THE AIR IN THE HALLWAY didn't just get cold; it felt like the oxygen had been replaced by liquid nitrogen. Grayson's arm was a heavy, warm band around Mailah's waist, the only thing keeping her upright as she stared at the man with the void-black eyes.
"Caspian," Grayson repeated. The name sounded like a curse.
The man in the grey suit stopped flipping his silver coin. He caught it with a sharp clack and tucked it into his palm. "You remember me. I'm touched, Grayson. Truly. I thought the 'accident' might have cleared away the unpleasant bits of your history. Like me."
Mailah watched them, her heart doing a frantic tap-dance against her ribs. She could feel the waves of hate rolling off Grayson.
It wasn't the hot, explosive anger he'd shown in the library. This was cold. This was old. It was the kind of hate that had been aging in a cellar for centuries.
