by Melissa Grey
“I am being honest with myself,” Dorian protested. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Where else would you be? It’s not like we’ve got a lot of options.”
Dorian shook his head. “Not here, in the warehouse.” He placed his hand on the blanket, inches from Jasper’s own. “Here.” He paused, letting that one word sink in. “I don’t have to be. I swore a long time ago that I would go wherever Caius went, but I don’t have to sit here. I don’t have to talk to you. I don’t have to make you tea or fluff your pillows or listen to you complain about everything from the way your wound itches to the fact that we ran out of Pop-Tarts. I don’t think you appreciate the enormity of that. And I don’t think you should be eating Pop-Tarts. I don’t trust food that comes out of boxes.”
It was more than Jasper had ever heard him say in a single breath. He slipped the book from Dorian’s unresisting hands and placed it atop the pile. Even though it hurt to push himself completely upright, he did so, sucking in a pained breath. This was not a conversation to be had lying down.
“I do appreciate it,” Jasper said. “I understand.”
Picking at a bit of dry wax on the floor, Dorian shook his head again. “No, you don’t.” He met Jasper’s gaze. The color of his eye was a darker blue now, like the sea at dusk. “You’re Avicen.”
Jasper gasped, clutching at imaginary pearls. “Calumny and lies.”
Dorian huffed out a tiny laugh. It was a lovely sound. “Those are the same thing.” He glanced around the room, at the water-stained high ceilings, at the blackened windows, at the random spatters of paint on the hardwood floor. At everything but Jasper. “I hate your kind.” He paused, rubbing the eye patch again. “I used to. Sometimes, I think I still do.”
Something in Jasper’s chest twisted. “Do you hate me?” He detested how small and insecure his voice sounded.
“Of course not,” Dorian replied hastily. “It’s just…when you carry something with you for so long, it’s almost impossible to let it go. You forget what it feels like to not be held down by its weight.” Finally, he looked back at Jasper, letting his gaze settle. Jasper knew his feathers lacked their usual jewel-toned shine and that his skin was a bit pallid, and he was struck by a malady the likes of which he rarely ever suffered: self-consciousness. It was a ridiculous feeling, but he couldn’t help it.
“I’ve hated the Avicen in a way you can’t possibly comprehend,” Dorian continued. “It runs so deep, it’s like it’s carved into my bones. It’s been a part of me for so long that I don’t know who I am without it. And then there’s Caius….” He let the words trail off, a rare acknowledgment of the ever-present elephant in the room that was his poorly hidden unrequited love.
“That’s okay,” Jasper said. “Because I know who you are.”
“You’ve known me for the space of a few months, Jasper.”
“And it’s been long enough for me to figure a few things out.” Jasper took Dorian’s hand in both of his, fingers tracing the ridges of Dorian’s knuckles. When Dorian didn’t fight the contact, Jasper held on a little tighter. “I know that you’re fiercely loyal. I know that you’re capable of loving so intensely that you would ignore your own broken heart just to stay by your best friend’s side. I know that you would put your own life in danger to protect the people you care about. And I know that you’re brave enough to face down your own demons even when it feels impossible.” Dorian squeezed Jasper’s hand back so gently that Jasper was half convinced he’d imagined it. He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And to your last point, I’m not worried about Caius.”
“Why’s that?” Dorian asked, failing to fight the grin that found its way to his face.
Jasper smirked. “Because I’m prettier.”
Dorian threw back his head and laughed, baring the fair skin of his throat. For the first time, Jasper noticed that Dorian had a dimple on his unscarred cheek. It seemed fitting. Two dimples would have been monumentally unfair to the rest of the world. No one was allowed to be that handsome.
Jasper was about to say something witty to see if he could summon forth that dimple once more when the door opened. He had only a few precious seconds to register that Caius had not returned alone before a low voice drawled, “Well, isn’t this a touching moment.”
