The second car pulls in behind us and stops. Doors open. I don’t have to turn to know who’s where. Wraith’s weight is a dark wall to my left before I’ve even taken a step. Saint is a cool presence just behind my shoulder. Vale’s energy hits the air like static a few feet off — lazy, lethal. Ash is quieter than all of them, but I feel him anyway, like a camera shutter at the edge of my awareness.
No one talks. They don’t have to.
We go inside, and the foyer opens like a cathedral carved into a manor. Black marble floor veined with gold. High vaulted ceiling with ribbed stone and chandeliers held in wrought-iron cages. Firelight from somewhere deeper throws a living glow across polished banisters and a long runner of Persian red that cuts through the dark like an artery.
It smells like cedar smoke, whiskey, cold stone, and something older — incense and gun oil and heat.
Everything in my body is telling me this is not casual. This is…ritual.
Rook leads me down the main hall.
Dozens of masks line the walls, mounted in black shadow boxes and lit from beneath—bone-white, obsidian-black, gold-filigreed, horned, carved, cracked, spiked. The air hums with them. History, violence, loyalty. Oaths I haven’t heard but canfeel anyway. I pass an onyx mask with fanned steel horns and think—Vale. A white porcelain mask split clean down the center and mended with gold fill—Ash. A silver mask marked with a cross, the edges polished to a mirror’s gleam—Saint.
And at the far end — a black crown with a chainmail netting.
Not a symbol. A threat.
Rook’s.
We stop in a room that looks like it shouldn’t exist anywhere except in churches or in stories men die trying to get into.
It’s long and vaulted like a nave, but not cold. The stone walls are lined with heavy velvet drapes in deep green and wine red. Candelabras burn along the perimeter, flames licking up from black iron. There’s a fireplace big enough to step into at the far end, and it’s lit, throwing gold over everything. The floor is dark wood, scarred, lived-in. There’s a long polished table pushed back to the side like it’s been cleared for this.
Waiting on that table are five boxes. All different, but all tugging at my attention.
My mouth goes dry.
Rook turns to face me. The others spread, forming a half-circle around us, all of them watching me, all of them in their own version of formal — not suits, not uniforms, but sharpened. Wraith in fitted black and rolled sleeves, ink at his throat like ritual markings. Saint in charcoal, collar open, rosary chain gleaming against tanned skin. Vale in black on black, tattoos crawling out from under cuff and collar like scripture losing its patience. Ash in obsidian, sleeves pushed to his forearms, rings glinting at his knuckles like tiny knives. Rook in dark charcoal and authority.
My heart is hammering in my chest and I’m sure I’m going to pass out.
I swallow. “What is this?”
Rook steps in close, but not touching. He doesn’t crowd. He presents.
“This,” he says, voice low enough that it hums through my bones, “is us telling you the truth.”
I don’t breathe.
Saint moves first.
He approaches me slowly, like I’m something that might spook. His eyes — that cold, impossible blue — hold mine. He’s beautiful in the way old sins are beautiful, all sharp lines and ruined faith, and when he reaches into one of the boxes and lifts something out, he does it like an offering at an altar.
“Ember,” he says softly. His voice always sounds like confession. “My name is Nikolai Drax.”
My chest tightens. He’s never said that to me. Not once.
“It was,” he corrects quietly, like he heard the thought. “Before I fell out of God’s good graces. Before I traded blessing for import routes.” A wry curve touches his mouth, almost a smile. “You can call me Saint. Or Nikolai. You can call me anything and I’ll answer.”
He holds something out. It’s a rosary. But not a church rosary. The beads are matte obsidian, cool and dark and heavy-looking. The chain is gunmetal instead of silver. The cross isn’t a cross at all but a tiny, perfect dagger. There’s a smear of crimson in one groove of the metal. Dried. Old.
“For protection,” he murmurs. “Not salvation. I’m not arrogant enough to offer something I can’t give you.”
My throat goes tight. I lift my hand. He sets the rosary into my palm, then closes my fingers around it with both of his, like sealing a vow.
He leans in, just enough for the words to be for me and me alone. “Little lamb,” he whispers, voice gone rough, “you ever call for me and I will stain the Thames red.”
Heat licks down my spine, and I draw in a ragged breath. Saint steps back, head bowed for a heartbeat like he’s praying to a god who isn’t listening anymore.
