12. Amber

Dustparticles dance in the light, and streaks of dampness stain the walls around the narrow, rectangular windows near the ceiling that look out to the top of the sidewalk. A glance at the kitchen—which is simply a few ancient appliances lining the far wall—reveals puddles of water on the floor near the hot water pipe.

The apartment looks like it’s been through the apocalypse.

Damien frowns, making his way through the space to inspect the damage. “The building’s maintenance has clearly been lacking,” he says.

Now that I’m seeing him here, it hits me that he’s never seen this apartment. He looks so out of place in it. Like an alien from an advanced planet examining the comparatively uncivilized living conditions on Earth.

Earlier, I thought the brownstone where the Guardians live couldn’t be more different from the Fairmont if it tried. But nope—I was wrong. Because that was nothing compared to the differences between my grandmother’s basement studio apartment and the Fairmont’s shiny skyscraper.

Oh well. Nothing I can do about it now.

“I should call and get someone to fix everything,” I say.

“No. I’ll send some of my people to get it cleaned up,” he says. “I should have been doing that to keep it maintained from the start.”

“You’ve had a lot more to worry about than the state of my grandmother’s apartment.” I wander over to the dresser, where a picture sits of my grandmother posing with me as a toddler, the two of us next to one of the maple trees in the backyard of my house in Vermont.

Damien’s behind me in a heartbeat.

It’s quiet for a few seconds, and I can feel his cool breath on my neck.

It strikes me at that moment that I’ve never worried about him losing control and tasting my blood.

Before I can think more about it, he asks, “How did she die?”

I let my finger linger along the frame, my thoughts drifting away from Damien’s potential bloodlust to when my mom sat me down to tell me the news about my grandmother’s passing.

“I didn’t know her well,” I start, as if that makes it less tragic. “I don’t think I’d seen her since I was the age I was in this photograph.”

“I see,” Damien says, not pressing further.

I hear him step back, and I place the picture back down on the dresser, turning to face him. He’s watching me with sympathy, and in that moment, I want to tell him.

What can it hurt?

“It was a car crash,” I finally say. “Her taxi was on West Highway when it happened. The cab ignited soon after the crash. The driver got out, but my grandmother was trapped in the back. So… that was that.”

I shrug, trying to brush away the haunting images that cross my mind as I think about the accident.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know how hard that must have been for you and your family.”

His eyes speak words he doesn’t say.

It reminds me he’s been alive for so long that he’s seen countless people come and go. Family, friends, comrades, and probably lovers.

After all, I can’t imagine he’s gone so long without having loved.

I swallow hard, nodding, and focus back on the present. “Thank you,” I say. “Even though we weren’t close, she was still my grandmother. It’s a strange sort of grief—mourning someone you didn’t really know, but who you feel like you should have known. It’s hard to explain.”

“Grief is a complex creature,” he says. “It doesn’t matter how well you knew the person. Loss is loss.”

“Yeah,” I whisper, grateful for his understanding.

We stand there for a moment, lost in our own thoughts.

Then, as if remembering why we’re here, Damien steers the conversation back to where it started. “Do you want to keep looking around?” he asks. “There might be something of hers you want to keep.”

I consider it, glancing around the cramped space that holds the last physical traces of my grandmother’s existence.

“This apartment isn’t going anywhere,” I decide. “And there’s not much of anything personal of hers here. I looked around when I moved in. But…” I reach for the photo again, pop it out of the frame, and put it in my bag. It feels like I’m physically tucking away a piece of my past to carry with me into the future. “This will be enough for now.”

I look up and catch Damien’s gaze on me, his expression soft and understanding.

Maybe it’s time to tell him about my weakening sun magic?

“A good choice,” he says, and his hand moves forward, as if he’s going to reach out and touch me.

But he stops himself, letting it fall back to his side.

My chest tightens from the loss of the touch I didn’t receive.

“You’re angry with me, aren’t you?” I blurt out, unable to avoid it for any longer. “For volunteering as bait for Lucas.”

His expression hardens, and he presses his lips together, as if he’s reining himself in.

His non-answer is enough.

He’s definitely angry with me.

“Not angry,” he finally says. “I think frustrated would be a better word.”

I can’t blame him for that one.

It’s also probably not the best time to tell him about what the potion’s doing to my magic. I can tell him another day. After our mission with Lucas is complete.

Otherwise, he might change his mind about supporting me in this. I don’t want to lose his support, especially because that might mean losing the support of the Guardians—a risk we can’t take. Our growing alliance with them might be the advantage we need in the war against the shadow souls.

Damien studies me for a long moment, his icy gaze hard and penetrating. “Our current plan with Lucas isn’t enough,” he finally says.

I blink, surprised by the shift in conversation. “What do you mean? I thought we had everything planned out.”

“Lucas isn’t going to trust you so easily.” He shakes his head, thinking. “We need to go a step further.”

A knot forms in my stomach, both from nerves and the anticipation of what Damien might suggest next. “What do you have in mind?”

He takes a deep breath, then continues, “As you know, I was allied with the fae queen, Lysandra, for a long time. She’s the one who grew and gave me the duskberry. But she gave me more than that.”

“Okay…” I trail off, waiting to learn more.

“If you’re willing to take a leap of faith, I have something else from the fae queen that I believe will help get Lucas to trust you,” he says.

Yes, I think, but I pause before saying it.

I don’t want him to think I’m being impulsive by answering too quickly.

“By this point, I’ve taken lots of leaps of faiths in you,” I say. “What’s one more? After you tell me what you’re asking of me, of course.”

He nods in approval, and warmth creeps through my chest at his acknowledgment of the fact that I’m learning how to better navigate this crazy supernatural world.

“You’re not going to like it,” he warns.

“And you’re not going to know if I like it unless you tell me what it is.”

“Fair point,” he says, and then he proceeds to describe something that, as he predicted, I most definitely do not like.