Shadowfae (6 page)

Maybe what they all said was true, and I’m not good for anything else. Or maybe it’s just been so long since I had a relationship that didn’t involve screwing, that I didn’t know what else to do.

Something wet and heavy thumped into my door like a bag of mud, and I groaned. If that cheeky red spriggan pissed through my letterbox again, I’d rip his pointy nose off. I dragged myself up, stomped to the door, and yanked it open. “Bugger off, you manky little shit—”

The dead bolt snapped from my fingers, and my breath caught. It wasn’t the red spriggan. It was Nyx, insensible, sprawled twitching on my doorstep in a wet blue puddle.

“Babe?” I scrambled to my knees to cradle his fine-boned head. His moist cheek slid on my fingers, cool blue tears spilling over my hands. Moths flickered and crawled in his hair, their brown dust smeared on his green-veined cheek. His beautiful wings lay crushed beneath him, limp and wet. Their color bled, iridescent streaks of viridian and cobalt puddling like diluted water-colors onto the cracked concrete step.

My heart constricted, Quinn’s dead fairy photos flashing in my memory. “Nyx, wake up.”

He murmured something unintelligible, his lips pale and slick with blue phlegm. I slung his limp arm over my shoulder and half dragged, half carried him inside. Hue leeched from his wings to soak my clothes and streak the lino with wet rainbows.

I helped him into my bedroom and laid him on his side on the crumpled bed, bright moisture soaking the creamy sheets blue and green. I popped the lamp on and peeled his sticky clothes off, arranging his damaged wings behind him. Yellow light glistened on his paling skin, glowing veins pulsing dimly in his slender apple-green throat. A faint sour smell rose, like something turned slowly rotten, and his breath stained my pillow where his soft lime lips pressed into it.

I swallowed. I’d wondered what he’d look like in my bed, but this wasn’t what I’d had in mind. Swiftly I examined him where he’d touched me, fingers, mouth, groin. Nothing was burned or torn. It wasn’t me.

He stirred, groaning, and I stroked his hair back gently. Instead of tangling in wild yellow springs above his head, it hung limp and slick, soft gray moths darting. His clammy skin shocked me, cold. He should have been warm. I didn’t know what was wrong with him. I’d never seen a drug like this before. “Nyx? What happened? Did you take something?”

His eyes flickered open, shimmering red, his curly blond lashes clotted. He coughed, thick. “Jade-Jade?”

“I’m here, babe. Take it easy.” I clasped his damp hand, his glassy claws flexing weakly. I dragged the feather quilt up to cover him, heedless of the dripping mess. I knew Nyx was some kind of air sprite. Maybe he was just starving. I visualized the contents of my refrigerator: milk, yogurt, sliced sandwich bread, bananas, Tim Tams . . . What did I have with bubbles? “I’ll get you some mineral water or something—”

“No . . . not hungry . . .” His beautiful voice scratched like he had a rotten case of bronchitis. He swallowed, sickly blue liquid spilling from his lips, his fine pointed ears twitching wet as he tried to smile. “Just sick . . . I’ll be okay. Nowhere else to go. Thanks . . .”

I nodded, stroking his hair, heat swelling in my throat. “Sure. No worries, babe. You just rest now.” But we both knew fairies didn’t get sick.

I tucked the quilt under his pointed chin, and my hand came away stained green. “Kane said there was poison. Did someone attack you? Was it the DiLucas?”

Nyx laughed, and choked, coughing sea-blue ichor, his broken wings jerking feebly. “Stay away from him, Jade-Jade. Promise me.” His eyelids slipped shut, only his quivering wing membranes and the breath wheezing sticky on the pillow betraying any life.

Tears burned my eyes even as my thrall bangles itched and hummed. That was one thing I couldn’t promise, and frustration and sorrow squeezed my heart.

I leaned over to flip the old bar heater on, oil gurgling in the painted pipe lining the wall, and climbed into bed. I heaped the quilt up over us, pulling the edges in around him, and clasped his poor shivering body to mine. Sour, cold moisture soaked through my skirt and tank top, plastering the fabric to my skin. I tucked the top of his head under my chin and held him to me, rocking gently, his wings pulsing feebly, ever weaker. Despair soaked into my heart, burning. If I could feed him, give up my energy to help him, I would. But I couldn’t. All I could do was kill.

