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“No, but the word ‘inevitable’ comes to mind. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to fuck someone so badly in my life. It’s bizarre. I hardly know the guy, I know he’s dangerous, but the raging hard-on is real.”
“Don’t you have a whole assortment of cock cages? Have one on next time you see him. I’ll hack it from here. Make sure you keep that dick locked down.”
He half laughed, half groaned. “Yes, I have a whole collection. No, I don’t think I’ll ever use one again. They’re ruined for me.”
“Aww. Poor Icarus.”
He pouted to no one over the loss of the toys and the inevitable bad news she was about to deliver. He retracted his jutted-out lip and ripped off the Band-Aid. “Tell me about Adam.”
“Not much to tell.”
“I thought—”
“The fact that he’s so well-erased, his alias and his real name too, whatever that might be, and Deborah and David too, means he really doesn’t want to be found. Someone who can pay for that good a scrub has something to hide. Something major.”
“Whatdidyou find?”
She sighed, louder than his before.
“Come on,” Icarus needled. “Surely you didn’t think I was just going to give in?”
“A girl can dream.”
“A zebra can’t change its stripes.”
She blew a raspberry over the line, and he covered the ache in his chest with laughter. He missed seeing and talking to her in person, missed sharing these moments together. Missed falling asleep to the sound of her rapid-fire keystrokes, the same sound that filled his room now, his phone screen lighting up with documents she pushed through.
“House is owned by a shell company, which is owned by a shell company, yada yada. Was purchased five years before the Rift.” As Icarus had suspected. “The only person on the record is the attorney who set up the shell company—who set up all the shell companies—and he’s dead. In the Rift.”
YB had lost half its population in the Rift, most unfortunate victims in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught in the magical crossfire or pulled under the waves or into the earth that had cracked open. The number of fatalities in the Canyon Lands alone had been staggering. The half that had survived had continued to dwindle in the thirty years since.
Three decades. Icarus ran the math in his head, coming back to the same conclusion he’d reached at Adam’s house the other night. The years weren’t adding up. Adam wasn’t adding up. And the Cirillos were mixed up in the equation too, somehow.
“Any connection to Vincent or Paris Cirillo?”
“They’re just as scrubbed clean,” she answered. “How’d you get mixed up with them, anyways?”
“Pretty face with a ready supply of Daylight.”
“I told you that shit would get you in trouble.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He flapped a hand in the air, waving her off despite the fact she couldn’t see him. “I don’t even fucking want it. I’m fine being a hermit during the day, but it doesn’t hurt to have an emergency supply.”
“In case you have to rescue a certain someone during daylight hours.”
“Worth it,” he didn’t hesitate to reply. It was the last time he’d seen her, for a few too-short hours. The time in the daylight with her was worth it, but even more worth it was keeping her safe. Worth every penny of the fifteen grand he owed to Paris—correction, Vincent—Cirillo.
“He’s getting it from the warlock?” she asked.
“Probably,” Icarus said. The serum that allowed Icarus’s kind to withstand the sun was the sort of magic only a handful of warlocks could wield. And those that could generally wouldn’t, which made Daylight exceedingly hard to come by and exceedingly expensive. Unless you had a warlock as powerful and morally bankrupt as Atlas on standby. “He’s in their thrall.”
“That’s odd.”
“No shit.” Everything about the current predicament was odd.
“And you’re sure the Cirillos are humans?”
“Brown eyes, and no, they’re not contacts.”
