The Shadow Sanctum (Puppets & Property #3)

1. Luna

LUNA

It’s been eight months since I first laid eyes on Sawyer—in a white-background portrait with cheeks too tight and a smile that looked dazingly forced.

A businessman, the photo tried to say, but Sawyer…

Sawyer is a pleasant chameleon who rides undetected and achieves youthful lovability from his laugh, his kind eyes, and his attention.

He is not a businessman. He is a charmer, and I have no doubt he gets his way ninety percent of the time, even without the intimidating prowl of a male accustomed to being dubbed the most dominant in the room.

Mr. Sanchez, however, fits the part at first sight.

His squeeze of my hand is firmer than most, and as he leans into the shake, I get a whiff of leather and a hint of something sweet. I can’t say what the sweetness is—amber, perhaps—but I like it. And I do not have a sweet tooth.

Thorne is going to hate him. I can already tell.

The scent lingers when he pulls away, and I get the oddest urge to catch it in my fist and rub it on my pillows that no doubt smell of smoked pine. Pine that makes me squirm, whereas this… It grounds.

I’m giving this way too much thought.

“Pleasure to meet you, Luna,” Mr. Sanchez says in this deep, baritone voice that is way too sure of itself to carry lies. I bet he doesn’t know how. I bet he’s never thought it useful.

He didn’t even consider that he shouldn’t use my name.

“You as well.” I dip my chin. “We welcome all our prospective initiates with joy, but you should know, we’re especially pleased by your arrival.

Our society is one of great bounty and our peaceful way of life is something I’m certain you’re going to enjoy.

However, some struggle with certain adjustments to their previous way of life.

If there’s…” I trail off as he pulls out a handkerchief and holds it out to me.

When I don’t take it, he smiles. “I’m sorry, I’m a little distracted. You have a bit of…” He points to his chin.

Blood.

I haven’t cleaned up since the fight. I’d forgotten I allowed Alaric to make me bleed.

I peer at the handkerchief—stark white, edges perfectly folded, not a single crease out of place. It looks too perfect to smear with blood, but Mr. Sanchez’s hand is steady, his smile smooth. No hesitation, no disgust. It’d be rude to refuse.

“Pardon me.” I take his offering and dab at my chin, ruining the cloth with blood stains. I don’t explain my face. I can’t even begin to think of how.

“You were saying?” he asks.

I clear my throat and lower the cloth, my hands cupping in front of me.

“Any needs or grievances you may have regarding your accommodations can be taken directly to me. You’ll be staying in a spare bedroom in my quarters until your initiation test, which will take place tomorrow or the day after, depending on the weather. ”

“The weather?” He quirks a brow.

“Our society demands strength from its members. Initiates are divided into groups based on their usefulness, and in your case, that makes you a cultivator. You’ll spend a great deal of time in nature, so we’re going to let nature decide if you’re worthy.”

He blinks at me but doesn’t make me elaborate. Cultivators aren’t allowed time to prepare for their tests, so of course I never tell them what will take place. For initiates like Mr. Sanchez, it isn’t typically a problem.

We’ll be loading him in an SUV tomorrow morning and driving him ten miles away from the compound. He’ll be given a map, a compass, a knife, and a firestarter and told to find his way back.

If he can’t figure it out with all those tools, he wouldn’t fit in here anyway.

Most initiates given this challenge are taken twenty-five miles out, told it’s only fifteen, and given absolutely nothing.

They wear explosive collars around their necks, so if they go off a certain path, they automatically fail.

No initiate has passed that version of the test.

“Well… I look forward to the challenge.” There’s something cryptic under his words, something playful or maybe even arrogant.

I force my eyes neutral when they itch to narrow.

My hand splays as I gesture to the entryway. “Let me show you to your room.”

Mr. Sanchez follows behind while I lead the way through the Keep. The back of my neck tingles while I climb the stairs, feeling eyes on my back—strange; the man is too arrogant to be a threat.

But the closer we get to the guest bedroom, the more my attention drifts away from my four-hundred-milllion-dollar prize, and instead turns to the previous tenant.

When I open the door, my mind is not surprised by the smoky wood, but my stomach… clenches. As if struck.

With a blink, I form a crack between my lips and breathe through my mouth.

“I apologize for the smell,” I say, though I seriously doubt Mr. Sanchez finds it unpleasant or has any idea what I’m talking about. “I had someone prepare your room, but the previous guest was a bit of a slob… I’ll have it disinfected right away.”

