Wren pours Blue’s coffee with the careful attention of someone who’s witnessed awkward morning-afters before. “Eggs Benedict this morning, dear?”
“Perfect,” I manage.
She disappears into the kitchen, leaving Blue and me alone with our newspapers and coffee cups and the weight of last night hanging between us like expensive perfume.
“Sleep well?” Blue asks finally.
“Fine.” I take a sip of coffee, savoring the way it burns down my throat. “You?”
“Well enough.”
We eat breakfast like civilized people discussing civilized things. Blue mentions the weather forecast. I ask if Dame Gothel enjoyed herself last night. He mentions how impressed Elliott was with the floral arrangements. We discuss the band’s performance, and Blue tells me that Maya asked if I’d consider singing at the autumn art show. Surface-level conversation that skips over the fact that I spent half the night replaying that kiss, and the other half wondering what it would feel like to watch someone die by my own hand.
But underneath the polite chatter, there’s electricity. Every time Blue looks at me, I remember the way his mouth felt against mine. Every time I reach for my coffee cup, I think about his hands arranging flowers in a dead man’s chest cavity, turning murder into dinner décor.
Every time our eyes meet, I catch something that looks like guilt flickering across his features, like he’s already regretting what he’s about to teach me.
Finally, Blue sets down his napkin and checks his pocket watch. “There’s something I want to show you.”
“Oh?”
“Something you asked for last night.”
He leads me through the house to a door I haven’t noticed before, heavy and dark and tucked beneath the grand staircase. When he opens it, stone steps disappear into shadow.
“Basement,” he says, flicking on lights. “Time for that lesson you wanted.”
He pauses at the top of the stairs, his hand on the light switch. “Saylor... there’s no shame in changing your mind. You’re still so young, still—”
“I’m not changing my mind,” I interrupt, though something in his tone makes my stomach flutter with nerves I wasn’t expecting.
I follow him down the worn stone steps, the sound of my footsteps bouncing off the narrow walls. The air grows cooler with each step, carrying scents of earth and something metallic that makes my stomach uneasy.
At the bottom, Blue opens another door, and I step into what can only be described as a gentleman’s torture chamber.
The space is larger than I expected, with stone walls that arch overhead and wine racks lining the far wall. But it’s the center of the room that makes my breath catch.
A man sits tied to a chair, duct tape over his mouth, dark hair falling across his forehead. He’s maybe thirty, with the lean build of someone who knows how to run fast and fight dirty. When he sees me, his eyes widen with the particular alarm of someone realizing his day just got significantly worse.
“Julian Crow,” Blue says conversationally. “One half of the Shadow Twins assassination team. He was kind enough to volunteer for today’s demonstration.”
“Julian Crow,” I repeat, frowning. “Why do they all have the same last name? Is it like... a family thing?”
Blue’s expression darkens slightly. “The Crow isn’t just what they do. It’s who they are. When you join them, you take the name. Julian Crow, Victor Crow, Leroy Crow. You become part of the murder of crows, literally.”
“Murder of crows,” I say, the phrase clicking. “That’s poetic.”
“Brutus thought so.” Blue’s voice carries an edge. “It’s also practical. Makes them harder to track when everyone shares the same last name.”
Julian makes muffled sounds of protest behind his gag.
“I know, I know,” Blue continues. “You didn’t technically volunteer this demonstration. But you did hold the knife that slit Peter’s throat while your partner carved his initials into his chest. You laughed while he bled out, Julian. You filmed it for Brutus. That makes this educational opportunity well-deserved.”
My stomach does a little flip at the casual mention of Dad’s name,but it’s not nausea. It’s something darker, hungrier. This is one of them. One of the men from my list—the tall one with the snake tattoo curling up his neck who wouldn’t stop laughing while they killed my father.
Blue moves to a table covered with black cloth. When he pulls it away, I see an array of knives that could have come from a serial killer’s wet dream. Each blade is polished to mirror brightness, arranged with the same care Wren uses for formal dinner settings.
“I thought you might prefer something easier to handle than my axe,” Blue explains, running his finger along the edge of a particularly wicked-looking dagger. “These are designed for finesse rather than brute force.”
