Worse, being out here so close to all these humans and supernaturals… Well, I have to clamp down hard on my Fury nature, focusing only on the task at hand. My sisters promise me that if any other situation occurs that requires our vengeance, they will handle it.
While my Fury nature gives me patience, by the fourteenth night of surveillance, I’m becoming concerned that the woman in the park led me astray.
I couldn’t tell at the time if she was speaking the truth, and now I wonder if she misdirected me. Perhaps even sent me far away from the bones so she could take control of them herself. I was convinced of her sincerity when she said she would never seize that kind of power, but now…
I fear I’ve been fooled.
Damn.
I’m preparing to abandon the Tavern and join my sisters, preparing to rethink my approach and to recalibrate, when a familiar scent makes me freeze.
Cedarwood and balsam.
Suddenly, within my mind, I’m transported back to a moment when I’d wrapped myself in that intoxicatingly wild scent.
I’d stolen Striker’s blanket after he gave me blood and saved my life, a process that left me shaken and not only because of how close I’d come to death.
The impact of his blood shooting around my body had scorched my senses, sending tingles throughout my body and into my core.
Afterward, I’d taken his blanket with me back to my room, where I’d huddled in a corner and wrapped myself in the warm material.
His scent was all over that blanket, enveloping me as I slept, embedding itself into my heart and mind.
I breathe out. Open my eyes. Regain my footing and focus.
These memories should not have power in my life any longer.
Taking care to move slowly, I peer around the corner of the alley, seeking the source of the scent.
Just in time to catch sight of the back of a man in a suit who is stepping through the tavern door.
I tell myself it can’t be Striker.
Not least because I can’t think why he would be here, among human gangsters. Also, because the brief glimpse I caught of this man’s profile indicated he’s far too immaculately groomed, and his clothing is too expensively tailored for him to be Striker.
Striker donned himself in sweatpants and T-shirts, many stained with blood.
Striker radiated with fury and violence.
Striker was hellish. Not groomed and quiet. Not calm and in control.
Somehow, I’ve taken a step out from the darkness and into the light, a sort of instinctive reaction, and I don’t stop myself in time to avoid the street light, standing right at the edge of it.
My mind whirls at breakneck speed.
If it’s Striker, then I need to know what he’s doing here. How he could be embroiled with the entity.
If it’s Striker…
Who destroyed one of the bones that the entity is apparently seeking… the bones that Vanguard is trying to find…
Then I can’t walk away.
I need answers.
And yet, I wasn’t prepared to waltz into this tavern under the glare of bright lights. I planned to study James Vanguard’s movements—to carefully calculate the best way to restrain and question him. If there were a fight, I was determined it would happen in the shadows, not within the bright lights of this tavern.
The only way I can walk into the Tavern without immediately ruffling feathers is if I masquerade as a patron. But I came here dressed for battle, wearing my full-body assassin’s suit.
