Making Peace

DEON

HAIL FIDR!

Drone footage reveals a gigantic metallic dome—the size of New Orc—near Blue Mountain National Forest, Faermont. Soldiers keeps onlookers at bay within a fifty-mile radius. The secrecy around piqued curiosity, and magic activity was observed waving in circular motions.

Fidr's Chief of Press explains, "The president wishes to surprise and reward the citizens of Faerhan. The unveiling and ceremony of opening will be announced soon."

Smogal Steambale. "Hail Fidr!" Sirenton Post. June 21.

Status update?

Four p.m., just me and my computer. Around it? My wallet, a tumbler full of water, and my cell, all neatly arranged on the table. I'm staring at my online basket, chewing gum like a hamster on crack, my pointer hovering over a florist's 'pay' button. Can two oversized, fluffy unicorns stuffed in a giant bucket of roses and a word a kid could have written, 'Please, I'm so sorry. Let's be friends again,' change Fay's mind? Hope is what keeps us going, right?

In all cases, I'll keep spoiling her until she submits. She has to. What's sitting in my checkout cart is too cute.

Pay.

And here goes another four hundred for this tree-woman, the last supplier of flowers still active in the city.

I glare at my computer. Yeah, glaring, feeling a little unsettled.

My lips dry. My breathing's in a rush.

Strangeness competes with confusion.

What am I doing in front of my laptop? I drop my head in my hands, shut my eyes, and let what I think is happening pass.

Ah, yes, Fay's flowers.

I stretch my arms up in a tangle of fingers, then brace them behind my neck, trying to keep my shit together.

My blood tests, as anyone can see, didn't go well, or my ass wouldn't be on my bloody chair on a Friday afternoon.

Tyke, you little snitch!

Glow is taking its sweet time to dose out of my bloodstream. I'm growing worried, not because of what stemmed from it—absence seizures where, for a split second, I didn't know where I am—but because if I'm not fit to work by next week, I'll be sent to the Gurnam Swamps. I just know it.

In light of that not-at-all-scary detail, I take a sip of water. I've been trying to hydrate the drug out of my system. It works; I have fewer and fewer seizures with each passing day. But as a result, my bladder is under intense pressure, but it's all good. I've turned toilet runs into a sport.

There's a growl beneath me.

I recorded Tyke groaning and used it as his notification sound. Just now, my phone groaned.

I'm a chill guy.

I'm a chill guy.

I'm a fucking chill guy.

I stare at nothing. It's been a few days since I heard this growl, and if anyone wants to ask, yes, I've noticed a drop in my stress levels.

Guess what? They've just made an all-new high record.

Reluctantly, and with a growing slowness, my gaze slants to the text notification displayed on the screen.

Need to talk. I'll be at your flat in ten minutes.

I hold my breath.

So... I thought the state of my bank account was making me panic. While I'm damn sure the tingling in my limbs comes from plaque building up against my arteries, the walls come closer, and as my chest invades my mouth, my lips hack up a, "Fuck."

I revamped my entire apartment last year. A minor detail, one would say. Oh, love, I can confirm it's not. I kicked off this project as a means to escape my dreary existence, and now everything is about to crash and burn.

Hands sticky, I shut the laptop, leaving a lovely print of fear on its case. And as my nervous eyes dance about my living room, there's this illumination of putting it in a very safe place, like under the couch.

Here's what I see now: my paintings aligned above my sofa. One black-and-white reproduction of Karmen Tyrel, and a fake scribble from Jackson Trollocks—a perfect representation of my mind.

Springing over the sofa—no, hopping all over the place like a rabbit overdosing on coffee—I tell myself, "It's okay. Life is all about living and... dying."

This big guy is going to rip me apart...

No, worse, he'll rip my home apart!

I unhook them all. Sure, I do.

On second thought, I might as well unhook every mirror and object gracing my walls.

After placing my precious items in a closet reserved for brooms, I revolve, inhale, and blow near a spit as I look at the wall fronting my sofa.

