“Show me the manifests,” I said, and Leo flicked the file onto the main screen.
He had them color-coded and bullet-pointed, like a grocery list for cannibals. I scanned the names, the stats, the photos. Half of them looked like they could have been the face of a makeup ad. The others were pure muscle, bred for labor and obedience. I liked a balanced shipment. Gave the buyers more to fight over at auction.
I felt the old pride flare up, the satisfaction of a job run with military precision. But it curdled instantly, soured by the empty spot in my chest where Harper used to be. It wasn’t love, don’t make me laugh, but there was something about her, some kind of crackle in the air when she was around. I’d always thought I could train her, break her, build her back up into something I could use. Instead, she’d found the gap in the fence and slithered through.
“We’ll get her back,” I muttered, more to myself than to Leo.
He took the hint. “First priority is the shipment. After that, I’ll deploy the dogs. But I need to know if I’m using velvet gloves or steel. What are we doing if we actually catch her?”
I smiled. That was the best thing about Leo: he didn’t flinch at the ugly questions.
“We bring her in alive. No marks above the neckline. If she’s got a mate or a pack, we cut them off at the knees first, then bring her back.” I let the words hang there, then added, “But I want her to see me first. I want her to know I won.”
Leo tapped a note into his file. “And if the client asks for an update?”
I had to laugh. “Which client? The one with horns, or the one with the blue blood?”
“Both.”
“The demon gets whatever he wants. The hedge fund asshole can suck it.” I glanced back at the monitor, watched as the first of tonight’s product was dragged across the dock, her hands zip-tied behind her back and her hair trailing like a white flag. “Let’s make sure this one goes smooth. No fuck-ups. No drama.”
Leo nodded, stood, and straightened his lapels. “I’ll be on the floor if you need me.”
He left, closing the door with a soft click. I waited until the echo died, then slumped into my chair and let myself breathe. The office was too quiet now. The hum of the building, the lowwhine of servers, the distant thump of bass from the club below—it all faded into nothing.
I swiveled to face the window. The city spread out beneath me, lights twinkling like a million tiny lies. Somewhere out there, Harper was hiding. Somewhere, she thought she was safe.
She wasn’t. She belonged to me, and I always, always collected what was mine.
But maybe it was time to diversify. I thumbed the edge of my desk, let the thought turn over in my mind.
Brie Lawson. Harper’s little sister. Same blood, same eyes, same pedigree. I pulled up her file on the secondary monitor, let the images flicker by. She was in Paris, or so the PI claimed. Living under an assumed name, wasting her talents on art and dance instead of anything profitable. I could almost taste the bitterness in her smile, the way she’d crumple the second I put my hand on her shoulder.
I grinned. If I couldn’t have the wolf, I’d settle for the lamb. Maybe even both, if I played it right.
The knock was more of an explosion—three hammer-blows that rattled the door on its hinges and set the glass in the windows humming. A split second later came the smell: sulfur, hot metal, the sharp sting of ozone and scorched plastic. It rolled through the air like a living thing, coating the back of my tongue.
I swore under my breath, straightened my shirt, and opened the door.
Maltraz filled the frame—literally. Seven feet if he was an inch, broad as a lineman, but with the proportions of a nightmare. His skin was iron-gray, hairless, with a polish like slate that caught the light. His eyes were the worst: a pair of red-glowing coals, slit like a cat’s, set deep in sockets lined with black. The irises weren’t circles, but a vertical slice, and if you looked too long, it was like staring into a well that had no bottom.
Tonight he wore a suit from the most expensive tailor in Paris, and he made it look like a Halloween costume. The jacket was obsidian, no vent, the cut so sharp it could take off a finger. The shirt underneath was blood-red, open at the throat to show a lattice of gold chains and two heavy nose rings, both gleaming in the overhead. The horns had been filed down for the occasion—maybe to look less conspicuous, maybe just to fuck with my head.
He smiled, and the teeth behind those lips were rows and rows, shark-style, all white and needle-fine.
“Evening, Mr. Steiner,” he said, and the voice was all silk, every syllable buffed to a mirror shine.
I felt my heart try to crawl up my throat, but I forced it down. “Maltraz. I didn’t expect you so early.”
He stepped into the room. Didn’t ask. Just moved past me, his cologne colliding with the sulfur until the whole office was a chemical soup. The guy could have run a chemistry set out of his pores.
“I had business in town,” he said, glancing at the monitors. “Thought I’d check in on my favorite supplier.”
He settled into my chair, behind my own desk, and stretched his legs out. He didn’t even try to hide the claws—black, shiny, curling out of his fingers like sculpted obsidian. I’d seen what they could do to a human skull, or a reinforced car door. The fact that he could use a cell phone without carving it in half was almost comical.
I took the seat across from him. The table between us felt as useful as a wet tissue.
“Everything is in motion,” I said. “Tonight’s shipment leaves at midnight. Seven packages, all handpicked. The train car’s been spelled by your friend in River Oaks. Should be zero chance of escape or interference.”
