The Romeo Catchers

by Arden, Alys

  Wait. What?

  “Nicc—?”

  His left hand covered my lips tightly, his eyes glazed over, and his nostrils flared. He leaned in, his other hand pushing away the flannel from my collarbone. As I began to protest, his mouth went straight to my neck. It all happened so fast: his breath against my skin, the slither of his tongue—and then his teeth.

  My eyes pinched shut, and I screamed into his hand, clutching his wrist as his fangs sunk into me, reopening the wound. His grip tightened, and his bell tower fantasy of killing me replayed in my head.

  But he quickly pulled out and began to suck.

  The venom seared as he siphoned it out through the bite. He spit the poison over his shoulder and came back to my neck again. As he sucked and sucked, all I could think of was Callis siphoning my fire. All I could do was scream.

  The bells in the tower began to clang, drowning out my voice. As he pulled out the venom, I pulled the bells, and it was the only thing that gave me hope. Hope that all of my magic wasn’t gone forever, that Emilio had been able to rescue my mother in time . . . that somehow she was still alive.

  But I couldn’t feel the magic. All I could feel was the burning, and the poison, and my voice turning raw, and Nicco’s energy draining. All I could feel was Nicco.

  Each time he came back to my neck, his grip was looser and his pull more gentle, and I knew it wasn’t because he was finished. I knew it was because he was fading too.

  Nicco can’t be fading.

  Then he stopped. With his forehead against the side of my head, he inhaled deeply through his nose.

  And then he propped himself against the stone wall next to me and pulled me into his lap so my back was resting against his chest. His silence scared me.

  I craned my neck, trying to look up at him—that fear in his eyes hadn’t gone away.

  His right arm slipped around my waist, gripping me. Tight.

  Then I realized why.

  No.

  He drew his wrist to his mouth, bit down, and before I could even squirm, blood drizzled on my cheek and he was wedging his wrist against my mouth.

  I gagged as the blood trickled down my throat. He held me tighter. And then suddenly I was trying not to think about it—any of it. I tried not to think at all. I just sank back against him, watching the colors spin in front of my eyes, and inhaled his leather-and-soap scent.

  When he pulled his wrist out of my mouth, it was crushing.

  I felt completely drained.

  Of blood.

  Of venom.

  Of magic.

  I tilted my head up to his because I wanted more. I wanted more of him.

  He smiled his not-so-innocent smile, and my heart swelled.

  “No more, bella.”

  I smiled back at him and let my head fall against his chest. His arms circled me tighter. My eyes slipped shut, and somehow I knew his did too.

  I heard the thump-thump-thumping of his heart, but this time not through a door, not through a dream.

  “You have to survive this, Adele,” he said softly, the only words he’d spoken all night. His hand circled my wrist, two fingers placed over my pulse. “You have to survive this for us.”

  Thump-thump.

  Thump-thump.

  Thump-thump.

  Thump-thump.

  CHAPTER 49

  Brooklyn Girl

  I flew and I flew and I flew, searching for her. Up every street, down every block of the French Quarter. I flew to her house. To Mac’s bar. To HQ. The Voodoo shop, the tearoom, the café. Over and over.

  I circled the Carter brothers’ compound on St. Ann and Royal until I no longer trusted myself not to go inside. I wanted to chimney-dive in. It was beyond reckless—I shouldn’t have been on the streets, not even above the rooftops, after killing a Medici.

  I killed a vampire, but all I could think about was whether a vampire was killing the girl that I loved.

  There was no sign of Nicco or Adele. I wanted to drive a stake through him for taking her. I should never have given her that note. I should never have trusted Callis. I should never have left her side at the convent.

  I soared through Jackson Square to the Moonwalk. There was no one. No vampires or witches or drunk gutter-punks or kids making out after curfew. Just the moonlight shimmering down on the waves as they crashed up the cement steps.

  I circled back.

  Where are you, Adele?

  I couldn’t stop searching, because as long as Mother Nature’s silent black sky was wrapped around me, I could believe she was still alive. As long as I was in the air, swooping and diving beneath the crystal-dripped stars, I could keep it together. But back on solid ground I wasn’t so sure.

  In the sky it was easy to imagine what I’d do when I found her. I’d take her out of this town, back to New York, away from the vampires, away from the coven, even away from the magic.

  Fuck all of this. I just want her.

  In New York, she’d drag me around for hours looking at hundreds of fabrics in the garment district for fashion-school projects, and I’d sketch her naked body as she slept in our bed in the morning light. She’d hang fairy lights all year-round, and she’d wear that perfectly thin shirt while making coffee in the mornings, and we’d fight over who forgot to water the plants, and it would all be magical.

  So I flew.

  I flew until dawn broke.

  I flew until I fell out of the sky.

  CHAPTER 50

  Family Matters

  January 22nd

  I awoke on the cold stone floor, my teeth chattering. The slice of light shining onto my face felt like it was piercing my brain, and the ringing in my ears was nauseating. The bells were perfectly silent.

  I was alone in the bell tower.

  No bag. No phone.

  No Nicco.

