by Skye Malone
I find my backpack in the corner. My books are inside. A quick check to the calendar on my cell phone reveals that I don’t have any tests today—a minor miracle, all things considered. Some of my professors are sadists when it comes to Mondays. But regardless, I should be alright.
Except for the werewolves trailing me.
I grimace. It’s safer if they do. I get that. It’s weird as hell, but I get that.
It’ll be fine.
I glance around the room, working to make myself believe the words. Amar knew we need the protection. I know we need the protection. It’s a good thing.
And now I have to pretend like things are normal.
I swallow hard. No problem. Really. No problem at all.
The werewolves are a problem.
I hurry across the quad and fight to ignore how people stare at the enormous mercenaries trailing twenty feet behind me. I don’t know if anyone has connected me to them; they’ve stayed several yards back the whole day. But they aren’t exactly hiding either.
And with their black leather clothes, predatory body language, and builds like a pair of fricking Vikings, they’re damn near impossible to miss.
I grimace when I reach my car. Visibility is the point, I realize that. Even if the humans don’t understand what these people are doing here, any demons will get the message. But it’s still been nerve-wracking, like a constant reminder that my life might be in danger. That no matter how it looks on the outside, things are most decidedly not normal. I’d figured getting back into school and pretending everything was fine would be hard, but the mercenaries have made it so much worse.
They’d followed me to class. They’d sat in the backs of lecture halls, their weirdly intent gazes practically daring anyone to talk to me. They’d trailed me to discussion sections, thankfully staying outside the classrooms but lingering in places where they could see me through the windows or open doors the whole time. I’d managed to keep them from accompanying me to the restroom, but that was about my only victory for the day.
God, I wish I knew where to find Amar.
I let out a breath in frustration. At the sound, the werewolves stop on their way to their motorcycles and turn immediately, looking to me in unison in that creepy manner they have. I work to hide my reaction.
I’m not fast enough.
They come toward me. I tense, but there isn’t anywhere to go.
“Everything alright?” the guy with the ponytail asks, his voice low. He and his companion tower above me, for all that they’re no taller than Amar. But Amar never made me nervous like this. I suddenly feel like a little kid trapped between a couple of very large adults.
Adults with weird amber eyes that remind me of a wild animal’s gaze, even if I can’t put my finger on why.
“Yeah.” I nod quickly. “Totally.”
He pauses. I can tell he doesn’t believe me.
“Listen,” I try. “You guys could probably—”
“Four demons passed by your twelve o’clock class,” he interrupts me smoothly. “Two more attempted to slip in the back of the restaurant where you had lunch. Three have been spotted near your friend. It is better that they see us. It makes them question how many of us they haven’t seen.”
My mouth moves. Words don’t come out.
“You are not the one paying us, miss,” he reminds me. “We have to do our job.”
Air escapes me. I’m not sure what to say.
They head for their bikes.
“Could you just—” I start.
The guy looks to me.
I falter, trying to find a way to explain. “Look, I don’t even know your names, okay? You’re ghosting along behind me and I—”
He glances to his companion. They walk back toward me.
“My name is Ulric.” He tilts his head toward his companion. “This is Sorcha.”
The cinnamon-haired woman nods in greeting. She’s easily the same height as Ulric and she looks muscular enough that I wouldn’t know which of them to put money on in a fight.
I echo the motion nervously. “I’m Cait. Were you at the…” I hesitate, my gaze darting around to check if anyone’s close enough to overhear. “You know, that thing the other night?”
“Yes.”
I fight the urge to swallow anxiously. I’d seen them, then. Blood on their fur. On their teeth. They’d been terrifying.
They’d made it possible to save Ruby.
“Thank you for helping us,” I say, my words rushed.
“It’s what we were paid to do.”
I don’t know how to respond.
“You should get back to your apartment,” Sorcha tells me. Her voice is gentler than I would have imagined, coming from someone who looks like she could snap me in half. “It’s safer there.”
I nod and reach for the door handle. They start toward their bikes again.
Another thought hits me.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
They glance back.
“About the others. Your…” I flounder. They’re mercenaries. Brett made it clear they don’t give a crap about anybody, and Ulric’s words sort of just proved that.
I still feel like I should say something.
“Your friends or…” I shrug awkwardly. “Whoever they were. The ones who didn’t make it. I’m sorry.”
For the longest moment, they don’t move, and then Ulric’s brow twitches down slightly, like he’s surprised by what I said. He nods once before heading for his bike.
Sorcha watches me a heartbeat more. I can’t tell what I’m seeing in her eyes.
“My brothers,” she says quietly.
Words fail me all over again.
She returns to her motorcycle. I stare after her, feeling a bit like I’ve been punched in the gut. Her brothers? Oh my god…
I manage to climb into the car. It takes me a moment to collect myself enough to remember how to drive.
The apartment is silent when I arrive, and Ruby’s bedroom door is open, making it obvious she’s not home.
“Your roommate is studying at the library,” Ulric supplies.
I freeze, suddenly wondering if telepathy is part of their abilities.
