Chapter 3
THREE
Pain is a bite that never ends. Interrupt it before it chews you up and spits you out.
ALISTAIR
Moving from shadow to shadow, I search the streets, my fangs throbbing.
The hum of a nearby generator drowns out the muffled bass from one of the more popular Fringe bars. A rat the size of a loaf of bread skitters behind a dented trash bin plastered with fading flyers for shows that long ago lost any hope of catching my attention.
The only thing I care about right now is finding Ciprian Casanell—nightmare demon, enclave heir, and lying son of a bitch. I used to think our interests aligned. Now I just want to make him pay.
He’s ruined everything. For me—for both of us, really—but fuck him and fuck how his involvement toppled everything I built with Celine.
Luca alone may survive the fallout from tonight, slithering clear of the rubble in the way of snakes. I know better than to expect his help; his loyalty lies with her. He won’t risk the cold now that he’s known her heat. I can’t blame him for it.
My anger burns, but it isn’t all reserved for Ciprian.
The things I said to Celine were unforgivable. The pathetic vitriol of a vampire so used to rejection that I cut her where I knew it would hurt most, desperate to wound her before she could wound me.
I want to blame it all on bloodlust, but that would be the coward’s way out.
I learned to lash out long before I had fangs. No one ever noticed how hurt I was if I hurt them first. As a child, it was understandable. As an adult, I have no excuse.
Stopping for a beat, I listen to the Vegas night. The crackling hum of streetlights. The uneven footsteps of a drunk shuffling home. Then a grunt, a thud, a curse. I move toward the fight, upping my pace when I smell blood.
I’d recognize it anywhere. It’s the same blood that saved my life. The blood that runs through Ciprian Casanell’s veins.
I snarl as my eyes confirm what my ears and nose already know: he’s under attack.
My arrival startles the three ragged shifters beating the shit out of him. They scatter.
I let them go, listening until their footsteps fade.
Ciprian’s face is covered with blood to the point that I barely recognize him. He’s curled in on himself, trying to protect his stomach. One arm is tilted at an unnatural angle. His breaths are slow and erratic, and I smell the sickly sweet bite of liquor beneath the coppery tang of his blood.
My fury cools. Moments ago, I wanted to see him brought low. Now, I just feel wired.
His face flashes through my mind—free of bruises and swelling—as I remember the way he looked outside the club, begging me to let him explain.
I turned him down and told everyone in the Naked Fang who he was.
Why would his father blow his cover? Dimitri Casanell is hated on the Fringes—for good reason. Putting his own son in danger, though . . . What could his motive be? As for Ciprian, he had plenty of ammunition to bring us in. Why didn’t he?
All the lies, his deception. I thought I knew why he did it, but so many of Ciprian’s choices don’t align with the enclave’s methods.
Maybe he deserved this, maybe he didn’t, but I need to hear his side to be sure. Not having all the information is eating me alive.
Ciprian stirs, twitching twice before going still.
I shift my weight as a hot breeze ruffles my hair.
These streets appear empty, but we aren’t the only supernaturals on the prowl. I could leave him here and let the gods decide whether he lives or dies . . . except that doesn’t feel right.
When an angel drove a sword through my gut, Ciprian fought to keep me alive. The memory cuts me deep enough to scar, the phantom taste of my blood mixed with his on my tongue as he desperately tried to replace what I’d lost.
I can’t leave him this way. Gritting my teeth to ignore the lure of his blood, I slip his shattered phone into my pocket and hoist him over my shoulders.
Ciprian groans, the sound pitifully weak, and his ribs shift in an unnatural way.
He may not live through this beating even with my help. I find myself hoping he does. I have questions to ask him, and dead demons don’t talk.
Ciprian survives the night, his breathing labored. His obsidian eyes, swollen and bruised, crack open as dawn breaks, and a mix of feelings rush through me. He looks terrible.
“A-Ali?” he gasps.
“Only my friends are allowed to call me that,” I hiss, a muscle in my cheek ticking. “I have a witch’s healing potion I can give you, but only if you answer my questions.”
Even through the bruising around his eyes, I see him become cagey.
“I can’t promise to answer everything,” he wheezes. “There are people whose trust matters more to me than my life.”
“Lucky for them,” I seethe, the sting of his trickery slicing me again.
He sags against the couch, the skin at the corner of his eyes pulled tight by the swelling. But he doesn’t beg for the potion.
The air conditioning blows a cool, synthetic breeze from the overhead vent. The faint hum is deafening compared to the silence of our standoff.
In the end, my curiosity trumps his stubbornness.
“Start at the beginning,” I say. “Why did you come to the Fringes?”
