7. CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 7
Noa
Westvale hugged the banks of a curving river known as the Claw. Wide streets had trendy terracotta pavers to mark the crosswalks. Festive evergreen decorations hung in shop windows, Christmas themes, along with moons and howling wolf figurines. From the restaurants, the scent of roasting meat invited an early dinner rush. But beneath it all was the faint vegetative scent from the river, not unpleasant but distinct.
Despite the chilly weather, the town was crowded. Moms pushed strollers. Men walked while staring at cell phones. The clamor of voices followed its own rhythm as Fallon pointed out the landmarks. She said the town was built around the river, with roads like spokes in a wheel. We were in the central Court District. The Estate District backed up against the hills, sheltering the gated homes of the wealthy. The Ironstone housed the Sentinel Falls refugees—six square blocks where singles and working-class families lived in the apartment buildings that faced either the Claw or the central square. The Docks edged the river with old warehouses converted into restaurants and the various entertainment venues. We wandered past clubs and bars with names like the ridiculous Last Howl. The Green Pines appeared more upscale, with a dressed-to-impress clientele.
I listened to the rasp of Fallon’s cane as we walked. The scent of snow was in the crisp air and the overcast sky was still light. A yellowy sun hovered above distant mountains, but dusk would fall swiftly. Already, lights were blinking on in the windows. I tugged the sweater I wore tighter to my waist, watched a street artist as she packed up her paints, stacked the canvases she offered for sale. Beside her was a photographer, doing the same, packing up for the day.
I lingered for a moment, lost in old memories.
“Do you miss it?” Fallon asked. Did I miss photography? Once, I’d lived for the view through the camera lens. Loved the mentorship with a wildlife photographer, crouching for hours behind a woven hunting blind waiting for that one shot that would make me famous. The life I’d lived then seemed shallow now, so far away I might have imagined it. Imagined who I’d been, that na?ve girl who pretended she was human.
“I outgrew wandering around with a camera.” Left that life behind.
The crowds were growing as people left work and searched for entertainment or food. Willing sexual partners. Probably a combination of all three. Normal, nearly human activities to distract themselves from the pressure of the day. When weeks ago, I’d been locked in a vampire dungeon, fighting a sentient mist.
Fallon brushed a hand against my back; I leaned in to the caress. Somehow, she sensed when the past haunted and the emotions turned swift and hard. When I needed support. The warmth in a touch. Perhaps it was some alpha power she had. But we stood silently, watching the crowds, listening to the voices and the rumble of a passing car. The shouted greetings, laughter as the lines grew outside a club with a red moon lit up in neon, and I asked, “You ever go inside?”
“Not the kind of place that welcomes Alphas.”
“Without a bar for hooking up, how do you manage a sex life?”
She elbowed me. “Privileged information.”
“Must mean secret Alpha bars,” I mused. “Knock three times and whisper the password.”
Fallon barked out a laugh, and I savored the moment, the joy in the late afternoon light, the hurry and bustle around us, and the pure laughter of a friend.
We continued to crowd-watch. I spotted a brilliantly lit building; the glass panes in the ceiling and walls made me think of a commercial greenhouse.
“What is that?” I asked.
“The Farmer’s Market,” Fallon said. “You can buy anything if you know who to ask.”
“Legal and illegal?”
Fallon shrugged. “They monitor the illegal activities. Step in if trouble erupts. Wolves value freedom.”
A woman with brown, braided hair walked toward the door; I saw the flash of an eyepatch when she turned to glance back. Then she disappeared, and my attention went to Laura, waving from across the paved square. Fallon asked her to meet us, and I ran into her arms, hugging tight. The last time I’d seen her, she’d been running off to save the wounded in the midst of chaos.
She hugged me back, and the warmth in her arms brought a sting to my eyes. “Cossa? Vasha? Leticia?” I whispered.
“All safe.” Her voice shook. “Everyone’s safe, Noa.”
I’d been told that Hattie and Oscar had a small apartment next to Leo’s apartment, and they’d promised to visit when I was strong enough.
But Laura’s friends? “Are they in Westvale?”
“The Ironstone District. Pulling their hair out because there’s nothing to do.”
“They should open an aesthetics shop,” I suggested. “Farmer’s Market style. Paint nails and design clothes. What they did in Azul.”
“You’d think the Carmag would be open to it,” Laura said with a small frown. “But wolves can be… touchy about strangers.”
“It takes time.” Fallon resettled her hand on the cane.
