Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
Don’t show your neighbors anything too interesting to ignore.
CELINE
Mouth open, Luca’s head lolls to the side.
His skin is paler than I’ve ever seen it, chalky and lit only by my wings. They’re flaming like a bonfire, and I can’t fix it—I’m too furious.
Angels hurt him. And it’s my fault.
“Luca will be fine,” Malach says, maintaining a healthy distance from my flames. “You must control yourself, My Truth.”
I hear him. I do. But I can’t calm down. It’s too late for that.
Overheated, my hairline damp with sweat, a red tinge creeps along the edges of my vision.
I’m not sure if it’s from the flames or if I’m that mad.
The longer I stare at Luca’s slack face, the stronger the rage gets.
It’s the safest choice. If I stifle my anger, the emotions churning behind it might get free.
Air brushes my bunched thighs. Someone is here—they’ll take him from me.
I spin and crouch protectively over Luca. Kill them.
Alistair narrows his eyes at my position and looks at Luca. “I hear his heart beating. Are there injuries I can’t see?”
“He used a lot of magic,” Malach says. “I think he’s exhausted.”
“You think”—my fingers curl—“but you don’t know.”
“Then move aside so I can get him off the street.” Alistair passes dangerously close to my flaming right wing. I tuck it into my back automatically, even as I consider using it to incinerate his bossy judgment.
“Why are you here?” I snap. “If anyone sees you with—”
“Everyone has seen me with you, angel. In fact, three of my informants called to tell me there was a magical battle happening outside my girl’s apartment.”
I grind my teeth and face him, wincing as something sharp digs into my bare foot. It’s probably a piece of metal spat out by the koil’nashra. I’ve never seen one in action before, but they certainly lived up to their name, which roughly translates to death coil.
Alistair’s nostrils flare. He lunges at me, grinding to a halt when I hiss in warning. “You’re bleeding,” he says, his voice like glass dragging against steel.
“I’m fine,” I echo Luca’s earlier reassurance, relieved when I don’t get dinged for it. At least my magic doesn’t think I’m pussy enough to consider a cut foot grounds for a lie.
Luca stirs, and I hoist him into my arms, wincing as I survey the surrounding rubble. “This is a mess,” I say.
Malach grunts and raises his hands. Moonlight catches on his wings, reflecting off the feathers and bathing the carnage in subtle shades of gray as he directs his magic at the shrapnel and stone.
A curtain shifts on the bottom floor of my building.
I swallow a curse as Alistair’s words sink in.
We fought a battle in the street outside my apartment complex.
Six angels are dead, and with celestial magic flying everywhere, it was loud and impossible to ignore.
My neighbors won’t be able to pretend they didn’t see or hear.
They will talk about this, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Luca is heavy in my arms. I need to get him inside, but—I never finished unlocking the door. I glance up. My window has never seemed higher, and my wings are weak from years of disuse.
The final oozing hunk of metal disappears with a groan, whisked away by Malach’s magic. He’s at my side a second later, bumping Alistair out of the way.
“Allow me to carry him inside,” he says.
Nodding, I transfer Luca to Malach’s arms reluctantly, watching with a nauseous twist of envy and gratitude as they reach the window and disappear inside.
“You ignore my help and hand Luca over to that murderous lunatic?” Alistair advances on me. “Have you forgotten he tried to kill us both? He could be smothering him as we speak.”
“Things have changed.”
“Have they or is Luca’s life less important than your pride?”
“Fuck you!” I shove his chest. “This has nothing to do with pride; you’re the one I can’t trust!” I shove him again, stumbling when my cut foot grazes the jagged edge of a pothole.
Alistair grabs my arms, his eyes flashing a wild, feral red as my flames flicker against the harsh planes of his face. I’ve never seen him this angry. I flinch away.
He makes a wounded sound low in his throat.
“Please,” he begs. “Please, angel. Let me help.”
My burning wings are inches from his arms. They could hurt him. My stomach churns, and the flames go out. Horrified, I try to back away, but Alistair doesn’t let go. He walks with me, his gaze crimson and impossible to look away from.
“A-Ali,” I stammer. My voice cracks, and I lick my lips. What is there to say? Everything’s broken, and I don’t know how to fix it. Not this time.
