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“Y-yes.”
He leaned in, getting close enough to make her flatten her back against the wall. “Leave me alone,” he whispered.
Head down, arms now hugging her middle, she inched away, staying as far from him as possible, and scurried down the alley, picking up her backpack as she went.
Roman watched her disappear around the corner—watched her glance over her shoulder at him, her long, thick hair fanning out with the movement.
And then she was gone, the pattering of her feet swallowed up by rain and thunder.
He shook his head. “Yeah, you’re a pup, alright.” She was bold, he had to give her credit for that. But she had no claws—only flippers. The few rumors about Shayla Cousens had proven true, but they’d failed to mention that she had a clever streak.
His boots swished through puddles of mud as he strode over to the canvas bag the Selkie had dropped. He stooped down, thundering rumbling overhead, and picked up the rain-dampened bag. Gods, these things stunk. They were his least favorite monsters to hunt, but they brought in fat pay cheques.
He was about to call it a night when something made him pause.
There was no blood on the canvas. And that tart scent, the one he hadn’t noticed a moment ago, thanks to the Hound’s corpse steaming in the rain—
He undid the drawstrings.
The bag was filled with apples—green ones.
Roman’s scalp prickled.
When he pulled his phone out of his pocket to check the wire transfer, what he saw was so absurd, he couldn’t even feel angry about it.
His account balance had dropped…by exactly three hundred thousand gold mynet.
Roman’s cold laugh scraped against the alley walls. He tipped his head back with a groan, hand raking down his face. “Well, fuck me sideways,” he muttered. “I’ve been played.”
What else did she take? The question shot into his mind like a bolt of lightning—one of those random afterthoughts that usually didn’t deserve an answer.
But his stomach dipped like he was in an elevator.
What else did she take?…
Roman patted his pockets, feeling for his wallet and keys. Both were exactly where they should be.
That dipping feeling came back as his hand flew to the chains he wore around his neck.
One was missing—the most important one. Not the bleeding black skull of Obitus, the pendant she had feigned interest in at the nightclub.
The pendant she had feigned interest in while she’d taken the time to inspect the piece of jewelry that had really caught her eye.
His face hardened into stone.
She was good. Too good.
A female voice spoke from within Roman’s shadow. This is what happens when you let a pair of big goo-goo eyes distract you, Sayagul, his dragon Familiar, accused with a squawk and a hiss.
He hurled the bag into the shadows. It cracked against the wall, apples rolling out in pieces. Damn rights, he’d been played.
Roman groaned again, his hands squeezing into fists so tight his knuckles popped. “This isn’t funny anymore,” he growled.
4
The Hospital
ANGELTHENE, STATE OF WITHEREDGE
