Page 193 of What We Burn

Black stone. Low lighting. No buttons beyond the single illuminated mark under the scanner. Milo has spent six months trying to hack this thing and complaining that the security system has developed a personal vendetta against him.

The doors close and carry me above the club.

I’ve been working out of Unholy Desires for years. I know its entrances, service corridors, camera angles, and private rooms. I know which walls are structural, which doors hide storage, and exactly how quickly Knox can empty the main floor if a member becomes a problem.

I’ve never been up here.

The top floor is quiet enough that the bass becomes a pulse under my shoes. Dark timber divides the open space into smaller rooms. Amber light catches polished concrete, old leather, and a wall of glass overlooking the water. The club downstairs is designed to be watched. This place was built for people who don’t need an audience.

Odin is in an armchair beside the fire. His dark hair has a silver thread at the temple and is swept back, not a strand out of place even at this hour. He’s in a waistcoat over a white dress shirt, the sleeves buttoned at his wrists. Instead of the prosthetic he usually wears, a black patch covers his missing eye. It makes his one real eye look sharper by contrast. He has a tumbler of something dark in his hand that he’s holding but not drinking. Some things never change.

Two women sit opposite him, each with a leather briefcase at her feet and a folder open across her lap. The younger one is in a black suit, posture rigid, pen poised over a legal pad. The older woman beside her has silver threaded through her dark hair and a look about her that says she’s accustomed to delivering consequences to powerful men.

Thor is on the sofa. He takes up most of it. The man is enormous—six-five at least, hands like shovels, blond. I do what I do with anyone that size, check where his weight is, what’s within his reach, how many steps he’d need to close the distance to the elevator. The answers all come back wrong-side-of-comfortable. He’s barefoot, one ankle crossed over his knee. There’s a glass of red wine on the table beside him and a book face down on the armrest—it’s a thick hardcover, no dust jacket. He looks mildly annoyed by my interruption of his reading.

Loki is at the bar. He’s Thor’s opposite in build—lean and angular, with dark blond curls, cheekbones that could cut glass, and a mouth permanently poised at the edge of a smirk. A pearl glints at one ear. His lavender paisley shirt is open at the throat, the sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows over black trousers. The confidence sells it. You’d never make him for a threat. He’s mixing a drink and doesn’t look up when I enter. He doesn’t need to. Loki always knows who’s in the room.

“Am I interrupting?”

“No.” Odin pushes to his full height. “They were just leaving.”

Both women exchange a glance before packing up their things and standing.

“Remember what I said,” the older woman says, her attention on Odin. “This isn’t something you can talk or buy yourself out of.”

“I understand, Evelyn. Thank you. Do you need an escort out?”

“We know the way.”

They brush past me without another glance, briefcases swinging at their sides. The elevator opens behind me, swallows them, and closes again.

“Something we need to worry about?” I ask.

“Nothing that concerns you or the others.” Odin takes his seat and gestures for me to do the same. “What can I do for you, Holden?”

I stay standing. “We have a situation.”

He reads my face in one sweep. Whatever he sees there makes him lean forward.

Thor closes his book and sets it on the armrest. Loki brings his drink over from the bar and drops into the chair opposite him.

Odin looks at me. “Go on.”

“Sage went solo tonight.”

The room stills. Loki’s fingers stop against the arm of his chair. Thor’s book slips forgotten against the sofa cushion.

“Which target?” Odin asks.

“Dale Stine. Long-haul trucker. Knox had him flagged, but we hadn’t prioritized him—the Kennel cluster took precedence.”

“And Sage decided to reprioritize.”

“She did.” I outline it the way I would brief a commanding officer—Sage took Micah’s hatchback and Knox’s file. Left her choker beside Milo so we’d believe she was still at home. Drove to the truck plaza. Watched Stine spike her drink, pretended to swallow it and let him take her to a room.

“How close?” Thor asks.

“Too close. He got on top of her. Milo found her pinned under the body.”