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Instead of letting me go, Des throws me over his shoulder.

“Keep talking to me like that, cherub,” the Bargainer says. “You don’t know how much it turns me on.” He pats my ass, and I see red.

“Put me down, you prick!”

But instead of putting me down, he rearranges me so that my legs are wrapped around his waist and my arms around his neck. I try to squirm free, but his hold is like a cage, keeping me in place.

I pinch his back. He swears, and the glass and liquid he’s cleaning up behind us drops to the ground.

“Damnit, Callie,” he says, “don’t make me waste one of your beads on immobilizing you.”

I stare him in the eye as he carries me outside. “I dare you to fucking do it, Des.”

His eyes flash. “Don’t test me. I will, and I’ll enjoy feeling every inch of your skin while you’re forced to sit still.”

I settle for glaring at him. “That was wrong of you,” I say, “to take away my ability to drink.”

“It’s not the worst thing I’ve done, cherub,” he says. “And it’s not permanent if you learn how to drink responsibly.”

Thecojonesof this man. How can I even learn to drink responsibly if Ican’t drink?

I tighten my hold on him as his wings materialize. “I was doing just fine before you meddled in my life.”

He gives a derisive snort. “That’s debatable.”

Before I can retort, he launches us into the air. I let out a yelp of surprise, and he rubs small circles into my back, probably in an attempt to reassure me. I want to swap that hand away, but short of letting go of his neck, I can’t.

Instead, I fix my eyes on the sky above me, determined to recite constellations in an effort to ignore the man who both angers me and confuses me.

And naturally, I see a whopping three stars in the sky—and one of them might be a plane. So I settle on simply ignoring Des, which proves to be nearly impossible. I’m breathing in the smell of him, his hair is tickling the backs of my hands, and all I can see besides the dark night is the menacing arc of his wings.

Something like ten minutes in, I give up and rest my head in the nook between his neck and shoulder.

The Bargainer tightens his hold on me, and I feel the rough brush of his cheek as he nuzzles me. I’m starting to notice a pattern; he gets affectionate when I’m in his arms.

I’m not sure how long we stay like that, but eventually I feel us begin to descend. I peek at the world beneath us and watch as Catalina Island gets larger and the Bargainer’s house comes into view.

Fifteen minutes later, we enter his living room. Today, sheets and sheets of handwritten notes and sketches cover his coffee table. I lean in to get a good look at them. I’ve worked enough jobs as a PI to recognize a case file when I see one.

I pick up one of the sketches, immediately recognizing Des’s handiwork. He used to draw portraits and landscapes back in my dorm room at Peel Academy. Though none quite like this.

In the sketch, rows and rows of women lie in what appear to be caskets, their eyes shut, their arms folded over their chests.

Holy shit.

“These are … the women?”

I feel the air stir; a moment later Des is at my back, looking over my shoulder, and I’m so very aware of him.

“They are. Each is returned in a glass coffin.”

Last night Des told me these women weren’t dead, but theylookdead.

He leans around me and pulls out another image, this one of a single coffin sitting in what looks like a great hall.

Des’s palace.It’s such a strange thought.

My attention turns to the sleeping woman, wearing her battle leathers. In one hand she holds a weapon, and in the other—