Chapter One
It might’ve been the cold, or maybe prison, squirming ghostlike at the edge of his mind, but Alex just kept shivering, wedged behind a tree, eyes fixed on the house. He held his breath. Waited.
The place was clear.
All that was left was to sneak back in and find his wallet. His golden ticket. The only way he might be able to scrape even halfway free of this mess.
Well. Not free. Not really. He still had Drew’s death on his hands.
He’d killed a guy.
No one could undo that.
It was a fact stamped on his bones now, making him nauseous if he let it slip into the foreground.
“I’m a killer,” he whispered, seconds away from vomiting. So you can leave more DNA at the crime scene?
Alex hunched, staying tight behind the trees, scanning the yard again. Nobody. He crept out of the bushes, snagged a foot on a root—almost went flying, but didn’t—and then hurried for the crummy rental with its peeling paint, the place he’d been lured to like a mouse to a trap.
Lured. There was no other word for it.
If he could get his wallet back, maybe he’d never have to see what the inside of a prison cell looked like.
Pro: No prison jumpsuit. No humans finding out he wasn’t.
Con: Valcore would drag things out, make it slow for Alex, before finishing the job. And Alex knew he would. He wasn’t kidding himself. The demon wouldn’t hesitate to end him.
Refocus. Double-check the world outside. Nothing. No one. It’s time. But he hesitated.
Don’t think about how easy it is for people to disappear in the mountains. Just get the wallet. Get out.
“I’m so fucked.”
Drew, the charming bastard, had lured Alex there. Every detail—the location, the timing, the suggestion they meet up—it had all been about tying up loose ends, about offing Alex like an epic finale. Alex had been milliseconds away from tasting death.
With a thudding pulse, he darted for the front door, trying to slip beneath the arc of the porch light, sticking to every shadow. He was lucky. Night had fallen, so he didn’t have to hide out in the soggy woods for hours.
If only he could shift. But the magic collar around his neck prevented his bunny from getting free.
He grabbed the doorknob. Locked. Of course it was locked. What genius expected an open door after fleeing a murder scene? He pictured the cops in there, securing the scene, finding the wallet, maybe even taking bets on whether he was even alive or on the lam.
Alex held onto hope anyway.
That, inside, some miraculous stroke of luck was waiting for him. But nope. Absolutely not. How would he find hope if he couldn’t even get inside?
Glancing around, he made sure nobody was watching then slipped along the edge of the house, pebbles crunching underfoot like brittle bones.
Will you stop thinking about death?
Damn it! The bedroom window—the same escape route he’d used before, was locked tight. Now all he had left was the slap of humiliation and the creeping edge of panic.
No wallet.
No cash.
No friends.
Just the cold and that gnawing ache in his stomach.
