Page 6 of Clash of Sin and Secret

The casual way he lumps Tucker in with us is annoying, but not nearly as annoying as him considering Scottie an asset in a fight. Sure, she knows self-defense and has a few moves, but she is not a bodyguard or a Sacred Squire—she’s the daughter of one.

Bran gifting her with his powers still makes my blood simmer.

“Don’t wait up.” I hang up and drop my phone into the pocket of my leather trench before I say something I’ll regret.

The compound’s corridors feel suffocating tonight. Every golden wall, every priceless painting mocks me with memories of growing up here, always on the outside looking in. Zane and Scottie’s laughter echoing through these halls, while I trained and bled to be worthy of standing beside them.

I need a coffee.

Jogging down the stairs, I punch in the ten-digit code and exit the compound into the access hall that connects us to the PATH.

There’s a coffee shop down here and since it’s after seven in the evening, most of the financial district commuters have already fucked off and gone home, leaving no lines.

It takes no time to get a black dark roast and after a few sips, my mood shifts from murderous to broody.

I’m pretty sure that’s as good as it’s getting.

Coffee in hand, I take the escalator up to the lobby of First Canadian Place and then exit out the glass doors. The city’s pulsebeats around me—traffic, distant sirens, the bass from a nearby club.

It’s enough to drown out the voice in my head reminding me that no matter how long I avoid going home, I’ll always circle back to them.

I’m a fucking sucker for punishment.

My boots hit the pavement with purpose as I head out into the night.

I brush past a homeless guy, who’s taken up residence on the wide granite steps of the business center. I can’t help but wonder where he’ll end up tonight, not that I really care.

But as someone who knows too well the dangers that lurk after dark—vampires, demons, witches, shades, djinn—I can’t help but give him a discreet once-over. Underneath his ratty blue comforter, he’s got a surprisingly sturdy frame. He looks like he can handle himself.

Good. Because these are troubled times.

I take a long swallow of my coffee and let the jolt of java feed my cells.

For humans, coffee is a pick-me-up.

For vampires, it’s like freebasing a stimulant directly into our bloodstream. I don’t partake often, but tonight was shitty and I’m out to burn off some energy, so I give myself permission to take care of myself.

Upending my cup, I let every drop of caffeine gold drip into my mouth. After tossing my cup into the bin along the sidewalk, I slip around the side of the building, ready to hunt down answers.

A black Humvee pulls up along the curb up the road. I think little of it until the door opens and out drops the dark-haired beauty I’ve seen perform a few times at local bars.

Her name is Pyper, and she’s got a voice that is definitely ‘other’. The way her songs wrap people up and suck them in isn’tnormal. She must be a siren or an angel or something in the ‘Otherworld’ realm.

Not that the people in the crowd realize that—or that they’d care if they did. Because despite my dark and dangerous vampire killer reputation, at some point, even I became an unintentional fangirl.

I reconsider my plans. If she’s singing tonight, I’ll catch her first set and then track down the mysteries of our fucked-up world.

The guy dropping her off jumps out of the combat vehicle and jogs around to open her door. He’s got short-cropped hair and a military vibe and whoa, yeah, he’s huge and definitely ‘other’ himself. “I’ll park and be right back.”

Another guy, tall, dark, and human, climbs out of the back seat and pulls out her guitar case. “I’ll get us good seats.”

“You do that.” Military guy winks at them and then he’s in the truck and driving off.

I slow my roll, not wanting to look like I’m stalking them, but also not sure where she’s going to play because there are three bars within spitting distance where she could be headed.

But then I hear it—the soft rhythm of footsteps echoing my own. The footfalls multiply—one, three, six sets of boots hitting concrete in a coordinated approach.

I draw a deep lungful of night air, and my vampire senses pick up the stench of bonfire and char. That can mean only one thing.

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