TWENTY-THREE
LAUREN
“Be calm,”Remus says from beside me as the helicopter begins to descend, the engine pitch changing as we lose altitude.
It’s strange—deeply strange—to see him and his brother without wings, hidden under the guise of whatever a glamour is. Magic that makes them look human, apparently.
I want to ask a thousand questions as I look up into his face, which is subtly altered now. The proportions have been pulled back into a less exaggerated shape—his jaw not quite as wide, his forehead not quite as angular, his grin not quite so impossibly broad. He doesn’t exactly look like his twin, but it’s nearer. Close enough to be unsettling.
Speaking of which—the glamour made Romulus disappear completely, cloaking the second face with what looks like a natural head of dark hair at the back of Remus’s skull. Like he was never there at all.
Even Kharon looks fully human now, with only two arms instead of six. He resembles a large wrestler with tan skin instead of that bronze-blue tint. In one muscled arm, he holdshis swaddled newborn—so tiny against his bulk. In the other, he cradles Ksenia, who looks absolutely exhausted from the mid-flight birth. Her blonde hair is plastered to her forehead with sweat, her face pale but peaceful.
“I’m calm,” I say in a whisper that even I don’t believe.
Remus arches an eyebrow down at me, and even with the glamour, that look is pure him. “Your muscles are tense as stone, and I’m sure your heart is racing.” He pauses, listening. “Our new hosts will be able to hear it. Every beat.”
I feel my eyes pop wide. “That doesn’t help!” I squeak, my voice going embarrassingly high.
He shrugs—casual, like we’re discussing the weather instead of my heart being audible to vampires. He reaches over, intertwining his fingers with mine. His hand is warm and solid and familiar. “I suppose it’s better to be more on guard than less in this situation. But you should know better than to worry when you have me at your side.”
I look up at him, still a little weirded out by how, well,normalhe looks. Like he could be just some guy. Handsome, sure, but human. “Are they really—you know—” I gesture with the hand he’s not holding, not quite able to bring myself to say the word ‘vampires’ out loud.
Because seriously? Vampires?
My life has officially jumped the shark into full insanity.
“I’ve only met one, and he was very—” Remus wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, “—you know.”
What? No, I donotknow. What does that even mean?
But then he looks away, not offering any more explanation. His jaw tightens slightly. “Let’s hope they’ve become a little more civilized since the last one I encountered.”
Well, now my heart is really racing—galloping in my chest like a startled horse.
But I guess I should have known better than to turn to Remus, of all people, for reassurance. I know what everybody says about him—that he’s chaos incarnate, that he loves violence, that he can’t be trusted.
But surely he’s not looking for a fight here, is he? With vampires? While we’re refugees seeking shelter?
Is it bad that I’m kinda sorta wishing it was Romulus in charge of the body right now instead of him?
Immediately, I feel bad for the thought and squeeze his hand tighter. Maybe I’m just letting everyone else’s voices get in my head. Letting their opinions color my own.
Remus squeezes my hand back firmly, possessively. I try to take it as reassurance.
And then we touch down with a slight jolt, the skids hitting solid ground.
Moments later, the back ramp begins lowering with a mechanical whir. It screeches horribly before making it past a certain point and continuing—damaged, I assume, from when we were in that terrifying other dimension when the dragon’s claws tore through the metal like tissue paper.
My eyes immediately zoom in on those claw marks—deep gouges that go all the way through in some places. Proof that I didn’t imagine any of it.
That is, until the ramp lowers more and I see what’s waiting for us.
A tight grouping of about twenty men, all dressed in identical sleek black suits that probably cost more than my entire year’s rent. They stand in perfect formation in what appears to be a cobblestone courtyard—ramrod straight, hands clasped behind their backs, eerily still.
All of them have identical jet-black hair slicked back from pale faces. Dark eyes—so dark they’re almost black—watching us with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.
They don’t blink. Don’t fidget. Don’t move at all.
