Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
Kick ass.
CELINE
Malach brings the sword down in a slicing arc, and I parry, clashing my blade against his. The recoil is intense, rattling from the tips of my fingers to my armpit.
“Is that all you’ve got?” I taunt.
Smirking, I charge and dip into a deep lunge, snapping my wings to the sides to halt my momentum. It works perfectly. Malach doesn’t have time to account for my changing angle. I flip my blade and hit him with the flat edge instead of spilling his intestines on the gym floor.
He dips his chin, a half-smile curling his mouth up at the corner. “It’s returning to you, as I knew it would.”
My cheeks flush, and it has nothing to do with the exercise.
Malach’s praise sounds lukewarm, but sword work isn’t the only section of my memory getting a refresher . . . I forgot how much his quiet respect means to me.
“Nai khirith, mash n’tel,” I say, dipping my chin and lifting my sword in salute.
Malach’s green eyes brighten when I address him in our native thatsha tongue—like I gave him a precious gift. It wasn’t even a conscious decision. The traditional combat exchange just slipped out.
Luca strides over and kisses my sweaty cheek. “What does that mean, baby?”
I blink a few times, struggling to come up with a direct translation. It’s been so long since I let myself think in my language.
“Nai khirith means my thanks,” Malach murmurs. “The second part is harder to explain. It’s an expression, I suppose.”
“Like an idiom?” Luca asks.
I nod. “Translated literally, mash n’tel means ‘peace protects,’ but it’s more charge or blessing than statement—like ‘may peace guard and keep you.’ That’s the sentiment, at least. It’s traditional between sparring partners in our echelon.”
Luca smiles. “That’s beautiful. Wishing for peace for your loved ones while preparing to fight by their side.”
A chill runs down my spine. I guess he’s right. There’s an irony in the salute that’s inescapable once you think about it. Hope for peace; prepare for war.
“Language is interesting,” I admit.
I glance at Malach, but his green eyes are clouded.
The itch between my shoulder blades hits me hard. I wiggle my wings, but it doesn’t help. Without a word, Luca’s fingers search for the spot, gently scratching until I relax.
“We need to talk about Alistair, baby,” he says gently.
My wings sag, and I sigh. “Something is wrong with him; I know that, but if he doesn’t want to tell us, I don’t see what we can do about it.”
Luca nibbles his lip ring. “That’s the Fringes talking. Not you.”
I frown. “Alistair is as Fringe-coded as it gets, Luca. He doesn’t want us digging around in his business.” The electric sting in my fingertips tells me I’m not nearly as confident in my words as I want to be.
“He’s spiraling, or circling the drain, or something,” Luca insists. “His face was gray last night, Celine. Fucking gray. That’s not normal.”
I picture the sunken, sickly pallor of Alistair’s skin and shiver. Combined with the lurching way he ran off . . . Dammit, Luca’s right.
“What do you think?” I ask Malach.
He’s been mostly keeping his opinions to himself. It’s a relief, but also wildly unlike him. Malach wields judgment as effectively as his sword, and he’s never been shy about it. Either I’m not the only one who’s changed during our years apart or he’s holding back.
“Nai varash di-snai, khirel . . .” Malach says.
I stiffen as yet another box I keep carefully locked flies open and yanks me inside, ripping me out of the Vegas gym and pulling me back in time.
We’re young, Malach and I—hardly mature enough to be making promises to each other.
Dressed all in gold, expensive silk caresses my skin as I face him on the raised dais.
My hands shake and his throat bobs. His nerves calm me down.
I feel myself smile and watch my lips curl—somehow inside and outside my body at the same time as I relive our betrothal day.
“Nai varash di-snai, khirel, tallom shmai. Ifek di varash turns’tel, di jharim karash’tel.” Malach’s voice cracks halfway through the vow, and it’s perfect. He’s perfect. A tear rolls down my cheek, and hope—its wings made of folded steel—wraps around my heart.
A better life with Malach . . . In that moment, I believed and longed for it with everything I had.
Heart pounding, I turn away from the past and focus on the present. The salty smell of sweat in the gym. The burn in my biceps from an hour of sparring. And a pair of familiar green eyes. Those I won’t forget, even if I live ten lifetimes.
“My word belongs to you, beloved . . .” I murmur the vow and continue past where Malach left off. “As fully as it breathes life inside my soul. May the day I use it against you also be the day it carves my beating heart from my chest.”
The memory scrapes me raw.
It’s better to forget. Remembering hurts.
“Why, Malach?” It’s all I can think to say. Why remind me? Why come here? Why cling to the past when it’s tearing us apart?
