by Sarah Fine
My times with Ian were the only moments I felt normal and even the slightest bit happy. Seeing him smile reminded me why all the vigilance and training was worth it and helped ease the ache of missing Malachi a little. I hung out with him at a party one night when it was my turn to guard our friends and realized how much I enjoyed his company. I even attended a few of his home games, though I spent the time staring at the spectators, trying to figure out which of them were Mazikin spies. Time was running out.
A week before the prom, I showed up at the Guard house after school and slid out of my car, yanking the garment bag from the passenger seat. I stood at the top of the stairs to the basement and listened. Judging from the clang and sizzle of a blacksmith’s forge coming from below, Michael was already waiting for me. I went to the bathroom and changed. I put my hair up as best I could, in a semblance of the style that Tegan had selected for me. I strapped on the shoes with two-inch heels. Shimmering, floating, I descended the stairs.
“Bhebha, Lela, I’ve been waiting!” his gravelly voice called from below, followed by three sharp clangs.
“Coming!” I shouted. “Trying not to fall down the stairs.”
“If that’s what we’re dealing with, I’m not sure I can help you, my darling iqaqa.”
I reached the bottom step and wobbled onto the mat. Waves of heat coursed over my face. In front of me, half the basement appeared to be connected to another realm. Specifically, to the vast workshop inhabited by the only person I figured could equip me properly without getting too personal about it. Unless calling me an iqaqa was personal. “Look, Michael. I know Malachi tolerated the name calling, but I’m a totally different—whoa. Are you all right?”
Though I was sure he was an angel, Michael didn’t look any more like one than Raphael did, and certainly never acted in any way angelic. He was staring at me with his mouth hanging open, a red-hot column of metal in one hand and a hammer in the other. He looked like he was having a stroke. I’d already made it halfway across the mat before he snapped out of it, dropping the half-forged scimitar into a barrel of water and wiping his hand across his mouth. He cleared his throat. “Sorry. Er. Captain.” His gaze moved to my chest. “Amabele,” he mumbled, tossing the hammer over his shoulder.
“I see we’ve moved on from the British slang.”
His gaze lifted a bit, almost making it to my face before being dragged back down. “Zulu. I needed a change.”
“Are you going to be able to keep your eyes off my boobs long enough to help me?”
His eyes snapped up to mine. “I’m an excellent multitasker.”
I shook my head. “I guess I look all right, then. Like a normal girl.”
The chortle rolled out of him like an ocean wave, causing his enormous belly to undulate, shaking the floor. “Uyahlanya, Lela, if you think you could ever look like a normal girl.” He squeezed his eyes shut and a lone tear leaked out as he tried to control his laughter.
I scowled, and then silently counted to ten. Malachi and Ana tolerated this for decades. I could tolerate it for one afternoon. “I hope that’s a compliment.”
“Get over here,” he said, motioning me around his forge, into the sweltering open space between a workbench piled with tools and half-completed weapons, and that huge, steaming barrel of water. “I made something just for you.” He held up two silky loops of material in his chubby fingers. “Behold!”
“And that is—”
“Your garters, my dear.” He leaned forward. “May I help you put them on?”
I snatched them from his hand. “How about you watch? That enough for you?” I’d learned the first time we met that Michael could be handled with one part charm and one part sass. Ana had been a master of it, and that made me miss her more than ever. She would have handled this situation beautifully. It made my chest ache to think of her.
Michael leaned back against the barrel. “Don’t let me stop you.”
I lifted my foot to set it on the workbench, and then pulled my skirt high on my thigh, leaning forward to try to keep Michael from seeing too much. Judging from his sharp intake of breath, I wasn’t doing a good enough job. As quickly as I could, I strapped the circle of silky material to my upper thigh and set my foot on the ground. It remained secure, even though it seemed like it should come sliding down. “This will stay in place?”
