Sirro reclined in his chair, one leg hitched over the other. He didn't offer answers or ask any questions, simply content at this point to let the meeting unfold before him without interference. His fingers were steepled, forefingers tapping against one another as he listened.

I felt his attention slithering over me like oil. I tasted his arrogance like a mouthful of rusty nails and his annoyance was almost tangible—he wanted to take a bite out of me, literally.

He didn't like me.

No surprise. Not too many people did.

Get in line, motherfucker.

He knew I hadn't saved him from the wraith-wolf. He was a Horned God. He'd been one breath away from snapping the beast's neck. He knew I'd done it for her. Sage's death would have broken Wychthorn. I didn't want her broken. Not yet. She was mine to shatter when I willed it.

No, this was all about Wychthorn and the Alverac.

He'd encountered someone he wanted and he couldn't have her.

She was mine.

Byron was waiting, shifting in his leather chair with impatience. I ran my tongue across my teeth, changing my angle just slightly to address him.

When I'd come across the wreck this afternoon, it was far too late to save them.

"They jammed the outside of the doors, poured wildfyre all over the truck, and burned it." I'd come across the remnants of the truck, just a shell of melted rubber and metal and bones. The residual emotion of those who'd died inside still coated the air around the burning husk. The thick tang of despair and terror had raked against my tongue, the scent choking up my lungs. I'd almost hurled my guts up. "They were caught in there. Burned alive." Men, women—some of them young.

The only reply from Byron was, "We need a replacement."

My jaw clenched. Not one single gesture showed he actually gave a fuck what happened to those innocent people.

And no reaction from any of the Heads either.

What was I expecting? That they'd show some kind of remorse? No, those people died in a fucking furnace, metal blistering and buckling, with no way out. Although, I reminded myself, if they'd survived, they still would have died at the hands of the Horned Gods, or worse, lived.

Sirro leaned forward, dropping one hand to the armrest of his chair. "Wildfyre, not gasoline?"

I gave a sharp nod. Gasoline would mean mortal interference. Wildfyre said something else altogether.

His golden eyes narrowed as he slightly tilted his head in contemplation.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, my gaze snapping back to Byron. "My father's already got a new offering coming from the Widowmakers." The Widowmakers were an Albanian gang with territory covering the eastern seaboard. "It'll arrive a day late, but it'll arrive." My father had added foot soldiers from both our House and House Novak's to shadow the convoy for protection.

The world believed the crime lords resided at the peak of organized crime. Wrong. The crime lords worked for us, and the money that funneled from them to us continued upward to who we worked for—the highest echelon, the pinnacle of the pyramid—The Horned Gods.

One of the cartels—run by a ruthless man called Gutiérrez—had been hit the week before, the product not intercepted and stolen, but wiped out. By who, though, was still a mystery. Their attacks worked against Byron, rocking his position as our leader. I might have wanted to congratulate those attacking our empire if what they'd done hadn't churned my gut with the viciousness they'd delivered.

Yoran hooked a finger into the knot of his tie to adjust it. Deep brown eyes were fixed on me with curiosity. "Find out who?"

"There was nothing. No trace, no scent." No lead whatsoever or clue as to who did this. It was as if they'd never been there. "Kenton and Caidan are still on the hunt." My brothers had kept in contact with me while I was here. I'd wanted to help them out, but I loved every opportunity I had to shove my undesired presence in Byron's life—as a fuck you—even more.

"You?" I asked Yoran.

Yoran shook his head, his brow furrowed. He had members of his House trying to figure out who the hells attacked us too.

"A traitor? One of the leaders from a syndicate?" Ennio asked before he puffed on his cigar, smoke curling from his fat lips.

"Possible, but they're mortal. They'd leave a scent." It grated me that I had to spell it out again. Wasn't the fucker listening?

I stepped back to lean against the wall. They could duke this out until they finally realized what I already had.

"Children of the Harbinger." Aldert offered in his quiet, creepy voice.

Everyone paused at that. The Children of the Harbinger were a sect that had hounded us since before the Final War. "We wiped them out centuries ago," I answered in a dull, flat tone.

"Maybe we didn't," Aldert persisted.