The street artists had drifted away. A musician took their place—a thin girl dressed in a loose sweater and leggings. She clunked a metal folding chair against the pavement until the chair opened, then used one foot to fully expand the legs. In her hand, she held a violin case, which she left on the ground.
I closed my eyes as she drew the bow and sent the first pure notes into the air. The melody was familiar; it came from a popular musical, but I was unable to recall the name. Still, it was comforting to know that, in the middle of everything, I listened to something beautiful. Where I could imagine a normal life, breathing without worry over an enemy closing in. Where the pure melody from a violin soothed me.
We sat at a table outside a café, close enough to listen to the girl. She’d left the violin case open, and both men and women tossed in dollar bills as they passed. A waitress appeared; Laura ordered. Minutes later, an assortment of sandwiches arrived. Drinks—non-alcoholic, Laura explained, since both Fallon and I were recovering from trauma.
Fallon waved over her shoulder, calling the waitress back, and moments later, a bottle appeared—gin—which she poured into Laura’s fruity drinks with the comment that “now they’re medicinal.”
I stifled a laugh, shocked at the realization that I could still laugh. Still feel pleasure. Laura was happy at the archive; she said it was familiar ground. I pretended not to notice the vacant look in her eyes before she blinked. Anson asked her to research, and the books she’d found were amazing. Some she’d never seen before.
Fallon sipped and asked what Anson was so curious about.
“How Amal might strip wolves.”
“What?” My mouth dropped open. “Like the ancient kings?”
Laura blinked again, and asked, “You haven’t told her?”
“Shout and tell everyone,” said Fallon, as she poured more gin into my glass and shoved it toward me. “Of course she doesn’t know.”
“I don’t know what?”
“What Angel told Grayson and Mace told me.” Fallon topped off her glass. “The time was never right to tell you.”
“Seems like a good time right now.” I gulped the spiked fruit drink. “Since Anson knows if he’s asking Laura to research. Why didn’t you mention it during our lovely meeting today?”
“I probably would have if we hadn’t gotten off on other topics and—”
Perhaps she meant the topic of Julien and red or gray smoke, because she halted in mid-sentence. But when I tipped my head to see what had distracted her… Angel was standing there.
“You want the details?” the mercenary asked. “Or the third-hand version?”
“Sit,” Fallon ordered.
Angel dragged a chair from another table and brought it close, threw herself down, irritation overflowing from her with every breath.
I didn’t know what irritated her when they’d kept me in the dark, so my tone was more accusatory than necessary when I said, “It was you, going in to the Farmer’s Market.” Following us? “Find what you wanted?”
Angel held up a small packet and shook it. “Good for the end of a shit day.” She ripped the paper and poured crystal powder into the drink the waitress set in front of her. “Pain reliever,” she clarified, after glancing at our shocked expressions. “Pressure. Builds up in the eye.”
“Sorry,” I murmured.
“Not as sorry as the asshole who cut me.”
“Specifics about Amal,” Fallon said, a soft alpha order.
We sat in stunned silence as Angel spoke about the Cariboo, the packs being decimated, their alphas killed. I was shaking over the details: a vampire pinned to the wall, ravaged by crows. The alphas beside him. Amal saying she was righting a wrong.
Skinning them—the way Mosbach bragged about skinning rabbits.
I flinched at the twisting sting beneath my skin. I’d been rubbing the ruined wolf rune. The dread lord’s sigil that hadn’t twitched in weeks.
The vampires cut through it to null the magic that once questioned if I’d deserved protection. And I thought of Grayson, the sigil I’d tried to give him so many times. He said no, he wouldn’t obligate me with a pledge of protection no matter how often I asked.
Except that I’d promised him a thousand times, etched that promise on my heart.
“What can we do?” I asked. Not really a question, because we had to fight her. Evil, like Amal’s evil, couldn’t be ignored with the hope it would go away on its own. Smacking down her hairy pigs and scuttling crabs when she sent them wasn’t a strategy for success. No more than hiding behind wards and magic—which was Anson’s current plan. At least, that’s how it appeared to me. Setting his wards against intruders.
Against Grayson.
“Cooperate with Anson,” Fallon said.
“Because he’s Alpha, and this is his territory? We don’t have to stay here.”
“The women from Azul do, Noa,” Fallon said firmly. “Like it or not, the attacks destroyed their lives, not just their homes and sense of security. They feel safe in Westvale. The pups are safe. The men are off fighting with Gray, and the settlements are less secure and already over capacity. Anson is the only protection right now.”
