Page 57 of Immortal Longings
He hasn’t quite figured it out yet. But he’s starting to get his suspicions.
CHAPTER17
Smoke dances from Calla’s lips in little gray circles, perfect shapes fading into the air while she dusts the kitchen with ash. There are already three finished cigarette stubs littered on the floor, embers burning the ceramic tiles. Calla, meanwhile, sits upon the table, one muddy boot propped on a chair, the other dangling freely.
The door opens. When Anton walks into his apartment, he doesn’t look surprised to see her. Of course, she can only assume that it’s Anton, dressed like some councilmember’s assistant, hair combed back with gel and fancy cuff links glimmering in the low light.
Calla taps her cigarette. More loose ash joins the mess on the floor, and she wonders if he will notice. If it’ll piss him off, or if he hardly cares, just another blot added to the apartment.
“Where were you?” Calla demands.
Anton raises an eyebrow. He walks closer, his steps sluggish, like he doesn’t have the energy to remain upright for another second. His eyes, however,give him away. That jet-black stare is wary and calculating, operating at peak alertness.
“Do I report to you now, Fifty-Seven?” Anton replies.
“Do you report to anyone?” If he’s wearing a new body since she saw him earlier, he has been somewhere public. Doing what? Seeing who? Is the new face to avoid recognition, or was he simply bored of the old one? The impulsion to know what he has been up to tugs at her hands; if he won’t give an answer willingly, she will carve open his chest and pluck it from him.
Anton stops before the table. “I’m not in the mood to fight with you.”
“Fight with me?” Calla echoes. A petulant laugh lodges at the entrance of her throat. She holds it in with the barest self-restraint. “Oh,sosorry to disrupt your schedule.”
Anton slams his hands to either side of her. The sudden motion doesn’t startle her. Sullenly, Calla traces her gaze along the line of his suit, its fabric so smooth that she can see exactly where he has hidden his crescent knives.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“You didn’t see the announcement?” she returns. “The games are being sped up. Pings at random. One might go off at any second, and then your apartment will be as unsafe as mine.”
By Anton’s expression, he did not know. She watches him blink once, twice…
“And you still showed up here?”
“How else was I supposed to find you?”
Anton says nothing in response. Calla thins her lips. They are only firing question after question at each other, with no answer on either side.
Something terrible sparks in her temper.
“You can just say it outright.” When she flicks her cigarette ash onto the tablecloth, she can pinpoint the exact moment she has overstepped her bounds. “If we’re done and you’re breaking our alliance.”
Anton plucks the cigarette from her fingers. She expects him to throw it away. Instead, he takes a drag, then blows the smoke right into her face. In a flash, Calla’s hand springs to his neck, fingers braced around his throat and ready to squeeze. She doesn’t, though—not yet. She waits for him to pick the fight so she can start firing her accusations, but she knows that the person she really wants to tell off is herself. She’s become accustomed to having Anton Makusa around. Isn’t that why it bothers her when she can’t find him at a perilous time? A certain reliance has creeped in. She may not need him nearby, but shewantshim nearby. It’s the first thing she has wanted in years other than King Kasa’s demise.
“What are you talking about?” Anton says. His free hand comes up just as quickly, gripping her wrist to control her grasp on his throat. “Are you trying to frighten me, Fifty-Seven?”
“Youshouldbe frightened,” she returns, scowling.
“Should I?” Anton’s voice is low and derisive. He slides his hand up over hers, but instead of prying her fingers off, he holds them there. “Why are you looking at me like that, then?”
Calla freezes. The words settle in her stomach as pits, the seeds of something parasitic trying to take root and keep her company. Her grip doesn’t seem like a threat anymore: it is only pressed against soft skin and hard tendons, feeling the hollows of his neck move with every word he speaks.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t act the fool. It doesn’t suit you.” Anton takes a step closer and inclines his head down. Before Calla can stop him, his lips brush the curve of her ear. “There’s no need to threaten me. If you wanted my attention, you have it now.”
A sharp whine comes from Calla’s belt. The unexpected sound jars her enough that she releases her grip on Anton’s throat and shoves him away. He lurches back without protest, his expression unchanged.
“Don’t get it twisted,” Calla spits, unclipping her pager. It’s from Chami.
Emergency. Call the diner.
