Page 53 of Violence and Vice

I feel my body go cold, chilled all the way through. What the hell could that mean, and who the fuck would they be looking for?

“I need some answers from James,” Ares says darkly. He straightens. “And since he’s not been honest with me, I’m not going to go asking nicely. You up for a little B and E, Roman?”

“Lead the way.”

Chapter 13

The elevator hums as it carries us to the twenty-ninth floor. None of us speak. The silence hangs heavy, thick with anticipation and the strange, twitching energy that always seems to settle when you know you're about to find something you won't be able to unsee.

Roman stands closest to the door, arms folded over his chest. His jaw is locked, sunglasses still in place despite the dim interior lighting. Juliet leans into the corner, chewing her lower lip in thought. Ares is stone beside me, fingers flexing and curling like his body wants to fight, but his mind is still catching up.

The elevator dings softly, and we step out into a hallway that looks like every other high-rise apartment building in Manhattan. Soft gray carpet. Neutral walls. Modern sconces casting buttery light down the corridor.

Ares leads us to the door.

Roman kneels quickly, pressing his ear to the frame. He stays there for a moment, then shakes his head once. "No one inside."

He rises and pulls a lockpick kit from his back pocket like it’s second nature. Within seconds, the door clicks open.

We step into James St. Claire's apartment—and stop dead.

It’s cold.

Not temperature-wise. There’s heat, electricity, all the signs of a functioning home.

But there is nolifein it.

The living room is pristine. Too pristine. A modern black leather couch sits in front of a low-profile coffee table. But there’s literally nothing else in this main space. There are no photos, no books, no shoes by the door. There aren’t even any dishes in the sink.

Back in the bedroom, the bed is made. There is a phone charger on the nightstand and literally nothing else. In the closet, there are a dozen items hanging, but at the bottom, a suitcase is lying open on the floor.

This isn’t just someone who is obsessively clean. This goes beyond minimalism.

“This isn’t an apartment,” Juliet mutters. “It’s a damn waystation.”

Roman drifts toward the window, looking out onto the street. “He never planned to stay here. Not for long.”

I trail my fingers along the wall as I move into the space. It feels wrong. Like a place that looks like it should hold someone’s life, but all it has is the ghost of intention.

Juliet opens a drawer in the nightstand. She pulls out a passport, flipping it open.

“France. India. Romania. Germany. Austria. Hungary.” Her gaze flicks to Roman. “Markus has family in both India and Germany. He told me so himself.”

Roman nods slowly. “James met him over there. And he came here to lay the groundwork.”

Ares turns, something dark growing behind his eyes. “He used my name. My company. My trust. For what?” He digs through the other nightstand. It’s so strange, rummaging through someone’s personal space when they’re totally unaware.

But James’s behavior was alarming. His association with Markus, the necromancer, made him a target we had no choice but to investigate.

“Got something,” Ares says as he pulls something from the drawer.

A book.

The leather cover is cracked, aged. The smell of dust and parchment makes my skin prickle, the metallic tang of something old and secret.

Ares hands the book to me, and I flip the cover open.

Journal of Thaddeus St. Claire.