I'm very still, perhaps near fainting, but I can't really tell; my heart's having one of those raves. My head is fixated on this big black screen freshly unboxed yesterday, the remote control still bubble-wrapped under it.

I'm not taking bets. I dive down my TV console, and on my hands and knees, I pull on its cables as if it could shut down today.

I wince when the plug leaves a dent on the wall. Take a deep breath, blow a little, and inhale again.

I trip over the rug while racing to the bedroom, lured by this bitch of gravity.

Not today! My tail lifts and wraps around the wall's bend. I am not falling with this seventy-five-inch NEO-Digi beauty screen. My arms are clutched around it and won't submit, though it's a mess of wings as I try sprinting down the corridor, the latter not so cooperative. I thought it was wider!

I sigh loudly. Crab walking was the last thing I imagined doing this afternoon. As my wings scuff along this insanely narrow corridor, I rest the screen against my thigh and catch sight of my watch. Tyke said ten minutes... How long do I have left... to live?!

Relax, he just wants to talk.

No. Orcs don't talk.

Finally, I reach my bedroom and place my precious TV flat on my bed. It won't be long before I'm the next thing down!

No break for me. My heels spin, my tail looping around my waist, unable to catch up. I race to the vault under my living room window that serves as a bench. It's a nice place where the ladies like to talk about their miserable ex-boyfriends over drinks.

I bargained for this chest at the black market under Crooklyn Bridge... A fantastic ebony wooden trunk that apparently, comes from Darfaen, with silver clasps and studs, twirls of this precious metal eating away its sides and over and under its lock. A true collector.

My knees hit the floor, caps kissing the wooden cladding. The lid opens with a beautiful rusty creak, the widening rift as I lift making my eyes lick their rims in wonder.

This is where I stash my liquor, such as Tyke's favorite drink, vodkaria.

Tinkles ring about the bottlenecks as I struggle to find the correct label. Let's see if there's any left. Tyke and I had a party for two a couple of weeks ago, and I know we downed at least three each.

Don't judge; we're heavy beasts.

One bottle stares back at me, prompting a nervous smile. I have one bottle left!

I unscrew the cap of one and bring this heavy fire-starter to my lips, swallowing five sips of courage.

There's a knock.

My head sways to the door with my last gulp, my vision tightening on the handle, and inside, I cry.

Here we go...

Fingers fidget over the bottle, its metallic cap rattling against the glass's sealing surface, and the flat fills with a whine. Maybe two, as I grate my teeth. I snatch six glass shots stacked at the bottom and the vodkaria that goes with it, bring the lid down over the coffer, and slide those peace offerings over the dining table, as I walk to the door. My legs feel like anvils as I unwillingly trail them. I think they know the end is near.

I cough and clear my throat as my terrifying door handle looms in front of me—wrong move. Tyke now knows I'm nervous. He's an accurate nerve detector, maybe even one for guilt, and I'm already losing brownie points.

The door flips between us, uncovering a very crisp, green face, mine joining the movement.

"Tyke," my agony cheers.

Tyke's in an awful state, loose ebony strands cemented in sweat against his face. Could do with a pep talk, maybe? "I see you've combed your hair." I smile like a fucking creep.

He doesn't.

Of course he doesn't.

And everything about me becomes even creepier as I stretch my hand for a handshake that makes no sense.

Let's just say, he doesn't return the gesture.

He comes close to me in two strides. It only takes a fraction of a second for my eyes to catch a glimpse of his day before a firm hand clamps over my throat.

"Deon."

Between lungfuls of misery, I'd say he's in a commando suit. It's a rough day, I presume. Remnants of a nosebleed, hair is disheveled. Little mission gone physical? And it seems he wants to keep it that wa?—

I'm slammed against the wall, and as he walks us in, swept against all its smoothness—Magic... Hell! My face grates against its wonderful-to-the-touch surface, bumping into a switch in aluminum I bought for fifty bucks along the way. A bargain!

"How do..." I really need some air here, "you do, bro?" I gasp.

"Why is it that I want to punch you each time I see you," he says without a trace of effort.

