“So. How goes the wedding plans?” Týr set the denuded bottle aside, squashing the wet sticker.
Blaéz frowned, moving the empty glass to another spot on the table. “I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing—about the wedding, I mean. It’s something I want Darci to have. But…”
“But what?”
“Hell, her brother barely tolerates me. He probably thinks with no signed document claiming us as mated, it isn’t real.”
Even though Declan had plugged his dislike and undoubtedly still thought Blaéz was too dangerous, an uneasy accord existed between them now since it made the one person they both loved happy.
“You’re soul-joined. The woman’s yours. If he’s an obstacle, then change his mind—you have the ability.”
“Right.” Blaéz grunted, leaning back in his chair and rubbing the overnight stubble on his jaw. “You obviously haven’t given thought to the fact that Darci would probably never speak to me again.” Before Týr uttered another illogical solution, he added, “Her sister-in-law, Grace, told me about the wedding scrapbook Darci kept as a young girl. I want her to have her dream, andthatI can do. I don’t want to take away her humanity and make her life like ours—where small yet important matters are forgotten. Do you recall when your birthday is?”
Týr’s eyebrows drew together in a V. “I was born in the summer…I think.”
“Same. And we don’t even know the dates. You get my point?” He pushed to his feet. Ignoring his new drink, he pulled out three twenties and dropped the bills on the table. “Later.”
“I’m done here, too.” Týr joined him. They headed outside.
As they passed the bikers hanging near the motorcycles and puffing up a pungent storm of smoke, Blaéz slowed down, scanning the side street. At the sudden prickles coasting his skin, he changed direction and headed deeper into the alley instead of finding a darkened place to dematerialize back home. Away from the humans, he moved in preternatural speed, skirting the dumpsters and several fallen crates spilled in his path.
“O-kay, so we’re heading for Club Anarchy instead of the castle.” Týr’s droll tone drifted to him. “You need…entertaining?”
“Not at all.” Blaéz halted, the itch bearing down his back intensifying. He searched the dark alley with its looming warehouses. “Something doesn’t feel right, and hasn’t for a while.”
“Well, then, let’s find out what shit’s stirring and clean it out.” A dark grin appeared. “It’s been my kinda week. Blood, gore, and chances of more decapitation? Perfect.”
He shook his head at Týr’s penchant for bloody violence and surveyed the rooftops of the warehouses. “You sure have a way with words. Hallmark should be grateful they don’t have you on their team.”
“Maybe I’ll compose a sonnet for the wedding.”
Blaéz heard the smirk in his tone. “Like I want to hear your drivel.”
“Don’t knock my verse ‘til you’ve heard it, you uneducated SOB,” he retorted, and cheerfully strolled where even angels feared to tread. “Roses are red, violets are blue—”
For fuck’s sakes! “They’re bloody purple.”
“Stop with the interruptions. Don’t care if they’re pink, it’s how the damn rhyme goes. Roses are red, violets are blue, Darci’s so lovely, how in the hell did she end up with a fucker like you—” His amused gaze shifted to Blaéz. “Okay, it needs some fine-tuning, but I should be good to go on the big day.”
“Not if you want to keep your head.” His attention slid farther up the alley to the throng of people lumbering out of Club Anarchy. A flash of light hair caught his gaze and an eerily familiar sensation skated over his psyche. “Shit.”
“What?” Týr asked, scanning the crowd, too.
Without answering, Blaéz took off across the street. Since the demon bouncers knew the Guardians, he sprinted into the club, avoiding the partygoers in the dimly lit corridor, and shoved the metal door open. The pounding rock music reverberating against the walls barely made an impact as he dodged bodies fumbling about in the darkened club, skidding to a halt on the landing. He scanned the interior. Despite the imminent arrival of closing time, the place still swarmed with revelers.
“Fuck, Celt, who the hell are we chasing? At least then I know whom to kill,” Týr growled from his side.
“I’m not sure…I think I saw Finnén.”
Týr cut him a sharp look. “Your twin?”
His expression grim, Blaéz nodded, probing the upper VIP level with his mind for his kin’s familiar vibe.
“Perhaps you saw someone else who looks like him?”
“Perhaps. He wouldn’t dare show his face in this realm knowing I wouldn’t hesitate to kill him if he came after us again.”
Blaéz continued searching the dim club, but with the annoying laser lights bouncing about like buzzing insects, it was damn hard to pinpoint anything. He let his senses drift through the rowdy mass, seeking the familiar smell which always made his stomach roil—one of bitter chocolate and harsh spice. His gaze arrowed in on a tall male standing amidst the crowd, near the packed dance floor. He tore down the stairs. People scattered out of his path, and he grabbed the guy by his arm.
