Chapter 34
THIRTY-FOUR
Unsent correspondence, translated to English, and addressed only to My Truth:
My magic felt like damnation, boiling me from the inside out. It had never felt that way before—not once since the day I received my radiant gift.
MALACH
The motel smells of stale cigarette smoke and something evil called ocean breeze.
When I found these lodgings—months ago now—I spent hours hunting the source of the sickly sweet scent, only discovering the jagged piece of cardboard after sticking my head beneath the bed.
I still regret the decision. I’ve seen sword wounds less horrifying than that one glimpse beneath the sagging mattress.
My team deserves better, but this location is too good to give up.
Lyklan eyes me gravely as he delivers his report. “At least two dozen celestial signatures came through the registered gateway.”
So many? Through the monitored portal? My muscles tense. S’lach is making a move, and he doesn’t care who knows it. It’s too soon. We’re not ready. I cradle my head, the pain a spike through my skull.
“Are you well, Malach?” Lyklan asks.
He reaches for me, freezes, then drops his hand. I pretend not to notice the slip. My guardians won’t touch me unless I’m gravely wounded. In the celestial realm, even offering would be considered an offense. Earth manners are infecting us all.
“Only a headache,” I say, pushing the pain from my mind. “Celine has a fight tonight.”
Lyklan rubs his hand over his chin, considering that. “The venue is public—”
“But she’ll be exposed on the way there and back,” I finish his thought.
“And her method of transportation . . .” He winces.
Yes, Celine’s bike is dangerous—but after watching her ride, I can’t ask her to give it up. Especially since I’ve experienced the loss of flight myself since revealing myself to her. The longing is acute, and I’ve only spent a few weeks with my feet on the ground. She’s lived this way for years.
“I’ll suggest Luca drive her tonight.”
Celine won’t argue with that. She may be understandably protective of her independence, but she’s too intelligent to quibble over temporary safety precautions.
I salute Lyklan and leave the motel, convinced that he’s as prepared to mitigate this threat as possible. He and his team will patrol the Fringes, keeping their eyes peeled for unknown angels and eliminating them if necessary.
It’s a tall order. They’ve been patrolling nonstop for weeks. They wear their fatigue like armor; new creases clinging to the corners of their eyes and mouths.
Since the ambush at Celine’s apartment, they’ve killed ten assassins.
My hand twitches involuntarily, phantom echoes of my injury.
Every time I almost tell Celine about the continued attacks, something holds me back.
Perhaps it’s the smile on her face when she looks at Luca, or the satisfaction in her eyes when she wins a fight and donates her winnings to the orphaned angels.
No matter what it is, I cannot bear to worry her, so I haven’t.
Instead, I see killers in every reflection.
The skin on my hand has grown back, but I still feel pain from the koil’nashra.
One second of contact consumed layers of tissue.
We cannot hope to win against weapons like that.
If S’lach decides to wipe the Fringes from the map .
. . I shudder. He’s more than capable of it.
Especially if he grows frustrated by repeated failure.
Disquiet hums in my gut as I enter the Naked Fang and bump into Ciprian.
He smiles at me, the expression cracking around the edges. When Alistair silently follows him out, I shake my head. Their situation lacks any semblance of order. It’s a mess, and I fear it will remain that way until one of them decides to clean up after themselves.
I won’t hold my breath.
The supernaturals in this realm are callous. Stubborn to a fault, they fight everything, no matter how big or small. It’s as if they’ve never known peace or ease. Luca bends when necessary, but perhaps he’s like me: willing to twist anything but his tether to Celine.
Imani smiles as I settle on the stool next to her. “We’re doing slang today, big guy.”
She’s made a habit of this. Whenever things at the club are slow, she joins me at the bar to talk about words. At first, I feared she was creating a buffer to keep me away from Celine, but now I look forward to our conversations.
“Slang,” I repeat. “Including idioms, colloquialisms, and turns of phrase? Can we defeat such a broad topic in one sitting?”
