“A log. From someone who claimed they fought a wraith and lived.”
That gets everyone’s attention. Even Talon cracks one eye open and glances at the journal.
“We had something like that?” he mutters. “Could’ve sworn I went through everything last night.”
“This morning, I found a stash we left in the lockers a few years back,” Nathaniel replies. “Didn’t think I’d ever need to dig it up, but... here we are.”
“Huh,” Talon says, mostly to himself. And for a moment, it almost feels like things are okay between all of them. Even Cassian isn’t brooding, just staring daggers at the journal. Which only makes what Nathaniel said hit harder.
A few years back?
How long have they been doing this—this whole homicidal vigilante crusade against the world’s worst people? Long enough to have old supplies hidden in an abandoned hospital?
I look at the three of them again. I never thought they were exactlyyoung; at least not so young that my attraction to them should be a problem. I died at twenty-five, which technically makes me around thirty now, even if my body’s still the same as the day I died.
They’ve got to be in their early thirties too, right?
Damn. They really started the killing gig young.
“How long did you say you’d been living in this hospital?” I ask, raising a brow, fishing for lore.
Nathaniel looks at me, completely deadpan. “We didn’t.”
And just like that, the quiet, unnerving stare is back.
“Oh. Okay.” I look away.
Talon groans into the pillow. “We squatted here for a while. On and off. This is just the longest we’ve stayed.”
Nathaniel doesn’t argue.
Cassian does. “It was never meant to be permanent. It still isn’t.”
He doesn’t explain further, which only makes my imagination spiral. Where were they the rest of the time? Living like nomads? Drifting from place to place, clinging to their messed-up little code? Is that what they plan to do next? Just vanish and start over somewhere else?
That doesn’t seem fair, does it?
Nothing about them seems fair, except their own warped and highly unhealthy perception of justice.
All the more reason to own the mission Death gave me. Maybe once it’s done, I’ll earn back a little control over my own existence.
My gaze drops to the journal now sitting on my lap. The leather is cracked, the spine barely holding together with a binding that looks like it might crumble if I breathe too hard.
I reach for the mug beside me, take a sip, and immediately gag.
It’s coffee. I think. Technically. But it tastes like scorched dirt filtered through a burnt engine. Bitter doesn’t even begin to cover it. It’s apocalyptic.
“What the hell is this?” I croak, blinking away tears.
Nathaniel doesn’t answer. Just leans against the frame of the bed with that same expression. His mouth twitches, barely.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Just tell me if you’re mad at me.”
He lifts a brow, tongue flicking against his piercing for a single, pointed second before he shrugs.
“Why would I be angry with you?” he says, voice so smooth it’s clear he’s putting up a front.
Talon sits up in Cassian’s bed, still rubbing sleep from his face. Then he zeroes in on my mug.
