Page 2 of The Demon’s Sinful Serenade (Silvermist Mates #6)

CHAPTER TWO

ZANE

S weat dripped down my forehead as I delivered another blow to the heavy bag. The empty gym echoed with just my breathing and the rhythmic impact of my strikes. No banter. No challenges. Just me and my increasingly shitty mood, working through frustrations that had been building all damn day.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

I'd been looking forward to tonight. Beer. Bad action movies. Kaz giving me shit about my taste in both. But then the royal court had summoned him—again—and he'd left with barely a word. Third time in two months. Some diplomatic bullshit with Talia that apparently couldn't wait.

I understood duty. Hell, duty was practically tattooed on my soul at birth. I wouldn't have minded so much if it had been scheduled. We'd adapted to far worse disruptions over the years.

I switched to kicks, driving my heel into the bag with enough force to make the mounting bracket groan.

Stop being pathetic. They're happy. Be happy for them.

It wasn't just Kaz's absence. Malak was off at some tech conference doubling as a recon mission, with Rava assisting. Everyone paired off or occupied while I rattled around our base like the last beer in a six-pack.

I landed a vicious combination that sent the bag swinging wildly. The physical exertion wasn't helping as much as it should. My thoughts kept circling back to the same uncomfortable truth: I was envious.

Not of Kaz's royal responsibilities, fuck that.

I was envious of what he'd found with Talia.

What Rava had found with Zral. The way they moved around each other, anticipating needs, sharing silent conversations across crowded rooms. That bone-deep certainty that someone had your six, always and without question.

Meanwhile, I had jack shit except an office cot and a witch's cryptic prediction that haunted my dreams. Fat lot of comfort that was in the dead of night.

"Your flames will burn brightest in the shadow of death."

The witch's words whispered through my head, exactly as they had six months ago in that smoky Prague dive bar. Hells, I don't think her mouth even moved. But her withered hand had clutched mine, and eyes like pale fire had stared at me, through me, with unnerving focus.

I'd laughed it off at the time. Witches loved their dramatic pronouncements, especially to demons.

But on nights like this, alone with nothing but my thoughts and a punching bag, I wondered.

What flames? What shadow of death? Was I supposed to look forward to finding my mate only to lose them? Some fucking prophecy.

The sound of knocking interrupted my brooding. Faint but insistent, coming from the main entrance. I ignored it. Business hours were clearly posted, and we weren't exactly running a 24-hour convenience store for supernatural emergencies.

The knocking continued, more insistent.

"For fuck's sake," I muttered, grabbing a towel to wipe my face.

I stalked over to the security panel and pulled up the front entrance camera. A woman stood there, baby blue hair gleaming under the stoop light. She wore a leather jacket despite the rain, clutching it closed at her throat. Her free hand rose to pound on the door again.

Then I saw a second figure behind her, and frowned. Poppy Marsh. The baker who'd been supplying Malak with his sugar fix for months now. He'd kept tight-lipped about her, but I was pretty sure he wanted to nibble on all her buns.

What the hell is she doing here?

I jabbed the intercom button. "We're closed. Come back during business hours."

Blue startled and looked up, searching for the camera, giving me a clear view of her face.

Attractive in a sharp-edged way. Determined set to her jaw. Eyes that held a storm. And oddly familiar.

"I might not be alive come morning," she said, her voice crackling through the system, "so I hope you're comfortable being haunted by me for the rest of your life."

I snorted. That was some grade-A dramatics, but the edge in her voice didn't sound like someone playing games. And there was something about her eyes that suggested she'd seen enough shit to justify the paranoia. That Poppy was with her only added weight to the situation.

Against my better judgment, I hit the entry buzzer. "Fine. Wait in the lobby."

I tugged a shirt over my head as I made my way through the compound. Normally I'd shower first, but something told me they weren't wait-patiently types for very long. I could still feel the sweat cooling on my skin as I pushed through the double doors into our reception area.

Blue stood just inside, hair darkened by the rain. Poppy was shaking out her umbrella, her eyes darting around the room with barely concealed curiosity.

Blue turned at the sound of my entrance, and our eyes met across the room. Her scent hit me like a kick to the nuts.