“Okay.” I was wise enough to feel ashamed. “I get it, your position in this, needing to protect them. Tell me how to help.”
“By not pissing Anson off every time you challenge him. Grayson wants you here, Noa. Please, trust him.”
Trust the mate bond. Trust in the instinct I’d had, that I needed to leave him to save him. Perhaps my purpose had to play out here, in Westvale. Whatever that was, and however I fought Amal.
My stomach churned. Between the alcohol and all the walking today, exhaustion was a painful throb in my back. Laura had grown silent. Angel braced her head against the chair back. Her uncovered eye was closed while small lines creased the edges of her mouth.
Fallon stood and walked to the girl with the violin. She murmured a request, since the girl nodded. Reset her bow.
Music floated into the cooling night. Haunting. Poignant. Then Fallon began to sing. Not words, but a vocalized melody that was soft and angelic.
Her clear soprano voice sent chills across my skin. Slowly, I breathed, understanding the sorrow in the minor key harmonies with the violin. The balm in the pure melody.
“It’s the lament,” Laura whispered. “An ancient prayer for wolves. The alphas would sing for the lost, the dead. Honor them.”
The clang of cutlery faded. Conversations ended. People drifted from the nearby cafes to gather in a circle. Those passing by halted and turned. Crowds gathered in the open doorways from the shops that were still open.
My heartbeat slowed.
The music was enchanting, gentle as Fallon whispered the words… love … peace … compassion … mercy …
Her voice rose on a call that floated, plaintive. The violin wept with each countering note. The sky had taken on a bruised aura, while Fallon’s eyes had closed. Her raised hands became a graceful entreaty as she began the sequence again.
And a male’s tenor voice answered her call as, slowly, deliberately, Anson Salas stepped through the parting crowd. As he sang, his attention was fully on Fallon, as if afraid to shatter the spell they wove together. His voice filled with mourning and regret. Fallon’s overflowed with pain and sorrow. Two people with hearts breaking, engaged in a sacred ritual, angels tethered to this life and crying at the loss.
More wolves gathered. Some held candles guttering like evening stars. To witness this… Anson, the Alpha of Carmag, and Fallon, an Alpha of Sentinel Falls, coming together to honor the dead.
Laura’s expression was desolate.
I swiped at my face. My fingers dampened. The duet continued, each round growing more complex. Anson’s voice lowered as Fallon’s soared, and the forgotten beauty and grace in their grief had my body vibrating.
I forced the breath past a thickening in my throat. From somewhere, a drum joined in with a tribal beat. The music rose on emotional wings, filled with remembrance, elegance, hope, and no less sacred than sitting in a glorious cathedral.
Fallon was staring at Anson now. His hands were reaching toward hers. She folded her palms against his heart. He did the same for her as the melody drifted on lingering notes, the call and answer—as if two souls drifted farther and farther apart.
Offering the last goodbyes…
The violin flowed through the repeating melody, softer and softer until the last notes weakened into a silence that… left me adrift.
“I’ve never heard anything so lovely,” Laura whispered.
Angel pressed a hand against her face, her fingers trembling.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Fine.” She shook herself like her skin felt uncomfortable. “I was just thinking of my brother.”
“Were you close?”
“He died when I was eight. No one sang the lament for him.” She shuddered on an indrawn breath. “It was nice to hear it with you.”
I stroked the side of my glass. “I’m sorry… that you lost him.”
“They murdered him—men he trusted. He was the Alpha, and they killed him. Came after his family. They killed my parents. Cut my face. I played dead. There was enough blood, and the cowards left. Burned down the house—didn’t stick around long enough to see me crawl out the back.”
“Is your pack still around?” Laura asked; she was thinking about her own lost pack, those who had scattered and those who had died.
“Yes.” And from the tightening on Angel’s face, the men who killed her brother were probably in control.
Laura asked, “You’ve been on your own since then?”
Angel’s lips thinned into a smile. “I had a benefactor. He taught me, mentored me until I struck out on my own.”
“Have you ever wanted vengeance?”
Laura again, her fingers tight on her wrist, her eyes glittering.
“Vengeance can be a gift,” the mercenary said, as sympathy raced between Angel and Laura. Two victims struggling in the aftermath, shoring up each other’s crumbling walls with the hope of revenge.
Anson and Fallon still murmured to the men and women who’d gathered around to offer respect. Gratitude. The girl continued playing, her violin singing with music far more cheerful and contemporary than the lament. A few more dollar bills made it into her open violin case.
