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Naia twisted the towel around her fingers. “Hm, yeah, maybe.”

Or their leader owns this brewery.

“They might enjoy a good glass of beer like the rest of us.” The woman slid out of the booth and onto her feet. She tucked her short blonde strands behind her ear. “Well, anyway, thanks for the service. Have a good night.”

The woman passed by her, heading down the row of tables towards the door.

“Wait!” Naia called out.

The woman stopped and slightly rotated, gesturing towards the money on the table. “There should be enough there to cover the bill and tip.”

Naia disregarded that. She lapped the towel around her palm, gripping the end of the cloth tightly. “Are these Blood Heretics… good?”

The woman took a step closer to Naia. “I’ll give you a tip since you are new here,” she said, her voice low. “From one human to another.” She glanced around their surroundings before continuing. “Stay away from the magical side of the city and their organizations. Especially the Blood Heretics. A few months ago, several bodies were found on Tempest Street—a street in their territory. All bodies were dismembered and marked with some freaky hex the police think caused their death.”

Naia’s lips parted, the brutal image churning the contents in her stomach. “And the law force and city founder permit this behavior? Murdering people?”

It was barbaric. She knew her brother. He wouldn’t allow such ruthless activity under his nose.

The girl huffed out a laugh. “Lord Finnian keeps us safe from the Blood Heretics. Everyone knows he wants them dead.”

Naia loathed wearing dresses from a young age.

They made her conscious of every move she made, as to avoid exposing areas of herself. Her legs felt claustrophobic because of the skirt’s material.

She stood in front of a lengthy mirror atop a velvet platform, studying the elegant dress she wore—obsidian satin, one-sleeve, hugging the landscape of her curves, with a slit running up to the middle of her thigh. It was the first time she didn’t mind wearing a gown. Content with her choice, opposed to a nuisance dripping with jewels and low-cut necklines forced upon her by Mira.

Clasping his matte black cufflinks, Ronin stood to the side of the platform.

They were in a dress shop. Ruffles of tulle and silky fabrics lined the walls on hangers. A mortal scurried around the store in search of what she’d claimed to be the perfect bracelet to match Naia’s dress. Flute glasses of champagne sat in Naia’s reach on a silver platter.

Every so often, she’d glance up at the shimmering ceiling tiles above them, wondering what possessed Ronin to bring her to such an expensive place when she would’ve been fine with dressing for the charity event in his minimalist bathroom.

“Tell me.” She rotated her hips to get a better view of the backside of the dress. “Who are the Blood Heretics?”

Ronin slipped his hands in the pockets of his tailored trousers, hair in a sloppy half bun per usual, with pieces of his dark strands in his face. “Why do you want to know?”

Despite her uncertainty of his involvement in torture, she hated how much she trusted his judgment without proof. Even if he were torturing someone, she trusted in him not to do anything unnecessary to a person who did not deserve it.

“Curiosity, I suppose,” she told him. “It seems many of them congregate at your brewery.”

“They are an organization of witches who run a part of the magical side of the city. Everything from Tempest to the southern side.” His nonchalance gave nothing away. “I guess they like my beer.”

Unlike Naia’s siblings, who inherited excellent deadpan expressions and mute emotions, Ronin differed in that he seemed bored, unfazed by the topic at hand.

She clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth. From her periphery, she glimpsed the owner of the shop digging through stocks of jewelry. Other than them, the place was empty.

“Who owns the other side of the magical part of the city?” Naia asked.

“Finnian.”

Naia did not miss the way darkness brimmed his eyes as he spoke her brother’s name. There was something Ronin was not telling her. “Finnian and these Blood Heretics don’t get along?”

Ronin buttoned the middle button of his black suit jacket, creating a flattering appearance of his lithe waistline. “Rumor is they are constantly at war. Because of it, there is a divide among the city’s witches. They either follow Finnian, or they follow the Blood Heretics.”

“Is Avi a part of the organization?”

In the mirror, his hooded eyes met hers and a sudden tremor quivered in her stomach.