  Just me and the bells and his hoodie folded into a perfect square under my head. My ears were freezing. So were my hands. I slipped the hoodie on, over Nicco’s flannel shirt, and hugged myself into it. I tried to ignite my hand, just for the warmth.

  Nothing.

  I sucked in a sharp breath as it all came back.

  I wasn’t quite ready to relive it. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be. My hand went to my neck, where Brigitte had bitten me. The skin was sensitive. Fresh. It stung a little bit, but there were no puncture wounds, not even a scab.

  With a foggy head, I pulled myself up.

  As I descended the spiral staircase, I paused twice to lean against the wall, taken with dizziness. I made it to a door that said ALARM WILL SOUND IF OPENED, but it didn’t.

  I walked at a slug’s pace, overwhelmed with exhaustion and with the memory of my mother’s death. That little moment of pressure when the stake pierced through her chest touching mine, and how she instantly stopped drinking from me. It was all I could think about on the walk home. That, and seeing Nicco’s fingers brush her eyes closed.

  She was dead.

  Isaac had killed my mom.

  And now I was going to have to tell my father. But what was I supposed to tell him? My eyes welled.

  I passed my house and walked around the block twice, trying to mentally string words into sentences. Each step became a series of breathing exercises, blinking back tears, and repeating the first sentence over and over until I didn’t recognize the words.

  When I opened the kitchen door, my father was sitting at the table, staring at the moon mug in his hands. The room smelled of fresh coffee, and there was an open bottle of whiskey in front of him. The pungent smell of booze hung in the air with the french roast. He didn’t look up.

  I pulled out a chair and gripped the back of it, holding myself up. My voice shook. “Dad . . . ?”

  “Where have you been?” he asked, staring at the crescent handle.

  “I—I was with Isaac.”

  “You never were a good liar . . . just like your mother. She didn’t have the heart for it.”

  He picked up the bottle, poured another glug into
the mug, and took a sip.

  “Dad, what’s wrong?”

  “Is Emilio Medici in New Orleans?”

  “What?” I choked.

  He didn’t look up, but I knew the one little question had implicated me.

  “Dad, how do you—?”

  “Tell me the truth, Adele.” He finally looked at me, his eyes more bloodshot than usual, even after a graveyard shift. “I remember. I remember everything.”

  I sat in the chair next to him. “Remember what, Dad?”

  He paused, and I fought the avalanche shaking inside my chest. He took another sip from the mug, and I wondered if there was any coffee in it at all.

  “My last trip to Paris . . . ,” he finally said. “You were little. I left you with Sabine and Bertrand because I couldn’t not go after her. I didn’t understand why she left. I knew if I could just talk to her, I could fix whatever was wrong.”

  “I remember.” My words were no more than a whisper. What I wanted to say was, There was nothing you could have done, Dad.

  “A week went by before she’d see me, and even then it was in secret. One night she stayed at my hotel room and told me everything . . . that they—” His fists clenched. “That he’d killed her.”

  I clutched my hands together and sat perfectly still, waiting for him to continue. I didn’t understand. How is it possible that my father’s known for twelve years?

  “She told me what happened. How this Emilio Medici brought her back to life, and how she killed those students. She told me she’d never forgive herself for walking down the street that night when I’d always told her not to walk through the Quarter after dark by herself.”

  The tears in my eyes welled so huge he became nothing but a blur as he continued.

  “I should have been with her that night. I should have been with her every night.”

  I took his hand from the mug. “What would you have done, Dad? What could you have done against a vampire?”

  Tears dripped out of his eyes, and I felt my chest caving in. I breathed slow, shallow breaths.

  “After she told me everything, we had one last night together, and then in the morning she bit me. She bit me and told me to forget everything she’d told me. She told me to forget about her. To go home and raise our daughter for the both of us. To find someone else, and to be happy without her. She kissed me good-bye . . . and I got on the plane and forgot that she ever came and met me.”

  Suddenly it all made sense. My mother had used her vampiric thrall to make him forget, and now his memories had come back because . . .

  “I forgot about the visit until this morning,” he said quietly. “The memories started coming back, one by one, and I came home and you weren’t here and weren’t answering your phone, and ever since, I’ve just had this feeling like I’ve lost everything.”

  “Because she’s dead.” My voice was soft. “Your memories are coming back because . . . she died, Dad.” My throat closed up, threatening to smother my words. “But I’m here.” And with that I reached my threshold. I couldn’t talk anymore because I couldn’t breathe. All I could do was climb onto my father’s lap, wrap my arms around his neck, and cry.

  He hugged me tight. “I could never forget her.”

  Feeling his chest shudder shattered me. “I know, Dad. I know,” I choked. “And you haven’t lost everything. You have me. You’ll always have me.” I hugged him tighter.

  “And you’ll always have me. Come hell or high water.”

  “I think we’ve already been through both,” I said, trying to smile.

  Somehow through the tears and the shudders and the swollen lungs, I felt better. Better than I had since before the Storm. Better than I had since before my mom left, because finally my father and I didn’t need to have any secrets.

  I told him about Adeline Saint-Germain’s diary, and the Count, and her medallion—and our Fire magic. Even though I couldn’t produce a flame to show him, he didn’t act like I was having some kind of psychotic break. He just quietly listened, scratching his scruffy face. Maybe magic wasn’t so weird after grappling with the reality of vampires.

