Shadowglass

Andy flits up a rusty drainpipe one-handed, straining for balance with steely wings as he drags her below him. She’s shaking, poor girl, her hand sweating a river in his. More than once her fingers slip and he has to dive for her wrist, delicate bones crunching in his grip with a sharp jab of memory. Over a concrete lip onto roof tiles, dry and brittle in hot evening sun, spicy with traces of tin. Lest his silhouette reveal their flight, he clenches his jaw and ignites his secondary glamour, the one that makes him dim. Wobble, flicker, disappear. The air spits and shimmers, pregnant with fat fae lies: Don’t see me. I’m not here. Look away...

He skips lightly over tiled ridges, glowing metal corners, gutters, glass, the air a warm stagnant breath that stinks of city iron and imminent rain. Behind him, she trips, her inflamed wing joints still weak from the beating she got at Danny’s. His arm aches from holding her, and his pistol-scorched palm screams in hers like she’s made of coals. But it’s dull compared with the steely blade of deception that spikes his throat and slashes his every breath ragged.

She’s not working for Jinxx, not laying some lie-spiked trap. Jinxx promised her a cure. All she wants is to be free of this nasty mirror that’s fanned her courage to a fiercer blaze than she can control.

—Exquisite, isn’t it?— The sultry whisper teases him, and he pretends it’s not there, but his blood responds with a heady flush of wonder and desire that doesn’t lie.

Is it possible that she’s not deceiving him? That she means every word? That the catch in her breath, the warm throb in her pulse when he kissed her tempting throat was real?

The idea dizzies him, rich like whiskey, and his knees smack the rusty roof, metal on screeching metal. He catches himself, and twitches her after him before she falls, but her tiny hand burns in his like an accusation. He struggles to think straight, to plan, to see more than a few feet in front of him.

Imagine that. Not to step in shadow, always waiting for the cruel knife in a wing joint or the bullet in the back of the head. To sleep in peace, without one ear pricked for treacherous footsteps. To wake each morning without wondering if today she’ll be gone.

Since that horrid day in hell when Lauren savaged his sense with her lies, he’s never been certain of anything. Pity that this time, it’s him doing the lying. Appolonnia humbled him with her honesty, but he didn’t say a word about Sammi. They can’t give this mirror to two different demons. If Apples finds out, she’ll never forgive him. And if he gives Appolonnia what she wants—the cure—then Sammi will come after him. What’s left of his life won’t be worth the rusty grit under his claws, and he’ll spend eternity in agony in a locked iron room.

Perfect.
Just fucking perfect.

Unless, of course, Apples is lying. Unless she’s invented that crystal-shine story about Jinxx to trick him. She is a con artist, after all, wide-eyed and innocent and smiling pretty lies.

But how can he ever know? He’s already tempted himself too much with the berry nectar of her skin and the shy, lithe brush of her limbs next to his. How can he be sure without risking his mind and his senses, not to mention his heart?

—Coward. His shadow self swirls, scorching his blood with scorn. She’ll never be yours if you don’t take a chance. Story of your life, Andy. One little bruise and you cry.—

Fear slashes at his skin that he’ll hurt her, and Andy shakes his head, stubborn, as he dives past flitting leaves and black power lines that glow copper-bright like fire. Not a chance. Leave her alone.

But bright fairy longing consumes him, and his body aches with all the need and pent-up isolation he longs to pour into her. She makes him feel clean and shiny, like he’s not felt since that stormy day in hell when his heart shattered. He has to know if she’s for real, before he does something stupid and tells her the truth.

That he likes her, as he likes chocolate or summer rain or sunflowers. That her awkward wit and clumsy charm lighten his heart, that her wide amber eyes bewitch him, that he can’t get her beautiful fruity taste out of his mouth. That when he’s with her, he feels clean and hot and on a razor’s edge like he’s drunk too much heady fairy wine, and that his need to touch her isn’t just loneliness or lust, but . . . something else.

If he steals her cure, she’ll surely hate him. Eternity in a screaming iron cell might hurt less than her disappointment.

—So tell her,—dares his shadow,—tell her or I will. She’s wonderful just the way she is. She doesn’t need a cure.—

Bitter spite stings his mouth. He grits his teeth, swallows, resists. No way. Not her and Dennis. Never. He must talk to her. Show her he cares. Get her away from Dennis before she has to find out the hard way. Before it’s too late.

Sharp pain stabs his skull, and his stomach wraps itself tight around a soapy kernel of sick hunger. He hasn’t eaten in too long, and there’s no metal in ice cream. Should have asked for mineral water, oysters on the shell, a tomato sandwich, a rare steak. Iron house frames loom like a screaming white maze below him, dizzying him to the point of faintness, and he flutters weakly to his feet in a deserted residential street, struggling to keep the flame of reason in his head alight.

Notes

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Stay Weird Baby Bats.
- Grimm ;)