Page 50 of Hunted

I lean closer, cold authority settling back into place.

‘I have a lead of my own,’ I say. ‘One that does not involve chasing ghosts through bus stations.’

Her mouth twists. ‘You have your own lead? Then why summon me at all?’

Because you unsettle me.

Because you smell wrong and I cannot stop looking at you.

Because the mark is burning, time is pressing, and my patience is becoming something dangerous.

I say none of that.

Instead, I turn away.

‘First thing tomorrow morning, you’ll be granted access to Umbra’s databases,’ I tell her coolly. ‘You will follow the trail I give you. And you will report to me in person.’

As her footsteps fade, I summon Malachi without words.

The command travels through blood and bond, and moments later the eldest of my Twelve steps into the chamber, immaculate in black, the matte onyx ring on his hand catching the faintest gleam as he inclines his head.

‘Don.’

I open the corridor in my mind and send the memory straight into his. Malachi absorbs it without reaction, though I feel the flicker of curiosity before he shutters it. I give him no verbal order. I do not need to. The command is clear enough.

Find him.

His chin lowers. ‘At once, Sire.’

He turns to leave, then hesitates for the smallest fraction.

‘You have something to say?’

Malachi’s discipline is worthy of his rank, but his thought slips before he can mask it. ‘If the objective is retrieval, the Twelve are more than capable. You need not rely on her.’

There is a sneer around the final thought.

‘You believe this is a matter of capability?’ I ask mildly.

Perhaps I am being unfair. Perhaps I have kept too much from them. At first, Lyra Hannigan was a deferred concern, a debt to be collected when convenient.

Then the mark arrived.

Malachi lowers his head. ‘If I have disappointed you⁠—’

‘Careful,’ I interrupt, my tone sharpening at last. ‘Should I be questioning my own maker for the inadequacy of the bloodline?’

He stiffens, chastened. ‘No, Don. You shouldn’t.’

‘Then do not question my methods. The hunter is an instrument. Nothing more.’

He bows, but something colder moves beneath the surface. Resentment. Rivalry. The first bitter taste of rebellion, controlled but not extinguished.

Good.

Let him dislike her.

Let the Twelve bristle at a human brought too close to their master’s secrets. Eira Cross has tested me enough tonight; perhaps a little overt friction from my guard will prove entertaining.