Chapter 23

”…human perception is limited to the standard spectrum of colors available—between 400 nm to 700 nm. I have yet to unlock the ability to perceive electromagnetic radiation beyond my ordinary range, but the fae have soul-shades, as do animals. They are simply imperceivable by the human eye.”

-Excerpt from the personal journal of Dr. Claude Foster, Director of Faeology at Mesmeric Labs

FANTASIA

When I agreed to work for Archer, I thought we’d be out in the Packing District, scouring for soul-shades or something dramatic. I pictured us fighting the Reaper, knocking that shadowy fucker back to the Wilds or whatever realm he crawled out of.

I did not think I’d be sitting in Archer’s house getting ready for some bullshit ball a day after almost being arrested by the Scouts, a day after seeing Godric almost die on the floor. I will never forget how his ribs expanded and deflated beneath my palms, his breathing coming in shallow gasps.

My heart hasn’t slowed its pace all day, and I’m still jumping at every sound. Honestly, I think I’m on edge because Archer isn’t here. Scathe’s around, though, which is the only thing settling my nerves.

Taking a deep breath, I lean closer to the bathroom mirror and apply another coat of lipstick. It’s an expensive matte shade called Black Cherry—Mellie gifted it to me for my birthday last year—and it’s so dark it’s almost black. It, combined with the winged, smoky eye makeup, contrasts sharply with my pale skin and hair, making for an incredibly dramatic look.

I might feel like shit on the inside, but at least I can use my makeup as a mask to help me hide.

A trio of sharp raps on the bedroom door causes me to jump.

“Sirius A!” I call out, my hand flying to my chest. I take a few breaths to quell my pounding heart. “Already?!”

Archer said he wasn’t going to be here until ten to pick me up, and it’s only—

I glance at the time on my phone.

Oh.

10:00 p.m. on the dot. The event starts at eleven. I was told this by Pixel when she dropped off dresses for me. A midnight masquerade.

Cursing under my breath, I adjust my nose ring and dart out of the bathroom.

“Give me ten more minutes,” I say as I whip open the bedroom door. “I’m almost…”

I forget what I’m going to say as I catch sight of my fake date for the evening.

Archer leans against the wall across from my door, ankles crossed.

He wears the most elegant suit I’ve ever seen up close. His black jacket is adorned with textured beading, perfectly accented by a gold vest and matching bow tie.

My cheeks heat as I ogle the way the fabric hugs his strong thighs and tapered waist just right. Everything is fitted—not too loose, not too snug—as if the outfit was made just for him.

“Hey,” I say breathlessly. I get a whiff of something like gasoline and smoke—it’s faint but prominent enough to make me curious. “Why do you smell like you just came from a bonfire?”

His face darkens, but he doesn’t reply. He runs a hand through his carelessly styled dirty-blond hair. My eyes linger on the dark ink marking his neck and hands. Something’s different about him tonight.

There’s an air of danger about him.

Squinting, I notice that his soul-shade is a little richer than normal. A honey-gold, rather than the bright, iridescent gold it normally is. I frown. Are the lights playing tricks on my eyes?

Or am I perhaps misremembering the hue? It’s still gold, after all.

“Tasia?” he mutters.

Our eyes connect, and my mouth dries out. His gaze bores into my soul, heating me from the inside out. For a moment, neither of us says anything.

His eyes slowly roam my body, and his forehead briefly wrinkles in confusion before he quirks a brow.

I can’t stand the intensity, so I cross my arms and break eye contact in favor of scanning his body again. He holds something shiny in his hand, but I can’t quite make out what it is.

“What are you wearing?” he asks, his voice low.

The deep baritone rumbles down my spine.

“I lost track of time,” I say. “All I have to do is change and fix my hair. I’ll be quick.”

I spin around and step deeper into the room, but his fingers gently skim my wrist. There’s nothing aggressive about it, and he doesn’t grab me. Based on the tenderness in his touch, he only means to snag my attention, and it works.

Pausing, I turn back around to face him. His nostrils flare, and he licks his lips before looking away.

“I meant…what are you wearing?” He gestures toward my outfit, and I look down. “Did you go through my things again?”

Embarrassment floods my face as I realize I’m dressed in his boxer briefs and another one of his shirts.

