Beauty, a Hate Story the End

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

The hallway was almost entirely devoid of light, making Crazy A and Anteros monochrome. Their skin washed out into gray and their eyes became haunting white orbs, their teeth too white.

  “You think I want to wear this?” Anteros asked, thumbing to the F. “Like some goddamn pussy?” Truthfully, Anteros loved it, but the lie had come easily because with each lie, he shielded Frankie from Crazy A. “You’re projecting—you’ve been projecting for months,” Anteros continued. This was the only way to get Crazy A off her back. He ignored the voice in his head that said it kept his lie alive, let him stay in his world longer.

  “You didn’t kill her,” Crazy A pointed out.

  “She fucking escaped.” Anteros stepped to Crazy A, curling his fingers into the Wolf’s soot-covered shirt and pushing him hard into the wall. Plaster fell, hitting them both in the head as a woman behind the walls reached a muffled, fake orgasm.

  Crazy A craned his neck, inching closer to Anteros until their noses nearly touched. “You had plenty of time before then.”

  Anteros tightened his grip, making the fabric at his fingers twist. The injuries he’d sustained from the bomb protested, but Anteros wouldn’t let Crazy A see any weakness. Crazy A’s glare narrowed, daring him to do something. The temptation to take that dare was strong, but instead Anteros exhaled through his nose and stepped off.

  “I fucked up one time. Look”—he went to the same side of the wall as Crazy A, leaned against it so their shoulders touched—“I don’t want this bitch alive any more than you do. I want her dead. I’m sick of the flyers. Prince, princess, who the fuck cares? I made this Family.”

  Anteros hoped his lies were landing, hoped he was mollifying the rabid dog that was Crazy A. When Crazy A was on his side, he was one of the biggest weapons in his arsenal. If he was loose…the nickname started to make sense. Lately the dog had begun biting Anteros’s wrist.

  Neither said anything for a bit. The wall behind them knocked as two people fucked—two men now, it sounded like, and Crazy A shifted uncomfortably. When more plaster fell as the men pounded harder, he stood up and moved to the opposite side.

  Just as Anteros was beginning to think he was out of options for dealing with Crazy A, an idea came to him. It would be risky, but then sitting around and hoping Crazy A believed his lies risked having to deal with a rabid and out of control enemy. With everything going on, he didn’t need to add that shit to his plate.

  “We’ve been focusing on Lucia and the symptoms of the war too much,” Anteros said. “I want you to end the disease. Find Francesca Notte and kill her.”

  Crazy A lifted his head, looking at Anteros with interest. “No easy feat. She’s guarded twenty-four seven in that castle they call a club.”

  “You can do it,” Anteros said. It grew quiet, only muffled sounds of pleasure able to be heard. Crazy A’s eyes slimmed almost imperceptibly and just as Anteros wondered if his deception had taken root, the Wolf nodded slowly.

  Without another word, Crazy A stood off the wall and walked away. Anteros watched him disappear down the hallway like a ghost, unsure if he’d really swallowed the lie, but at least certain he was going to play along. That would have to suffice.

  After the hellish day, all Anteros wanted to do was take a fucking shower and sleep off his injuries. Instead, he limped over to the side of the club where Nikolai slept and pushed his door open. The room was empty. The linens on Nikolai’s bed were smooth, the corners tight as if it hadn’t been slept in.

  Anteros propped himself against the doorframe and checked his watch, cracked from the explosion. It was almost three in the morning. As he was about to leave and have the Wolves search for Nikolai, the boy appeared.

  “Where the fuck were you?” he asked as Nikolai came into the room. Sweat misted his brow like he’d been running.

  “Checking into things for the bomb,” Nikolai said, wiping his forehead. The motion streaked char across his face; uneven, distressed lines of black. Anteros zeroed in on them, remembering what Pretty Boy had said about Nikolai being away from the explosion.

  “Why are you covered in soot?” Anteros asked.

  Nikolai looked at his fingers. “It must have gotten on me during the aftermath. It was everywhere at that point—on the sidewalk, on the Wolves.”