“That’s not necessary.” Mr. Sanchez slides past me and tucks his hands in his pockets while he wanders the room, chin arching this way and that while he takes it in.

I try to see it through his eyes—bars on the window, rickety bed, a scuffed table.

The newly stained ring on the nightstand probably goes unnoticed, but for whatever reason, it holds my gaze.

“How recently did the previous guest depart?”

As though I needed his voice to grant permission, I break from the stain and turn to Sanchez. His head is tilted, body leaned forward to peer beneath the table at an abandoned sock. It wouldn’t be Sawyer’s room if it wasn’t disheveled.

It isn’t Sawyer’s room.

I crouch by Sanchez’s shins and retrieve the sock.

Enough of the comparisons.

“Forgive me for being forward, but… Are guests allowed to have women in their rooms?”

I nearly crash my head on the table. “Pardon?”

“Women,” he says as if that’s a clarification. The bed squeaks as he sits on the edge, and he looks down at the noisy mattress as if to scold it.

“This room is temporary. By the time you find a mate, I assure you, you’ll be plenty comfortable in your own—”

“Of course.” He smiles to soften the interruption. “I’m not referring to long term arrangements. I was under the impression that you had um…” He looks up as if thinking of a word. My chest deflates when I realize what that word is.

Slaves.

“Seraphs? Is that what they’re called?”

I turn away before my face screws into something resembling disappointment. A pointless effort. Wasted on a man so vile, women’s emotions must hardly register anyway.

Cotton scraping beneath my thumb brings my attention to the sock. I didn’t even realize I was rubbing it.

I try not to think of him.

But there’s his voice: It’s a trafficking ring, Luna.

“Do you have a preference for physical attributes?” I ask because… Because there’s millions of dollars at stake, and Father’s trust for me has been slaughtered. Without it, I can achieve nothing.

“Yes… I prefer an athletic build. Brown hair. Tan skin… I also like a little bit of sass, if you have that.”

A man who knows what he wants. Charming.

My mouth opens, but a tiny screw slotted between two floorboards jumbles my thoughts. It’s hidden beneath the table, there for who knows how long. I scrape it free with my nail and give a sharp search for its home, but...

Where does it go? What is its purpose?

Nothing. It’s a loose screw. Trash. It doesn’t matter—its function is negligible, this room is intact, the table is standing. And yet, awareness of my heart sharpens. Moments ago, it was invisible. Now, it’s in my ears. It thumps against my chest.

Father’s voice: Don’t be dramatic.

“Do you have anyone like that?” Mr. Sanchez asks. I don’t even remember what he requested.

It has to have come from the table.

I crawl beneath the laminate and search the metal joints, but everything looks in place.

“Is everything all right?”

I nod, though I’m not sure he can see me. My throat is oddly heavy as I crawl backward and hold up the screw.

“Yes, of course.” Good God, I sound like I swallowed a toad. “I’m just searching for the proper place for this.”

“Hmm.” Mr. Sanchez bounces from the bed with the eagerness of a person who’s sat on a scorpion. It’s so abrupt, I’m a breath shy of flinching when he approaches. He takes the screw from my hand, inspects it, then drops his eyes to the table leg.

He lifts the table up by the leg and twists the protective, black cap. Sure enough, it reveals an empty hole for the screw.

In the first place he looked.

Hairs raise on the back of my neck, though I don’t know why that’s suspicious. I shake my head of the thought and go to put the screw back in the hole. But I’m stopped as Mr. Sanchez pulls the cap off the rest of the way.

Rolled notebook paper slides from the hollowed leg and slaps softly against the floor. Dozens of men have stayed in this room, yet in an instant, I know whose it is.

“Clever hiding spot.” Mr. Sanchez pops the cap back into place and twists the screw to secure it while I carefully pick up the paper.

It makes a dry rustling sound, like leaves crumbling as I unroll it. The paper is worn and brittle like it's been folded and unfolded many times, but the numbers written on the lines are sharp and dark, almost aggressively neat. They fill up the page.

I flip the paper over to find a hand-drawn map of the compound.

“Is there a reason the previous occupant felt they needed to hide things?” Mr. Sanchez asks.

What do the numbers mean?

Something crashes in another room and shifts both our attentions to the wall separating this room from the one next to it. The crash sounded farther than that, maybe one or two rooms down the hall. My room.

I stand and start toward the door. “Excuse me.”