Chapter 4
Troy
Two nights since they kidnapped Dani. I haven’t slept. Edmund hasn’t, either. Every time my eyes close, all I can see is her—those pale gray eyes wide with terror.
I feel feral, scratchy in my own skin. I’d chew off my own arm to get to her if that’s what it took.
There’s one guard from the wedding we haven’t yet talked to. Darryl Scollins.
“It’s gotta be him.” I dial Scollins’s number—again. I get sent to voicemail after two rings—again. “He isn’t answering.”
“He’s probably sleeping or gambling. Try him again.” Edmund throws his coffee mug in the sink, where it shatters.
I dial Scollins again. Nothing.
Edmund stalks back and forth across the living room. “Has Grinnote called?”
“Let’s pay him a visit.” It’s better than dialing Scollins repeatedly. We called Grinnote yesterday—Sunday—to get traffic cam footage. He’s had plenty of time to get his shit figured out.
Ten minutes later, we’re parked outside Samuel Grinnote’s cookie-cutter suburban dream house.
We watch as he exits and calls out a goodbye to his wife and kid.
He’s wearing boring khaki pants and a light blue polo shirt.
With his blond hair and round face, he looks like a fucking missionary instead of a plainclothes cop.
I open my truck door and get out to look over the hood at him.
When he notices me, he visibly starts, his shoulders coming up defensively. As if realizing what he just did, he relaxes his shoulders and strolls over to the curb.
“Hey. Manchester, right? How you doin’?”
I’m not doing well. I’m spiraling. Panicked. Angry. I don’t say any of this, though. “You haven’t sent us the footage.”
“Right.” He flicks his gaze back and forth down the street, like someone could be watching us. Like anyone cares about this cockroach. “It’s harder to get than I expected. I can’t send the files out—someone will notice, I’ll get caught. Then you won’t have a guy on the inside.”
“Then watch the footage yourself. We don’t fucking care, we just want to know who got our girl. You’re going to look up that footage right the fuck now. We’ll follow you to the station and wait outside.”
He gulps, visibly nervous. “I don’t know if the other detectives—”
“We don’t pay you to take zero risks, Grinnote.”
He purses his lips, stubborn for a moment. Then he nods and trots back to his muscle car for the drive to the station.
Edmund quietly stares Grinnote down when we park on the street and watch him go inside.
“Do you think we need to go in after him?” I ask.
“Not if he knows what’s good for him.”
We wait in silence. Several minutes go by. I’m exhausted but unable to relax. When my phone buzzes with a text, Edmund and I both jump in our seats.
“It’s Grinnote’s burner.” I open the message.
I got something.
He’s taken video footage of a computer screen, so it’s not very clear.
But one thing is clear. The man in the video—the guy at the back of the church, gesturing someone out of the building—someone who is holding a limp bride, obviously Dani—is Darryl Scollins.
I watch, unable to breathe, as the stranger hauls Dani out of the video frame. Scollins leans back against the church building like nothing fucking happened.
He just let them take her? Like that?
“Play it again.” Edmund’s voice is low. “Never mind, I don’t need to see it. Forget calling Scollins. We need to find out where that fucker lives.”
“Morraine will know.” I text Caleb.
Caleb writes back almost immediately. He lives in the Bellefleur. Why?
I growl. Why do I need to explain shit? He knows something. Where exactly does he live?
Caleb takes his sweet-ass time to respond. He’s probably looking up the address, but I’m ready to put the truck in gear and get the fuck over to Scollins’s place.
Finally the address comes in.
Edmund recites it. “Go.”
He didn’t have to say a fucking word. I’m already speeding us away.
* * *
Danica
I tell myself stories. Stories where my legs extend like rubber and I can hook the utility knife with my foot.
Stories where I drag the knife over, maneuver it to my hands, and cut the ropes that bind me.
Stories where I wield the knife like a sword, and Dead-Eyes Uriel cowers before me, skittering off like a spider in search of a shadowy rock.
Other stories fill my head as well. Stories where I walk down that aisle in my beautiful bridal gown.
Stories where I say, “I do,” and Edmund smiles, wicked green eyes glowing with heat, as he takes me in a kiss so hot it sets the church on fire.
Stories where Troy takes his place for a second kiss, and the three of us are united forever.
Impossible. Each story is impossible. Hopelessness chases every story as it plays out. It’s a fucked-up kind of torture when the story that offers comfort also kills that comfort.
Someone’s here—outside my office. I hear something being dragged, and footsteps. They’re getting closer.
Just as the door swings open, I drop my head to look like I’m sleeping. I peer through my eyelashes as a man—Uriel, probably—drags in a second man.
I don’t want to know what he’s doing. I don’t want to know.
I have to know.
I continue watching, my heart pounding in fear.
Uriel hums under his breath. The droll melody reminds me of a church hymn. He hauls the other man into the chair next to mine.
Is the man alive, or dead? It’s impossible to tell. If he’s alive, he’s unconscious. Small mercy, maybe. Because that tune Uriel is humming is creepy as fuck.
Uriel positions the body carefully, almost reverently. He opens a desk drawer, which protests the motion with an ear-splitting screech. He returns to the man in the chair and uncoils a length of rope.
Humming all the while, he ties the man’s wrists. Alive, then. Right? He wouldn’t bother tying the guy up if he was dead.
He finishes his knots and steps back like he’s admiring his work. “A king and a queen. Yes. To rule over the final days, the cleansing of sins, and the approach to the Underworld.”
I don’t know what the fuck kind of religion he’s referencing, but if I had to guess, I’d say he made the whole thing up.
He stares at the other guy—and maybe me. I can’t see too clearly because I’m pretending to sleep.
Finally, he turns around and leaves the room, closing the door after him.
My heart thuds. My fear eases. Uriel is gone…for now.
And maybe, just maybe, I have a new ally.
He’s fit, with wavy, blond hair styled longer on top with fades on the sides.
I can’t see the color of his eyes because they’re swollen closed.
His face might normally be handsome, but all the bruising makes it hard to tell.
His lips are split in several places, and there are cuts on his cheeks and chin.
“Hey, there.” I keep my voice low. “Hey, mister.”
His eyes squint open. For a moment, his face is filled with abject terror. Then he tilts his head to the side, sees me.
“Heyyyyy.” A smile forms on the guy’s messed-up mouth. Two of his teeth are missing, and the remaining ones are stained pink with blood. “Lookit that. An angel.”
My heart gives a soft pang. Edmund calls me angel. I miss him and Troy with a ferocity that would double me over if I were standing.
“Not an angel,” I say. “I’m a prisoner, just like you.”
“Right.” He glances around our creepy, Spirit Halloween knock-off emporium. “A prisoner. What’d you do to piss off Tate Vorsong?”
“I didn’t do anything to him.”
“Must’ve done something. He doesn’t sic Uriel on just anyone.”
“I was going to marry Edmund Layton.”
My new friend raises his eyebrows. “And?”
“And my grandfather is Sergey Aseyev.”
He snorts. “So you’re a pawn.”
“I guess. What are you?”
“A traitor.”