Shadow of Death (Radiant Legacy #2)

Chapter 1

ONE

Adapt or die.

CELINE

My stilettos hammer the pavement in punishing, clipped snicks—darts burying their points in the wrong target. I can only hope they absorb the impact of my sprint through the musty Vegas streets without breaking to pieces.

He says he’s your husband.

Imani’s voice echoes in my head, the words bouncing around and knocking into each other like beads dumped on a tile floor. I can’t hear anything over my loud pants, racing heart, and the screaming in my mind.

I flex my wings in case I need to fly—subtlety be damned. There’s no reason to hide who I am if I’m about to die. It’s never been my ambition to go out in a blaze of glory. I’m not some idiotic warrior with more testosterone than brains, but I have no intention of going quietly either.

A neon sign bathes my bare legs in a magenta glow as I jump over a piece of unidentifiable plastic garbage.

He says he’s your husband.

It must be a trick. My father wouldn’t have involved him.

This is a ploy to throw me off balance and rock me emotionally.

Dad’s minions know they’ll have an easier time cutting off my head if they score a hit to my heart first. It’s already bruised to hell and humiliated after that ugly scene in the club.

Gods, what a monumentally terrible night.

The flapping of wings grows louder, drowning out my thoughts. The impostor is gaining on me. Shit. Pushing harder, I sprint around a corner, gripping the rough concrete wall to help me make the turn without skidding out.

I left my keys at the Naked Fang in my hurry to get away from Ciprian the Liar and Alistair the Slut Shamer, but I can’t let that stop me.

I’ll hot-wire my bike and ride so far away they’ll never find me.

Better to start over again than be back under Dad’s tyrannical rule.

It would be better to die than to go home. And I am not fucking ready to die.

Air caresses my bare back, a cool threat against my flushed skin.

A thud follows. Too close for comfort. Faster, dammit. Legs burning, I push myself harder. It’s a mistake. My left heel snaps, the crack louder in the narrow alley than a gunshot.

Fuck. Fuck. My bike is too far. I’ve got to fight.

Spinning, I raise my fists—

No. It can’t be . . .

I freeze. Every muscle in my body locks as I get my first glimpse of Malach in more than six years.

Tall, chiseled like someone carved him from marble, his hair falls in gentle waves around his ears. It’s longer than I’ve ever seen it. Darker than the last time I saw him too—closer to brown than blond. His green eyes rake me from head to toe, cool and assessing.

He says he’s your husband.

My heart throbs because it’s a lie. Malach isn’t mine. He never was. That dream, fantasy—whatever the fuck it was—didn’t last long enough to become reality. How—no, why is he chasing me through the streets of the supernatural Fringes of Las Vegas?

“You have no business here,” I tell him, using the language of our shared echelon. Nish thatsha, I think bitterly. Such a small, proud group—bound by our radiant words. Never again. Not for me. Even if my only good memories from home are staring back at me from his piercing emerald eyes.

Malach holds my gaze mercilessly. I stare back. I won’t be the first to look away.

“Your business is our business, My Truth,” he says. “For as long as we both draw breath.”

I blink in surprise. He said that in heavily accented English. But Malach hates learning languages. He always has. How and when did he add one from a foreign realm to his repertoire? None of this adds up.

Heavy footsteps pound as Luca careens around the corner; his pupils are stretched into horizontal slits.

My heart flips. There’s murder in his yellow eyes, but Malach can’t die.

I won’t allow it. I open my mouth to tell Luca to stop or Malach to run.

Something. Anything to fix this. But my head is spinning.

Breathlessly, I watch in slow motion as Luca’s fist slams into Malach’s left eye. An eye squeezed so tightly shut that the skin at the corner crinkles like the folds of an accordion.

He knows. About Luca’s basilisk. How does he know?

They collide, trading dirty, brutal blows as they grapple in the street. Luca knees Malach in the gut, trying to catch his eyelid and peel it open. “Is this guy your ex or something?” he demands, landing a crushing blow to Malach’s throat.

I wince at the bite of suspicion in his tone. Luca’s trust in me is rattled, and I can’t blame him. Malach showed up and claimed to be my husband. If the situation were reversed, I would be losing my shit.

My breath catches, inhales tripping over exhales until neither action brings me oxygen or relief. This is bad. Horrible. Completely out of my control. If I could wake up tomorrow and forget all about this terrible night, I would.

“Stop fighting,” I gasp. Biting my lip, I use the pain to ground myself. “I need a minute. Please.”

They ignore me.

