Page 19

S triker’s amber eyes are as startling as the first time I saw them, but his black-as-night hair is much shorter than before, neatly trimmed.

He wears a navy suit that has clearly been tailored to his build, but what’s surprising is how comfortable he looks in it. After the sweatpants and torn shirts at Bloodwing, I never imagined Striker Draven as the kind of man who would relax in a collared shirt.

Each step takes me closer to him.

His thoughts and emotions are wide open to me. Painfully so. The whole tumult of them. Feelings that I didn’t expect from him.

I expected surprise, maybe even alarm. I expected pain, possibly even betrayal, since I left him to die back at the Academy.

There is none of that, only emotions so pure and true and strong that they nearly drive me to my knees.

Joy.

Pure joy floods the gap between us, radiating out from him. His heart has lifted with gut-wrenching happiness at seeing me.

Hope .

Warm and enveloping like a rising sun in spring. Like a promise of everything he wanted to give me and that he hopes I’ve found.

Peace.

Because he can see that I’m okay. More than okay. I’m in control. I’m living and breathing and moving with purpose, and that’s what he wants for me.

He wants me to be as I am.

He wants me to know my power.

He wants me to be safe and loved.

I read all of this in his thoughts, and I have to force myself to keep moving toward him, even though I fear it will hurt me as nothing has hurt me since I became a full Fury.

Suddenly, he wishes he was prepared to see me because he would have primed his heart and mind for this moment.

Now, he’s berating himself for the flood of emotions he must be inflicting on me.

And then?—

The chaos of his thoughts and feelings fades. It happens quickly but doesn’t feel abrupt.

His emotions taper off until I can’t sense them anymore, and his features settle into quiet contemplation.

I nearly miss a step.

A second ago, I could read him clearly, but now his feelings are locked away so tightly that they’re a mystery to me.

I’m unsettled by it.

And also… strangely calmed by it.

It’s rare for me to stand so near to someone and not be assailed by their emotions.

Even the woman in the park, whose supernatural status was somehow obscured from me, could not conceal her emotions, her pain and grief.

But from Striker, all I sense is a perfect calm.

I reach the opposite side of the table, focused solely on his quiet breathing while the other patrons give me final glances now that it appears I’ve reached my destination and their conversations with each other resume.

Striker’s peaceful breaths feel like a serene anchor.

He greets me with a respectful nod. “Fury.”

It pleases me that he chooses to call me what I am, but I’m determined not to show it.

My voice is as quiet as his breathing, as non-confrontational as I can make it. “Hellhound, why are you here?”

Why has he come here to surround himself with men whose misdeeds I will inevitably punish?

I wish I could discern his thoughts to be certain—in fact, if it weren’t for the intensity of his emotions before, I could have already—but now all I have are his facial expressions and body language.

His expression changes subtly, the slightest rise of his eyebrows and purse of his lips, as if my question surprised him. Perhaps he assumed I would have raided his thoughts to know the answer already.

I should have. Would have, but the intense flood of his emotions sent my power into a spin.

“I’m meeting someone here,” he says. “Someone I’m hoping will agree to peace.”

I tilt my head, my voice curious. “You seek peace, hellhound?”

His gaze is clear, and his speech unhurried. “It’s the only way I can protect the people I care about.”

Including you.

His thought enters my mind so softly that I could believe it was my own. Whatever shield he’s using to cover his emotions, he either allowed that single intention to filter through, or it was so strong it pushed through all on its own.

“I’m not in need of protection,” I whisper, although I’m not offended.

He gives me a crooked smile. “I don’t doubt it.”

With a meaningful glance at the surrounding tables filled with dangerous men, I say, “If peace is what you seek, I’m surprised you thought to find it here.”

It looks as if he’s about to say something more, but his focus flies to the door behind me, seeming to sense at the exact same moment as I do that a powerful being is about to enter the restaurant.

A man who is definitely not human.

I half-turn to consider the supernatural who looms within the entrance before he allows the door to shut behind himself.

I have an immediate sense of fire . A vast volcano of heat that makes me wary. Even more so because, once again and unnervingly, I can’t pinpoint exactly what he is. Certainly, I could assume he was a fire mage, but no fire mage I’ve come across has had such a strong sense of flames about them.

No. Like the woman in the park, he is something else. Something I haven’t come across before.

Well, I will relish the challenge of finding out what.

