Even as a human, I’d been around supes long enough to recognize the traits of the people they feared. Ashy white hair and golden-pink eyes… That only meant one group.
The Syndicate.
Their names moved through conversations in lowered tones. Voices would dip mid-sentence if one of their cars drove past. Bartenders went quiet when certain last names were mentioned. Favors were called in quickly, and debts settled faster. No one laughed too loudly when the topic drifted their way.
Respect wasn’t declared by the Syndicate; it was demonstrated.
Businesses that crossed them shuttered within a week. Crews that refused their terms disappeared from the streets. Once, a body had been found at the edge of the river with a Syndicate symbol magically carved into its chest. No official claim or no public statement was made about it, but everyone understood what it meant. They’d crossed the wrong family.
Supes could outlive humans ten times over, but they guarded their immortality fiercely. They fortified it with contracts, alliances, and territory.
And the Syndicate stood at the center of it all, collecting tribute in one form or another.
Peace in the district came with a price tag, and that was paid to Calix Winstale.
The biker cut his engine and kicked down the stand in one smooth motion. The metallic snap echoed across the floor. He removed his gloves but left the helmet on, boots striking the concrete as he crossed to Calix.
Up close, both men were built from disciplined muscle and inked skin. Sleeves of tattoos crept up forearms and disappeared beneath fitted shirts.
Around them, the crowd shifted, bodies angled inward. Drinks were set aside. A pair of fae women adjusted their hair and drifted closer, laughter sharpening at the edges. A werewolf cracked his neck and stepped just far enough forward to be noticed without intruding. My instincts were throwing out warning signs.
I stepped back. One pace. Then another.
Calix tilted his head at something the biker said and let out a short chuckle, shoulders rising in a lazy shrug as he rolled his eyes. He didn’t rush. Didn’t posture. He simply pushed off the hood of his car and walked.
The crowd parted ahead of him without being asked.
Off to the side of the concrete dance floor, a single red velvet booth waited, roped off with subtle gold stanchions, looking out of place for the location. No one had dared sit there. As Calix approached, a werewolf who had been leaning against the railing vacated the space immediately, head dipping in acknowledgment.
The biker followed and stood behind Calix, looking out at the space, while Calix’s head was buried in his phone.
“Shit,” Nathan muttered under his breath.
Lark stilled beside him, her earlier bounce softening as she tracked the movement toward the booth. A few dancers near the DJ booth stole glances in that direction before resuming, their movements more restrained, more aware of who was nearby.
I patted Nathan’s shoulder and pointed toward the velvet corner where bodies were already orbiting inward. Stunning women were already vying for his attention.
“Don’t worry,” I said, trying to calm my own heart, but my eyes kept glancing toward the other side, toward the vibrating engines and chrome accents. Even with the underlying caution I felt around supes, something deep inside of me wanted to risk it all for just a glance at that magic I’d never have. “No one’s scanning the room for us.”
Two human girls in a warehouse full of claws, fangs, and wings weren’t exactly headline material tonight.
“I’ll be extra careful.” I crossed a finger over my heart for effect. “Promise.”
Lark winked and tugged Nathan toward the dance floor. He resisted half a second longer before allowing himself to be pulled, though his gaze flicked back toward me more than once.
“I can’t stop the Syndicate,” he murmured low enough that only we heard it. No one could, so I smiled and shooed him off anyway.
Before disappearing into the press of bodies, he turned once more. “Call my name if you need me. We’ll come running.”
I gave him a mock salute. “Yes, boss.”
He rolled his eyes, a smile peeking out under the concern. “As if I’m ever in charge of you two,” he teased, then they were swallowed by flashing lights and moving limbs.
With them gone, I quickly drifted toward the rows of cars, letting the noise blur into background static.
Chrome caught the neon glow overhead. Candy-painted hoods reflected streaks of purple and blue. Some vehicles sat pristine and closed, paint polished to mirror shine. Others had their guts exposed, hoods propped up, engine bays illuminated by portable work lights.
Owners hovered nearby, hands braced on fenders, explaining modifications to anyone who would listen. Mages in fitted jackets traced sigils along metal parts, enhancing them on the spot. Mechanics wiped grease-streaked hands on shop rags, arguing about torque and airflow.