Malach lands a heavy punch on Luca’s forehead. Luca retaliates by driving an elbow into his ribs. I frown and hobble toward them, putting my weight on the balls of my feet to avoid my stupid, broken heel.

“Stop,” I snap, sounding more like myself. They still don’t listen.

Shoving bodily between them, I grab Malach’s fist in one hand and cover Luca’s murder eyes with the other, accidentally poking his right eye since I can’t look directly at it.

“Fuck, Celine,” Luca grunts.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “But you weren’t listening.”

Malach unclenches his fist. His fingers graze my palm and send sparks shooting along my nerves as he attempts to hold my hand with his eyes closed.

I squint at his stubborn, chiseled profile, lit by the fluorescent streetlight, and clear my throat.

“Since you can speak English so well, why don’t you tell Luca you aren’t really my husband? ”

“Why would I do that when the expressions on his face and yours were everything I hoped for?” Malach grins around his split lip, and I want to punch the dimple in his chin. I settle for shoving him instead.

“Because it isn’t true,” I remind him. “We never got married.”

Malach frowns. “And our betrothal vows meant nothing to you?”

I grit my teeth. He knows I can’t lie about this. This is his bullheaded way of backing me into a corner. “You’re over-simplifying something more complicated than most of this realm’s economies,” I sputter. “We were kids, Malach. I wanted to make Mom happy, and I trusted you.”

His eyelids flutter until he’s staring carefully at the ground, his gaze fixed on my broken heel. “And have I ever betrayed that trust? Even for a moment?” There’s hurt in the question. It echoes in my chest.

I shift my weight, wishing Luca weren’t here to hear this. “I didn’t leave because I didn’t trust you,” I admit.

Malach nods, satisfied with himself for pulling that truth out of me, then sighs. “I know why you left, My Truth.”

“Then you know I won’t return,” I whisper. “Why are you here, Malach?”

Luca stands rigidly at my side, tension radiating off him in cold, angry waves. Malach isn’t moving either, but I can’t sense even a glimmer of how he feels. When did he become so stoic? The silence stretches between us until I’m desperate for anything to break it.

“I’m here because I made a mistake,” he says gravely.

My wings quiver, and the itch returns violently to the middle of my back where it’s impossible to reach. Every instinct screams that whatever Malach says next, I’m not going to like it.

“Explain,” I grunt.

He sighs. “You’ve been visited by other angels?”

“Yeah, Dad found me.” I narrow my eyes. “He’s been sending assassins. And orphans. Honestly, it’s been a strange few weeks.”

Malach glances at the night sky—carefully avoiding Luca—then meets my gaze, his green eyes glittering from the combination of street and starlight.

“Your father did not send assassins or orphans.” He clears his throat; the first sign of nervousness I’ve seen from him.

“I brought the children to spare them from their fate. I knew you would help them.”

“Wait. Slow down,” I interrupt. “You dropped the orphans here? What about the killers? The ones who attacked Alistair and Luca—they were here to assassinate me.”

Malach lifts his chin stubbornly. I’m immediately dragged back in time to our teen years, when that same mulish tilt used to set me off at least once a week.

“I acted as I saw fit,” he says.

My wings smoke, wisps curling around the three of us as my anger grows. Not now, dammit. I flap my hand to clear the cloud building in front of my face.

Luca takes a step back, dropping his shirt from his bloody nose as he eyes my wings. “Deep breaths, baby,” he warns.

Ignoring him, I get in Malach’s face and jab my finger into his chest. “What did you do?” I demand. The itch is so bad, I’m pretty sure I’ll regret even asking him the question.

“If they want to stand at your side, they must prove themselves worthy of the position,” Malach grunts, crossing his arms over his chest.

I hold up my hand to stop him, a horrible suspicion taking shape in my mind. “Are you telling me you sent a dozen angels to attack Alistair and Luca as some kind of test?”

“Not a test: judgment,” Malach says, his lips twitching. “Which they all failed except for the demon. He alone is worthy.”

I see red as what’s left of my patience vanishes and my wings erupt in sparks and flames. A headache pounds at the base of my skull.

How many betrayals will I be forced to swallow tonight?

Of all the people for Malach to judge and find worthy, he picks Ciprian? It’s too outrageous to be real. I must be dreaming. Any second now, I’m going to wake up and realize this whole fucked-up sequence of events was a nightmare.

“Can I kill him, baby?” Luca asks, his voice vibrating with rage.

I’m so mad that I consider it, only shaking my head once terror douses the fire in my wings. They switch to knives and droop, the bladed edges scraping against the dirty pavement.