Chapter 43

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

H ours later, my body is aching in the best of ways.

I'm lying on the keeper's chest, my upper leg hooked over his hips, my fingers tracing his side.

Many times, I thought to stop, to conserve his energy, but each time, he pulled me back to him with a need I couldn't deny.

Now, his breathing is deep, his eyes half-closed.

I don't want to break the contact, don't want this quiet to end, but my body needs to be taken care of.

"I'm going to the bathroom," I whisper to him, pressing a kiss to his lips before I shimmy out of his arms.

"Okay."

The rush of liquid between my legs is a new experience for me. I've made good use of the sheets multiple times over the last few hours. Now, too, I tear a few strips off the edge of the top sheet and wipe my thighs before I head to the bathroom to wash and pee.

When I return, the keeper's eyes are barely open. He's lying half under the sheet, half on top of it, his tall, muscular frame taking up more of the bed than I realized when I was so close to him.

"I didn't want to close my eyes until you got back," he rumbles softly.

I adjust the sheet so I can slip under it with him, nestling against his side and resting my head on his shoulder. Some of the mattress was torn up by the edges of my feathers, but I ignore the ragged bits.

"It's okay," I whisper. "Sleep now."

By the time I've stopped speaking, his eyes are already closed. Within seconds, he seems to be fast asleep.

Of course, there have been times when I thought he was asleep and he wasn't, so I wait a few moments before I whisper, "Keeper?"

He doesn't reply. His breathing remains deep.

It's just as well.

He wouldn't let me do what I'm about to do. Not alone, anyway.

It's a good thing my pack isn't here yet. They wouldn't let me go alone, either. By the time they get here, I'll be long gone and they won't know to where.

They won't be able to find me, and that's how I need things to be.

James wasn't wrong.

If I fight my battles with the keeper at my side, or my pack backing me up, then my enemies—my real enemies—will think that I'm weak.

I can't be seen as a feeble leader with a strong army, because then my adversaries will believe I'm nothing without that army. They will seek to destroy that army. And if I reveal how much my pack means to me, they'll seek to hurt me by hurting my pack.

As true as all that is, I need to prove the opposite.

I protect my pack.

Not the other way around.

I watch the keeper sleep for another long moment, afraid that his wounds might reappear now.

I'm not frightened to see them. They have to be faced. But I'm worried they'll be worse than they were before.

Finally, I force myself to rise, move into the dressing room, and consider my clothing choices.

I opt for simple jeans and a snug, sleeveless shirt. Both black—not that there's really any other color choice. I find a new pair of boots, ankle-length, which are easy to walk in.

Then, I face the shelf containing my treasures. All my various blindfolds. My feathers. The jewelry box containing the torn-out page my mother left for me.

When I first looked on that page, it contained a picture of a family that never existed: my father, his black wings extended protectively around my mother, who was holding a baby in her arms.

They loved each other.

Now, I leave that memory locked up in the box because that's where it belongs, put away in the dark.

I reach for my mother's old shirt. It's so tattered and threadbare that it barely takes up any space.

I swore I wouldn't retrieve this material until I avenged my mother, but I need her with me now. I need the strength of my memories of her. Just as I will take with me the knowledge of her final moments.

I tie the old shirt around my eyes, tucking it in tightly around my head. It isn't the most elegant look, but the aged weave is still the perfect protection for my eyes while allowing me to use my strong eyesight to see clearly.

Then I reach for the thick, black sash I took from the angels' stronghold. A place called ‘the Cathedral'. I use it like a belt, hooking it through the loops at the waistband of my jeans.

It feels fitting to take it with me, since there is certainly a part of me that is an angel, even though there is a larger part of me that is a wolf.

Finally, I take my two feathers, using the angel's sash to tie them securely at my waist.

My father can kill me with these feathers. It could be reckless to take them with me, but they'll also be a temptation I'm certain he won't be able to resist.

I can draw him in closer this way. Close enough to use my claws.

Satisfied that I'm ready, I check the time. Enough to arrive when I need to.

As quietly as I can, I creep past the keeper, pausing only at the bedroom door.

I close my eyes, unable to turn back now.

I tell myself I have time to save him. He said he could hold on for another day, and I've only used up a third of it.

Vengeance will heal my heart.

It has to.