Over Dorian’s shoulder, Jasper spotted the last person he wanted to see, especially now. Dread coiled in his stomach, curdling like sour milk. His hand balled into a fist, rucking up the blankets. Dorian’s gaze flickered down, then up to Jasper, then to the warlock who swooped into the room beside Caius. Dorian shot Jasper a questioning glance as his hand inched toward the sword that was never more than two feet from his person. It was a protective gesture that made Jasper’s heart warm a little to see it.
“Quinn.” Jasper tried to keep his voice as level as he could. He wasn’t the person he’d been the last time he saw Quinn. He was better. Stronger. He could handle this asshole. “You always did have terrible timing.”
CHAPTER TEN
Dorian had his hand on his sword before he’d even stopped to think about it; it was a reflexive action, driven purely by instinct. Echo sprang to her feet, pushing away from the table so quickly that a box of microwave popcorn plummeted to the floor, stopped only by Ivy’s hand darting out to catch it. After the initial shock of seeing another person in the warehouse—besides the Ala, no one else knew they were there—they all froze, save for the man who stood in the center of the room beside Caius, staring down at Jasper like a cat appreciating the sight of a succulent mouse. The man’s eyes were dark and peculiar, black speckled with glittering shards of white that reminded Dorian of starlight. An air of magic hung around him like a noxious cloud. A warlock. The warlock. Dorian hated him immediately.
Echo, being Echo, broke the silence. “Who’s this clown?”
The warlock’s strange night-sky eyes narrowed. “My name is Quinn.” He kept his gaze on Jasper, who shifted uncomfortably and then winced in pain. “I’m a friend of Jasper’s.”
Jasper snorted. “We’re stretching the definition of ‘friend’ a bit thin here, don’t you think?”
Mouth pulling into a practiced smile, Quinn said, “Touché, my jaybird.”
“Don’t call me that.”
Dorian lowered his sword but kept his hold on it. He liked the weight of it in his hand; it was solid, familiar. Unlike this clown.
Clearing his throat, Caius stepped forward, placing himself between Dorian’s blade and Quinn. He shot Dorian a look that said, rather loudly, Please put the sword away. Dorian shot one back that simply said, No.
“Quinn is here to help us,” Caius said. “To help Jasper.”
Dorian stood his ground.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Quinn brushed past them, unconcerned with Dorian’s blade. “You people came to me and now you’re acting like I’m the intruder. Rude.” He knelt down beside Jasper and extended a hand toward the fresh bandage on the Avicen’s torso. Jasper sank back, deeper into the pillow. Dorian wasn’t sure if he was seeing things or if genuine fear had actually flashed across Jasper’s face.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Jasper. I just want to help.” Quinn’s voice was soft, but it had the same rehearsed quality as his smile. His hand hovered over Jasper’s wound, as if waiting for permission. “You know I can.”
The feathers on Jasper’s forearms ruffled. The candlelight skittered off them, refracting their purple and gold highlights. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said through clenched teeth. “Just make it fast.”
“Jaybird, don’t be like that. You’re hurting. I can make it better.” Quinn placed his hand over the wound, fingers lightly grazing the sides of the bandage. Jasper tried to flinch away from the touch, but he was too injured to go anywhere. There was a tightness to his eyes that Dorian had never seen before. Triumph flashed across Quinn’s face, fierce and fleeting. This was a game to him.
Dorian edged the tip of his blade beneath Quinn’s chin, applying enough pressure th
at Quinn had to either look up or risk being cut.
“He asked you not to call him that,” Dorian said. “Don’t make him ask again.”
Quinn smiled, eyes shining like an oil slick. “And they say chivalry is dead.” He looked back to Jasper. “You’ve been a busy boy, I see.”
“That’s enough,” Caius said. He placed a hand on Dorian’s elbow, forcing his arm back, and the sword away from Quinn.
For a moment, Dorian was tempted to disobey. There was a very short list of people for whom Dorian would battle a warlock as powerful as Quinn against his prince’s direct order. Somehow, beyond all reason, Jasper had found a place for himself on that list. But even so, Dorian lowered the blade, giving in to the firm, persistent pressure Caius was applying to his arm. There was something about Quinn that made Dorian’s skin crawl, as if ants were marching across the back of his neck.
