“Whah is yer plan?”
He turns and walks ta da window, yanking away a board covering it. “I jus want ta have a chat wi’ Atwater when we collect our queen, ’tis all.” Cold air wafts inta da room. I rise from da bed and come ta stand next ta Finn. Outside, there are crumbling buildings painted a dull shade of gray tagged wi’ neon-colored graffiti. Nuting stirs wi’out, save da fellas. Da humans who resided nearby have either been instructed ta leave after being touched or dey’ve become food.
“Whah do ye know about our souls?”
Finn shrugs. “Why would I know anyting about our souls? Dey’re in Sheol.”
’Tis true enough, whah Finn says, but I know me brudder; he keeps his own secrets. “I saw me soul once again, when Genevieve changed me.”
Finn leans forward, his hands curl on the windowsill. “Why have ye na told me dis before?” He straightens and glares at me. “Did yer soul speak ta ye?”
“He did.”
“Whah did he say?” Finn asks almost breathlessly.
“Whah deal did ye make wi’ Atwater?”
Finn’s jaw tenses. He glances out da window once more. “I can na tell ye.”
I nod. “So dere was a deal—signed in blood.”
“Whah did yer soul say?” Finn asks again.
“He had a message for me queen. He said to tell her dat he’d know her by note. Do ye know whah dat means?”
“I do na,” he admits, but he can na hold back a smile as it spreads his lips.
“Why are ye smilin’?”
“Genevieve truly is da queen.”
I grunt. “Did ye doubt it?”
He shakes his head no. “I was sure she was da one da moment she killed Keegan—in da caves—’twas as if time stood still and da life dat I’d known for so long was no more.”
“She gave ye a purpose again.”
He stares at me before he says, “She did. Ye felt it, too?”
“I did,” I say wi’ a perfunctory nod.
“I was na sure. I tought maybe ye jus fell in love wi’ her.”
“Is dere a difference?” I ask.
“Dere is—she’s here ta do a job.”
“Is she?” I ask wi’ a lift of me brow.
“Ye know dat she is.”
“And ye’re here ta help her wi’ dat?” I ask.
“I am here, let us leave it at dat.”
“Whah will ye discuss wi’ Atwater when ye see him?”
“Maybe I jus want ta catch up. Have a cupper wi’ him.”
“Ye do na drink tea,” I point out. “Is it revenge ye’re after?”
“And if ’twas, would ye begrudge me it?”
“I would na,” I admit. “I’d help ye, ye know dat.”
“I do.” His nod is automatic.
“We have ta approach da aingeals carefully, Finn,” I warn. “I do na know how dey’ll react ta any attempts we make ta take Genevieve.”
“Do ye tink dey’d harm her?” he asks wi’ renewed anger in his eyes.
“Maybe. If dey still believe dat we’d change her, den aye.”
He processes da information. “We will be more dan careful den.”
“Good.
RUSSELL
Crashin’ onto a hardwood floor, the dagger embedded in my side rattles and digs deeper. I roll onto my back and grip it by the hilt, yankin’ it from me. It makes a sickenin’ suckin’ sound as the muscles in my abdomen clench in pain. Openin’ my palm, Brennus’ dagger drops from it to land beside me with a loud clatter.
“ARRRRR,” I shout between my teeth. “FFFAAAAAHHHHH—”
Anya looks down at me. She kneels beside me in an attempt to see my wound. I sit up straight, tryin’ not to show her how my hands shake. My heart is a black sinkhole in my chest as thoughts of Emil and Sheol erode it further.
Anya tucks her long, black hair behind her ears, “Let me see,” she demands. Her dark wings are retracted inside of her back. Someone has given her an oversized, red woolen jacket to wear, but because she was magically forced into the portal, she got to keep her own clothes too. Her hands are buried in the red sleeves. She’s tiny without her wings—fragile and delicate. I find her fingers and hold them in my grasp. Her eyes shift to mine, lush as green fields. I want to sink into them, drift down her valleys—find my way back to her.
“I’m not dyin’. They didn’t want to kill me just yet,” I explain to reassure her. Anya leans her forehead against the middle of my chest, murmuring broken words in Angel. My hand comes up to rest against the back of her neck. Soft tears wet me. “Shh, it’s gonna be okay. We’re okay.” I repeat those words like a mantra, wantin’ her to believe them even when I don’t.
She lifts her head from me. It’s smeared with my blood from my chest. Her eyes shine like broken bottles in sunlight with unshed tears. She’s determined to hold them back. Her fingers touch the edge of my jagged skin. A steady flow of blood seeps from it. There are many more slices, but that one is the newest. From over Anya’s shoulder, Brownie hands Anya a kitchen towel. I suck in my breath as Anya uses the fabric to apply pressure to slow down the bleeding while I heal.