Page 18

F or the next two weeks after my encounter with the woman in the park, I barely sleep.

I fight the constant fear that one or more of the bones will surface, that its power will be exposed for the shortest heartbeat of time like my sisters described about the White Wand, but that I’ll miss it.

Even as I tell myself that won’t be possible, that the enormous power of the bones would surely wrench me even from sleep, my fear remains.

At the same time, my search for Vanguard continues. Logically, if he is also looking for the bones, then finding him can only help me.

While I scope out the Tavern that the woman in the park pointed me towards, my sisters spend their nights quietly hunting in all of the dark entity’s past and present known locations, systematically searching for the bones or anyone who knows anything about them.

Each night, I conceal myself in the shadows of the service alley at the side of the Tavern, which makes it easy for me to wait and watch for Vanguard to make an appearance.

Curiously, so far, the only people to enter and leave the Tavern have been humans. While I sense supernaturals going about their business in the surrounding streets and nearby dark alleys, the Tavern itself appears human-dominated.

I recognize some of them as associates of human mobsters and gangsters, and, even more curiously, many of them are enemies. Yet, no fights break out between them. When I ask my sisters about it, they confirm that all human mobsters, even if they are enemies, ultimately bow to the dark entity.

When I asked my sisters why they would do that, my sisters gave me cold smiles and said, Because the entity protects them from human authorities. With his power behind them, they continue to thrive. They may fight with each other, even try to destroy each other, but they will never betray him.

Now, I creep to the corner of the alley to keep a closer eye on the front of the Tavern.

The air here smells sweet and cloying; scents from the flowering vines creep across the alley wall.

The top of the front wall of the Tavern itself is also decorated with vines and flowers, but those are painted, not organic.

From what I’ve seen from the outside, inside the Tavern is a regular restaurant. But I also have a strong sense of magic around the structure, beginning with the painting on the front wall, and then intensifying toward the back of the building.

Frustratingly, I can’t sense what might be behind, or even beneath, the Tavern. There are forces of magic within this place that are just as obscured as the woman in the park’s thoughts and intentions.

Worse, being out here so close to all these humans and supernaturals… Well, I have to clamp down hard on my Fury nature, focusing only on the task at hand. My sisters promise me that if any other situation occurs that requires our vengeance, they will handle it.

While my Fury nature gives me patience, by the fourteenth night of surveillance, I’m becoming concerned that the woman in the park led me astray.

I couldn’t tell at the time if she was speaking the truth, and now I wonder if she misdirected me. Perhaps even sent me far away from the bones so she could take control of them herself. I was convinced of her sincerity when she said she would never seize that kind of power, but now…

I fear I’ve been fooled.

Damn.

I’m preparing to abandon the Tavern and join my sisters, preparing to rethink my approach and to recalibrate, when a familiar scent makes me freeze.

Cedarwood and balsam .

Suddenly, within my mind, I’m transported back to a moment when I’d wrapped myself in that intoxicatingly wild scent.

I’d stolen Striker’s blanket after he gave me blood and saved my life, a process that left me shaken and not only because of how close I’d come to death.

The impact of his blood shooting around my body had scorched my senses, sending tingles throughout my body and into my core.

Afterward, I’d taken his blanket with me back to my room, where I’d huddled in a corner and wrapped myself in the warm material.

His scent was all over that blanket, enveloping me as I slept, embedding itself into my heart and mind.

I breathe out. Open my eyes. Regain my footing and focus.

These memories should not have power in my life any longer.

Taking care to move slowly, I peer around the corner of the alley, seeking the source of the scent.

Just in time to catch sight of the back of a man in a suit who is stepping through the tavern door.

I tell myself it can’t be Striker.

Not least because I can’t think why he would be here, among human gangsters. Also, because the brief glimpse I caught of this man’s profile indicated he’s far too immaculately groomed, and his clothing is too expensively tailored for him to be Striker.

Striker donned himself in sweatpants and T-shirts, many stained with blood.

Striker radiated with fury and violence.

Striker was hellish. Not groomed and quiet. Not calm and in control.

Somehow, I’ve taken a step out from the darkness and into the light, a sort of instinctive reaction, and I don’t stop myself in time to avoid the street light, standing right at the edge of it.

My mind whirls at breakneck speed.

If it’s Striker, then I need to know what he’s doing here. How he could be embroiled with the entity.

