Page 23 of Veil of Ashes

I grab his shirt, hauling him up. I slam him against the wall—not hard enough to break anything, just enough to rattle him. His feet scrape the floor, eyes popping wide.

“She say anything?” I ask, keeping my grip steady.

He nods fast, panicked. “S-she said it’s just a reminder. Said you’d know what that means.”

I hold him there, letting his fear fill the space. It rolls off him, sour and thick. Then I release him.

He drops, crumpling into a heap, gasping like he’s forgotten how to breathe. I step back, looming over him.

“Tell her I do,” I say, voice flat. “And tell her I’m done with reminders.”

He scrambles up, bolting for the door. His shoes squeak as he vanishes into the garage, leaving me alone.

I stand there, the loupe heavy in my hand. Blood crusts under my nails, Sylvara’s tools glinting in the dim light.

Thunder rumbles somewhere distant, a low growl rolling in. My pulse thuds in my ears, steady but loud.

All I can think is how fast I need to torch this city to ash. Gia’s playing games, and Sylvara’s caught in the crosshairs.

That kiss last night—it was a slip, a crack in my walls. Her mouth on mine, rain soaking us, her hands pulling me in. I liked it too much, let it linger too long.

Now this. Her tools, smeared with blood. Not her blood, but I get the message. A warning I can’t ignore. I set the loupe down, picking up the stylus instead.

It’s light, perfectly balanced, the way she likes it. I roll it between my fingers, picturing her hunched over her ledger, tracing lies into truth.

I shove the box aside. The kid’s gone, the garage empty except for the hum of machinery.

I step to the window, looking out at the lot. Dust swirls in the wind, catching the sun in hazy streaks. My reflection stares back, hard-edged and tired.

Gia’s out there, pulling strings. The Red Siren, they call her—sharp, ruthless, always three steps ahead. This box is her move, her way of saying she sees me.

Sees us.

I turn back to the desk, grabbing the loupe again. The cracked lens catches the light, throwing jagged patterns on the wall.

Blood’s dry now, flaking off in tiny specks. I rub my thumb over it, smearing what’s left. She’s not dead, I tell myself again.

But she’s in play. Gia knows her, knows what she means to me. That’s the real threat here—not the blood, but the target it paints.

I drop the loupe into my pocket, keeping it close. The stylus and burnisher go too, tucked into my jacket. Evidence, maybe.

The loading bay feels smaller now, the air thick with grease and heat. I step outside, sun blasting my face, dust stinging my eyes.

The Bentley’s still up on the lift, abandoned mid-repair. The kid’s nowhere in sight, probably halfway across town by now, delivering my message. Good.

I climb into my car, slamming the door harder than I mean to. The engine growls to life, loud in the empty lot.

I peel out, tires kicking up gravel. Vegas sprawls ahead, a haze of neon and lies. Sylvara’s out there somewhere, and Gia’s closing in.

Thunder cracks again, closer this time. The sky’s turning ugly, clouds piling up fast. I grip the wheel tight, knuckles white.

Gia wants a war. She’s got one. I just need to find Sylvara before the next message lands.

Back in my apartment, I lock the door tight. Check the guns—loaded, safety on—then crack open the emergency kit in the closet.

I grab the burner phone, pacing to the window. The city blinks below, a sprawl of lights that never sleep. I dial, holding it to my ear.

It rings twice. “Yeah?” Her voice comes through, rough around the edges. She’s been at it too long again, probably bent over her workbench.

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