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The room fell silent, a dozen pairs of eyes snapping to the spot beneath my fingertip. There was a collective intake of breath; you could almost hear the cogs turning in their heads as they processed the revelation.
"Run the address," Nash commanded, his voice slicing through the tension. His presence was a force field, and I couldn't help but be drawn to it, despite the chaos brewing around us.
A flurry of fingers danced over keyboards, the soft clattering sound synonymous with the urgency in the air. Screens flickered with maps and street views, everyone trying to pinpoint the location I’d chosen with a mix of dread and anticipation.
"Got it," a tech called out. The screen zoomed in on a quaint structure nestled between taller buildings, a welcoming mix of brick and glass. "It's a coffee shop that doubles as a bookstore. There's an event tonight—an LGBTQ mixer celebrating a local author."
"Fuck me," I breathed, a chill snaking down my spine. A gathering of souls, unaware of the shadow about to fall over their celebration. I felt my gut twist, a premonition of darkness that was all too familiar.
"Time?" Nash's question was pointed, every syllable tinged with barely restrained urgency.
"Starts in three hours," another voice confirmed.
"Triple fuck," I muttered. The clock was ticking, a taunting reminder that we were racing against a countdown we hadn’t even set. And somehow, amidst the fear and the rush, I felt a bizarre sense of responsibility. Like I'd painted a target on their backs with my own hands.
"We've got no time to waste," I snapped, scrambling to my feet. My hands were shaking, but not from fear—no, this was pure, unadulterated fury. The thought of that sicko turning another celebration into a massacre boiled my blood.
"Gear up!" Nash barked, his voice echoing through Vanguard's command room. I watched as the team, a motley crew of badass supernatural vigilantes with more issues than Vogue, sprang into action. Weapons were strapped on, bulletproof vests were tugged over heads, and earpieces were clicked into place with a sense of grim determination that mirrored my own.
"Here," Nash said, thrusting a Kevlar vest toward me. "You're gonna need it."
Chapter 39
Celeste
The command center of Vanguard pulsed like an overcharged heart, buzzing with an electricity that could send a lesser person cowering. I stood there, smack in the midst of it all, feeling every damn thread of tension as if they were strings tied to my own frayed nerves. Techies and field agents scurried about, each one with their eyes wide, fingers flying, and lips moving in silent prayers or curses—I couldn't tell which.
"Move your asses, people!" Nash's voice cracked through the chaos like a whip. His presence was a force, commanding and sharp. The workers jumped at his bark, a chorus line of puppets jerking to attention.
"Status on camera feeds?" he demanded, his gaze scanning the room, missing nothing.
"Up and running on all feeds," came a voice from the corner, terse and clipped.
"Perimeter?"
"Secured."
"Good. Let's keep it tight. We can't afford any fuck-ups today."
I tried not to roll my eyes at the bravado. Nash, the dark knight in a tailor-made suit, always playing savior when he wasn't busy being the predator. The way he stood there, shoulders set and jaw clenched, you'd believe he could take on the world with his bare hands—and win.
I felt the weight of my eyelids like lead shutters. Jet lag was a bitch, and she had sunk her claws deep into my flesh, dragging me down. But hell would freeze over before I let these nightcrawlers see me sweat.
Nash’s gaze lingered, brown eyes dissecting my bravado like he could peel back the layers of my fatigue with nothing but a look. Bastard probably could. With a sigh that told me he wasn't buying the act, Nash fished out a set of keys from his pocket and tossed them to me. They hit my palm with a cold, metallic slap—an unwelcome dose of reality.
"Top floor," he said, his voice firm. "Get some rest. You look like hammered shit."
"Charming as ever, Nash." I rolled my eyes, but the concern etched in the hard lines of his face was obvious. The man was a puzzle, and I was too tired to solve him right now.
"Fine," I conceded, shoving the keys into the pocket of my jacket. "But only because you asked so nicely."
"An hour," Nash called after me as I turned to leave, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"Make it two," I shot back without looking, my boots thudding against the concrete floor. Every step was a battle, my body screaming for the sweet oblivion of sleep, but my mind was already racing ahead to the mission. Rest was a luxury, but I knew if I didn't recharge now, I'd be no good when the time came to dance the deadly tango.
As I trudged toward the elevator, a scowl firmly in place, I couldn't shake the feeling that every eye was on me—judging, weighing, measuring. Let them watch. I was more than just a human in a den of monsters. I was Celeste Fucking Holloway, and I'd show them all just how deadly I could be.
I was halfway to the damn elevator, each step dragging like I had cinder blocks for feet, when a shadow slinked out from one of the dimly lit corridors. My shoulder collided with a cool, immovable form, and I stumbled back, my heart kicking up a notch. "Watch where you're?—"