  So far back in the building, the heater’s high, warbling hiss was loud and angry when it came on. Nikolai’s cool green eyes met Anteros’s stare for a long second before he bent his head deferentially. His curls shivered with the air now blowing out of the vents.

  “I’m ashamed of how easily I went down,” Nikolai whispered.

  Anteros studied the boy a beat, then nodded and changed the subject. “I need you to keep an eye on Crazy A.”

  Nikolai looked up, eyes widening almost imperceptibly. “Yes, is there…” He hesitated. “Is there anything I should be looking for in particular?”

  “Just watch him, tell me everything he does.” Nikolai bowed his head in acquiescence and Anteros walked back to his wing, thinking about the events he’d put into motion. Anteros had been much younger than Nikolai when he’d started plotting against Lucio, and he wasn’t about to have that happen to him. He wanted to see what the boy brought him, but more than that, it would be a good opportunity to give Nikolai some responsibility.

  Crazy A was crafty. He wasn’t The Council, he wasn’t Lucio—he wasn’t like anyone at all. He wouldn’t go down with just a fight, he would destroy the world in the chaos that had become his soul. Anteros hoped it wouldn’t come to death, hoped he could keep the Wolf on his leash, but in the end, if he had to kill Crazy A, it would be done correctly.

  It was morning before he realized he’d missed the meet with Frankie. Now light streamed in through the one window high up on the wall, creating a bright yellow square on the floor. He sat up swiftly and reached for the phone—twenty unread texts, the last one sent at five in the morning. Anteros hopped off the couch, threw on a hoodie and jeans, and headed for the garage. She was probably gone, but he had to see.

  “Everything all right?” Crazy A called out as Anteros rushed down the hall past him and Pretty Boy.

  Anteros stalled. “Yes.”

  “Looks important,” Crazy A said. “Need backup?” Anteros slowly turned around, facing them in the dusky hallway.

  “If you think going for a ride is important.” Anteros used to go out on his bike to clear his head all the time, but just like everything else about his old self, after assuming Lucio’s responsibilities, he’d stopped. Two beats passed, Crazy A’s stare vivid in the dark, and then Pretty Boy spoke.

  “Cool. Glad to see you’re riding again.”

  “Yeah.” Crazy A shifted. “You gonna be back in time for the meeting?”

  “What do you think?” Anteros continued toward the garage, not giving them a chance to question, not giving himself a chance to rethink what he was doing. He pulled open the door just as Pretty Boy called after him,

  “Let Tough Tino follow you. After the bomb, you could use the extra security.”

  “I can handle myself.” The door shut with his reply and Anteros hopped on his bike, peeling out of the garage. The place wasn’t far, as Frankie had specified, just around the corner from Lucia’s club at an old, boarded up church.

  When Anteros pushed the door open, the creak echoed. Bright yellow light poured through open slats in the roof and bits of snow from the previous night dusted the ground. He could sense the place wasn’t empty by the tug in his gut, the painful but pleasurable ache that tore through his insides. She was barely a shadow in a pew at the very front, but even her shadow caused a wildfire of emotion inside him.

  He walked up the center aisle, footsteps echoing in the vaulted room. With her head down, her face was masked under a sheath of silky curls. She sat beneath a great stained glass window that bathed her skin in jewel-toned colors of reds, oranges, and yellows. Instead of the usual religious depiction, the window portrayed a phoenix rising from flames and ashes. Sunlight streaming through the gl
ass ignited the flames and feathers.

  “I should have left,” Frankie said, not bothering to turn around. “Lucia will know I’ve been gone now.” The tip of her nose broke through the curtain of her silky locks as she spoke, painted pink by the window’s light, and the arch of her honey neck was illumined by the light.

  “Why didn’t you?” he asked, putting his hand on the pew’s edge. Frankie lifted her head toward the window, a shifting kaleidoscope of colors painting her delicate features. Anteros waited for her to turn to him, but she just stared out the window.

  “I stayed because I’m an—” She stopped midsentence, looking at him at last. Her brows drew together, mouth parting and eyes going wide.