“The night watch will be here in a couple hours,” Sorcha adds. “Do you have anywhere you need to be this evening? Any plans they should be aware of?”
I shake my head. “N-no. I don’t think so.”
She nods. Ulric moves to the window and tugs back the curtains, scanning the street outside, while Sorcha walks around the apartment, her amber gaze sweeping the walls and ceiling like she’s checking something.
I glance between them. Okay, then.
My heart pounding, I escape into my room. I dump my backpack on the floor while the door shuts behind me, and for a moment, I just stand there.
Now what?
A breath leaves me. I can’t call Amar. I want to, but in the hubbub of staying alive this weekend, I’d never asked for his number. Or Bianca’s. Or anyone’s.
I kick myself internally. Of all the things to slip my mind…
But I could call Temptation. That information should be easy enough to find online. And Brett should have Amar’s number, assuming he’s around at this hour.
I dig my cell phone out. My internet search is painfully slow, but it turns up the number for the nightclub eventually.
I raise the phone to my ear. Several rings pass, and I’m about to hang up when finally the ringing cuts off.
“Temptation.”
“Uh, hi. Is this Brett?”
“Who is this?”
“Cait. You remember? From yesterday? I, uh—”
“Yeah, I remember you. What’s up?”
I exhale, struggling to regroup. “I wondered if I could get Amar’s number from you.”
“He didn’t give you his number?”
“No, I didn’t get a chance to ask him for—”
I hear a noise in the background on the other end of the line. “Yeah, hey, I’ll sign for
those in a second.” Brett’s voice is muffled like he put a hand to the phone. “Listen,” he continues to me, “I’ve got to go. Just ask him whenever he gets back from class or whatever.”
“Well, but—”
The line clicks.
For a moment, I don’t move. Seriously?
I lower the cell. Dammit, now what?
Grimacing, I set my phone on the desk. Now nothing. Ruby’s at the library. I hate that I’m almost relieved by that. And Amar…
Amar is fine. Brett’s right. I’ll get his number when he comes back. I’m just keyed up from the weekend. Being paranoid. His absence doesn’t mean anything is wrong.
I haul my backpack over to my bed and start to take out my books. I hope he meant it when he said he’d be back soon.
Hours have passed since he’d called in the favors he needed to find her current location. It may be approaching a full day. Time is impossible to tell in the windowless cavern of the antechamber, where the cold air is motionless and chilled by the black marble till it feels like a tomb. But for two chairs of dark wood against the wall and a door of equally dark wood on the opposite, the room is featureless. He has stood inside it since he arrived, waiting.
It’s a message. He realizes that. He wouldn’t have expected anything else.
A click sounds in the silence. He glances to the door, watching while it swings open. A black guy and a white guy step through, both dressed in suits. In silence, they take up positions on either side of the entryway. He strides between them from the room. The two men follow.
His footsteps echo in the stillness while he walks down the long corridor. At least there are windows here, a small way to determine how long he’s waited. Past the tall, arched casements, he can see the night sky and the silver-touched fields and forests that surround the manor. The road away from this place is a pale ribbon in the moonlight; no cars are on it.
Expressionless, he returns his attention to the corridor. Nighttime, then, but with dawn approaching in not too much longer by the look of it. After so many years of living as an incubus, he has a near-instinctive sense of time at night, though it helps to see the sky. It’s been at least sixteen hours since the end of the long drive that brought him to this place.
He wonders if Cait has started to question where he’s gone.
The thought is dismissed swiftly. He can’t think about that right now.
A door at the end of the corridor opens, revealing a slender maid with dark hair, snow-pale skin, and red eyes. She bows her head quickly, stepping aside. He walks into the room, a brief flick of his gaze taking in the crimson curtains, the dark furniture. An ornate chandelier hangs from the ceiling, complete with burning candles coated in drips of pale wax. Thick tapestries drape the corners of the room—obscuring bodyguards, he’s sure. Overall, the effect is classic. One could almost say stereotypical. Volgert has always tended more toward the gothic—unlike the Al Capone-era style of Linden or the near-obsession with modernity found in some of the other Houses—but even by that standard, the atmosphere is practically medieval.
And it’s a ruse. An illusion designed to make other demons underestimate her, to make them dismiss her as an old romantic clinging to bygone days and forget that her holdings exceed those of a Wall Street titan while her influence extends across whole continents and oceans. He knows she enjoys using the trick, perhaps more than any other in her arsenal.
Lucretia turns from the small table in the center of the room, her brow rising in feigned astonishment as if he’s arrived unexpectedly. A black dress covers her, from the tight collar reaching up to her pale jawline down to the flowing skirt obscuring her ankles. Her dark, glossy hair is swept up and fastened by jewel-studded clasps that glint in the candlelight. A rich, red ruby hangs from a burnished chain at her throat. Her equally red lips curl into a pleased smile at the sight of him, revealing white teeth without a hint of fangs. She appears to be in her mid-thirties. Perhaps forty, at the outside.
But he knows she’s far older.
