Page 9 of Darkest Valley

Enclave Edict #17:

Fatal conflict between supernaturals

must be reported.

CIPRIAN

Washing my face. Taking a nap. Eating a sandwich... all three are better ways to spend my time than playing hide and seek with the dumbest excuse for a demon on this entire planet. But Dad insisted, so like the good little soldier I absolutely am not, I find myself once again marching to the beat of his drum. I could hate myself for it, but I don’t have the energy.

I take the ramp off the interstate a little too fast, tires squealing as I turn left without braking, then continue making my list. I could scare the shit out of my brother, organize my sweatpants by cotton percentage, or even befriend a feral raccoon and have more fun than I will hunting Roscoe down.

Dad is a menace these days—has been ever since Callum fucked off to his cabin in the woods with Gideon, leaving me behind to deal with him alone. No matter how many times I tellDad the supernatural community in our territory is thriving, the stick remains planted firmly up his ass.

Being a part of the enclave is a headache for me most days. We aren’t the strictest ruling body, not by a long shot, but Dad and Joshua have taken their inherited power and run with it. They believe the lead by example method works best. Who am I to burst their bubble and tell them about all the underground shit happening beneath their noses?

I hit a pothole and hold my breath until I’m sure I didn’t give myself a flat. Changing a tire in the baking sun is the last thing I want to do, grosser even than looking for Roscoe around the Fringes.

The supernaturals here get away with a lot, there’s no doubt about that. The fringe nickname is twofold, because they live the most enmeshed with humans, with limited magic-warded businesses of their own, and they’re also on the edge of two enclave territories.

The California enclave, headquartered in Los Angeles, is technically closer but they wouldn’t dream of crossing into our space, which also includes Colorado, Wyoming, and parts of Utah. Since we’re too far away to do much governing ourselves, Las Vegas is one step away from a lawless wasteland on the best of days.

I’ve heard it’s a good time, but I’m annoyed to be here. Mainly because Dad wants me to lay the hammer down, and that’s never been my style.

But here I am, and here I’ll be until I figure out who decided to fuck around and find out with Roscoe, Dad’s pet guard and the most stereotypical ravoc demon I’ve ever met. He didn’t come home from his latest bender, and Dad is pissed.

Since Callum is tied up, and people love to forget that Dimitri Casanell has a second son, I’ve been drafted. The undeniably good-looking and pathologically forgotten enclave heir, lookingfor parking in one of the few streets in Las Vegas that’s all supernatural.

Sighing, I street park my car near the ratty walkup I’m supposed to bunk at while undercover. It’s a dump. Climbing out of my SUV, I stretch my arms over my head, then drag my suitcase out of the back seat, reminding myself again that I won’t be here long.

None of my new neighbors are hanging around outside, but I feel eyes tracking my movements from multiple locations. Good for them. I’m an unknown. They should be nosy.

I climb the rusty stairs, ignoring the concerning groaning and swaying each step brings, and do my best to appear confident, but not too confident.

Weakness will make me a target here as quickly as strength. The best I can hope for is to ride the middle, find Roscoe, and drag his ass home before someone steals my car. I’m tempted to toss a nightmare illusion over the SUV to make it look like a piece of shit, but with people watching... No, it’s better to leave them wondering than show them what I’m capable of.

Forcing the key into the warped, tarnished lock, I use a voice command to ask my phone for a list of scary movies playing in the area, then shove. Even unlocked, the door stays wedged shut. It takes me three tries to realize I have to lift up on the handle while pushing to get the damn thing to budge.

It swings open, and I step inside, closing the door behind me and tossing my suitcase on the bed. It bounces, making a metallic sound that shouldn’t ever come from a mattress. A quick inventory of the apartment takes me about one minute total and confirms that the odds of me making it home without needing a tetanus booster are near to nonexistent.

Oh well, I’ll feel better after I’ve snacked on some fear. Locking the door behind me, I head to the nearest movie theater. Heads are rolling within five minutes of the opening credits, andthe drunk bachelor party in front of me gets so scared by the poorly written slasher film that I’m easily able to top off my magic reserves.

I leave the theater hoping that my luck is looking up.

It takes five hours for me to change my mind. There’s no sign of Roscoe at any of the spots his friends say he hangs out at when visiting Vegas, including his hotel room.

The only place left on my list to check is a supernatural strip club called the Naked Fang, a name that’s about as subtle as a bare ass to the face. Groaning, I push my way through the door, the tingle of magic raking over my skin as I enter. If I was human, the repelling ward would give me an irresistible urge to turn around and go back to where I came from. If I glanced back, it would likely show me a blank wall or something. Since I’m not, it feels like getting tickled by a stranger. Icky, but hardly life threatening.

As soon as I clear the ward, the thumping bass hits me hard enough to rearrange my organs. Again, with the subtlety. I laugh, then pause to adjust to the noise and get my bearings. It only takes a couple of seconds to grab a table close enough to the stage to blend in, but not so far back that I look cheap.

Roscoe is nowhere in sight, but I forget all about that ugly motherfucker when I spot the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

Flaming red hair falls in loose curls down her back, each strand grazing alabaster skin. She’s tall for a woman, or at least above average, and her curves dip and roll in all the right places. And her wings. Gods, her wings are ridiculously fluffy and glaringly feminine. I want to snuggle up against them and take a nap.

There’s an angel in our territory?I’ve never seen one before in person, but those wings are a dead giveaway. What’s less clear is how we managed to miss hearing about her arrival, and why in all the many realms she picked the Vegas Fringes to settle down.

From everything I’ve heard, the celestial realm is a cushy place to live. Most angels don’t choose to leave, at least not voluntarily. Those rumors are where Earth’s fallen angel legend comes from.

Angelic and demonic lore is laughable. We aren’t even from the same realm, but humans love to cast us in this never-ending cosmic battle between good and evil. My genetic heritage doesn’t make me any more psycho than the redhead—my kind just lost the public relations’ battle before radios existed. If all angels look like her, there’s no wonder.