  I told him about Adeline’s coven, and about our coven. Everything but what Isaac did, because I just couldn’t get his name out of my mouth. I couldn’t tell my father that Isaac had killed his love . . . his ballerina.

  I poured us both coffee, and he asked questions, trying to hide how overwhelming it all was. I wondered if, when he was my age, he was a Fire witch who didn’t receive his mark and whose memories faded out along with the magic.

  I wanted him to be magical.

  Eventually I even told him about Nicco.

  But every time we got close to how Brigitte had died, permanently this time, he backed off and stopped asking questions. I don’t know if it was because he couldn’t bear to think of her being gone, or because he was my dad, and he knew talking about it was going to send me into an asthma-induced coma.

  We’d finished our coffees, so I got up to make more. Just as I poured the boiling water into the french press, the door slammed open. Someone blew into the room so fast, every cup on the counter flew across the room with him, showering the kitchen with broken glass.

  When I unshielded my face, Emilio had my dad by the neck, up against the wall. “What do you remember?” he yelled. “What did she tell you?”

  “Everything,” my father squeezed out, his face turning plum.

  I lifted the carafe of coffee, ready to smash it against Emilio’s head, but then another flash whipped into the room and knocked him away. Nicco. The two brothers fell backward and smashed into the table, breaking it in half like it was made of toast.

  They twisted around and Emilio slammed Nicco to the floor. “Mac knows about me, so he dies. End of story, fratellino.”

  In that moment, Nicco seemed frailer than his brother, and I wondered how much more blood Emilio had consumed since their release.

  My father aggressively stepped toward them. “Get ou—”

  But I pulled him away until we were both backed up against the sink, me realizing just how vulnerable we were without my Fire.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Nicco said under his breath. He shoved Emilio up to his feet and jumped up himself.

  Emilio looked at us.

  Nicco grabbed him by the shoulder before he could make another move. “I’ll take care of it,” he said again through locked jaw.

  “Fine,” Emilio spat, turning to leave. But then he spun around and grabbed Nicco by the collar. “You have one chance. Do you hear me?”

  “Sì.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I muttered.

  Nicco rattled off more aggressive-sounding Italian words, and Emilio stalked to the door, shooting a cold glance back as he crossed the threshold. “I have another thing to take care of anyway.” He snickered. “One that I know even you’ll approve of, baby brother.”

  And then he was gone, and the entire room felt like it exhaled.

  Nicco watched the door for a long moment before he turned around to face us.

  I extended my arm protectively over my father, just like he always did with me. “What the hell do you think you’re going to do?” I shouted.

  “Mr. Le Moyne, can I have a word with your daughter?”

  “Absolutely not.” My father pushed my arm away, stepping toward him. “You need to leave. Now.”

  “I’m afraid I really do need to speak with Adele. It will only take a minute, I promise.”

  “No.”

  Nicco sucked in a long breath through his nose. “I apologize in advance for this.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or Mac, but then he stepped close to my father and looked him straight in the eye. “Mac, I need to talk to Adele. You’re going to take your coffee into the sitting room and wait for me. Do not fret; no harm will come to her.”

  “It’s okay, Dad,” I said, but it didn’t matter because he was already nodding.

  He walked over to th
e pot of coffee I’d almost thrown at Emilio’s head and topped off his mug.

  Nicco and I watched him leave the room.

  He turned to me, stepping close. His hands slid over my neck. “What are you do—?” I started to ask. “It’s fine.” His touch made me shiver.

  But he didn’t let go until I complied, angling my neck slightly so he could inspect the wound. He brushed away my hair, and I imagined him in Florence, treating people of their seventeenth-century ailments, in the life he never got to have.

  His hands rested at the base of my neck, and he inhaled. I could sense his relief.

  “You’ll be okay, bella.”

  “Grazie,” I said, a near whisper.

  Our eyes locked, and it felt like the last three months hadn’t happened. Like no time had passed at all.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. He didn’t look as gaunt as last night, but he still looked paler than I remembered him being. Then again, maybe I was used to the human Nicco from my dreams. From his dreams.

  He smiled lightly.

  “What?”

  “I knew you would get me out.”

  His smile was impossible not to return, even if only slightly. I nodded, fighting the urge to touch him back. “I’m sorry it took so long. I didn’t kn—”

  “No, è colpa mia. I’m sorry, Adele. If I’d thought for a second Callisto might arrive in town, I would have never left you.” His fingers slid through my hair. “I would have found another way.”

  I nodded again, my hand slipping over his wrist. It all felt like a dream. Him being here in my kitchen. His cool touch on my skin and how much I wanted to pull him closer.

  He tensed. It was slight, but I felt it. The look in his glassy green eyes changed too. Sadness.

  “Adele, I have to do it.” His voice was drenched with sympathy.

  Which made mine sharpen. “You have to do what?”

  “Your father cannot know about my family—or about you. Your magical side. The entire witching world is held together by secrets. The mundane cannot know.” He took my left arm and pushed up my sleeve.

  I gasped.