It was during that infiltration that she noticed something else odd and out of place. Well, not something,but someone.It was just something about the young woman who was wiping down tables and sweeping the floors that struck Nadi as strange.
Nothing about the otherwise nondescript young woman should have stood out to her. She had shoulder-length dark hair. Medium build. Attractive, but nothing memorable. In fact, it was almost as though she had been purpose-chosen toblend in.
As someone who often designed themselves to do exactly that, it was the first thing that Nadi noticed. The second was how the young woman moved. There was just an odd kind of grace in the way she carried herself—subtle, just around the edges, like the hint of an accent that only someone who was from that area could recognize.
The woman wasfae.Or at least from the Wild. There was no question in Nadi’s mind. But was she just a transplant who had come up to the surface to make her way in life, not wholly unlike Nadi herself? Or was there something else going on?
She filed the information into the back of her mind and went about her night. She had work to do. And a single stray child from below was not worth threatening her mission over.
For her second infiltration, Nadi took the form of a vampiric woman she’d seen serving tables—someone with enough authority to move freely through the club but not important enough to attract attention from the management.
This time, she was able to access more of the club’s restricted areas, carrying trays of bloodwine to private rooms where the real business was conducted. In one room, she overheard a conversation about shipping schedules. In another, a heated discussion about “product quality.” But no other leads and no ways to get down into the basement.
It was in the third-floor private dining room that she saw Zabriel Rosov.
Braen’s younger brother was everything the elder wasn’t—where Braen seemed to radiate barely contained aggression and unpredictable energy beneath a veneer of polish and expensive clothes, Zabriel possessed an almost supernatural calm.
He was handsome, with long chestnut-brown hair pulled back into a simple, practical ponytail. A pair of thin-framed glasses sat perched on his nose, which was rare for vampires. His eyes were an amber shade of orange and seemed to gazethrougheverything around him.
Zabriel was attractive, no doubt. But in the way that an oil painting was attractive. Distantly so.
He sat perfectly still at the head of a polished table while a group of well-dressed vampires reported on territorial disputes, his pale amber eyes tracking every speaker with the attention of a predator calculating the precise moment to strike.
“The Nostroms think they can dictate terms from their ivory tower,” one vampire was saying, his voice carrying nervous energy in the face of Zabriel’s silent scrutiny. “But perhaps it’s time we reminded them that old blood doesn’t guarantee continued power.”
Nadi lingered near the door, arranging glasses on her tray while listening to the exchange. Zabriel was younger than Braen by perhaps fifty years in appearance, but there was something unsettling about his stillness—the way he could remain motionless for minutes at a time while others fidgeted under his gaze.
Even older vampires moved instinctively. Even just a little. But not Zabriel.
“What about their new asset?” another vampire asked. “The wife. If the rumors are true, she has some kind of uncommon power. There’s no other reason for the Nostroms to leave her alive?—”
“Rumors. And nothing more.” Zabriel’s quiet voice carried easily despite its soft tone. “The Nostroms have always relied on fear and mystique to maintain their position. Half their supposed power is theatrical nonsense designed to keep the other families in line.” He paused, his fingers drumming onceagainst the table. “But even theater can be dangerous if enough people believe in the performance.”
Interesting. Where others might dismiss her entirely, Zabriel seemed to understand that perception could be as powerful as reality. He was more dangerous than she’d initially assumed.
As the evening wore on, she observed the dynamic between the brothers when they finally occupied the same space. Braen’s subtly aggressive energy filled whatever room he entered, demanding attention through sheer force of personality. But when Zabriel spoke, even Braen listened—not with deference, but with the careful attention of someone who understood that still waters often ran deepest.
And once again, she noticed that young woman from the night before—the one from the Wild. It was hard not to keep an eye on her. But for all that Nadi could see, she was just going about her business and doing her job.
Near the end of her shift, she managed to get close enough to their private table to overhear a more personal exchange.
Braen’s voice was pitched low but carrying the edge of barely controlled hatred. “It’s time we stopped pretending this is about business and reminded them what real power looks like.”
Zabriel leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful rather than eager. “Violence for its own sake is wasteful, brother. If you are insistent that we must move against them, a matter I disagree with, it should be decisive. Complete.” His pale eyes found Braen’s. “Are you prepared for what complete means?”
“I’ve been ready for years.” Braen’s hands clenched into fists on the table briefly. “And I am the eldest. This is my decision to make. The question is whether you’ve finally realized that patience without action is just another word for cowardice.”
Zabriel’s smile was barely visible, but somehow more threatening than any of Braen’s obvious displays of aggression.“I’ve never been accused of cowardice, brother. Only of being thorough.”
The look that passed between them was loaded with a kind of weight that Nadi couldn’t quite decode. But whatever the Rosov brothers were planning, it likely involved Lana’s upcoming wedding—and Nadi didn’t know how she felt about that.
Part of her wanted them all to kill each other in a rain of bullets and bloodshed. The other half of her felt…as though she shouldwarnsomeone. But she still had nothing concrete. No dirt. Nothing she could go back to Raziel with to call the mission a success.
On the next night of reconnaissance, Nadi took the boldest approach yet—replacing the club’s bartender, a position that would give her access to conversations with the elite clientele while they were at their most unguarded.
She’d spent the afternoon watching the real bartender, a new employee who hadn’t been on the job more than a few days, studying his mannerisms and speech patterns. When she approached him after his shift ended, wearing some stranger’s face, offering him enough money to disappear from the job, he’d accepted without asking questions. The metropolis had taught everyone the value of not looking too closely at unexpected opportunities.
The bar at The Poisoned Serpent was positioned at the heart of the main floor, giving her a clear view of nearly every transaction that occurred in the public areas. More importantly, it was where Braen himself came to conduct business when he wanted to be seen doing it.
