Chapter 14 #2
If this is a trap, why didn’t the enclave simply knock the door down and let the sun do its dirty work? Sending an invisible demon to do the job is convoluted.
My hands fist at my sides. “I can’t—”
“Please,” they whisper. “I’ve much to tell you, but you must hurry.”
They sound scared. Are they dying? What did they risk by breaking into my home? More importantly, if I don’t bring Ciprian here, how will I get them to leave? My ridiculously expensive wards were useless in keeping them out, and the offer of leverage is tempting.
If I can protect Celine from the enclave, will she forgive me?
There are too many questions by far, and I’m aching to answer them all.
Your curiosity is a curse. Mum’s words echo through my mind, sounding as much like a prophecy of doom in my memory today as they did when she said them to me growing up.
But curiosity is exhilarating to me. Terrifying too—like walking along a cliff in fog so thick you can taste it on your tongue. The uncertainty, not knowing where your foot will fall next, means there’s always another secret to uncover.
“Bollocks,” I mutter, scanning my living room once more for the source of the voice.
There’s nothing, and the sense of being watched has faded too.
Are they dying? Or in some sort of stasis?
I’ve never been able to resist a mystery.
It’s why I chose to be turned against Mum’s wishes.
She sees my decision to become like her as a betrayal, but I spent eighteen years of my life straddling the line—not human enough to be satisfied with the ordinary, and not supernatural enough to fit anywhere else.
Always alone. Achingly, endlessly alone.
Today, I face yet another choice. I can return to my flimsy demonic research and wait for the enclave to come for me and everyone I care about, or I can take a risk and save us all.
I’m dialing Ciprian’s number before I even make the conscious decision to do so.
“I was surprised to hear from you,” Ciprian says, smiling warily as I open my apartment door.
It’s exactly one minute after sundown, and I can’t help thinking he waited somewhere nearby for the last ray of golden, deadly light to fade before knocking. Courtesy or calculation? I can never tell with him.
Fingers twitching, I banish the glimmer of unease that runs through me.
I owe Ciprian no loyalty. My life debt is paid.
If I’m being shady to gain information from him, it’s nothing compared to how he embedded himself in our lives.
The fact that I’m still questioning his motives is a testament to the absolute mindfuck he did on me.
Besides, I won’t pretend to accept his apology. While it’s the cleanest way to trick him, the pinch in my belly when I imagine telling him he’s forgiven, knowing I’ll later rip that forgiveness away, feels cruel, even by Fringe standards.
“I have a new project I’m working on,” I admit, keeping my excuse close to the truth.
Ciprian cocks his head, his white-blond hair purposefully tousled.
In the weeks since his attack, he’s completely healed.
If I hadn’t seen him beaten and bruised and smelled his dried blood beneath my fingernails for three days after the attack, I would never have believed he came so close to dying.
He looks me over too, a pinch appearing between his eyebrows as we lock eyes.
Making eye contact with Ciprian is like staring down a well: mesmerizing, weightless, and utterly disorienting.
The inky depths swallow every particle of light.
But if you brave the unsettling sensation for long enough, you’ll notice there are different shades of black in his eyes, broken up by a charcoal ring around the pupil.
“A project . . .” Ciprian says. “. . . that you’re telling me about? Yeah, right. Where are the hidden cameras? Is Luca going to pop out and turn me to stone once I make a shocked face?”
I roll my eyes. “Has anyone ever told you you’re dramatic?”
He scoffs. “Only every day of my life. If you’re hoping to call me something new, you’ll have to be creative. I get around.”
I walk to the kitchen and pull two glasses from the cabinet, considering the tone of his response. The subtle vein of self-deprecation—it’s deeply embedded in his humor. He wields it like a shield, a way to keep people at arm’s length. But what exactly is he trying to hide?
“You know what?” Ciprian asks, surprising me when he tugs on his hair and messes it up completely. “Scratch what I said. Yes, I’ve been called dramatic a lot, but I don’t like it. It pisses me off.”