"I've got vodkaria!" I hash out, holding his damn wrist for a pocket of air. "Why don't we unwind like we usually do?" That's a whistle, a thin, thin wail that managed to sneak out from the back of my clenched throat.

"I am unwinding."

Oh, here we go. It's not our first fight, pretty much a guy thing... Nah, maybe more of an orc thing. Anyway, I've got this. "Tyke, I've been keeping it nice and calm." Sending a nice, clean fist in his stomach, Tyke bends over himself.

Me? I'm fine. I'm just breathing hard as I try to figure out how to survive the next orc-fist wave. Eyes flutter to the window. I should run for it, burst through the windowpane, and lash my wings into the open, safe world. Still, as I ponder this, two black eyes, gold glowing ominously out of them, lift on me.

"Did I tell you how beautiful your eyes are? The color... they look like fairy lights at midnight."

"Fairy?" he growls.

Oops, wrong word. I might have been a bit rash on that one.

While soft-talking my way out of this beautiful reunion, I attempt to wrap a tail-made necklace around Tyke's throat.

Wishful thinking! Like lightning, he catches it, now winding it around his hand in a towing motion, making himself a gargoyle bracelet. It's a playdate if you ask me.

"Glad you like them! Might be the last thing you see!" A fist grows in my vision and decks me. Blood leaks out of my nose as my brain spins on itself.

"Customs would want me to make a necklace out of your teeth, the string a peel of your dried guts."

He sends another blow.

I duck, despair screaming out of me as I start moving laterally, hunching like a wrestler... And here comes another one! "My wall!"

"Sorry, I was aiming for your face!"

Tyke apologized, so maybe I should meet him halfway.

"Bro, your grin is making me spin. Any reason for such joy? I really want to be vibing with you right now. This tension is..." My eyes don't register the green forehead springing into mine until it's too late. Free flying across the corridor, I land on, into, and against my table. Let's just say I'm having a blast! "Killing me!" I manage to finish, a procession of chandeliers twirling above my head. And I only have one!

Lungs crushed, I gasp as the ceiling keeps whirling.

A hand snakes around my ankle. "Deon, I have a request."

"Sure. I'm all ears!" I'm clamping both sides of what stands as a table, holding on for dear life as Tyke tugs my leg.

"Great. That's what I like to hear," he grates, yanking me down for a close-up.

I'm squirming like a baby armadillo flung on its back and when my feet touch his thighs, cringing cowardness oozes out of me. "Fuck, bro. Is this your way of settling things!" And I clamp harder as his clench adds pressure on my ankle. I'm at risk of doing a whooping slam against the wall opposite my dining table, and I'm not having it!

I should start making bets because I'm air-born again.

My hands smack against a painting I forgot to unhook, and I put pressure on them because the tips of my horns are dangerously close to scraping the paint. "Tyke, I love wrestling with you—it's an experience like no other—however, I can't keep up financially!"

Tyke's a sadist. With his grip on my skull, he's forcing my horns to impale my frigging wall, painting included! I keep the pressure, my arms trembling from such exertion. "I repeat, I have vodkaria!"

"'You're my best friend, Tyke.' Those were your words!" His clasp at the back of my head forcefully drills my horns into my beautiful piece of art. And now I'm stuck, pushing with both hands to free myself from the plaster and frame.

"And you said in return," I grunt, "'Brothers aren't born from blood!' So I guess we're on the same fucking page!" I succeeded in freeing my forehead, neck, and horn. I spin, and a considerable mass springs forth. I won't be able to witness its progress for long as it smashes into my nose.

In the moment after my vision fades to black, I cup my dripping nose, hunching to ease the pain. My ears, however, have been spared, and those catch a tumbling sentence floating over an orc roar. "She's my girl. There were so many options available to you. Could've whored yourself with any female of New Orc. But no... you had to fuck around with Fayra."

I'm a little offended here, so using my death stare as part of my defense, I joust back... with words, cause, hey, it's Tyke. "Again, I had no idea. You're so secretive about your private life. How was I supposed to know?"