Alistair saves me the trouble. His lips drop to mine in a hungry kiss. My feet leave the ground, and air moves around us. I keep my eyes squeezed shut.
If I don’t look . . . If I refuse to watch the life I built crash around me, maybe it won’t.
A door slams. My ass hits something smooth and cold. I shiver, and my tongue grazes the tip of one of Alistair’s fangs. A burst of salty copper coats my mouth, and my shoulder blades connect with the countertop.
Alistair’s hands are rough—exactly how I prefer them—and I moan as my wings bump something that falls to the ground and shatters.
“Hot,” a voice says. “And appropriately violent. Any chance you two can postpone the hate fuck for a few minutes, though? We’re in a situation.”
My eyes fly open.
Ciprian closes the door behind himself and locks it—securing all three deadbolts before he faces us. Alistair pulls away from me, horror and hunger flickering across his face before he smooths the expression into something blank.
“I’ll kill you, Casanell,” he says, his voice a ripple of pure menace.
“Of course.” Ciprian rolls his eyes. “You can issue as many death threats as you want if we can fast forward to the part where I convince you I’m suitably intimidated. We’ve got bigger problems.”
“There is no we,” I remind him, wiping the back of my hand over my lips. It does nothing to erase Alistair’s taste from my mouth.
“I’m sorry, hot wings.” Ciprian’s black eyes snap to me. “I forgot to account for your pathological need to remind everyone you’re an island who needs no one. Consider me put in my place, then kindly shut the fuck up and listen for once!”
“Don’t talk to her like that,” Alistair growls, his voice barely recognizable.
That terrible night at the Fang flashes through my head. Alistair yelling at me; Ciprian calling him out for it. They’ve swapped roles, and I’m still miserable.
Ciprian’s eyes never leave mine, and I shiver. Alistair is dangerous—everyone knows that. Ignoring him is a simple way to communicate that you’re just as dangerous. It’s a hair’s breadth away from an outright challenge.
“One of your neighbors reported you to the enclave,” Ciprian says. “I’m supposed to take care of you now.”
My blood chills, and I brace my hands on the counter.
This is the moment Ciprian’s been waiting for. He’ll punish me for Roscoe’s death and the fiasco with the angels, and no one will question it. After all, we created a loud, dramatic incident. If a human heard or saw anything, the entire supernatural community would be at risk.
My heart sinks. We’ll have to kill Ciprian and run. Then it will be a race to see who catches me first: my father’s assassins or the enclave.
Blood drips from the ball of my foot to the tile floor, mocking me for how badly I’ve fucked up. Alistair’s gaze snaps to the growing red puddle and stays there. I frown and unspool a paper towel, pressing it against the cut to help it clot.
Ciprian begins to pace. “So completely fucked,” he mutters. “I knew they would be trouble, but this is godsdamned catastrophic. Dad’s going to be an absolute cunt about it too.”
He glances at the couch and freezes as he spots Luca.
Guilt swamps me. I should have checked on him immediately, but instead I prioritized making out with Alistair.
What is wrong with me? This is a dream. It’s got to be.
The worst kind—where I make all the wrong decisions. I’m going to wake up any minute.
“What the fuck did you do to him?” Ciprian looks at me in horror. “He’s a basilisk, not a ghost. Did you get hungry?” He directs the last question at Alistair, who blinks and reluctantly tears his eyes away from the bloody tile.
“I just got here,” Alistair says. He’s so outraged, it would be funny under almost any other circumstances. “I haven’t touched Luca.”
“Well, someone should!” Ciprian tosses his hands in the air. “There’s obviously something wrong with him.”
Malach strides into the room, the first aid kit woefully small and inadequate in his huge hands. “I retrieved your box of healing.”
Ciprian snorts and drops to his knees beside the couch. “Toss me Celine’s box of healing, big guy.” The euphemism breaks through my foggy thoughts like nothing else has, and I rush to the couch and press two fingers to Luca’s neck.
His pulse is strong, but Ciprian is right: there’s something wrong.
“My name is Malach.”
“I know that.”
“If you try to kill me while my back is turned, I’ll let Alistair eat you,” I threaten Ciprian, ignoring his exchange with Malach.
Ciprian snorts. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, babe. You forget he’s taken a bite out of me before, and I liked it. A lot.”