“Eh?” he grunted, still staring at my legs. “Oh. Yes. Specially designed. Here you go.” He handed me three small knives. “The blades have a forward drop like all the rest. Your Lieutenant said they fit your style—slash and slice. Hang ’em high, or everyone will know you’re armed when you shake your nqe on the dance floor.” His eyes glazed over.
I took the knives from him, cringing at the creepy half grin on his face. “You’re picturing me doing that right now, aren’t you?”
He nodded, his eyes still dreamy.
“Thanks for your … thoughtfulness.” I tucked the blades into the sheaths along the outer curve of my thigh and then repeated the process on the other side. Malachi was right: thanks to his endless drills, I’d gotten pretty good with these knives over the past few weeks and could fight efficiently with one in each hand. I would just have to practice drawing from the thigh instead of the waist. “Anything else you can do for me?”
He whipped out a long, slinky pair of silver gloves. “I made these just for you. Lightweight sap gloves.”
I took them from him and raised my eyebrows, surprised by the weight of the silky material. I turned them over to see the delicate stitching along the backs, extending halfway along the fingers. “Is there something sewn into these?”
“Steel shot. You’ll be able to punch through concrete boards.”
“For real?”
“Trust me.”
Damn. I slipped them on and examined the effect. Beautiful but badass. I smiled, something that felt almost foreign these days. “Anything else?”
He motioned for me to turn in place. I obeyed, ignoring the low whistle as he took in the rear view. After I’d completed a full revolution, he pointed at my feet. “Off with the shoes.”
I did as he asked, handing over my heels and enjoying having my feet flat on the ground again. He held the shoes in front of his eyes, making a sour face. “You really going to wear these things?”
“It’s not an occasion for boots.”
His brows lowered, and he shooed me away. “Go play, and let me work.”
I took my bare feet over to the unoccupied side of the training room, where I practiced drawing my knives from my new thigh sheaths, thinking this was not really what I pictured when I got asked to prom. Still, if it was going to prepare me to protect Ian and Tegan and Greg and Levi and Jillian and, yes, Laney, then I was all—
“Michael, are you ready for us?” a voice called from the top of the stairs.
My heart did an uncomfortable little flip.
“You’re early, umdidi!” Michael roared, pausing in the middle of using a tiny mallet to hammer at a small metal spike on the forge.
I scrambled back against the wall as hard soles tromped down the stairs.
“Yes, but I thought maybe we could talk about what Lel—” Malachi froze at the bottom of the stairs. He was wearing a tux. The top few buttons of his shirt were undone, and he held a tie in his hand. His black hair was disheveled, like he’d just changed. And his dark eyes were on me.
His mouth opened and closed a few times. “Lela,” he said in a strained voice. “I didn’t know you would be … here.”
“My car is in the driveway.”
He swallowed hard, nodded, and tried again. “I didn’t know you’d be …” He gave up and gestured at my dress.
A red-faced Michael plunged something into his barrel of water, sending a thick cloud of steam rolling across the space, curling my hair with the humidity. “Did ya think I’d make two trips?” he yelled at Malachi. “Tsa mor kaka!”
Malachi gave me a questioning glance. I shrugged. “Zulu.”
Jim
trudged down the stairs, his tux jacket slung over one shoulder. “Hey, Captain. We came to get outfitted for the party.” He looked me up and down. “You look good. No idea where you’ll put your weapons, though.”
I slid my hand down my thigh and teasingly tugged up my skirt, just far enough to reveal the lower tips of my wickedly sharp blades. “I have my ways.”
Jim smiled appreciatively, but Malachi frowned. “It’s a start,” he said to me. “I was going to talk to Michael about your—”
“But I decided to take care of it myself.” I turned back to Michael. “How are we doing there?” I was suddenly desperate to leave the basement.
Michael raised his head, sweat dripping from the fat folds on his forehead. He held up my shoes. “Titanium coating and tips for the heels. Weaponized sexiness, gugu.” He winked at me, leaving a few drops of perspiration clinging to his lashes.
