Epilogue

LUCIEN

Envy swills at the bottom of my whiskey glass. I stare at it, and drink it down.

My fangs itch. Saying goodbye to the phoenix did something to me. Watching them leave looking so very, pathetically broken dislodged something in my gut I thought I would never feel again.

I had no feelings for the bear. But even I can appreciate that what he did for his friends was admirable.

"Lucien…" Kim rubs his forearms. Does he expect me to take him under my wing? Does he think we are friends now? Why is he still here?

"Leave, demon hunter. It is safe for you out there now, and I will call for you if I need you in future." I turn away from him, top up my glass, and brace my hand on the top of the fireplace.

Kim clears his throat, and shuffles his feet awkwardly. When I turn around, he is no longer there.

Good.

Alone.

The way I am supposed to be.

For a while, I got used to having Miranda here for company. She was taken too soon, but it was always going to be a transitory relationship.

I would have outlived her eventually.

What does it matter whether that is now or later?

I walk to the desk and pull out the top drawer. Miranda's necklace sits on top of a pile of papers. The talisman I gave her when she first started working for me. I found it in her quarters, beneath the desk. Next to a bloodstain that told me where and when the Solaris took her life and consumed her form.

It was not her time. It should not have happened that way.

I take out the talisman and curl my fingers around it.

It should go to her niece, Rev. I should have sent it with Nova, but something tells me Miranda's niece does not need protection.

I know someone who does, though…

I clasp the talisman tightly and allow the door to clatter back on its hinges as I push through it.

When I reach the bookstore, I pause and tilt my face up to the air. I inhale deeply. There she is…

It is seven p.m. Her shift ended one hour ago, and yet I still sense her on the breeze.

I follow it.

Down the street toward Kings College. Through side streets, across the green. Until I come to a small terraced house. The kind that looks unassuming but costs a small fortune to rent. I should know; I own ten of them.

Not this one, though.

This one is different. It has been modernised – new windows, new door, incongruously neat paving in the small front garden.

The lights are on. A dull orange glow in the living room.

I have never been to her home before; it was a line I forced myself not to cross.

I approach in the shadows, and peer in. Here, I don't just smell her – I smell him too. When she comes into view, I lick my fangs and heat pools at the base of my spine.

Usually, I see her dressed for work. But now, I'm staring at her in nothing but a towel. Pristine and white, it is wrapped tightly around her but strains across her breasts and her hips.

Her hair is wrapped in a towel too, but when she sits down on the couch opposite the fireplace, she removes it and shakes her curls free. Wet, they look much darker than they are. But they hang in delicious ringlets around her face.

A bead of water escapes from the tip of one of the curls and trickles down between her breasts.

Hell damn it I want to lick that water from her skin.

Holding the towel in her hands, she twists it, her knuckles whitening with the pressure. Then she leans forward. Her shoulders begin to shake.

Just like that… she is crying.

My stomach constricts with something I am not used to feeling.

There is movement further back in the room. I peer at it, then realize it's him.

Steven enters the room holding two glasses of red wine. He hands her one. She looks at it and wipes the tears from her cheek with the back of her hand. I can tell from the expression on her face that she does not like the wine, but he stands over her and watches until she drinks from it.

She takes a sip.

He keeps staring.

She takes another.

When she tries to put it down, he tweaks his finger beneath it and makes her keep drinking. He pushes harder. She can't drink fast enough. The wine spills down her chin and drips onto the towel. She coughs.

He stops.

He takes the glass away and puts it down with a thud on the table. Then he points to the stain on the towel she's wearing. His face darkens.

She is shaking.

He stoops down, stares at her, his face barely a breath away from hers. "You fat, miserable, frigid, whore," he spits.

She swallows hard, almost choking on her tears.

He takes hold of her upper arm and squeezes tight, pinching her soft flesh with his large fingers. She winces, but he doesn't let go. Instead, he uses the other hand to unfasten his belt.

Oh, fuck, no.

Rage swells inside me. It beats a savage rhythm in the crevices of my ribcage, straining, cracking, exploding.

I move to the front door and rap hard with a clenched fist.

It takes every ounce of willpower I possess not to rip it open and tear him apart in front of her. But I'm smarter than that.

I hear him mumble for her to stay where she is. Not to move.

He pulls open the door. His eyes widen. But my hand is around his throat before he can utter a single word.

As I drag him into the shadows, I whisper, "You're about to learn an important lesson, Steven. Are you ready?"

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