Chapter 3
Electra
Itake in the broad Atlantean whose skin is as tanned as Cillian’s is pallid. “That’s what you lead with after a year of silence? Not even a ‘Hello, Elle. How have you been? My…how you’ve grown.’”
Malachi rolls his lips.
When he doesn’t say any of the lines I fed him, I say, “College dropouts have a higher success rate. But stats aside, sitting in classrooms wasn’t for me.
Besides, I learned more about petrology from Sym’s experiment than I ever did in class.
” My crude reminder of the previous summer causes Malachi to flinch. “How have you been?”
“Good. Ready to stop traveling.”
“Are you?”
“For the time being.”
Another question clings to the roof of my mouth, but I don’t set it free. Instead, I ask, “Did you unearth a lot more Tarian-haters?”
“Thankfully, no.”
My gaze drifts to Ines and her old squeeze. Is it terrible that I’m hoping for sparks?
Her closed-off posture tells me she’s on guard. Then again, that woman is always on guard—forever bracing for someone to slip up, forever poised to strike. She’s as cold and severe as Calanthe is warm and fuzzy, and about as pleasant as a winter freeze.
And yes, maybe I’m biased, but who wouldn’t be after having had their neck snapped? I don’t care that Ines intended to “improve” my fighting skills. Dorian trained me too, and he never once left so much as a bruise.
I believe she has it in for me, even though I don’t know why. Because I became family while she remained the help? Because Malachi saved me, and she wanted his attention all to herself?
I refocus on the man I’ve been dying to lay eyes on for the last eleven months, deciding to rip the band-aid. “So, you and Ines?”
Malachi dips his jaw that shines from a fresh shave. “We work together. I thought you knew she’d left my father’s service?”
Before I can ask why he’s skirting my question, Lisa’s voice booms through the speakers, quieting all the ambient conversations—including Malachi’s and mine.
Although he stays close while she speaks about the extraordinary drug her son-in-law has helped her develop—leaving out the part about Tarian’s blood being the main ingredient, naturally—Malachi doesn’t even glance back at my face.
At least, he isn’t looking at Ines.
Gaea, how anticlimactic was our reunion?
Did I expect he’d devour me with his eyes and then with his mouth? Or that he’d open his arms so I could run into them?
Maybe. Ugh. I read too many romance novels.
Not to mention that I look exactly the same as I did when he left. Even my hair is cut the same—short and blunt. I should’ve let it grow out or gotten layers. Or highlights.
I’m trying to picture myself with blonde hair when Malachi leans over to murmur, “Want to grab coffee sometime this week?”
Coffee? Sometime this week?
What I want is to weep, and not because Malachi Hadez has just ruined coffee for me, but because coffee is the sort of beverage one suggests drinking when one wants to keep a rendezvous brief and casual.
Coffee is for business meetings or get-togethers with platonic acquaintances. I should know. When I can’t get out of seeing someone—which is thankfully not often—I suggest coffee.
“Let me check my schedule and get back to you,” I finally reply.
Malachi gapes at me as though I’ve lost my mind when it’s my heart that’s just jumped ship. I uncross my arms and stride back toward the bar, incapable of standing another minute wearing my bleeding heart on my nonexistent sleeve.
Keeping my voice hushed to avoid disturbing Lisa’s speech, I order another one of those pink-orangey cocktails.
“Salt rim?” the bartender asks.
“As long as it’s not coffee grounds,” I murmur, “sure.”
“We don’t—” The man looks down the bar at his colleagues. “We don’t usually use coffee grounds.”
I don’t bother explaining the reason behind my comment as he sets about pouring and shaking.
“That was specific.” The muted masculine voice drifting from my right tightens my jaw.
“You again,” I mutter.
“Not a coffee fan?”
“Weren’t you on your way to see your date?”
“I was, but you looked sad. One of my missions in life is to cure sadness. That’s why I dance.”
I expect a halo to pop out of the ether and clock his head at any moment, or angel wings to sprout from his back. “That’s sweet. But let me reassure you—that’s not sadness you’re seeing, because sadness isn’t part of my emotional repertoire.”
“Here you go,” the bartender murmurs, sliding the pink concoction in front of me.
I down half of it in one draw. Not exactly a feat considering the ice cube rivals the iceberg that sank the Titanic. And then I turn toward the stage where a giant movie screen has started to play success stories from the lucky souls who’ve trialed the new-age drug.
Not only have I already seen the movie, but I was on the set with Lisa and Calanthe, so I got to meet the healed humans.
I’m not one to weep, yet my eyes had prickled nonstop.
I’d passed it off as an allergic reaction to antiseptic fumes when Calanthe asked, point-blank, if Electra Serran was weeping.
I didn’t weep—not now and not as a kid. Not even when my mother stabbed me with needles to siphon my blood, telling me it was to rid me of my infection. That I needed to get the disease out before it killed me. If only I’d understood how to wield that disease.
“You should watch the movie,” I say, without glancing toward the man staring at my face with the intensity I longed to find in Malachi’s gaze.
Cillian doesn’t follow my advice. Just keeps drinking me in as though my compulsion and bitchiness failed to kill his crush.
“Do I have something on my face?” I finally ask.
“Just a little salt.” He skims the corner of my mouth, causing my runes to overheat and my skin to prickle. “Right here.”
I take a step back, licking my mouth to erase the feel of his finger. How bold to touch an Atlantean.
Admittedly, like the majority of humans, Cillian probably believes our powers are make-believe. Only a select few know they’re real—like that New England sect that calls itself the Holy Hunters and whose sole purpose in life is to seek our extinction.
As I drain my glass, I think back to Cillian’s proposal that we fake-date to get Malachi’s attention.
Not because I’m considering it—absolutely not—but because I can’t figure out why he’d suggest something like that if he was so into me.
Unless he’s secretly a rom-com fan who thinks manufactured jealousy is a legitimate courting strategy.
Since he’s still looking at me, I study him back, scrolling over the brown strands poking out around his ears, his strong jaw, and even stronger shoulders.
He isn’t Malachi, but he also isn’t the complete pits. Though he isn’t the sort of man I’d look at twice if our paths had crossed in the street.
Not that I have ever looked at anyone else even once.
Want to grab coffee sometime this week?
The masochistic replay of Malachi’s invitation makes my hand twitch and disturb the giant ice cube. As the air cracks with applause, I fish my cell phone from my pants pocket and punch out a message to Calanthe.
ELECTRA: Are Ines and Malachi dating?
Since my friend’s on stage, I’ll have to wait for her reply. I slip my phone back into my pocket, glad I wore pants since I absolutely loathe carrying around handbags.
“Your earlier proposal…” When Cillian’s eyebrows furrow, I allow magic to flow out of my corneas and use words to remind him of what I stole from his memory. “Fake-dating. What’s in it for you?”
His pupils shrink like miniature lungs releasing a sigh, allowing his irises room to grow. I try to decipher their color, but shadows cling to them. Cling to the whole of him from the roots of his hair to the tip of his jagged nose.
I’m so fixated on the bump upon which sit his glasses that I almost miss his reply, “A chance to stop being a stranger.”