Not flicker.
Not dim.
They cut out completely, dropping the basement into thick darkness.
A beat of silence stretches. It’s the kind that makes every man with a gun go very still.
I hear a sharp inhale from one of the guards. A soft curse. And then I hear it. A bird whistle. It’s faint, and sounds like a fast, high-pitched sequence of sharp, tinkling notes. It’s only for me to hear.
Lark.
Viktor doesn’t sound surprised. He soundspleased. In the dark, his voice lowers into something almost reverent. “Ah,” he murmurs. His footsteps retreat a half step. Like he’s making space for the show. “They’re here.”
My heart slams against my ribs. Because he thinks he’s about to catch Maddox in his net. Because this is his stage. Because he believes he’s in control. And because somewhere in this building— there’s a chaos girl with combat boots and a bat who doesn’t know the meaning ofstay put.
I close my eyes.
Breathe once.
And pray the darkness belongs to us.
TWENTY-TWO
BIRDIE WITH A BAT
LARK
The thing about people who underestimate me is that they do it loudly. They do it with smirks and assumptions and the kind of swagger that makes my batitchin my hands.
And tonight?
The Monarch is full of men who think they’re the apex predators.
I’m about to ruin their entire self-esteem.
The back alley is darker than it should be, which tells me the blackout wasn’t an accident. Someone cut power to create confusion. That someone is probably Dean’s team because nobody does chaos this clean unless they’ve got a playbook and a grudge.
BRAVO is on the way.
I know that.
Arrow told me to wait.
I also know this: Knight’s in that building. And if I wait, my patience will spontaneously combust into a felony.
I slide my mask on and grip my bat. Then I move.
The service entrance door yields with a soft click. The hallway beyond is shadowed and quiet, the bass from upstairs muted like it’s trapped behind velvet and ego. A guard turns the corner with a flashlight. I press into the wall and let the darkness hold me. He sweeps the beam across the floor. Across the pipes. Across the closed doors. Then he steps closer, squinting into the dark—because men with guns always believe the dark is afraid ofthem.
I swing once. A clean arc. The bat kisses the side of his head with a dull, controlled impact.
He goes down without a sound. I catch his body before it hits the floor. Drag him into a maintenance alcove.
Breathe.
Keep moving.
A second guard is posted near the stairwell door. He’s bigger. Wider stance. Smarter eyes. But he’s bored. Bored is a gift.