Imani shakes her head. “Oh no, buddy. That would take years, and by the time we finished, all the popular ones would have changed. Like all of us, slang has a fleeting life expectancy. Today, we’re talking about one word and one word only: ass.”
I raise my eyebrows, glancing unintentionally toward the stage as Celine drops into a deep squat and grinds to the beat of the music. “I believe I already know the meaning of that word,” I say, blood rushing to my cheeks.
“Uh-huh, sure you do. There are about fifty bajillion ways to use it, though.”
“I see.”
“Not yet, you don’t”—she clears her throat—“but you will. Let’s start with the big three: asshole, dumbass, and smartass. The first one is a self-explanatory insult. The second two seem like opposites but aren’t. Any guesses?”
I consider them. “I presume a dumbass is an unintelligent individual.”
Imani nods.
“But smartass isn’t the more intelligent counterpart?”
“Nope, a smartass is someone sarcastic, like this grungy bartender.” She points at Luca as he approaches. “Next there’s asshat, asswipe, and half-assed. The first two are insults, but the last one—”
“—is when someone does something shittily, like Imani pretending to care about her health while simultaneously refusing to drink enough water to keep a camel hydrated.” Luca drops the bottle in front of her as she rolls her eyes.
I smile at their aggressive teasing. “I’m sensing a theme.”
Imani glares at the water bottle, her lips twisting with disgust. “You think you are, but they’re not all derogatory. Kickass is positive.”
“What’s your favorite?” I ask Luca.
“Probably fuckass.” He smirks. “It can mean whatever you want, depending on your tone.”
I cringe and shake my head. Relativism in linguistics is the enemy of clear communication. It should be avoided at all costs.
Celine leans between us, resting her elbows on the bar. “What’s the topic today?”
I devour her with my eyes—the only acceptable way to get my fill. Everything about her is striking, from her flaming wings to her fiery hair. Even her shape—muscular and soft, angular and smooth—defies reason while demanding notice. I want her to notice me, too.
“Ass fucks,” I say calmly, hiding my smile as Celine gasps. In the process of taking her first sip from the dreaded bottle, Imani snorts water from her nose and stares at me with shock that quickly morphs to glee.
“That”—Imani bumps her fist against mine—“was badass.”
It was stupid and crass—much like the movie we tried to watch with Ciprian and Alistair—but I’m proud of myself for surprising Celine. I don’t get the chance often.
Luca offers me a beer. I shake my head. I need to be sharp; we all do.
Celine notices and stops laughing. “What’s wrong?” she asks.
Imani hops down from her stool. “That’s my cue.” She pats me on the back. “Until next time, Malach.”
I nod at her, then fill the others in on Lyklan’s report.
“We can take Luca’s car,” Celine says, her hand grazing my arm absently. It’s an involuntary gesture, but the strip of skin she touched feels more alive.
“Would it be better to skip tonight?” Luca asks, his hazel eyes searching my face.
“I don’t think it makes a tremendous difference,” I admit. “The apartment is stocked with weapons, but it’s not the most defensible location, and they already know where it is.”
“The prize money for this fight is a big deal,” Celine whispers. “If I win tonight, we could afford security upgrades.”
“What does your gut tell you, baby?” Luca asks. “Would he send assassins to the fight?”
Celine’s forehead wrinkles. “I don’t think so. It’s not his style—too public.”
“So, we’re careful but not locked down,” Luca says, glancing away as someone waves him over for a drink. I nod, and he grimaces apologetically before moving to serve the customer.
Celine’s hand settles on my lower back, warm and reassuring. “If I haven’t said it before, Malach, I’m grateful that you’re here. Risking your life. Far from home . . . I know it’s not easy.”
Can’t she see the truth? Standing at her side is easier than breathing. Celine walks away before I can tell her there’s nowhere in this universe I’d rather be.