Page 27 of Clash of Sin and Secret

Both. The lucky fuck. Not that he needs to know that.

From the back of the SUV, I watch neon signs blur past as Dante navigates through the downtown core at ten o’clock at night. The streets are slick from an earlier rain, reflecting the city lights like scattered diamonds in our path.

“Take Queen Street, D,” Link says beside me. The warrior leans forward beside me, gripping Huntley’s head rest. “Less traffic this time of night.”

Dante makes the turn while Link fidgets beside me.

“Tripp better be right about this technomancer.” I check my phone again, reviewing the coordinates our in-house tech-genius sent. “We’re hemorrhaging money faster than we can track it.”

“Never heard of a technomancer.” Link’s dark eyes scan the passing storefronts. “What exactly are we walking into?”

Huntley catches my eye in the rearview mirror. “They’re like hackers on supernatural steroids. Think of them as technology whisperers.”

“Tripp says they interface directly with computer systems.” At least that’s what he said in the briefing I got an hour ago. “Their magic lets them slip past security like it’s not even there. They can rewrite code with a thought. They can track information as easily as tugging on a thread and following it back to its source.”

Dante whistles low behind the wheel and takes another turn, heading deeper into Cabbagetown. “So, they can talk to computers?”

“And more.” It’s unnerving to know exactly what they are capable of. “They can control electronics, plant viruses, steal data—all without touching a keyboard. Tripp says the guy we’re going to see is the best in Toronto.”

The streets narrow as we enter one of the older areas of the city. Historic buildings loom overhead, their Gothic architecture a reminder of times when technology wasn’t ourbiggest concern. Now, fiber optic cables snake through century-old walls, and satellite dishes sprout like metal flowers from Victorian rooftops.

“If this technomancer traces the money trail of the funds being embezzled from Vasari Industries, I’m betting we find the fuckwad behind the coup against our seethe.”

“Lazarus fucking Kaza,” Link says, his voice more growl than words.

“If that’s really his name.”

We all know what finding Lazarus Kaza could mean. Revenge for my father. Justice for our people. And an end to this asinine threat.

“You really think Kaza’s behind the money grab?” Link asks.

“We’ll know soon enough.” I lean back, watching a streetcar rumble past. “Someone is pushing through regulatory approvals to destabilize our hold on the market. We’ve got a steep loss of income from the blood trade and the tracking sheets for empowered objects don’t match our inventory. For all of it to be happening at once, my bet is that it’s tied to the attack on my father.”

“Stealing our own money to bankroll the attack on us is really fucking nervy,” Link says.

“It is. And it says a lot about the man behind it.”

“No fucking honor,” Huntley says.

“Exactly right. He’s a coward, hiding in the shadows and riding our coattails.”

“They didn’t get you or the dagger,” Dante says. “Not that I’m complaining, but that was fucking sloppy considering everything else that’s gone down with such stealth.”

“Agreed.” I sit deeper in my seat and stare out at my city. “We’re missing a piece of the puzzle. What good was it to kill my father and not have me and the dagger locked down? What did they gain?”

The rain starts again, a light drizzle that turns the streetlights into halos. Through the windshield, I spot our destination—an unremarkable three-story building wedged between a coffee shop and a vintage record store.

Dante pulls along the curb and slows to a stop. “How do you want to play this, sire?”

Huntley

The sign above the door reads “Ctrl+Alt+Elite” in neon blue. Link takes point as we escort Zane into what appears to be an old falafel house converted into a tech haven. The scent of flavored energy drinks and a haze of smoke hits my nose before we spot our target.

“Welcome to my humble abode.” A lanky guy with rainbow-colored dreads and thick-rimmed glasses peers at us from behind three curved monitors. “I’m Binary Chaos, but my friends call me Bin.”

“No one calls you that,” a voice echoes from somewhere in the darkness.

Bin shrugs. “James Tripp sent you. Nice guy, a bit intense about his firewalls, though. Fee’s been paid.”

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