Then I remember that the few items I packed got stolen from his friend’s car. I incline my chin and shoot him a challenging look. “What else was I supposed to wear?”

He looks taken aback. “I sent you clothes.”

That he did. Or rather, he filled the closet in the guest room with a plethora of brand-new items. Smoothing my hands down the shirt I’m wearing, I meet Archer’s gaze. “You can return them.” His forehead wrinkles again, but I continue before he can misinterpret the meaning behind my words. “I don’t feel right accepting a bunch of stuff I don’t need. I have my own, perfectly good wardrobe at my apartment. Use that money on someone who needs it.”

His face softens. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” I shrug, not wanting to make the guy feel bad when he’s going out of his way to help. “We can get the rest of my shit after the masquerade or something. Or tomorrow. Whenever you’re free.”

I forgot to look for my bear.

He nods, scanning me again. “Whenever you want, Tasia.”

As his line of sight drops down to my bare legs, his lips tighten. He runs a hand through his hair and turns away, swallowing thickly.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he says in a gruff voice. “You can wear whatever you want of mine.”

The last thing I need is to be further indebted to Archer. But I don’t tell him that—he’d have a counterargument. Instead, I touch on something that might resonate with him.

“You understand what it’s like, right? Coming from nothing?” I know he does. I saw the apartment he was raised in.

His head jerks up, and he stares at me for a second before giving me a sharp nod. “I do.”

“So you get why it’s weird for me—living here?” I wave a hand around. “And accepting so much stuff I really don’t need?”

He runs a hand over his jaw. “Trust me, I do.”

A look of regret crosses his face, and I realize something.

“It’s why your house is so bare, isn’t it?” I ask softly.

A small, disbelieving laugh bursts from him. “Maybe we understand each other better than we’d like to think we do.”

We study each other for a beat, and my hands grow clammy as his eyes dart around my face, as if he’s desperate to read the words written beneath my skin.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “Maybe.” I clear my throat. “Hey, why the hell do you have such a fancy-ass couch though? Of all things.”

“I bought it at an auction.”

I can’t help but laugh at the sheepish look he gives me. “An auction?”

“A charity auction.”

“Oh.” I cock my head, seeing him in a new light. “Charity for what?”

“Supporting educational rights of foster children,” he mumbles. “So, about the clothes. I’ll return them. We’ll get the rest of your stuff tonight.”

I figure the conversation change is purposeful, so I don’t push, but his kindness warms my heart.

Twisting something in his hands, he says, “I came to give you this.”

He lifts an arm, dangling something from a single outstretched finger.

“Is that a mask?” I ask stupidly, squinting at the gilded item in his hand.

“Yes.” He clears his throat, meeting my gaze again. “It should match your dress. Scathe said you might like it.”

“Scathe?” I laugh. “Okay, weirdo.”

Accepting the mask from him, I run my fingers over the material. The mask is divided into two distinct halves. The first is adorned with a shiny gold surface and black detailing, while the second half has a matte-black finish with gold detailing.

The top edge of the mask, just above the eyeholes, curves upward in a graceful manner, forming an elaborate, asymmetrical butterfly design.

It’s captivating. Elegant. With a touch of whimsy.

My eyes widen. “Wow, this is…” I whisper. The words catch in my throat.

Breathtakingcomes to mind.

But it’s also so not…me. It’s much too fancy, expensive.

Maybe it can be me, though, just for a single night.

I turn away, mostly to try and hide my silly, budding smile. He chose a butterfly. For me. It can’t be a coincidence, since he saw the tattoo on my leg the other night. My symbol of growth. Transformation. Freedom.

There’s no such thing as coincidences.

I’m absolutely not this girl—the type to get glammed up, to go on fancy dates, to burst with giddiness at the attention of a handsome man—but I can’t help the flutters that erupt in my stomach.

And handsome isn’t even the right word for him. It’s almost sinful how downright sexy he is, all dressed up.

“Thanks,” I say, lifting the mask. I tamp down my smile as I try not to openly ogle him.

He gives me a coy smile, then turns and heads down the hallway, leaving me to finish getting ready.