If it’s Striker…

Who destroyed one of the bones that the entity is apparently seeking… the bones that Vanguard is trying to find…

Then I can’t walk away.

I need answers.

And yet, I wasn’t prepared to waltz into this tavern under the glare of bright lights.

I planned to study James Vanguard’s movements—to carefully calculate the best way to restrain and question him.

If there were a fight, I was determined it would happen in the shadows, not within the bright lights of this tavern.

The only way I can walk into the Tavern without immediately ruffling feathers is if I masquerade as a patron. But I came here dressed for battle, wearing my full-body assassin’s suit.

I didn’t come here prepared to act like a?—

My thoughts halt at the words I was about to think, but they are already within my mind, undeniable in how far from my reality they are.

A normal person.

Unexpected pain hits my heart.

It was a dream Striker and I once had.

Another memory returns to me now, even stronger than the memory of huddling within his blanket.

Striker’s lips curving. His arms pulling me close. His amber eyes burning with power. His voice promising me that one day we would sleep far away from the Academy in a bed that belongs to both of us.

He told me he wanted me in his life more than he’d ever wanted anything.

My heart suddenly hammers in my chest.

These memories…

They fucking hurt .

I shake myself. Hard. Dammit . I don’t have to hurt like this anymore.

I remind myself that the connections with my past have been obliterated, killed by pain and torment, smothered by a view of the world that is black and white. Clarified within the painting of my life.

There is no fear for me here. No haunted past.

My past is over.

I am whole now. I am a Fury.

With that firmly in mind, I resume my path toward the Tavern’s front door. There’s nothing I can do about my attire. It is what it is.

While I pat down my hair, I allow myself a grim smile. I brought my whip. It’s sitting neatly on my right hip.

My best bet is to play the part of a human dominatrix.

Of course, I have no way of knowing if the humans within this Tavern are fully aware of the supernatural world, so for now, I’ll proceed on the basis that they’ll assume I’m human.

As I approach the door, the energy from the vines and flowers painted across the front wall above the windows increases in intensity. Despite the fact that the painting is of greenery, the magic within it doesn’t feel elemental. It feels… old .

I’m also sharply aware of the way the supernaturals in the nearby alleyways focus on me, each one stopping what they were doing to glance in my direction. I wasn’t wrong in my assessment that they were going about their business, but it seems that my approach toward the Tavern has startled them.

I read their thoughts loud and clear, each one similar to the next: They think I have a death wish.

Keeping my guard up, I push open the door and step inside.

A hush instantly falls, a second of quiet that gives me a heartbeat to assess the room and its inhabitants.

A human ma?tre d' stands behind a counter immediately to my left. Human patrons sit at tables situated at regular intervals throughout the space. A bar is located on my far left, behind which stands a bartender. The wall at the back of the large room is painted with the same vines as appear outside the tavern. Within that wall is a door, which is also painted green. The door and the vines painted around it shimmer within my vision, telling me they’re infused with dangerous magic—the kind even I might hesitate to go near.

The humans are all men dressed in suits, eating and drinking in groups.

Or, they were, until I appeared.

They’ve quickly put down their forks and cups, and every single one of them has reached inside their jackets.

I smell the metallic scent of the guns they’re reaching for.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” the ma?tre d’ says politely, gesturing to the sign on the door—a sign that I ignored. “We’re closed.”

“Then you should have locked up,” I murmur without taking my eyes off the room.

The men at the tables closest to me seem to have taken another look at me, several of them now wearing bemused expressions.

I read their thoughts, which are disappointingly predictable but also useful, as they look me up and down, gazes sliding across my black bodysuit before fixating on the whip attached to my belt.

“Who ordered entertainment?” one man asks with a loud chuckle and a lewd grin.

“Your boss,” I reply, my voice a husky purr as I play into their misconception. “But you’ll have to wait your turn.”

My assertion has the effect I want. The men relax and remove their hands from their weapons, returning to their meals and drinks.

Even as I addressed the room, my focus… my real focus… is on the hellhound sitting alone at the table at the back of the room.

While a part of me continues to play into the role the other men think I’m here to perform, sashaying my way across the room, weaving between tables, taking hold of my whip and running it playfully across their shoulders as they undress me with their eyes…

My hearts stops, then thunders in my chest as the hellhound rises to his feet, holding my full attention.

Striker Draven.