Chapter 30
THIRTY
Enclave memo (internal)
Gather up as many fighters as possible. Lysander’s gang must be stopped.
CIPRIAN
My hands grip the steering wheel as leafy, tapered trees make way for patchy shrubs and tumbleweeds. Heat waffles off the road, making the yellow lines dance beneath the late summer sun.
Is it possible to be pulled in half without anyone laying a hand on you?
I’ve been away from Vegas for three weeks.
Three weeks of wishing I could come back. Three weeks wondering where I stand with Celine and Luca. And three weeks of flashbacks to the backroom at the Fang where Sheena performed a fucking miracle.
While there’s some suspicion surrounding the deal I brokered between Sheena and Alistair, almost everyone is optimistic. They don’t dare say anything else—at least not loudly—because Sheena is done with their shit.
My best friend has started throwing her weight around, taking her own future in her hands, and flashing those angry purple eyes at anyone who crosses her. I’m proud of her, but the seed of worry I’ve had since we met has grown into a colossal redwood tree.
It feels a lot like fear, and I’m not the only one caught in it.
Fear is contagious. It’s panic in a herd of wildebeests or a flock of plump, napping quail—all it needs is one inciting spark to ignite a frenzy.
My magic reserves are charged to the max because of it.
Knowing why makes my strength bittersweet, as if I won a race after someone I care for tripped on the final lap.
Parking my car, I grab my bag and unlock my apartment. After a few weeks away, the unit smells even mustier than usual.
I’m not supposed to be here. Dad doesn’t want me on the front lines of the enclave’s war with Lysander’s gang, and he doesn’t want me in Vegas either.
I took a play out of Sheena’s book and came anyway.
This is my life, and what Dad doesn’t know can’t hurt him.
The winged roach has been busy adding to its herd . . . flock? I don’t give a shit what they call their family unit; I just want them out. I kick the bed and jump back when three of the monsters scurry out from under it.
Skin crawling, I retreat to rinse off in the shower before heading to the club.
As I open the door and pass through the tickle of the ward, I smile at the familiarity. It’s good to be—what the fuck? I freeze.
I’ve spent more than enough time at the Naked Fang by now to know its quirks. From the cracked vinyl in the corner booth to the symphony of drums, catcalls, and clinking ice—the Fang usually feels like wearing a cozy sweatshirt at the end of a long day.
But someone replaced it with fishnets and leather and didn’t bother to warn me.
Cages hang from the ceiling, with a handful of dancers performing inside them.
Brandy, I recognize. The other two women aren’t familiar.
Questions flood my head, like: who hung these cages?
And do they have an up-to-date construction license?
If they aren’t hooked to load-bearing beams, Celine could get hurt.
Fuck me, I want to speak to the manager about this.
I turn to the bar for answers, but the woman behind it is definitely not Luca. She doesn’t even have a lip ring. I hiss, wondering for a second if I wandered into the wrong supernatural strip club by accident.
“Lost, demon?” Celine’s voice is beautifully familiar.
I face her, pointing first at the cages, then at the strange bartender. “What the fuck?”
Celine shrugs. “Sal decided to make some changes.”
“Did Luca get fired?”
Celine adjusts the sheer green slip she’s wearing and scoffs. “Hardly, Sal’s cheap ass finally broke down and agreed to hire some help. I think he was worried we were both going to jump ship and start working at the Mouth of Hell or something. Lyss is cool.”
I narrow my eyes at the woman behind the bar. She looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place her, and it’s driving me crazy. “What the fuck is she?”
“Keep your voice down!”
“Sorry,” I mutter. It’s still early, and the club isn’t crowded. We won’t be overheard unless someone is deliberately snooping. “At least the hottest woman alive still works here or I would have thought I was lost.”
Celine shakes her head at me, grabbing my hand and pulling me to the corner booth. I slide in next to her. The tear in the vinyl is still there, and I relax. Celine, on the other hand, is squirming against the seat like the roaches followed me in. “I-I wanted to . . .”
“Spit it out, hot wings,” I say. Her lack of confidence is worse than the other changes at the Fang. “I’m the same guy I always was.”
“Thank you,” she says. “For handling, you know . . .” Her lips curl into a wry smile, and I shake my head. This awkwardness between us sucks. I prefer her pissed.
“There’s no need to thank me,” I say. “The enclave is supposed to stand for justice. I’m sorry we’ve failed so often around here that no one believes that.”
Celine studies my face as if she’s trying to figure out what my game is.
I sag against the booth. Maybe coming here was a bad idea. I might have been better off bunking down with the roach colony and hoping they accepted me as one of their own.