It’s because you’re jealous, whispered a voice hidden in the deepest recesses of his mind.
No I’m not, Dorian hissed back, even though he knew he was being irrational. But he didn’t want to stop being irrational. Not while a warlock was undressing Jasper with his weird starry eyes.
Quinn dragged his hand down Jasper’s torso, fingers lightly touching Jasper’s bare chest. Jasper sucked in a breath and held it, lower lip caught between his teeth. When Quinn’s hand was positioned over the wound, he slowly lowered his palm so that his skin was flush with Jasper’s. Quinn’s eyes drifted shut.
Dorian tried to step around Caius, who held out his hand in another warning gesture. “What are you—”
Before Dorian could finish the sentence, Jasper sagged against the pillows with a relieved groan while Quinn sucked in a pained breath. The warlock opened his eyes and the starlit glamour was gone. They were white, pupils completely subsumed.
Echo stepped forward, but kept a healthy distance between herself and Quinn. “What happened to your eyes?”
Quinn removed his hand from Jasper’s wound and rolled his neck. “Multitasking’s a bitch. Hard to leech the power from a hex and look good doing it.” His gaze drifted to the ground, and when he looked up, the blue-black star-speckled eyes were back. “That’s more like it.” Turning to Jasper, he asked, “How are you feeling?”
Jasper pushed himself up, and Dorian noticed that the movement didn’t appear to cause him as much pain as it would have earlier. “Better,” Jasper replied, arching his back with a groan. “A lot better.”
“What did you do to him?” Dorian asked. He couldn’t fight the bite in his tone even if he wanted to. And he didn’t particularly want to.
“Magic comes with a price, and I paid it. I absorbed the magic from the cursed wound and took his pain.” Quinn’s satisfied grin slipped back into place. “I healed him.”
Quinn reached down, as if to touch Jasper’s abdomen right next to the bandage. Jasper smacked his hand away. Even scowling, he was criminally beautiful. “Quinn, I swore you would never lay a hand on me again, and I meant it. That was an exception, not an invitation.”
Again? Dorian’s imagination concocted a series of situations in which Quinn would have laid hands on Jasper, each one more distasteful than the last.
Quinn retracted his hand. “I know it may be hard for you to swallow, Jasper, but I’m here as a friend.”
Jasper snorted. “You don’t have friends.”
“I had you once.” Quinn’s voice was so serious, so quiet. If Dorian had to listen to it for a second longer, he would go mad.
“Warlocks aren’t known for their selflessness,” Dorian said. He rubbed a thumb along the leather on the hilt of his sword. It had been worn smooth from years of use, contoured to his grip perfectly. “What do you want in exchange for this?”
Quinn shrugged a single shoulder. His gaze slid from Dorian to Jasper and then back to Dorian. “Same thing as you, I suspect.” He pushed himself to stand, wiping his hands on his dark jeans, eyes never straying from Dorian’s. A chill started at the base of Dorian’s spine, creeping upward. He was grateful for the familiar weight of the sword in his hand. Quinn’s smile was a little too keen, as if he could read Dorian’s thoughts.
Echo inched forward. “Dorian’s right, though.”
“I am?” He’d grown so used to fighting her on everything—especially when it came to leaving their self-imposed prison—that he’d nearly forgotten what it felt like to be in agreement.
She rolled her eyes. “Yes.” To Quinn, she said, “What exactly is your price for healing him? You’re a warlock. Your kind doesn’t do anything without expecting something in return.”
Quinn looked at Echo as if he were dissecting her, peeling back her layers to find out what made her tick. “I’m getting the sense that you’re the clever one.”
If Dorian had been anyone but himself, he might have missed the mild offense that flitted across Caius’s face. His prince had always been the clever one. Until, perhaps, now.
