Page 30 of Blackwood

I let it sit. Let the silence stretch while my brain catches up with my heart. Then another question hits me sideways.

“Why New York?”

Zeke exhales. “Because New York’s a cesspool.”

“That’s not an answer. That’s an insult.”

He half-smiles, just barely. “Millions of people, always moving. Constant turnover. Noise. Chaos. You can disappear here, Bells. You can hunt here.”

“And that makes it perfect for you?” I ask.

Zeke nods. “Exactly. Bigger the crowd, easier it is for monsters to hide.” He glances out the window, voice low. “And easier for us to catch ‘em when they slip.”

There’s something they’re not saying. I file it away. And then I nod, quiet.

“For Dylan,” I say. “I’m in.”

Chapter 12

BELLA - Age 16

Manhattan, New York

Outside, the city is cloaked in autumn. Trees dripping in amber and rust, crunchy leaves skittering under boots like tiny paper secrets.

Inside, the penthouse glows. Not because it needed the help. Zeke lives in luxury, just the the stripped-down, bulletproof kind. No clutter. No softness. He’d still rather chew glass than buy a throw pillow.

But thanks to Ellie, it’s been upgraded beautifully for my birthday. She’s got vanilla-and-rain scented candles scattered all around the penthouse. She put ivory pumpkins ribboned in black velvet along the mantel and a slim black banner in golden script that simply readsSixteen!

Over the table, she has a sculptural arch of matte-black and champagne balloons climbing like evening wear. It’s threaded with silk ribbon and a few smoked-glass bats so delicate they look hand-blown.

There’s even a tower of Fifth Avenue cupcakes on an onyx stand, dark chocolate and blackberry under a whisper of gold leaf.

It’s extra.

It’s beautiful.

It’s Ellie.

“Um, El… I think Vogue’s fall issue would like its lighting back.”

Ellie’s perched on my couch like she owns the deed. Her blonde curls are loose and glossy. Her sweater dress is Gucci, of course. Her knee-high boots screamDaddy paid for this.

She’s rich, spoiled, dramatic, and my best friend in the entire world.

“You like it?” she asks, practically vibrating. “I was going for Upper East Side Halloween goddess, but with just a hint of emotional damage. You know, to honor your brand.”

I raise a brow. “You commissioned a balloon sculpture.”

“I commissioned three,” she squeals. “One just wasn’t enough.”

“You’re crazy.”

“And you’re sixteen!” she declares, pitching a velvet pillow at my head. “Which means you’re legally required to start sneaking out for dangerous makeouts and questionable decisions.”

“Definedangerous.”

She winks. “Anything involving tongue and/or a motorcycle.”