He's puffing about, his fists balled up like two solid stones. "You are the reason I'm so secretive. You run off at the mouth, you can't keep a fucking story to yourself! Think I was gonna tell you I was seeing a fairy?"

"I... What!? You are the most muted person I've ever met. Thank god I talk because your presence is as lively as a stone!"

I squint for a second. One of Tyke's tusks is laced with blood. I don't remember punching him in the face...

"And then you attacked her."

"It was Glow! Oh, and thanks for selling me out, by the way! What a friend."

"You think I'm going to entrust my life in the hands of a junkie?"

Junkie?!

"And you think me in the hands of a snitch?"

Tyke grows in size, or am I shrinking?

Sweet life, stay with me!

My gum flying out of my mouth, legs battling, wood shattering, and a stinging pain bloating in my head all happens at once... It's all about staying conscious since I'm the best at taking hits. Maybe I should call for a ceasefire, given that my heart is tightening. "Bro. Please, let's make peace." On a bed of chaos, or is it my floor, I'm begging for mercy, the taste of metal dancing in my mouth.

He's so much taller from where I am. "I don't know, Deon. I'm at a crossroads with you!" This damn asshole goes into full psychopathic wrath mode. He seizes one of my horns, his mighty foot taking a feral push against my chest as it feels like I'm being beheaded.

"I'll do anything for you. Anything! I've been trying so hard to make amends! Drinking water like crazy, staying away from my shit, broke from sending Fay gifts, flowers..."

He pauses. Suitable seconds for taking three breaths without any disturbance.

But then...

His mighty orc energy returns. While splinting a part of my skull, a horn in his fucking massive, murderous hand, this monster groans coyly, "You can do better!"

"I will! I can!"

I shut my lungs, watching Tyke move off me, and my eyes expand when I recognize what he's holding in his grasp like it's a trophy?—

My horn!

As I gather myself, black blood smearing my brand-new tiles, my hands naturally slip twice on my fluids. I bang my head against the floor and, it hurts to say, break my last orc-handled horn. And now I'm pretty sure I look like a fucking goat. "I'll try harder!" I squeak.

I flip myself over and bring an arm as a reflex to brace for a blow. But my eye muses over an arm stretching toward me. "Harder?"

The things I say make me cringe. "Harder!" I yelp, trusting a hand in his.

"You want to win my trust back?" he asks, helping me back on my shaky legs.

"Tyke, I swear, I didn't know it was your girl!"

Damp with sweat, Tyke's face is melting like a snowflake, his breath catching unusually, a twinkle in his eyes like that of a beggar.

I think I might know what is going on, more or less, at this stage: Fayra is a fae, and the investigation is undeniably taking a toll on him. Plus, Tyke isn't a social animal by nature, counting his friends on one finger. I guess that makes me the only digit...

"Answer!" Geez, his tusks. I'm a bladder poke from wetting my pants.

"Bro, Glow fucked me bad!" I repeat.

"Do. You. Want. To. Win. Back. My. Trust?" he grits.

"I don't remember what happened, Tyke. I swear!" I do very much fucking swear, by the way!

"Do you?!"

I believed he'd finished whacking me. False alarm!

Tyke's a grabber, because here goes my already well-broken horn. He seizes what's left of it, feeling my skull splitting under my scalp.

"I do!" I roar.

"Full sentence, Deon."

The more he yanks at it, the harder he tugs at my life thread, and this one is rapidly shriveling. "Whatever it takes, brother."

Tyke grabs me by the neck and picks me up like I am nothing, holding me high in his clasp. It doesn't matter how much of a big guy I am in the face of an emotional machine of destruction. He is ruthless. "Now that you near fucked the ongoing investigation, thanks to your blood tests, I'm guessing you've got some free time ahead of you." His words strike right where it hurts the most—my incapacity to play hooky.

He then proceeds with a sneer only a confident bastard could pull off. "You may be suspended from the case until you're clean again..." Tyke's words are flying like bullets. On the other hand, mine are dying in my throat, choking in spats. "But that doesn't mean you're off duty. I've got work for you. You'll watch over the puppy and Fayra while I'm in Los Demones."

