Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
Broken glass means trouble.
ALISTAIR
It’s times like this—when the sun forces me indoors like a rat in a trap—that I’m the angriest. Each twenty-four-hour stretch brings with it the same familiar torment.
Unable to feel heat on my face during the day .
. . Without Celine’s touch, the night holds no comfort for me either.
I get a few short hours in her orbit before she slips away from me under the cover of dawn, leaving me to brood in my apartment alone.
I thought if I gave her time to consider my apology and cool off, she would come around. But if her anger is cooling, it’s also hardening—into an unbreakable crust, something I could spend a lifetime chiseling away at but never penetrate.
My angel is content pretending she never let me touch her. It’s horrible. And it’s not working for me anymore.
Tired of my own shitty company, I yank the refrigerator door open and select a bag of blood. Tossing the stopper on the counter, I bring the nozzle to my mouth, suck, swallow, and immediately gag.
It tastes like a garbage bag stuffed with rotting meat smells after a day in the sun. Eyes watering, I spit the blood into the sink and watch it trickle down the stainless-steel walls and slowly circle the drain.
Cautiously, I sniff the bag, then freeze. How strange. There’s no obvious stink. I’ve never found the flavor of cold blood gross before, but maybe my taste buds have decided to be fussy.
Resigning myself to the extra work, I get a ceramic cup from the cabinet, fill it, then put it in the microwave and wait. Forty-five seconds later, I give it a stir, then pop it back in for another fifteen.
Once it’s done, the blood should be close enough to body temperature that I can close my eyes while I drink it and pretend my fangs are buried in Celine’s throat while she rides my cock.
A snarl rips from my throat. My retinas burn with bloodlust, and my fingers curl around the counter. Fuck. I never should have indulged in that fantasy.
Thinking about Celine while I’m this thirsty is a recipe for disaster.
It brings out the worst in me. Erasing all my carefully laid plans until I’m nothing more than a ruthless predator, willing to cut through anyone in my path to get what I want—even when the obstacle is beautiful, cunning, and strong.
I watch the plate in the microwave spin obsessively. The blood inside the mug bubbles once, twice, three times as it oscillates. The timer dings.
I give it a stir and take a careful sip.
It’s like drinking hot trash.
Fury overtakes my disgust. Fuck my fussy taste buds, I’m thirsty. Plugging my nose, I chug the blood defiantly, dissatisfaction gnawing at me with every swallow.
I slam the mug down in the sink, and the handle snaps off. Two drips roll down the inside of the ceramic. My stomach churns ominously. Don’t be sick. Don’t be sick. Don’t be sick. It doesn’t help. I have to use my vampire speed to make it to the toilet in time.
After I’m done, I drag myself to the sink, rinsing my mouth out with water. I’ve never thrown up blood before, not even right after I was turned . . . A flicker of unease makes my insides cramp, even though there’s nothing left to eject.
Am I ill? Surely not. I never get sick. That bag must have been spoiled. I’ll try again later—once my stomach quits attacking me.
After splashing my flushed face with cold water, I head to my office to fixate on the one thing I can control: my knowledge. With my artificial sunlamp on full blast, I scan what I’ve cataloged so far about the supernatural species living on the Fringes.
My upper lip curls. It’s not enough. Not nearly enough.
I’m still in the dark on too many things: celestial magic, demonic strengths and weaknesses, and shifter limitations, to name a few. How many of us are there? How do the different types prefer to kill? How can I kill them?
Ciprian’s identity would have been obvious to me if I’d known what to watch for.
The Fringe mentality of never asking questions is bullshit. I’m done obtaining information only for money; I want it for myself now so that I can never be tricked again. Call it paranoia or insurance—I don’t give a damn; I need to know.
If that means I compile the most detailed dossier of supernatural abilities and traits in existence, that’s fine by me. I’ve got time. My angel wants nothing to do with me.
My fingers fly over the keyboard as I add the details I’ve gathered on demons: nightmare, incubus, and ravoc.
There are rumors of others, but these three types are the easiest to find information on because of their connection to the enclave.
It’s still thin. For such a visible family, the Casanells are good at scaring people silent.
The laptop I’m using is encrypted, and I’ve never accessed the internet with it before. It’s not an efficient way to research, but it is secure, which is way more important. Letting this data fall into the wrong hands could put more lives at risk than my own. Lives I’m not willing to risk.
