Chapter 36: The Handler's Regret

“Dude, the hell?” Alasdair blurted as the door closed. “What the fuck was that?”

Storm grimaced at him. “That was the most recent disaster in a series of worsening disasters.”

Alasdair stared at him blankly for a moment, then shook his head. “No, that was you lighting a fire under your own ass and then sitting on it. And for what?”

Storm slumped into a chair and scrubbed a hand down his face. “For her,” he said quietly as the door opened again, admitting Declan with Zayne close behind.

“I don’t know what the hell just happened,” the Guardian began, glancing between his friends. “But from out there, I started to worry I might have to intervene.”

“Maybe you should’ve,” Alasdair muttered. “Though, if you’d tried, our fearless leader here probably would have taken your head off.”

Declan sighed and took a seat nearby. “I told you not to make things worse.”

Zayne leaned against the wall beside the door. “What provoked this?”

“Other than the ongoing strain in our relationship?” Storm snarked.

“I’ve seen fights between you and your dad before,” Alasdair said. “This…this was something else.”

“It’s Kitara,” Storm said, his voice quieter now. Their gazes weighed on him, and something in him recoiled. It was one thing to admit his mistakes in his own mind, but putting them out there, to face the judgment of his friends…he felt raw and exposed.

Zayne frowned. “I thought you two were getting along? What happened?”

“You wouldn’t believe the things—well, some she told me, others…God, I don’t even know where to start.” Storm shoved his fingers through his hair in an agitated gesture. “There’s a lot she didn’t tell me. A lot she couldn’t tell me,” Storm amended, remembering the pain and fear in Kitara’s eyes. “A lot I didn’t want to know. Stars, what have I done?”

“Something about Phoenix?” the Engineer asked with a pointed look. “You haven’t explained that particular bombshell.”

“Wait, what bombshell?” Declan frowned. “What did we miss?”

Storm turned to him. “Phoenix tried to sexually assault” —he hesitated, not wanting to share Devika’s story without her consent— “someone, and Kitara intervened. Yet she was treated like a criminal, and Phoenix was released.”

Declan shook his head, his disbelief quickly shifting to anger. “That piece of shit…” he growled under his breath. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. But that’s not the issue between me and Kitara. Some of the things I learned in Myragos—”

Declan leaned back and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Stars, we haven’t even discussed Myragos yet.”

“What was it you learned?” Zayne asked.

Storm hesitated, organizing his thoughts in a way to avoid revealing Kitara’s true origins. “Devika and I…we learned how the Fallen originated. And…her dad may have sided with the Ninthëvels during their rebellion.”

Declan nearly fell out of his chair. “What?”

Storm nodded. “And turns out there may be more to my family than I thought too. Any of you ever heard of the Triad of Major Houses?”

At the blank look on his friends’ faces, Storm deftly redirected the conversation toward the noble origins of his mother’s line, the creation of the Fallen formula, and the destruction of the realm of Myragos.

When he’d finished, the others sat in loaded silence, just as sickened by the new knowledge as Storm and Devika.

“You think Ostragarn wants to use the formula to destroy Valëtyria?” Zayne asked, paling.

“I don’t know,” Storm said wearily. “Maybe. But it would certainly explain why they’re targeting the Fallen.”

“They’d have to reverse-engineer it,” Alasdair pointed out. “And to do that…they’d have to have a sample.”

The four of them exchanged concerned glances as Storm leapt to his feet. “Stars and hellfire…Kitara is undercover as a Fallen. I have to warn her—”

“Cool your jets,” Declan interrupted, raising a hand. “You’ve got her number, don’t you? You just had a stand-off with your dad ending with you under house arrest. You can’t exactly waltz out the front doors, deposed royalty or not.”

“Shit,” Storm growled, slumping back into his seat and running a hand through his already disheveled hair again. “I nearly forgot.”

Alasdair barked a laugh. “That makes one of us. I don’t think I’ll forget that showdown for at least a few centuries.”

“For all I know, she’s blocked my number after tonight,” Storm muttered. “I said some things to her…awful things. Hateful things. Goddammit, I fucked up so badly.”

“You still need to try,” Declan said, crossing his arms. “You owe her that. She did save my life once, after all.”

Storm might have laughed under different circumstances, but now, the quip didn’t elicit even a half-smile.

Zayne frowned. “What you learned in Myragos, about the Fallen…her dad supporting the Ninthëvels? Your own…origins? Is that what caused the issue between you?”

“Yeah,” Storm opted for the simple answer. “But…it’s more complicated than that. My dad’s been…building on that over the years with half-truths and lies…” He exhaled slowly. “I should have trusted her from the start.”

“Maybe,” Alasdair agreed. “But it’s not too late to start now.”

“It might be,” Storm muttered. “The irony is, based on my father’s mistakes, I condemned her for her father’s mistakes. I told her…I should never have taken the assignment. To find a new handler.” He leaned forward and hung his head. “I called her a liar, a traitor…”

A Ninthëvel, but he couldn’t share that. Not yet.

Silence echoed in the room for a beat as his friends digested his confession.

Finally, Declan whistled low. “Yeah, that would do it.”

“Indeed,” Alasdair agreed, his tone flat.

“I didn’t mean it,” Storm murmured, his voice rough with regret. “I was angry and confused. I didn’t know who I could trust.”

The Engineer leaned back in the chair and folded his arms over his chest. “You messed up—there’s no denying that. But you’re the only one who can make it right.”

Storm nodded, his eyes haunted. “I just…I don’t know if I can. If she’ll even give me the chance.”

“Then make her,” Declan said, his voice firm.

Alasdair cleared his throat. “What he means to say is: show her you’re remorseful for your actions and prove that you’re on her side—for good this time.”