I want to keep my nose unbroken, so I breathe harshly, "Yeah, man. I'll keep an eye on your dog... dogs? And Fay."

I hit the floor, which feels like it hit me first, and cough a year's worth of cigarettes, my throat having served as an orc's stress-relief ball.

Gathering myself in the fetal position, I try catching my breath, thinking how thankful I am for it to still be there, and stare at the dining set. Their appearance is nothing more than a haphazard heap of giant matches spilled from their box...

"Mind if I sit?" The corner of my eye flickers to Tyke, crouching beside me. He stretches a leg forward, breaking the other, resting his wrists on his knee. A habit.

He's fidgeting with his fingers, his gaze fixed on his faraway foot.

Tyke's gaze catches mine, and my nostrils flare. Because hey, you never know if he's gonna start another assassination attempt, right? "Still have that vodkaria you keep squeaking about?"

My black-stained teeth smile as I pick up a miraculous bottle rolling next to me. "Yeah," I say, spitting blood to the side. Finally, we come to terms...

I'm just gonna offer him the bottle, too exhausted to get up and find the little shot glasses that must have either shattered or rolled in some preserved corner of my flat.

He takes the bottle and brings it to his lips, drinking as if he hadn't had a drop of water for days... Fuck, I hope they mended his flat's water issues.

In between two sips, Tyke smirks. "I'm okay."

"You're okay?" I paraphrase. It's all I'm capable of doing.

"You asked me, how do you do? And I say, I'm okay."

I snigger. "Ah, thank gods. You got me scared. You truly look like shit."

Tyke smirks. "Not as much as you do."

I stall on blood clogging at his left eyebrow, looming to drip. "What happened?"

Tyke inhales and stares back at his feet, a red drop falling on his lashes, some filtering across it to run down his cheek.

Silence creeps between us, and I frown.

Quietness is eating away at his smile and the corners of Tyke's lips drop. "Some people at the entrance of your building didn't like my skin color. Or was it my tusks?"

"Still down there?"

"Probably."

"You want us to spend some time with them? We could crack jokes and other stuff, like bones."

"Nah, I cracked enough today."

I place an arm behind his neck and tug hard. "Hey, bro, your defeated face is causing your dad to bang against the walls of his resting place."

Tyke growls slightly.

I want to tell him I hate seeing his kind go through this, to witness injustice so close, daring nothing but a street fight.

"Don't think much. These bastards have been taught to think that way, it doesn't stem from them. They'll wake up; they always do. And if not them, their little spawn."

We chuckle.

If only making peace with Fayra was that easy.

But for women, it's a century-long war campaign. They need heads on a platter, diamonds from the deepest mines, and liters of blood we have to exsanguinate from ourselves...

"I need to talk."

"Back there wasn't talking?" I ask, baring my teeth at him in a semblance of a smile, mostly feeling the taste of blood rising in my throat.

"No." Tyke's always been a monster of few words. Needless to say, I'm about to initiate a conversation for two.

I glimpse at him, then refocus on my knees. "You want me to start."

"Yes."

If that's the case, maybe it's time to apologize for the ninety-ninth time. "My brother..." A pause passes between us. A frustrated desire to make amends is taking a backseat to my concern over Tyke, who seems oblivious to how ashamed I am.

What can I say?

'My brother, I've been having visions of shooting myself lately?'

No.

'My brother, I will forever be your humble servitor. I'll become your personal bitch. Ask, and I will obey.'

Am I out of my right mind?

I glare at a green hand and the bottle it's holding, appearing in front of my face. Tyke knows I need assistance.

Grabbing its neck, I clear my throat and spit to the side, splattering black blood on my parquet. Who cares? My place is in shambles, anyway.

"Lost a few teeth?" he asks with a head scratch. Is that guilt I detect? I never would have thought Tyke could show regret after a punch, but I guess I'm still his best friend, after all.