I didn’t mean to sleep, but I must have dropped off, my arms still wrapped around him, his dripping head on my breast.

When I woke, he’d melted.

Just a mass of watery blue gel, cold and sticky on my skin, the mattress beneath me drenched with indigo liquid like blood and the sour stink of decay.

Gone. Precious, giddy, lonesome Nyx, who laughed and chased butterflies through the air in CarltonGardens, who cartwheeled into the river for fun and did handstands in the street at midnight when it rained. Who had no one better to come to when he knew he was dying than me.

I hadn’t said I loved him, like a best friend should, or that I was sorry it never worked out between us. I hadn’t said thank you. I couldn’t even stay awake while he died.

I lay alone soaked in sticky blue mess and cried, bright heat bleeding between the dusty venetians.

5

V
alentino’s is your typical Lygon Street Italian restaurant. Red leather seats, soft white tablecloths, a tiny vase of flowers and a fat white candle in a shining glass bowl on each table, painted walls draped with curtains, tassels, silent movie stills, and sepia photographs of olive orchards in old Sicily. Vito, the maître d’, wears a black suit and drapes a napkin over his arm. And the smell is glorious, like something out of heaven’s kitchen, roasting lamb, simmering meat sauce dripping with oregano, onions frying in butter and tomatoes, always tomatoes, grilled, sautéed, fried, stewed, any form you can imagine. The scent wafts out onto the street like a warm mouthwatering cloud, mingling with the same from a dozen places on that block.

I got there about nine, having spent the afternoon washing sheets and scrubbing up the mess. Blue fragments of Nyx still stained my fingernails, though I’d scratched at them with the brush until my cuticles ripped and bled, and the decaying stink still soaked my nostrils, sour like guilt. The burning inside me was gone, not even an itch remaining, but injustice seared worse than any chemical scald. Whatever it was, he hadn’t deserved it.

The last breath of sunset faded from the sky, stars peeping through, and restaurant signs buzzed in red and green neon, flashing over the crowded black pavement where café tables spilled out to the street. The Valentino’s blackboard leaned against the wooden rail by the gutter, specials tonight braised lamb shanks and fettuccini pescatore. Customers chattered, white plates and dark wine bottles gleaming.

I checked my reflection in the window before I went in, wiping my nose one last time with a wilting tissue. I looked awful, despite my fresh terra-cotta shift dress and strappy heels. I’d left my hair down for some semblance of dignity, but you could still see my puffy cheeks, and despite me larding on mascara and dark gray shadow like some trashy emo chick, my eyes still glowed swollen and red.

I didn’t care. Let Ange think I was upset about Nino. Hell, he probably wouldn’t even notice.

Tingling discomfort whispered up my arms, raising the hairs, my thrall bangles stinging, and tension coiled in my intestines. Kane’s words echoed in my heart, a persistent, baleful imperative I couldn’t ignore:
You will find out for me. You will . . . you will . . .

“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered, stuffing the crumpled tissue back in my black satin handbag.

The restaurant was busy tonight, only a few small tables at the back unfilled, and Vito made me a little bow as he hurried past, turning sideways to fit between the chairs. As usual, Ange and whichever corrupt judge or greedy politician he entertained that evening took the round table by the side window. I excused myself around tables and chair backs to approach him, an oily feather of unease sliding in the back of my throat.

Angelo Valenti looks like some of what he is, a hard-ass gangster with loads of cash and no regrets. His eyes are gray and hard, his broad forehead uncreased, his blunt fingernails always clean. In his pockets there’ll be the keys to his Monaro, a thick roll of fifties, a Ziploc bag of white crystal powder, and a silver-flashed .38. Tonight he wore a dark red shirt under a black leather jacket, black curls cropped short at the base of his neck, a golden crucifix on a chain falling over his collar.

He doesn’t look all that smart. He also doesn’t look 350 years old, so go figure.

His companions wore dark suits, no ties, guns lumpy under their jackets. A fat plate of marinara sat half-eaten in the middle of the table, split shellfish still steaming in mounds of pink-sauce-smothered spaghetti. I walked toward them, pasting on a smile, but it froze when I saw who sat there, and I halted, my guts warm and tight.

