Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
If a supernatural in our territory creates an incident, we will act.
CIPRIAN
I take the cup of coffee Luca offers me and consider pouring it over my face.
Second-degree burns? That’s cool. I’ll take anything to wake myself up.
I’m not sure my skin has ever been tired before, but it is now.
Combined with the grit no number of blinks can clear from my eyes, I want to crawl into bed and never leave.
There’s no more avoiding this collision, though. Ever since Celine killed Roscoe and Dad sent me to Vegas, we’ve been barreling toward this moment: Fringes versus enclave, angel versus demon, stubborn bullshit versus stubborner bullshit.
It hit the fan last night, and it’s still flying. I have to find the switch and turn the damn thing off—except it’s more like a bomb than a fan—and if I cut the wrong wire, we all blow up.
The Fringes forge tight-lipped supernaturals, but someone snitched. To be honest, I can’t blame them. Self-preservation is a powerful motivator. They wanted to cover their own ass and make it clear they weren’t involved. I should follow their example, but I can’t.
Celine is beautiful and smart. No one would argue against that, but I’ve met beautiful, smart women before.
I love charisma and danger, and Luca is dripping with both.
Risking my future for those traits, though?
I don’t think so. And Alistair? He’s completely unhinged.
I don’t mind risk, and I go crazy for a surprise, but never at my own expense.
Face drooping, brain limping along at half speed, I do the math while I guzzle my coffee. Even when I factor in all the variables and carry the one, it doesn’t add up.
I told Sarah they were important. My gut is telling me to help them, that they’re worth it. And damned if I don’t want to be their hero for once instead of a villain. Is that wrong?
Luca refills my mug and adds a splash of creamer to knock the edge off. I bring it carefully to my lips. The coffee flirts with the rim before I knock back a deep gulp.
“You’re thinking hard,” he says.
If anyone at the enclave said that to me, I would accuse them of mocking me, but Luca—as violent as he is—doesn’t have much of a mean streak. At least not that he’s shown me.
“This is a tricky situation,” I tell him, sticking to the cold, hard truth.
“You’re under pressure”—Luca sips from his own mug, his eyes going half-lidded with delight as the coffee hits his taste buds—“but are you in danger?”
He sounds like he would care if I was, and my heart flips. Don’t get your hopes up.
“They won’t physically hurt me, if that’s what you mean,” I say.
Luca hums and takes another sip. “There are more ways to be harmed besides the physical, especially by the people closest to us.”
“Don’t I know it.” I groan and let my tired eyes drift shut, wincing from the scrape of my eyelids. They might as well be sandpaper. “I’ll have to go home. This can’t be handled over the phone.”
“And if we run?” Luca asks.
I open my eyes. “Then you’ll be spitting on my gesture of friendship. I’m vouching for you, telling my dad you’re not at fault—”
“We aren’t,” Luca snaps.
“Yeah, but half a dozen angels were killed in the street. People saw—lots of people saw—and this is after I already put my ass on the line by saying you weren’t a threat.”
“Why would you do that, Ciprian?”
It’s a simple question; one I’ve already asked myself half a dozen times. “Fuck if I know,” I say. “Please don’t make me regret it.”
He frowns. “I hear what you’re saying, but you’re asking for a lot too. You want us to go against all our instincts and trust you, yet you’re obviously worried about pulling this off. Our experiences with the enclave don’t point to fair decision-making, and you’ve already tricked us once.”
“I didn’t—” I stop myself and take a deep breath. “I tricked you, yes, but it wasn’t done maliciously. I wanted you to be innocent.”
“But we weren’t,” Celine says.
I turn my head, wincing as my neck cracks. Dressed in a crop top and skintight leggings, she’s only five or six feet away, but she feels unreachable. Lips pursed, arms crossed, everything about her body language is closed off.
“But you weren’t,” I echo her words. “I’ve spoken to Joshua Therion—the leader of the shifter contingent of the enclave. He’s agreed to hear me out in person before deciding.”
“Does he know about Roscoe?”
Telling her the truth is risky.
Lying might be worse.
I tighten my grip on the mug. Do I cut the blue wire or the red one? There’s no pretending that Celine herself isn’t a critical part of the bomb I’m defusing.
I open my mouth to dodge her question and—a trickle of her fear hits me.
It reminds me of the bathroom floor when she fed me her terror before telling me about Roscoe. In that moment, Celine trusted me with her secrets. She doesn’t remember that feeling anymore, but I do. It was a punch to the gut and the most precious gift I’d ever been given.
For the memory of that alone, I owe her the truth.
“They know about Roscoe,” I say grimly. “I made it crystal clear that Dad’s favorite guard was killed by a gang of transient shifters over an illegal poker game.”
My declaration is met with absolute silence.
I take another sip of coffee, hoping they don’t notice the cup shaking.
“You told him—”
“What he needed to hear to move on,” I interrupt her. “It’s better this way, and not only for you.”
A shadow falls over me, and I look up into the behemoth of an angel’s face. Malach has a stare that follows you around the room. He nods at me, his expression stern and oddly arresting—a rococo painting behind bulletproof glass.
Gods, Mom would love to have a statue of him in the house. Something to scare everyone shitless before they meet her.
“As I said . . .” His voice is a low rumble. “I judged him worthy.”
A choked laugh escapes me, and I spill hot coffee on my thumb. “I’m what?”
“Worthy,” Malach repeats, his brow creasing as he looks at me. Is he second-guessing himself already?
“That’s awesome,” I say, taking the opportunity to escape the heavy tension of the conversation. “I’m glad someone around here finally caught on.”
“Ciprian . . .” Celine’s stare is penetrating. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.” I cringe at the raspy sound of my own voice.
“When will you be back?” Celine sounds anxious, but I’m not na?ve enough to think her worry has anything to do with my wellbeing.
It’s about her future in this territory and the escalating violence from her father.
As it should be. She has enough to focus on, so why are her brown eyes still locked on me?
I shift my weight. “I’m not sure. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. But you all need to be careful. Lie low for a few days.”
“We will.” Celine’s voice is subdued.
I dip my chin, hand Luca the rest of my coffee, and leave.
They don’t try to stop me.
I’m ten miles down the road when my phone rings. Alistair. Worry for the surly vampire prickles my skin. He’s in bad shape; he just won’t admit it. I answer, half hoping he’s ready to tell me what’s wrong.
What he says instead turns my blood to ice.
I end the call, crushing the phone in my grip. The screen glitches, pink streaks slicing through the display.
I’m an idiot. I should have known Alistair wasn’t coming around.
The dossier . . . merging our magic—it meant nothing to him. Ever since he learned my last name, he’s been biding his time, waiting for a moment to cut me where it hurts the most. And now he’s succeeded.
Somehow, he found out about Sheena, my only fucking friend. Sheena, who’s been through more than enough at the hands of our world already. Sheena, the love of my brother’s life and the weakness I’m least armed to protect.
Rage makes it hard to focus on the road.
For two hours, I drive as if I don’t want to reach my destination in one piece. For the next seven and a half hours, I think harder than I ever have. I crush my panic, bury my anger, and fucking think until I have a plan that might work.
Alistair used Sheena against me, playing a card he never needed to use. I was already going to help Celine and Luca. By forcing my hand, he’s torn my blinders off. I see him for who he is—a desperate, cold, angry, lonely monster.
I never should have pulled the sword from his gut.