Page 61

Sebastián

I left Flynn and Katie to their privacy, settling at a table across the café. Of course, their conversation wasn’t truly private.

Katie’s apologies about Connor poured forth, genuine remorse in her voice. Then their words drifted to memories of his departure, of their mother’s tears, of unanswered calls. The weight of abandonment hung heavy between them until Katie broached the subject of Seabreeze.

“You know what, Flynn? I’m glad Mum sold it.

Grandad worked seventy-hour weeks. I don’t want that for you.

Mum never wanted it to tie you down. You know, I’m actually glad you got out of Braymore.

You were so young when we moved there… I’ve always worried it trapped you.

Especially when you didn’t want to go to uni.

But look how happy you are here already! ”

“I am.”

“But what about Sebastián?” Katie hissed. “You’re sure he’s not some sort of gangster?”

My pen scratched against my notepad as I feigned deep concentration.

“Does he look like a gangster?”

“No,” Katie admitted. “He looks like one of those black and white movie stars. All brooding and handsome. Like James Dean, but hotter.”

“Katie!”

“I’m sorry!”

When their laughter died, Flynn asked, “Will you be okay, though? With Connor, I mean… ”

“No, it’s going to be absolutely awful.” Katie’s chair scraped against the floor. “But don’t worry. I’ll be fine, eventually. I’m tougher than I look.”

Footsteps approached my table. I looked up to find Katie’s lips pursed.

“If you hurt my brother, I will cut you.”

“Noted.”

“Right across your handsome face.”

“Where else?”

She smiled, and I felt we had reached some sort of understanding.

“I will protect him with my life. I swear it.”

Katie glanced at Flynn, possibly to communicate, well that was a bit intense.

Aside from the crunch of leaves beneath our feet, the walk back was silent. Flynn seemed lost in thought, so I let him be.

Eventually, he asked, “Did you see the water? My water?”

“What?”

“My glass of water… It—”

Flynn was interrupted by my phone ringing. Rory.

“Boss, where are you?”

“Back at the hotel now. What’s wrong?”

“Let’s just say Kit and I might need to check a guest into room 410 later.”

I stopped dead, my fingers tightening around the phone. That room was where we stored dead bodies, on occasion.

“I’ll be right there.”

Flynn turned to me, brow furrowed. “What’s going on?”

“When we get back inside, I need you to go help Felix again.”

“ Help Felix?” His eyes narrowed. “You mean hide in the basement while you deal with whatever scary shit is happening elsewhere? ”

I shot him a wide, pleased grin. “Actually, that’s exactly what I meant!” I grabbed his head with two hands, kissing him once on the lips.

He was so startled that he didn’t argue back.

When we reached Felix’s lair, I gave Flynn’s shoulder a quick squeeze.

“I’ll see you later.” My eye contact hopefully communicated, “I’ll come to your room as soon as I’m back .

” Either that or he thought I was experiencing some sort of vampire malfunction.

I wasn’t entirely sure I’d mastered the art of subtle flirtation. Perhaps in another few centuries.

I moved through the tunnels towards Brixton, following Rory’s tracker signal near our earlier search area.

We’d spent the morning chasing leads. Each contact led to another—a necromancer above the butcher’s, then a Gifted fortune teller.

The pattern repeated: show the photo, watch them pale, receive vague directions.

The reaction to Vale’s photo was universal—wide eyes, stammered excuses.

One shifter had backed away, hands raised.

“My pack comes first. Vale’s vampires would tear through us. ”

The message was clear—Vale inspired more fear than loyalty to us. The Brixton supernatural community would rather face my disappointment than his wrath.

Earlier, when Flynn’s name had lit up my screen, I’d been mid-rant about my own incompetence, how I should have crushed Vale’s influence months ago, when I discovered he’d been vocally opposing my use of bagged blood, deeming it unnatural.

Kit had merely raised an eyebrow, weathering my self-flagellation with practiced patience.

The tunnel opened into a derelict toilet. I pushed aside a false panel, wrinkling my nose. Not as bad as Victorian sewers, at least. Brass fixtures, green with verdigris, clung to crumbling tiles.

Rory’s signal showed Windmill Gardens, ten minutes away.

Zooming in, his dot appeared over Brixton Windmill, or Ashby’s Mill to the locals. The heritage site stood silent, sails motionless against the sky. I remembered when its blades still turned, creaking as it ground the city’s grain .

I vaulted the metal fence, ignoring the “PARK CLOSED AT DUSK” sign.