  “What?” He straightened, expecting to find someone in the empty church with them, before realizing it was him she was alarmed by. He instantly regretted that he’d only thrown on a hoodie. He hadn’t expected her to care about his injuries—wasn’t accustomed to it. Anteros had grown up without people caring, and that had never changed. He’d parked and walked the block to the chapel, and that only proved he could be bleeding on the streets and no one gave a shit. Even still, the Wolves didn’t care about him they cared about what his death meant for them.

  She ran to him. “What happened?”

  “Nothing.” He turned to walk away but had to take a seat so she wouldn’t see his limp. He really should have had the fucking doctor check him out.

  “Nothing?” Her voice rose with incredulity. “You’re limping and covered in blood. Don’t fucking lie to me.” Anteros mentally winced that she’d seen him limp. “Are you really going to sit here and fucking—”

  “A bomb,” he said at last.

  “A bomb?” She rushed to him and dropped to her knees. Frankie gently touched the still very bloody gash just below his collarbone and his eyes narrowed while she fussed. Had she really not known? That was somehow more horrifying than the idea of her not warning him. Before he could ask, she stood up and disappeared into a back room.

  Minutes later Frankie returned, a bottle of water and a towel in her hands. No words were shared as she got to her knees, setting the bottle next to her. She poured the clear liquid on the towel and then placed the cloth to his chest. She paused, their eyes locking, and exchanged a silent question. Anteros studied her, on her knees and ready to clean his wounds. For some reason, this was more disturbing to him than when she’d held a knife to his throat, but the ardent affection in her blue eyes had him nodding. She placed the towel to his chest.

  His brows shrouded as he watched her undo the blood sticking to his hair and skin. Still lightly running the washcloth over the gash with the pad of her finger, her other hand lightly caressed him. Her eyes traveled him—the bruises, the cuts, the blood—and her face transformed in worry, but she stayed silent.

  Anteros was transfixed as she dutifully cleaned away the blood. The white towel tinged pink, then red. He focused on her neck, noticing how she still wore the pendant he’d given her. She’d worn it the night she came for him, worn it the night he came to her. He wanted to poke and question why she still hadn’t taken it off, but that combined with the tender way she cleaned him made him too raw.

  “What are you doing?” His voice was gruff, but for a different reason than the hurt from the bomb.

  “I—” Frankie broke off, looking at the rag in her hands. “I don’t know.” She held the washcloth tighter, gripped it until the fibers came apart. “I’m already going to be in trouble with Lucia. She knows I was gone all night. What if we stayed here today and…” She placed her palm on his forearm. “And talked?” Frankie’s eyes were big and searching. She wanted to stay? With him? And fucking talk?

  Anteros was rarely speechless in life, but at that moment he was. The urge to stay was practically ripping him to shreds. No one had ever wanted to simply talk to him, but the timing wasn’t right. He had to be back for the meeting. If he disappeared for the day, it would ruin everything. Crazy A would never believe another lie.

  “We’ve never really been the type to talk before,” he said, pushing her off. A flit of emotion passed across her face, harsh and painful like a whip crack, and Anteros knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say. His hand shot out, but she pushed him away.

  “I don’t know what I was thinking.” She set the rag down, shaking her head. Her eyes were rimmed red, making the blue even starker, the pain stark and bright like stars falling from the sky.

  “Frankie—”

  “I waited for you for hours,” she interrupted, eyebrows drawn. “God, I’m a fucking idiot.” She scoffed, but it wasn’t for him—she was upset with herself. Before he could react, she stood up, knocking over the bottle of water, and sprinted down the aisle. Frankie pushed open the double doors, disappearing before they’d shut.

  “Fuck!” Anteros exhaled and slammed a hand into the pew. All he’d been trying to do was avoid risking her goddamn life, but instead he’d lost her entirely.

  Four

  I ran down the street, sure Anteros was going to break through the doors I’d slammed shut.

  Wishing he would.

  When nothing happened, I stopped, eyes stuck on the church. All I could do was focus on my breathing, count the breaths. One…people knocked into my shoulder. Two…someone uttered an insult under their breath, pissed that I was standing in the middle of the sidewalk. Three…the doors stayed closed. I still couldn’t move.