Storm rubbed the back of his neck. “She thought she had to bear all of these secrets alone. Maybe I can convince her she doesn’t have to, not anymore.”

“Just remember,” Zayne cut in, “it’s not about what you want. It’s about what she needs. You were wrong and you hurt her. Don’t make it about you; it’s about making things right for her.”

“Right, right,” Declan said, leaned towards Storm with a smirk. “And if that fails, you can just go full ‘prince charming.’”

Storm groaned. “I’m never going to hear the end of this, am I.”

Declan’s grin widened. “Not anytime soon, your highness. I mean, maybe you’re obsolete now or whatever, but you can still start with a grand gesture, sweep her off her feet—”

“This isn’t helpful,” Alasdair chided, though the corners of his mouth quirked upward.

“Why not?” Declan crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “The worst that could happen is she stabs him.”

“Exactly,” Alasdair retorted.

Storm chuckled, the first echo of lightness since he entered Valëtyria earlier that day. “If Kitara stabs me, at least it’ll save me from your godawful jokes.”

“Let’s try to avoid you getting stabbed, yeah?” Zayne interjected, raising an eyebrow. “Call her, Storm. Let her know your concerns about Ostragarn targeting her because of her cover. If nothing else, it’s a valid conversation starter. After that…see where it goes.”

Kitara sat at her kitchen table the next evening, contemplating the text she’d received some hours prior.

Please call me back. We need to talk.

“What’s there to talk about?” she muttered to no one.

To tell her he’d officially put in his resignation as her handler? To try and play off his stupidity in the bar? To apologize for nearly getting them both killed?

She wasn’t even angry. Upset, yes, but mostly just weary. Weary of the “can we talks” and “I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions.”

After she and Baylen said their goodbyes, she’d half expected to find Storm at her flat when she ignored four consecutive calls from him.

She’d missed three more today.

Kitara leaned back in her chair with a sigh. She had every right now to request a new handler after the scene the previous night.

But protocol dictated an immediate transfer, especially after a stunt like his. Maybe it was for the best. A new posting, far from Storm and of less importance to the High Councilor. Perhaps it would even ensure Devika’s safety if Kitara weren’t in the vicinity. She couldn’t be sure Storm wouldn’t make the Historian’s life hell just for being associated.

Kitara dropped her head into her hands. Things had gone wrong so fast. His reaction didn’t come as a surprise, but the ache in her chest did, when she realized she’d hoped for a different one.

Avensäel.

Ninthëvel.

Who was she kidding? Their relationship—professional or personal—was doomed from the start.

Kitara closed the text conversation. Maybe once she’d figured out how she wanted to move forward in her career. Maybe if she could trust he wouldn’t get her killed when he didn’t know all the answers…

Her phone screen lit up with a new message, making her stomach flip. After a moment of deliberation, Kitara checked it.

It wasn’t Storm, as she’d hoped and feared.

It was Baylen.

Lantern tonight?

With a sigh, Kitara replied with a thumbs-up and set her phone back on the table. She hadn’t planned on leaving the apartment, not after her confrontation with Storm, but there were worse contacts she could spend the evening with.

Slipping her blades into their sheaths, Kitara unlocked the door and stepped out into the night.

She registered another presence a breath too late.

Fire seared through her shoulder. She spun and met a pair of mocking red eyes between her and the stairwell.

Jamal.

He shifted his grip on a long, wicked knife in his hand. Kitara instinctively triggered her blade, skipping back just in time to avoid another graze.

She just had to put enough space between them to snuff out her aura…

A sudden spear of ice lanced across her shoulder. Where Jamal struck her, the cold spread.

A paralytic…stars and hellfire.

She whirled to launch into the air from the third story landing, but skidded to a stop as two more pairs of red eyes blocked that escape.

Something snared her ankles, and her knees hit the concrete of the corridor.

A net of razor-thin wire.

They didn’t want to kill her—they wanted to incapacitate her.

Kitara cursed and managed to rise to her feet. Another half dozen vampires emerged from the units surrounding hers.

Had they killed the entire building…?

The vampire dodged Kitara’s blow to his ribs, then lunged. Kitara sidestepped and he barreled past her, colliding with the wall. Another took his place.

Kitara dodged the one rushing her and threaded a knife between his ribs as he came barreling past. She whipped it free, and the monster’s momentum sent his skeletal remains spilling down the stairwell with a macabre chorus. Smoky darkness curled around her fingers. She fought that as fiercely as she fought the vampires.

How many of them were there…?

Kitara spread her wings.

A gunshot.

Lead met iron and feathers. The bullet buried itself in the wall behind her and pain bloomed in one wing.

Kitara parried another knife and spun, punching a blade through this one’s throat. She hurled the same blade with all the fury and pain she could muster. The specialty blade bore six inches deep into the gun bearer’s chest and she collapsed into dust as the gun clattered to the concrete.

Another threw her against the wall. She shrieked when pinions splintered. With sheer force of will, she folded her wings back under her skin. Another rushed her. Her left arm had grown too numb to grip her blade.

Ice speared her side now, too.

With her right hand, Kitara parried another knife slicked in the paralytic, but only enough to keep it from catching her arm—it buried in her numb shoulder instead.

Fire split her back open, and darkness surged in her vision. Her knees bashed into the concrete again. Tendrils of ice snaked across her body.

“I gotta admit, you’re impressive.” A familiar voice echoed from the stairwell.

Kitara looked up through her red-tinged vision as a pair of six-inch stilettos reached the landing. A set of blood-red nails matched the wearer’s hair. The sound of a breaking bone cracked through the hall, but the numbness overtaking her made it impossible to pinpoint which one they snapped.

“Sorry chiclet,” Scarlet said almost conversationally as she surveyed the mess in the corridor. “Don’t take this the wrong way. I actually think you’re pretty cool.”