by A. K. Koonce
My feck. It’s strange how it almost sounds like he cares.
I let the satisfied feeling wash over me before Saint cuts in, in a voice more serious than I’ve ever heard from him. “I’ll protect her.”
Saint? Saint who has never offered to work for anything, who has never offered to go out of his way for anyone is offering to protect me.
“With my life,” he adds. There’s a stubborn intensity about him, a hard set of his lips and eyes as he takes in Phoenix. There’s a silent conversation passing between the two, one I don’t understand but also can read all too well. It’s a promise, a vow.
Phoenix nods.
“So Saint is with Izzy. We need a scout, that’s where you come in, Syko.” Malek’s golden eyes lift to the nephilim, who stands with his arms crossed against his chest. He looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks when I know for a fact he barely leaves my bed. It shows in the reflective darkness under his black eyes. “You can fly and scout their positions—discreetly—and come warn us on their location, cause distractions if needed. And I’ll capture their flag.”
He makes it sound so easy. Effortless. I know it will be anything but.
Fireworks shoot off in the sky, raining down over our territory as if the sky itself is bleeding.
“That’s the signal.” Malek pushes up from the ground. Those of us crouching get up to follow. When I stand, Malek leans in so close the fuming heat of his body burns into me. My whole body trembles as he pushes the hem of my shirt up and tucks the flag into the waistband of my uniform. His fingers linger a bit on the skin on my stomach, like they’re addicted to the smooth expanse of flesh. He bends down and his lips skim over mine in the briefest of touches. “Stay safe, mi corazón,” he commands.
My heart. And, oh, please don’t give out on me now, my heart.
It’s the first time since that night that he’s kissed me. I want to pull him right back to me and memorize the softness of his lips. But we don’t have time for fawning over pretty Prods and their pretty words. Not right now.
“Get off my girlfriend,” Phoenix grinds out, all but pushing Malek to the side to loom in front of me in his threatening stance. His eyes darken in that demonic way of his that just looks so very hell kissed.
Malek and Phoenix have a hatred between them that goes beyond me.
In a way, I’m the one thing that makes them tolerate each other, I think.
I tilt my chin up even as his body drifts infinitely closer to mine. “Why do you always have to be such a dick?” I chastise him even as I spread my palms against his chest and feel the pure quietness of his heart beneath my fingertips.
His lashes fall to a hooded state as he leans down. The darkness in his eyes spreads like some sort of black river of death. His veins darken and bulge around his eyes. Poison against the skin. A promise of something darker than sex and lust.
“Because the werewolf would completely claim you if I didn’t.” He’s smirking, but I can’t tell if he’s mocking me or if he’s being entirely serious.
His eyes look like darkness and hellfire merged together. It’s as terrifying as it is beautiful.
“Stop making out with your boyfriends. We have a game to win,” the faerie—Sasha—snaps impatiently.
Phoenix ignores her and bends down so his lips press gently against my own before skimming along the angle of my jaw, to the lobe of my ear. “Stay safe, Feck,” he orders vehemently. And then he’s pulling away. I hadn’t noticed Saint come up behind me, but Phoenix’s eyes are there. “With your life, Saint.”
I wish I could reply, but he’s already walking away.
“He cares about you, he just doesn’t realize it yet.” Saint turns me around and flashes me his fanged smile. “Now, ready for some fun with flags?”
It’s the most happy statement.
Said in the most terrifying way.
I thought a game of capture the flag would be filled with more... excitement than this. So far we’re just wandering aimlessly through the woods that borders our dorm. Syko flies up from time to time just to touch back down at my side minutes later. All three of us are tense, and breaking the silence seems forbidden for some reason.
Maybe it’s the heavy weight of sadness on Syko’s shoulders. He clearly misses Kayos, he’s worried about her. I am too. But she’s not my sister, and the feeling isn’t the same. I want to make him feel better, but I don’t have the words.
