Page 34 of The Devil

With my hand at her back, I escort her to the exit. One of my men opens the door and sure as fuck, the weather hasn’t let up. If anything, it’s worse.

“Why are you in Edinburgh anyway?” I ask, pulling the hood of her cloak over her head.

“Too cold for you?” she asks, glancing up at me. With the dark sky behind her, she looks otherworldly. It’s this place. This gothic city that time forgot.

“Too wet. Christ, this makes Devil’s Peak look balmy.”

We hurry down the stairs. Malcom opens the back door of the SUV, and I help Amal in before climbing in beside her. Once we’re settled, Malcom walks to the driver’s side, his hair almost completely soaked by the time he’s inside.

“Hotel?” he asks.

“No. 8A Forth Street.”

Amal’s gaze snaps to mine. “My apartment?”

“We need to get your things.”

“How did you know where I was staying?”

“You’d be surprised the things I know about you.”

“What you said that there was someone else?” she asks, ignoring my comment. “Is that true?”

I nod. She doesn’t need to know the specifics. “Why didn’t you tell me about the threats you were getting?”

She looks surprised. “How did you find out?”

“Pulling phone logs isn’t hard, Amal.” My guess is she has a burner phone to call her brother with, or I’d have been here sooner.

“I’ve handled myself just fine. Those threats weren’t anything new.”

“No, I got that last part. But coming here alone gave at least one asshole an opening.”

“No one should have been able to track me. I made sure.”

“Guess you didn’t make sure enough.”

“Who was it?”

“No one important. Some muscle man. Low ranking. An errand boy.”

“You’re not lying to me, are you?”

“Why would I lie to you?”

“To scare me.”

“I think you’re plenty scared already.”

Although I expect her to deny it, she doesn’t.

“Want me to check the place, Jet?” Malcom asks as we turn the corner onto her street and he pulls into a parking spot a few houses down. Amal’s been renting a small apartment a little way out of the center of town.

“No, I got it. Get the boys a couple of those. And me too, will you?” I ask Malcom gesturing to the bakery down the street that makes cardamom buns, the more refined, more delicious big sister of the cinnamon bun.

“Thought you’d never ask,” Malcom chuckles.

“You want one?” I ask Amal. “They’re good.”