Page 36

C orban Savonett hailed a cab in the Baltimore Inner Harbor.

“Druid Hill Park,” he barked.

The cabby was a young male with the black hair and features of a south Asian—Pakistani, perhaps. His gaze went to the bloody gash on Corban’s neck, and he opened his mouth to say no.

Corban was already inside. He gazed back steadily.

The cabby shut his mouth. “Yes, sir.”

Corban dropped his backpack on the seat and tried not to look as weary as he felt.

He’d taken a stolen motorboat to Baltimore and then abandoned it near the aquarium.

He’d lost a lot of blood before he’d been able to seal the gash on his neck, and he hadn’t had any energy left to deal with the chunk Jace Jones had taken out of his thigh.

He was no healer, and his quartz was drained from the demands he’d put on it to track Jace Jones to his human girlfriend’s house.

His lip curled. Figured Jones was chasing human tail. The man was weak, just like his sister. Takira could’ve been a high-ranking sentry, but she’d thrown it all away for her mate and that mixed-blood cub of hers.

The cab bounced over a pothole and pain jolted through Corban. A hiss escaped him and the cabby muttered an apology.

Corban ground his teeth. Damn Jace Jones anyway. The man should be dead by now. It had been two against one, and Corban had always been able to whip his ass.

But the scrawny kid had grown up. Corban should’ve realized that when the night fae assassin had failed to kill him, but he’d chalked it up to bad luck.

The ride to the park took fifteen minutes. The cabby let him out at an entrance near Jones Falls Expressway. “No charge,” he said.

Corban jerked his chin in acknowledgment. He hadn’t been planning to pay the guy anyway.

The street was dark and deserted, the nearest streetlight dangling brokenly from its pole. The only sound was the low-grade hum of traffic on the expressway.

The cabby eyed him in the rearview mirror, his scent an acrid mix of fear and perspiration.

Smart man .

Corban toed off his shoes and left them on the floor of the cab.

His switchblade was already concealed in his hand.

In one swift move, he hooked his left arm around the cabby’s throat and at the same time, pressed the blade’s catch.

It sprang open and he touched the point to the cabby’s cheekbone just beneath his eye.

“Don’t move or I’ll take your eye out.”

“Easy, there.” The cabby slowly raised his hands. “I don’t want any trouble. I didn’t even charge you for the ride.”

“You’re a fucking prince among men. Now give me your shoes.”

The man’s throat worked. “My shoes?”

Corban pressed the knife deeper. Just enough to nick his cheek. It was a bluff—the last thing he needed was the attention that cutting the cabby would bring—but the man said, “Sure, sure. But you have to let go first. I can’t reach them.”

“Open your door.”

“Okay. Here I go.” The man unlocked the door and pushed it open.

“Here’s how it’s going to go down. I’ll let you go, and you toss your shoes out the door.”

“That’s all? You just want my shoes?”

“That’s all.”

“Okay, sure. No problem.”

Corban released the cabby but stayed close, breathing down his neck.

The man took off his shoes and tossed them out the door as directed. His hands were trembling, and his breath was coming in fearful huffs.

Corban sneered. Humans were so easy to scare.

“There.” The cabby met Corban’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “My shoes, just like you asked.”

Corban shoved open his door without answering. The moment his feet touched the sidewalk, the cabby pulled shut his door, hit the gas and sped off.

Corban swore and jumped back, barely avoiding being sideswiped. The cab kept going down the street, the back door still open.

Corban pushed his feet into the man’s leather loafers. They were shiny brown and with that just-bought smell. He wiggled his toes. They fit good, too. He’d got the better of that bargain.

Adric was a legendary tracker. Corban didn’t think Adric could follow Corban’s scent through his shoes, but he wasn’t a hundred percent sure. Better to be safe.

His destination was a quarter mile away near Jones Falls, the large creek that ran through Druid Hill Park. He hobbled toward it as fast as he could, careful not to brush against trees or bushes.

He reached the boulder that covered the entrance and sank down on it, heart pounding with the effort it had taken to get here.

But every minute he spent above ground was dangerous.

He shoved the boulder aside, uncovering the entrance to a small, hidden den, lowered himself partway down the rickety metal ladder and with his last ounce of energy, set the boulder back in place before descending the last few feet to the floor.

The den was basically a dirt cellar with a water supply and a toilet.

Corban had dug it out in secret, so that not even his father had known about it.

No lighting, which meant it was pitch black.

Corban paused, waiting for his eyes to go night-glow.

When he could see again, he limped his way to the two musty wool blankets stacked in a corner.

Sinking onto the blankets, he eased off his pants and examined the back of his thigh.

The wound had scabbed up, but it needed to be cleaned.

With grim determination, he rose back to his feet and went to the sink.

It had been a couple of years since he’d been here. The spigot gave a groan and a pop, and then rusty water gushed out. He let it run until it was clear, and then found a clean T-shirt from his backpack and used it to rinse the dried blood from his neck and thigh.

He was too drained to change to his wolf. He rolled himself up in a blanket and allowed himself a smile. Adric would never find him here.

Then he passed out on the dirt floor.