“Unless the sacrificeisthe purpose,” I countered. “What better way to dissolve a treaty than to force our hand? Send someone innocent, wait for us to eliminate a perceived threat, then cry foul when she ends up dead.”
Silence fell over the room as they processed this possibility. It wasn’t an angle Casimir had considered; I could tell by the slight narrowing of his eyes, the way his fingers stilled on the gun he was cleaning.
“That,” Z said slowly, “isdeliciouslyfucked up. Even for a Dark witch.”
“Which makes it entirely plausible,” I replied. “We need to be careful. Not just for our sake, but potentially for hers as well.”
“Your concern is noted, but it doesn’t change our approach,” Cas said.
I nodded, accepting his leadership without argument. Cas had kept us alive through situations that should have killed us ten times over. His caution wasn’t misplaced, even if his emotional detachment sometimes struck me as excessive.
I moved to the window, scanning the street below with practiced vigilance. The world outside continued its mundane rhythm, oblivious to the predators in their midst. Humans living their lives, unaware of the supernatural forces that shaped their reality from the shadows. Sometimes I envied them their ignorance.
“You’re unusually contemplative,” Cas observed, coming to stand beside me. “Something else on your mind?”
I hesitated, then decided honesty was the wisest course.
“I’m thinking about what this means for us. Not just the immediate situation, but the long game. Freedom from Lucian’s influence. Our own territory. No more taking orders from a king who views us as weapons rather than sons. What will that even look like?”
“One challenge at a time, baby brother. Let’s survive the marriage before we plan the divorce party.”
“Fair enough.” I cracked a smile at his rare humor.
“Are we done with the brooding portion of the day?” Zane appeared between us, draping his arms over our shoulders with characteristic disregard for personal space. “Because I, for one, am excited to see what kind of hellcat Arabesque is sending our way. Ooo! Do you think shebites?”
“Worry less about that and more about packing!” Cas fussed at him. “You’re only eighty-six percent completed with your list!”
“Hey, I’ve packed all the important stuff!” Z shot back. “Armor, weapons, and ammo!”
“Does that mean you’re leaving behind your travesty of a wardrobe? Because I, for one, wouldn’t object to bidding that horrid collection goodbye.”
I glanced at Zane’s t-shirt of the day: “Keep staring. I might do a trick.”
“Leave myclothes?” he shrieked. “Never!”
“Then get your ass up and back to packing!”
Shaking my head at them, I made sure my combat shotgun was safe in its case, then began counting the special ammo I’d created for it. Every shell whispered, “She’s just another mission,” but my gut remembered how missions bled.
My fingers hesitated on the last cartridge. Bright yellow and filled with ocean salt, cold iron filings, silver flecks, and a crushed scale shed by ahonu. Zane called it paranoia. I called it heeding the?aumakua. Holding it up to my ear, I listened to the ocean’s roar for a second before slotting it in its foam sleeve.
I’d save that one for her face. The bride’s or Arabesque’s, whichever one earned it first.
What was she feeling now, this woman who would soon be bound to three strangers? Excitement? Fear? Resignation? Glee? Determination? Would she hate us on sight? Try to manipulate us? Plot our destruction while smiling across the breakfast table? Or would she be as trapped as we were, making the best of an impossible situation?
The contract specified she had to be willing. Even though ‘willing’ could be coerced, what would make a woman willingly enter such an arrangement? What did she hope to gain? Or escape?
Well, whatever her motives, whatever traps Arabesque had laid, whether she ended up being an enemy, victim, ally, we would be ready.
We always were.
#
Casimir
Four handguns field-stripped across the table, their nickel-plated slides catching the sun through bulletproof film windows. I rotated pistol barrel number three toward the light. Carbon buildup at eleven o’clock position, needed brush work. Zane’s shadow fell across my cleaning mat as he set down another box of silver-jacket rounds.
“You’re double-counting the C4,” he snickered, pointing to the tally in my notebook.