''Nah. It'll take a giant to even knock one off." Well... maybe he fractured one.

Silence slams into us.

He's waiting for me to talk.

It's immediate. I spew out what I have, should, and need to get off my chest. "I can't go back. Can't stop making the wrong decisions." Frustration daggers my insides. I wish I wasn't that idiot. If I could just stay away from alcohol and narcotics... How did this evening go from idle to chaotic so quickly? A question that won't change the fact that we're here now. "I've always tried to do what's right. And that incident... It's not a setback; it's a toss straight into hell. I've lost my honor with this mistake." Then I gulp five sips in a row for my own desperate benefit. I do well because my monologue is left hanging in the air, packed with enough shame to strangle me.

"Take it back," Tyke mumbles monotonously, the vibration of his voice waving into my shoulder. I always attach importance to context and tone, but not with Tyke. The tempo ain't never really here. But from how he squeezes his fingers and looks at my perfectly installed wall skirting, I can tell he wants to comfort me.

"My honor?" I scoff, raising the bottle and flooding my mouth with more.

Tyke takes a significant intake of air, and the sound hits me sideways like a four-by-four. I grimace. Tyke taking a deep breath is never a good sign. He's either lost his patience or is nervous. In all cases, fists are flung most of the time. "Listen, Deon. Fay and I..." Tyke shifts against the wall, emanating discomfort as if the surface he's leaning against is sunbaking asphalt. "The two of us are something now. She wants me." He drops a hand on my thigh, and by how he's compressing the flesh, it's not out of affection. "She wants me and no one else." His tusks are rubbing as his mouth sets in. I'm not going to fight him for a one-off fling. I adore Fay, but she's not the girl I'll die for. Certainly not when Tyke is eying me like I have no choice but to say, "Gotcha," while winking, guts no longer churning but knotted.

And then I freeze when, "I've seen the footage, by the way," crackles heavily into my right ear. I take another sip. My body is having one of those days. It's a lukewarm porridge of bones and muscles that's been heated, flash-frozen, and defrosted. Inedible.

The bottle clanks on the floor as I place it beside me. The feeling of blanking out is one of the most debilitating feelings in the world. Not knowing what happened, and the gravity of one's actions is an evil feeling.

Still, until now, I didn't want to dig deeper because, if it's what I think happened, I may as well ask Tyke for a clean shot to the head. And I'm sure he'd agree.

I'm hesitating, my toes wriggling as I fidget with the thumb of my wing, unsure whether I should find out how much of a screw-up I am.

And fuck, I need to know. Oh, what a beautiful afternoon it is to die. "Tell me what happened? Did I, um..."

Tyke clears his throat while his stare deepens. His grab is still on my thigh and currently feels like an orange pressing machine, except it's about to extract gargoyle juice. "Nothing happened." He then flashes a disturbing, unfelt grin at me. "You wouldn't be here otherwise."

My mouth blows, my smile turns to a cough, and all at once, I deflate.

"She blasted you, sending your ass into a dumpster before you could've dared soil her."

Thank fucking heavens! Never felt so happy to hear a chick beat my ass... Though I'm puzzled about where exactly the blast came from... Fay's magic ain't what I call functioning.

Finally, we fall into a pleasant silence, and even Tyke's clench relaxes.

I soak it in. "You're going to end up killing me with your mood swings, lad." With the back of my hand, I slap his chest, and we snigger.

"Deon, it would take an army to take you down." He's got a point; I'm a resilient being...

"The footage, though. Something bothers me about it," he says, dabbing at my bubble of peace.

"What did you see?" I'm glaring at the ether, my tail snaking around my waist for a hug. "Aside from... you know?"

"Her magic. It wasn't some silly spark." He turns a little, and we're eye to eye. "Her wings shot out something like a dirty bomb. The flare... it was powerful."

I scratch my head. The magic of the fae are inherited from their parents, taking either from the mother or father. "Her mom's probably a Light Fairy."

"No. According to Fay, she's an elemental, something to do with earth and plants." He takes the bottle back. "Maybe the chief's got something? Never saw his powers."

