Leaning my arms on the counter, I tap a knuckle against the base of the window and rub my thumb and forefinger together in a covert motion asking,Price?
For a moment, her stare is all stone. I wait for her to tell me to piss off.
But she doesn’t.
Instead, she casually reaches under the counter and withdraws a worn copy ofCarmillathat hasn’t seen a good day in at least ten years.
I know the feeling.
“Weeks is the best I can promise without raising any flags,” she says quietly, sliding the book to me like it’s secretly stuffed with cocaine.
My smile grows fiendish.
I know the perfect criminal to wrap it in.
TORN
Poppy
The bittersweet scent of coffee and parchment caresses my senses as I light the last candle and drift through the café I’ve called home since I was old enough to move out of Morgenstern Manor.
Beelzebub’s is a revamped greenhouse overlooking the bay, brimming with dark florals and bright candles. Mama’s Japanese roots are in the samurai artwork and kanji poems on the windowpane walls. Papa’s prodigal influence resonates from the baroque style of it all: the tall ceiling and deep-set floors, the grand Gothic chandelier, the tinted windows dimming the setting June sun.
Separated into individual sights, it’s a cobbled hodgepodge of light and lightless, foreign and familiar, traditional and modern.
But together, it’s my home and haven.
I lower into my hammock at the rear corner tucked beside the coffee bar, cradling my pink skull mug to my chest and idly skimming my bare feet over Jezebel’s soft midnight fur as she slumbers beneath me. The balmy bay breeze wafting through the cracked windows tangles my sharp fringe, playing with my hair like a lover’s hands. Kahula Alohi, the baker in the back kitchen, sings along to Neoni’sDarksideplaying over the speakers, and I feel a smile warming my lips as serenity washes over—
“Judas fucking Priest,” Remiel huffs, effectively popping my bubble of peace. She plops into the hammock beside mine with a dragonmug towering with whipped cream in one hand, her wriggling bobcat runt rescue, Hades, in the other, groaning, “Threeagonizingyears of this war with LuciImHome, and you’d think our friends would put money down onmefor once.”
“Iput money down on you,” I remind her with an indignant glower. In all honesty, I never gave three-eighths of one-fifth of fuck-all about her online rivalry with a masked gamer she’s been secretly stalking since the night they became public enemies. But that doesn’t mean I won’t support her no matter how often she loses to him. “Literally every match, Emi. Not once have my Benjamins strayed from the magnificent and awe-inspiring Halestorm.”
“You don’t count.” She tugs the hood of her gray sweats up and flops her wrist dismissively. “You’re like my sister, Poppy. Your loyalty is a given.”
I squint. “Given?I think you meant ‘gift.’”
Emi’s peach lips purse as she tilts her head toward me, catching the final rays of dusk kissing the sunset to sleep. The tired sun lathes her layered raven waves long as a mermaid’s with deep golds, licking her dark skin and infusing her aquamarine eyes with a hint of heavenly honey.
But her loaded lour is downrightminacious.
“What?” I squawk.
“You’re missing the point, Pops. Our friends are ganging up on me and I need you to help me dosomething”—a pointed look at the pocket of my leather pants, where I keep my butterfly knife—“about it.”
As my only tenant and a hacker-for-hire when she’s not battling her arch nemesis online, Emi naturally knows every dark facet of my immoral life. Though sitting behind a computer and orchestrating a crime hive are two very different shades of black, we’ve bonded overour sins. Among them, the passion for bloodshed and violence against those who deserve it.
But she’s just kidding about the knife.
…I think.
“Calm your tits, dove,” drawls Fiona Walsh in her rhotic Irish lilt, taking the netted seat beside Emi and aiming a vulpine grin at her murderous scowl. She’s every bit the embodiment of a Celtic princess: body built for soft seduction, summery gaze brimming with smelted golds and flecks of grassy greens, fiery copper curls mussed with artful care. She’s a renowned heartbreaker. No one would guess, though, that she’s a ruthless loan shark under that white button-down, plaid skirt, and round-rimmed glasses. “When you’re tired of bending over and taking it in the ass, we’ll consider switching sides.”
“Judas,” Emi utters into her mug, stabbing the air between them when Fiona glances at her phone.
…Not kidding about the knife, then.
“Easy, Hale. Shedidsay ‘when.’” Castor Ricchioni appears with a steaming coffee cake halfway to his mouth, completing our circle as he takes his seat between me and Fiona. As the owner of a local chop shop, the Italian is of course a walking Yamaha ad: biker boots, black jeans, a short-sleeve tee a size too small for his muscle-dense torso under his leather jacket. His onyx waves are windswept from his harsh yet captivating features. His obsidian eyes made for luring lost souls into their depths are transfixed, as always, on Emi. “Which is a far cry from ‘if.’ Counts for something, right?”