Fabian and Santino Valenti, two hulks with the trademark heavy Valenti build, hard men whom Ange drags out from under the stairs when there’s killing to be done. Worse, Tony LaFaro, Ange’s fae-born cousin from the old country, sadistic and half-mad from his fairy blood, his yellow eyes double-lidded like a reptile’s. No wives. No girlfriends. This was a war council, and if the five empty merlot bottles on the table were any guide, it was already well under way.

I clasped my bag in my lap, suddenly wishing I hadn’t come, no matter the itching thrall. Just because Ange doesn’t need to eat regular food doesn’t mean he isn’t a bastard when he’s drinking.

He saw me and smiled, genial, beckoning to me with one thick hand and signaling to the wine waiter with the other. “Another one, Paolo. Jade, darlin’, have a seat.”

I didn’t. “Just saying hello, Ange. Hi, Tony, Sonny, Fabe. I heard about Nino. I’m sorry.”

Tony flickered his forked tongue at me, grinning. The Valenti boys nodded, but didn’t get up. They were old-school Sicilian, and I wasn’t anyone’s wife.

Ange dipped his head, solemn. “May he rest in peace. Listen, love, can I have a word? Just a minute, boys.” He glided up from his seat, swift and elegant for such a bulky body, and ushered me out into the little corridor where the toilets are, wooden walls lit by a single white bulb.

I swallowed, my nerves jumping. This might be difficult.

Ange leaned against the wall, trapping me in his broad shadow. “Where you been? You look like hell, girl.” His accent is Italian-Australian, comical. No one ever laughs.

“Nowhere. I just—”

The hard heel of his palm smacked into my temple, and colored sparks danced in my vision for the half second it takes the signal to reach your brain.

Jesus. I never see it coming.

Pain lanced through my skull, my skin burning, and my vision wobbled dimly as I staggered. Maybe convincing him I was leaving would be easier than I thought. “You asshole.”

“You were with Nino, Jade. Kane told me. What happened?”

“Nothing. I don’t know, okay? It’s nothing to do with me.” A fierce ache throbbed in my head, threatening to blind me, and I blinked, a tear or two soaking onto my painted lashes. Already I could feel a lump growing.

Ange sighed, like I’d offended him and he was genuinely sorry to hear it. “You screwed him. Say it.”

Was that all he cared about? “Not that it’s any of your goddamn business, Ange, but I didn’t, okay?” I tried to push past him, wobbling.

He grabbed my shoulder to stop me, anger showing in his tense mouth, the way his teeth pressed against his lip, straining. “You little whore. You screwed my cousin to death, and now you lie about it?”

Like that was the worst sin of all. Ange’s corrupted morals always stung sourly in my mouth, and disgust seared my throat like rising bile. He’s callous, violent, a lousy shag. I would have left him months ago, if the whole thing hadn’t been on Kane’s orders.

I shook him off, trembling, my head still throbbing. “Don’t you ever hit me again. Get your filthy hands off me.”

“The Lord have mercy on your soul. You gotta repent, or you’ll go to hell.” He clamped his fingers around my wrist, gray irises spiraling blue.

I backed away, hot shame stinging my face at the fear that speared into my heart. Sick loathing writhed inside me. “Don’t, Ange, not tonight. Please.”

But the wooden wall thudded into my back and I had nowhere to go. He pulled my straining forearm toward him. I struggled, yanking back, my biceps bulging, but he was strong, effortlessly strong, and horror crunched icy teeth into my bones as he bent and fastened his lips onto the soft skin inside my elbow. My skin crawled in horrible anticipation, and I couldn’t help but cry out.

I have no clue where romantics get the idea that being bitten by a vampire is sexy.

It fucking hurts. The horrible metallic slide of his teeth under my skin, the vile pop as the vein broke, the burning agony of my blood forcing out, faster than the hole wanted to let it because he was sucking, drinking, tearing the hole bigger. Pain skewered my arm, my fingers clawing. Sick heat spreading in my abdomen, and I gritted my teeth so hard, my jaw ached. I wanted to vomit, or piss myself.