I turn to him.
“You read rooms well. Trust that.”
“Let’s go.”
Kyle is already out of the car, holding the door. We step out into the night.
The Wax and Wane looks different when you’re not there to die.
Tonight we walk in like we own the appointment.
I follow Maximus past the back wall to the unmarked door. He puts his hand to it and it opens inward.
Low ceilings, exposed brick, wood so dark with age it’s almost black. The lighting is designed to let you see just enough. I know that calibration. Promoters use it in underground venues when they want the crowd to feel the room without being able to count it. Here it’s doing something slightly more serious.
The bar runs the length of the left wall. A woman is behind it.
She looks up the second we clear the threshold. No surprise on her face, no smile either. Mediterranean features, olive skin, dark hair pulled back from a face that’s striking enough to stop a conversation. She moves through the space like it belongs to her.
I’ve seen her before. Those early days I spent here, half-dead and asking the wrong questions, she was behind that bar. I didn’t know who she was then. Now I do. Delia.
The room is quieter than it should be. A few people near the bar have their attention fixed on their drinks. A group in the second booth stopped mid-conversation when we walked in. Near the corridor entrance, four men are standing in a way thatisn’t casual. They’re built like Kael, carry themselves like him, and they’re not pretending to be patrons. Iron Claw, almost certainly.
The corner booth at the rear right runs cold. Not enough to alarm. Enough that my skin catches it before my brain does. Hair on my arms lifts. Two people in that booth. Not moving.
Don’t stare. Keep moving.
Maximus’s hand finds the small of my back. Steady.
Delia comes around the bar.
She stops in front of us, takes me in first, then Maximus. “He’s in the back,” she says. “Room Two.”
She turns toward me slightly. Her eyes move over me, quick and thorough.
Then she nods. Once. Small. And turns toward the corridor.
As she walks ahead of us I watch her move through the room. She doesn’t check on the wolves near the entrance. Doesn’t glance at the corner booth. But the room adjusts around her, subtle as a current. One of the men at the bar shifts his drink three inches to the left as she passes, clearing a line she didn’t ask him to clear.
One of the men near the corridor entrance holds position when we approach. He holds position for exactly two seconds too long, eyes on Maximus, before he steps aside.
Delia leads us down the corridor behind the bar.
Room Two has a table with six chairs around it, solid wood, the surface worn down and scarred. The lighting is functional rather than atmospheric. No windows. The walls are thick enough that the noise from the bar disappears completely.
Erik is already there.
He’s standing at the far end, arms crossed. The white streak in his hair catches the light.
His attention lands on Maximus first. A nod. Brief.
Then me. Not unfriendly.
“Moreau.”
“Erik.”
Delia sets a bottle on the table and pulls the stopper. The smell hits immediately. Alcohol, pine resin, and something sweet underneath I don’t have a name for. Three glasses. She pulls the door closed behind her without a word.