Laura was staring at Angel before she picked up her glass and sipped. “You have Noa’s eyes.”
Angel barked out a laugh. “If I had your friend’s eyes, I’d have both of them.”
“I meant the color.”
“Hazel is common.” Angel stood as if she’d walk away, but Anson was approaching and she held her ground. I didn’t think the merc liked questions about herself, and perhaps the details weren’t what we needed to hear.
“You left before I could mention it,” Anson said to me. “I have a package for you and Fallon. Salvaged items from Azul. It came from the Refuge with the refugees.” His attention moved to Laura. “I’ve stored it in the archive. I can walk you back, show you where.”
Laura stood, and the way she smoothed her blouse had me questioning why her fingers trembled. “Thank you.” Color moved into her face. She dipped her chin, and when they walked away, Anson shortened his stride for her. Positioned himself at her side, yet not close enough to make her uneasy.
I arched my eyebrows. Fallon shrugged. She was leaning on her cane, with one hand rubbing against the muscle in her thigh while she asked Angel, “Is that pain reliever legal?”
“Legal and natural,” Angel said. “Are you able to walk—or should I go get it?”
“I’ll walk. Can’t have you looking like my dealer.”
“I can get that for you, too,” the merc offered, but Fallon shook her head and set out for the Farmer’s Market, her cane thudding heavily.
We strolled through the glass-walled space, pausing at the various booths. Food vendors sliced roasting meats, piled high on warm buns. I lingered at a booth featuring little figurines of an old woman with sticks on her back. I reached out to touch one, but Angel smacked my hand back.
“Don’t touch that,” she said, glaring at the woman behind the cluttered wooden counter. Not a wolf, but a witch, as old and wrinkled as the figurines she was selling.
“What are they?” I asked.
“La Loba, the Wolf Woman,” Angel said. “Also known as the Bone Woman. She collects the bones of fallen wolves, puts the skeletons back together and resurrects them, if you believe in that sort of thing.”
A chill wavered in the air as the witch curved her lips. “Don’t believe, girl?” she asked Angel.
The merc shrugged. “Spent enough time in the southwest to know you don’t stop when you see an old woman standing beside a deserted road, especially at midnight.”
“Perhaps an amulet,” the witch offered. “Protection against evil spells.”
“Keep it.” Angel’s fingers were firm around my elbow as she urged me away. “Fucked up shit,” she added beneath her breath. “Didn’t think it crept up here.”
“Why would anyone buy such a figurine?”
“To ward against her—the Wolf Woman. Never made sense to me.”
What made no sense was seeing witches in Westvale, not after Anson’s bragging about his wards keeping out the unwanted. But perhaps witches found the Carmag appealing for the same reasons the nymphs were uncomfortable: the weird sensations, the magic that went awry. I flexed my fingers, testing the level of faille energy building since Caerwen’s last massage. Under control, I decided.
Fallon was still negotiating for the pain reliever. I wandered past a flower vendor, relishing the change in the vibe; the female behind the display was a nymph. Perhaps her home territory was in the Carmag. I’d seen the elusive woodland nymphs around Sentinel Falls. The nymphs in the Sacred Pool, and the river nymphs like Lorriel, so not everyone had to return to Aine’s pocket. Only those like Caerwen and Effa, who’d settled in the wrinkle permanently. I’d need to ask them what the rules were.
But Angel had been at the Refuge. She’d brought in the refugees from Cariboo. She’d heard the stories, witnessed the wreckage caused by Amal.
I summoned a tight smile. “You told Grayson about the Cariboo?”
“The refugees told him.”
“But you were listening. What did he say?”
Angel picked up a silk scarf she would never wear, not with those delicate, feminine swirls of pink and gold. It clashed with the single blade she kept in the leather sheath at her hip.
She was a mercenary, had her own loss years ago, while still a child. How had she dealt with it—if she even had? Did she bury the grief the way I did? There’d been a moment, during the lament, when an emotion crossed her face, one I failed to define but would never forget, for the harsh, wrenching pain I saw in that moment.
The pain tugged at me, too, although my faille sensitivity might be kicking up again.
Angel’s silence had grown palpable. The female wolf behind the counter nearly snatched each scarf Angel touched, making a show of refolding the silks. Another spectacle filled with wolf arrogance, which was why I’d once resented wolves so acutely, the way they treated those who did not belong.
Earlier, Fallon had mentioned the financial arrangements; I had access to my bank account here in Westvale. She’d stuffed a black card in my purse even though I protested. I glanced toward Angel, then said pointedly, “We can check out the vendor across the space. Anything you want, my treat.”
