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Valary staggered away from the blade with a strangled gasp and bumped into the closed front door.

All movement, Huntsmen and Familiar, ceased.

When Darien spoke, his voice was the only sound in the area. “Call off your men, or your son dies.”

Tense silence spread among the group. Hands hovered near weapons, the eyes of everyone present turning cool with calculation.

Darien pressed the blade into Harley’s skin, drawing blood. The Huntsman winced as a drop of red slid down his throat, his pulse thrumming near knifepoint. Darien drawled, “I’m not bluffing.”

“I would do as he says if I were you,” came a lilting female voice. Darien turned to see Christa appearing from the side of the house, heels clicking on cobbles. As she passed under a light, her sable hair shone navy-blue, her intense gaze reserved for Lionel and Harley. “Channary agreed to meet with him tonight. You wouldn’t want to make her wait when she’s got plenty of important things to do, would you?” The lie was delivered so smoothly, Darien almost believed it himself.

A moment of quiet passed among their group. Lionel, Harley, and Valary assessed Darien, and he and Max assessed them back.

Finally, Lionel stepped to the side, using the hand that had been reaching for his gun to gesture to the doors instead. “After you,” he drawled, the words dripping with a threat.

Darien shoved Harley aside and sheathed his blade. “Next time, bring more men,” Darien said to Lionel as he passed him. “Make it a real challenge for me.”

Lionel looked like he had a million things to say, but he uttered none of them.

Darien walked into the house, Max beside him, Familiars on their heels. Christa entered after them, shutting the door on the others.

“Follow me.” Christa beckoned with a hand.

“Thanks,” Darien said as she clipped her way down a twisting corridor lined with arched windows, the floor tinted a hypnotic blue from the glass. The place was quiet; they must be having the party out back, or maybe on one of the top floors.

Christa didn’t turn. She kept walking, eyes fixed on the crackling fireplace in the centre of the room up ahead. “It’s the least I can do.” Her voice was guarded. Darien thought he knew her well enough to tell that the tension in her voice was due to anxiety and not anything he’d done, not even how cold he had been to her at the Devil’s Advocate.

The house groaned as waves crashed against it, sea foam and clumps of marine plants splashing the windows. The place was drafty and smelled of brine, citrus, and wet wood.

They’d made it to the living room when three big men stepped in their path, all of them hellsehers, all of them Pawns.

“Where do you think you three are going?” said the one in the middle.

Christa opened her mouth to speak, but the one on the left said, “If you say one word, we’ll have you and your sister thrown out, new girl.”

Darien smirked. Those were big words for a Pawn.

Max said, “We’re here to see Channary. Think she can spare us a few minutes of her time?”

“We didn’t ask you,” the man said without looking at Max, his eyes all for Darien.

“We’re here to see Channary,” Darien repeated, amusement coating his words as he sized up the three men blocking their path. “Think she can spare us a few minutes of her time?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Darien saw Max’s mouth tilt up at the edge. He knew his best friend’s love for him had reached maximum capacity from that handful of simple words.

“You’ll have to come back another time,” the first Pawn said. “The boss is busy, and she doesn’t take kindly to unsolicited scum.”

Darien said, “Too bad you were late to the show, or you wouldn’t be standing in my way right now.”

Max was smiling. “They haven’t seemed to figure out that Wargs only use men for their dicks, not as business partners.”

The Pawns made to lunge—

“That’ll be enough,” rang out a sharp female voice, clear as bells, the sound of it instantly stilling the three men.

A tall Warg with an hourglass figure stood near the crackling fireplace, wrapped up in a black silk dress that trailed on the floor behind her. Thrown across her shoulders was a white wolf pelt, its lifeless eyes redder than blood. Her sleek hair dripped down her back like weeping cherries, the color stark against her wolf fur.

Darien nodded in greeting. “Channary.”