I strode forward and took the shiny-heeled shoes from his hands. “Cool. So basically, I should try not to step on anyone’s foot unless I want to sever some toes?”
He grinned. “Bravo, lovely. You got it in one.”
I braced my palm on the edge of his table and slipped the shoes onto my feet. When I straightened, Malachi was watching me. “You’ll need to practice with those. They’ll be heavier than your regular shoes, and you want to make sure you don’t turn your ankle. I’ll get more dummies down here for tomorrow so that you can work on it.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I waited, wondering if maybe he would say more, hoping he might comment on how I looked, but after a few seconds of watching him fiddle with his tie, it was obvious that wasn’t going to happen.
Not wanting to make a fool of myself, I carefully slid my shoes off and walked toward the stairs. Jim hopped off the bottom step and strode forward to bump fists with Michael, and then immediately started arguing with him about how many knives he could conceal in his vest and still be able to slow dance with Tegan.
Malachi brushed his fingers against my arm as I passed, and then immediately drew back when I turned to him. “Are you sure about this?” he asked me. “You are wearing so much … less than Jim and I.” He glanced down at my shoes. “And your footgear—”
“You don’t think I can handle myself?”
He gave me a warning look. “I know you can handle yourself. But you are at an automatic disadvantage because you are wearing what appears to be underclothes and little more.”
“Underclothes? You think I look cheap or something? What do you think Laney will be wearing, Malachi? Has she modeled it for you?”
He raked a hand through his hair and looked over my shoulder at the forge. “She is irrelevant to this conversation.”
“Except she can wear nice dresses, but I can’t?” I pictured Laney, her pale, skinny arms and bony shoulders, her slender hips and long legs. She’d wear something designer, something made for her. She’d look like she stepped from the pages of a catalog. I looked down at myself and saw the truth. I was never meant to wear dresses. I was meant to wear fucking armor. The only thing right about this stupid outfit was the lethal blades strapped to my thighs. My heart hammering, I whipped two of them from their sheaths and struck like a snake, whirling before he could get his guard up. In a fraction of a second, I ducked to avoid his grasping hand and drove him back into the wall with my shoulder.
My seriously toned, decidedly non-bony shoulder.
Malachi’s gaze traveled slowly from one knife, the blade of which was less than an inch from his throat, to the other, the tip of which was positioned at an upward angle between his legs. Something dark and dangerous stirred in his eyes, a look that startled me in its familiarity—he’d looked at me this way the day he’d kissed me on the training mat. Fragile hope mixed with the boiling anger in my chest, stealing my breath, riveting my eyes to his face.
So I got to watch while his expression smoothed into a blank mask. “Was that necessary?” he asked.
I retreated as quickly as I’d attacked, my cheeks hot as Michael’s forge. My fists were clenched so hard over my knives that my knuckles felt like they were about to splinter.
No, it wasn’t necessary.
And if I didn’t get out of here, I was going to do it again.
Malachi reached out to touch my arm again, but I jerked away. He sighed. “Lela, please—”
“I’m going to get changed for patrol.” Without looking at him again, I ran up the stairs.
TWENTY-NINE
IAN HAD BEEN RIGHT—petit fours kicked ass.
When he’d called on the morning of prom, I’d already been up for hours, practicing with my knives, knowing today would probably bring the biggest fight of my life, one I hoped wouldn’t end with my soul being ripped from my body. I’d been so close to saying no to him, but then realized this might be my last chance to just … have fun. Simple, easy fun. So there we were, walking out of this boutique bakery in Barrington with our mouths full.
He unlocked his SUV and opened the door for me; then he handed me the flat box containing a dozen more of the beautiful little iced cakes. “What you expected?”
“Better.”
He shut my door and went around to the driver’s side. He gave me a nervous glance as he fastened his seat belt. “Which part?”
