Page 3 of Darkest Valley
I flap my wings gently, hoping to get oxygen to my brain and stop myself from doing something unbelievably idiotic, like find out if Luca tastes as good as he looks. When the smoke detector squawks, the sharp, bleating alarm is the answer to a prayer I didn’t bother to make.
Luca jumps up, unscrewing the device and taking the battery out, grumbling under his breath the entire time. I leave the dressing room before I’m tempted to say something I can’t take back.
After my shift ends, I push through the heavy back door of the club, more than ready to go home and wind down. The door slams shut behind me, a satisfyingly solid sound marking the end of an exhausting day.
Once I get home, I’ll make some food, then—my skin prickles,little electric shocks shooting from the arches of my feet to the tips of my fingers. Someone is watching.
Rolling my shoulders back, I pretend not to notice and walk confidently toward the alley where I parked my motorcycle. As tired as I am, I can hold my own if someone tries their luck.
Luca’s warning rolls around in my head, and I sigh internally. If whoever the stare belongs to wants a fight, they’ll have to throw the first punch.
Dominant fist curled around my keys, my wings are already stowed away, making me look as human as the people going about their business behind the magical distraction wards. Absorbing them into my skin is a skill that took me years to master. If I’m honest, it’s never gotten easier. I tell people I leave them out at the club because the tips are better—and they are—but the truth is my wings hate to be hidden.
It used to be one of the many things that made him furious with me.
The skin of my shoulder blades itches beneath my leather jacket. Wearing the protective clothes over my simple nylon shorts and crop top is the safest way to travel on a bike. But it’s stifling until I can get some speed going and feel the proverbial wind in my hair.
“Hey, baby doll.” I stiffen at the smarmy voice behind me. “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” Only my exhaustion keeps me from rolling my eyes at the universe’s most unoriginal pickup line.
“No,” I mutter. “Because some of us know how to stick the landing.”
His responding chuckle is oily. It makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, yet I refuse to give him the satisfaction of turning around.
Guys try this all the time after close. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, they skulk back into the shadows once they realize Ihave no intention of entertaining their bullshit. He’ll take the hint. Eventually.
“What’s the hurry, sweet thing? Do I make you nervous?”
Oh fuck no.This guy clearly needs to be taught a lesson. It’s all I can do to keep my feet moving along the pockmarked asphalt toward my bike. I tighten my grip on my keys, maintaining the same unhurried pace. Damn Luca for getting in my head and making me second-guess my stab first, ask questions later philosophy.
My instincts go haywire a heartbeat before rough hands shove me into the grimy wall of the alley. I catch myself before my nose can connect and shake my head.That’s it. No more chances.Planting one heel against the concrete wall, I use the momentum to flip backward and drive my other foot into the guy’s face.
He yowls, and I smile as I recognize him. Quarter Guy is back for more, and I kicked him right in his injured mouth with the combined force of about five human men. I may not believe in divine intervention of any kind, but I can certainly get behind a little poetic justice.
Pucker up, asshole. Karma wants to give you a kiss.I’m considering how painful his lesson should be when he pulls a long, shiny knife from his denim jacket, dark eyes swirling with rage as he advances on me.
“Do you even know who I am?” he snarls. “You’re lucky to have my attention.”
I examine my nails, painted a cheerful shade of citrus and filed into the almond shape I prefer, then lift my gaze to my attacker’s. Gray eyes brimming with entitlement, he has hulking, brutish features. A mixture of oversized and squashed, they sit unevenly above a harsh, square chin that’s dripping blood.
I snort a laugh. “You know, now that you mention it, you do look familiar. I think my friend carved your face in a beginner’sart class we took together. We were only five at the time, so it slipped my mind at first. It wasn’t her best work.”
For a second he freezes, probably trying to process my insult with his pea-sized brain. Kindly, I tap my foot a few times and give him a second to work it out.
This burly idiot has demon written all over him, the big, dumb kind we see often here on the Fringes. The rage in his eyes and the complete lack of stealth give him away. He’ll be stronger than most supernaturals, but no match for me.
“You won’t be laughing when I carve your face up,” he says.
I wince. That comeback was embarrassing. Maybe I should give him another chance to think of something better. I open my mouth, then the air shifts against my back. The magic in my body hums in warning as it senses a real predator.
Blockhead looks up, over my shoulder, and glares. “Hey asshole—” the rest of the insult dies on his tongue.
His eyes calcify first, the shiny slate orbs turning dry and dull. Next, all color leaves his skin, the ruddy flesh transforming into lifeless, ashy stone. His hand reaches for me, the knife-tip glinting in the moonlight. He doesn’t manage more than an inch before he’s frozen in place, completely petrified.
“Seriously?” I complain, groaning and whirling around, being extra careful to keep my gaze locked on our feet. “I had it handled. I was giving him a second to come up with some better last words.”
“He pulled a knife on you, Celine.” Luca stumbles over the first syllable of my name, making it sound more like a hiss than a word. I take that as a verbal cue for me to keep my head down.
“Amazingly enough, I did notice that,” I deadpan sarcastically. “Have you stowed the rock peepers, or do I need to give you a minute?”