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."

Vinny lifted his foot for another kick, hesitated, and brought it down on top of the ball instead, holding it in place beneath his toe. "There has to be something. I'm tired...I'm tired of being useless."

"Whoever said you were useless?" I shot back. I stared at him, my gaze unyielding, my eyebrows raised, and he stared back at me, stunned by my sternness. "Vinny, we'd be lost without you. You're Cian's everything, my best friend...if anything happened to you, I...I don't even know. God."

Vinny looked away, a sudden flush at his cheeks that, in spite of myself, managed to tug at my heart.

"Except," I added, "that people don't really kiss their best friends. On the lips."

His eyes met mine. "We said we weren't going to talk about that—"

"Jesus, Vinny, I know—but we ought to. We can't just ignore it. Ignoring it isn't going to erase the fact it happened, no matter how much we wish it would," I countered. I opened my mouth, shut it again, then gave an exasperated sigh and blurted, "Just—what were you thinking?"

I must have asked it too harshly, for hurt flashed suddenly across the younger Horne's face. "You're acting like I forced myself on you! We're both of equal guilt, and you know it."

I held up my hands in mock surrender. "I never said that; I never said that. I know, Vince. I know, trust me."

He narrowed his eyes at me, releasing the soccer ball and giving it another kick. "So what were you thinking?"

"I asked you first."

"What are you, five?"

"Don't get sassy with me."

He made a pouty face which made it clear that I was not the five year old here. The soccer ball returned to him with another thump, and this time he caught it on his toe, tossing it from foot to foot. I tried to act like I wasn't the mildest bit impressed. "I don't know what I was thinking, Lucie. I just...I felt so close to you right then, too close, and did what I know I shouldn't have."

He paused.

"Maybe it's more than that," he admitted, every inch of him going still. His eyes were trained on the ground, never shifting, never closing. "Maybe I'd wanted...I'd wanted to kiss you for a while, and hadn't known it."

My eyes widened. "Vinny..."

"In the end, it doesn't matter," he snapped. "Because you're Cian's, and we're friends. All we are—all we are is friends."

And that's how it had to be. Both of us knew it, had known it, ever since we'd kissed each other. We'd known that all we could ever be was friends, no matter what happened.

This time when Vinny kicked the ball, his aim faltered. It struck the brick, yet ricocheted, and I caught it in my hands. Vinny looked at me, a strange amount of pain and understanding twisted into his young expression all at once. "You told me," I said, my voice tentative and quiet, like a tiptoe at night, "that you'd never done that before. I was...I was your first kiss."

Vinny exhaled, but mechanically, as if he had to remind himself to breathe at all. Then he gave a nod—a curt, quick gesture, and with a hint of shame.

The look on his face tore at me. "It's not the end of the world," I said. "You're young, Vinny. This is the kind of thing that happens all the time—"

"After everything Cian's done for me, this is how I repay him? I'm the worst brother to ever exist—"

"Cian doesn't need to know," I interrupted him. "I mean, this doesn't mean we've committed the ultimate sin, or anything—but this should just stay between us, okay?"

Vinny's eyes closed. He raked hair back from his face, nodding in agreement with me. "Yeah. It was the heat of the moment. It didn't mean anything. You still love Cian, and we're just friends. He doesn't...he can't know."

I could tell by the slouch of his shoulders that Vinny hated this, hated keeping anything from his brother. No matter how bitter they were, though, secrets were sometimes only necessary.

Thus, a pact was formed between the two of us. One night, two friends kissed, and afterwards, they remained friends. That's all it was. That's all it ever would be.

I stood, dropping the soccer ball to the ground. Vinny watched it fall, then lifted his eyes to me. I embraced him, and he sighed as I did, his slight height advantage placing him at the perfect altitude to ruffle the hairs near my ears. It was only an iota below the proximity we'd shared that night, but somehow, this didn't feel as strange.

I whispered, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Vinny."

He stepped back, peering into my face. Here, with his eyes narrow and observant, his mouth just barely in a frown, he looked more mature to me than he ever had. "Lucie—what on earth have you done that I haven't? What could you possibly be sorry for?"

"I don't know, really...I guess I'm just..." I hesitated. "I'm sorry things have to be this way now."

Vinny's eyes darted away from me. "You wish you hadn't kissed me."

"What! No, no, Vinny, that's not at all what I—"

"Lucie, stop, please," he begged. "There's nothing wrong with that. Because if you hadn't—if I hadn't—things wouldn't be like this. And me? I would still be innocent."

That stole my words away. I'd always heard the first casualty of any war was innocence.

What I couldn't help wondering was why I hadn't heard the first gunfire.