ONE
Unspoken rule of the Fringes #8:
Adapt or die.
CELINE
My stilettos hammer the pavement in punishing, clipped snicks—darts burying their points in the wrong target. I can only hope they absorb the impact of my sprint through the musty Vegas streets without breaking to pieces.
He says he’s your husband.
Imani’s voice echoes in my head, the words bouncing around and knocking into each other like beads dumped on a tile floor. I can’t hear anything over my loud pants, racing heart, and the screaming in my mind.
I flex my wings in case I need to fly—subtlety be damned. There’s no reason to hide who I am if I’m about to die. It’s never been my ambition to go out in a blaze of glory. I’m not some idiotic warrior with more testosterone than brains, but I have no intention of going quietly either.
A neon sign bathes my bare legs in a magenta glow as I jump over a piece of unidentifiable plastic garbage.
He says he’s your husband.
It must be a trick. My father wouldn’t have involvedhim. This is a ploy to throw me off balance and rock me emotionally. Dad’s minions know they’ll have an easier time cutting off my head if they score a hit to my heart first. It’s already bruised to hell and humiliated after that ugly scene in the club.Gods, what a monumentally terrible night.
The flapping of wings grows louder, drowning out my thoughts. The impostor is gaining on me.Shit. Pushing harder, I sprint around a corner, gripping the rough concrete wall to help me make the turn without skidding out.
I left my keys at the Naked Fang in my hurry to get away from Ciprian the Liar and Alistair the Slut Shamer, but I can’t let that stop me. I’ll hot-wire my bike and ride so far away they’ll never find me. Better to start over again than be back under Dad’s tyrannical rule. It would be better to die than to go home. And I am not fucking ready to die.
Air caresses my bare back, a cool threat against my flushed skin.
A thud follows. Too close for comfort.Faster, dammit.Legs burning, I push myself harder. It’s a mistake. My left heel snaps, the crack louder in the narrow alley than a gunshot.
Fuck. Fuck. My bike is too far. I’ve got to fight.
Spinning, I raise my fists?—
No. It can’t be . . .
I freeze. Every muscle in my body locks as I get my first glimpse of Malach in more than six years.
Tall, chiseled like someone carved him from marble, his hair falls in gentle waves around his ears. It’s longer than I’ve ever seen it. Darker than the last time I saw him too—closer to brownthan blond. His green eyes rake me from head to toe, cool and assessing.
He says he’s your husband.
My heart throbs because it’s a lie. Malach isn’t mine. He never was. That dream, fantasy—whatever the fuck it was—didn’t last long enough to become reality. How—no, why is he chasing me through the streets of the supernatural Fringes of Las Vegas?
“You have no business here,” I tell him, using the language of our shared echelon.Nish thatsha, I think bitterly. Such a small, proud group—bound by our radiant words. Never again. Not for me. Even if my only good memories from home are staring back at me from his piercing emerald eyes.
Malach holds my gaze mercilessly. I stare back. I won’t be the first to look away.
“Your business is our business, My Truth,” he says. “For as long as we both draw breath.”
I blink in surprise. He said that in heavily accented English. But Malach hates learning languages. He always has. How and when did he add one from a foreign realm to his repertoire? None of this adds up.
Heavy footsteps pound as Luca careens around the corner; his pupils are stretched into horizontal slits. My heart flips. There’s murder in his yellow eyes, but Malach can’t die. I won’t allow it. I open my mouth to tell Luca to stop or Malach to run. Something. Anything to fix this. But my head is spinning.
Breathlessly, I watch in slow motion as Luca’s fist slams into Malach’s left eye. An eye squeezed so tightly shut that the skin at the corner crinkles like the folds of an accordion.
He knows.About Luca’s basilisk.How does he know?
They collide, trading dirty, brutal blows as they grapple in the street. Luca knees Malach in the gut, trying to catch his eyelid and peel it open. “Is this guy your ex or something?” he demands, landing a crushing blow to Malach’s throat.
