“Because you’re beyond redemption,” she says. “As I always feared, your insatiable curiosity will be your downfall. It’s too lateto save you, but you might as well understand the full consequences of your careless actions.”
“What about your careless actions, Mum? If you had told me like you were supposed to—” I bite my tongue. Arguing with her won’t help. It never has.
Another ceramic clink, this time louder.
“If I had warned you of the blood circle. Explained the taboo of it along with the danger and risk of binding yourself to the whims of another, your contrary need to experience everything would have drawn you forward like a moth to a flame. In leaving you in the dark, I bought you a longer lifespan. You should thank me.”
I breathe through my bitterness and her familiar disdain for me. Maybe she’s right. If she’d told me about the blood circle, I might have wanted to experience it, but by hiding it from me, she set me up to fail.
“How can I thank someone who never wanted me to succeed in the first place?” I demand, making no attempt to be polite. Why bother if she already thinks I’m a monster?
Through the phone, I hear a dish break and smile cruelly.
I picture her tossing her cup at the wall in rage, blue eyes flashing to red as tea drips onto the ancient, polished hardwood.
“You mistake me, Alistair. All my life, I have longed for nothing more than to repay the indignity of my creation by raising a child who would live a long, healthy, human life. You robbed yourself of that life, and you’ll rob yourself of its devilish echo too.”
My fingers tighten around my phone until they ache.
“I chose my life, Mum, complications and all. This blood circle may be dangerous, but I’ll navigate it on my own as I always have. You may wish me damned, yet I won’t fall easily. I’ll survive this—I swear it—but I won’t call you again.”
I hang up before she can respond, then rack my brain, wondering how the bloody hell I’ll keep my promise.
TWENTY-SIX
Unspoken rule of the Fringes #402:
Kick ass.
CELINE
Malach brings the sword down in a slicing arc, and I parry, clashing my blade against his. The recoil is intense, rattling from the tips of my fingers to my armpit.
“Is that all you’ve got?” I taunt.
Smirking, I charge and dip into a deep lunge, snapping my wings to the sides to halt my momentum. It works perfectly. Malach doesn’t have time to account for my changing angle. I flip my blade and hit him with the flat edge instead of spilling his intestines on the gym floor.
He dips his chin, a half-smile curling his mouth up at the corner. “It’s returning to you, as I knew it would.”
My cheeks flush, and it has nothing to do with the exercise.
Malach’s praise sounds lukewarm, but sword work isn’t the only section of my memory getting a refresher... I forgot how much his quiet respect means to me.
“Nai khirith, mash n’tel,”I say, dipping my chin and lifting my sword in salute.
Malach’s green eyes brighten when I address him in our nativethatshatongue—like I gave him a precious gift. It wasn’t even a conscious decision. The traditional combat exchange just slipped out.
Luca strides over and kisses my sweaty cheek. “What does that mean, baby?”
I blink a few times, struggling to come up with a direct translation. It’s been so long since I let myself think in my language.
“Nai khirithmeans my thanks,” Malach murmurs. “The second part is harder to explain. It’s an expression, I suppose.”
“Like an idiom?” Luca asks.
I nod. “Translated literally,mash n’telmeans ‘peace protects,’ but it’s more charge or blessing than statement—like ‘may peace guard and keep you.’ That’s the sentiment, at least. It’s traditional between sparring partners in our echelon.”
Luca smiles. “That’s beautiful. Wishing for peace for your loved ones while preparing to fight by their side.”
