T he tension within the room rises as the remaining four board members take glances at Abel and then the bodies of their fallen comrades.

I prepare myself for more bloodshed.

Even though I’ve had enough of it.

My beast, on the other hand, is delighted. He wants them all to defy me. Killing them would certainly be quicker than my alternative plan.

Abel hasn’t taken his eyes off me but remains on one knee, his leathery wings held close to his sides and draped on the floor.

Very slowly, the others all join him, each of them taking a knee.

I didn’t expect or need them to make such a subservient gesture.

They’re following Abel’s lead, and I suppose it has a purpose for now, but it isn’t how I intend to run things.

I don’t intend to rule over them with threats of death or violence.

Of course, I’ll defend myself if I have to, just as I did with the witch and the warlock in this room, but I’m done with that path.

In fact, my plan is to quietly move each of these supernaturals out of the business. I’ll do it slowly and carefully, and then, when the time is right, they will disappear. In the same fashion that my stepfather did. They will pay for their crimes with assassins’ justice.

“Good,” I say into the silence. “Report back here at noon tomorrow. You will tell me everything I want to know about this company. Now go.”

With backward glances at the bodies of the witch and the warlock, the other four board members leave the room.

I catch sight of my stepsister and Seb waiting in the foyer. My sister’s face, drawn and anxious, relaxes a little when she sees the board members slinking away and me, standing unharmed, beside the table.

Abel rises to his feet. “What are your orders for me, Striker Draven?”

“That depends on who you are.” Suppressing my beast, I return to my fully human form. My regret about ruining the suit pants is even greater now that the damaged material barely hangs on to my waist, but I don’t let it bother me.

He shrugs and reaches toward the upper pocket of his cargo pants but pauses when I tense, and my claws shoot down again.

“My glasses,” he explains. “They’re in this pocket. Along with a picture you’ll want to see.”

I incline my head but watch him carefully as he pulls a pair of spectacles from the large pocket, along with a piece of parchment.

Slipping the glasses onto his face, he chooses a spot on the table that’s free from blood splatter and presses the parchment, still folded so I can’t see its contents, onto the surface.

“I’m the accountant,” he says. “I follow the money, small amounts of which have been siphoned off into random bank accounts over the last six months. Oliver asked me to look into it.”

I keep my distance, quietly assessing everything Abel tells me—and what he hasn’t. For starters, it’s highly unusual for a supernatural to need glasses for reading. Our eyesight is usually sharp. He certainly proved he didn’t need spectacles to kill a warlock.

At the thought of the warlock, I’m momentarily distracted by the fact that both bodies are still lying on the floor. For now, I need to keep blocking them from my mind. I’m certain there will be some sort of clean-up team to take care of them.

For now, Abel is the immediate problem.

His claim that he’s the accountant doesn’t stack up with what I know of this company. Human accounting firms have always been used because it makes it far easier for Draven Industries to operate within the boundaries of human society. This building, in plain sight, is just one example of that.

“You’re not an accountant,” I say quietly before Abel can speak further.

He presses his thumb onto the paper and gives me a wry smile.

“I’m not the kind of accountant you’re thinking of.

I don’t shuffle dollars on paper. I identify theft within a business, follow the money to the supernaturals behind it, and take whatever enforcement action is needed to deal with the problem. ”

“You’re a mercenary,” I say.

He narrows his eyes at me, and I have the distinct impression that I offended him. “Following the money and identifying the culprits takes time and skill. Killing is the mere end result of months of detailed work. As a descriptor of the work I do, I prefer accountant .”

I keep my expression neutral. “Very well. But whatever you’re about to tell me, I want my stepsister to hear it, too.”

He nods. “I have no problem with that.”

I head to the door and call Zara and Seb inside.

She walks confidently, showing not a hint of her previous anxiety, while Seb is a hulking shadow, a protective force at her back.

Even so, they both appear wary of Abel, and from what I’ve seen and heard so far, they should be.

Once I’m alone with Zara, I plan to ask her for everything she knows about Abel. I also plan to ask the assassins. Hunter Cassidy is bound to have a dossier on him.

Seb immediately takes stock of the two bodies and says, “I’ll get a clean-up crew in here once we’re done.”

“Thank you,” I reply before turning back to Abel. “What did you want to show me?”

He unfolds the paper and smooths it out on the table.

Before, he used his right hand to retrieve his glasses and the parchment, but now, when he uses both hands, it becomes apparent that he’s missing parts of the fingers of his left hand.

The more obvious ones are the upper halves of his forefinger and middle finger.

Given his occupation, it’s likely they were lost in a fight, but it could have just as likely been an accident.

For now, I have more important things to focus on.

I quickly switch my attention to the photograph while Zara takes up position close to my left, with Seb on the other side of her.

The photo contains a somewhat blurry image of a man standing outside this very building. The Draven Industries sign is clearly visible at the side of the image, making his location obvious.

The photo looks to have been taken in the very early hours of the morning, judging by the way the shadows are deeper around the street while the sunlight falls across the top portion of the image. Possibly right after dawn.

I recognize the fall of light because I scoped out this building myself at various times of the day and night while I was planning my return.

The man’s entire body is in the shot, revealing a tall and lean frame, although his face is half-turned away from the camera.

His hair is dark brown and long enough to fall across his face and eyes, which, from what I can see, appear to be a dark brown but also seem to shimmer within the image. A hint of crimson in the man’s irises puts me on my guard.

Ancient beings, like Furies, carry that crimson sheen. When my beast is in full, raging form, I exhibit hints of crimson in my eyes, too.

The man wears a short, neatly sculpted beard across his strong jaw.

There’s also a clearly visible scar running down the left side of his face—the side facing the camera.

The scar stretches all the way from his forehead to the upper side of his cheekbone.

Whatever strike caused it, he’s lucky to still have that eye.

Because of his position, what’s visible more than any other feature is the distinctive weapon resting in a sheath across his back.

Judging by the curve of the case and the intricate braiding on the handle visible above it, the weapon is a katana.

The handle is very similar to the sword that Hunter Cassidy carries, which apparently belonged to her mother. From what I’ve been told, Hunter’s sword was handed down through generations of Valkyrie, all the way from her ancestor, General Glass, who once stood at the side of the Valkyrie Queen.

“Who is this man?” I ask, pointing at the photo.

Even though it’s Abel who replies, it’s my sister who takes my focus. She’s staring at the photo with a furrow in her brow, her lips slightly pursed. I sense an uncertainty in her, but I’m not sure what to make of it.

“He’s a powerful serpent shifter,” Abel says, his voice a deep rumble. “He stands at the right hand of a dark entity whose power and influence rivals Lady Tirelli’s. If this dark entity is targeting you…”

He blows out an exhale. “You need to prepare for war.”