Chapter 52
FIFTY-TWO
T he abandoned quarry loomed against the night sky, its jagged edges softened by moonlight. Hidden entrances led to a vast underground network where the Shadow Bazaar operated—a marketplace for those whose business couldn’t bear scrutiny in the light of day.
Artair offered his arm as they approached the entrance. “Ready, partner?”
The term sent an unexpected thrill through her. Partner. Not asset, not contact, not temporary ally. Partner implied equality, trust, continuation.
She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, her fingers resting against the solid muscle beneath his jacket. “Lead the way.”
Underground, the Bazaar hummed with forbidden energy. Lanterns glowing with witch-fire cast blue shadows across stalls selling everything from illegal potions to cursed artifacts. The air hung heavy with incense, magic, and secrets.
“Stay close,” Thora murmured, subtly guiding Artair with the lightest pressure against his arm. “Watch how I move.”
She adjusted her posture, adopting the bored expression of someone accustomed to wealth and power. When they passed certain vendors, she flashed hand signals—fingers splayed in patterns marking them as buyers, not threats.
A weapons seller nodded almost imperceptibly, recognizing the signal. A potion merchant averted her eyes, acknowledging their right to browse undisturbed.
“How do you know all this?” Artair whispered, his lips close to her ear.
The warm brush of his breath sent a pleasant shiver down her spine. “Experience. Half of bounty hunting is knowing how to move in spaces where you don’t belong.”
His genuine admiration warmed her more than it should have. Before she could explore the feeling, a familiar voice cut through the ambient noise.
“Well, if it isn’t Thora Halliwell. Going upscale these days?”
She stiffened, then carefully schooled her features before turning. “Damon.”
Damon Thomas leaned against a stone pillar, his tiger shifter eyes gleaming gold in the dim light. His black leather jacket and confident smirk hadn’t changed in the years since she’d last seen him.
“Security detail?” she asked, noting the communication device at his ear.
“Among other things.” His gaze slid to Artair, recognition flaring. “Interesting company you’re keeping. The Maxen heir himself.”
She felt Artair tense beside her, his scent shifting subtly as his bear responded to the challenge in Damon’s tone. Her hand found Artair’s forearm, a silent request for restraint.
“Business,” she said simply.
“Of course.” Damon’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Though I seem to recall you prefer working alone. Said teamwork was, what was it? ‘A liability waiting to happen’?”
Heat crept up her neck at having her own words thrown back at her. Worse, she could sense Artair’s silent interest in this revelation.
“Things change,” she replied coolly.
“Apparently.” Damon pushed off the pillar. “Well, enjoy the bazaar. Oh, and Halliwell? Some of the vendors get twitchy around certain... family names. Might want to keep a low profile.”
As he melted into the crowd, Thora released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“Friend of yours?” Artair asked, his tone carefully neutral.
“Former colleague. Briefly.” She guided them deeper into the market, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. “It didn’t end well.”
“Professional disagreement or personal disappointment?”
The question carried an undertone she couldn’t quite identify. “Both,” she admitted. “He wanted more than I was willing to give. Then he compromised a job with sloppy work.”
Artair’s hand settled at the small of her back, the touch oddly reassuring. “His loss.”
The simple statement lightened something in her chest. She found herself leaning into his touch as they navigated the crowded aisles.
An hour into their surveillance, Thora felt a sudden pull toward a side corridor. Something called to her—a sensation like a distant melody only she could hear.
“This way,” she murmured, drawn to a small booth illuminated by golden lanterns.
Ancient tiger clan artifacts filled the stall—ceremonial daggers, scrolls written in a language she couldn’t read but somehow recognized, carved totems depicting sabertooth tigers in hunting stances.
One dagger in particular captured her attention—its handle carved with an intricate pattern that stirred something deep in her memory. Without thinking, she reached for it.
The moment her fingers touched the metal, magic surged through her body. Heat raced along her veins like liquid fire. Her vision sharpened, her canines lengthened, her fingernails thickened to partial claws.
“Blood knows blood,” the elderly vendor whispered, his rheumy eyes widening at the transformation. “The lost daughter returns.”
Confusion and recognition warred within her. Lost daughter? The words echoed with significance she couldn’t fully grasp.
Artair’s hand closed gently around her wrist, pulling her back to herself. “We need to move,” he murmured urgently. “Ajax’s associates just arrived.”
Thora forced her sabertooth back, focusing on the mission as they made their way toward the central auction area. The dagger’s energy lingered in her blood, awakening questions she’d long buried about her origins.
The auction chamber resembled an amphitheater with rare magical items displayed on pedestals. Guards—mercenary shifters and magical practitioners—stood at regular intervals around the perimeter.
The Ursine Codex book sat on a central dais, its silver surface etched with runes that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Even from a distance, Thora could sense its power—ancient, dangerous magic designed to control rather than serve.
“There,” she whispered, nodding toward the hooded figures approaching the book. “That must be The Curator.”
As they moved closer, chaos erupted. Alarms blared through the bazaar. In the confusion, a tall figure in a hooded cloak moved between them and Ajax, allowing their quarry to slip away through the crowd. For a split second, the hood fell back, and Artair froze mid-step beside her.
Thora caught only a glimpse of the man’s face—remarkably similar to Artair’s, save for a jagged scar running down one cheek—before he disappeared into the panicking crowd.
“Calan?” Artair whispered, his voice barely audible over the chaos.
The raw shock that rippled through Artair triggered something primitive in Thora. Her sabertooth surged forward as she sensed his distress. Without conscious thought, she shifted partially, canines extending, muscles coiling as she leaped through the fleeing vendors to pursue the figure.
She caught the scent—similar to Artair’s but sharper, edged with something cold—before losing it in the mayhem of the bazaar evacuation. By the time she circled back to Artair, Ajax and the mysterious man had vanished, along with the codex.
“Did you see him?” Artair asked, his face pale with disbelief.
“I saw someone who looked like you,” she confirmed carefully, watching his reaction. “With a scar.”
“It can’t be,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “He died fifteen years ago.”