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Tanner merely bit off another bite of donut and walked away, box tucked under his arm, Silver following on his heels.
Loren tiptoed across the rug, being careful not to leave any dirt behind. “Thank you,” she whispered to Mortifer. He peered at her from between two boxes of cereal, a new pile of ice chips already set before him. “Please don’t tell anyone about today. It’s…it’s for Darien’s safety.”
Mortifer used his index finger to draw two letters in the air: O.K.
“Thank you,” she said again.
As soon as Loren was in the bathroom in her old suite, she stripped down and cranked the shower on, turning the temperature as hot as it could go. She scrubbed her hair and body, erasing every trace of the Widow’s habitat, suds splashing the shower floor.
When she was finished, she threw her clothes in her bag, along with the syringes she’d retrieved from the backyard. The scent of the Crossroads made it too risky to leave her clothes here. She blow-dried her hair and dressed in a clean shirt and jeans she found in her dresser, and then she hurried down the hallway to Darien’s suite.
She froze in the doorway.
The giant gilt mirror on the wall beside the bed was smashed. A dusting of glass slivers covered the bed and floor. The curtains had been torn off their rods, nails and screws ripped out of the walls. The dresser drawers had been thrown open, most of their contents draped over the edges. A few clothing items were scattered across the floor, as if hurled by an angry hand.
None of those clothes were hers. Not a single article. All of them were Darien’s, as if he couldn’t bear to look at his things and had debated throwing everything out.
“Oh my god,” Loren whispered, a sound that resembled a sob climbing up her throat. Singer crept out of her shadow without a sound. He ventured into the room on careful paws, bushy tail drooping. Even though Darien wasn’t around to hear her, Loren still found an apology slipping out of her. “I’m so sorry.”
There was no way of telling when he’d done this, no way of telling how many nights he’d spent away from here, all this glass in their bed deeming it unfit to be slept in. The sight of it crushed Loren’s heart. A rush of tears filled her eyes, her throat squeezing tight.
She was going to fix this. Tonight. But there was one thing she needed, and that was one more Life Clock.
Being careful not to step on glass or nails, she hurried into the walk-in closet and threw on one of Darien’s zip-up hoodies, breathing in his scent that lingered in the fabric.
With one last look at the destroyed suite, she grabbed her bags and headed downstairs, phone in hand. She found Klay’s number in her recent conversations and hit CALL.
His stupid, annoying voice scraped through the speaker after the second ring. “What.”
“Tell your father that I am ready. But this time, we play by my rules.”
52
Another dead vampire had turned up in Werewolf Territory. Ripped to shreds, just like the others. Just like Calanthe. Logan was about to lose his mind, and Darien didn’t blame him.
He stood with Logan in the kitchen of his home in the Silverwood District, the tiny room a lot cleaner than the last time he was here. No wolf heart stinking up the sink, no leaning towers of trash bags, no food stuck to the floor.
Logan’s sister Chrysantha was here too. She was staring into space at the kitchen table, arms crossed on the scratched surface, dark hair an unbrushed mess. Chrysantha had hardly said anything since Darien arrived. Darien knew her silence had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the vampire she was in love with. Emilie, who, according to Logan, hadn’t spoken to her in weeks.
“Any ideas?” Logan said. He was leaning against the counter by the stove, large hands wrapped around a mug that said Big Bad Alpha.
“I have a few,” Darien replied. “The most obvious reason I can think of would be…” He inclined his head toward Chrysantha, who didn’t stir or even blink. Her fire-colored eyes were glazed over, the sleeves of her baggie sweatshirt pulled up over her brown fingers.
Logan’s face smoothed with an epiphany. “Chrysantha?”
She looked up at the sound of her voice, blinking rapidly as if waking from a dream.
Darien explained his theory to Logan. “Calanthe only allied with you—with us—to try to find the Well. She was never tolerant of her daughter getting together with a werewolf. My first thought was that these murders have something to do with Emilie and Chrysantha.”
“But Calanthe’s dead,” Logan said. “Didn’t you hear? If she’s dead, then how can she be behind these murders?”
“I believe she was trying to start a war but ended up being killed before she could finish it.” A war to end the werewolves of Angelthene to make sure her beloved daughter would inherit her throne without fighting it—without running away from her responsibilities to be with the werewolf she loved. The plan was abhorrent, but so was Calanthe.
Logan set down his mug, his hands faintly trembling with the threat of the shift. “Who do you think killed her?”
“Her half-son is back in town.”
Two pairs of sun-colored eyes locked on Darien’s face.
