Chapter 19

CHAPTER19

Ilook down at my feet. There’s a tiny drop on the next stair up, another two on the step after that.

Ediye.

Panic surges through the chambers of my heart as we rush up the stairs. We reach the landing of Mr. Hassan’s where his apartment takes up the whole floor. The door is ajar. Ashen pushes it open with his elbow, the motorcycle helmet still clutched in his hand like a club, his dagger in the other.

The small foyer gives way to the long, narrow living room. Afternoon light filters through the shifting dust motes, glinting off the shattered glass of a cabinet. Broken vials and potions lay in a pool of blood next to Ediye’s motionless legs.

“No—”

The word is little more than a strangled whisper as I rush past Ashen and drop to Ediye’s side. Her dark hair obscures her face, matted with glistening blood that streams from a wide gash. She’s still breathing, thank all the silent gods. I brush her hair back from her eyes, but they’re closed. Each breath is shallow. Her heart is weak behind her bones.

“Ediye, oh my God. Ediye,” I whisper, tears flooding my vision as I lean close to her face. She doesn’t stir. Ashen passes me, heading further into the apartment as he calls Mr. Hassan’s name. I’m biting deep into my wrist to pour my blood into Ediye’s head wound when I hear Ashen curse from the kitchen. I know in an instant that he’s found the old man.

“Ammon,” Ashen says, his voice low. I glance over my shoulder and see the old man’s feet at the entrance to his kitchen, one of his slippers lying next to his unmoving sole. I let out a sob and turn back to Ediye, watching my thick blood drip into her wound.

“Don’t leave me, Ediye. Please,” I beg, leaning my head down to watch her closed eyes for any flicker of movement. Her sage scent mixes with her sweet crimson blood. My heart feels like it’s splitting open and leaking through my eyes, through my wrist. It’s melting through my stomach, burning my insides, closing my throat. She looks so peaceful, slipping away in front of me with every shallow breath.

But I won’t let it happen. I can’t.

I start to chant a spell. “Pa azaggi enna su zaggin,” I whisper as Ashen drops to his knees across from me. He moves my arm away to press tea towels to the wound and staunch the bleeding. He takes my bloody hand and squeezes. And then we chant together. Pa azaggi enna su zaggin. Igimu gimbama betum durisutiis.

We’re repeating our spell, our eyes closed, Ediye’s weak heartbeat growing just a little stronger. I’m so focused on the cadence of her breathing that it takes me a moment to notice.

Voices. From the stairway.

A sharp breath fills my chest and Ashen’s eyes snap open, meeting mine. He pulls me up and we rush to the front door, standing just behind it.

Footsteps. Two pairs. A man’s voice. “...sure that he will have it?”

Then a woman’s, closer. “If anyone does, he will.”

I look at Ashen and hold up two fingers. He nods and we exchange a dark glance as he pulls me behind him. It’s a look that says we could be fucked, but we’ll work together. We’ll fight together.

There’s a scuff of shoes on the stairs below. “Wynter,” the man says in warning. There’s a brief moment of silence, and then the lighter footsteps are flying up the stairs, the heavier ones following behind. “Wynter! Stop, Wyn!”

A young woman bursts through the door in a blur of silver hair and a long, flower print dress that billows as Ashen pulls her into the apartment by the wrist. He spins her around, the twist of their bodies as elegant as a dance. She yelps in surprise as Ashen pins her to the wall with his blade to her neck and his hand clamped across her mouth. A breath later a man surges through the door. My palm is waiting for his forehead, and he lurches to a halt as I send his mind into darkness, following him into his thoughts

There’s panic. Fear. Anger and confusion. And one word. Just one word, over and over and over, like blinding, flashing lights.

Wyn. Wyn. Wyn.

His mind is a fractured place with missing history. There are gaps and blank spaces, like parts have been stripped away, leaving scars in his thoughts and recollections. And in the place of missing pieces there’s something hidden, like a box. Secret even from him. Something that shouldn’t be there. Something stored away in shadow. There’s no pathway to it. No memory. It should be impossible for a vampire to lose memory, to have such gaps and hidden things with no way to find them. I want to open this secret chest, but I’m afraid of what I would unleash. I’m reaching to touch it when a voice pulls me away. I blink and realize it’s Ashen, calling my name. His voice is barely audible over the desperate plea from the man in my grasp.

“Wyn! Wyn, where are you? Wynter, answer me. Wyn!”