I blink at him.
He knocks another strand of hair loose with his roving fingers. “You don’t have to say anything. In fact, please don’t. I’m just following the advice of someone I respect for once. Tell me about your project.”
I hold my breath. This is the risky part, the gamble. For this to work, I have to show him some of my cards. “I want to know more about the strengths and weaknesses of the different supernaturals in our territory.”
Ciprian pushes off the counter and stands upright, his posture rigid. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he demands. “If you poke around in legacy secrets, someone will make you a cliff note in their soon-to-be-erased-again history.”
He’s flustered, rattled even. This is interesting.
I take a step closer. “Will they?”
Ciprian laughs. “The question isn’t what they’ll do; it’s what they won’t do.
Try asking a witch how she teleports. She’ll yank your fangs out, grind them up, then use the dust in her sunscreen to punish you a second time when she goes to the beach.
Or maybe you flirt with a fae at the bar.
Chill, fun—a little tedious, sure—but not everyone is a sparkling conversationalist. Wrong!
It’s not chill, it’s fucking frigid, because the motherfucker freezes you into an Alistair-shaped icicle for mentioning the color of his magical aura. ”
“Can you see a fae’s magical aura?” I ask, surprised. I’m not sure why I hadn’t considered Ciprian a useful source of supernatural knowledge before—he’s heir to the enclave, he must know something.
“Don’t ask that,” Ciprian snaps. “Gods. I just told you not to ask that—Why the fuck are you smiling at me?”
“You’re having a meltdown,” I say drily.
“No,” he hisses, pointing his finger at me until the blunt tip nearly grazes my cheek. “You’ll be the one melting down after the fae gets his hands on you. I’ll have to buy like three hundred and fifty hair dryers to defrost your ears enough to say I told you so.”
“Hilarious.” I pour him a glass of scotch and press it into his hand.
“It won’t be.” Ciprian scowls and tosses the amber liquor back, never flinching. “Ali, it’s dangerous.”
“So you’ve said. Explicitly.”
He studies my face, those fathomless eyes roving over every ridge and dip. I’m confident in my ability to remain unreadable, but Ciprian looks at me so intently that I wonder if he sees something in the curve of my mouth or the rhythm of my pulse.
“You’re going to tell me I’m being dramatic again,” he finally says, the molten interest in his stare cooling a few degrees. Without moving or saying a word, I’ve disappointed him.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I purr.
I drink my own glass of scotch slowly, letting the flavors seep into my taste buds and chase away the lingering haze of my earlier sickness. Like a slap to the face, the liquor makes my heart race.
“But why?” Ciprian asks. His voice is soft and . . . vulnerable?
That can’t be right. Gods, his reactions never make sense.
“Because it pisses you off,” I say, holding his gaze and licking my lips. “You don’t like to be called dramatic, remember?”
“Oh, I remember.” Ciprian places his glass on the counter and steps toward me. “Don’t fuck with me, Alistair. You can’t choke me out one night, then invite me to your place and flirt with me like you forgive me the next. Unless you mean it . . . Get your revenge some other way.”
His sincerity guts me. Rips me open so thoroughly, I expect to see my intestines spilling onto the kitchen tile between us. Damn him. Gods-fucking-damn-him. I have Ciprian exactly where I want him, and I can’t close the distance and seal the deal. Not this way.
“I don’t forgive you.” He visibly retreats at my words. The life drains first from his eyes, then from the rest of his expression, eventually spreading to his posture too. He loses an inch of height as he slumps, and I steel myself to continue. “But I do want your help.”
“Okay. I’ll help you, but you have to promise me you’ll be careful. Asking the wrong questions could get not only us killed, but Celine and Luca too.”
It’s dangerous. I know that, but the invisible demon has me cornered.
For a second, I consider telling Ciprian the enclave has a rat.
He might be grateful. He might deal with the problem and owe me another debt—but I’ve never revealed a source before, and his betrayal is too fresh. Godsdammit, there’s no clean way out.
