The Isle of Sin and Shadows

by Keri Lake

“I have a job that I trust only to the elusive Black Wolf.” The nickname has me inwardly groaning. It isn’t enough that the locals refer to me as a fucking werewolf, of all things, but the cartel has adopted this showy supervillain reputation, thanks to Julio, who made it a point early on in my criminal career to use a childhood scar as a means of branding me a dangerous sicario.

These days, I try to document as many moments as I can, because I’ve come to learn that the mind is not a reliable enough storyteller of the past. Its memories are an ever-changing landscape that moves and slides with time. Like a viscous liquid that can be poured into any shape.

And life is too short to get hung up on the past. Live. Fall in love. But don’t ever let some ungrateful prick put out your fire. You find someone that burns with you. For you. You’re aces, kid. Always remember that.

On her hand is an inked symbol that looks like a triangle within a circle. On closer inspection, the more prominent base line extends beyond the two sides, and seems to give the shape of an animal. A fox, or a goat, maybe.

“As above, so below,” she whispers.

“Don’t look away. No matter what you see. What you feel.”

My freaking kryptonite, standing before me like a bad joke.

Yeah, he’s hot. I get it, he’s the distraction the universe sent to test me. This is a test.

The fact is, I don’t know what I want. Like I’m rummaging through life’s big pantry, trying to decide what tastes good. My heart is starving for something I’ve never had before, but the ache in my chest feels masochistically good. It’s a reminder that I’m still alive. That I still crave something from this world. And the beauty in all that rejection lies in never having to mourn the end of something that was never there to begin with. Like cutting open a dry vein with no fear of bleeding out.

That voice. That deep, articulate voice, with only a hint of southern drawl and just enough Valir accent to be annoyingly sexy, sends a shiver down my spine.

If only, what then?

The guy is bad news. Bad, bad news. But something about him is irresistible to me. Like the darkness between flashes of lightning and the shiver of thunder.

“Because it’s like any destructive force of nature. Too much creates imbalance. And a love that strong would consume a person. Put everyone around them at risk. Love kills.”

“I’m sorry I made you mad,” I whisper before the blackness tugs at me. “I’m not mad at you, chère.” The tickle of his fingers down my temple sends a calm through me. “I’m mad at myself.”

“It’s not my worth I’ve overestimated, Mr. Bergeron.” A quick glance down to his groin shows the massive bulge I felt pressed against my thighs just moments ago. “It’s your balls.”

“You’re free to wear whatever you like, catin. Just as I’m free to kill anyone who looks at you in it.”

Or maybe your crazy incites my crazy.”

“You’re my favorite ghost story,” I whisper against her lips.

La lune. Les étoiles. Ma Céleste. The moon. The stars. My Céleste. It’s here, in this moment, that a ludicrous thought enters my mind, and I realize what lengths I would go to, to keep her.

I would take on the most dangerous cartel in Mexico for this woman.

“To be jealous, one would have to assume that you might eventually stray. You’re not going anywhere. And neither am I.”