“How’s she holding up?” I asked.
“Shaken,” he said. “But okay.”
Good.
Slate rolled in moments later, bike skidding to a stop near mine. He took one look at the windows and swore under his breath.
“That’s a hell of a way to say hello.”
“They’re escalating,” he said after a beat. “Public. Daytime.”
“Yes,” I agreed.
“Rowan clearly doesn’t want to be seen capitulating,” Wraith said.
Neither did I.
The council convened an hour later, back at the compound. The room felt tenser than usual.
Slate leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Grim stood near the door. Fuse didn’t bother sitting. Wraith took his place by the window.
All this fuckery, and Saint’s chair was still empty.
I stood at the head of the table, my hands braced on the wood.
“They hit Havoc Ink,” I said. “No injuries. Heavy vandalism. Blackthorn colors.”
“That shop’s neutral ground,” Fuse said. “It’s almost all civilians.”
“Exactly,” Slate replied. “That’s the point.”
“City hit,” Grim added. “No one around to fight back. Cowardly.”
“They’re testing how far they can push without blood,” Wraith said.
“For now,” I agreed.
I nodded. “He’s not escalating yet. He’s signaling.”
“And he’s doing it while your leverage is still here,” Slate said.
There it was.
Grim spoke carefully. “Do we change anything about Kellan’s status?”
“We could move him,” Fuse suggested. “Off-site. Isolate him. Reduce exposure.”
Silence followed.
“Reduce his exposure,” I repeated.
When I didn’t respond, Slate added, “Maybe not off-site. Just tighter containment.”
I saw it then. What they weren’t saying.
They weren’t worried about Kellan getting hurt.
They were worried about what he represented.
