Page 10 of Guardian

“May I?” Logan reached past her to pick up one of the drawings.

“Do you draw too?”

He set down the glass of water. “A bit,” he lied and reached for the next drawing in the stack. “Expressionism? Realism? What are you drawing?”

Another shrug. “Just things that come into my head.”

She spread the stack, drawing Logan’s attention to one sheet with a black circle surrounded by a swirling mass of fog or smoke. Inside the circle were dots of green, neon green. He looked closer. Demon eyes. Winter had visions of the demons.

“This looks interesting. What is it?” he asked, though he knew it for what it was: a demon’s vortex. A portal a demon cast in order to travel from the Underworld to the mortal world.

“Just some lights in the fog,” Winter said casually, too casually. She was afraid of the image. Her hand shook as she shoved the picture underneath another one, bringing a different drawing into the foreground.

Logan’s eyes fell on it. He held his breath. It wasn’t another vortex, it was something much more important—that is, if he was interpreting it right. “What is this?”

“Oh, tunnels, underground tunnels. Like a maze,” she replied, her voice scratchy now. She reached for the glass.

He bent over the table. It was a map. A map of the Underworld. He knew it instinctively. Virginia and Wesley, the only two non-demons who’d ever entered the Underworld and escaped it alive, had reported that the demons’ lair was a maze of interconnected tunnels, but they’d only seen a small part of it and hadn’t been able to bring a permanent record of it back. But this, Winter’s drawing, seemed much more extensive, maybe even complete.

Winter didn’t just have visions of the Stealth Guardians and their fortifications, she also saw demons and was able to draw their lair. She was valuable beyond all comprehension. If her visions could be focused, the Stealth Guardians would have a powerful ace up their sleeve.

A movement in the corner of his eye made him snap his head to the side.

Winter was bringing the glass to her lips, about to drink the poisoned water.

Shit!

He shot his arm across the table in front of Winter as if trying to reach for something and stumbled on purpose so he crashed against her. The fake fall knocked the glass out of Winter’s hand. It fell to the floor and shattered there, the water spilling on the wood floor where the poison could do no harm.

Winter let out a gasp and braced herself against the edge of the table.

Relieved, he exhaled. Nobody would be drinking poison today.

“Oh, so sorry,” he apologized to Winter. “I’m such a klutz sometimes. But I got so excited about these drawings. I think you’re wrong about not being good.” He was babbling, but he had to make her think that he was a hapless idiot so she wouldn’t suspect what he’d been about to do: snuff out her life.

Change of plans. Winter needed to be protected. At all costs.

And in order to do that he needed to gain her confidence.