Chapter 5
FIVE
Supernaturals can lie; your reflection can’t.
LUCA
Celine wipes her face of all expression, and my heart sinks.
She’s taking this hard. Will she ask about him? Should I make her? The belligerent avoidance is stressful, and I’m not sure how to handle it.
“Is he alive?” Malach asks what she refuses to voice.
He’s shoveling cereal from his bowl like it’s going to run away if he takes a breath. I scratch my chin. Is the himbo angel eating Frosted Flakes? I had him pegged as a Wheaties or plain oatmeal guy . . . maybe porridge, whatever that is.
Remembering his question, I nod. “Alistair ran the attackers off, but Ciprian is in bad shape.”
“Alistair rescued him?” Celine scoffs and angrily bites off a hunk of plain toast. “After the way he lost his shit at the club, I would expect him to be doing the beating.”
“He was mad,” I remind her, running my fingers through my hair and wincing when they catch in a tangle. “Alistair gave him a healing potion and told him to be gone by dark.”
“If he was in bad enough shape to need a healing potion, can he do that?” Celine drops her half-eaten toast, fury sparking in her brown eyes. I can’t tell who she’s more pissed at: Ali for telling him to get lost or Ciprian for getting jumped in the first place.
“My magic found the demon worthy,” Malach says.
We both glare at him, but he doesn’t flinch, ignoring us and shoveling a massive bite of cereal into his mouth. The silence in the kitchen is interrupted only by his nonstop crunching. Fuck me. Is that bowl bottomless?
“Anyway,” I hiss. “What do you want to do, baby?”
Celine shrugs. “See if Alistair can set up a meeting for me at the Mouth of Hell. I think there’s a fight scheduled for later this week. I could try out if they want.”
Internally, I groan. She’s going to pretend I never mentioned Ciprian or the attack. I’m not sure if I should push her to talk about it or lay off.
As for the fight club, I get why she wants to train. If my dad decided to have me whacked, I would do the same, and the Mouth of Hell is about as organized as supernatural fighting gets around here. It’s also dangerous as fuck. Celine could get hurt.
Although watching her grapple with Malach was eye-opening. And hot. I’ve never seen her move like that, all controlled strikes and sensual violence. Her dirty move may have surprised Malach, but it turned me on.
My blood only returned to more useful parts of my body during my tense conversation with Ali. He spat every word at me. The calmer I was, the angrier he became. Between him and Celine, I’m not sure who’s trying harder to avoid addressing the obvious.
Thankfully, my basilisk is lying low. If Alistair had taken that tone with me another time, it could have gotten messy.
“I’ll look into it,” I tell Celine. “Is there any yogurt left?”
Her head of bright red hair disappears inside the fridge, then pops back out. She slides a cup of peach yogurt across the counter, and I smile and thank her.
“Malach.” I force myself to say his name without using a tone. He looks up, pinning me in place with his intense stare. “Do you have any reason to believe Celine’s dad will attack soon?”
He considers the question, his square jaw working rhythmically as he chews and swallows. “No. I suspect S’lach will wait until he believes he cannot fail.”
“That’s—well, it’s fucked-up,” I say. “But it’s also good news for us. Do I need to order weapons?”
I don’t know how to do that, but I’m confident I could figure it out. A few pistols would be easy to find, except gunshots are the opposite of covert, and we’ve already made enough noise by killing Roscoe outside the Fang. The last thing we need is to give the enclave another excuse to punish us.
“I will provide the steel,” Malach says, chasing the final soggy flake around the milk in his bowl, then triumphantly shoving it into his mouth.
I shake my head, remembering how many blades his henchmen had. We’ve killed a few of Malach’s crew. It stands to reason he’s holding on to some swords without owners.
My basilisk lifts its head warily, sensing rising tension in the room.
It’s all coming from Celine.
“Could you teach me how to sword fight, baby?” I ask, hoping to coax a smile from her. “I’ve always wanted to try fencing.”
“She won’t be able to sink to your level.” Malach’s Adam’s apple bobs as he slurps a spoonful of milk.
Celine frowns. “Malach, that’s rude.”
“It’s no indictment of his ability as a student,” he argues. “Rather, a criticism of your teaching skills. You lack the patience to instruct a beginner.”
I choke on a laugh as Celine sputters angrily. “You’re talking a lot of shit for someone who’s been lurking in dark corners trying to murder his rivals.”
Malach climbs calmly to his feet. “I told you; it was judgment—do you doubt the truth of my words?”
She presses her lips together, then shakes her head.
His face softens. “If you continue to consider your lovers rivals, you’ll force them to fulfill that destiny.” Malach calmly collects his bowl—bone dry, without a flake in sight—and crosses to the sink to wash it.
I glance at Celine. Hands clenched, her wings are smoking. She pushes away from the kitchen counter and heads down the hall.
I wince as her bedroom door slams.
Malach glances up from the sink, and I study his profile. He doesn’t seem upset, but I don’t know his tells yet. He could be the most stoic guy in the universe for all I know. Just because Celine can’t hide her emotions to save her life doesn’t mean other angels have the same issue.
“The venom will consume her if she invites it in,” he says quietly.
I raise my eyebrows, and his shoulders sag. The massive, pearly wings droop until the ends graze the kitchen tile.
“S’lach is toxic. Especially for her,” he murmurs. “He drove her from her home, from any chance of happiness with me. I don’t begrudge her for building a life here, but she must excise the wound before it can fester.”
I blink, tempted to press him for more. While I know everything about Celine’s present, Malach is part of her past. He can give me a clearer picture of the woman I love . . .