I snigger wildly. "I know what Fay's father's capable of, bro. I saw it once, before magic was banned."

I shouldn't have left my nerves laughing loose because Tyke's jaws flex aggressively. "Tell me more."

"I'd just joined the force and was witnessing a real interrogation session for the first time. You know, a black site one."

"Hidden location?"

"Yeah. We had no evidence to keep the suspect in-house. Without official papers, we had to go rogue. At that time, the chief still operated in the field."

"Was Fay there?"

"No. Likely, she was still studying at that time."

Tyke simpers, a timid smile running away from his face, and then gruffs up at once. "So what's the story?"

"We knew the suspect was guilty. And the gravity of his crimes left us no choice. A robbery gone wrong; it turned out to be some ugly bloodbath. In this case, it was the first time the Blood Wringers clan was mentioned. So the suspect was taken to a black site."

I give him back the bottle, and this time, he waves at me in negation.

"Had it something to do with light?"

"Yes and no." I swirl my tongue a few times. I saw it. It was something I once saw during the war—the same shit that could decimate an entire village. The worst powers... "We were in an abandoned underground parking lot, sealed off from the public."

My head slowly twists toward Tyke, highlighting how bad this is. "He forced a stare upon the suspect, clamping his cheeks tight, shouting, 'Look at me.' Jinksovan's grin was vile, curling up like a maniac. Five seconds of creepy eye contact passed before the entire place suddenly turned dark. A cliff appeared a bloody inch from our feet, with hot, purple magma bubbling below."

There is a twitch in my eyes, and I'm sure I'm beet-red from those feelings of fear still freshly printed in my mind. I tell ya, this shit is trauma-inducing!

"Don't ogle me like that. Continue," snaps Tyke.

"At first, I thought it was a light-bending ability; you know, the sort to trick you into seeing what the caster wants you to see. But it wasn't that. It was some kind of mental torture. The chief tapped into the suspect's worst fears, pulled them out, and projected them."

I shake my head. The suspect's screams still haunt me up until today. "I only saw two fae do this in my lifetime, and one died under my spear during the war. He was that close to snapping the dread out of me," I say, my thumb and fingertip at a thread's hair from touching. "'Show me your eyes,' he'd murmured before my lance shot up his chin."

"Could fae possess such powers?"

Probably out of nervousness or ache, I brush my scalp. I am fascinated with monsterkind creatures, always have been, but my knowledge may not end this conversation well. Wincing from a detected gash at the birth of my neck, I hiss, "Some of Fidr's dead court did. The Knights of Burmstone House. Dreamwreckers; a selected bloodline chosen to protect the royal family with their lives."

"Jinksovan is a knight? Thought they all died during Fidr's Royal Purge. Were they not traitors?"

"Not sure if he's one or if 'traitors' is the backbone word that really describes this event. But yes, they are supposed to be all dead..." Then something comes to mind, and I laugh. "Honestly, anyone can have those powers—the royal family line was a scam."

"What do you mean?"

"Fidr's father was a cock on legs, as well as his own father. They sired so many bastards. Stories like twenty-three of them. They sure loved their maids. Their offspring bore blooming and rooting abilities, just like common fae, some with moth wings, others with ice and snow, and all the powers of the rainbow, a real magic fest."

Tyke's eyes bulge. "Fidr might not have been the rightful heir."

I stop his wishful thinking with a raised hand. "No, her mother died at birth. In all cases, these bastard children were removed from Burmstone. No crowned head wants scandals like that. All they cared about was their thick bloodline, fostering the Evariss power. That's what mattered to them."

"Evariss? What's that?" he asks with a tilt.

"You don't know? Purebloods can make little portals—tiny doors from unknown dimensions—appear. Out of them comes whatever lingers in the depths of their minds. However, this aristocratic family no longer exists, aside from Fidr. Maybe that cunt knows there are still fae out there who might hold this dangerous ability and is trying to identify them with her stupid C-level classification. Keeping a close eye on the fae population, should the Evariss power pop out all of a sudden. I'd bet my wings on it. Nothing she does is without a reason..."

