Unfortunately.
“He’ll be back in thirty minutes,” Nathaniel says, catching the way my eyes linger on the door. “That gives us enough time to prepare for the summoning. He’ll be here to fight her with us.”
“If the summoning works,” Cassian mutters from across the room.
“Ifit works,” Nathaniel echoes.
But something in my expression must still be off, because his voice softens. He glances down at the dried blood on his shirt, like he’s only just remembered it’s there.
“He knows how to handle himself,” he says. “He’s not as reckless as he wants people to think.”
I’m not sure why he acts like that. It’s not like I care about Talon.
…At least, I don’t think I do.
Nathaniel turns back to the tablet. “I’ll start etching the binding sigils. Cassian, get the salt and chalk ready.”
Cassian grunts a “yeah,” already moving. He pulls a worn duffel bag from one of the kitchenette cabinets and unzips it. Inside are tools—chalk, bones, a jar of black salt.
I watch as they get to work, drawing symbols onto the floor. The shapes look familiar. Almost identical to the ones I saw in that blood-soaked basement, the night they bound me in place. Except these have extra rings, added layers, like they’re meant for something stronger than a Grim Reaper. Or just more unstable.
“Will the binding work on her?” I ask.
Nathaniel doesn’t look up. His strokes are precise, borderline obsessive, his mouth set in a tight line.
“We don’t know,” he says. “But it’s the best shot we’ve got.”
Cassian spreads the salt in slow, even arcs. “If the binding fails, we’ll just kill her the old-fashioned way.”
“Because that worked so well last time,” I mutter. “But hey, if the binding holds, maybe we stab her a few dozen times forgood measure. Belt and suspenders, right? What do you think, Cassian? Feel like letting off some steam?”
Cassian doesn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s fighting a smile.
“Sure, why the fuck not,” he says at last, exhaling the words like a sigh. “Got too much of it anyway.”
Like Nathaniel said earlier, it takes about thirty minutes to finish the setup. That includes drawing a vial of my blood—yeah, turns out I can bleed now—and completing the last of the markings. They work in silence, moving with a meticulous rhythm that still surprises me. For two murderers who couldn’t be more different, they function like a well-oiled, dangerous little unit.
Talon returns just as Nathaniel finishes the final sigil, crouched low to inscribe a delicate mark at the center of the outermost ring.
The door swings open without warning, and there he is, striding in like he owns the place. Leather jacket slung over one shoulder, wind-tousled hair, and that signature smirk already in place.
“Car’s gone,” he says, tossing the jacket onto the nearest chair. “Dissolved into some bureaucratic black hole. We’re ghosts again.”
“Good,” Nathaniel mutters, still focused. “You’re just in time.”
Talon surveys the room, ritual markings, tools, blood thick in the air. Then his gaze lands on me.
“Gotta say,” he drawls, “nice coming back to someone who isn’t one of those two assholes.”
“That so?” I arch a brow.
“Mhm.” His grin widens. “You don’t scowl as much. Not anymore, anyway.”
It’s not what he says.
It’s how he says it.
That lazy drawl. The way his eyes linger. And beneath it all, something angry.
