“What is it?” he asks.
“A memento of her first kill,” I say. “The cops didn’t find it. It wasn’t in the basement with the rest of the sick stuff. I got lucky, I guess.”
“Mhm,” he murmurs. “So lucky that a cop saw you and triggered a full lockdown. So lucky that I almost got myself arrested just to drag you out.”
Ouch.
Not exactly the tone I was expecting. But fine. He just ran into someone from his past. That bite in his voice? It’s not really about me. I get it.
I don’t react. Don’t snap back, don’t thank him, don’t apologize. I don’t even mention that I didn’t end up needing his help, even though I could. I just wait. Like a calm, rational, well-adjusted adult.
Cassian exhales, just barely. “Let’s say your luck evened out.”
I almost smile. He has no idea what today meant for me. I didn’t just find the locket, I got to haunt Mark, too.
“Sure,” I say as he pockets the locket.
“You didn’t see anything else in the house?” he asks. “No wraith activity? No sign of that ghastly motherfucker?”
“Nothing,” I mutter.
“Weird,” he says. “I thought she might ambush us, especially on her own turf.”
“Maybe she wants to do it here,” I suggest. “Catch us off guard while we’re sitting in the car, just chatting?”
It’s meant as dark humor, something to cut the tension, but it hits too close, because he flinches.
“You’re right,” he says. “Let’s get inside. Looks like Nathaniel and Talon are already back.”
He gets out without waiting for a reply, slamming the door harder than necessary. Not out of anger, just overflowing with whatever emotion he hasn’t unpacked yet.
Grief. Anger. Shame?
What did that cop say again?
Cassian didn’t show up to his sister’s funeral. But her killer died exactly how she did. That’s his signature, isn’t it? He kills killers the way they killed their victims.
Twisted as he is, there’s still a person buried under all that righteous rot. Rehashing it must hurt more than he lets on.
I follow him across the cracked asphalt toward the old hospital entrance. I’m dragging in plenty of dirt, no surprise. My pants are still caked with mud, my hair half-dried into a chaotic halo of grave filth and ghost sweat. And even though I was the one rolling around on the ground, Cassian doesn’t look much better. His shirt’s torn at the sleeve where the cops grabbed him, and green smudges stain his clothes like he lost a few rounds with the lawn before they pinned him down.
We’re a match made in heaven. Or hell. Honestly, whichever one takes walk-ins at this point.
Inside, the others are already waiting.
“Well,” Talon says, his eyes dragging over the state of us both, “this looks promising. Were you two making out in a bog, or just fighting for dominance in some mud-based hierarchy?”
“Don’t start,” Cassian mutters, brushing past him.
Talon’s slouched in a folding chair, boots kicked up against the wall, arms behind his head like he’s on a beach instead of hiding from divine retribution. Nathaniel’s pacing, tablet in hand, a permanent frown carved into his face. His clothes are stained with dried blood, Laura Collins’, if I had to guess. Whatever they’ve been up to, it wasn’t a spa day.
He looks up the moment we step into view, immediately taking in our appearance.
Without breaking stride, Cassian pulls the locket from his pocket and tosses it to him. Nathaniel catches it one-handed.
His expression tightens, not at the locket, but at Cassian’s demeanor. He clearly knows him well enough to sense something’s off.
It looks like he’s about to push, to ask what happened. But at the last second, he redirects that sharp energy toward me instead.