"They wouldn't kill those stolen souls, they'd try to save them," Byron said, his rough voice bordering on a snarl. He'd already worked out, like I had, that it was Aldert who'd stabbed him in the back with Sirro's presence. "And even they would leave something behind, some scent the Crowthers could trace."

The truckload of stolen souls was to be a sacrifice to the Horned Gods. This wasn't a rescue attempt to save those people from a fate far worse than death. Whoever was behind it hadn't stolen them to sell on their own behalf, either. They annihilated those souls in a declaration of war.

Yoran and I, and even Byron, understood the message given.

Sirro did too.

Whoever was behind this...this was a message to the Horned Gods.

I didn't like the idea that some faction was out there that could disappear so effectively. I also didn't like the fact that they knew about our shadowed society.

Then something moving swiftly, a blur of white, burst into the room—

Holy fuck!

***

My father's den was one of only a few rooms left untouched in our mansion. Over the centuries no changes had been made, no modern amenities like the soft whir of air-conditioning. In the summer, a breeze cooled the room through open windows flanked by heavy brocade curtains. In winter, logs burned in a fireplace.

Power. So much power resided in this room. Power dressed in fine suits. Fates decided over sips of cognac and puffs of rancid-sweet cigars.

My father was holding court with the Heads of the Upper Houses. He wasn't sitting in his usual favored armchair. Master Sirro was.

As I burst into the room, everyone paused, their conversation drying up and attention swinging my way. The charged atmosphere changed with my sudden appearance, a swelling breath held like a moment of quiet before a storm unleashed itself.

Along with my father, the Heads of Upper Houses sat around the room cast in shadows, filmy silver clouds eddying in whirls from those smoking cigars. Graysen leaned against the wall beside the fireplace, his legs crossed at the ankle.

Ennio Battagli tapped ash into a ceramic dish, the leather armchair creaking with his movement.

What am I doing here?

I'd barged in without a thought given to who was attending the meeting. I should have known it was a stupid thing to do but I was in desperate need to talk to my father, to make him end Evvie's engagement to Corné.

Curiosity slithered all over me. I felt it from all sides as the Heads of Houses intrigue became fixated on me, standing before them, wishing I could just spin around and run back out. I even had a sudden urge to hide behind the man with black eyes, staring at me wide-eyed, as if I'd completely lost my mind.

"Nelle, what are you doing here?" my father frowned, drawing my attention away from Graysen.

But there was so much authority in the room that it rendered me speechless for a moment.

In the corner of my eye, I saw Graysen tipping his chin just slightly, enough to encourage me to hold my ground.

My heart thudded in my chest. Surely everyone in the room could hear it?

Sage brushed up against me. His wisps of cool, misty fur gave me comfort as he settled on his haunches beside my feet. I inclined my head politely to Master Sirro, my fingers clutching my adamere beads. "My apologies. I wanted to speak with my father."

Master Sirro's Familiar knelt on the floor beside his armchair. Her hands were folded on her thighs, and with the bowing of her head, the long gray hair fell like a curtain in front of her face. He stroked her head, absentmindedly, like she was a pet.

Is that what will happen to me if I'm discovered?

Would I become one of the Horned Gods' pets?

Or would I be given to House Pelan? Strapped down to a gurney, my skin and muscles, veins and sinew peeled back, to discover just what I was.

"I'll speak to you later," my father replied and I took a step back intending to leave.

Master Sirro's polished voice froze me in place. "Stay, Nelle." The way he spoke my name, like a caress, had a shudder rippling down my spine.

He slowly angled his head toward Graysen but kept those golden eyes on me. Something I should have recognized earlier burned in their depth—lust. It didn't inspire pleasure to see it, it only made my blood chill further. "Ask her. Tell her what you know and ask her to solve our riddle."

My wide-eyed gaze flitted to Graysen—caught the irritated tick in his jaw—before darting back to Master Sirro. He'd eased back into his chair, one elbow on the armrest, an elegant finger tapping his mouth as he waited patiently.

He's playing with me.

What does he know?

What does he suspect?

Part of me was curious to discover what had rattled Graysen. But most of me didn't want to know, at all.