With that thought, I continue on, reaching the outer door and slipping as quietly as I can through it, stopping in the corridor outside to listen in case the keeper woke up.

My senses tell me he's still sleeping deeply.

I turn and hurry away.

Vines and flowers cover the tavern's front wall, the scent sweet and cloying.

The vines reek of magic. Halle's magic, to be precise. I recognize it now from the slightly charred threads that extend along the length of each vine, along with the vaguely charcoal hue at the center of each flower. Marks of Halle's power.

She is a contradiction of death and life, and so are her vines.

I approach the tavern door cautiously, remaining aware of the supernaturals I've already identified standing guard at points nearby. Mom taught me how to identify the energy around supernaturals to determine their species, even if they're in a completely humanoid form.

When I first emerged from my cage, I was putting my knowledge to the test, but now I make my assessments with confidence.

There are various species congregating in groups of twos and threes along the street and lurking in the shadowy corners, indicating the clans and packs my father has called here tonight: wolf shifters, bear shifters, vampires, demons, and dark witches, but surprisingly, nobody that could be a gargoyle yet.

Unless…

My eye is drawn upward to the top of the four-story building on the opposite side of the street. Two stone monoliths rest at each corner of that building's flat roof.

Stone gargoyles. They're resting in crouched positions, their wings spread and clawed hands gripping the ledge.

Well, hello there.

I pause for a moment in case any of them make a move, and when they don't, I proceed to the front door, making sure to stand clear of the humans I pass along the way.

The last time I came here, the keeper transported me. This time, I followed the mental map Mom gave me. I stuck to the shadows as much as I could to rest my eyes from the brightening streetlights as the night deepened around me. The lights reflect off so many surfaces: vehicles, buildings, windows—even the pavement.

When I first came out in public, I was worried about wearing a blindfold that might attract attention, but it turns out that humans are far less concerned with an odd-looking passerby than they are with the conversations they're having with metal boxes held to their ears—cell phones? I think that's what they're called—or rushing to wherever it is they're going.

The wash of noise around me isn't welcome, but I'm managing to tolerate it, along with all the smells.

The tavern appears completely calm inside. Patrons sit at neat tables and at the bar, and there's a quiet hum of conversation.

There's a sign on the door announcing that the tavern is closed for a private function.

All of the patrons are human. But I also make out the lumps and bumps in their jackets and bodices that speak to a multitude of concealed weapons.

I'm nearly certain that they will be from different families. Just because their leaders all follow the Ultima Nostra doesn't mean they're allied with each other.

The seemingly calm situation inside the front room could be an explosion waiting to happen—a suspicion on my part that's proven when I push the door open and conversations die, causing nearly every human in the room to reach for a concealed weapon.

Half are pointed at each other. The other half at me.

I consider the barrel of the pistol resting on the counter just inside the door.

The human whose hand rests on it stares hard at me, his focus on my blindfold. He's a different man from the one I encountered the first time I was here. That time, the keeper had used his compulsion power to ensure we made it to the green door on the far side of the room without being stopped.

Now, I'll have to rely on my words.

"I think you know who I am," I say before the man can voice whatever threat is no doubt on his tongue. "I also believe you must have some idea of the carnage I could cause if opposed."

I've never tested my body against bullets, but I do trust my rapid healing power.

And, while I'm not certain that the humans in this room are entirely informed about the supernatural nature of the Ultima Nostra, I'm not against revealing my wings and finding out if their metallic nature will make them strong enough to shield me from projectiles.

"It is my preference to pass quietly through this room and into the next one," I say, projecting my voice so that there's no doubt the humans in the back can hear me.

"You are free to ignore me and continue about your…" I glance at the tables. Not a single meal. Most glasses are still full. It seems they're taking their duties seriously. "Business," I finish.

The man behind the counter twitches, but I suspect it's more of a nervous twitch now than anything else. His heart is hammering, and the sweat on his brow is glistening.

It makes me wonder if my father deliberately put a more fearful person in this spot, since a gunfight out here would certainly make things more difficult for me. It would be easier to capture me in the ensuing chaos. And I'd be forced to use up more energy in the meantime.

The man behind the counter isn't a coward. Far from it. He simply wants to live.

