Chapter 3
The drive to Club Spice felt longer than usual, even with the city lights sliding past the windows in quick, fractured streaks. Raven sat in the back seat beside me, her hands clenched together so tightly her knuckles were pale. She tried to look calm. She failed.
Con drove in tense silence, eyes fixed on the road, jaw set hard enough to crack stone.
Raven hadn’t believed us at first. She refused to. I understood why. Marcus had always been polite, stable, attentive with Isra. Not flashy, not dramatic, just… safe.
But once our magical tether flared, once Raven felt the truth twisting like a blade inside me, her doubt crumbled.
Now she sat with her shoulders curled inward, barely breathing.
The bond between us pulsed with her fear, her frustration, her desperate hope that Dimitri was lying. A pressure built in my chest as her emotions bled into mine, not overwhelming but insistent. Like a heartbeat that wasn’t mine.
I placed a hand on hers.
“We’ll figure it out,” I said softly.
Her sad violet eyes lifted to me. In them I saw everything she wasn’t saying—panic, disbelief, a growing dread she didn’t want to name.
“Isra hasn’t loved anyone like this since… well, me,” she whispered. “I really hope Dimitri is playing us.”
“Me too,” I answered.
But neither of us believed it.
Raven blinked quickly, swallowing hard. “What if Marcus didn’t know what he was selling? What if he was tricked?”
“He might be innocent,” I said. “We won’t assume anything until we speak to him.”
Con didn’t look back, but his voice carried through the car. “We’ll handle it. Nothing happens to Isra. We protect our family.”
Raven exhaled, a shaky sound that cut straight through me. Her anxiety pressed along our bond again, frantic, as if she were trying to keep it from spreading to Rene in his weakened state.
He was too fragile to leave the mansion, too drained from whatever Valerian’s realm had pulled from him. Raven had nearly refused to come, but Rene insisted she follow this lead, telling her he’d be waiting when she returned.
I wasn’t convinced. She wasn’t either. That fear lived like a tremor beneath her ribcage.
The club’s neon sign appeared ahead, glowing pink and blue against the night. Music thumped through the closed doors, a steady rhythm that vibrated against the pavement. Cars lined the street, and a small line of humans waited outside, unaware of the supernatural storm brewing above their heads.
As Con pulled into a side alley reserved for staff, Raven leaned forward, voice low and tight.
“I don’t know what we’ll find. But if Marcus hurt Isra…” Her eyes brightened. “I won’t forgive it.”
“Neither will we,” I said.
The car rolled to a stop.
Con shut off the engine.
Raven gripped the door handle, drawing a shaky breath.
“Let’s get answers,” she whispered.
We stepped out into the cool night air.
The bass from Club Spice pulsed through the walls, muffled but insistent, as if the building itself knew something was wrong.
And it was waiting for us to uncover it.
The moment we stepped through the doors of Club Spice, the familiar rush of color and sound washed over us. The floor shook with music, lights swept across the stage, and the crowd roared its approval.
Ginger Spice in a cascade of fiery curls and glitter—stood center stage.
She spun with a practiced flourish, her sequined gown catching every beam of light in the room.
The fabric shimmered like molten gold as she lip-synched to an upbeat track, hips swaying with effortless confidence.
At the height of the chorus, she strutted to the edge of the platform, blew a kiss to a table of cheering patrons, then twirled again, sending her skirt flaring around her like a halo.
She looked like she owned the entire club.
Honestly, she did.
No one could command a room like Ginger.
But tonight, none of us were here to enjoy the show.
Raven kept close as we cut through the crowd and made our way to the side stairwell. The musicians’ beat dulled behind the door, replaced by the hum of the upstairs hallway. The climb to the private suite felt longer than usual, tension hanging thick between each step.
Raven had already called ahead. Isra would be waiting.
At the top of the stairs, the door to the suite opened before we could knock. Jana stood there, her eyes brightening the second she saw her mother.
“Mom!” She threw her arms around Raven, hugging her tight. “I’m glad you popped over. I know you’ve been busy.”
