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Pulling her arm back, she slammed her fist into the door right underneath the knob, the wood fracturing and splintering under the force of her blow. Shoving her fist through the newly made hole, she unlocked the door from the inside and let herself in.

Only to find Anton standing there, flanked by two people she vaguely recognized, filling the narrow hallway with their breadth. Her brother had looked ready to fight her intrusion—a short sword in his hand—but he lowered it instantly. The anger, though, was still there. She knew that look in his eyes—the cold flint of steel in his gaze—but she had never seen it directed at her.

“Shan. I should have expected this eventually.” He was furious, and in that moment she could almost believe that he was a murderer.

How could she have missed that this was simmering beneath the surface for all this time?

She slipped the door closed behind her. “I was concerned about you, dear brother,” she replied, but she focused her attention on his comrades.

One was a young woman their age, with dark skin and even darker hair that she wore in tight braids pressed to her scalp and bound at the nape of her neck. The other was a bit older, a tall, towering figure, though he was cramped awkwardly in this space that was too small for him. His pale complexion shimmered in the witch light, but his expression was shadowed by the fall of brown hair across his face.

These strangers were too well dressed to be just any Unblooded—the cut and make of their clothes, though in the style of the middle class, were just a bit too fine. But they wore no claws or daggers, and it took Shan a moment to understand why.

They were like her brother, born to Blood Working families but without an ounce of power—a source of shame and bewilderment to most. This was a part of her brother that she had never been able to understand. Blood had always called to her, filling her with power and singing beneath her skin. As terrible as Blood Working could be, it was as much a part of her as anything, and despite the color of her skin and the shame of her father it had granted her just a modicum of acceptance.

Her brother had never had that. None of these people ever had that. And perhaps, just perhaps, it was enough for them to turn against the system.

All it would cost was their souls.

Anton looked back at them, waving them off. “Go on without me, I’ll catch up in a minute.”

The woman leaned into him. “Don’t do anything we’ll regret, LeClaire.”

His smile was forced. “Do you really think I’m that much of a fool?”

She shook her head. “For your family? Yes.” She grabbed the other man by the hand, pulling him along. “We’ve got work to do.” The grim giant shot Shan one last warning look, but he followed the woman out.

Shan tilted her head to the side, listening as they went, their footsteps fading as they took some stairs down, heading lower into the ground.

Interesting.

“Stop that,” Anton snapped, too familiar with her antics for her to get away with such things. “We need to talk. This way.”

Shan didn’t fight him. They had been avoiding each other long enough and it was time to face the truth. She followed him into a parlor, realizing what this place was. It had been a home, once, but they had converted it to their needs. She wanted to peer into each room, to see what she could find, but Anton did not give her that chance.

He ushered her into the parlor and slammed the door behind him. “I need a drink” was all he said, crossing to a liquor cabinet that was stocked with half-empty bottles.

Shan settled into a chair. She didn’t have the energy to be mad or anxious anymore. The right thing to do would have been to confront him outright, but she still hesitated. There was so much unspoken between them, and if this was to be her last night with her brother, she wanted to dally a little bit.

He reappeared in front of her, holding out a glass of whisky. She took it, and for a second the anger dimmed as she caught a glimpse of her brother again.

Terrified, lonely, hurt—but hers.

It only made everything more difficult.

He knocked the drink back, downing it with a practiced vigor, and slammed the glass down on the table. Shan watched him curiously. There was something rougher about him, something harder that she didn’t fully recognize.

“So,” he said, crossing his arms across his chest. “Do you want to tell me what this is about?”

She didn’t respond, just stared into the glass of whisky he had brought.

“Dammit, Shan.” He crossed over to the window, clasping his hands behind his back. Shan sucked in a harsh breath. Anton might never look like their father, neither of them would—but that pose, those mannerisms? That was Lord Antonin LeClaire, back from the grave.

“You were the one following me, then?” he asked, still looking away, hiding his face.

“Yes,” Shan said, “I was.”

He cursed, low and soft, but there wasn’t anger in it. Just pain. “Why?”