My brogues slid on wet grass as I approached. The brick tower loomed, windows lifeless. The building should have been locked.

The security light flickered on as I drew closer. Rory’s signal hadn’t moved. I pressed my back against the cool brick, listening intently. Faint sounds were coming from the top—grunts, scrapes. Growls.

The windmill’s entrance was a narrow black door set deep in the brick base.

A metal plate and electronic lock had been retrofitted beside aged iron fittings.

The system’s LED was dark—Felix’s handiwork no doubt.

The handle gave way, so I hurried through, sealing myself in darkness broken only by the faint moonlight filtering through gaps in the wooden slats above.

A louder growl echoed from above—the distinctive sound of a shifted wolf. My shoulders loosened a fraction. If Rory and Kit were still breathing, the situation couldn’t be catastrophic.

My ancient blade at the ready, I took the stairs three at a time, the aged wood creaking beneath my feet, and the space soon opened up into the cap of the windmill.

The scene before me crystallised in an instant. My two wolves circled a vampire—Kit’s massive grey form prowling with military precision, while Rory’s smaller golden shape darted and weaved. Their target, Adrian Knox, was backed against the wooden machinery of the mill.

His buzz-cut hair made him instantly recognisable from the CCTV footage after Greaves’s murder, fleeing the scene with Damien. A fledgling—barely two years dead, turned in his mid-thirties.

Adrian’s eyes darted between the wolves, then fixed on me.

In that split second, he hurled himself toward the stairs.

Both wolves sprang into action—Kit slamming into Adrian’s torso while Rory, faster and more agile, blocked the escape route.

They crashed into the ancient wooden gears, sending a cloud of dust and debris into the air.

Through the chaos, I spotted the brake chain dangling from the windshaft. “Rory, shift back! Get that chain! We’ll tie him up! ”

The golden wolf hesitated for a split second before backing into the corner.

His transformation was anything but graceful—fur receding in patches, bones cracking and realigning with sickening pops.

He doubled over, a strangled sound caught between growl and groan.

The process took precious seconds we could barely afford.

Still trembling from the change, Rory stumbled towards the brake chain. Adrian lashed out, catching him across the face before he could fully regain his balance. Blood splattered across weathered wood.

At the sight of his brother’s blood, Kit’s growl turned absolutely feral. He lunged for Adrian’s throat, forcing me to physically wedge myself between them.

“We need him alive!” I grappled with Kit’s massive form, his protective rage making him nearly impossible to control. Blood-flecked saliva dripped from his jaws.

Adrian thrashed beneath us, clawing at Kit’s thick fur. I managed to pin his arms while Rory, naked and bleeding but determined, helped wrap the chain around him. Together, we secured him to the windshaft.

Kit maintained his wolf form, hackles raised as he stood guard.

His growls had subsided to a low rumble, but his eyes never left Adrian.

His grey fur, marked with darker patches, bristled along his spine.

A notable scar traced above his left eye, matching the one he bore in human form.

Seeing him like this was always a stark reminder of why wolves were feared, even by vampires.

Rory pulled on his jeans, grinning despite his split lip. “Well, we really put the brakes on that situation!”

The terrible pun earned him twin glares from Kit and me, while Adrian tested his bonds with a metallic rattle.

“We chased him here all the way from town,” Rory said.

“Nice work.” I studied our prisoner’s face. “Though I question your choice of venue.”

“Blame him.”

I circled Adrian slowly, my footsteps echoing in the confined space. “Let’s start simple. Why did you murder Alistair Greaves? ”

Adrian’s jaw clenched, but he remained silent.

“We have CCTV footage of you fleeing the scene with your cambion friend.” I leaned closer, studying the defiance in his eyes. “The way Greaves was torn apart… That was personal. A personal attack against me, that his family will suffer for.”

Nothing. Not even a flicker of emotion.

“Who ordered the hit?” I pressed my palm against the rough brick wall. “Someone must have given you the order. A fledgling like you wouldn’t take such a risk without backing.”

His shoulders tensed slightly.

“It was Marcus Vale, wasn’t it? Your beloved leader? That would make the most sense.” The minute widening of his eyes confirmed nothing. “Or perhaps the cambion known as Damien suggested it?”

Kit’s growl rumbled through the space as Adrian maintained his silence.

My patience snapped. I grabbed Adrian’s throat, fingers digging into cold flesh. “Listen carefully. Your silence won’t protect you. You’re already dead—the only question is how painful I make it.”

He spat in my face.