"Is it possible Fay could've been adopted?" Tyke's voice comes out so low, and if I have to be real for a minute, I'd love to lie right now. The thing is, I can't—it's biological. And fuck, Tyke's so emotionally invested with the chick it hurts to see. But an explosion of magic has nothing to do with mind-bending games or roots... For anyone interested, the Jinksovans have always been fishy to me, and I leave fishy things alone, except for mermaids. Mermaids are gorgeous.

Thus, I try not to let my doubts get to me while scrambling around the truth. Keep it simple, Deon. The truth is the truth, no matter how generic it might be. "Fae could descend from many ancestors." That's true. "Perhaps some power jumped a generation." It's certainly possible. "The same goes for Chief Jinksovan. If rumors are right about the royals of Burmstone, the whole thing was group plays, only without the spouses." Considering how far that information traveled, I doubt I'm wrong. "Don't think much. Fay's just a small-town girl from a small-town family." You can't get more representative than that.

Tyke grunts, but doesn't say much after that.

The pressure of this exchange crinkles inside my head, bursting to release my repressed opinion.

Time to change the topic. I tap my shoulder against his. "So what's next?"

Tyke shrugs. "Spending the last days with Fay before leaving for Los Demones."

"With the squad? Is it linked with the fae murders?"

"Yes, but I'm being sent alone."

"Alone?"

He nods. "The city's exploding with violence." He laces his hands behind his head, which drops low at his nape as he elbows his knees, his voice shuddering with each word. "Something bad is about to happen... it's just a matter of time. I can sense it."

I listen to his heavy breathing, and my lips quiver, witnessing the rock I've been leaning on crumble beside me. "It won't."

A stiff look flashes across his face, and I tilt my head back. "There are talks about closing the police centrals. We might be asked by the military to serve..."

Closing the centrals? Military? I'm not good with infantry. Working in pairs is more my thing—no thanks to a whole batch of fae shitheads. "And you know what?" Tyke hooks a firm clench of digits around my wrist, his gaze burning into mine.

I try holding his gaze, struggling not to flinch, but the seriousness of it all takes hold of me, and I buckle under the weight. I keep listening, flexing my jaws and grinding my teeth as I focus on the floor between my gathered legs. "When this happens, I want out of New Orc with my hand in Fay's."

His grip loosens, and I trace the movement of his hand, soon accompanied by another.

I notice them rubbing up his thighs, over the kneecaps, then back down, repeating the motion.

He's losing it. "There's more." Then, calmer, almost too composed, but with an apprehensive hesitation that always comes with a dry voice, he says, "We were at a club. And this Vym guy was there, watching Fay like a creep."

"Everyone watches Fayra like a creep." I hiss out a breath when I realize what I said. "Not everyone... just you." I inwardly recoil. Tyke doesn't smile at my failed attempt to save grace. "Nobody watches Fay like a creep aside from... Vym."

"Bloody hell, Deon, just stop." Tyke palms my right cheek and stirs me away gently. Sit back, relax, and listen. Friendship is back, and it feels like I've been cleansed of my sins for a moment. "His eyes were fixed on Fay as if she'd become his next target. It felt predatory."

I close my eyes, heaviness filling my thoracic cavity. How many months have we been on this case? Six? Eight? Vym is dangerous; he's dodgy, loaded. Corrupted... Perhaps he murdered a few fae, maybe a hundred. "Tyke, I told you already. You go to Los Demones, and I'll watch over her closely. You have my word."

The next thing Tyke does is take out a commando dagger and carve a red smile into his right palm. "Swear to me," he says, handing me his bloodied knife.

"A blood oath? Seriously!?"

"Swear."

That's not necessary, but all right. I take Tyke's knife and make a cut in my left hand. Soon, Tyke slams his hand in mine, and a network of blood flows between our joined grips, drips of it, adding another taint of biological paint on my floor.

"I think I need to call a cleaning company," I joke.

The ghost of a smile ripples across Tyke's face. "Thanks."