Every muscle in my body tenses when two figures slide into the seats directly beside me, one on each side.
I don’t even have to see their faces to know it’s them. The angels.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, glancing toward the back doors in search of Ambrose. I’m not sure if I want him to come in or stay out. If he walks in now, he might suspect I’ve been talking to them and considering selling him out. On the other hand, the angels still raise my hackles, as if some primal part of me considers them to be predators. And while Ambrose probably wouldn’t have any problem killing me for his own sake, I have no doubt he’d also protect me from other immortal beings.
“Trying to gather the information we need, since your hesitation to help us seems to be persisting,” Samuel answers. As always, the other man says nothing.
“And why would you decide to come here? Is there something special about tonight?”
The men exchange a weighted glance. “Maybe. Maybe not. That depends on what Ambrose is doing at the present moment. Maybe you should go find him.”
“I told him I would wait in here,” I argue, but even as I say it, unease gnaws at my gut.
“And don’t you think there might be a reason for that? Something he may not want you to see?”
The warm glow of emotion I’d been feeling only half an hour earlier has dissipated completely.They could be lying, I remind myself. But something tells me they’re not. Ambrose has been flighty all night. There’s something he’s not telling me.
Samuel speaks again. “Go see for yourself. We’ll see you in two weeks.” Without another word, they both stand and disappear into the crowd, leaving me alone and prickling with anxiety.
I wipe my clammy palms on my dress before I stand and make my way toward the back doors. One couple lounges on the chairs to my left, but they hardly seem to notice me as I walk past them and toward the garden area.
As I approach the hedge maze, muffled voices sound from somewhere inside. Both are men, though I can’t make out the words they’re saying.
As quietly as possible, I tiptoe through the maze in the direction of the voices. They’re growing increasingly more severe as the argument intensifies, and I catch a few words.
“Please don’t,” one man begs. That one definitely isn’t Ambrose. I can tell by his tone.
The response is a growled question, though I can’t make out the words. One thing is clear, though: It’s Ambrose.
The other man mutters something, but it doesn’t seem to be the answer Ambrose is looking for, because he repeats the question.
The man is stammering and begging now, and my stomach sinks.
Before I can consider the weight of my actions, I stride forward and turn the corner to find the two men standing there.
Ambrose has the man’s back against his chest, with one arm reaching around to hold a gleaming knife to his throat while the other pins his arms behind his back.
The knife flashes in the moonlight as he swipes it to the side, slitting the man’s throat in one sharp motion. He falls to the ground with a heavy thud, and Ambrose’s gaze raises tome just as I recognize the man collapsed against the shrubbery.
Richard. His face is paling more with each second that passes, his eyes glassy. Streams of thick blood spill down his neck, seeping into the crisp white dress shirt beneath his suit jacket.
I can’t look away.
The one person in this godforsaken place that’s made me laugh tonight is dead.
“What did you do?” I whisper. Tears well in my eyes as I stare down at the lifeless body.
Ambrose is silent.
“What did you do?” I repeat, though now my voice is louder and wracked with anger. It seems hypocritical to hate Ambrose for killing a man who’s practically a stranger to me considering that I’ve killed once and will likely kill again, but I can’t imagine whythiswas necessary.
He was so sweet, so kind, and it’s been years since I’ve laughed with someone like I did with him. I may have only known him for an hour, but sharp pain strikes my chest at seeing him dead. Another tiny glimmer of happiness that’s been taken away as quickly as it came.
I stare at Ambrose, waiting for a reply, some sort of explanation to make this better.
Maybe he really does kill for pleasure or greed. Or maybe it was a weird sense of possession or entitlement to me. That would make sense given the way he pulled me away to dance after seeing Richard hit on me. Is he reactive enough—or does he care enough—that he’d kill another man for flirting with me? Because that would be fuckinginsane.
Whatever it is, the horror and disgust are blatant in my expression, because Ambrose glares right back at me, thebloodied knife still hanging in his hand and the body of a dead man at his feet.
