middle of a war?
But maybe that’s okay. If I die today, at least I’ll die honest—with myself, with him.
I’m not stupid enough to spin some fantasy about happily ever after.
That’s not what this is. It’s not even what I want.
It’s just… nice. Nice to know Marcus cares, even a little, even now, when everything could end in blood and ruin.
Still, the thought grates. I don’t want to be that girl, the one who catches feelings because of sex and danger. I wasn’t looking for romance. I just wanted a night to lose myself in my body. To get out of my mind. That was supposed to be enough.
We keep our eyes fixed on the warehouse door, waiting for Silas to emerge with the intel before we make our move.
Marcus’s leg presses against mine, radiating heat like a furnace.
And gods, that furnace goes straight to my girlie bits.
Not the time, Esme. I need to get my head in the game, not spiral into thoughts about Marcus’s tongue—damn it. Off I go again.
The warehouse door creaks open, the sound slicing through the night, and the changeling slips out.
Its body flickers, glitching again. Faces and forms ripple over each other like those carnival mirrors.
My stomach twists. It looks less like shifting and more like unraveling, as if the thing might come apart right there under the burden of its own nerves.
Eyes dart, limbs twitch, every movement taut, restless, like it expects napalm at any moment.
Maybe this is how it burns through fear, shedding skin after skin, never staying in one shape long enough to be vulnerable.
I force myself to stay still, muscles straining, lungs holding air. Around me, the others do the same, and the night becomes too quiet. We all hold our breath as it slinks toward the fence line, every step dragging my heartbeat higher in my throat until it feels like the sound might give us away.
I wrinkle my nose as he lurches closer. Gods.
His sweat-soaked shirt clings to his skin, and the stench hits me before he even opens his mouth—sour milk curdled with something sharper, like day-old puke left to rot in the sun.
My stomach pitches, bile scratching the back of my throat.
How can something that changes faces so easily never think to change that?
Marcus’s voice cuts through my revulsion. “And?”
The changeling flinches. “I asked questions, but they grew suspicious fast.” His body ripples, shudders, his face glitching into the features of men I can’t identify because the changes happen in a nanosecond.
The sight makes my skin crawl. Like I’m staring at a reel of masks that were never meant to be worn by one creature.
Marcus grabs him by the collar, slamming him against the chain-link fence.
The rattle vibrates through the night, sharp and metallic, crawling over my skin.
My wolf surges, teeth pressing against my gums, ready to rip and tear.
I hold my breath, hoping the sound is only so loud to my heightened senses because of my nerves.
“You made a big mistake. You had one job.” Marcus’s voice is low, lethal.
The changeling squirms, words spilling in a rush.
“What am I to do when they close up tighter than a nun’s bum?
I told you, they got suspicious. They won’t say shit when they can’t trust you.
B…but t-they’re still in there. Loading weapons.
You could catch them. Use your scare tactics.
If I knew something, I’d tell you, I swear. ”
His voice cracks, desperation souring the air. The rank, acrid stench of his fear slides under my tongue until all I can taste is pennies and bile. His eyes flicker as his form ripples again, but Marcus’s grip doesn’t loosen, not even a fraction.
I glance at Marcus over Silas’s head, searching his face for something. Agreement, resistance, anything. My pulse hammers in my throat, every beat screaming decide, decide, decide. He just shrugs, tilts his head—your call.
The weight of it slams into me. My call.
My choice. The air feels thicker for it.
Toxic, even. My insides twist with indecision.
We need answers. I need answers. I need revenge, like I need air in my lungs and blood in my veins.
It’s the only thing keeping me upright when everything else has been stripped away. I nod.
Marcus signals the others over. “Change of plans. We’re going in. This fucker’s no use.”
“But—” Minerva starts.
I catch her hands in mine. “This was always the contingency plan. We’ve got this. But if you want to sit it out, no shame. This isn’t your fight.”
“The fuck it isn’t. You’re my family, which means they were my family. I won’t rest until the bastards who did this to you are bled dry and buried.”
“Bloodthirsty thing, aren’t you?” Leonard smirks. “Turns me on a little.”
Minerva smacks his shoulder. “Over my dead body.”
Leonard wrinkles his nose. “Not really into necrophilia, but thanks for the offer.”
Minerva rolls her eyes, but a ghost of a smile tugs at her lips.
If I didn’t know better, I might think there was chemistry between them.
But no—their bond is tied up in this mutual, almost obsessive, desire for justice.
It runs sibling-deep, if you will, laced with barbed humor and inappropriate jokes that only they seem to find funny.
Besides, Minerva’s tastes run closer to her own body type than Leonard’s.
Marcus straightens, shoulders rolling back like he’s shaking off hesitation and stepping fully into command. “All right. Who’s in, who’s out?”
A chorus of “in” answers him, voices sharp in the night, threading together into something that feels heavier than just words. My chest tightens, a spark of heat flaring in my blood.
Marcus’s grin cuts across the shadows, feral and hungry. “Then let’s do this.”
It’s a declaration and a promise. My pulse spikes, wolf pacing inside me, ready to tear into whatever waits ahead.
Belvedere thrusts his ringed hand in the middle. “Let’s get physical.”
Marcus groans. “I’m not saying that.”
“What? Why not? It’s motivating.”
“Still.”
“Fine.” Belvedere huffs, then brightens. “At least give me team spirit.”
Marcus rolls his eyes but sets his hand on Belvedere’s. The rest of us follow, one by one. Belvedere grins like a cat with the cream.
“No dying in drab black, bitches. We’ll accessorize with victory. To victory!”
Marcus shoots me a look, the kind that says this is ridiculous and we’re doing it anyway all at once. He shrugs, lips curling faintly, and mutters, “To victory.”
The rest of us echo him, voices low and almost embarrassed, whispers scraped raw, as if saying the words might trick the universe into believing them.
Might make us believe them. The syllables taste hollow and desperate on my tongue, but I cling to them anyway, because right now belief feels as necessary as breath.
The changeling groans. “Shoulda taken my chances in there. I’ll die from all this cheese before the enemy even touches me.”
We tie him up, and Belvedere gives a bored flick of his fingers, layering illusion over reality. The changeling’s form shimmers, blurs, then vanishes into the night. In his place, nothing more than a scraggly bush sits against the fence line—so ordinary it dares you not to notice it at all.
We slip down the path toward the warehouse. By my count, five guards patrol the doors, two perched on the roof. “Serafina,” I whisper, “those two are yours.”