Page 45

FENELLA

T he bar was nearly empty despite it being the weekend, which was just as well since Fenella's heart hadn't been in her performances tonight.

She'd fumbled through a few half-hearted readings, telling one Guardian his wallet harbored secret dreams of becoming a purse and another that his car key was conspiring with his phone to hide from him every morning.

The usual laughter had been forced, the energy flat.

The Guardians had been quiet and brooding, preparing mentally for the mission, and everyone else had sensed that something was off.

Those who didn't know about the discovery of the most evil plan she could imagine must have attributed her bad mood to her having a fight with Din or some other inconsequential thing.

If only it were that simple.

Fenella wiped down the bar with mechanical movements, her mind churning with the snippets of conversation she'd overheard throughout the evening. A Lasusa concert. Thousands of kids. Bombs. The words kept circling in her head, making her stomach twist with each pass.

Monsters. That's what they were. Not the humans or even the Doomers themselves—she'd learned enough to know that most were victims of their twisted upbringing and their leaders' brainwashing, but the ones orchestrating this?

Devils in human form. Satan's minions were planning to murder children for their sick purposes, whatever those might be.

In her opinion, the aim was simply to propagate evil and cause suffering.

"Another round," Max slurred from his spot at the bar, pushing his empty glass toward her.

He and Din both were looking properly sloshed. Max's usually perfectly styled hair was disheveled, his shirt untucked, and Din had that loose-limbed quality of the thoroughly drunk. They'd been at it for hours, putting away enough alcohol to fell a small army.

"You two are cut off," she said, though she was already reaching for the bottle. Who was she to judge? The little she'd pieced together made her want to join them in oblivion.

"Nonsense," Din declared, his Scottish accent thicker than usual. "We're merely... adequately lubricated for important discussions."

Max snorted. "Important. Right. Your delusions of grandeur are not important to anyone other than you. You are not some kind of ancient warrior god."

"Not a god," Din corrected with the pedantic precision of the very drunk.

"But I was quite formidable in my day, and you know it.

Do you remember the Battle of Calleh? Not on the battlefield, mind you, you were busy keeping our people safe from the aftermath.

But the skirmishes that followed?" He made a slashing motion with his hand. "I took more than my share of heads."

Fenella's hand stilled on the bottle. She'd never heard Din talk about his past like this. The professor who graded papers and got excited about pottery shards had apparently been, at some point, cutting off heads in the Scottish Highlands.

"That was nearly five hundred years ago." Max laughed. "Modern warfare is nothing like the Highland raids you remember. You can't just charge in with a claymore anymore."

"I've kept up with the times," Din insisted, swaying slightly on his barstool. "I know how to use firearms. I've been to the range."

"The range." Max's voice dripped with condescension. "Shooting paper targets is not the same as engaging Doomers at close quarters. They know how to kill us."

Din snorted. "And we know how to kill them. So what?"

Fenella poured herself a generous measure of whiskey, not bothering with ice. If they were going to have this conversation, she needed fortification. The burn down her throat was welcome.

"I should help," Din said stubbornly. "You need every able-bodied?—"

"We have enough bodies, and they are well trained." Max cut him off. "You think you can just strap on an exoskeleton and become a superhero?"

"Exoskeleton?" Fenella interjected. "Seriously? Like bugs?"

Max turned to her, his eyes taking a moment to focus.

"Those are military-grade powered armor suits.

Makes us as strong as the Kra-ell, actually stronger.

We fought them while wearing those suits.

They are bulletproof, too. But they're not easy to operate.

" He looked back at Din. "I have plenty of experience in operating a suit, and yet I spent all day yesterday and today relearning how to move in one without putting my fist through a wall or tripping over my own feet.

The strength amplification is incredible, but it takes finesse to control. "

"I can learn," Din insisted drunkenly.

"In time, maybe." Max shook his head, the movement making him grip the bar for balance.

"We're hitting them tomorrow night, Din.

Tomorrow. There's no time for you to learn, no margin for error.

One person who doesn't know what they're doing could get the whole team killed.

" He shook his head again. "Why am I even entertaining your delusions instead of going to sleep? "

Tomorrow night.

Fenella's blood chilled.

The attack was tomorrow night. She'd known that, but hearing it said aloud made it real in a way that contracted her chest.

"Tell him," Max said, turning to her. "Tell him he's being an idiot."

She looked at Din, seeing past the drunken bravado to the frustration beneath. He wanted to help, to protect, to be useful. It was who he was at his core—someone who took care of others. But Max was right, and Din's good intentions didn't qualify him for modern warfare.

"Din," she said softly, reaching out to touch his hand. "There are other ways for you to help. You're not a fighter anymore, nor do you want to be." She smiled. "Remember? You never liked being on the force."

"You just don't think I'm capable," he said, making a pouty face that made her want to laugh.

She stifled the urge. "I think you're very capable, but I also think you're drunk and talking nonsense. Tell me about these battles you fought. Tell me about the glory of taking heads."

She hoped it would be enough to get him off the subject, but he was apparently too drunk to think straight.

"It wasn't glorious." His jaw tightened. "It was necessary."

"You see? You didn't enjoy being a soldier, and suddenly you remember those horrible days as if they were the highlight of your existence."

"After the battle, the Highlands were in chaos. Whole families were slaughtered, women and children put to the sword. We couldn't save them all, but we tried."

Max had gone quiet.

He'd been there, fought alongside Din.

"There was this village," Din continued, his words slightly slurred, but his eyes distant.

"They came back for the women and children.

