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He didn’t have to add that last part, but I got it. He was the leader and all that jazz.

Natasha returned with a black bag big enough to fit a human body, or a vampire body. I stood a few feet away when Harlen lifted and placed Layla’s body into the bag that Natasha had placed on the floor. Harlen stuffed her loose limbs inside and Natasha zipped the bag up.

Harlen picked the bag up from the floor and hoisted Layla’s weight over his shoulder.

“Let’s go.” Harlen ordered.

“Use the service elevator. It will take you directly to the alley. Viktor pulled your car around.”

I followed Halen toward the door. I felt Zand’s and Natasha’s eyes on my back of my head. This was a test, I realized. A test of my commitment to this new life. A test to the harsh realities of vampire existence. My willingness to participate in Layla’s execution marked my true entry into their world.

I was in a daze and didn’t even notice how I got down the hall. The elevator doors closed behind us, sealing Harlen, me, and Layla’s paralyzed form in the small space. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the polished metal with my pale skin and bright gray eyes. I barely recognized myself.

But perhaps that was appropriate. After all, the woman I was had died on a Michigan sidewalk. The creature that stared back at me now was something else completely. I was harder, colder, and gradually becoming comfortable being a vampire.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

ZAND

Morning came faster than I planned. I stood in my office staring down at the ancient Persian rug where Layla’s blood stained the fibers hours before. I traced my finger along the polished edge of my desk.

The aftermath of Layla’s execution left a lingering energy in the space. It wasn’t a feeling of guilt, but something adjacent to it. There was a sense of finality and the consequences of it. I had my people looking for Layla’s one finger missing boyfriend. If he’s found, I didn’t know if I should kill him because he knew too much. Or keep him around to commemorate the late Layla Balke. His death just seemed easier. If I’m lucky, he was already dead, and I didn’t have to decide either way.

I picked up my phone and scrolled to Teresa’s contact, saved simply as “1” from Marisol’s phone. It was time to get this over with. I was on a hot streak of death and destruction, and I didn’t want to lose momentum.

The phone rang three times before she answered. Her voice carried a false sweetness I once found charming so many yearsago. “Alexander,” she hummed, using my full name like a weapon. “Calling to accept my generous offer?”

“In a manner of speaking.” I replied, purposely impersonal in my tone. “But first, I thought you should know. Layla won’t be sending you any more updates about my movements.”

The silence that followed was brief but revealing. Did Teresa really believe deep down that she was more clever than me? Did she not account for her plans falling apart?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She finally said.

“Don’t insult my intelligence.” I leaned back in my chair. “Layla confessed everything before her execution. The information she fed you about Chanel. About Cheboygan. About my security protocols.”

“Execution?” Teresa’s voice raised an octave, straining from shock that didn’t quite ring true. “You killed Layla? After four years of loyal service?”

“Loyal?” I laughed softly. “That’s an interesting way to describe someone who was reporting to my enemy.”

“Enemy, how torrid.”

“How accurate.” I responded.

“She was trying to protect someone she loved.” Teresa snapped, abandoning the pretense. Her words were designed to cut, to reopen old wounds from our shared past. Instead, they washed over me like tepid water.

“Yes. Something you wouldn’t understand. Absolutely no one loves you. Layla chose poorly. As did you, when you targeted Chanel.”

Teresa sighed, a theatrical sound. “This is becoming tedious, Zandy. Are we going to eliminate each other’s allies one by one? Soon there will be no one left standing but us.”

“That’s rather the point, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps it’s time to end this.” She suggested. Her voice softened into something that might be mistaken for sincerity. “A truce. Just you and me, face to face. No violence.”

I said nothing, letting the silence stretch between us. We both know what “no violence” means in Teresa’s lexicon. It was a promise made to be broken at the first chance she got.

“Bring the nurse.” She added. “I can apologize to the both of you and leave this god forsaken town.”

“Bring the nurse.” I repeated. “You’re in no position to make demands.” I reminded her, though we both knew I’d agree.