We both stare at the devil cat who apparently thinks he’s won the game we were playing.
Silence. Then I look at Talon. His gaze cuts to the bag, then to me.
He doesn’t pick it up.
I’ve won at least one more night in Boston.
The blender shriekslike it’s possessed, a sticky mess of strawberry and something neon splattering across the counter. Ihit the off switch too hard and curse under my breath, grabbing a rag to mop up the chaos.
Third time tonight.
I’m not usually this distracted on shift.
But then again, I’m not usually beinghunted.
Talon’s standing a few feet away, leaning at the end of the bar, sipping a glass of water. Always close. Always watching.
I told him we’d go back to the Realm of Roses if there was another attack. Swore it with a straight face and wide eyes and the tone I’ve perfected over the years—measured, believable, just desperate enough to be taken seriously.
He hasn’t brought it up since. Instead, he hovers.
He’s become my shadow. Not suffocating. Not controlling. Just...there. Always there.
When I pass too close, I feel the heat of him behind me, a quiet pressure against my back, gravity skewed by his presence. And at night, long after last call, I hear the thunderous flap of his wings above the building, circling the rooftop, a hellfire gargoyle in motion.
Protecting me.
Punishing himself.
The rag in my hand is soaked through. I toss it in the bucket and wipe my palms on my skirt, then rest my hands on the sticky edge of the bar. A pulsing, moody remix of something sad and sharp thrums under my feet. It suits my mood too well.
I scan the crowd but don’t reallyseethem. Just colors and motion and the occasional flare of a spark between lovers or enemies across the room.
Mal.
The name tastes like ash. It’s been pounding in my skull since the vampire’s fangs grazed my throat.
She’s here. Or close enough to send her little monsters sniffing down alleys, trying to finish what she started.
And I’m supposed to gohome?
Hide?
I’m not going back.
The blender shrieks again, and I whirl on the poor appliance like it insulted my boots. Ariel tosses me a look from down the bar, eyebrow raised in silent “Are you okay?”
I nod once. She doesn’t press. None of them do. The girls seem to be giving me space, maybe even waiting for me to divulge why I’ve been acting so on edge. But I keep it to myself, even at our post shift hangouts in their apartment.
How are you doing?
Are you eating enough?
You look like shit—that one, courtesy of Snow.
The questions are careful, concerned, and though I want to spill my guts, I shove it all down deep. I give noncommittal answers and keep claiming that culture shock is a hell of a thing. I don’t think they believe me though.
I thought I’d be afraid when Mal came back. I thought I’d curl inward, collapse like I used to when I was little, and the curse burned too hot inside me, and no one knew how to help.