“Are you—” Celine cuts herself off again, and I groan.
“Is this a pity talk?” I ask. “Because if it is, I’d rather skip it.” I raise one eyebrow and try to look sarcastic while fighting the urge to drop my head into my hands.
“Fuck you!” Celine shoves her shoulder against mine. “I’m trying to check on you, and you’re making it impossible.”
I raise both eyebrows. “Is that what that was? Really?”
“Fuck you!”
“You already said that,” I tease, then draw in a deep breath. “Shit, maybe you’re doing a better job than I thought. Somehow, I feel better.”
“You’re impossible.” Celine nudges my shoulder with hers again, and I nudge back. Her arms are wrapped in muscle, and when the stage lights spin our way, they land on a bruise she hasn’t quite managed to hide.
“When’s your next fight?”
She follows my gaze and sighs. “Can’t believe I missed one. I’ll be back in the ring tomorrow.”
“Still kicking ass?”
“Of course.” She grins, and it’s about a dozen times more natural than the start of our conversation. “Do you—” She clears her throat. “Do you want to come?”
I pinch my thigh under the booth to keep from punching the air like an eighties rom-com protagonist. “Yeah, I’d love to.”
A blush climbs Celine’s cheeks, visible even in the dim club lighting.
I’m trying to remember if I’ve ever seen her this flustered when Luca squeezes into the booth on my other side. He sets two drinks in front of me. One is a shot—tequila, maybe—and the other is an elaborate cocktail with alternating layers of red and pink. The rim is lined with sliced strawberries.
“One to knock the road off”—Luca points at the shot glass—“and another to sip until you smile.” He scrubs his fingers through his hair, his leg warm and solid against mine under the booth. I gulp. Does he realize how fucking cute he is?
I down the shot to hide the fact that, drink or not, he always makes me want to smile, then sip the fruity concoction, smacking my lips as the taste hits my tongue. It’s tarter than I expect, and I take another sip before letting the smile loose.
“You’re pure magic.” I shoot him a flirty wink. Maybe if I can make him squirm again for old time’s sake, I won’t feel out of place in the club anymore.
Except Luca doesn’t squirm. He faces me and leans in close, his distracting lip ring grazing the shell of my ear. “Do you really think so?”
On my other side, Celine laughs. “Is this the way all those conversations at the bar went between the two of you?”
“Why?” Luca aims his scruffy smolder at her. “Is it turning you on, baby?”
Now it’s her turn to squirm.
I take another sip of my drink, enjoying being trapped between their heat. “Get a load of the confidence on this guy,” I say to Celine. “All it took was getting fired as head bartender, and he’s flirting right and left.”
“I didn’t get fired,” Luca drawls. “But that reminds me. Don’t order anything but beer from Lyss yet. Her skills lie in other areas.”
“Than bartending?” I glance at the brunette behind the bar and snort when the head from the beer she’s pouring overflows the glass and runs down her fingers. “Why hire her?”
“She’ll get better,” Celine hisses. “It’s only her second night, and her boss is too busy flirting to train her properly.”
“That’s true.” Luca shrugs, grinning mischievously at Celine. “But for someone with eight legs, she’s damn clumsy.”
I squint at the bar, as if that will help me see through the solid wood. “How many legs did you say? Is she a fucking—”
“Spider shifter.”
“Arachne,” Celine says, annoyance in her voice.
I groan. “I can’t get away from bugs.”
“Lyss is a shifter, not a bug, and she could kick your ass with her eyes closed.”
I hide my smile, not wanting to get on Celine’s bad list. She’s clearly adopted this monster with no bartending skills and decided to defend her from all attacks—even good-natured ones. “She sounds like someone else I know,” I say.
Celine slides out of the booth and plants her hands on her hips. She tries to look stern, but her lips are twitching.
I point at the corner of her mouth. “It’s showing around the edges, hot wings.”
She growls and spins to leave, but not before I see a flash of her teeth as she smiles.
Like the first night I saw her, Celine’s confidence makes her impossible to ignore. So much has happened since then, but she hasn’t lost the unshakable certainty in who she is. I thank the gods for that and sit up straighter, hoping some of her energy will rub off on me.
“How are things with . . .” I make a bizarre gesture with a strawberry slice, then pop it into my mouth to hide my embarrassment. It’s a half-baked attempt to encompass the entirety of the shitshow, but Luca gets what I’m trying to say.
“Nothing since the attack,” he says, flexing his hands on top of the table. “I can’t help feeling like he’s charging up for something big, though.”