Breathe

Chapter 33

Lucie

My house was much quieter than usual. Normally, you could hear the voices of my parents, speaking and laughing, the whir of the laundry machine, the obscure noises of whatever television show Mom had chosen to binge on for the week. When Dempsey had been home, it had been even louder: his presence had always been large. Even when he wasn't cracking a joke, you still knew he was there; his smile had the capability to soak up any emotion in the room but joy.

Oh, how I missed him.

Not the version of him that had been corrupted by the fallen angels, but the version of him that had a love affair with his red truck, the version of him that was obsessed with slow jazz and RNB, the version of him that always used to ruffle my hair and tell me, "I'm so glad to see you, Lulu."

Despite the near silence wafting around me as I stepped out onto the porch—Mom was somewhere upstairs, Dad was still out working—the consistent thump that kept coming from the house's side was clear. I knew the source, as he'd been there doing the same thing for at least an hour now, ever since we'd come back from our meeting with Cian.

I skipped over the last step on the stoop, my bare feet meeting warm, dewy grass. The stalks brushed my ankles as I moved, coming around towards where the generators were.

There he was, flaxen hair tossed in his eyes by the summer breeze, his foot striking the black and white soccer ball with a fluid strength and speed. Even if I'd never seen him play in a game before, I could tell he'd been a star once. Maybe it wasn't even the thud of the ball as it struck the brick; maybe it was the look in his eyes, that gleam of faded glory. A star whose light had run out a while ago.

He didn't look up, just kicked the ball, watched it slam against the brick and return to him, and dribbled it between his feet again. "You're never going to stop feeling sorry for me, are you?"

I swallowed. "What—"

"I can tell by the way you're looking at me," he said, which was unnerving both because he wasn't looking at me and because I was sure it was true. "You're getting that, 'Man, he died too young,' face again. I'm alive now. You don't have to do that anymore."

"You're right," I allowed. "I'm sorry."

He bit his lip, striking the ball again. "Did you talk to Caprice?"

I squinted up at the sun, a golden orb between throes of white clouds, against bright azure sky. It was summer. Summer was not meant for things like this—for boyfriends gone to the dark side, for kissing said boyfriend's once-dead brother, for a demon world pending opening. Summer was for butterfly nets and melting popsicles and hours wasted at the pool, and I was getting none of that.

Maybe, just maybe, I wished I was normal again. "Caprice?" I began. "Oh, yeah, I did. She said she'll go to the Order as soon as she can."

Now Vinny's eyes slid to mine. His hair almost hid the dubiety within them. "As soon as she can? That's not immediately."

"She doesn't see it as horribly urgent," I said with a shrug, "and I trust her."

"But—"

"Vinny," I said, shushing him. I took a seat in the grass, crossing my legs and leaning my chin into my palm. "We've done what we can. As, well, as humans, there's not much else we can do. It's the angels' fight now."

"If it's Cian's fight, it's ours. Come on, Lucie. He tried to tell us otherwise and that's how I almost ended up dying. Again."

I sighed, letting my eyes flit shut. God, he was right. I could hardly remember a time, actually, when he was wrong. "What do you want me to do, then? It's not like we can summon the Order. It's not like we can stop a whole demon gate from crashing open. It's not like we can fight Nick."