The words were casual, almost cheerful, but the fact she didn’t mention Rene’s condition made my stomach twist. Someone had warned her to keep quiet.
Probably Culgan.
Jana only knew about Rene because her pack leader told her. She didn’t know we were here because Marcus might be tied to something darker. She didn’t know we were about to turn her father’s world upside down.
Raven stroked her daughter’s hair with a trembling hand. “I missed you too, honey.”
We stepped inside. The suite felt warm and lived-in, a mix of color and soft lighting that didn’t match the blaring energy downstairs. The couch was piled with throw blankets, Jana’s textbooks spread across the coffee table. A half-finished cup of tea steamed next to an open novel.
Isra wasn’t in the main room.
That confirmed my suspicion. He knew something was wrong. And he was avoiding the initial impact.
Raven eased onto the couch beside Jana, still holding one of her daughter’s hands. I stood near the back of the room, letting Raven lead. Con remained by the door, a silent, intense wall of muscle and authority.
Jana watched us all with a crease forming between her brows.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “Why do you look like that? Is this about Culgan? Or—”
“No,” Raven said gently. “We need to ask your father a few questions.”
Jana blinked. “Dad? Why?”
I took a slow breath. “It’s about Marcus.”
Her expression froze, confusion first, then worry, and finally something sharper, almost protective.
“What about him?” she whispered.
Raven squeezed her hand. “We don’t know yet. That’s why we’re here.”
The room went quiet.
The kind of quiet that felt like the moment before glass shattered.
The soft click of a door deeper in the suite made the air tighten, but Isra didn’t appear yet.
Raven kept her focus on Jana, giving her daughter a chance to speak before we confronted him directly.
“Sweetheart,” Raven said gently, “tell us what you know about Marcus. Anything important. Anything you’ve noticed.”
Jana’s brows raised in surprise, then knitted together. “About Marcus? He’s… normal. Or at least as normal as someone dating Dad can be.” She tried to smile, but it faltered almost instantly.
Raven didn’t push. She simply waited, patient.
Jana breathed out slowly, her gaze drifting toward the hallway where her father was deeper in the suite, her worry for him etched in her features.
“Well… his family has money,” Jana said. “Old money. He’s mentioned it a few times, but he doesn’t brag. Dad told me once that Marcus’ parents were involved in luxury imports and investments before they passed away. That’s why he never really… worries about income.”
I exchanged a look with Con. “Luxury imports” was vague. Too vague.
Jana continued, unaware of the tension growing behind her words.
“He’s traveled a lot. Mostly overseas. Europe, South America, some parts of Africa.
He said it was for work, but not, like, office work.
Consulting. Logistics.” She frowned. “I don’t really know the details.
He always described it as if he helped manage distribution routes.
High-end merchandise needing careful handling. ”
My stomach tightened. That phrasing could mean anything from fine art to highly illegal supernatural relics.
Raven shifted closer to Jana. “Has he ever talked about the kind of items he worked with?”
Jana studied her mother’s expression, sensing the seriousness behind the question. She shook her head.
“No specifics. Just… rare things.” She rubbed her arm as if piecing together scattered memories. “He said once that collectors pay a lot for pieces that are impossible to find. He made it sound harmless, like antiques or museum donations.”
Raven’s jaw tightened a fraction.
“What about his contacts?” Con asked, stepping forward just enough to let her know the question mattered. “Any names he trusts? People he communicates with often?”
Jana hesitated. “He gets a lot of encrypted messages on his tablet. Dad teases him about being ‘internationally mysterious.’” Her mouth quirked at the memory, then fell flat again. “He said it was normal for his field. Some clients want privacy.”
Raven and I shared a heavy look.
Private clients. Encrypted messages. Global travel.
It all aligned too easily with Dimitri’s world.
“And when he travels,” Raven added softly, “does he tell Isra where he’s going?”
“Sometimes,” Jana replied. “He doesn’t hide it. Dad thinks the distance makes them appreciate each other more. They FaceTime every night when he’s away.” Her voice softened. “Marcus makes Dad feel cared for. Safe. He’s… good to him.”
