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 thekoil’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 ourconversations.
“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.”
