Page 7 of The Monster You Made
I check the rifle, clean and precise despite the night’s chaos. Every weapon I carry is both a tool and a confession. Violence follows me like a shadow, and I no longer bother to deny it. If Cadmus or the Crown sends more hounds, they’ll find me ready.
But readiness isn’t enough. Not now. Declan showing his face means the board has changed. And if Declan is in play, then Vera…. My jaw tightens. The thought of her alive makes mychest ache, but the thought of her in their hands makes my blood run colder than steel. I don’t know where she is. I don’t know if she even breathes. But if she does, they’ll hunt her as fiercely as they hunt me. Perhaps more.
I shoulder the rifle and descend into the building, steps silent, body moving through shadow like instinct. I’ve learned to treat cities as predators, never trust them, never let them corner you. Every alley is a trap, every doorway an ambush. Still, I walk. Because if I stop, the world wins.
The safehouse is three blocks west, tucked above a bakery that hides its backroom with sacks of flour and the smell of yeast. The contact waiting there owes me more than a favor. He owes me his life. I intend to collect.
When I enter, the air is thick with the scent of bread and smoke. The baker glances up, eyes widening, then quickly lowering. He knows better than to greet me. He disappears through a curtain, and moments later, a man steps out from the shadows of the storage room. Gaunt face, sharp cheekbones, eyes too alert for comfort. Rourke.
The sight of him stirs a flood of memory, missions run shoulder to shoulder, bodies buried in silence, victories that tasted like ash even when we were young enough to believe in glory. But those days are gone, and trust is a currency I no longer trade in.
“Lucian,” Rourke says, voice smooth, familiar. “I heard the Crown buried you.”
“Not deep enough,” I reply.
His mouth quirks in something like a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You look worse than the rumors. But alive. That’s dangerous.”
I step closer, letting the rifle’s weight shift on my shoulder as a reminder. “You’re going to tell me what you know about Declan St. Croix. And you’re not going to waste my time.”
Rourke studies me for a moment, then gestures toward the back room. “This isn’t a conversation for flour and sunlight.”
I follow him into the dark, every muscle coiled, every sense alert. Old allies can become new enemies faster than a knife slips between ribs. If Rourke thinks I’ve softened, he’s about to remember the truth.
The storage room is lit by a single bulb swinging overhead, its light carving long shadows across crates stacked against the walls. The smell of flour doesn’t reach here; it’s damp concrete, oil, and the faint tang of gunmetal. Rourke takes a seat at a battered wooden table and gestures for me to do the same. I don’t. Distance is safer. I keep my back to the wall and my hands loose near the rifle strap.
“You look like hell,” Rourke says, leaning back in his chair. “But I suppose hell is the only place you’ve ever been comfortable.”
I don’t answer. Silence is leverage. He fills it, just as I knew he would.
“Declan’s name isn’t spoken lightly. He doesn’t show his face unless he’s already planned ten moves ahead. If you’ve seen him, it means you’ve already stepped into his game.”
“Games end,” I say. “Bodies don’t get back up.”
Rourke smirks. “Still the poet. You always had a taste for finality. But Declan isn’t a soldier you can put down with a bullet. He’s a ledger in human skin. He survives by being indispensable. Cadmus keeps him close because no one else can turn a profit from ashes the way he can.”
I study him. His words are clean, rehearsed, like a man repeating doctrine. Maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe he’s already bought. I step closer, enough that the chair legs creak under his weight as he instinctively leans back.
“Where is he?” I ask.
Rourke laughs softly, shaking his head. “Straight for the throat. You never change.” He runs a hand over his jaw, eyes flicking to the floor as though measuring risk. “There’s chatter about Old Vienna. A summit, private, masked as an economic forum. Crown dignitaries on one side, Cadmus investors on the other. Declan will be there. He can’t resist a stage that looks legitimate.”
Old Vienna. The name stirs old memories, opulent halls, chandeliers dripping gold, and conversations drowned in champagne. A city where appearances matter more than truth. Declan would thrive there.
Rourke leans forward now, elbows on the table. “If you go after him, you’ll be walking into a den of wolves. Every corridor lined with men like me, trained, loyal, disposable. You won’t make it out.”
“Then I’ll take as many of them down as I can,” I say flatly.
His smile fades. “You’ve always been suicidal. But this is different. Declan doesn’t just want you dead. He wants Vera.”
The name strikes me like a blade between ribs. My jaw tightens, but I don’t let the reaction show. “What do you know about Vera?”
Rourke shrugs. “Enough. She’s carrying something. Documents, evidence, something that threatens the Crown and Cadmus both. The order isn’t to kill her. It’s to bring her in breathing.”
The satchel. My mind flickers to the last image of her I carry, eyes wide, skin pale, stepping into fog with no promise she’d survive the night. She’s alive. She has to be. And if she’s alive, she’s being hunted.
Rourke watches me closely, reading every flicker across my face. “I can help you, Lucian. I still have contacts. Lines of communication. If Vera’s out there, I can find her trail.”
I don’t move. The silence stretches, heavy as lead. Finally, I ask, “And what do you want in return?”