Air tickles the skin below my ear.
“I heard you’ve been asking about demons. I see it’s true.”
I slam the laptop shut and jump to my feet.
The sunlamp flickers once, twice—then steadies, humming too loudly in the silence.
Nausea forgotten, my blood pumps through my veins with enough force to make them bulge.
I whip my head around. There’s no one there.
No one anywhere. Only me, alone as always .
. . but I heard a voice. I’m certain I heard a voice.
Didn’t I?
My palms begin to sweat.
My legs are oddly stiff and disconnected from my brain. Primed for action—I know they could move at a moment’s notice, but I’m not sure the movement will follow my orders.
I force them to walk, anyway. Get yourself together, Alistair. You’re imagining things.
Room by room, I check my apartment for intruders. There’s no sign of anyone but me. No foreign scents. But the tingle on the back of my neck . . . my throbbing fangs. The less I find, the surer I am that someone is watching.
“Who’s there?” I demand. My voice cuts through the heavy silence like a beam of sunlight through exposed vampire skin. It’s horrible. There’s no hiding now, my body tells me mournfully. It knows we’re here.
Gods. Of course, it knows we’re here. It—whatever it is—snuck up on us. Hiding was never the answer. My fingers curl, and a ghostly whisper crawls along the curve of my neck.
“My apologies,” the voice titters, the timbre genderless and almost metallic. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I spin to face the general direction it came from. Near the couch, I think? My triumph at being right about the intruder evaporates as reality sinks in.
Someone is in my home. My heavily warded—maximum-bloody-security, doesn’t even allow sunlight inside—home. Only three people even know this place exists.
“Show yourself,” I snarl and bare my fangs, a clear warning to whoever had the unmitigated gall to break into my fucking place.
“Unfortunately, that’s quite impossible,” they say, a hint of melancholy joining the buzz of the words. “Speaking to you at all is quite difficult.”
“No bullshit,” I hiss. “Tell me who and what you are, or my next move will be finding a way to kill you. Painfully.”
“Who I am: unimportant. What I am, given your research, is far more interesting. But the question you should be asking is where I live. I’ll give you a hint: I’m not from around here, I can assure you of that.”
Given your research. Any hope that this creature didn’t see what I was working on dries up.
A document on demonic abilities, focused on the three types known to be part of the enclave?
That alone gives this stranger enough rope to hang me.
I can’t let them leave until I return the favor.
Mutually assured destruction is the best I can hope for.
I raise one eyebrow and do my best to appear less hostile. “Where do you live?”
They laugh. “That’s the spirit; I knew you’d come around. There wouldn’t be such a thick file on you at the enclave if you weren’t clever, Alistair Ashbourne.”
That gets my attention, so I go out on a limb and guess. “You live at the compound?”
“Indeed,” they hiss. “Quite clever, as I suspected.”
I run through what I know about the supernaturals in residence within the compound walls.
Shifters, demons, and most recently, fae.
Shifters don’t have magic like this. From what I know of fae, some have powerful glamour abilities, but they’re not immaterial when they use them.
A fae would need to break down the door to get in, invisible or not.
That leaves only one option.
“You’re a demon, aren’t you?”
“Precisely,” they say. “I have valuable information for you about a development within the Casanell family, something I expect you to find most interesting given young Ciprian’s interest in your lover . . .”
They leave the statement hanging. I stiffen. Are they threatening Celine? Ciprian swore he would keep our secrets, but I knew better than to believe him. And his father has spies everywhere. I need to play this carefully.
My back is against the wall.
“You’re threatening me,” I say stiffly. “Which isn’t a good cornerstone for a trusting working relationship.”
“Never. I’m simply offering you leverage,” they say.
“As a show of good faith, I’ll tell you something about myself.
I have no physical form and rely entirely on the magic of other demons to power my own.
Even now, I’m beginning to fade. Bring Ciprian Casanell here—I’m quite incapable of harming him—and I’ll charge my magic, prove I’m telling the truth, then we can discuss my other information. ”
Bring Ciprian here? I’d rather remove my own fangs with rusty pliers than invite that duplicitous asshole back into my home. He won’t buy it either. Ciprian is a liar, but he’s also perceptive.
I frown, wishing I had more to go on than the tonal shifts of a disembodied voice.