Ciprian sighs. The noise is wetter than it should be.
Is he bleeding internally? The cloying, primal smell of blood is so thick in the air of my living room it’s impossible to tell.
I lean forward and take another whiff. My fangs graze my lower lip, and the scraping sensation snaps me away from the urge to steal a taste.
If he dies, all my efforts will be for nothing.
“Roscoe”—he coughs—“was one of my father’s guards. His favorite.”
I stiffen. That’s worse than we thought. Roscoe’s death was unavoidable, but none of us had any idea he was that connected. “You were sent to find out what happened to him?”
Ciprian nods, and I frown. Why would Dimitri Casanell send his son into the Fringes alone for a missing guard? It’s reckless and dangerous.
A wry look eclipses the pain on Ciprian’s face before it fades to a grimace. “Our family dynamic is”—another raspy cough—“pretty fucked-up.”
In that, I can empathize. I’m an only child, but if Mum had been fortunate enough to have another before she was turned, she would have liked them more. I’m sure of that.
“Not the favorite son?” I taunt him, but Ciprian isn’t bothered by my jab.
“Depends on w-who you ask.” He shifts on my couch, then goes rigid, holding his breath until I’m waiting anxiously for his next gasp. When it finally comes, it sounds less like a stream of oxygen and more like water being sucked down a storm drain.
My palms prickle, and I’m moving before I make the conscious decision. I shoot down the hall, retrieve the healing potion from the locked box in my bathroom, and return before I can change my mind.
Favorite son or not, if Ciprian Casanell dies on my couch, I’ll be held responsible. I’m not performing a kindness for a traitor; I’m saving my own skin.
Unstoppering the vial, I curse his shaking hands and bat them away. Once the glass touches his lips, I pour the liquid into his mouth. He chokes. Bubbles—stained a streaky pink from his blood—run down his chin, but he manages to swallow most of the tonic.
“Thanks,” he wheezes.
“I’m not doing it for you,” I snap. “I need to know what’s going on so I can protect her.”
“That’s cold, Ali.” Some of the pain leaves Ciprian’s body, and he raises one pale eyebrow as he meets my eyes. “I didn’t tell Dad what happened to Roscoe. I planned to take Celine’s secret to the grave; I just didn’t expect to find myself climbing in this soon.”
That surprises me, but I don’t show it. Instead, I search his face for any signs of deception. I’m not a lie detector like Celine, but I’m typically good at judging intent—at least I was until I met Ciprian.
“Why would you conceal it?” I ask.
He scoffs. The sound is raspy, but it’s livelier than his previous death rattles. “Really? Why would I protect Celine from the bullshit consequences of killing an asshole? You’re smarter than that, dude.”
“Please,” I drawl, rolling my eyes. “You think I believe you severed a lifetime of allegiance over one kiss? How do you expect me to swallow that?”
Ciprian sighs, his thick eyelashes fluttering against his bruised skin. When he looks at me again, there’s steel in his bottomless black stare. “I can be loyal to both.”
“No,” I hiss. “That’s where you’re wrong, Casanell. Here in the Fringes, we know the consequences of split loyalty. If you can’t make the choice, we’ll make it for you.”
Anger swirls in my belly, although my bloodlust has settled to a manageable level.
Anyone dumb enough to bring their executioner to bed with them deserves what they get, and my angel is far from dumb. She won’t forgive him for hiding his identity.
“If that’s how you feel, why didn’t you let those guys finish the job?”
There’s no self-pity or curiosity in Ciprian’s question. It’s more like he’s delivering a prompt—a barbed, poisonous harpoon meant to penetrate my subconscious and rot my brain from the inside out.
I shove to my feet. “You have until sundown to leave my apartment. If you’re still here then, I’ll be happy to fetch my shovel and bury you.”
Ciprian nods, his shoulders dipping with . . . relief? I can’t tell. I don’t trust my ability to read him anymore—the duplicitous enclave heir who thought he could fit in on the Fringes, and nearly succeeded.
I leave him on the couch and go to my room, satisfied he’s not likely to die or get up any time soon. My entire apartment reeks of blood. And Celine’s scent on my pillow is almost gone. I stop in front of the vent and let cold air blow directly on my face.
Everything’s wrong, but if I can clear my senses, maybe I’ll be able to see the best way forward.
I believe Ciprian’s story. It lines up with what his father’s man said outside the Fang, and his infatuation with Celine would be hard to fake.
His truth comes too late, though. We’ll never be able to trust him again.
Bridges burned around here never get rebuilt—that’s the way it is. The sooner Ciprian accepts that, the more likely he is to escape the Fringes with his life.