The command center was thick with Joric's barely suppressed rage. He paced back and forth like a caged panther, muttering about "unacceptable risks" and "suicidal strategies." I ignored him, my focus entirely on the floating holographic map. Mercy-Graves Cemetery. I knew it. It was one of the oldest and most dilapidated graveyards in Cinderfall, a place the city had long since forgotten, left to crumble into the earth. It was a known haunt for rogue ghouls and other bottom-feeders of the supernatural world. It was my old hunting ground.
"The catacombs have three primary entrances," I said, my voice cutting through Joric's tirade. Both he and Rhyian looked at me in surprise. "One is a collapsed mausoleum in the center of the cemetery. It's a bottleneck, easy to watch, so he won't be there. The second is a service drain that empties into the Cinderfall Canal, but it floods with the tide. Too risky. The third," I pointed to a spot on the map on the far western edge, "is a sealed-off access tunnel for the old metro line. It's hidden behind a patch of overgrown briar. It's discreet, defensible, and has multiple escape routes. That's where you'll find him."
Silence. Joric stared at me, his mouth slightly open. Rhyian's silver eyes narrowed, a flicker of genuine curiosity in them.
"How do you know that?" Rhyian asked, his voice a low, intrigued rumble.
"I read," I said simply, gesturing vaguely. "In Silas's library. Old city planning documents." It was a plausible lie. The truth—that I had spent a terrifying night a year ago hunting a rabid ghoul through those very tunnels—was not something I was willing to share.
"A lucky guess from a book," Joric sneered, recovering his composure. "It changes nothing. She's not equipped."
"Then equip me," I shot back, turning to face him. "What's your protocol for an undercover meet in a hostile subterranean environment?"
Joric scoffed.
"Protocol is we send in a four-man team of armed Enforcers, not a civilian in cashmere." He looked me up and down with disdain.
"And that's why your informant is dead and Twitch won't talk to you," I countered coolly. "You move like an army. I move like a shadow. He's not afraid of the Coven; he's afraid of you. He's afraid of the Sovereign's hammer coming down on his operation. He'll talk to me because he thinks I'm like him—a powerless nobody just trying to survive."
Rhyian nodded slowly, a thoughtful expression on his face.
"She is correct, Joric. Your methods are too blunt for this task." He looked at me. "What do you need?"
This was my chance. Not just to prove them wrong, but to reclaim a part of myself.
"First, my things," I said. "You said you retrieved the contents of my safe. I need them."
"Done," Rhyian said. "They are in your suite. What else?"
"Armor. Something light. A Kevlar-weave vest, thin enough to wear under a jacket. Not the heavy tactical gear your men wear."
"Acceptable," Joric grunted, clearly hating that my request was reasonable.
"Weapons," I continued, my confidence growing. "I need my stiletto back. It was in the ghoul you so helpfully disposed of." I saw Rhyian flinch almost imperceptibly at the reminder. "And I need silver. Not blades. Dust. A few small, weighted pouches I can throw. It's a dispersal weapon. More of a deterrent, meant to blind and burn, not to kill. It creates distance."
Silas's books had told me that while a silver blade to the heart was lethal to many supernatural creatures, fine silver dust was like supernatural pepper spray—agonizing to sensitive vampire and ghoul senses.
Joric stared at me.
"Silver dust? That's scavenger tech. Unreliable."
"It's also unexpected," I said. "And I need a comms unit. Small, in-ear, with a micro-camera feed. But it's for listening only. I don't want you chirping in my ear and getting me killed. You can watch, you can listen, but you do not speak unless I give a clear distress signal."
Rhyian considered this for a moment, then gave a sharp nod.
"The terms are acceptable. Joric, see to it. Have everything delivered to her suite in thirty minutes."
Joric looked like he wanted to argue, but a single, cold glance from Rhyian silenced him. He gave a stiff, resentful bow and marched out of the room.
Now it was just Rhyian and me again. The air was charged, but the tension was different. It wasn't the anger of our previous confrontations. It was something new.
"You continue to surprise me, Carys," he said, his voice soft.
"You wanted a partner in this truce," I replied, unwilling to give him an inch. "A partner knows the terrain."
"It seems you know it better than I gave you credit for." He took a step closer, his eyes searching mine. "This is not a test. Not in the way you think. This is a genuine risk. Twitch is unstable. The Coven may already be watching the catacombs. If anything goes wrong..."
"I can handle myself," I interrupted, my voice harder than I intended.
"I am beginning to believe that," he said, and the sincerity in his voice was unsettling. "But I will not be sitting here watching a map. I will be closer than you think. At the first sign of trouble, I will be there."
"No," I said firmly. "That's not the deal. Your presence will terrify him. It will escalate everything. You have to trust me to handle this."
"Trust is a commodity I have little of, especially where your safety is concerned," he countered, his voice dropping, becoming personal. "I already failed to protect you once. I will not fail again."
"If you truly want to protect me, if you truly want this truce to work, then you will do the hardest thing you've ever done in your long, arrogant life," I said, looking him straight in the eye. "You will stay out of my way. You will let me do my job. You will trust me."
We stood there, locked in another battle of wills. But this time, it wasn't about the past. It was about the mission. It was about now.
Finally, he gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"Thirty minutes," he said, his voice tight with a control I knew was costing him dearly. "Then you go."
I returned to my suite to find my duffel bag on the bed. I unzipped the false bottom and pulled out the worn leather journal. But I didn't open it. I didn't need to. The information was already in my head.
Next to the duffel was a new pile of equipment. A lightweight, dark grey vest. Three small, heavy leather pouches that jingled faintly with the promise of silver dust. A tiny, flesh-colored earpiece. And lying on top of it all, cleaned and gleaming, was my stiletto.
I picked it up. The worn handle felt like an extension of my own hand, a familiar and welcome weight. For the first time since I'd been brought to this tower, I didn't feel like a prisoner. I didn't feel like a mother or a former lover or an 'asset'.
I felt like a hunter again. And tonight, I was going to work.