Before he can do something about his fear, I glide my hand across the weapon and slice neatly through it with my claws. I ensure I only extend them enough that even close up, it looks like I parted the weapon simply by touching it.

Sliced-up bullets roll across the counter and clink against the raised edges of the countertop.

I'm a little concerned the sound will trigger the other humans, but they don't react. Even if the tension in the room rises higher.

"There," I say softly. "Much better."

The man steps back, both hands palms up.

Turning calmly, I step into the room, swaying to the left to pass wide of the nearest table. "Excuse me." I smile at the men sitting at it. And then the next table. "Don't mind me."

I move on past the next table, which has a greater number of women sitting at it, to whom I tip my chin.

When I reach the final table, one of the men sitting at it stands up. He isn't exactly in my path, but I stop and consider him.

His heartbeat is steady and his brow is clear. His anxiety level is the opposite of that of the man at the counter. He's completely cold. Completely in control.

It doesn't escape me that he's positioned closest to the green door.

"You have a death wish," I say to him. And then, more of a guess, I add, "You need a purpose."

"My purpose is to stop you," he replies, at which the tension in the room rises again.

"Well," I say, taking a moment while I quietly prepare to draw my claws again, "what counts as stopping me?"

"Killing you."

"Do you think you can?"

"Yes."

I tilt my head. Then, speak slowly. "You believe you can kill me when my own father—the man who tells your boss what to do—has tried and failed. That's a little insulting to him, don't you think?" I purse my lips. "Does my father know you feel this way?"

A slight crease appears in the man's forehead.

"It's probably better if I don't tell him," I say.

As I speak, I take note of the painting of vines and flowers—an image of the same kind of greenery that grows on the front wall of this building. They seem to be moving, just like they seemed to follow my movements the last time I was here.

One of the vines is peeling off the wall, taking solid form and snaking silently through the air toward the man's back.

The man gives a snarl that doesn't bode well, and now I sense his blood pressure rising.

I narrow my eyes at him, even though he won't see it behind my blindfold.

Leaning toward him, I growl right back at him, my voice full of force now. "You can sit down. Or I can bloody you up, drag you in front of my father, and tell him you think so little of him. Just to be clear, it's only because I'd love to see the look on his face that I'll kill you after I present you to him. Now, which would you prefer? Sit or die?"

His blood pressure eases and he suddenly grins at me.

He doesn't sit down, but he does stand aside.

Hmm . I take a more careful look at him. Light-brown hair, unremarkable brown eyes, and a large physique, but without any defining features that make him stand out. He's definitely someone's top henchman. The disappear-into-the-background-until-he's-needed-to-dispose-of-the-bodies type. Likes a good threat. Appreciates a little blood. Wasn't going to let me pass unless I showed some mettle.

I keep him in my sights, conscious of the retracting vine, which settles innocently back against the wall.

I hiss at it as I push open the green door, mimicking the sound the shadow panthers make when they're unhappy. "I didn't need your help."

Quickly, I step into the short corridor beyond the green door.

When I first entered this hallway, I didn't realize that it was concealed from the room beyond it. I can see clearly into that room, but anyone in that room can't see me until I step completely out from the end of the corridor.

The first time I did it, it must have looked as if I'd been stepping through the wall itself.

Last time, the room ahead was filled with tables. Men were drinking and gambling, completely oblivious to our imminent arrival.

Not so now.

A near- army of men and women waits on the other side of the corridor. All of the men are tall and burly. All are sporting weapon belts carrying blades. In addition, I catch flashes of short, sharp claws on their hands. But it's the gray wings resembling rock that give them away. Each tip of their wings has a claw that looks as merciless as a dagger.

They're gargoyles.

The women among them are stunning. They're beautiful and far more petite than the men. They're also wearing harnesses filled with weaponry, which I have no doubt they know how to use.

This is a clan of mercenaries, and they're ready for my arrival.

I will only have a small element of surprise and I plan on making the most of it.

Stepping right up to the edge of the corridor, I extend my claws and take a few deep breaths. I focus myself while I plot a path through the room, taking note of the small gaps and tiny vulnerabilities. I imagine that being hit with a gargoyle fist will be similar to being hit by the male assassin, and I plan on avoiding both fists and blades.

With a final roll of my shoulders and a step back to give me speed, I prepare to enter the gargoyle's den.