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My head whipped toward the screen, Samkiel’s face taking up the screen.
Camilla folded her arms, and I knew she had been waiting for this before unmuting the television. “They made him look so… normal with those suits and ties they tossed on him, or tried to, at least. He’s too handsome for that. He still looks too godly to me.” She paused. “I wonder how often they make him do these interviews to make everyone feel safe.”
I said nothing.
“I know it’s been quiet for about a month with the new rules and regulations, but how can you confidently say that after everything that’s happened? We all saw the threat, and now, with you being back here, I think we are all a little nervous.” A feminine laugh filled the air after she spoke, and the camera panned out. I watched as he leaned forward in his overly-priced suit and folded his hands. Camilla was right. He was far too godsdamn handsome. My heart fluttered at the sight of him. He smiled, making that stupid, perfect jawline stand out. The anchorwoman ate it up like cake.
“Well, with the new curfew and more celestials per city, I think—”
My head went silent as his voice flooded the hotel room. The screen showed every fucking perfect line of his features, but it wasn’t his beauty that made my heart ache so badly it felt like it would explode. Ice pricked my skin, a wave of cold threatening to consume me as my mind served up the memory of another room and another screen glaring me in the face. My chest heaved, my breathing becoming erratic. The hotel melted away, static invading my ears. The only thing I could hear were those damned words.
What were your intentions with this failed relationship?
You are nothing to him, and you never will be.
Do you really think he will choose you after all of this is over?
Be realistic.
Even if I don’t win, you will still lose.
Remember that I love you…
My hand whipped out. A tunnel of flames ripped forward, burning through Camilla’s shadowy form, creating a hole through Samkiel’s damned face and that screen. Camilla disappeared, the room going up in a blistering inferno. Sparks sizzled, and flames climbed the wall, smoke filling the room. Alarms pierced the air, accompanied by screams and running feet out in the halls.
I walked out, leaving the room burning.
* * *
“You’re late, Malone,” a brutish man said, spitting a stream of tobacco juice to the side. His bald head shone in the moonlight, tattoos decorating the side of his neck. Mortal, he smelled mortal, and I could hear eighty-four others nearby. That included those within the small dive bar. As long as Tobias didn’t show up, I would be fine. These were low-level criminals of the mortal variety.
“The message I got said ten tonight,” I argued as he kicked the side door. A small metal window slid back, and someone peered out before closing it tight.
“Boss moved it up. He is getting nervous. Look, dude, I don’t make the rules. Just get your ass inside.”
Donte was his name, hired muscle and one of Webster’s bodyguards. His size would intimidate most, but he stood no chance unless he was secretly Otherworld.
The door swung open, and music blared, the sound coming from beyond the adjacent wall. Donte and I strode past the scrawny door guy. I heard the voices of two men grow louder as we moved down the red-tinted hall.
“Fucking cheater.”
“I don’t have extra cards, you dipshit. You’re just a sore loser.”
Donte pushed the door open, revealing a small storage-type room. Someone slammed a fist against the table, and chips rained to the floor. I counted only five men here. Well, six if you included me. Their heartbeats told me they weren’t Otherworldly, and my stomach growled.
“Hungry, boss?” Donte asked. That got the room’s attention. Several heads swiveled toward us as the door closed.
“About fucking time you showed up, Malone,” a man said around the cigar hanging from his mouth. I recognized him from Malone’s memories. His hairline had receded until it curved around the sides of his head, the gray hair revealing his age. His voice crackled, and his lungs rattled with every breath, indicating years and years of smoking.
Edgar. Yes, that was his name.
The other men listened, one shuffling and dealing out a new hand.
“Care for a game while we wait?” Edgar asked, taking the cigar from his lips and knocking the ashes off to the side.
My fists clenched at my sides, my gaze narrowing. The scent wafted through the air, arousing painful memories of friends I thought were true but had betrayed me in the worst way. Traitors. They were all traitors. You would think I would have learned by now. No one truly cared about me or had my back. No one but her, and now she was gone because of them.
I hated cigars.