Rain and citrus with something earthier underneath, something that made every instinct I possessed snap to attention. My tail twitched, my muscles tensed, and for one disorienting moment, I had the overwhelming urge to cross the room and press my face against her neck.

What the fuck?

I'd smelled thousands of humans before. None had ever affected me like this. It felt like someone had cranked my temperature up twenty degrees in two seconds flat.

Blue's eyes widened slightly as she took in the sweat-damp shirt, my bare feet, the way I was staring. She straightened her spine, lifting her chin. Defiant. Ready for a fight.

"Are you the boss?" she asked, her voice husky with a slight rasp that sent another jolt through my system.

"One of them." Poppy stepped forward and gave me a small nod. "Zane. It's been a while."

I dragged my attention from Blue long enough to return the baker's nod. "Poppy. Didn't expect to see you here."

The words sounded rough and strange to my own ears. I cleared my throat, trying to regain some semblance of professionalism while my body continued its bizarre rebellion. I needed distance. Needed to get my head on straight.

Blue turned her eyes back on me, and rooted me to the spot. "You two know each other?"

"You know how small this town is," Poppy said with a shrug. "Everyone knows everyone."

I crossed my arms, partly to look intimidating, mostly to stop myself from reaching out to touch this stranger. "Which is why I'm wondering who this is, and what you two want."

"River Rathbone," Blue said, extending her hand. "Musician. Former local. Current mess."

The name clicked. River & Rath. Decently popular angsty indie shit, though I preferred anything from the 80s or 90s that sounded like it wanted to stab me in a dirty alley.

I took her hand. The moment our skin touched, electricity shot up my arm like I'd jammed my finger in a socket. River felt it too, judging by how quickly she yanked her hand back.

"Sorry," she muttered, rubbing her palm against her jeans. "Static."

That wasn't static.

"So, what brings you to our door at this hour?" I asked, stepping back to put some much-needed space between us.

River glanced at Poppy, who nodded encouragingly. "I need security. Vanin from One Hop Stop suggested you might be able to help. Said you handle... unusual problems."

I raised an eyebrow. "Define unusual."

"Someone's trying to sabotage my performances. Maybe kill me." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Sounds crazy, right? That's what everyone else thinks."

"I don't do crazy judgments. I do threat assessments." I gestured toward the hallway. "Let's talk in the conference room."

The conference room had come far from our original table floating between gear and unpacked boxes.

Malak had rigged up a large television for presentations—and the occasional bad movie night—while Talia added threats disguised as ambiance with displays of weapons and trophies from our successful missions.

"So," I said, dropping into a seat across from River. "I need to know everything. When this started, any patterns, anyone who might want to hurt you."

River hesitated, glancing at Poppy again. I raised an eyebrow. Again.

"It started after Julian died," she said finally. "About a year ago."

"Julian?"

"My bandmate." Her voice flattened. "Julian Rathaway. The Rath to my River." She swallowed hard. "He overdosed."

The pain in her voice was raw, but something in her expression suggested there was more to the story. Poppy's tight-lipped reaction confirmed it. I wanted to press for details, but the wounded look in River's eyes made me hold back.

"And the stalking started after his death?" I asked.

The shadow of death. The witch's words pulsed behind my eyes like the beginnings of a migraine.

She nodded. "Small things at first, like missing items that could be chalked up to grieving brain fog. It escalated once I started this solo tour. Equipment moved between soundcheck and performance. Feedback that shouldn't happen with the equipment I use, electrical issues, stage accidents."

"Anyone with access to all these venues?"

"That's the problem. Different cities, different crews, different equipment. The only constant was me." She laughed bitterly. "Which is why everyone thinks I'm making it up for attention."

"And they would think that because...?" I prompted.

"Because I was a mess after Julian died," she admitted. "Because the music industry loves a breakdown narrative more than a comeback story. Because there's never any evidence left behind." Her hands curled into fists. "Take your pick."

I studied her for a moment. Everything about this case screamed "not our usual gig.

" We dealt with supernatural threats, not human stalkers with a vendetta.

The inconsistencies, the escalation pattern, the timing all pointed to some grieving fan taking it out on River. So why did everyone brush her off?

Then there was the inexplicable pull I felt toward her. The witch's words echoed in my head: Your flames will burn brightest in the shadow of death. Was this what she meant? This blue-haired human who claimed she might not live through the night?