Quinn carried on, voice resonating through the space as if he was performing for an audience. “As shocking as it might be for your pedestrian minds to consider, I’ve come out of the kindness of my own heart.” He grinned. “I’m just helping an old friend in need. There’s nothing untoward in that.” Quinn peered down at Jasper. “No need to thank me.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” Jasper said, but his voice lacked the sharpness Dorian knew he could inject into it. The urge to pepper Jasper with questions about his history with Quinn was overwhelming, but Dorian did his best to quell it. He didn’t have the right. He hadn’t earned it.
Quinn didn’t seem the least bit bothered by Jasper’s attitude. “Always a pleasure, Jay.” With a final flare of amused cruelty coloring his words, he added, “Oh, and happy birthday.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Echo said. “I thought your birthday was six months ago. I stole a Rolex for you.”
It had been a blustery day in January, the New York sky gray and cold, dotted with wispy white clouds and the occasional dark shadows of passing pigeons. The 6 train had been beyond warm, heated by the press of bodies crammed into the car during the morning rush. Echo had learned that if you wanted to pick a pocket, the best place to do it was on public transport at its busiest. Her mark had been a Wall Street type, with slicked-back hair and wing tips so shiny he could have seen his reflection in them, like Narcissus staring into a lake. A gleaming gold watch, probably worth more than his secretary’s salary, was strapped to his wrist. Even the affluent opted for the train at rush hour—one stood a better chance of being struck by lightning than successfully hailing a taxi at 8:15 in the morning. A lurch of the train here, an “accidental” bump there, et voilà. After a mumbled apology for her invasion of the man’s personal space, Echo had alighted from the 6 train one Rolex richer.
Jasper shrugged. “I just said that because I was in the mood for presents.”
A wry grin graced Echo’s lips. “Never change, Jasper.”
“I don’t intend to.” Jasper pushed away the blankets and rose to his feet, slowly, as if he was expecting it to hurt. Echo could hear the sound of his joints popping from across the room. Quinn reached out to help steady him, but Jasper recoiled from the offered hand. Sliding his sword back into its sheath, Dorian brushed past the warlock and gripped Jasper’s elbow, helping him take a few wobbly steps. Quinn and Dorian engaged in an argument that seemed to be conducted entirely with silent stares: Quinn’s bordering on blasé amusement, Dorian’s simmering with suspicion. Jasper refused to look at either of them, golden eyes focused on his unsteady feet.
Echo glanced at Ivy, who raised her eyebrows in response. That was just what their little group needed—a love triangle between an Avicen, a Drakharin, and a warlock. Because that emotional Chernobyl wasn’t likely to blow up in anyone’s face. Nope. Not at all.
Caius leaned in close, breath disturbing the hair near Echo’s ear. A small shiver went down her spine. “I want no part in this,” he murmured.
“Yeah, me neithe
r.” Echo turned to him. Their noses were a scant few inches apart. She took a tiny step back and turned to face the rest of the room, clapping her hands together. “I have a great idea. Let’s go to the rave.”
“The rave?” Caius asked.
“Yes, the rave. The party. In that warehouse on the other side of the tracks. Keep up, Caius.”
“You want to go to the party?”
“Yes, I want to go to the party. That’s what people usually do to commemorate the anniversary of a friend’s birth. They party. Hard.”
Caius blinked, as if he couldn’t quite believe the words he’d just heard. “Are you mad?”
“Probably.” Echo smiled. “Though we’d need a battery of tests to confirm a diagnosis.”
He shook his head. “I’m serious, Echo. Parties are out of the question. It isn’t safe.”
“Nowhere is safe,” she countered. “We can pretend that our little hideout is impregnable, but you and I both know that it’s not. I can’t go on living like this. I can’t stomach another day staring at the same four walls and the same four people and eating the same four kinds of Pop-Tarts. I will go mad. I’ll burn this place down.”
Caius glanced over at the too-familiar faces staring at them. “I see your point,” he said. “We don’t even have four kinds of Pop-Tarts left. Jasper ate the last raspberry one this morning.”
