I gasped, shivering. I was sweating, my mouth sticky. My hands shook. A junkie denied a fix.
Oh, God.
Keep it down, urged Common-Sense Verity, the sensible and incredulous me who still lurked somewhere inside. It's not what it seems. It's just a learned response. You know that. Fight it!
Glimmer stirred, a fragrant shadow amongst shadows. "Verity?" he mumbled, slurring. "Whassup?"
My guts hollowed, desperation swimming against a warm velvety undercurrent of desire. Glimmer could help me. I knew he could. Fight it!
But I didn't want to.
“Nothing,” I murmured, oddly calm. So calm, it should’ve terrified me. But I was already beyond fear. “It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.” And I pocketed my phone and walked out.
On the bridge across the gateway to the bay, fog spiraled in slow motion, weaving intricate ghostly shapes around the soaring suspension cables. Damp pre-dawn crept chilly fingers up my coat sleeves. Piquant sea air stung my face. To landward, the white halogen spotlights of newly refurbished Rock Island Prison glistened faintly through the mist. Somewhere below me swirled the dark, invisible sea.
I'd walked here, confident, flitting coolly across darkened parklands and Sentinel-free streets. But now, crab-clawed nerves gripped my guts. Damn, I needed to pee. My fingers shook. My lungs wouldn't take in enough air. At my back, a car whooshed by, and I jumped like a startled frog, ribbit!
Fuck. My sweaty palms slicked the railing, ripe with fear and anticipation. My senses fizzed, and I glanced over my shoulder, certain I was being watched. But I saw no one.
Deep in the rusty cells of my mind, Common-Sense Verity kicked at the walls and screamed what the hell are you doing? The rest of me just felt like a high-school girl on prom night. I hadn't seen him in person for weeks. Suddenly, it seemed so unbearably long.
This was our place. Always had been, since that very first night, when I'd wept and screamed into uncaring darkness, and he'd come for me. Not my father, not my brothers, but him, alone, when no one else would.
And he wasn't here.
My knees watered, like they did when I was small and my father scolded me for some thoughtless mistake. Oh, God. I was too late. He'd already left. I should've picked up that message as soon as it chimed. If I'd displeased him…
Feathers of flame teased the back of my neck. "Hello, firebird."
I whirled, my heart pounding.
And there he stood. Vincent Caine, richest guy in town, lately CEO of Iridium Industries, genius inventor of the Sentinel (among other flashy, ubiquitous bits of kit) and mayor of Sapphire City.
Razorfire.
Not wearing his crimson silken coat, or the rust-blood metal mask that had become the watchword for terror; not even the slate-grey suit and red tie (always red, or plum, or scarlet, jeez, it was like he was telling everyone) that he affected in his day job. Just a crisp black shirt and jeans, but still the vision of him swallowed me, a vortex of time and space, and I couldn't breathe.
He isn't superlatively good-looking, not really. More like a sharp, interesting face. No, what Vincent has is presence. A cool, effortless composure that flirts with elegant and handsome as it sashays by on its way to magnificent. And after so long apart, it hit me with redoubled force.
But always, it's his eyes that get me. Unholy storm-cloud grey, the cleverest and most dangerous eyes you'll ever see. When he's angry, they're black. When he's utterly furious, they burn. Breeze fingered his short bronze hair, wreathed him in mist and dark enchantment. Calm, invincible, untouchable. The perfect picture of power.
They write novels about guys like Vincent, too. The ones featuring mental disintegration and toxic passion that leads to murder.
The awfulicious prospect of his displeasure made me shudder. To be honest, my memory of those heady days was still fuzzy, drunken, trapped in that dark half-world between truth and nightmare. I didn't rightly remember everything that ever happened between us… but I hadn't forgotten his exquisite way with lessons. No, I most certainly hadn't.
Suddenly, I was ultra-aware of the dirt smearing my clothes, the stink in my untidy hair. The scar on my dented cheekbone burned. I should've showered, dressed nicely, fixed myself up for him.
Or not.
I swallowed, parched. "I, er, meant to come sooner. It's just…" Shit. Wrong approach. Never make excuses. Never apologize, firebird. It's always a lie. If you don't mean it, don't do it in the first place…
But he just shrugged, fluid. "I know how it is. Museums to rob, chaos to wreak. The diary's always so full." A weaponized smile, loaded as a demon's promise. You can poison small creatures with Vincent's smile. "Oh, and thieves to humiliate. That was entertaining. Seriously. I'm diverted."
The way his lips shaped the word diverted made me want to fidget and blush, and mentally I kicked myself in the ass. Keep it down, Verity. You're here for information. This is a temporary ceasefire, not a date.
Goddamn it. I'd been doing fine. I'd barely thought of him in weeks, if you could call four or five times an hour barely. Barely dreamed of him, either, unless you count the breathless ones where I shudder in firelit darkness and he… well, never you mind. Point is, I was doing okay. Then the bastard flips me a casual text—one damn text—and I'm all Stockholm Syndrome. Christ on a cracker.
Stubbornly, I took a step back. "That's sweet and everything, Vincent, but what do you want?" His name tasted minty, faintly chemical on my tongue. I wished I hadn't said it. It made me think of flames. But the question lingered: why had he asked me here? He never did anything without a plan. What new trick was this?
"Well, if you insist on making it all about me…" He slid hands into pockets, a cunning caricature of casual. "I'm just dying to hear what you thought of your new friends at the museum. Did you enjoy them?"
My pulse throbbed, a hot warning. I knew those tweens' shenanigans were no accident. Vincent was toying with me. Feeding me lies. I shouldn't play his games…
Then again, I knew them for what they were, didn't I? Lies. Misdirection. If I fell for his bullshit anyway, I'd no one to blame but myself. Right?
Seductive warmth whispered on my skin. I wanted to dive in, revel in the battle, relish his clever traps and gambits. Say to hell with it and go with him right now… but part of me shrank like a kiss from maggots at the thought of listening to his toxic words for a moment longer.
I folded my arms, defensive. Like it could shield me from the memory of his quickflame gaze, his strange mint-fresh warmth, his fingers as they clenched between mine…
Keep it business. Find out what he knows, and leave.
"They were surprising, I'll give 'em that," I offered. "Twin augments. I've never seen the like."
"I know! Delightful, isn't it? I confess, I get bored with the same old tricks."
He leaned his elbows on the railing beside me, sleeves rolled up. He has precise, elegant hands. Artist's hands. Lover's hands. His wrist was arrogantly bare, no augmentium wristwatch to shield him tonight. No disguise at all. He really didn't give a damn.
I brushed aside a tendril of treacherous appreciation. Sure, his courage would be admirable, if he wasn't a genocidal psychopath who rated the rest of the human race lower than maggots, except for a happy few of his augmented Gallery minions, and even they weren't worth speaking to most of the time.
He'd had a power-crazed supervillain BFF (of sorts) named Iceclaw, a chuckling maniac with long greasy