“All of it.” I looked away from him, focusing on my hands clutching the ribbon-wrapped box.
He twisted the key in the ignition and pulled out of the lot, heading south past quaint shops and treelined walkways. “Up for a hike?”
“Sure,” I murmured, glad we would be doing something active, something that would keep me moving.
Ian brushed the tips of his fingers along the top of the box while he kept his eyes on the road. “Did you notice?”
I watched his tanned hand, keeping my own very still. “Notice what?”
He smiled. “The way nobody looked at you cross-eyed. The way your money was just as good as anyone else’s.”
I shifted in my seat so that my back was to the window. “Are you suggesting,” I said slowly, “that my feelings about not belonging in Barrington were wrong?”
He shrugged. “I’m only saying that if you give people a chance, they might not disappoint you all the time.”
I fiddled with the gold-and-red ribbon, suddenly wishing for an escape route. The dark shape on my forearm caught my eye again. Nadia’s face. She and I had come from different places, too, and like Ian, it hadn’t mattered to her, either. I’d dreamed of her last night, of walking with her by a clear stream, of hearing her laugh, watching her grin as the silver scales of fish caught the light of the summer sun. I’d wanted to ask her how she was, but found I didn’t have a voice, didn’t have words. Or maybe words were unnecessary. She was past that kind of thing, deep within a peace so full that there was no room for anything else. When I’d gasped myself awake, the envy almost choked me.
After letting me drift in my thoughts for a good long while, Ian pulled over. “Come on. We’re here.”
I looked around, and thought of Nadia again. “The Cliff Walk?” We were at the place I’d died. And come back to life.
“I’ve got a few favorite spots. I think we’re early enough to avoid the wedding picture crowd.”
He hopped out of the car, and together we picked our way along the rocky start of the trail, leading to the path along the ledges overhanging the ocean. My heart skittered with the memories of the night I’d followed this trail straight over the edge.
Ian led the way past that high, shrub-covered hill, to a spot where the rocks became boulders and the sun sent diamond shards of light off the surface of the ocean. He climbed up on one and sat down, and I joined him, leaning my head back to feel the late-spring sun on my face.
“Have you been here before?”
“I came here with Nadia a few times. She loved this place, too.”
“Damn. I was hoping I’d be the first to bring you here.”
I glanced over at him, startled to see real disappointment there. “Why is that im
portant?”
He chuckled and shook his head. The breeze blew his shaggy brown hair away from his face, letting me watch as his expression changed from smiling to serious. “If I ask you something, Lela, will you promise to tell me the truth?”
My heart dropped into my stomach. “You have a way with the ominous, you know that?” His green eyes met mine, and they pulled the words right out of me. “All right,” I said, my voice choked.
He leaned forward very slowly, his gaze sliding from my eyes to my mouth. The heat of it caught me completely by surprise. His playful, nervous mask had dropped away, revealing a hunger that crackled along my skin and made me shiver.
“Hanging out with you is the only time I don’t think about everything that’s happened,” he said. “I could talk to you for hours, and I could stare at you for longer than that. But no matter how much I do, I can’t figure one thing out.” His face was inches from mine. I could smell the strawberry filling on his breath. “Do I have a real shot here?”
And then his lips were on mine, warm and soft and sweet, paralyzing me. His hand slipped around the back of my neck and held me while he slid closer, blocking out the sun. And my heart … it ached. Because this was everything I could have hoped for, everything I might have wanted in a moment like this. Because he was missing nothing.
But I was.
I laid my palm on his chest, over his heart. And gently pushed.
Ian pulled away, and when I saw the hurt in his expression, I closed my eyes. “Okay,” he said quietly. “At least I know. So will you answer another question for me?”
I nodded.
“Is it me? Or is it that I’m not him?”
My eyes flew open. “Does it matter?”
He rubbed his chest, right over the spot where my hand had been a second earlier. “Yeah, actually.”
What the hell. “It’s not you. This would have been different if—”