None of the other patrons are alarmed to see him. In fact, their emotions tell me they’re more comfortable now that he’s here. I suppose this is why the ma?tre d’ hadn’t locked up. He was expecting this man.

The newcomer is as tall as Striker, which is to say that he’s taller than I estimate most of the other men in this room to be. Like them, he’s dressed in a suit, but his features are far from ordinary.

His hair is ice-blond, his skin is fair, and the breadth of his shoulders and thickness of his neck indicate a strong physique—as strong as Striker’s.

He also has amber eyes, and it confirms for me the fiery nature of his power, just as Striker is a creature of hell and all its burning rage.

The newcomer holds a golden lighter in his right hand, the lid of which he clicks open and closed, drawing the flame and then extinguishing it as he strides toward us.

The other men incline their heads or tip their chins at him, greeting him as “Jonah” as he passes them by.

He doesn’t stop until he reaches us, his voice a stern rumble. “Striker Draven, you were told to come alone.”

Before Striker can reply, I say, “He did come alone. I was neither invited nor expected.”

The newcomer—Jonah—turns his fiery glare on me, only to look into my eyes for the first time.

His own widen.

To my shock, he steps back and inclines his head in a respectful bow. “Fury, I apologize,” comes his deep, remorseful rumble. “You are, of course, welcome to stay as long as you wish.”

I can only blink at him and the surprising deference he’s showing me.

As he raises his head, I don’t pick up my jaw fast enough.

He doesn’t seem to miss it, a twinkle entering his eyes. “It isn’t often I’ve surprised a Fury.”

I furrow my brow at him. “You’ve known other Furies then?”

Sudden sadness resonates from him. “A long time ago.” He shakes his head slowly, and his voice loses its ferocity. “The ones I knew are lost now.”

He clears his throat, seeming to come back to himself before he gestures to our seats. “Please, sit.”

Striker has observed my interaction with Jonah without interrupting us, and now, as he takes a seat, I sense a small amount of tension leave his body.

At the same time, the level of conversation around us increases, and it isn’t accidental. I read the now-simple intentions of the other patrons: their job is to muffle the sound of our conversation. It happens so seamlessly that I imagine it’s a frequent occurrence.

Jonah turns his attention from me back to Striker. “You requested a meeting with Vanguard.”

“I did,” Striker replies. “I understood he’d agreed to meet me here.”

Jonah inclines his head. “I acknowledge this. Unfortunately, Vanguard was unavoidably detained. However, he has authorized me to set up a meeting with you tomorrow night.” Jonah’s amber gaze becomes steely. “There are conditions.”

“Name them,” Striker replies.

“You will bring with you the Master of the Assassin’s Legion.”

Striker’s surprise is palpable even without my Fury power. “Vanguard wants a Master Assassin to be present?”

The corners of Jonah’s lips twitch upward. “Slade Baines would be there regardless. We want him where we can see him.” Jonah scans the room pointedly. “Not, as must currently be the case, lurking somewhere unseen.”

“Slade Baines is not here,” I say quietly. My power allows me to see through an assassin’s invisibility, or blur, as they call it. “Neither is any other assassin.”

I’m not worried about telling Jonah this. After all, Striker has me. And it’s up to Jonah whether or not he believes me.

Jonah grants me a smile before turning back to Striker, a hint of respect entering his voice. “You truly came alone.”

“I gave my word,” Striker replies.

“I’m impressed, hellhound.” Jonah leans back in his chair, folding his big arms across his chest. “Then I will ask for your word once more and expect you to keep it. Meet Vanguard at midnight tomorrow night, at the center of the Great Lawn in Central Park. Bring the Legion Master. Nobody else. Do this, and Vanguard will speak with you. Until then, there will be a truce. Do you agree?”

“I agree,” Striker says.

I don’t.

Striker hasn’t asked for any assurances in return.

He could walk into a battlefield. My recent trip to Central Park showed me that the Great Lawn is a wide-open space.

Sure, it’s easier to see your enemies coming, but the surrounding trees would also make it easy for an army of combatants to surround the space.

Vanguard could speak with Striker and keep his part of the bargain, all while his forces converge. No guarantees have been given that Striker won’t be attacked immediately after the meeting ends.

Of course, with Slade Baines at his side, maybe Striker thinks it’s worth the risk. Slade has wings and the power of invisibility. He could get Striker out of there.

Unless Vanguard plans an aerial attack, too…