“If that’s how you want to describe it.” Celine secures a backpack to the front of her chest, tugging the waist strap low—almost to her hips.
I frown. “You haven’t flown such a great distance in years.”
“That’s exactly why I should,” Celine says, smiling at me cheerfully. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Don’t wait up.”
“You waited for Alistair to leave on purpose,” Luca groans.
Celine’s eyes flash with anger before she hides them behind a pair of oversized sunglasses. “I don’t need Alistair’s permission to attend a funeral. He’s the one who told me about the arrangements.”
“That you weren’t invited to,” Luca reminds her.
“I’m going, Luca. Try to accept it.” Celine kisses him on the jaw, waves at me, and walks out the door, shutting it firmly behind her.
Luca curses, yanking on the strands of his hair until they stand on end. “Only she would decide to crash a fucking funeral.”
“It will strengthen her wings.” I shrug. “I’ve been worried about atrophy.”
“Gods, you two suck,” he growls, throwing his hands up. “Not everything is about being as strong as possible. Rest, happiness—those things are important too.”
I nod. He’s correct about that, but we both know she’s not preparing to fly several hundred miles to improve her fitness. “She’s worried about him,” I say.
Luca has no response to that.
FORTY-ONE
Enclave memo (internal)
Leadership voids must be filled before they swallow everything in their vicinity. An agreement must be reached.
CIPRIAN
Surgeons have the decency to knock you out before cutting you open, but the Casanell family has always preferred brute force.
Take Mom and Callum, for example. They just punched through my chest and manually removed layers of years-old scar tissue from my beating heart—all while sobbing buckets on my nicest shirt.
Cathartic, sure, but I could have used an anesthetic first.
I leave the gardens in search of a drink. Whiskey maybe, or a basic gin and tonic in honor of the old man? Who am I kidding? I’m going to drink both. I have at least two or three more days of blind drunkenness left before someone stages an intervention.
My eyes drift to the peak behind the compound, and I freeze. Celine stands at the crest of the hill, her white wings blending inwith the clouds, red hair glowing in the light of the sun. I’m not even drunk yet, and already I’m seeing things.
Before I make the decision to go to her, my feet are moving, through the gate, around the towering stone walls, up the hill. Faster and faster, I climb until my breath comes in pants. Then I’m standing in front of her, blinking slowly to ensure I’m not hallucinating.
“No ripples in sight.” I raise my eyebrows. “You must be real.”
Celine came. I don’t know what to think about that.
She runs a hand over her head. The gesture is uncharacteristically self-conscious.
I’ve never seen her this disheveled. Her hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail. Wisps have fallen loose to frame the sides of her face. Her cheeks are too pink—chapped, I think—but her brown eyes are bright, and they’re looking at me like I matter.
“Are you okay?” she asks, her gaze flickering around me to the compound below us.
A choked sound leaves my throat. “Good enough, I guess.”
“Ciprian...” Celine pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, a habit she picked up from Luca. “I’m sorry about your dad.”
I nod, stop, then shake my head. “Are you really, though? How?” My father had flaws. I know that. Pretending he didn’t won’t change anything or make his death easier to accept.
