Fallen

Chapter 1

Logan

The glow from the city lights outside and the rain splattering against the window give the darkened office an eerie glow.

I stand by Shelley’s desk, arms crossed, watching her fumble through files with increasing desperation.

Her perfectly manicured nails click against the metal drawer pulls as she yanks open one cabinet after another.

“It has to be here somewhere,” she mutters, pulling out another folder and flipping through it before tossing it aside with a frustrated huff. Papers scatter across her desk, some sliding onto the polished floor. A few drift under the credenza, lost to the shadows.

I shift my weight, impatience crawling up my spine. This was supposed to be a quick meeting—in and out. Instead, I’ve been standing here for twenty minutes watching her tear her home office apart.

“We don’t have time for this.” I check my watch. Nearly midnight. “Either you have the information, or you don’t.”

She slams the drawer shut hard enough to rattle the framed certifications on the wall behind her. The sound echoes through the quiet office, bouncing off the glass partitions and polished surfaces. “Logan, wait.”

But I’m already heading for the door, my patience exhausted. I’ve given her enough chances tonight. My hand is on the brass handle when she speaks again. “We’re done here.”

“Tell me what I need to know.”

Turning around to see her desperate and needy fills me with scorn.

She’s abandoned her search, standing in the middle of the chaos she’s created, her chest rising and falling with agitation.

Her blazer is askew, her hair escaping from its tight bun.

She looks nothing like the composed professional I met six months ago.

“You know it doesn’t work that way.” My voice is flat, emotionless. I’ve had this conversation before with others like her—ambitious, hungry, willing to do anything for a taste of real power.

“Logan, please. I want in, and you know how to get me noticed.” She takes a step toward me, her heels crunching on scattered papers. “I’ve done everything they’ve asked. Every task, every assignment. But I’m invisible to them.”

“You’re already in the door, Shelley. Solitaire knows who you are.” I let my hand drop from the door handle, watching her carefully. She’s more desperate than I realized, and desperate people make mistakes.

“I’m low-level,” she spits out, her face contorting with anger and frustration. “I want power. Real power. The kind you have.”

I almost laugh at that. She has no idea what kind of power I actually have, or what it costs to maintain it. “I can’t tell you how to get that.”

“Give me something, Logan, please.” She’s begging now, all pretense of professionalism abandoned. “A name. A contact. A way in. Anything.”

I shake my head slowly, watching the hope drain from her eyes. “The only thing I can tell you is that whatever act you commit that will get their attention has to matter. And it has to cost you.”

The silence stretches between us for a long moment. I can see her mind working, trying to extract more meaning from my words, searching for the secret formula that will unlock the doors she wants opened.

“Fuck!” she roars finally, her composure shattering completely. She sweeps her arm across her desk, sending the remaining files, a desk lamp, and a small potted plant crashing to the floor. “That’s nothing.”

I shrug, unmoved by her outburst. I’ve seen worse displays of frustration. “It’s all you get. Bye, Shelley.”

Turning to leave, I hear the vase hit the wall next to the door I’ve just passed through.

Glass explodes, shards tinkling as they hit the floor.

Water spreads across the carpet in a dark stain.

I don’t flinch, don’t look back. I don’t think she will cause me problems. All she wants is for Quentin to notice her so she can move up the ranks of the Secret Society that operates below the shimmering surface of the city.

I can’t give her what she wants, so she will find someone who can. Someone less careful than me.

Leaving her building, I head to the elevator and hit the button for the ground floor.

Moments later, I make my way out into the dark, rainy night, pulling the collar up slightly on my jacket to stop the rain from trickling down the back of my neck.

The cold hits me immediately, a sharp contrast to the climate-controlled office.

The walk to my apartment building, nestled in the heart of the city, overlooking the river in the most exclusive part of town, takes only five minutes.

The streets are nearly empty at this hour, just the occasional taxi splashing through puddles and a few determined souls hurrying home under umbrellas.

Rain drums steadily on the pavement, creating a rhythm that matches my footsteps.

Bobbing my head to the doorman working the night shift, I flash my card to the private elevator and ascend to my penthouse.

The ride is smooth and silent, the only sound the gentle hum of the machinery.

As the doors slide open, directly opposite from the double front doors, I step forward, noticing a square package on the doormat.

My heart pounds in my chest as I bend down to retrieve the simply wrapped box. It is slightly lighter than it looks, so easy enough to balance on one hand as I open the door with the other. The weight is wrong for what I’m expecting, which makes my pulse quicken further.

Kicking it closed behind me, I stride quickly over to the open-plan kitchen, where I place it on the black granite counter.

The penthouse is dark except for the ambient light from the city filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

My hands shake when I reach for the fold in the wrapping to tear it off with a crunch of brown paper, which sounds too loud in the silence of the dark penthouse.

Filled with trepidation and even a tinge of fear, I open the box and choke back the noise that escapes my throat. Inside, nestled in black tissue paper, is exactly what I asked for. Exactly what I needed. The implications make my stomach twist.

Pressing my lips together, leaning heavily on the counter, and bowing my head, I take a steadying breath and slam the lid closed. I don’t want to look at it any longer than necessary. Don’t want to think about what it means, what I’ve become.

Picking it up, I make my way quickly up the floating stairs to the left side of the apartment to the second floor, which consists of my bedroom and bathroom.

The master suite takes up the entire upper level, all sleek lines and minimalist design.

Sliding open the closet door, I carefully place the box on the top shelf, pushing it back behind shoe boxes and storage containers where it won’t be easily found.

As I shut the door again, I feel the buzz from my phone in my pocket.

I take it out and answer immediately, already knowing who it will be. “Quentin.”

“Logan.” His voice is smooth, cultured, with just a hint of satisfaction. “Did you receive the package?”

“Yes.” My voice is steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through my veins.

“Was it to your satisfaction?”

I close my eyes briefly, seeing the contents again in my mind’s eye. “It was. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Logan.” There’s a pause, heavy with unspoken meaning. “I’ll be in touch.”

He hangs up, but I know that’s not the end of it. The favor owed will come. It might be later tonight, or it might be in a year’s time, but it will come. That’s how the Society works. Everything has a price, and every debt must be paid.

Chucking my phone onto the bed, I strip off my jacket, shirt, and pants, leaving them in a pile on the bedroom floor—unusual for me, but I’m too tired to care about my normal fastidiousness.

I head for the shower to wash away the day at the office and the evening with Shelley.

The hot water is punishing, scalding my skin until it turns red, but I welcome the sensation.

It makes me feel something other than the cold calculation that’s become my default state.

I wet my dark hair and run my fingers through it, watching the water swirl down the drain. After several minutes, I finally feel clean enough to face sleep. I step out and dry off with a pure white towel from the heated rail.

I barely notice my surroundings as I move through the bedroom—the expensive furniture, the original artwork on the walls, the view of the city that people would kill for.

None of it matters. I’m needing only to slip into bed at this late hour, well past midnight, to grab as many minutes of sleep as I can before I need to rise at 4 AM.

Slipping between the gray silk sheets, I wonder briefly what Quentin will call upon me to do.

Will it be something simple, like tonight’s meeting with Shelley?

Or will it be something that costs me more than just a sleepless night?

He is the Head of the Society. He says jump; we say how high—even me.

Especially me, given what he’s just provided.

I close my eyes, surprised to find that sleep drags me under quickly and efficiently into a dreamless slumber, pulling me away from thoughts of packages and favors and the price of power.