I look at the face of the vampire whose cool skin grows warmer with panic beneath my palm. He’s tall, beautiful. Grey, almond-shaped eyes are set in rich, medium brown skin. His thick, black hair is cut close on the sides, with a slight wave in the longer top. His strong jaw grits with fury. He’s powerfully built and could probably subdue me if I didn’t have the advantage of my touch, but I’ve got his mind convinced that he’s bound to a pole. He strains his muscular arms behind him as though trying to wrench himself free.

Ashen’s gaze collides with mine. We both look to the woman whose neck shudders against his blade, her eyes wide as she looks between us and over to her companion. He calls her name again and her lashes press closed, glistening with tears.

“Calm him down. I’ll make sure he can hear you,” I say to her, and Ashen waits until she gives a shaky nod before he peels his hand away from her mouth.

“Roman, I’m here. It’s okay-”

“Wyn—”

“Everything’s okay, Roman. Just stay calm.”

“Wynter—”

“Okay, we’re getting nowhere with him,” I say, adding a gag to his imagination and closing off his hearing. He fights against the new restraint, but at least he’s quiet. I turn my attention back to the woman. She’s shaking and afraid, but I can see the fierce calculations at work behind her eyes as she tries to think her way out of her predicament. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I thought that would be apparent by now. I’m Wynter. I’m an apothecary.”

I smirk at her sass. Ashen is feeling much less welcoming. His rage ripples beneath my skin as a cloud of smoke erupts from his back and drifts to the floor, filling the foyer. Wynter’s eyes widen as she realizes exactly what he is. A Reaper.

“Mind your words. You are speaking to the Queen of the Shadow Realm.”

Wynter and I may be two different kinds of immortal, but we are both fluent in silent womanspeak.

Wynter’s eyes flick down to the bloody knees of my jeans before meeting my gaze. A little crease appears between her brows. You? Queen of the Shadow Realm?

I shrug one shoulder. Yeah, I know, right? Shit’s wild. But here we are.

Wynter’s eyes narrow. Last time I checked, they had a reclusive dickhead with an obsession for shrunken heads running the show with his witchy Reaper side piece.

Okay, so I doubt Wynter would say it exactly like that, but it’s the gist of it, I swear. To which the fierce red gleam in my eyes and the wicked curve at one side of my lips in a fang-laced smile says, Yeah, that’s right. And I killed them for it. So maybe you should play nice.

Wynter swallows beneath the sharp edge of the blade. Her eyes dart to my hand over the forehead of her struggling companion in one last, suspicious squint. You’re a vampire?.. But I thought—

“Like I said,” Ashen warns, interrupting us. He presses the blade harder against Wynter’s skin. Her throat tightens as she tries to escape the pain of the sharpened steel. “Mind your words, including the ones you dare not speak aloud. Insult my wife one more time and I will slit your throat. I don’t give a fuck what your Guild of Gilgamesh has to say about it. Now tell us why you are here.”

Wynter swallows audibly, but her gaze doesn’t waiver from Ashen’s. “I’m here to see Ammon. I need epiphyllum oxypetallum and recommendations for a witch, a trustworthy Healer.”

“When was the last time you saw Ammon Hassan?” I ask.

“A m-month ago. Why?” Ashen and I glance at one another and back to Wynter, her gaze flicking between us as rising panic filters into her expression. Her eyes well with tears. “Why? Where is he? Why are you here?”

A fist of emotions tightens around my throat as I fight to not look away from the distress rising in her eyes. “Mr. Hassan was going to come with us to the Shadow Realm to replace our Resurrectionist. We were with him just an hour ago. He was gathering supplies with our friend. We just got here, the door was ajar...”

“Where is he?” Wynter asks again. Her voice is thin and unsteady, like a ribbon twisting in the wind.

I look at Ashen and give him a nod. His head bobs once in reply and he lowers his blade, pulling back the smoke that fills the space around us. He steps to the side and gestures with his hand to the apartment, his expression solemn.

Wynter rubs her neck where a pink line rests, darting a fierce glare at Ashen before she turns her focus to the room ahead. Her steps falter as she sees the blood and the broken vials and Ediye’s crumpled form on the floor. She shoots us a worried glance over her shoulder, her flats crunching through the shattered glass as Ashen follows to bend and check on Ediye.

“Stable,” is all he says, but his expression is grim with warning. We can’t linger, he conveys with a glance, then stands.

Wynter continues further into the room. A horrified gasp seizes the silence and flees her lungs in a keening wail. She rushes out of view toward the body of the elderly apothecary, already weeping in a sound that splits my soul with its notes of desperate loss.

