Chapter One
JUDE
If there’s anything we can all count on in this life, it’s mycompletefucking inability to follow orders—a condition that’s only gotten worse now that my little scarecrow’s in the mix.
Thankfully, when it comes to my half-baked schemes and Draegan’s oh-so-predictable wrath, Auggie’s got a reliable streak, too: my best mate never lets me go up in flames alone.
“You sure you know what you’re doing?” he says now, passing me a crowbar and glancing around the quiet, tree-lined street in Bayside, Queens.
Not much happening at this hour.
Not yet, anyway.
“Augustine.” I jam the crowbar between the door and the frame, jimmying it until I hear the wood crack. Then, turning to him with a grin, “If self-awareness was a requirement for this job, I’d have been made redundant during the Renaissance. Besides, if Draeganreallywanted us to leave this bastard alone, he would’ve told me to do the opposite. ‘Go after him, Jude. Do your bloody worst.’ Right?”
Auggie runs a hand through his Disney-prince hair and shakes his head. “Your logic. It astounds.”
“Precisely why I’m the one holding the crowbar and you’re carrying the rope. Now, watch your step and keep your eyes open—these shadow mages can be slippery little fucks.”
I push open the door and creep inside, crowbar at the ready. I’m already imagining the wet, satisfying sound it’ll make when I embed it in Conrad Nesterman’s forehead.
Ah, Connie.Also known as Full Metal Jacket.Soonto be known as He Whose Bashed-In Head Adorns the Front Porch Like a Rotting Pumpkin.
Just in time for Halloween season, too. Couldn’t have timed it better myself.
Look, it’s not as if I do these thingsjustto rattle Draegan’s cage, as fun as that old pastime may be. After our initial recon of Nesterman’s house, he asked us to wait before making another move, and I had every intention of doing just that.
But all that waiting… Fuck. It just makes me twitchy. Every minute these bastards are allowed to draw breath is another minute they could be using their few remaining brain cells to hatch a plan to harm Westlyn.
Not on my watch, dickheads.
We came in through the house’s side entrance, and now, with Auggie at my back, we slink through the dark kitchen, our senses immediately assaulted by the fetid stink of old garbage and the sharp tang of cheap weed. Dirty dishes litter every flat surface, and with every step, another roach crunches underfoot.
Another step. Another crunch. A shiver snakes up my spine. I try not to retch.
I fuckinghatebugs.
“Keep it together, lightweight.” Auggie clamps a hand over my shoulder and squeezes, his voice low in the darkness as we make our way out of the dumpster of a kitchen and into the main living area.
More of the same out here, along with some random occult shit scattered around—books, a few Tarot decks, various bottles filled with dark liquid that looks a hell of a lot like blood.
Real home-makers, Connie and his witch-girl, Kelly Obrovski.
No matter. They’re both roasting tonight.
The house is narrow, with nothing more than a hallway leading to a bedroom and bath in the back. From behind the closed bedroom door, a series of muffled grunts cuts through the silence, followed by the unmistakable squeak of bedsprings and the sound of flesh smacking flesh.
“Cheeky,” I whisper. Then, “You ready to start this party?”
Augs nods. “On three?”
“You bet.”
“One—”
I kick down the door in an epic shattering of old wood and cheap veneer.
“Nowthatwas satisfying,” I announce, swinging the crowbar up over my shoulder.