Frozen near the counter, Alistair doesn’t respond to Ciprian’s joke.
I frown. Ciprian bends over Luca but shifts his gaze deliberately toward Alistair. “Something is up with him,” he whispers. “Have you noticed?”
Have I noticed? I’m not sure. Alistair and I aren’t on good terms. We’re allies and fuck buddies at most. He wants things to go back to the way they were, and I . . . don’t have the first clue how to forgive him.
If Ciprian sees a change, though . . .
No. He’s a master manipulator. A Casanell, for gods’ sake.
He twists the truth as easily as he draws breath.
Dammit, he’s proved that to me multiple times, yet I keep falling for it.
Even now, I’m leaning into him, close enough that my arm brushes his shoulder, listening to his concerns with my fucking brow furrowed.
I recoil and spot the singed section of carpet where the koil’nashra landed.
It was close . . . too close. And Ciprian said he’s supposed to “take care of us.” That certainly doesn’t mean patching us up and paying for our therapy.
There’s too much happening, and I don’t have a good grasp on any of it.
My wings tremble, the blades grinding against each other. If I could get a minute alone . . .
Delicate threads of golden magic wrap around the singed fibers of the carpet, slowly but surely erasing all signs of damage. I watch Malach repair the carpet until I can’t see through the tears blurring my vision. A small piece of order restored; it’s a life preserver when I need it most.
Fingers graze my cheek, and Luca blinks up at me groggily. “You look worried, baby,” he whispers.
“You passed out,” I tell him, tears spilling from the corners of my eyes. No—not now. Not with people watching. I have to be strong, strategize, and fix this.
Ciprian rocks back on his heels and sighs. “You look like shit.”
Luca chuckles. “You should see the other guys.”
“I heard all about them,” Ciprian says drily. “If you didn’t have Mr. Clean’s better-looking cousin erasing evidence, I would have seen them too. Front-row seat, like Celine’s snitching neighbors.”
Luca raises his eyebrows, then yawns. “Are you here to kill us or take us in?”
“I haven’t decided yet.” Ciprian sighs. The sound is heavy, as if he’s carrying the weight of the world. I can’t decide whether it pisses me off or makes me more stressed.
“Can it wait until morning?” Luca asks.
Ciprian snorts a laugh. “It is morning, dude.”
As soon as he says it, I see the glow coming through the shattered window.
Malach got rid of the broken glass, but his magic can’t repair something that badly damaged.
He fixed the carpet for me—to make me feel better—and I know it was difficult for him.
He’s always been better at removing messes than fixing them.
After a few seconds of blissful silence, everyone turns to Alistair.
Fists clenched, he’s still staring at the kitchen tile. What the hell is wrong with him? Maybe Ciprian is right, and I’ve missed something.
“Alistair.” I snap my fingers to get his attention. “Get to my room before you fry.”
He blinks at me, his eyes crawling almost wistfully to the rays of sun stretching across the living room floor.
Ciprian jumps to his feet, rushing to the window and pressing the ruined shade over it. “Hurry up,” he says.
When Alistair finally moves, it’s slowly. I hold my breath as he walks around the counter, past the couch, and into the hallway. As soon as he’s covered in shadow, air leaves my mouth in a whoosh.
“I can fix that,” Malach says, dipping his head toward the ruined shade.
Ciprian moves out of the way so he can get started. “I’ll stay on the couch,” he says, glancing at me. “Get some sleep, Celine. We’ll talk it through in five or six hours.”
I nod. A strange numbness takes hold of me and makes it easier to think logically.
I can’t be mad at Ciprian for this. It wasn’t his fault that someone called the enclave to report what happened.
The fact that he’s conflicted enough to keep us in the loop tells me .
. . something. I’m too tired to know exactly what, but I do know it would be stupid to antagonize him any more than I already have.
“Thanks.” I force the word out through a jaw clenched too tight.
From the halfhearted curl of Ciprian’s lips, he knows exactly how hard it was for me. “Don’t pretend with me, hot wings; I know you still hate me. We can talk about this like adults once you’ve rested, but you don’t have to force a lie. I prefer you as you are, pissed and all.”
I pull Luca to his feet and drag him out of the room before I can do something absurd, like hug a fucking Casanell.