“I’ve known her for years,” I say. “But she’s only recently mentioned him to me at all. Those memories . . . she’s kept them buried for a long time.”
Something unknown flickers in Malach’s eyes. “She’s strong. I must believe it’s not too late.” It can’t be. He leaves that last part unspoken, but I hear it anyway.
He leaves me alone in the kitchen, and I take the opportunity to think. If Malach is right and Celine’s avoidance is destroying her, I’ll have to make her face her demons—even if she hates me for it.
“Stay with Luca at the bar and keep your wings tucked,” Celine says for the tenth time, climbing into my passenger seat and giving Malach no choice but to wedge himself in my compact backseat.
He does it without complaining, tilting his head at an awkward angle to avoid banging the roof. “I will remain with your shifter. Stop fretting,” he grumbles.
“I don’t fret.” Celine tosses me a disbelieving look, and I focus on the road so she doesn’t see the smile I’m fighting. Fretting isn’t the word I would have used, but damn if it doesn’t fit.
“Malach,” she says, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. “You know what I do for work, right?” Oh boy. It’s smart of her to clear the air, but if he says one rude thing to her . . .
“You use your body to sell a fantasy.”
“Yeah?” Celine asks, her tone wary. “What do you mean by that exactly?”
Silently I curse Alistair for feeding her worry with his bullshit. If he shows up here tonight, I may knock those sparkling white fangs loose on principle alone.
“You allow your patrons to imagine a reality in which they might be allowed to touch you.” He sniffs. “You are generous to allow them to pretend. It’s charity work on your part.”
I chuckle, low key obsessed with Malach’s definition of stripping. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
Celine shifts in the passenger seat, and from the corner of my eye, I watch her press her flushed cheek against the window. I squeeze her knee and turn the air conditioner on.
We’ll get through this one day at a time. Together.
Our shift at the Fang starts normal, a standard weekday afternoon. Not dead, but certainly not busy. I’m fine with that. An easy day at work is exactly what we need.
As ordered, Malach camps out at the bar with me. Most people hunch or sprawl when they sit on a barstool, but not Malach. He perches like someone shoved one end of a flagpole up his ass and drove the other into the concrete floor.
“Yo,” I huff, rapping my knuckles on the counter in front of him. “Do you know how to slouch?”
“Of course.” He sits up even straighter, and I wonder briefly if he traded his spine for a yardstick. “Am I drawing unwanted attention?”
Malach glances around, looking so concerned I feel bad for the guy. Yes, he did try to have me killed, but he did it for Celine. In a twisted way, I get it. My basilisk rattles. It doesn’t think we should forgive the new angel.
“You’re fine. Try to sit less . . .” I scratch my chin, trying to figure out the right word. “. . . militantly. You’re giving super soldier, even without your wings.”
He considers that, his green eyes searching my face, then nods.
After glancing around, he drops his elbows to the bar and goes rag-doll limp.
I blink at the change. Malach transformed from killer-for-hire to the saddest man in the world. If I put a glass of whiskey on the rocks in his hand, it will be the perfect look.
I scoop some ice and pull one of the top-shelf liquors down.
Malach is far from home; the least I can do is show the guy how good the booze is here.
I pour him a few fingers and press the glass into his hand.
“This is for sipping,” I warn him. “And when a tall, black-haired vampire shows up later, don’t even think about mentioning—”
“Mentioning what?” Alistair appears directly beside Malach, and I swallow a curse. There’s a pink tinge to his blue eyes that isn’t usually there. From the heavy dark circles he’s rocking, I know he didn’t spend the afternoon sleeping.
“Nothing,” I mutter. “Blood Tide?”
“Cut the bullshit, Luca. I need to see her.”
“Her next set is in fifteen.”
Alistair’s low growl makes the hairs on my arms stand on end.
I sigh and look him dead in the face. “I won’t make her talk to you until she’s ready. She’s dealing with a lot, and, frankly, you royally fucked up. Give her time, Ali.”
He hangs his head, shoulders drooping pathetically. I glance at Malach’s similar pose and shake my head. They’re different sides of the same coin. While Malach is all golden, shiny excellence, Alistair is the kind of trouble you beg for until the moment it kills you.
With clientele hooting and hollering under the neon lights all around us, there’s not much I can do to comfort him. But I lean across the bar and put my hand on his shoulder anyway, grazing my thumb over his neck.
Alistair meets my gaze, and the devastation on his face is brutal. “Don’t think I forgot what you were saying when I arrived,” he says.
I snort a laugh and drop my hand. “It’s not important right now.” I see Celine approaching and lower my voice. “Just know that if you ever want her back, you can’t kill him.” I tilt my head toward Malach.
Alistair gives the burly angel a ferocious once-over, confusion erasing some of his sadness. “Why would I bother killing him?”
“Storage room. Now,” Celine interrupts before I can answer. “You get five minutes, Alistair, then I have to take my clothes off for a bunch of people who aren’t you.”
Ali surges to his feet. He stares at Celine like a roaring flame scopes out a pile of dry brush. She stares back at him blankly—as if he’s nothing—and I wince. Celine looking at me that way is my worst nightmare. If Alistair is smart, he won’t push her, but his control is slipping.
“Angel, please,” he begs.
Celine pivots, leaving without a word. Alistair’s hands curl to fists at his side.
“You better go,” I say gently. “And tread lightly while you’re at it.”
The look he tosses at me is red-rimmed and desperate. “What choice do I have?”
None. Alistair is out of options, and I’m not going to help him. If he wants to make things right with Celine, he’s going to have to figure it out himself. For all our sakes, I hope he does.