“Sheshama,” she pleads. Ashen and I exchange a fleeting, weighted glance. Uncle. “Wake up, sheshama.”

I watch for a moment as Ashen stands where I can see him, observing Wynter’s distress in the kitchen with a look of helplessness hidden deep beneath his distrust. Wynter’s sobs echo through the room. She needs someone. I look up at my palm, to the man who desperately strains beneath my touch in the prison of his own mind.

“Don’t make me regret this,” I say, letting him hear my voice. He startles but thinks on my words for only a moment before he calms his struggle. His breath comes in pants, his scent enlivening the space between us. It’s salt and woodsmoke and something tropical, a hint of ripe fruit in the sun. An undercurrent of sulfur. Fear. But in his mind, I don’t sense fear for himself. I only see it tied to one word, heavy as an anchor. Wyn. “I’m taking you to her. She needs you.”

The vampire gives a shaky nod, and I pull him forward with my free hand, keeping him blind to me and his surroundings. We crunch across the broken glass, the shards sliding through the sticky blood. I stop when we reach the entrance to the kitchen. There is a Reaper here, I whisper in his mind. He stiffens beneath my hand. If you attack, he will kill you. Just go to Wynter.

The vampire swallows and I remove my hand, darting backward as though releasing a venomous snake. He blinks with confusion and I watch his eyes fall on Wynter, her willowy frame draped over Mr. Hassan’s body as she begs him to come back to life. The vampire’s face crumples for just a moment, and then he drops to her side, wrapping his big arms around her and turning her away from the cooling body on the floor.

I glance at Ashen and hear a groan behind me. Ediye’s limbs move slowly across the broken glass.

“Just stay still, Ediye. We’ll look after you,” I say, rushing to her side to press the towels back down on the wound.

“Who are you?” the vampire asks from behind me.

“Who are you?” Ashen counters.

“Roman,” the vampire says after a long pause. “Roman Bolosan.”

“Our injured friend is a witch. Ediye. I am Ashen of House Urbigu. And that is my wife, Leucosia of Anthemoessa, Queen of the Shadow Realm,” Ashen says. I feel his pride warm the blue lines in my chest, twinkling the gold in the crescent moon. I meet Ashen’s eyes through the shafts of light and swirling curls of dust. His pride is another demon, at least in the psalms of humankind. But to me, Ashen’s pride is a bright star in his darkness, its light reaching through centuries, barreling past obstacles, slicing through shadow. It’s something Ashen owns, something he cherishes. His love is his most precious art, his pride like a sculpture that shouts that love into the world, and how it could be a sin is beyond my comprehension.

My eyes are still fused with Ashen’s when I notice the slow beat of Roman’s vampire heart stutter in his chest. “Leucosia?.. My maker is Cassian Agnello. But…he said you were dead. Does he know you’re alive?”

I swallow another swell of pain that climbs my throat. “Yes,” is all I can manage to whisper.

Wynter sniffles and garbles something inaudible as Roman tries to soothe her. I catch only a few words in his low, strained rumble. Original sirens. Safe with her. My gaze doesn’t leave Ashen’s as I sink beneath the untruths in Roman’s whispers, the evidence of it right there in the cooling corpse at their side. I press my lips together and a tear slides down my cheek as Ashen’s blade lowers at his side, his face and shoulders falling as he takes a step toward me.

Ediye stirs beneath my hand. I lift the towels and the gash is still bleeding, though the flow has slowed. My palm pushes the saturated cloth down on the cut and I lean in close. Her limbs rake over the floor as though she’s taking languid strokes in a calm sea.

“Lie still, Ediye,” I say.

“Nnnnnn. Nnmm. Luuuuu,” she groans from the floor, her eyes fluttering but still closed.

I glance over my shoulder at Ashen before putting the full weight of my other palm to Ediye’s shoulder, trying to keep her down and calm. I don’t want to creep into her mind, afraid of the damage I could cause just trying to keep her still. “It’s okay, Ediye. I’m right here. You’re safe now.”

Ediye’s eyes crack open. Her unfocused pupils graze across my face with increasing pain and alarm. “Luuuu,” she whispers, her tongue caught around the consonant, the air in her lungs pausing on the vowel.

“That’s right, you badass bitch. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Ediye’s expression is not reassured.

Not in the least.

Panic takes over her eyes. A single star of her power winks its light at me before falling into darkness.

I already know what she’s going to say before she says it.

“R-run, Lu,” Ediye whispers, bracing against the pain as her hand finds mine. She tries to push me away. “Nnn. Nephilimmm. C-coming b-back.”