“You should,” I agree.
“But I’m not going to.”
“Why not?”
She’s quiet for so long I think she might have fallen asleep. Then: “Because whatever you’re hiding, it doesn’t change theway you talk to me. Like I’m interesting. Like what I say matters.”
“It does matter.”
“I know. That’s the problem.” Another pause. “I’m going to sleep now. For real this time.”
“Sleep well, Poppy.”
“Julian?”
“Yes?”
“I’m glad you took this job. Even if you’re mysterious and infuriating and probably hiding something massive.”
“I’m glad, too.”
She hangs up.
I think about how easily she could destroy me.
Not with silver or sunlight or any of the old legends.
Just by leaving.
Wednesday morning, I board my private jet back to Los Angeles.
I land at 4 PM local time. Sunset arrives in roughly an hour, so I devise some pretext to remain within the aircraft in the hangar. Marcus meets me at the airport with updates I barely hear.
“The Hartwell meeting has been rescheduled to next month. They weren’t happy.”
“They’ll survive.”
“The Council sent a status check.”
“Good.”
“Someone has been running background checks on you. Deep searches. The kind that cost money.”
That gets my attention. “Who?”
“We’re not sure yet. The queries came through multiple proxies. European origin, possibly. Or made to look that way.”
“Damien?”
Marcus hesitates. “It’s possible. The pattern matches his style. Patient. Thorough.”
I close my eyes. Of course. Of course he would surface now, when I’m finally letting myself want something.
“Increase monitoring on all my identities. And run a check on Poppy Gable—make sure no one’s been looking at her.”
“Already done. She’s clean. No unusual interest.”
“Keep it that way.”
