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“The one that materialized in the hardware store,” Finn clarified. “We never found that one.”

Darien frowned. “What are your thoughts?”

“Don’t fucking know. I’m guessing they covered a lot of ground since the security breach.”

That was right—Finn still had no idea that the Veil had nearly fallen; had no idea that it existed at all, aside from in history books.

Finn was giving Darien the side-eye. “What were you doing at The Blood Queen, anyway?”

“Don’t tell me this was some good cop, bad cop ploy to get me talking.”

“My questions are my own. Why are you in Yveswich, and why The Queen?”

“How many casualties?”

Finn’s jaw flexed. “It’s too early to tell.”

“Got any names yet?” Something told him that Finn and the others were aware that at least two of the people who’d died in the blast were wanted criminals.

Finn repeated, “Why The Queen?”

They were at the entrance to the building now. Darien pushed through the doors, turning to walk backward. “It’s like I told that prick detective before he punched me: We were looking for a place to stay.” He turned back around and left, Jack at his side. To where Kylar waited in the truck in the parking lot that was slashed with rain.

Finn watched him go; Darien didn’t turn around, but he could sense him watching.

He had a feeling there would be more where that came from, once word got around that he was in Yveswich.

And he’d have to watch his back a hell of a lot more now.

By the time they got back to Roman’s, the heat in Darien’s veins was just beginning to calm down when he felt it crank up again with a vengeance.

A vehicle he didn’t recognize—a black jeep—was parked by the fountain out front of the house.

“Who the fuck is that?” Darien barked as Kylar rolled the truck to a stop at the gates.

“Shit.” Kylar’s voice was a whisper, his eyes bolted so wide the whites all around his irises were showing.

Darien shot him a hard look. “Kylar? Who is that?”

“Shadowmasters.” He swallowed. Wide eyes snapped to Darien’s face. “And not Roman’s.”

37

The Interstate

ANGELTHENE, STATE OF WITHEREDGE

Maximus slammed on the brakes and cursed under his breath as Malakai Delaney zipped his bike in front of the SUV to take the lead.

He twisted the face of the watch on his wrist and growled into the microphone, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Taking the lead,” Malakai replied, his voice barely audible over the earsplitting rumble of that bike. “What’s it look like?” He somehow managed to talk into the watch without tipping that heavy motorcycle over, which was a goddamn shame. Aspen was perched on the back of it, red hair blowing like a flame in the wind.

Max grumbled under his breath and flicked the watch off. “He doesn’t even know where we’re going,” he said, glancing at Dallas, who sat in the passenger’s seat, for backup. Dominic and Blue were in the back, the former teaching the latter more about their language, a book open between them. She was getting really good at it.

Dallas was smiling down at her phone, her painted nails clinking on the screen. She didn’t appear to have heard what Max said, but when he saw her dimples fluttering, he found that he didn’t care. This many months into dating her, and she still took his breath away. She was looking a lot better than before Darien had taken Loren out of town; her cheeks had that healthy glow to them again, her eyes bright with life.

Hope could do a lot to a person. He only crossed his fingers that they wouldn’t be let down by whatever happened in Yveswich.