EPILOGUE
Two Months Later
Wren walked through the cemetery, passing under a willow tree, the arching branches draped with moss that hung down like scraps of verdant lace. Blair walked next to him with his hands in his coat pockets—the coat he’d finally accepted as being his now, after two weeks of insisting it still belonged to his idiot of a gang leader—and the shirt that Wren adored. Wren’s voracity for learning had led him to many discoveries, whether they were related to computers or medicine, but his favorite by far was finding out that Blair wore that skintight sleeveless turtleneck whenever Wren left hickeys on him. It was the only article of clothing Blair owned that covered his neck, and nine times out of ten, he would rather wear it than withstand Incindious’ teasing.
“Cancer, huh?” Blair asked as they walked between two rows of graves.
Wren nodded. “Funny, right? Master assassin gets knocked off by cancer. I bet he was pissed.”
Wren ran a hand over the side of his head. It was still strange, feeling the cool air against the buzzed section of his hair. Blair had given him a side shave rather than shorten all of it, so about a third of his hair was shaved to just above his pierced ear, and the rest was still long and swept to the opposite side along with his bangs which Blair had painstakingly preserved. Sometimes Blair would braid some of it and pin it along the seam between the long and shaved parts. He’d done it today, actually, and Wren didn’t like the way the bobby pins felt but he did like watching Blair’s face scrunch up in concentration while he worked on it, so he let Blair do as he wanted. He’d let Blair do so much worse than just play with his hair, if it put that sparkle in Blair’s eye he got whenever he sat back and admired his work.
Wren stopped in front of his father’s grave. The sight of it brought the same prickle of dread and irritation it always did, but it was muted, dulled by the presence of Blair at his side. Wren’s own personal fire to burn the shadows away.
Blair lowered his head in a small bow, and Wren snorted.
“You don’t need to pay your respects. He was a piece of shit.”
“I know, but he’s still...y’know, dead ,” Blair said.
Wren stared at the black marble headstone. It was only engraved with his father’s name, date of birth and date of death—the last of which was now four years ago to the day. They’d asked if he wanted to add anything else when he ordered it and he had laughed at some of the suggestions in the pamphlet they gave him. Loving father. Loving husband. Friend to many. What a fucking joke. Knowing what he knew now, Wren thought it was a missed opportunity that he hadn’t added under Eli’s name, Wanted for thirty-six counts of murder . He wished he could have been surprised by the information in the file Blair showed him, detailing his father’s crimes, but he wasn’t.
“Are you okay?” Blair asked.
Wren looked over at him and took the hand that hovered uncertainly next to his own. Physical affection was still something of an anomaly to Wren, so Blair never forced it on him. Wren hadn’t gotten around to telling Blair that he liked it, even if it was weird. New. He slid his gloved fingers between Blair’s bare, tanned ones.
“I used to come here and ask what he wanted from me,” Wren said, the thought passing from his brain to his lips unbidden. He continued, because if there was anyone he was going to tell such pointless information to, it was Blair, who had such a singular knack for making even the most nonsensical of Wren’s thoughts seem worth hearing. “I would ask why the fuck he was in my head. He never did give me an answer.”
He felt Blair studying him before Blair asked, “Do you still want one?”
“No. It doesn’t really matter anymore. He’s been quiet for… awhile now.”
Eli had been absent from Wren’s waking hours since the night Blair showed up at his apartment and kissed him, vanquishing his father to dreams and memories. A thin scar intersected Blair’s eyebrow from the wound he’d gotten that night.
“Well,” Wren said, knocking the toe of his boot against the ground, briefly flattening the closely shorn grass. “I just wanted to come tell him to fuck off one last time. We can go.”
“You go ahead. I wanna stay for a minute, if that’s okay.”
Wren arched an eyebrow. “Suit yourself. Don’t take too long, I’ll leave without you.”
“Yeah, right. You don’t know how to drive a motorcycle.”
“I could figure it out.”
“Go.” Blair smiled and let go of Wren’s hand. “I’ll catch up.”
Wren frowned but did as he was told—a rare occurrence, by all accounts—and went back the way they came. He stopped under the willow and looked over his shoulder. Blair was crouched in front of his father’s grave, his coat splashed with gold from the dappled sunlight coming through the trees, his red hair ablaze in the afternoon light. Wren’s fingers went to the pendant around his neck, feeling the metal through his shirt.
Happiness .
What a strange thing it was.
“So. Um, hi,” Blair said. He frowned at the engraved letters. “Wren probably didn’t think you deserved to be introduced to me, which is sweet in that weird Wren kind of way, but I’m Blair Kennedy. I got shot. Then I met Wren—he was infuriating, and brilliant, and I didn’t mean to fall for him but I did. He’s gonna be a doctor. A really fucking good one.
“If you were alive, I would probably shoot you in the kneecap for what you put him through growing up. But if he changes his mind and wants to follow in your footsteps, I’ll support him in that too. I love your son. And if anyone ever tries to hurt him again… well.” Blair chuckled and pushed himself to his feet. He reached under his coat to adjust one of the two pistols he carried at his back. “I’ve gone to war for less.”
He was pretty sure Wren meant it when he said it was his last time visiting his father’s grave, so Blair looked at it for a long moment, tracking the silvery veins that spread through the marble. He let himself feel every ounce of raw hatred and conflicted gratitude the man’s name elicited in his heart. Eli’s teachings may have been the reason Wren survived against Jinx for as long as he did.
Blair walked away, finally able to make good time of it now that his leg didn’t hurt every time he took a step. He cut back through the cemetery and walked down the pathway to the parking lot. Wren was sitting sideways on Blair’s motorcycle, in his black leather chest harness that matched his gloves, sitting in sharp contrast over his white dress shirt, and his long legs encased in black slacks. Most notably, he was on his phone, his face unreadable.
“Send me the details when it’s done,” Wren said just as Blair drew close enough to hear, then hung up.
Blair moved in to rest his hands on Wren’s waist. “Everything okay?”
“That was Spencer.”
Spencer was the interim leader of Incindious, however reluctant he had been to accept it. He was still recovering from Felix and Julian’s absence, but the vote to put him in charge was unanimous, so the gang had made it hard for him to refuse. For Spencer to contact Wren was unusual, though.
At Blair’s look of confusion, Wren continued, “He found one of my father’s old contacts, and he thinks they might be able to help get Felix out.”
“Holy shit. Is it safe, getting in touch with someone like that?” Blair reached up to tuck a lock of black hair behind Wren’s ear. He was acutely aware of the scar on Wren’s bicep where he’d been stabbed, a painful reminder of what happened the last time Wren got dragged into the middle of a gang conflict.
Wren smiled, unfazed. “Only one way to find out. Spencer is going to arrange a meeting.”
Blair’s head spun as the prospect of getting Felix out of prison became something that might actually happen and not just the pipe dream that most of Incindious believed it to be. He couldn’t have made it through the past two months without Wren keeping him steady, pulling him back every time Blair’s anxiety about freeing Felix threatened to carry him away and set him adrift in a sea of fear and doubt. Wren was his gravity. His Sunshine.
“I hope you like flying,” Wren said. “We’re going to Los Angeles.”