  Even after everything he’d done to me, after the way he’d spoken to me, I hoped he would come after me.

  It was late in the morning and the streets were flooded with New Yorkers going to work or starting their day. I was suffocated by them. With a groan, I pushed through a blur of hats and winter coats until I got to the street. I pulled out the phone, sending him a furious message.

  That bottle of water was older than Jesus and the towel wasn’t sterilized. A second later I sent another. Enjoy your gangrene. Asshole.

  I hated myself. I wished I could just leave him in silence and let him feel a little of the hurt I was feeling. By texting him on the phone he’d given me, I was letting him know how much I still wanted him, was giving him power.

  The night before Anteros finally texted me to join him I’d gone to bed, stared at the faint cracks in the ceiling, certain he’d forgotten about me. That certainty had nearly crushed me. Then I’d waited all night in that church, wintry air blowing through the open roof. It should have been freezing, but somehow it wasn’t. I thought that was a sign—some kind of romantic bullshit. I was excited. Hopeful. Just like now, as I stared at texts that went without reply.

  Laughter rang in my ear, two girls getting out of a cab. “Get off the street!” the cab driver yelled out the window as he pulled away and I jumped back onto the curb, the tires just barely missing my feet. Hair whipped my cheeks as I spun my head in all directions.

  My breathing was labored, my arms felt like lead. I could feel it coming on—a flare-up, as my doctors called it—the moment when I couldn’t get out of bed. It was a miracle it hadn’t happened yet, but still, the tears in my eyes, the breath leaving my body in a rush—it was all for a completely different reason. I was always chasing him, searching him out. Carving my name into him as if that would get me closer to his heart.

  I shouldn’t have texted him.

  I should have just left.

  He was probably pissed that I’d called him an asshole. Slaves need to be submissive and all that crap. I didn’t fucking care. I wasn’t a slave anymore, but he was still an asshole.

  I elbowed through the mass of people, tears hot and thorny in my eyes when I reached the door to the club. Tall, black, and it should have been faceless, but a bunch of red flyers obscured it. The flyers were checkered with different images, alternating between one face and another.

  THE PRINCESS IS A WHORE.

  One face etched into the red paper was mine, the word ‘whore’ bold and outlined. I pulled the flyer off and flipped it over, finding that it wasn’t two
separate flyers, but one with a front and back. My eyebrows flew into my forehead when I recognized the other face. It was Gabby’s brother, Emilio De Luca, but beneath his face, the words were much kinder.

  Choose Right, Choose The Prince.

  I kept flipping the flyer over, not quite sure what I was seeing, when the door swung open to reveal a burly, gruff soldier.

  “Lucia has been looking everywhere—” I thrust the flyer into his chest, cutting him off. He struggled to grasp it before his eyes bounced over the door. Surprise washed over his face and I took the moment to sneak by him into the club.

  I blocked out the leering smiles of men floating through the darkness like the Cheshire Cat and focused on shoes as I made my way to the stairs—satin stilettos so thin I wondered how they didn’t snap, some with wicked webbings or twisted gold vines wrapping up the heel, all so intricate they could be in a museum. They were like the ones I used to envy until they were forced upon my foot like some bizarro Cinderella. My chest constricted, realizing it was the exact same scenario for these women.

  This club was like the streets of New York—surrounded by glitter and lights and the facade of magic when really it was just a bunch of strangers with a motive you wouldn’t learn until it was too late.

  I got to my floor and was beginning to hope I would get to my room home free when I lifted my head to find Nikolai standing in the middle of the fucking hallway like it was The Shining. Black soot smeared his face and arms and I remembered Anteros. My glare sharpened.

  “Where have you been?” Nikolai asked. I realized my hands must also be covered in soot from cleaning Anteros. Instinct told me to cover them up, but it was too late.

  “A walk,” I said, pushing past him. He reached out and gripped my arm, his touch making me feel like bugs were crawling all over my skin. I summoned as much energy as I could and with a painful tug, pulled my arm from his hold. The inertia was so great that we both stumbled back. He fell to the polished mahogany floor and I stumbled into the wall.