This argument is familiar. Like stepping into a worn pair of shoes that always leave your heels blistered. It’s less angry and rawer than the last time we had it, but the core problem is the same: we’re at an impasse.
“I-I care for you,” I tell him. “And I’m sorry. Why can’t that be enough?”
Ciprian shifts against me. “What you did after.” He sighs. “Inviting me over, asking me to help with your project, pretending to let me fix things. It hurt, okay? And until I can look at you and it doesn’t, there’s nothing for us. You’re holding back, Alistair, and we both know it.”
My arm tightens around him. He sounds as exhausted by this as I am.
And I can’t stand it anymore. The distance, his suspicion. Ciprian trusts me to watch his back in a fight, but that’s it. We aren’t friends anymore; he’s made that clear. And dammit, why is that a loss I can’t endure?
“It was a mazzikin,” I say in a rush. I scrub a hand over my face, then force myself to keep going. “They came to my apartment. Said they had information for me. Asked me to call you because they were fading.”
I swallow. “So I did. I called you. And you came, and you were friendly—so bloody excited.” My mouth twists. “And I felt like shit, but I let them whisper in my ear, anyway. Let them tell me how dangerous Sheena was for the Fringes.”
I shake my head once. “I wouldn’t have hurt her. Never. But then the fight outside Celine’s apartment happened, and everything spiraled out of control. My thirst. The constant terror that I’d find her dead or gone—killed by her father or dragged away by yours.”
My arm, still wrapped around his shoulders, twitches. “I lashed out, and I’m sorry for it, Ciprian, but I can’t take it back.”
He makes an odd choking sound. “A mazzikin, Alistair? Are you fucking kidding?—”
A roar reverberates through the valley, and I tug Ciprian tighter to my side. “Don’t move,” he whispers.
I don’t. I’m not positive I’m still breathing.
Since Ciprian and I first combined our magic, I’ve been able to sense when he’s weaving a nightmare. It’s less feeling and more a taste in the air, dark and smoky.
It hovers around me now as the first figures appear in the distance.
Veydran. Their cloaks billow in the wind, black-and-white camouflage fluttering among the sturdy trees at the edge of the forest. From this distance, they’re ant-sized, nearly harmless ontheir own, but in these numbers... I do a mental tally, then grit my teeth.
There are dozens. And behind them, the monstrous reptilian tracker thunders through the conifers. His breath fogs the air as he scents the wind.
“We’re too close,” I whisper. “He’ll smell us.”
Slowly, I twist my neck to find Riven. Crouched low to the ground, he’s heading this way as fast as he can without being seen. A chill runs down my spine. “Time to go.”
Ciprian’s eyes are unfocused pools of ink. His cheekbones are sharp, the hollows beneath them deeper and more pronounced than usual. He hears me, but he’s mostly focused on the senses his magic provides.
“Forty-seven,” he whispers. “There are forty-seven of them.”
The urge to touch his face is hard to resist. “Good work,” I tell him. “Can you hide us while we move?”
When the monster roars again, I don’t wait for his answer.
Scooting away from the ledge, I crawl backward, then grab Ciprian’s ankles and pull him with me.
A screech bounces off the rocks. It’s deafening, and the hair on my arms stands on end.Shit.That sounded like some kind of bird, one the size of a tank. I shudder. No part of me wants to tangle with something big enough to make that sound.
“Drop the nightmare.” I tug Ciprian to his feet and cup his cheeks. “We’ve got to go.”
He blinks, then bats my hands away and nods as his eyes focus.
We sprint toward Riven, and I slow my pace to match Ciprian’s.
Another squawk. Louder. Closer. It’s practically on top of us.
We meet in the middle, nearly colliding, and Riven grabs our wrists.
I stuff my hand in my pocket, toss the scrap of fabric to the side, and wrap my fingers around the polished stone. Everything condenses. The tug behind my navel is harsh, squeezing my body through the eye of a needle. The last things I see are thick, leathery wings—spanning thirty-feet across—rising above the cliff’s edge.
