Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 110089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 550(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 550(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 367(@300wpm)
I take several deep breaths and let myself drift. The branch holds. The leaves hush the street. Sleep nips at the edges and I give it a little space.
The day wakes slow. Light picks out rooflines and fence posts as the traffic builds, first a few cars go by, then a steady stream. My bruises still ache. I need an energy hit and have to get to my citrines.
Across the way the shift change starts. Night nurses in navy scrubs file out with tired eyes and slight limps while orderlies tug hoodies over polo shirts and bump shoulders on the sidewalk. A janitor with a red cart locks the maintenance door and checks each pocket for keys. Physical therapists arrive with gym bags and tape peeking from side pockets. A social worker in flats calls a ride share and rubs her temple. The rhythm of it says morning, not panic. It has to be around eight.
I yawn and blink until the scene stops doubling. Then I wipe dust from the too-large jeans. My hands are filthy. I rub them on the inside of the faded pink sweatshirt.
The retirement community sits next to a field, neat and proud. Fall hits the front walk in an honest way. Pumpkins line the path in mismatched rows, some smooth, some warty, some painted with cheerful faces. Mums crowd big clay pots in burnt orange and wine, while a wreath on the glass door holds dried leaves, small pinecones, and cinnamon sticks tied with rough twine. Someone tucked plastic turkeys into the hedges and a plastic crow into the planter by the bench. The whole place looks tended.
The morning staff has the door propped open with a rubber wedge.
It’s time to see my godmother.
TEN
Justice
Fury runs through my veins with the precision of a laser strike.
Sirens rise and fade while my crews clean the block. Men in dark jackets sweep brass into canvas sacks, roll hoses, and rinse the curb. Two fold a tarp and lift a body to the van. Another checks for pulses that aren’t there and tags wrists. Phones are already out to the right sources in the police department, but we only have a few more minutes until they have to arrive. My men will get it done.
I stalk into Malice Media’s main hub, so angry my ears burn. My white shirt drips and clings to my skin. Blood runs warm down my ribs and cools in the air of the lobby. Security clocks me without a word. The two men who brought me in hold the elevator and keep their eyes forward. We ride down in silence. The car hums. Fluorescents buzz. I breathe through the sting in my shoulder.
The doors open and Kaz looks up from a bank of monitors. He’s our resident computer genius. “What the fuck happened to you?”
His damn voice slices across my ribcage. “Firefight. Didn’t you hear it?” My voice is even and low. Copper sits at the back of my tongue. I taste dust and cordite and stale coffee from the elevator.
“Yeah, but I didn’t think you got shot. I got the 911 and sent our soldiers.” His voice grates, like usual, but I don’t wince. My brother relies on him, which is why he’s still breathing. He looks at my bloody shoulder. “How bad?”
“Stop talking. I’m fine.” I brush past him. “Ella Rendale was with me and escaped through an alley, somehow losing both of my men pursuing her. Find her by the time I get back.” My teeth grind.
I reach the far wall and work the locks in sequence. Keypad. Card. Palm. Retina. The green bar crawls to full and relays click until the magnets release. I pull the door and step inside. The room breathes at fifty-eight degrees and fans move in a constant wash. Ozone and cold metal and a faint hint of lemon cleaner hang under the noise.
The wound is high on my shoulder, so I strip out of my shirt to study it. Entry and exit are both shallow. Good. It’s nice to know I gauged it correctly, although the wound is aching like a bitch. Inhaling, I cross to the pedestal at the center, where light panels bathe the stone from four sides. The garnet sits in milled steel, a mass of dark red with crisp facets, the color deepening toward the core. It’s the size of a bowling ball. The air around it feels warmer by a narrow degree. Power pools in the space like an electrical field I can feel on my skin.
My shoulders drop, though one burns. I reach the stone and place my palm on it. The contact quiets the noise in my head. My breathing evens, and the heat at the edges of my sight cools. How have people not figured this out?
Of course, even if they have, not many can reach our level of expertise. It’s probably something genetic that hasn’t been mapped yet.