Twenty minutes later, and my dress is on. Saying I’m out of my depth is a massive understatement. It’s the fanciest piece of fabric to ever touch my skin. The dress is the color of the starless sky. Delicate straps adorned with black flowers descend into a backless top and a plunging V-neck in a risqué manner I’m not used to.

It’s revealing, seductive, but at least I have a small chest, so I don’t run the risk of something popping out.

The cinched waist accentuates my hips, while the billowing skirts cascade into a captivating bell-shaped mass of tulle. Ebony flowers are scattered across the fabric. The absence of color accentuates the allure, all its beauty derived from the layered textures. My hair falls freely down my back in gentle waves.

My heart hammers as I step into the hallway. Shaking out my hands, trying to brush off the nerves, I take a deep breath and head downstairs to join my not-date for our outing.

ARCHER

When Tasia enters the room, I swear to Sirius I forget how to breathe.

I’m in the kitchen, leaning against the island and having a conversation with Godric, when she descends the steps and enters my line of sight.

I trail off mid-sentence, forgetting what we were discussing.

All the oxygen whooshes from my lungs, and my head swims.

Bringing my fist up to my mouth, I bite down on one of my knuckles to keep from saying something stupid that will make Tasia uncomfortable.

Sirius knows I’ve already done enough of that lately.

Luckily—or unluckily, depending on the perception—Godric whistles sharply, catching Tasia’s attention. He motions with his finger for her to twirl. Her cheeks flush, but she obliges with an eyeroll, giving him a shy smile afterward.

It sends a bolt of jealousy careening through my bones.

When her eyes meet mine again, she appears to shrink, ducking her head, as if trying to make herself smaller. She fiddles with one of the straps on the dress and keeps glancing down at herself nervously.

Gods, she is indescribably beautiful. The dress shows just enough skin to incite temptation without being gaudy, and her makeup is as bold as she is.

Except…her usual confidence is nowhere to be found.

I frown as I take her in.

“What?” she whispers, wrapping her arms around her midsection. “Do I look stupid?”

Blinking a few times, I try to process how on earth she could ever assume that.

Scathe, from where he lies in the middle of the room, angles his head toward me.

You’re in over your head, buddy. Are you prepared for this?

I fight the urge to glare at him.

“No—not at—” My voice is hoarse, and I don’t know if I’m replying to Tasia or Scathe at this point.

Reaching for my cup of water on the counter beside me, I gulp it greedily, unsure of what to say. I quickly turn to the sink, busying myself with refilling the cup.

“You look hot as shit,” Godric says.

“Wow—thanks,” Tasia replies hesitantly, as if she’s caught off guard by his attention.

That makes two of us.

Whirling around, I catch them both staring at me.

I raise a brow. “What?”

Tasia’s smile wavers. Godric presses his lips together tightly as he gives me a wide-eyed look I can’t decipher.

I admire Tasia’s appearance again. She looks like a work of art. Perfectly made-up. Impossibly beautiful.

My skin overheats, and I’m fighting a hard-on like a twelve-year-old boy seeing a nude woman for the first time.

She certainly is beautiful, but I can’t help but notice her slightly slumped posture, the way she fiddles restlessly with her skirts, how she keeps double-checking the dress.

This isn’t her.

Tasia is most comfortable in pants and an old T-shirt. Hell, she’s probably more comfortable in a pair of my old boxers.

And what truly makes her breathtaking is her sassy, unshakable confidence.

I hate that it’s missing.

Clearing my throat, I finally say, “You look better in jeans.”

Immediately, I know it’s the wrong thing to say, because Godric groans, and his hands fly up to his face.

Tasia squints at me for a second. Then her face falls.

Shit on a stick, you suck at this, Scathe says. This is too painful to watch.

With a yawn, the hellhound rises and trots out of the room.

Language!

Piss off, he says.

As I stand there trying to come up with a way to explain what I meant—that she looks stunning but shines the brightest when she’s herself—Tasia starts chuckling. When it turns into full-blown laughter, Godric and I look at each other in confusion.

“Tasia,” I finally say, “that’s not—”

“Makes sense. I feel better in jeans.” She shakes her head. “This is downright bizarre.”

The knot in my chest unravels, and my shoulders finally relax a bit.

