With a deep sigh, he points at the back of the door where a dark gray suit jacket hangs. “Pass me that jacket, if you don’t mind.”
I yank it off the hook, give it a thorough search, then toss it at him. He stands and puts it on. Straightens his tie. Removes his wedding band and watch, wallet, phone, keys. Sits back down and smooths back his white hair.
“I suppose you’re going to kill me now,” he says plainly.
Draegan nods—a single, solemn thing—and for the first time in all these long millennia, I see the burden he carries.
For Draegan, there is no pleasure in killing. None of Jude’s sick fascination. None of the adrenaline rush I usually feel, or Rook’s morbid curiosity about a man’s final words.
Draegan kills because he must. Just like he did when we were humans fighting for our homeland. Our friends.
That war against Wintermoon… All the things we lost… Fuck, it changed us all in so many ways.
But at his core, Draegan is and will always remain good. Will always have that innate sense of right and wrong that first drove him to fight for us, to lead us onto those bloody battlefields, to offer himself up to the dark fae king who would only ever seek to manipulate and hurt.
It’s the same sense of right and wrong that drives him to protect Westlyn even as he resists the deeper connection I know he feels.
The love.
Draegan wraps his hand around the gun. Takes aim.
I reach for my phone. Pull up the camera. Focus.
I don’t know why I compose the shot. Perhaps it’s because this rare glimpse of Drae’s humanity gives me hope that some indelible part of us still lives. Perhaps I need the reminder that the four of uswerehuman once, and that somewhere deep down—beneath the glamours we were forced to adopt to hide the gargoyles we were forced to become—we still are.
“For Westlyn Avery,” Drae whispers.
“For Westlyn Avery,” I repeat.
I click the shutter button.
Snap.
Draegan pulls the trigger.
Bang.
Blood and brains splatter the wall, and Drae and I watch in silence for a long moment as the gore slides down in dark rivulets, soaking into the edge of the carpet. It matches Klaiburn’s suit coat, I realize. Dark gray. The carpet, the suit, the walls, his eyes.
Wordlessly, we gather up the valuables Klaiburn left on the desk, along with a laptop and tablet, leaving the bulkier desktop computer behind.
We also take a couple of small external hard drives, a box of thumb drives from the desk drawer, and two file boxes filled with old-school handwritten ledgers.
When the detectives sent to investigate the murder discover the missing files, they’ll know whoever did this knew about Klaiburn’s shady dealings. Most of them are on the take, their bosses members of the clubs. The missing files will send a clear message.
Push this too far, and your skeletons will be revealed as well.
The missing property—the valuable stuff—will give them an easy out.
Robbery gone bad. Case closed. Locks on closet doors intact, keeping those skeletons at bay.
For now.
Chapter Twenty-Six
WESTLYN
Another nightmare. Another night waking up with the sunset to find myself drenched in sweat, the claws of dark dream-enemies slowly receding.