The female behind her counter stiffened, but the soft laugh from Angel held enough of a warning for the woman not to curl her lip.
“You can’t honestly see me in silks,” the merc drawled, brushing around the displays and striding into the crowd.
I struggled to keep up. “You never answered my question.”
“Too many eavesdroppers.”
She wove through the booths with an uncanny grace, a sleek, calculating predator who amused herself through subtle intimidation. People who saw her coming stepped out of her way, jostling their bags and companions. The glittering overhead lights bounced off the glass ceiling to dance over the walls. Colors were a kaleidoscopic mix of yellows, oranges, greens, blues, turning the ordinary into the exotic.
We paused at a table covered with glass orbs, some crystal clear and others like giant marbles. I traced a finger over one with purple stripes. “What about this?”
The one-eyed skepticism Angel threw me was enough to have me smiling as I said, “Not your color?”
“You overcompensate when you’re nervous,” she murmured, while the warmth in my face ebbed. “Try too hard to be normal. Pretend you don’t care. But inside, you feel left out. Forgotten. You resent him for parking you here with Anson, doing nothing while he gets all the glory.”
“No eavesdroppers around?” I asked tightly.
“You wonder why he did what he did.”
Yes, I wondered. I wanted to know why, and I wanted it enough to swallow the anger and tag behind her like a damn pup when she turned, following a circuitous route. Angel moved with the assurance of someone who’d been here before—many times. Someone who sensed the dead ends, the cameras, the exits, the darkest corners and alleys. Who found her way out, or into hiding, without having to think about it.
We pushed through a door, stepped into the dark. Night had fallen, but Angel did not keep to the shadows. Within minutes, we were back in the crowded square. The girl with her violin still entertained those sitting outside the café. Distracted wolves on the way to somewhere else tossed coins into her case without pausing. But the crowds moved through the square with none of the congestion in the Farmer’s Market. The bumping bodies and raucous noises that irritated my nerves.
My lungs expanded as I inhaled, craving the night air despite the fishy taint from the Claw. I relished the cold against my skin after the humidity inside the crowded Farmer’s Market. But I wasn’t wolf enough not to shiver in the icy chill.
“I noticed it, too,” Angel said. “Like snow’s coming.”
“Where’s home for you?”
“Wherever I am at the moment. I’ve moved around enough to see the danger from Amal and those like her. He has to do what he’s doing.”
“And I have to hide in the Carmag because I might burn myself out again?” Vehemence coated my throat.
“The vampires are hunting you.”
“They want me to hunt Amal.”
“Because they hate what they can’t control. And Amal wants the power of the kings. She doesn’t care how many innocents she kills. If she learns how to strip away our wolves, she’ll do it to every wolf who won’t bend to her will, leaving us helpless.”
“Unless you turn into failles ,” I argued. “Then you can syphon her to death.”
“ Failles have a curse passed down through a bloodline. There’s no guarantee any one of us would gain a faille’s abilities if we lost our wolf. More likely, we’ll be as weak as humans. What wolf would take that chance?”
Which explained why Anson had Laura searching his archive. “You believe the rumors from Cariboo?”
“I believed the fear I saw when those men talked about it.”
“I have to stop her.”
“And she’s trying to stop you. You need to be smart, Noa.”
Hearing my name, the way Angel said it, sent a shudder down my spine, over my useless runes. I wanted to learn all the things she knew by instinct. Wanted her swagger that swore at the world.
“Tell me what Set said about the smoke.”
Angel studied the shrubbery edging this section of the square. Abruptly, she turned back toward the crowds. “Why does he need to be alive?”
“Julien was my friend.”
“And it hurts, doesn’t it, knowing he’s dead because of something you did? Maybe it’s easier to lie to yourself.”
Shock raced through me. Shame. Was I so transparent?
But hearing the lament brought back waves of guilt. I hadn’t seen though Brin. Hadn’t saved Julien. He wouldn’t have been in that position if I hadn’t asked Grayson to involve him. Ask Julien to betray the secrets. I’d caused Grayson’s fears to come true—because of me, someone he loved had died protecting him. Protecting me.
Maybe lies were easier to stomach. Bad things didn’t happen because of my actions. I didn’t have to face my own failings. Face the power and evil strength that was Amal. The horror overwhelming everything I sought to protect, love, know.
And if those lies weren’t enough, when I blinked, when I scanned the square for Fallon, the face catching my attention belonged to Julien. He was here! Julien was alive and…
But before I was even sure, he faded into the shadows, and I was running despite the risk in chasing an illusion.