All of this, it’s just a distraction before he’s slumped into his thoughts entirely.
Saint lets loose an exaggerated sigh. “This is boring,” he complains, stretching his arms over his head in a very feline gesture that shows off the tattoos that shadow his biceps. “We’ve been walking for twenty minutes and not one person has died yet.”
I triple check the yellow flag tucked into the waistband of my uniform. I’m paranoid it’ll fall off without me noticing. This game has my nerves scrambled everywhere.
“That’s a good thing, though.” I pull my shirt back down again and smooth out the wrinkles on the front.
“I’m going to scout.” Syko’s voice is rough and, a moment later, there’s the crunching sound of bones breaking and a whoosh as wings suddenly rip from between his shoulder blades. Blood tinges the tips of the feathers, but they glow golden and fiery, pulsing like blood rushing through the veins. He flaps them once, twice, and then he shoots to the skies. Cold drops of wetness drip onto my cheeks as I watch him go. I swipe my wrist across it and look down to see a smear of blood.
His wings make me curious, and I have so many questions, but don’t think it’s appropriate to ask him any of them.
“Why did you volunteer to watch over me?” I ask abruptly, wiping the blood on my sweats.
Maybe talking will chase away the nervousness of this exam. Besides, I’m curious. It’s been nagging me since he uttered the words.
Saint, the rich boy who doesn’t care about taking notes or passing classes, who has few friends and fewer lovers-Phoenix notwithstanding-offering to look after a nuisance of a feck is just plain odd. Does he have some ulterior motive or is he doing this for Phoenix’s benefit and not his own?
Saint taps his fingers against his thigh before he answers. Questions obviously make him hesitant, but I can always tell he answers with honesty in as much of a mischievous way as he can manage. “Why can’t I do something from the goodness of my heart without being questioned? It’s because I’m a vampire, isn’t it? The stereotyping never ends.”
My eyes roll so far to the back of my head I’m certain it looks like I’m having a seizure. “Maybe because that goodness of your heart doesn’t ever exist unless it benefits you. So cut the shit, Synth Sucker and answer the question.”
Banter with him is easy. It’s the serious talks that are hard.
Like now.
He flicks his fingers, joining them in odd shapes that look like he’s making shadow puppets against his thigh. He’s like a junkie desperate for a fix with the constant need to move his hands. I wonder if it’s a nervous gesture, something he does to brace himself before he tells the truth.
“That’s cold, Feck.” He stops moving, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Why wouldn’t I help you?”
Because you don’t care about anyone but yourself. Because the whole academy is one giant joke to you. Because I’m just a feck you like to tease. Take your pick, I want to scream but bite my tongue against the sarcasm instead.
When I say nothing, he sighs and runs a hand through his silky strands of dark hair. The sun is so low not a ray of light shines across his shadowed face.
“Fine, stop torturing me with your silence, I’ll tell you. I’m helping you because I like you. I thought that was obvious. We’re friends.” He adds that last part like it just occurred to him.
I can’t explain why my stomach launches uncomfortably at the word ‘friends’. Is that what we are? Is this something I’ve been unaware of ever since I started fake dating Phoenix? The relationship between me and Saint has be
en slow building, almost tentative. He’s just so hard to read sometimes with all his antagonizing teasing. There are moments when I envy him, his carelessness, and other moments that I know he’s as lost as I am. Sometimes, I just want to be lost with someone who feels like a disappointment as much as I do.
I enjoy his outlook, though I can’t help but wonder if it’s a facade he uses to hide what he really feels. And I know the vampire beside me feels deeply. It’s in the quiet intensity of his stare when he thinks no one is looking, but I see it. It’s bright and colorful and innately Saint.
He’s like a canvas splattered with paint and I want to peel each layer back bit by vibrant bit.
