Rafel stared into the scary bird faces. Percival's ask hung dangerously in their air: "Shall we annihilate her?" With the predator sheen even the avian masks couldn't cover, Rafel felt they really wanted to. To murder the Countess of Avila, in cold fucking blood.
He sighed. "No. Not yet."
He gave a motion and they all pulled off their crow masks again. Their capes even had feathers in it, but the queer thing about the Children of the Crow was that their sigil was a white crow. Rafel had never seen, nor heard of such. Not even in the myths. But the White Crow was beautiful to look at. It was symbolic of how light could spawn from dark, he purported.
Had to be.
Rafel sniffed and gave his order. "Place trusted sentinels on watch at the hotel. If she leaves, follow her. Do not engage. I will make the meet personally tomorrow, and if need be for her death, I will surrender her to the gaping mouth of Hel myself. If we just straight up murder her, we will get nothing out of why she went through so much trouble to spy on me.
Now, all of you, take off those fucking capes and go get some sleep." Sounds of laughter rose in the room as his compadres obeyed.
Israfel remained as they trickled out in twos. He was left alone with a final glance at the ominous masks left behind, he too traced the stone steps out the loft, the library, and minutes later, the whole citadel. What Israfel didn't know was that while be had failed to dispatch his own team of killers, the Countess of Avila had not.
Her monster, Pesuada was coming after him.
Rafel whistled an outland tune as he walked down the street and few blocks to Salem Hall. The others had gotten a head start, and he felt Percival could already be in their dorm room by now. He didn't mind. It was the wee hours of earliest morning, and the island scent were fresher and crispy. The night glimmered in stars.
He was just passing by an alley cut into a closed tavern and a modiste shop when he heard his song being sang back to him.
Rafel stopped dead in his tracks.
He swiveled toward the alley, a narrow cleft shrouded in mist and bins. The whistling stopped when he did. And at first he thought it had to be the echoes of his own voice carrying on the wind. He shook his head, turned back, and was about to continue on his way when he heard tapping feet.
The grinding of boots on crunchy gravel.
"Who's there?" Rafel started for the foggy alley.
Some black rats, fat with the litter pooling out the bins scattered at his feet. A sulky cat watched them go by, too lazy and bored to interfere. Rafel kicked the cans and walked on. Aside the trash bags, the alley was quite clean. The droopy mist cleared before his amber eyes.
"I said who's there?"
He could still hear tapping feet. Now that he could see through the light dew, he followed the scuffing sounds to a corner beside a broken water fount.
His eyes first met the boots.
It was a military make. The model was hardy, meant to intimidate, but also carry the weight of the wearer at breakneck speeds. The boots stopped tapping, and he followed with his eyes up the grey commando pants, and the red-silver vest marking the army of the Republic. As his eyes trailed the silhouette, he found strong calves, long athletic legs, and hips that bursted out.
Before, he even hit the bosomy chest area, he knew he already stared at a woman.
Bolta followed his eyes to the silver ranks on her shoulder. She nodded with a proud smile.
"Sentinel Corps. First Wing."
"Private Bolta!" Rafel cheered, making her smile stretch. "Again, makes sense. So tell me; what's the daughter of the King of Olympians doing all by herself in a remote alley? Aren't your siblings like gods of the moon and fucking sun? Your father, the great thunderer always host a party up there these days from what I hear."
Bolta took a long drag. "Yes, that's all true, but my mum's mortal. I was signed into the patrol as part of my guardianship detail."
Rafel blinked. "You're a Fourth Year?"
She nodded. Another proud smile. And he got a lewd sip of her boobs. "How about you?" She asked. "First Year?" Rafel clutched to his chest. "Oh!
You wound me. Am I that obvious? Spot on, on the first guess? Shit. I might need to work on my steeze."
Bolta was laughing out loud. "No. No. It isn't that. It's just. .
.only a newbie would be strolling out at this time of the night."
"Instead of?"
"—fucking, obviously. It's test week. And it's a hot night out." Bolta fanned herself. "Wait. How old are you?" It was at this question that Rafel finally got the courage to look down her vest, and openly let it show in his eyes what he'd been thinking about ever since he'd walked into this fucking alley to find this hot, inked demigoddess casually bent over a damn wall.
He shrugged. "Old enough. Why?"
Bolta let her hazel eyes run wild too. She licked his body with her catty iris. And he felt his penis charge when she licked at her lips. No lipstick, but still, sexy as fuck. Things had clicked off between them. Rafel was killing his first impression with the daughter of Zeus.
The way they had hit it off was a tale worthy of gossip. He wondered if she was thinking what he was thinking, and feeling what he was feeling.
Rafel dared himself, and made the first move.
He was not much taller than she was, but still he dipped in and placed a feather kiss into the hot skin of her neck. He let his face roam for seconds over Bolta's hazel eyes; he was leaving her with the steamy choice. She bit on her bottom lip and sucked in a sharp breath. Lightning danced in the sky above again.
The thunder cracked, just as she said, "I came out tonight for a smoke." She tossed the butt of her cigar to the dank floor, tapping it out with her boot's heel. "But," she finished. "—things change."
Rafel was ready when her hot, sinful eyes climbed back up his body.
"Come here, demon." Bolta rasped.
And they met hot at the middle.