“Well, now,” she says. “This is a pleasant surprise. How long has it been, Amar? Five years? Six?”
He’s silent. She’s aware of the math as well as him.
Lucretia’s smile broadens. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“I think you know.”
Her expression turns disingenuous. “I do?”
He resumes his silence. So that was how it was going to be. He’d mostly expected it. Games were how Lucretia kept the centuries from becoming dull.
True to form, she gives him a humored look. “Oh, Amar. All this time and still you haven’t developed even the slightest sense of humor. You could have at least tried to pick that up from your father, you know. No matter what you think of him, surely not all of his traits were bad ones?”
She chuckles when he doesn’t reply. Turning, she regards the small, round table at the center of the room again. Atop the red tablecloth, a tall vase holds a bouquet of dark roses. Carefully, she selects one and draws it out.
“So what is this reason of which I’m supposedly already aware?” She studies the flower contemplatively.
“Cait.”
Her brow rises. “Who?”
He doesn’t respond. She smiles.
“Is this the young lady with whom you showed up at the set the other night?”
“The one your people have been harassing for days, yes.”
She scoffs lightly. “My people have been harassing Linden, I’ll admit to that. And we have a very specific reason for doing so.” Her smile returns. “But how has this become your problem?”
He considers his answer, aware that the question is loaded.
In so many ways.
“Linden is irrelevant,” he replies. “Whatever issue you have with them is as well. But Cait isn’t involved with Linden. She wants nothing to do with them.”
Lucretia looks surprised. “Oh, really? How intelligent of her.”
“Cait’s a neutral. She’s not interested in being a part of the Houses, nor in aiding one of them against any others. Because of that, I’m asking you to leave her alone.”
“And if I don’t?”
His heart does not begin to pound harder. His breathing remains steady. The slightest change would be a clear sign of stress, and she’d pick up on every one.
But he’s good at this.
“Then you would be putting our agreement at risk.”
Her brow rises and a tapestry stirs in the corner. He doesn’t look away from her, but the motion confirms his suspicion.
They’re not alone.
“If you cannot leave a neutral out of this who is determined to stay out, then how am I to trust that our agreement will stand?” he continues calmly.
“You and I have a very special arrangement, Amar,” she points out, “owing to the deep affection I had for your father, and to the fact that neither you nor I are particularly suicidal. It has nothing to do with this girl or anyone else in the demonic world.”
She turns and paces away, twirling the rose between her fingertips, and he can read the action. Despite her words, she’s putting distance between them, daring him to try anything.
And leaving space for her people to shoot him, in case he does.
“I miss your father,” Lucretia muses. “So strong. So sensual. So unusual—like you.” She glances over her shoulder to him. “Does she know about you, this girl you seem to have—what? Taken under your wing? Have you told her the truth of what you are?”
He doesn’t respond.
“I’ll take that as a no, then. And why is that, Amar? Someone for whom you’re suddenly so willing to jeopardize our agreement… Surely, you trust her?” Lucretia’s smile deepens. It reminds him of a cobra. “My own sweet Josephine, returned to me in the form of her daughter.”
He watches her, evaluating. It hadn’t really been a question, whether or not Lucretia knew about Cait’s mother. The only question had been whether she’d choose to be the one
to bring it up first.
And to what end.
Lucretia returns her attention to the rose. “I cannot begin to describe what I felt when my people reported the arrival of the two of you at the set the other night. Your presence alone would have been worthy of comment, but her?” She shakes her head as if in awe. “Incredible.”
“And you knew nothing of her before then.”
She gives him a look like, if she was human, she’d sigh. “Sadly, no. The agents I have harassing Linden were not familiar with her mother, and regardless, they did not report Cait’s appearance. They said only that Alistair had acquired another Legacy who hadn’t shown up till recently. An anomaly, if you will. If it wasn’t that she appears so similar to Josephine, she could have stepped from a photograph of her mother, I doubt we’d know who she was even now.”
“Then call your people off now,” he replies, the words measured.
“Is that really the best approach, Amar? Cait isn’t like you. She doesn’t have your gifts. And you can’t be around all the time.”
His eyes narrow.
“That wasn’t a threat,” she assures him patiently. “Merely a statement of fact. Even if you do try to protect her, even if she is uninterested in joining Linden as you say, she will still need friends in this world.”
“She doesn’t require that friend to be you.”
Lucretia laughs. “She hasn’t even met me. How can you be so sure we wouldn’t get along?”
Her humor deepens into pity at his silence. “Oh Amar, you know it doesn’t need to be this way. You, out on your own, with nothing but some fragile alliance with that Chastain family between you and utter isolation. And they don’t even know what you are, do they? Not really. No, it’s only you out there. My dear boy with the power so terrible, he hides it even from himself for fear of what he knows he could do.”
She crosses back toward him. “I told you all those years ago: I have no opposition to you having the life you want. A college degree. An ordinary job. A mostly ordinary life. All those things could still be yours, but you could have protection and safety too. You and this girl both.” She reaches up, touching his cheek in a maternal gesture. “Would that be so terrible?”