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The corpse had been torn apart, as if by claws, another sign that didn’t work in Logan’s favor. If the autopsy revealed that the death was indeed caused by a werewolf, hundreds—if not thousands—of lives would be lost when Calanthe decided to send her people into the Silverwood District to retaliate.
Darien’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He scrambled to get it out, holding out hope that if it wasn’t Loren calling him, then maybe it would at least be Logan. But he wasn’t the least bit surprised to find neither of their names flashing across the screen.
With a grinding of his teeth, he swiped to answer. “Cassel,” he said, trying his best not to sound as disappointed as he felt.
“Route’s underway,” came Sylvan’s gravelly voice. “Shipment’s been picked up. We’re tailing them now.”
“Good. Don’t let them out of your sight.” Darien didn’t trust Randal’s men. After selecting two of his best options from his pool of shit to run the route tonight, he’d told Malakai to get Sylvan and Valen to keep an eye on them to make sure everything went smoothly.
“Malakai called,” Sylvan said. “He wants to know where we go from here.”
“We meet at the Advocate tomorrow night. Eleven p.m. Tell him I’ll pick him up.”
“Will do.”
“Don’t blink,” Darien said in a hard voice. He hung up.
Finn was eyeing him. “All good?”
“So far.”
Once this route was completed, he would be one step closer to fixing his trainwreck of a life and bringing Loren back home.
At least, that was what he told himself.
32
When Maximus woke up in one of the spare bedrooms at Death’s Landing, he found that Dallas was no longer sprawled across the mattress beside him.
Moon and starlight streamed in through the bare windows and glass ceiling, and far off in the distance and down below, buildings twinkled with thousands of lights, a few cars that dared to be out this late streaming through Angelthene’s downtown core. Vampire silhouettes soared over skyscrapers and blotted out a barely-there moon. The rain speckling the roof and windows suggested yet another storm had passed.
He and the others had decided to stay the night here when Tanner’s attempts at getting into the Fleet database had taken longer than anyone anticipated, and sunset had bled into heavy night. Everyone was currently fast asleep. Everyone except Tanner, and now Max.
And presumably Dallas, wherever she had gone.
The bed groaned as Max rolled and stood, plush carpet sinking beneath his feet. Wearing only his boxers, he slid open the pocket door, keeping the lights off as he lumbered down the hallway.
All of Death’s Landing was dark and silent, save the clacking of keys drifting from the office, where the soft glow of a computer screen fell through the open doorway.
When he made it to the kitchen, he bumped into Dallas, the glass of water she was holding spilling down the front of her shirt.
“Watch it,” she hissed.
“What are you doing up?”
She shook her hair out of her face and peered up at him. “I couldn’t sleep.” That came as no surprise to him; Dallas was having trouble sleeping these days. Her parents pushed her to her limits with her classes and training, so he often woke up in the night when she slept at Hell’s Gate to find her downstairs doing homework.
This had gone on long enough.
She was lifting the glass to her mouth when he snatched it out of her hand and set it on the counter.
“Hey!” she protested.
He bent and picked her up by the thighs, throwing her over his shoulder, her red hair tumbling down his back.
“Max!” she hissed. “What are you doing?”
“You need to sleep.”