I ran anyway, pushing my way through the pressing bodies exiting the Frat House. Wolves, all of them, reeking of alcohol and leering anger when we collided. I stumbled, knocking away the hands clawing at my clothes, my hair. I swung around, my elbow connecting with something—someone. The howl meant it was most likely the male’s nose.
Curses followed. Angel paused long enough to send the males backward. I glimpsed the flashing blade in her hand, her predatory stance. The way she flicked her fingers in an invitation no one accepted.
I was involving her in my mess, and my pulse pounded. My breathing accelerated, frantic as I searched the shadows for some sign of Julien’s brown hair, the straight line of his nose. A shadowy figure ran in the distance. A flash of light on a male profile—or was I hallucinating? Was this some remnant of the faille burnout, seeing things that weren’t real?
But no.
I saw him. The knowledge beat at me as I raced down an alley, knocking over the trash receptacle outside some restaurant because bags of stinking garbage spewed across the ground. A lid rolled drunkenly, clanging against the pavement.
Angel was running behind me, closing the distance. She refused to shout my name. I should have appreciated why. I had enough gods-damn enemies out for the hunt, didn’t I?
But Julien.
My chest burned from the exertion. With each footfall against the uneven pavers, fiery pain shot up my legs. Everything hurt. I wasn’t even sure where I was, somewhere beyond the Docks with their bright lights and wafting food scents because each time I inhaled, I choked on the thick, cold humidity that tasted of fish and vegetative things. On my tears, that kept flowing.
Frost skipped across my skin and left goose bumps behind. Distantly placed lights lined the pathway, but nothing to ease the shadows.
On the Claw, moonlight was a murky smear against the dark water. My pulse throbbed with each hard breath I pulled in, a torture, but I couldn’t catch my breath. Puddled water spread in front of me, still rippling as if someone had run through it. In the distance, I heard a splash—a fish leaping after a passing insect or something more sinister.
I’d been told nymphs lived in the Claw, although they rarely interacted with wolves, and no matter how hard I tried, I could not stop thinking about the black-haired river nymph, Lorriel, and her swarming leeches. Leeches no one had ever seen before.
I stepped back as Angel appeared. She wasn’t even winded. We stood on a long woody point, where the dock was slowly rotting away, leaving stumps in the river.
“What did you see?” she demanded.
“Julien.”
“Noa.” She gripped my arms. “You have the gift of sight, don’t you? Maybe what you saw was an old image of him. Believe me.” She swallowed once. “I know what emotional trauma does. Violence. Your mind doesn’t feel like your own. You see, hear, think it’s real, want it to be real with that leap in your heart.”
I shuddered.
“You didn’t kill him,” she hissed.
“He wouldn’t have been there if not for me.”
“And you were fighting for your life,” the merc said, shaking me as if she knew I’d drifted into the memories of the things I did, what I had to do to survive. The choices I’d made—to attack Ago, make him a greater enemy than he’d been. To join the fight on that blackened hill to prove I was right, and a prophecy was wrong.
“If you didn’t do what you did,” she said, “you’d be dead. And nothing would have changed, Noa. The threat would still exist. People would still die, only he wouldn’t have you to fight for—your dread lord. He hates that name, you know.” Her laugh was soft. “All honorable men hate stepping into greatness. That isn’t why they fight. Not for the glory. For something more. My brother was like that.”
Her breathing tightened, a harsh sound.
“He refused to back down,” she said. “No matter the cost. And you’re like him. His damned stubborn will, heroic and foolish at the same time.”
“This is my fight,” I argued.
“And it makes no sense to you that you’re left out. Stuck here trying to get better when part of you wants desperately to leave. You want to help when everyone tells you no.”
What Angel endured as a child was beyond my imagination—but she identified with the same cruel emotions that plagued me. Didn’t hold back.
“Then Set tells you vampires burn with red smoke when you remember it was black, and all you want now is to prove Julien’s not gone. Put things back together. But they searched, Noa. Men from Carmag and Sentinel Falls. They found nothing. And what you experienced just now… I saw my brother every day for months. I smiled at him, reached for him, tried to touch him, find him for more than a year before I accepted the truth. It was a mind trick. Grief refusing to let go.”
“I can’t.”
“Noa!” Fallon shouted, her grimace pain-filled, her weight braced on the cane with each determined, laborious step she took to reach us. “What the hell?”
I had no answer. Only tears, running down my face.