Page 6 of Black Castle

It is in the mistake he doesn’t realize Zev or anyone will notice. The mistake is the slight twist of his wrist, the way he refuses to stir the coffee that was later delivered to him, even though he has a spoon to do so, and the way he always so carefully tilts his head to watch Zev from the corner of his eyes.

Zev exhales slowly, his fingers drumming against the body of the ceramic cup.

Someone sent someone to kill him. And it’s not something he finds out-of-the-ordinary. He is used to the reality that he and his brother have made many American foes. Ones who can eagerly incite a million-dollar bounty on their heads just for the sake of it. But what can he say? He and his brother are foreign men—Russian, for the worst part—thriving endlessly on American land. The Raskovic empire holds at least 5 percent of their country’s wealth. This is a speculation, a mere rumor weaving through the dark alleys of America. But sometimes, rumors are true, right? So they are agitated. A foreigner is feasting on their lands.

The more proposals for allies he and his brother reject, the more their foes pile up.

But today, Zev won’t be wasting his time wondering who amongst their growing enemies sent another killer after him. Because really, the foes are numerous and it can be anyone. So he is just going to kill this man and save himself the trouble.

He smirks at his plan. A good kill on a strange man’s land is a grand way to retreat before his brother—Lucan—takes control.

But he has barely set the mug down so he can put his plan in motion when the bell chimes again. A low grunt settles in his throat.

Are they trying to have a party here or what?

Lifting his gaze to the door, he sees the intruder—a girl. And right behind her is an Asian boy, definitely Japanese.

The fiery red hair of the girl seems to have absorbed all the light from the September sun as the strands glint under the dull glow of the light in the room.

The spot the girl and the boy are staring at puzzles Zev; they are pointing at his table, murmured conversations passing hushly between them.

Zev questions their purpose as within a whisper of seconds, they are at his table indeed, invading his privacy. And the air is suddenly consumed by something bubble-gummy and flowery.

“I—um, sorry, hi.” She fumbles with words, her voice like silk, and her cheeks are immediately flamed red. But a strange, familiar quality resides within her green eyes.

Green eyes. Red hair.

Green eyes. Red hair.

Green eyes…red hair.

Where has he seen her before?

Suddenly, Zev isn’t thinking about the assassin at the next table, but about a train station in Marseille, France.

For a flicker of a moment, time seems to stop, as if paying obeisance to the dots connecting in his head. He remembers her. Quite uncanny, but he remembers the girl standing next to him.

Ten years ago, at a train station in Marseille, France. She is standing there, backpack strapped to her shoulders. She is wearing a hideous green sweater, sobbing, and blowing into the sleeve of the sweater.

She is so tiny, so frangible, the faintest of wind can easily whisk her far away.

She is taller now, curves fuller, beauty sharpened. But there is that fragile shimmer in her, like she may as well break apart if held too tight. And that sounds perfect to do—breaking her apart. Because pretty things are meant to be broken.

“Sorry, did you notice any book here when you came?” she asks softly. Her eyes hold fascination. But beneath that veil of sheer attraction, there’s fear. She’s smitten by him, yet afraid of him.

“No,” Zev shakes his head, his finger curling around his cup, the porcelain cold against his skin.

“Let’s ask Chopper,” the blond boy Zev unintentionally pushed into the shadow says, his bluish-gray eyes regarding Zev with suspicion. “Maybe he kept it.”

“Okay,” she murmurs, sharply turning away and following the boy. Zev watches her go. And as if feeling observed, she glances back, but turns away quickly as their eyes crash.

As they stand by the counter, speaking to the curly-haired barista, Zev drinks her in with a captivation that he reserved only for beautiful tragedies.

The barista disappears into the back room, only to reappear a few seconds later with a book. Her lips move as she murmurs a thank you, snatching the book from the barista’s hand.

They turn away from the counter. And as though it is a subconscious action, an old habit she can’t curb, she glances at Zev again, and this time, her gaze lingers, cheeks flushed red…but the fear is still there.

”Funny, cause I thought you were into dark-haired men,” the boy murmurs in a teasing tone as he gently nudges her toward the door.

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