Raven took her daughter’s hands. “I know, honey.”
Jana’s eyes flicked between us, confusion darkening into dread.
“Why are you asking this?” she whispered. “What happened? Did Marcus do something?”
I opened my mouth, but Raven stopped me with a small shake of her head. This needed to come from her.
“Jana,” she said quietly, “we got information tonight about a sale on the black market.” She paused, choosing every word with care. “And it might involve Marcus’ network.”
Jana’s face drained of color.
“No,” she said. “He wouldn’t. He’s not like that.”
Her voice broke on the last word.
Behind us, another click sounded.
Footsteps.
Isra swept into the room.
He moved with practiced grace, even in the shimmering red gown molded to his frame.
Sequins caught the warm lights overhead, scattering tiny reflections across the walls like a constellation following him into the room.
His makeup was flawless, dramatic gold shadow above dark eyes and glossy cherry lips.
He looked as if he was seconds from walking onto the stage.
But the moment he saw our expressions, the confidence in his posture shifted. Just slightly. Enough for me to see the concern beneath the glamour.
“What is going on?” he asked, hands planting on his hips. “And why do you all look like you’re about to deliver a eulogy?”
Raven rose from the couch, the tension rolling through her bond brushing against my senses again. She stepped toward him, her voice soft but steady.
“We’re in danger, Isra. Rene and I both.”
The sparkle in Isra’s eyes dimmed. He crossed the room quickly and lowered himself into the armchair near her, skirts settling around him in a rustle of sequins.
“Start from the beginning,” he said. “Every detail.”
Raven did.
She explained the dangers resulting from Valerian resurfacing, Dimitri’s betrayal, the ritual pieces scattered around the world, and how each fragment held enough power to tip the balance into something catastrophic.
When she reached the part about her own connection to the artifacts, how I now shared her magic and could track them—I felt Isra’s gaze shift toward me.
He looked worried. Protective. Then resolved.
“Whatever you need,” he said. “Anything. If these pieces threaten you or Rene, I will do everything in my power to help.”
Raven squeezed his hand. “I know.”
It should have ended there.
It didn’t.
Raven inhaled, gathering herself for the part she clearly hated most.
“Isra… Dimitri told Cass and Constantine something else. About the newest fragment.”
His brow lifted. “What about it?”
Raven hesitated, then continued. “He said the broker handling this sale has worked with Marcus in the past. That Marcus may have access to the piece. Or at least to the seller.”
For a moment, Isra didn’t move.
Then he laughed—disbelieving.
“No. Absolutely not. Marcus is many things, but a criminal? No.” He waved a hand. “Dimitri is a liar with a flair for theatrics. He’s messing with you.”
“That might be true,” I said. “But whether Marcus is involved or not, our priority is the fragment. If this is the closest lead we’ve found, we need to follow it.”
Isra stared at me, lips parting as if he wanted to argue. His shoulders tensed beneath the glittering gown. I could see the hurt forming behind his eyes—the betrayal he didn’t want to admit was possible.
Jana shifted beside Raven, watching her father with growing worry.
“Dad?” she whispered.
Isra swallowed, straightened, and took a slow breath. His expression hardened—not with anger, but determination. He pulled his phone from a small rhinestone clutch sitting on the end table.
“All right,” he said quietly. “I’ll call him.”
He dialed quickly, hitting speaker before Raven could object.
The phone rang once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then Marcus answered, voice warm and unaware. “Isra? Everything okay, love?”
Isra closed his eyes briefly, steadying himself. “Could you come to the club? Now. There’s something we need to talk about.”
A pause. “Now? Is something wrong?”
“Yes,” Isra said, the word tight and controlled. “Please. Come here.”
Another silence.
Then Marcus exhaled. “I’m on my way.”
The call ended.
Isra lowered the phone into his lap, hands trembling ever so slightly.
Raven reached out, but he lifted a hand to stop her.
“I’m fine,” he said. It wasn’t convincing.
I exchanged a look with Con.
The truth was coming.
And none of us knew what it would look like once it arrived at Club Spice.