“You look unreal,” I say, “and I mean that in the most complimentary way possible—”

“No.” She waves a hand to cut me off. After a few more seconds of laughter, her posture becomes sturdier, and her hands relax at her sides. “Seriously, it’s okay. I’m glad I look better in jeans, ’cause jeans are my jam. There is no way in deep hell I could manage a look like this on a regular basis.”

She winks, and my brows shoot up.

I discreetly adjust my pants, trying to hide the effect this woman has on me.

When I first met her, this attraction came out of nowhere, quietly and subtly at first. Now, it’s roaring toward me like a rabid hellhound, and I’m at its mercy.

Once I’m able to think coherently again, I reach for my duffle bag on the floor beside the counter.

“Here,” I say, pulling out a pair of black satin gloves and handing them to her. “These are for you.”

She immediately slides her hands into them, smiling.

“Thank fuck,” she says. “I didn’t do my nails.” I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch, Archer. I’ll watch my mouth when we get there.”

Godric smirks at me, and I’m tempted to flick him off, but that’ll only make me look like a hypocrite.

Honestly, I’m just thankful Tasia’s feeling more like herself.

Locating my own pair of gloves, I pull them on, covering my Nightcrawler tattoo. A bit of ink spills out of my collar, still visible, but it’s nothing identifying. Merely art.

Next, I pull out my switchblade and open my jacket to stick it in the holster beside my gun.

“What the hell?” Tasia says. “You’re bringing a gun to a masquerade?”

I nod. “Of course.”

“What if someone gives you a hug and feels it?”

I laugh. “I don’t hug people.”

Except…that’s a lie, because I hugged her. The memory of her body in my arms, her soft skin, sends another bolt of lust downward.

It’s going to be a long night at this rate.

“What if you bring someone home with you and they undress you only to find you’re packing, and not in the way they expected?”

Frowning, I ask, “Why would I bring someone home with me?”

Her nose scrunches. “To fuck them?”

Before I can respond and tell her I will not disrespect her like that, even if she isn’t my true date, Godric starts to laugh. It’s not his normal short-lived laughter, either. It’s a full-bodied, contagious sound that fills the kitchen with life, booming off the walls.

It’s been so long since I’ve heard that sound that I can’t even be annoyed.

“Arch doesn’t fuck.” Godric eyes Tasia appreciatively, and a burst of fire spreads through my chest again. I subtly slide over a few inches, attempting to block her from his line of sight.

Godric’s eyes sparkle with mischief. He sidesteps me, leaning in closer to Tasia, whispering, “But if that’s what you’re looking for, I can help with—”

“I’m sure you enjoy tying up your victims and pounding them into their next life, but no thanks,” she says without missing a beat.

Red sparks flare to life in my vision as I turn my narrowed gaze to Godric. He gives me a sly wink, clearly enjoying the emotions he’s riling up.

“Not your girlfriend, I thought,” he teases.

“What?” Tasia asks, peering over his shoulder.

“Nothing,” I say through gritted teeth. “Godric was just apologizing for his uncultivated manners.”

Godric turns back to Tasia. “Sorry for being forward.” He covers another laugh with a cough. “I’m sure Archer might make an exception…for you.”

I sigh, giving Tasia an apologetic look. It’s been a long while since I’ve seen this playful—infuriating—side of Godric. It’s bittersweet. I’m glad it’s returning, but now is also not the time.

Tasia smiles sweetly, and a bolt of desire goes through me once again.

“I assure you, I enjoy pleasure in all forms,” I say, letting her interpret my words however she chooses. Then I clear my throat, veering the conversation back to what we were discussing earlier. “Godric, follow up with Zeke. See how much it’ll cost to expedite the results. I’m sick of waiting.”

We’ve had no updates from the medical examiner on whether the substance in the last victim’s body matches the dreamdust. It’s been a few days, and that’s beyond long enough.

“Yes, boss,” Godric says, pulling out his phone immediately.

Tasia watches me carefully—excitement, intrigue, and joy playing out on her face. After a moment, she averts her eyes, rubbing her arm nervously.

“Let’s do the damn thing,” she says.

I offer her an arm. “Shall we?”

I’ve always wondered if politicians have souls. Now I’ll get to find out.