Malach breaks eye contact abruptly, and it throws me off balance. When he drops his sword to the mat and rushes out of the gym, I want to follow him. Beg him not to go. Yell at him for making me remember. But my feet won’t move.
“People keep storming away from me,” I say. “I’m not sure I can stand to know why. Not on top of everything else.”
Instead of responding, Luca threads his fingers with mine and squeezes. Warmth radiates from his palm to mine, a quiet comfort that anchors me even as the storm rages inside me. Gods. What would I do without him?
“I don’t think you’re cold-blooded at all, Luca Saratelli.” Turning my head, I kiss him softly. Our lips meet like puzzle pieces slotting together, and I sigh as I pull away.
“He’s adapting well, all things considered,” Luca says.
I smile. “Not cold-blooded at all,” I repeat.
Luca’s soft heart challenges me. He sees things differently than I do. Where I expect the worst and assign motives to every interaction, Luca prefers to wait and see, keeping a neutral point of view until proven otherwise.
I tuck my head into the hollow beneath his chin. Another perfect fit. “Who should we prioritize? Alistair, Ciprian, or Malach?”
“I prioritize you,” Luca says firmly. “From there . . .” He blows out a heavy breath that rustles a strand of hair against my cheek. “Alistair, I think. This is Ciprian’s chance to come through for us. Malach needs a moment to breathe, but Alistair . . . My gut tells me he’s in over his head.”
I nod and check the time. We need to be at the club in two hours, which doesn’t give us enough time to ambush a surly vampire. “If he doesn’t come to the Fang tonight, we’ll go to him,” I say.
I collect Malach’s fallen sword, wrapping it with mine in a piece of sturdy fabric. While there are a handful of acceptable reasons a modern human might carry a sword around, none of them match my aesthetic.
“I’ll take those if you want,” Luca says.
Smiling, I hand them over. It’s not impossible to carry them on my bike, but it isn’t easy. His car is a much better choice. Luca holds the door of the gym open, kissing me again before heading for his car. “See you at home, baby.”
My heart flips. Luca sees my apartment as home. Our home. It should terrify me. It doesn’t.
Alistair doesn’t show at the club.
So, a little after three o’clock in the morning, we go to him.
The light above the door is off, and if Alistair has something on inside the apartment, it’s not visible through his industrial-grade window shades. I’ve never minded the dark—Vegas rarely sleeps—but I’m oddly nervous as Luca does his signature two-thump knock.
We wait but hear nothing. No movement, no rumble from the TV. “Maybe he’s not home,” I say, but my stomach is churning and my back itches ferociously. Something is wrong.
Luca presses his nose to the seam of the door and inhales deeply. “I smell blood.”
“He’s a vampire, Luca.” I try to keep the worry out of my tone and fail miserably.
“And vomit.” Luca sniffs again. “Definitely vomit.”
That makes me frown. Alistair isn’t a particularly heavy drinker, so why is he throwing up? “Should I break the door down?” I ask, lifting my foot.
Before I can bash it to splinters, it swings open with an ominous whine. I drop my foot, doing my best to hide the fact that I was about to kick the damn thing off its hinges to get to my . . . whatever the fuck he is to me.
Hunched in on himself, his face is hidden by lank strands of hair and the penetrating darkness. A shadow of himself, Alistair barely looks alive. It chills me to the bone.
“What the fuck, Ali?” I demand, surging forward to catch him as he collapses.
My momentum carries us both over the threshold, and Luca follows, shutting the door behind us. Alistair clings to me, and I half drag him to the living room couch.
It’s not overpowering, but now that I’m inside, I pick up the stale, sour scent Luca mentioned. It smells like sickness, but I didn’t know vampires got sick.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, my nerves humming as I imagine a million different worst-case scenarios. Did my father have him poisoned? Did one of his clients give him a rare disease?
“Careful, Celine,” Luca says warily.
I frown. Can’t he see Alistair is about as strong as a kitten? I try to look at him, but I’m unable to pull back. Alistair is latched on, his nose pressed to the curve of my neck. Nuzzling, no . . . He’s searching for my vein.
Not as weak as he appears, I guess, but not as strong as me either. Forcefully, I detach him from my neck and shove him against the arm of the couch.
Eyes shining like rubies, Alistair snarls and lunges for me.
He’s painfully slow. Carefully, I brace my hand against his throat and hold him at arm’s length, narrowing my eyes as I study him. Alistair snaps his teeth at me, his fangs hanging half an inch past his lower lip.
I lick my lips and glance at Luca. “This isn’t normal.”