Graysen pushed off the wall. He circled with slow graceful steps and the ease of a predator. His tall figure cast a shadow over me. "A truckload of stolen souls, a sacrifice to the Horned Gods, was intercepted along the route to the city. They were trapped inside and burned alive." There was no emotion, no change in Graysen's voice, its rough timbre delivering the words in his usual flat bored way, nothing to indicate how he felt. But the stiffness of his shoulders, the slight twitch of his little finger, and the almost imperceptible way his jaw clenched gave him away to me. He didn't like what he'd come across. He also didn't like the way Master Sirro was looking at me.

A sick feeling roiled in my stomach at the images his words inspired—terrified people choking on fumes, scrambling at melting metal trying to free themselves.

I kept my gaze on Master Sirro. The otherworldly glow shimmered about his figure like heat waves from sun-baked asphalt.

"Who, precisely?" I asked, winding my hands behind my back. My hands trembled as I weaved the adamere beads through my fingertips—My roots are deep. My strength is stone. My breath the wind. I bow to none.

"A collection of men, women, most of them with a trace of other about them," Graysen replied.

Graysen drew to a halt, angling his body so he was mostly behind me. No one could see, no one would know that his right hand took my left.

For a moment I almost forgot myself and just managed to stifle the sharp gasp before it escaped. But my nerves...my nerves sparked at the intimate touch. Every single inch of me focused on those warm, calloused fingers threading through mine.

I felt his words vibrating from his chest to my back. "There was nothing, no trace, no scent. No lead whatsoever or clue as to who did this. As if they'd never been there."

I swallowed. "Nothing whatsoever?"

"Nothing."

I didn't want to, I wasn't sure if it was the right thing to do, to reveal this part of me to Master Sirro, but I liked puzzles. I couldn't stop my mind from churning through possibilities.

The Crowthers had a preternatural ability to hunt. If they couldn't find anything—

Surely that couldn't be possible?

Whoever had done this had to have tracked our vehicle, arrived in their own cars to intercept our truck, disabled the men that protected the convoy, did what they came to do, and then left.

Arrived...then left...

And no trace of any of it. No evidence to even support they'd been there.

And the answer was so simple and yet so obvious I wondered why it hadn't occurred to any of them.

Master Sirro waited with endless patience, but the others shifted in their seats, the fabric of their suits rubbing together, leather groaning under their displaced weight.

"Swifting." I turned my head up to look up at Graysen, wanting to know what he thought. I encountered a glint of respect in cunning eyes.

"What did you just say?" Master Sirro asked quietly.

Graysen brushed a reassuring stroke of his thumb along the back of my hand. I found comfort in his touch, an ally at this moment.

"They swifted in," I answered, steeling myself as I returned my gaze to golden eyes, holding a level stare with Master Sirro. I bow to no one—not even a Horned God.

Master Sirro's hand had paused at the crown of his Familiar's skull. "Nothing living can swift."

"Why should they be living?"

Master Sirro's beautiful mouth slowly curved up. "Indeed, why should they."

I realized I'd pleased him. I'd also intrigued him.

The places Graysen's body touched mine went taut. His warm fingers tightened around mine.

Shit, what have I done?

I should have just pretended I didn't know. Batted my eyelashes and played dumb.

Murmuring rippled around the room, words and opinions and questions tossed to one another from those in attendance. Yet Master Sirro kept his silence, his eyes fixed on me while that smile of his became broader, more intense.

Finally, he spoke, staring directly at Graysen. "An act of war." Threatening words, casually spoken.

Unease snaked through me.

It was a perfect assumption to make. The right one too. But it felt...wrong. Not so much the idea, but Master Sirro's forced casualness.

"What do you say, Crowther? War?"

He knew if Graysen agreed it would lend weight to his declaration.

I squeezed Graysen's hand hard in a warning.

"Perhaps," he answered Master Sirro. I felt his casual shrug against my arm as if to say—Too early to make assumptions.

Master Sirro made a little murmur in the back of his throat, a displeased sound, yet his smile was light when he said, "Yes, you're right."

I inclined my head to Master Sirro. Our fingers untangled as Graysen bowed deeply and he escorted me out of the room with Sage prowling ahead of us.

This time Graysen's hand rested on the small of my back.