We were there that time." He took a long swallow of whiskey.

"Seven of us against thirty of them. But we were immortals, and they were human. The odds were stacked in our favor."

"What happened?" Fenella asked even though she really didn't want to hear any more gory details.

"We killed them all." The words were flat, matter-of-fact. "Had to. If even one escaped to report unnaturally strong men defending the village, it would have brought a witch hunt down on us. We made sure none escaped. I personally took eight heads that day."

The bar was silent except for the hum of the refrigerators.

"There was this girl who couldn't have been more than fifteen," Din continued.

"She watched from her doorway as I cut down a soldier who couldn't have been more than three years older than her.

I will never forget the look in her eyes, gratitude and horror.

That's what glory looks like. That's what being a warrior means.

Doing terrible things because the alternative is worse. "

"Exactly," Max said, lifting his glass. "And that's why you can't come tomorrow, because you remember their faces.

Because it costs you something every time.

The Doomers? It costs them nothing. They've been trained since birth to feel nothing but hate and loathing.

They kill with glee and laugh as they torture. "

Din looked like he wanted to argue, but Fenella saw the moment he accepted the truth of Max's words.

His shoulders slumped. "I hate feeling useless."

"You're not useless," Fenella said. "You're just not a soldier, and neither am I. That doesn't make us less valuable."

"She's right." Max took a long swig from his drink.

"We all have our roles to play, and those roles are only somewhat flexible.

Guardians, even those who retired, train for a full month every year to stay updated and in shape, but you quit the force so long ago that you don't have the benefit of even that.

My role is to put on that exoskeleton tomorrow night and make sure those bombs never go off.

Yours is to be here when we get back, preferably with a bottle of very expensive whiskey. "

"When you get back," Fenella repeated. "You say that like it's guaranteed."

Max's smile was sharp. "It is. We've been doing this for a long time, Fenella. We know what we're doing, and the exoskeletons are extra insurance. They make us practically invincible and unstoppable."

"Why not use them all the time then?" she asked.

"They are cumbersome, and sometimes speed and agility are more important than power and dependability. They're also not exactly subtle—hard to do undercover work when you're wearing one of those. We look like alien invaders in them."

Fenella poured another round despite her earlier threat to cut them off. They all needed it tonight.

"Tell me it's going to work," she said. "Tell me those kids at the concert are going to be safe."

"They're going to be safe," Max said with absolute conviction.

"Yamanu is going to put entire neighborhoods to sleep so we can work without interference from the neighbors, and the humans in those cells are going to be deep asleep as well.

We'll go in, neutralize the Doomers, and secure the explosives.

By Monday morning, it'll be like the cells never existed. "

"What happens to the Doomers?" Din asked.

Max's expression darkened. "They go to the dungeon for questioning, and after that, it's up to Kian what he wants to do with them. The humans are disposable."

The casual discussion of violence should have bothered Fenella more than it did. But all she could think about was those kids at the concert, excited to see their favorite singer, having no idea how close they would come to death.

"I understand Din's frustration," she said. "I also wish I could do more. My stupid bar tricks feel pretty worthless compared to what you're doing."

"Your 'stupid bar tricks' make people happy," Din said, reaching for her hand. "That's not worthless. That's... that's necessary. We need joy to balance the darkness."

"A drunk philosopher," Max observed. "The most annoying kind."

"Better than a belligerent drunk," Din shot back.

"I'm not belligerent. I'm righteously determined."

"You're both ridiculous," Fenella said, but she was smiling.

The banter was helping, easing the knot of tension in her chest. Tomorrow night, Max and the other Guardians would risk their lives to save thousands. Tonight, she could pour drinks and pretend the world wasn't teetering on a knife edge.

"One more round," Max said. "Then I really need to get some sleep."

She wondered why Kyra was letting him get drunk in the first place, and why she wasn't there to keep an eye on him, but perhaps because she was a fighter herself, she understood that he needed this.

"One more," Fenella agreed, reaching for the bottle. As she poured, she caught Din watching her with those intense eyes that seemed less clouded than they should be, given the copious amounts of whiskey he'd consumed.

"What?" she asked.

"I love you," he said.

She smiled, the words she wanted to say in return lodged in her throat like always, held there by irrational fear. Instead, she leaned across the bar and kissed him, tasting whiskey and promise.

"I know," she whispered against his lips.

Max cleared his throat. "Still here. Still conscious. Still not interested in watching you two make out."

Fenella pulled back with a smirk. "Sorry."

"Don't be. Just save it for when I'm gone." He downed his whiskey in one go and stood, swaying slightly on his feet. "And on that note, I'm out of here before Kyra sends a search party after me."

"Max," Fenella called after him as he neared the door. When he turned back, she said, "Be safe."

His cocky grin softened into something more genuine. "Always am, love. Always am."

After Max left, the bar felt too quiet without him, too empty with just the two of them and Atzil cleaning up in the kitchen.

"He's going to be fine," Din said, though she wasn't sure if he was trying to convince her or himself.

"I know." She didn't, not really, but what else could she say? That she was scared? That the thought of losing any of them made her throat clog with panic?

"Close up time," Atzil called. "You two don't look like you'll be any help cleaning tonight. Do you need help getting home?"

"I'm fine," Din said, though his attempt to stand suggested otherwise.

Fenella rounded the bar and slipped under his arm, steadying him. "Come on, Professor. Let's get you home." She cast Atzil an apologetic glance. "Sorry about not helping, boss. I can come back after I put Din in bed."

He waved a dismissive hand. "Don't worry about it. Get your man home."