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If I wanted to get into Sanctum, I needed cash. If it was what I thought it was, it would be pay to play. All attendees would need to place a bet before entry. A hefty sum of which would be raked by the house.
If I showed up with my last three hundred bucks, I’d be laughed out. If I showed up with the 8-10k I thought might be in that faded gray cash bag, I’d have a better chance of being let in.
I needed to see what I was up against. Watching Rook fight might give me an advantage if we ever came to blows. More than that, I wanted to see the man himself. Diesel St. Crow. I wanted to take a measure of him. See if he was made of the same things as his sons.
At least, that’s what I was telling myself. It definitelywasn’tbecause I wanted to see Rook beat Conor Jones to a bloody pulp. Not at all. And fuckingdefinitelynot because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about all three of them since last Friday night.
Listening to the recordings on the bug only had me more confused. They talked about some show they had later this month, and I got the idea it was a concert. Iprayedit wasn’t the Primal Ethos one Becca was taking me to. That would be a surefire way to ruin my fun.
Oh, and Corvus cooks.Who would’ve thought? He also got up several times a night and wandered to within range of my bug by the kitchen for water and to grumble wordlessly to himself like a total lunatic.
I adjusted my wig, the short black bob had bangs and when it shifted, they tickled annoyingly at the skin just above my brows.
I groaned, hushing rapidly as the bells jingled and I peered around the edge of the SUV to see Mr. Jordan Hughes exiting with his big ’ol bag of cash. Right on schedule.
Fuck, he walked so slow it hurt to watch him. Made my skin itch.
Come on, fucker, hurry up. I don’t have time for this.
Sanctum was across town and word on the street was that attendees were locked in when the show started. Unable to leave until it was over. Something about preventing a raid. If I didn’t get there before eleven, I wasn’t getting in at all.
I’d have to make this quick.
At this time of night, the streets were all but empty, but of course, because my luck was total shit, a patron exited the cafe right after my mark.
She went the opposite way, but would be quick to turn around if there were signs or sounds of struggle.
Awesome.
So, plan B it was.
Mr. Hughes whistled to himself as he unlocked his car and slipped into the drivers’ seat. He didn’t even balk as I opened the passenger door and slid into the passenger seat opposite him other than to give me a confused look.
“Uh, miss, I think you have the wrong ca—”
I jabbed my blade against the base of his ribs, and he flinched away, eyes wide, hands raised, faded gray cash bag dropped onto the center armrest.
“Don’t scream,” I warned before his mouth even opened. “All it would take is one thrust and this will pierce your lung. If it does, there’s about a fifty-fifty chance you’ll live long enough to get to a hospital.”
His face paled and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, but his wild, jerky eyes were narrowing. Fixing on me.
My blood boiled, and I pressed harder with my blade, just enough to nick him. A small blood offering to keep my darkness at bay. “Don’t fucking look at me,” I hissed. “Drive.”
The prosthetic nose, double layer of lip plumper, and colored contacts would be enough to protect me, at least here in the dark of his SUV. The nose at least, would have to be removed before I entered Sanctum. I ran out of Dermabond and this bitch was held on with a bit of school glue and a prayer.
“Let’s go, dickface,” I urged when he hesitated.
Mr. Hughes fumbled to dig his keys out of his jacket pocket and took three tries to get them in the ignition. Already the high was wearing off. This man was pathetic. Not even a challenge.
I sighed inwardly as he roughly turned the SUV away from the curb, making me jerk in the passenger seat. Idiot.
“Turn left,” I ordered as he came to the next street corner, and I got an idea. Maybe I didn’t have to walkallthe way back across town after all. There was a dead-end road I’d found on a run a few days back near Sanctum. Well, near enough that it wouldn’t take me that long to get there. Far enough that if Mr. Hughes woke up before I was finished, the cops wouldn’t find me anywhere in the immediate area.
“What do you want?” Mr. Hughes asked, his voice the tone of a man trying his best to be brave and failing miserably.
I shifted and paper crinkled at my side. I noted the edge of a crayon picture sticking out between the seat and center console. It was upside down, but a name was visible as we passed under the last of the streetlamps before I guided my mark down the dead-end road. Bethany.
I already knew enough about him to have dismissed him as any sort of threat, but judging by the drawing, the ratty old booster in the backseat, and the wedding band on his ring finger, I doubly knew he wasn’t going to fuck around.
