“This is going to be fun,” Imani whispers, her hand dipping to my hip as we spin around each other, never far apart, but never quite as close as our feral audience wants us to be. “Go easy on me, babe.”
I nod and settle my energy before lifting her by the waist. Imani arches slowly—curling her legs until her body forms a near perfect circle in the air. The crowd claps, a few of the wolf-whistles loud enough to drown out our music. I soak up their collective surprise with satisfaction. My strength is deceptive, and there’s no one in the Fang more flexible than Imani.
Waiting for the beat to drop, I tighten my grip on her hips in warning, then toss her up and to the side. She flutters like a ribbon in the wind, catching the pole with one hand as I leap up to join her, curling my body around the chilled metal.
This routine takes skill and concentration, so I wall off my frustration and focus on the music. Rotating and grinding on the pole, we push ourselves to put on the best show possible, skin brushing skin in a sensual dance that requires equal parts grace and athleticism.
When it comes time for our final move, I climb aggressively to the top of the pole, holding on with my thighs and dropping backward. With my wrists crossed, I grasp Imani’s ankles, making sure my hold is firm, then squeeze her three times to let her know I’m ready. We’ve only tried this move twice in rehearsals, swearing to each other that we’ll do an easier finish if either one of us isn’t feeling it. If Imani isn’t sure, she won’t let go of the pole.
But she’s as into it as I am, because she throws herself into a reverse dive, trusting me to keep her from falling eight feet face first. Raw adrenaline explodes in my veins like gasoline poured over an open flame. My thighs tighten, tremble, then lock around the pole, supporting both of our weight.
We spin as one, my wings flaring proudly under the lights. Imani stretches one arm toward the crowd and tucks the other gracefully over her head. The momentum of our spinning keeps her body outstretched, an arrow in flight as we rotate.
By the time we’ve spun from the top of the pole to the bottom, all I can hear are cheers. Imani plants both hands on the stage, doing a controlled back handspring as I release her ankles and follow suit.
The adrenaline rush that hits me is better than drugs. Better than sex. Imani and I brought them to their feet. These aren’t the catcalls of the chronically horny—this is genuine admiration. Earned. Demanded. Delivered.
With my head held high, I collect the money with Imani, my face split in a fierce smile. Freedom is this moment, doing exactly what I want with my friend at my side. If I could bottle it, I would.
The euphoric triumph doesn’t last.
Barely twelve hours later, I find another abandoned angelsteps from my apartment. This one is bleeding profusely; one small vestigial wing nearly severed from his back.
A shadow blots out the sun, and I hear the flapping of much larger, operational wings. Sprinting around the corner, my own sprout from my back, ready, eager, and willing to fly. I can catch this bastard, I know it. I’ll drag them from the sky and show them exactly what happens when you mess around in the Fringes.
I crouch, muscles bunching as they prepare to launch me into the air—the motion both familiar and forgotten at the same time. A horn blares. My back spasms. If I fly, I’ll be spotted and put far more lives at risk than my own.
The child whimpers. The sound pulls me away from the chase more quickly than anything else could have. I carry him inside my apartment, smothering every dangerous emotion inside me until the only thing left is my desire to help.
I call Harry. She calls for a healer. I pay without complaint.
Ladonis might lose the wing anyway.
In the aftermath, Luca drives him to Harry’s home, and I wash the blood from the sidewalk, then scrub the red streaks from my kitchen counter until it glistens.
Bile rises in my throat as I remember the pitiful cries.
I cradled Ladonis to my chest while the witch examined the damage, reassuring him in the common tongue as best I could. After his wing was bandaged, I asked him who had attacked him. He didn’t know. I asked how he ended up outside my apartment. He couldn’t remember.
Now that they're gone, the silence in my apartment is absolute. My chest is so tight I can barely breathe.
It’s time to face the facts: Harry is running out of room. She has been taking in stray supernatural kids the enclave can’t be bothered to help for years, and while her heart may be big enough to love every abandoned child in the universe, her house isn’t.
We need another solution.
I can’t shake the suspicion that these kids are being used to taunt me. The question is how? No one from my home realm knows I’m here. In fact, most of them believe I’m dead, tragically floating in the everlasting beyond at my mother’s side.
I drop to the couch and cover my face with my hands as I think.
All three of the young angels dropped here are from different classes. None share my echelon, but that’s not surprising. If they did, I would recognize them. There aren’t a lot ofnish thatshabloodlines to begin with, and father made sure I knew them all.
A plague. Angels with unexplained injuries and memory loss. None of it makes sense to me. What’s happening in the celestial realm—and more importantly, how am I supposed to keep it from bleeding into Vegas?
Two thumps sound on my door. I lift my head, then shuffle over to let Luca in. I try to hide my devastation from him, but I don’t have the energy.
Luca comes in, kicking my door shut behind him. “That was bad.”
I sigh as he flips the deadbolt. “Something tells me basic locks won’t stop whoever’s doing this.”
