Page 25 of Tarnished Tyrant (Zhukova Bratva 1)

The image of a well-worn sketchbook appears in my mind, scribbles and scratchings between the pages…

“Elise,” I mutter to myself as I walk down the street, the hot coffee burning my fingers through the thin paper cups. “Elise is why you’re doing this. Be practical.”

The past and the future mingle in my mind, the good, the bad, and the mortifying, as I make my way back to the hotel. By the time I climb the endless, dimly lit stairs to our floor, the coffees are lukewarm.

I kick the door. “It’s me. My hands are full.”

I wait, but there’s no movement inside. I kick the door again. “Elise, it’s me. Open up!”

I give it another fifteen seconds, but still nothing.

Grumbling, I set down the coffee and dig the room key out of my purse. “She’s probably wearing headphones and destroying her hearing. And if I say anything about it, I’m nagging. I can’t win.”

As soon as the door is open, I prop it with my foot and drag the rest of my stuff inside. “Sweet of you to help your sister out. What did you do all day? Did you ever go to the bodega to get—”

I stand up and turn around.

The room is empty.

Like, not just of people. But of everything.

The suitcases I set on the bed, the cash I placed on the TV stand, and the sister I left on the dingy chair by the window… all gone.

“Elise?” I call out even though I know she won’t answer.

She’s gone.

She’s gone.

She’s gone.

Panic thrums through me, vibrating until I’m sure I’ll fall apart.

She ran away. I was afraid of it in Oklahoma City, but where was she going to go? She’d be easy to spot. But a fourteen-year-old loose in New York City?

“God, I’ll never find her.”

My stomach is bottoming out. I’ve only felt like this once before: the night I left Elise five years ago.

I can still see her small face in the front window, peeking through the blinds at me. She was supposed to be asleep, but she woke up when she heard the front door slam. When she heard Mom screeching at me to never come back.

I waved to her, and she just ducked back into the dark room and out of sight.

And now, she’s gone again.

“Don’t panic,” I tell myself. Then an idea hits me all at once. “The front desk.”

The man at the check-in desk was intently watching anime on his phone when we checked in this morning, but maybe he saw something. Maybe he’ll know where she went.

I spin on my heel and reach for the door handle. But a glimmer catches my eye.

I drop my hand and stare straight ahead.

Wedged behind the plating of the peephole is a rectangular business card with gold embossing around the edges. It’s blank.

Well, no, not quite blank.

Printed in the middle are two words that make my jaw clench tight enough to shatter teeth—the name of the devil himself.

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