Shadowfae by Erica Hayes Page B

scrambles from her chair and weaves out, wings jerking.
    Kane carefully pushes the ruined drink away with one finger. He’d thought she smelled ill. But sick fairies only remind him of Jade, and Jade’s gone, off to work her own poison on Dante DiLuca. Cruel envy writhes in his blood, uncomfortable.
    The skinny dancing waitress sidles up to him again. “You done with that?”
    He glances up at her hard, tired eyes and her tight mouth, and despite his discontent, the animal scent of soul prey sparks demonic hunger in his heart. He gives her his human smile and flicks his lashes at her with a gentle waft of hellish compulsion. “Yes, child. Sorry about the mess.”
    She scoops up the sloppy saucer and hesitates, her gaze slipping. “Did you really mean . . . shit. Never mind. Forget it.”
    Kane grabs her wrist to keep her, and inhales to taste her name. “I haven’t forgotten, Claire. I won’t forget you. Ever.” A lie. But so is her effort, her desperation. So is her life.
    She gasps, her pulse bubbling warm against his palm. The dirty glass slides on the saucer, and milky green froth splashes her black apron. “How did you know?”
    “I know. Do you want to be better?”
    “I train and train. Six hours a day. But—”
    He digs his fingers in, growing them until his claws cut her soft skin, and lets his voice deepen to a growl. “Do you want to be better?”
    The girl gulps, her eyes wide, the shiny sweat of fear coating her face. She sees. She knows. But she can’t stop. Her body quivers with longing, and her whisper floats out on warm soul-drenched breath. “Yes. Oh, yes. Please.”
    Kane lets go, satisfied, the ashen taste of hellfire already crisp and arousing in his mouth. “When’s your next audition, child?”
    She licks her lips, greedy now. “Sunday. At the Palladium.”
    “I believe you’ll get the job.” He beckons, and when she leans over, he whispers a date, flames from his lips licking her ear.
    Realization flushes her, and she backs away, her eyes wide and wet. “No. I’ll only be . . . That’s not long enough. Please.”
    Kane smiles, faint. “Enjoy it while it lasts. I’ll see you soon.”
     
     
    I stalked out onto the footpath, clutching my aching elbow, and the diners sitting under the canvas canopy politely looked away as I passed, or quickly found something particularly interesting to talk about with their partners. A girl coming out of Valentino’s covered in blood isn’t something you want to stare at. You never know who might come out behind her.
    Stupid tears stung my eyes, and I walked blindly away under strings of yellow and white lights, my temple still aching where Ange had hit me. He wasn’t following. He was too busy with his brutish war to bother with me for now, beyond breaking a bit of furniture and getting filthy drunk. But my skin burned with shame, hotter than the blood already growing sticky on my arm, and I seethed inside with rage and disgust. At Ange for treating me like shit, at Kane for making me put up with Ange’s crap, but most of all at myself.
    I turned the corner—any corner, to put Valentino’s out of sight—and threw myself against the whitewashed wall. I wiped my face, heedless of smeared mascara, and clotting blood squelched as my elbow unfolded. “Fuck,” I muttered, and scrabbled in my bag for more tissues.
    When had I turned into such a pushover? Thrall didn’t mean I shouldn’t stand up for myself. Sure, I had to hang around Ange, doll myself up, look pretty on his arm. In his bed, too, or wherever else he wanted it. Sex is always a given with Kane’s little assignments, and since I started needing sex to live, I’m not so much a princess that I can’t close my eyes and bear it when I have to. Ange’s energy is cold and bristly with rage and gives me the creeps, but it’s food.
    That didn’t mean I had to let him beat me up and drink my fucking blood in public.
    Red streaks smeared on the inside of my arm as I tried to clean