Page 8 of Darkest Valley
“Painfully gradual asphyxiation?” She taps her foot on the ground, raising one eyebrow in a clear sign that I should get the fuck on with my point.
“Yeah, but I’m getting the feeling that some of this”—I wave my hand at where she’s now adjusting the space between the clean glasses—“is what happens when an angel is out of heaven. You know, separated from god and all that.”
Celine gags, shooting me a look of pure disgust. “First, the celestial realm is not heaven, second, there is no god there, and third, I don’t know why you would want to risk antagonizing me by peddling propaganda when I was going to let you pick the show.”
I ignore her rant, opening my drawer back up and mixing everything up deliberately. “Okay, so there’s nothing at all to the rumors that angels love order and tend to be a bit?—”
“Choose your next words carefully, snake boy.”
“Particularabout things. Because if it’s all bullshit, nothing I’m doing will bother you in the slightest, right?”
Her jaw clenches as I shut the drawer about halfway, then kneel to untie my left shoe. I leave the string dangling and drag my eyes up her endlessly long legs. She’s wearing thigh-high stockings—my favorites—and I don’t have a ruler handy, but I’d bet my life’s savings they are sitting symmetrically on her perfect legs. From my knees, I grin up at her then curl my fingersunder the right stocking, pulling it down a smidge. Then I wait her out, watching the angry flush spread down her neck.
“You’re doing so good,” I tease.
“Fuck you,” Celine hisses, batting my hand away, adjusting the fabric jerkily, then slamming the drawer shut to hide the mess. I’m laughing my ass off by the time she squats in front of me and roughly double knots my sneaker. “You don’t get to pick the show anymore.”
We’re close enough that I can count the individual shades of red in her hair. Hidden by the bar, it feels like we’re in our own little world, and I can’t ignore the angry rise and fall of her chest. Gods or no gods, Celine is the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen. There’s no denying that. But the racing of my heart has nothing to do with her appearance.Get ahold of yourself, dude.
“Shit,” Imani purrs, dragging the syllable out. “We need to spin the spotlight this way. You two are putting on a way better show than Brandy right now.” Her raspy chuckle breaks us both out of the moment, and my only consolation is that Celine is as annoyed by the interruption as I am.
“Worry about yourself,” she snaps, standing up to glare at her friend eye to eye.
“Why should I, when it’s more fun to worry about you?” Imani teases. “Luca, I need a fresh pitcher for table twelve.”
“Got it.” I lurch unsteadily to my feet and call myself every kind of dumbass I can think of. Celine saunters backstage, and I refuse to watch her leave. Instead, I spend the rest of the shift lecturing my basilisk about lying low.
By the time I’m at her place, sprawling on the couch in comfortable sweats, it’s content to let me do my thing. I can only hope it doesn’t change its mind.
Celine steps around the couch, rolling her neck in a circle until it cracks, then hands me a beer. She settles on the couch beside me, carefully balancing her own full glass of wine.
My tension eases, and I snag a greasy slice of pizza from the box on the table, folding it in on itself and devouring a third in one bite. Celine’s eyes flicker over to me, only drifting to her own plate once she’s satisfied I’m not about to anoint her furniture with red sauce and bacon bits. I may tease her about her angelic need for order, but I would never disrespect her home.
We eat mostly in silence, wired after the night at the club. It takes a lot of energy to work in a place like the Naked Fang. Supernatural clientele isn’t easily satisfied in general, and the ones who live and work on the Fringes are more difficult than most.
Celine finishes eating first, cleaning her fingers meticulously with a napkin before grabbing the remote and selecting an island dating show with an entire cast of bisexuals. True to her promise, she doesn’t ask for any input from me. After a couple of episodes of nonstop on-screen drama, she turns the volume down to background noise and looks at me.
“We need to talk about it,” she says firmly. I’m almost positive she’s referring to the dead demon and not my inconvenient attraction to her, but my heart skips a beat, anyway. My basilisk raises its head with interest.
“I’m not sure what there is to talk about,” I say with a shrug. “He’s dead and disposed of. No one’s come to find him yet, and if they do, we know how to keep our mouths closed.”
Celine hugs a throw pillow to her chest, her wings pulled tightly together. “I looked at his ID before I burned it; his name was Roscoe Daemyn—the most obvious alias I’ve ever seen. Isn’t one of the three enclave leaders a demon, too? What if they send someone to ask questions?”
I snort, trying to sound more confident than I am. “When have they ever bothered to poke their noses in our business?” I ask. “Everyone knows they’re happy living like kings in that cushycompound in Colorado. No one is going to come slum it with us because some low-level demon went missing.”
“You’re right,” she says. “But the last thing we need is a bunch of supernatural cops sniffing around.”
“Even if they do, no one will volunteer information to them,” I assure her. “You and I are hardly the only ones keeping a low profile around here. Although, if you want to hide better, you’ll keep your wings tucked all the time.” I make the suggestion, then dip my head as I realize how much I hate my own idea.
Celine shoves one fluffy wing out, blocking my view of the TV entirely. I smirk at her and shake my head. “I guess I should take that as a no?”
“I won’t hide them at the Fang.” She folds her arms over her chest, pressing her lips into a tight line. “I’ve warped myself enough to blend in here, but some things are sacred, Luca. My wings... I won’t allow them to be taken from me.”
My heart pounds in my chest. We never talk about her past, but the careful way she dances around the details tells me enough. I want to pull Celine into my arms and tell her no one will ever hurt her again. Instead, I bite my tongue and nod, then focus back on the show.
My basilisk rattles angrily in the back of my chest for the rest of the night.
FOUR