“Friends,” I echo, the word tasting strange on my tongue. “Do friends usually get naked in front of each other and fuck their friend’s fake boyfriends?” I don’t know why I say that. It doesn’t come from a place of jealousy, but from curiosity, and maybe a little envy. They seem close, they are close in a way I don’t think I can ever be with either of them and I don’t know why that hurts so much.
“If it bothers you so much…” I feel the tips of his cold fingers skim up the length of my arm. “... maybe you could join us next time.”
A sliver of anticipation slices through my every sense.
Yes, please, I want to beg the words, but nothing comes out except a weak whisper of a sound. A sigh and a whimper roll together to sound fucking pathetic.
“After all,” he pulls away and resumes walking in long prowling strides, “what are friends for if not for sharing?”
I want to throw a rock at the back of his stupid head.
I race to catch up with him. “Can you be serious for like two minutes, Saint?”
He guffaws, waving a hand around like he’s swatting a fly. “Serious is boring.”
“I mean it. Why?”
He stops then and I almost trip over my own feet at the abruptness. We’re facing each other now, and he’s looking down at me with his intense frost kissed eyes. In them, I can see the secrets he holds like intricate threads in his soul. Pain and anguish, desire, and something else I can’t quite place. And I see the truth. A truth he doesn’t want to answer, so he avoids it with sarcastic commentary and evasion. But I don’t really need the words. Not anymore. Not when I see the answer so clearly in the darkness of the night in the middle of a stupid exam.
Saint Von Hunter is sad. Incredibly, incredibly sad.
And he’s not willing to share that truth with anyone. Possibly, not even his best friend.
He turns away from me and keeps walking. He doesn’t need to say anything and the intensity of the emotions he locks away is overwhelming. It makes my heart pound and my palms sweat to ignore it.
It makes me feel sick that he’s hurting.
We walk a few more minutes before Saint stops me, pressing his palm into my chest. His ears seem to perk like a cat’s and he’s looking around, sniffing.
He hears something, senses something, it seems.
I peek into the darkness and curse my Prodless eyesight momentarily before the figure he’s scenting steps out from the shadows and into the spotlighted illumination of the moon.
She’s barefoot with her pale hair in ragged strands. Her night dress is covered in blood and dirt and she’s standing preternaturally still.
“Is that…” I take a step forward. “Kayos?”
Syko’s younger sister cocks her head to the side.
What the fuck is she doing here?
And why does she look like she’s been dropped straight out of a horror movie? In the dark I can’t tell if the blood is hers or someone else’s.
I take a cautious step toward the girl, when all I really want to do is run and pull her into my arms, check if she’s okay and call for Syko to come back.
“Are you okay?” My words tremble nervously. “Are you hurt?”
The girl doesn’t move.
“Fucking creeeeeeeeeepy.” Saint tugs at my shirt to pull me back. “Bad idea, Izara. I’ve seen this in every scary movie ever. Go after her and expect a speedy slasher death to follow.”
I shoot him a glare. “What is wrong with you? That’s Syko’s sister.” I try to reach her again but his grip on my shirt is adamant.
“A sister who was arrested and who is a startle Prod. How do you know that’s really her? And if it is, I wouldn’t let you near her, anyway. Did you happen to miss the bloodstained dorm room she left behind in her wake?”
He has a point.
There are Prods like witches and warlocks at this academy who could easily create a vision like this. How can I be certain this isn’t a trick? Still, it looks real enough, she looks real and I can’t just stand here next to Saint while she’s so close to me, bleeding, and likely traumatized.
“Kayos?” I whisper as if I’m afraid to really say her name out loud.
Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary. Circles my mind but I shake the eerie thought away.
The girl takes a tentative step forward like my voice is her beckoning but then she abruptly stops. From here, I can make out the tremble of her jagged nails as she fists them into the tattered nightgown. “I—I’m sorry. I can’t,” she utters.
“Kayos—”
But then the girl explodes.