“They’re not involved in this,” I say, choosing to sound like a na?ve idiot instead of an overconfident asshole.
“They’re known associates of yours—don’t be absurd. Everyone’s seen you hanging onto her at the club.”
“No one touches her,” I snarl as boiling blood pounds the backs of my retinas. The idea of someone going after Celine ignites an irrational rage inside me. Gods above. This is why I needed to feed earlier. When I get like this, it’s impossible to reason.
“Don’t forget this anger,” Ciprian says calmly, looking at my face with no sign of fear on his own. “You’ll need it if this goes south.”
I nod, and a ghostly presence stirs against my lower back.
Is the demon reminding me they’re here? In my apartment, with me at their mercy and Celine in their crosshairs?
If they’re trying to give me a sign, they need to work on their nonverbal communication because touching me while I’m this amped is a recipe for disaster.
“I won’t tell you anything that could get someone hurt,” Ciprian says, his eyes unfocused as he thinks my proposal over. “Only basic stuff I’ve noticed and the things you would have learned if you’d gone to Starfall Academy.”
Bitterness chokes me. Mum thought supernatural learning was a waste of time.
Once the deed was done, she said I had damned myself.
To her, there’s no point in educating a monster.
She told me bits and pieces about the supernatural world.
Immigrants in a realm native only to humans and witches, born vampires share Earth with all the creatures who decided to leave their home realms behind.
Since no one else around the Fringes ever mentions attending an academy, I’m confident I’m not the only one stumbling around in the dark.
“I’m not trying to hurt anyone,” I tell Ciprian, irritated by his insinuation. These are my people. The Fringes are my home. And I never hurt anyone unless they cross me first.
“Sure,” Ciprian mutters. “But do you have complete control over everyone you sell information to?”
“Do you have complete control over the information you provide the enclave?” I hiss.
Ciprian releases a puff of air. “Obviously not, dude. Why do you think I keep half of what I hear to myself?” He shakes his head and tucks the wild strands of hair behind his ears. “I’ll put some information together and bring it to you soon.”
I imagine Ciprian compiling data haphazardly in his apartment and then dropping a stack of loose-leaf papers in an alley on his way here, and I grimace.
“I’d rather you worked on it here.”
Ciprian holds my stare. “Am I a slow-burn captive?”
I raise one eyebrow, annoyed yet again by how often he takes me off guard.
I hate asking for clarification, but with Ciprian it’s almost always necessary. He loves to make obscure references and pretend they’re part of everyone’s lexicon. Although, if I stay quiet long enough, he might explain without—
“It’s like getting a wild animal used to a cage. You let them come and go at will. Until one day—bam!” He claps his hands. “You close the door, and they’re stuck.”
“If that was my plan, I wouldn’t admit it to you,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I’m more concerned about you getting too comfortable and refusing to leave.”
“What do I get out of this anyway?” Ciprian asks.
“A good night’s sleep for the duration of your stay on the Fringes.” I rub the tips of my fingers together. “I never kill my informants.”
“Bro.” Ciprian claps me on the shoulder. “If all your deals go like this, your informants need to unionize. Pronto.”
“Start work tomorrow at noon?” I ask, ignoring his joke.
He rounds the kitchen counter to leave, nodding over his shoulder as he heads for the door. The tingling presence grazes my back again, softer this time . . . approval? I guess they’ve gotten everything they need.
“You’re going to forgive me, Ali—I’ve got a good feeling about this.”
The grin on his face is boyish. All charm and hopeful excitement.
I stay quiet, but my chest tightens. It’s official now. I’m using Ciprian Casanell for information while hiding the truth from him. In one way, it’s poetic justice. In another, hypocrisy. I tell myself I shouldn’t feel guilty. I’m not sure I believe it.
The door closes firmly behind him, and I hurry to lock it. Ciprian may be right about earning my forgiveness, but it remains to be seen if repaying his omission with one of my own will sever the final thread of trust between us.