Chapter 3

THREE

Paris glanced at the phone in his hand and thought Jason would be proud. Maybe even Kai a little too. Kai had worked smuggling jobs with Jason before he'd gone straight and become the best bartender in town. Paris doubted Jason would ever give up the life. Despite the danger, and despite Kai's frequent objections, the thrill of the steal kept Jason going.

Paris understood that feeling, today especially. A bolt of excitement had raced up his spine as he'd successfully picked the pocket of the witch who'd been fussing over him. It was a smaller device, ultra lightweight, not the heavy sort you'd immediately notice missing. Nevertheless, Paris figured he didn't have long.

He slipped around the corner of the building they were hiding in and checked the location of the sun. Close to the western horizon; it would be sunset before long. Kai would already be at work. Good, he wouldn't be there to talk Jason out of the favor Paris hated to ask. He flipped open the phone and punched in his friend's number.

"Hello?" Jason answered, sounding half asleep. "Who is this?" he asked, no doubt confused by the unfamiliar number.

"Jason, it's Paris. I had to borrow a phone."

"Paris?" Bed springs squeaked, and Paris imagined his friend wiping the sleep from his big brown eyes. "Where are you? We were worried when you didn't show at the club last night."

"Dad tried to kill me again."

"He what ?"

"Monster, snakes, altar, it was a whole thing." He'd spent the better part of the day painting out his trauma on the walls of the makeshift infirmary where he'd been treated, which was the only reason he could mention the ordeal now without throwing up. "I'm fine," he added before Jason could work himself into a fury on his behalf. He'd stepped into the fray between Paris and his father before; he didn't have to this time. "Some of Icarus's... friends... rescued me. Are you and Kai okay? Did Dad or anyone come after you?"

"We're fine too," Jason said. "And no, we haven't seen your dad or any of his crew. But Paris, should we be worried? Do I need to go get Kai from work? Do we need to come get you?" His voice escalated in volume with each sentence, uncharacteristic anxiety pushing his devil-may-care friend fully awake. "What's going on?"

Paris rested back against the wall. "Dad probably thinks I'm dead. You should be fine too. I just needed to be sure."

"Where are you?"

"Encinal, for now, but I think we're moving soon."

"Shit feels weird, Paris. Something's going down."

"It's just the Rift anniversary," he lied to himself and his friend.

If the whole sacrifice thing didn't give away the weirdness, the ramp up in his father's operations would have. He'd spent most of his days in the command center, barking orders Paris could hear through the walls, usually at his pet warlock, Atlas, who Paris was beginning to believe didn't sleep given all his comings and goings.

"When will you be back?" Jason asked.

"I don't know. Dad needs to keep thinking I'm dead. Which is why I need to ask for a favor."

"What do you need?" Jason replied without hesitation.

"You know Maxine Hill?"

"The vampire who works the door at Club Sutro?"

"That's her. Her dad's human. He's in hospice at YB Gen. He doesn't have long, and she needs Daylight to visit him."

After the Rift, that day thirty years ago before he, Jason, or Kai were born, that Paris had only read about in the books his tutors brought him, when Nature and Chaos had gone to war with YB as the epicenter, hospice had become the most locked-down ward at any hospital. Too many nearly dead bodies that could be used for evil. Vampires were at the top of the list of excluded visitors, which was why hospice visiting hours were only during the day when vampires couldn't be out. Unless they'd ingested Daylight, a magic-brewed potion that Vincent kept on hand for his own army of vamps. And that Paris had pilfered small amounts of whenever the opportunity presented itself. Never enough for Vincent to notice, but enough for those who needed it, like Icarus had in order to protect someone he loved and like Maxine did to visit her dying father.

"And you've been supplying her," Jason said.

"I was supposed to deliver her next batch last night."

"Where is it?"

"In my private wine locker at Benton's."

Jason laughed. "You think they're gonna let me into a place like that? Breaking into your condo would've been easier."

He maybe had a point. Paris couldn't recall a single pair of jeans Jason owned that weren't ripped, and ripped denim was not the recommended attire for one of the nicest restaurants in town. But he also couldn't recall Jason ever meeting a lock he couldn't pick. "Jason."

His friend's laughter subsided. "What?"

"You're the best smuggler in Yerba Buena."

"Charmer." Paris could hear the smile in his voice. "How much does she owe you?"

"Tell her it's on the house for being late."

"You're a damn softie, Cirillo."

You're too soft.

"So I've been told." More times than Paris could count.

"That wasn't meant as an insult," Jason said, his voice gentle and sincere. "It's what makes you one of the best people I know. You help others, you protect them in your own way. You do the thing your dad promises and never delivers."

His friend's words chased away some of the chill that had wound back into his soul. Made him believe what he'd been doing was right. That he was right. Maybe he was soft, but that softness, in himself and the things around him, was how he survived the violence. Violence he was asking his best friend to step into.

"Jason, if it's too risky?—"

"Didn't you just say I was the best smuggler in YB?"

"Thank you," Paris said with a small, relieved smile. "Give my love to Kai."

"Will do," Jason said. "And in case it's not obvious, I'm glad your dad didn't succeed. Love you, buddy."

"Love you too."

He flipped shut the phone just as the door behind him swung open, the witch from earlier poking her head out. "Oh, there you are."

"Sorry, just needed some air," he lied. "Paint fumes and all," he said, flashing his stained fingers on one hand while he clutched the phone with the other behind his back.

She knitted her brow, no doubt wondering about those non-existent paint fumes, but a call from inside saved Paris from having to lie his way out of his lie. "It's safer inside," she said, holding the door open for him. "Our protections don't extend beyond the walls."

"What about the crows?" he asked as he stepped inside. "They're all over the roof."

"Well, not all the protections," she amended before shutting and locking the door behind him. "Have you seen my phone?"

He shook his head, playing the fool everyone thought he was. She scurried past him, muttering to herself about always leaving things behind, completely missing the moment he slipped it back in her pocket to find again soon.