I’m propelled backwards by the force of her power. It hits me with a searing pain that rings through my ears, the heat of it scorching down my front. I cry out as I fall. I can hear Saint’s painful scream lash out into the night but I can’t feel him, can’t see him. I can’t see anything but the darkness, a shroud placed over my vision. My lungs agonize for air but every gasping pant seems to push me further away from breath rather than closer.
As I fall, my head connects to a rock, and I feel the warmth of blood. Everything else is white noise and confusion. I blink several times and force myself up on my elbows. My vision blurs but I can still see her standing right where she’d been before she erupted. She’s shaking, crying in a hysterical crawl of sounds that builds and builds and builds, until it’s pressing down on me. And then like magic, she flickers in and out of focus until she’s gone completely.
“Saint…” The word slips from my bleeding lips on a rasp. I force myself up off the ground, even as every muscle shrieks in agony. Even as something seems to stir to life within me. Something hurts, it burns…
“Izara.”
Strong hands grip my arms and haul me up. My vision spots with black dots and it takes me but a few fuzzy moments to realize that the one holding me in his arms, isn’t Saint at all.
“Your boyfriend isn’t here to protect you now, Feck,” the shifter snarls manically just before his head slams into mine and my vision goes black entirely.
Twenty-Six
Izara
Stars and white lights dance behind my closed eyelids. The darkness threatens to drown me fully but I force it away.
I have to open my eyes. I don’t know what’s happening, my brain is muddled with confusion and all I know is that I have to open them.
Bad, bad things happen when I lose consciousness.
Just ask Adam.
“Izara!”
That’s Saint’s voice.
What happened?
The exam, Syko’s sister, the explosion and…
My eyes pry open and I almost regret it as pain ricochets up my skull but I force my eyelids up. Saint is the first thing I see. He’s fighting like mad to get to me and my heart nearly splits in half at the sight of three Prods pounding fist after fist into his flesh. He may be a vampire, and he may be strong, but these Prods are savage and outnumber him completely. Fists fly to his face, to his stomach. I hear the crunch of bones, see the flinging of blood, and still he lashes back at them to get to me. He fights like it’s the only thing that matters. Like I’m the only thing that matters. Even as a Prod grabs his fingers and bends them back at a grotesque angle, it’s my name he screams.
“Shut that bloodsucker up,” one of them growls.
My skin prickles at that
voice. A voice I recognize. The shifter circles around me so Saint is blocked from my vision and I can only see the stranger’s massive hulking body.
There’s no reply to his command but the sound of Saint’s grunts of pain continue.
Hatred flares inside me like a living, breathing thing. It rises up with a sense of familiarity, like a long-lost friend to greet me. I’m sure I’ve felt this demanding, shaking, adrenaline before.
But where?
It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that it consumes me like flames until I’m practically choking on it.
The shifter looms over me. I’m on the ground. I’m weaker, I’m bleeding, my head pounds and blood trails down my temples. I’m nothing compared to him and the vicious claws he sports as he bends to my level. And then his palm is on my face, shoving me into the dirt. He adjusts his grip, flips me, digs his knee into my spine with his hand on my head. The dirt and rocks abrade my cheek.
Pain. All I know is pain and rage and all I want to know is blood and fire.
I feel it crawling up my throat. It’s a sensation not quite my own, but inside, buried, now emerging from quiet slumber.
Something rouses in me slowly, unraveling like it’s enjoyed its long rest.
But now, it’s very much awake.
“Fucking Feck,” putrid breath whispers in my ear. “I’m not going to kill you.” His voice holds the tone of wicked promise. “But first I am going to hurt you. I’ll hurt you so good you’ll like it, Feck.”
His claws sink into my scalp. I scream then, even if I don’t want to give him the satisfaction. Saint responds to my cries with his own. There are thumps of pounding fists and choked words lost in gurgles of blood.
I’m more worried about him than I am for myself. If I wasn’t so fucking useless I could help him. I could do something other than lie here and cry.
