“So we’re not just fighting Darian Morrow,” Dane said, voice low. “We’re fighting a twenty-year-old ghost story.”
“A ghost story that’s killing people again.”
The music hammered through the floor, a relentless bassline that shook my teeth.
“I need to find Thorne’s people,” I said. “Eamon won’t talk. But Thorne mighthave left something behind. A stash. A journal. Someone who remembers.”
“I’ll dig into the pension records,” Dane offered. “Personnel files might be scrubbed, but payroll never forgets. If he has a next of kin—a wife, a sibling—they’ll be on the beneficiary list.”
I nodded, the tension in my neck easing by a fraction. “Do it. If we can find family, we might find the truth.”
Dane leaned back, letting the conversation drop. His gaze lost its tactical edge. “How’s the shoulder holding up?”
I flinched. Dane never missed a thing. It was annoying, that Varkyn sensitivity—like living with a human lie detector.
“It’s fine,” I said, too quickly.
“Selene.”
“I said it’s fine.” I took a long swallow of my drink to break his stare. “Just a muscle spasm. Stress.”
Lies. All lies. The searing ache, the pressure, the way the magic had flared earlier when Riven Ashborne walked into the bullpen—that was a recognition I didn’t understand and definitely didn’t want to discuss.
Dane didn’t press. He just looked at me, those intense eyes reading all the things I refused to say.
“You’re running on fumes,” he said quietly. “And you’re scared.”
“I’m pissed off,” I corrected. “There’s a difference.”
“Not from where I’m sitting.” He finished his drink and set the glass down with a final clink. “I’m on early rotation tomorrow. Wolf patrol at dawn. I need to head out.”
“I get it. Duty calls.”
“Are you staying?”
I glanced towards the bar. The lights were bright, the crowd was loud, the noise was enough to drown out the questions spinning in my head.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think I need to not be a detective for an hour.”
He gave a faint smile, a rare softening of his hard lines. “Just… be careful, Sel. Don’t numb yourself on Eamon’s account. Or anyone else’s.”
“Get out of here, Lennox.”
He turned and disappeared into the crowd, the empty space he left behind feeling suddenly hollow.
I leaned back against the plush velvet, staring at the condensation on my glass. I didn’t want to think about Daniel Thorne. I didn’t want to think about Eamon, or Darian Morrow, or the burning sigil on the victim’s arm. And I definitely didn’t want to think about Riven Ashborne.
I needed a drink. I needed noise. I needed to get out of this booth.
I pushed myself up and headed for the main bar. The lights were brighter here, the crowd louder. I squeezed into a gap at the counter, trying to flag down a bartender who was currently ignoring everyone not waving serious money.
“Lost your way, love?”
The voice cut through the din—warm, light, and wonderfully uncomplicated.
I turned. A man was leaning against the bar next to me. Late twenties, dark hair falling over his forehead, and a smile that crinkled the corners of his light eyes. He defied my usual radar—neither copper nor criminal. He looked like a clean slate. A bright, inviting escape route from the tangled mess of my week.
“Just trying to procure some beverages,” I replied, a small smile touching my lips. “It’s a jungle out here.”
