Vampires aren’t the same as the other supernaturals living as refugees on Earth. We can be turned or born, and while human lore loves to paint us as immortal, that’s not actually true. I live, age, and die, just more slowly than your average homo sapiens. Unfortunately, that bit about the sun being our Achilles’ heel is true. Cliché as it is, I miss it.
Pushing my melancholy away, I increase my pace while remaining hidden in the shadows. There will be plenty of time to be moody later. Right now, I have a promise to keep.
SIXTEEN
Unspoken rule of the Fringes #5:
Watch and learn, but don’t tell anyone you don’t already know.
CELINE
I open my eyes and yawn, throwing back the covers reluctantly. Despite feeling as though there’s glue on the insides of my eyelids, I wake naturally—no two-thump knock on the door for an alarm. I don’t expect one, but I’m disappointed.
Luca can sulk if he wants. I won’t trip over myself to fix things; not this time. Our argument made me sick to my stomach, and I spent the rest of my shift getting the silent treatment. At first, I felt bad about it, but I’ve realized this is a Luca issue.
He needs to figure out why seeing me with Alistair made him angry. We aren’t dating. We’ve never dated—never even kissed.
Luca doesn’t get to stomp around playing the part of a jealous ex or overprotective big brother. The only person being misled in this situation is Ciprian, and that’s entirely by design. Alistairknows the score, and I do too. Luca needs to get on board. I won’t dance around his mood swings any longer.
After a long shower, I settle on the couch, armed with a moisturizing face mask and every intention of spending my afternoon relaxing. I’ll watch a half hour of TV, then reorganize my pantry. I already have a system in place, but the most critical part of any successful system is maintenance. If I’m still in the mood after I finish that, I’ll deep clean the kitchen.
Now that I’ve thought about it, I’m itching to sort. Grabbing the remote, I hover over the show Luca and I have been watching, before grumbling and picking something else. If he doesn’t pull his head out of his ass soon, I’ll finish it without him.
I only make it fifteen minutes before washing the face mask off and diving into the pantry.
My shelves are organized and labeled, with all the canned foods and dry goods lined up alphabetically. Starting with almonds and applesauce, I check the expiration dates, tossing the few out-of-date products in a garbage bag. Another pile takes shape, made up of the items I doubt I can eat before they go bad. Those will go to Harry’s since she has a pile of mouths to feed.
The faces of the little angels run through my mind as I work. Stress over this impossible situation replaces my chill, transforming my wings until they’re as rigid and sharp as knives.Calm down,I tell myself. It doesn’t help.
As I pivot to add a can of green beans to Harry’s stack, my left wing rakes a bag of rice off the shelf, slicing it open. Grains scatter all over the floor, peppering my bare feet in the process.
“Motherfucker,” I snarl, forcing myself to chill out when the feather-shaped blades begin to smoke. Setting all my food on fire is the last thing I need.
It takes three minutes and thirty-seven seconds of deep breathing to get my temper under control enough to sweep up the spilled rice.Get ahold of yourself, Celine.
My wings have always been frustrating. No matter how calm I act on the surface, they broadcast my real feelings. If I’m relaxed, they’re soft, white, and fluffy. If I’m not... Well, stand back and watch out.
Because of my wings, I learned how to defend my emotions at a young age. Both thenish mishaandnish salumwanted to study me. Father refused, screaming for days that no lowly academic or healer would get their hands on his daughter. It’s one of the few decent things he’s ever done for me.
If I’m the only one who isn’t curious about why my wings are the way they are, it’s because I already know. They are truth made physical and a defense mechanism rolled into one.
Almost all of my negative emotions manifest as weapons. They’ve kept me safe when I had nothing and no one else. Anger creates fire, and stress and anxiety generate the knives, which lash out even while they defend me—just ask the bag of rice.
Sadness sucks the most. Unless I want someone to slip and fall, the dripping is useless. Thankfully, my body knows better than to let me grieve unless I’m able to do it safely. It’s the emotion I hate the most. It reminds me of too many bad memories.
Running a damp rag over the newly organized shelves, I recite all the magical characteristics I’ve seen angels exhibit: mold, echo, limit—all radiant powers that are confusing until you see them in action. It’s common to develop gifts in my echelon, but I’ve never met anyone with wings like mine.
When the feathers finally stop switching between normal and stressed, I let out a relieved sigh and rock back on my heels.
I’ve got a bag full of things to take over to Harry’s, and I’ve hopefully worked through the worst of my tension in the pantry. I don’t have enough time left to deep clean the kitchen, but that means I have something to look forward to.
When I throw myself on the couch again, I’m able to relax.
After dinner, I load the groceries into my backpack and head out. It’s early enough that Harry won’t be asleep and late enough I won’t have to deal with traffic, although my bike makes navigating the city easy, even on a bad day.
Since I texted her earlier, Harry is expecting me. I’m not surprised to see her head poke out the door the second I park.
“Anything but beets,” she says, waving me inside. “I’ll take anything but beets.”
