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“But there is a pattern,” she argues, looking both stressed and annoyed. “The women going missing, they all have ties to the Royals, right?”

“Yes, so far that seems to be a pretty consistent connection.”

She tugs at the sleeve of her sweater. “There’s something most people don’t know about me.”

I watch as she rolls the edge of her sleeve up, revealing a tattoo. It’s black and green, an image of a coiled snake, posed ready to strike. The letters for KNT, underneath.

“The Counts,” I state, staring at the tattoo. The location and precision. It may as well be a brand. “A former Countess?”

She shakes her head. “My half-brother was a Count. An important one.”

“I assume he’s dead?” Like almost everyone else in North Side.

“He’s dead,” she affirms. “But not from the explosion and I do my best to keep my relationship with him a secret. No one needs to know, and until all of this, I didn’t think anyone did know. It’s not good for my aspirations of becoming a professor. And we’re half-siblings. Different fathers. Different lives that only intertwined when we both landed here.”

“Then why the snake tattoo?”

“His idea.” The dark way she laughs makes me think it wasn't just his idea but forced. “To ‘keep me safe.’”

“Any particular reason why?”

She shrugs. “He had a lot of enemies, and in Forsyth it isn’t uncommon to go after family.”

That’s a little hard for me to understand as an only child. Sure, I call DK and the other Shadows my brothers now, but even after the oath and bloodletting it’s still ceremonial. Having that bond with someone is unfamiliar.

“So what you’re telling me is that your connection to a Royal is probably what made you a target.”

She nods.

“Fuck.” I sink back and thrust my hands in my hair. “Okay, I see what you mean, but I will point out that the texts are different.”

Unless maybe they aren’t? Has anyone checked phone records? Deleted messages?

“I know. And I’m willing to admit this could be something else. But you put the call out foranyinformation.” There’s a beat of silence. “I don’t know why I came to you, but the way you talk on the radio–like you're not afraid to piss people off. I figured you might actually believe me.”

“Thanks for trusting me,” I say, even though it feels weird. It’s not like I’m a good guy here. If anything, the King is looking to protect the Barons’ reputation and shut down whoever is fucking things up. She’s not exactly full nobility, which is exactly why I add, “I’m going to need to know.”

“Don’t.” Her voice is soft–small compared to the voice of the brillant woman I’ve seen instruct an entire class. The softness betrays the truth: she’s terrified. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Sofia, who exactly is your half-brother?”

The conflict that flits over her face ranges from fear to anger to what I think is a touch of humiliation. She sucks in a breath and says, “Perez. Bruno Perez.”

The dineron Sixteenth isn’t technically located in neutral territory. The shiny aluminum building is situated on the edge of West End, but it’s only a half a block to the East End line. The greasy fried foods, hot coffee, and homemade pie make us willing to enter enemy territory, but the intimidating presence of the owner, Clarence, makes it a safe place to eat as well as a location for off-the-record discussions.

DK and I push through the door just as the bell overhead lets out a tired jingle and note the sign over the counter:No Weapons. No Smoke. No Drama. Just Eggs.

Sy's in the back booth, taking up more than his share of space. He’s massive–thick-shouldered, blue-eyed, and built like the kind of guy who’s more weapon than man. Lavinia’s curled beside him, all blue hair and a mesh top that does nothing to hide the pink bra underneath.

There’s a mountain of pancakes in front of Sy. Lavinia’s plate isn’t far behind. It’s filled with bacon, eggs, and hash browns covered in what looks like every leftover in the kitchen.

I slide into the booth across from them. DK sits beside me, eyes sharp, scanning everything like he always does before we get down to business.

“Nice scratch,” DK says, tipping his chin at Sy’s face.

Sy wipes a hand across the small cut on his cheek. “Damn cat. I keep saying we should declaw him.”

“Absolutely not,” the Duchess says. “That’s inhumane.”