Always alone. Achingly, endlessly alone.
Today, I face yet another choice. I can return to my flimsy demonic research and wait for the enclave to come for me and everyone I care about, or I can take a risk and save us all.
I’m dialing Ciprian’s number before I even make the conscious decision to do so.
“I was surprised to hear from you,” Ciprian says, smiling warily as I open my apartment door.
It’s exactly one minute after sundown, and I can’t help thinking he waited somewhere nearby for the last ray of golden, deadly light to fade before knocking. Courtesy or calculation? I can never tell with him.
Fingers twitching, I banish the glimmer of unease that runs through me. I owe Ciprian no loyalty. My life debt is paid. If I’m being shady to gain information from him, it’s nothing compared to how he embedded himself in our lives. The fact that I’m still questioning his motives is a testament to the absolute mindfuck he did on me.
Besides, I won’t pretend to accept his apology. While it’s the cleanest way to trick him, the pinch in my belly when I imagine telling him he’s forgiven, knowing I’ll later rip that forgiveness away, feels cruel, even by Fringe standards.
“I have a new project I’m working on,” I admit, keeping my excuse close to the truth.
Ciprian cocks his head, his white-blond hair purposefully tousled. In the weeks since his attack, he’s completely healed. If I hadn’t seen him beaten and bruised and smelled his dried blood beneath my fingernails for three days after the attack, I would never have believed he came so close to dying.
He looks me over too, a pinch appearing between his eyebrows as we lock eyes.
Making eye contact with Ciprian is like staring down a well: mesmerizing, weightless, and utterly disorienting. The inky depths swallow every particle of light. But if you brave theunsettling sensation for long enough, you’ll notice there are different shades of black in his eyes, broken up by a charcoal ring around the pupil.
“A project...” Ciprian says. “...that you’re telling me about? Yeah, right. Where are the hidden cameras? Is Luca going to pop out and turn me to stone once I make a shocked face?”
I roll my eyes. “Has anyone ever told you you’re dramatic?”
He scoffs. “Only every day of my life. If you’re hoping to call me something new, you’ll have to be creative. I get around.”
I walk to the kitchen and pull two glasses from the cabinet, considering the tone of his response. The subtle vein of self-deprecation—it’s deeply embedded in his humor. He wields it like a shield, a way to keep people at arm’s length. But what exactly is he trying to hide?
“You know what?” Ciprian asks, surprising me when he tugs on his hair and messes it up completely. “Scratch what I said. Yes, I’ve been called dramatic a lot, but I don’t like it. It pisses me off.”
I blink at him.
He knocks another strand of hair loose with his roving fingers. “You don’t have to say anything. In fact, please don’t. I’m just following the advice of someone I respect for once. Tell me about your project.”
I hold my breath. This is the risky part, the gamble. For this to work, I have to show him some of my cards. “I want to know more about the strengths and weaknesses of the different supernaturals in our territory.”
Ciprian pushes off the counter and stands upright, his posture rigid. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he demands. “If you poke around in legacy secrets, someone will make you a cliff note in their soon-to-be-erased-again history.”
He’s flustered, rattled even. This is interesting.
I take a step closer. “Will they?”
Ciprian laughs. “The question isn’t what they’ll do; it’s whatthey won’t do. Try asking a witch how she teleports. She’ll yank your fangs out, grind them up, then use the dust in her sunscreen to punish you a second time when she goes to the beach. Or maybe you flirt with a fae at the bar. Chill, fun—a little tedious, sure—but not everyone is a sparkling conversationalist. Wrong! It’s not chill, it’s fucking frigid, because the motherfucker freezes you into an Alistair-shaped icicle for mentioning the color of his magical aura.”
“Can you see a fae’s magical aura?” I ask, surprised. I’m not sure why I hadn’t considered Ciprian a useful source of supernatural knowledge before—he’s heir to the enclave, he must know something.
“Don’t ask that,” Ciprian snaps. “Gods. I just told you not to ask that—Why the fuck are you smiling at me?”
“You’re having a meltdown,” I say drily.
“No,” he hisses, pointing his finger at me until the blunt tip nearly grazes my cheek. “You’ll be the one melting down after the fae gets his hands on you. I’ll have to buy like three hundred and fifty hair dryers to defrost your ears enough to say I told you so.”
“Hilarious.” I pour him a glass of scotch and press it into his hand.
“It won’t be.” Ciprian scowls and tosses the amber liquor back, never flinching. “Ali, it’s dangerous.”
“So you’ve said. Explicitly.”
