I could hear my mother’s reply, her sunny outlook shining through no matter the scenario.

“But look here, little bird,” she would’ve murmured, pointing at the page. “What about this? ‘I have never been so whole, so alive.’ And here, ‘The conversations we have fuel my wit and grip my imagination.’ Myrrine might’ve questioned her feelings, but that doesn’t mean her feelings weren’t real.”

“But a demon, Mom?” I would’ve replied, exasperated. “She was a bit infatuated, maybe, but a few moments of attraction don’t mean anything. No one could fall in love with a demon, not for real.”

I imagined how Mom would’ve laughed fondly and tweaked my hair. “Maybe she couldn’t help herself. It sounds like he was one hot demon.”

Her imagined voice made my cheeks ache. How could a smile hurt so much? How could I smile through tears like this?

I banished the fantasy, angry with myself for letting my thoughts wander in such painful directions, and packed up the grimoire, my notebook, and my mother’s notes into a neat pile on the breakfast bar. Returning them to their protective case was the next step, but the case was in my bedroom.

And in my bedroom was my demon.

He’d avoided me all evening, and I hadn’t seen him since I’d gotten the grimoire out several hours ago. The trust between us was crumbling so fast, and I couldn’t stop the breakdown. What was holding him back? Was he afraid of what I might be hiding?

Or was he afraid of what I might discover in his head?

I’d thought giving him the grimoire would show him that my intentions were pure, and I didn’t know how much more I was willing to give. Letting him all the way in my head … letting him dig deep into every dumb thought and silly whimsy and … and … and unseemly yearning that’d ever crossed my mind …

No. No way. Trust didn’t—shouldn’t—require a complete sacrifice of personal privacy. I’d find a different way, a better way to rebuild our trust.

My phone chimed, startling me. I felt around my pockets, then checked under scrap papers and reference books until I found my phone. A text message waited, and the sender’s name sent a chill down the back of my neck: Ezra Rowe.

I opened the message and frowned at the short compilation of words. Vernon Dr under E 1st Ave overpass.

An address? Sort of? Bullying my brain into focusing, I thought back to our last conversation—and realized what it must be.

“The crime scene!” I gasped, shoving my stool back from the counter. That address was the location where Yana Deneva’s body had been found, which Ezra had promised to send me.

I scooped up the grimoire and my notes and turned toward my bedroom. Ezra had said we needed to wait until the police were done with the crime scene, but I had no intention of sitting around when there was a quick, easy way to determine whether the albino sorcerer had been there.

All I had to do was get Zylas close enough to use his nose.

Vernon Street was not a good place for a woman to walk alone at night.

I kept one hand on my infernus as I hurried down the center of the road, eyes darting side to side. Most of the streetlamps were broken, and I navigated by the lights of the major thoroughfare that arched across Vernon Street. To my right was a dodgy repair shop with old vehicles parked three deep in the front, and on my left was a corrugated steel fence covered in graffiti and gang tags.

Not a safe place to walk at all.

Despite the late hour, traffic zoomed along the overpass, headlights flashing by. Reaching the steel and concrete bridge, I stopped to crane my neck back, grimacing at the roar of engines and tires echoing off the pavement. Beneath the overpass, it was even darker, and I squinted nervously.

On one side, the space under the bridge was fairly open, my line of sight interrupted only by the concrete supports. On the opposite side, a windowless three-story building and a copse of trees hemmed in the dark gap.

As the cold breeze tugged at my leather jacket, I spotted a fluttering strip of yellow in the darkness—police tape. I’d found the right spot.

A chain-link fence blocked my way, but I found a wide gate that allowed vehicles access to the neighboring building. No lock, so I pushed it open enough to squeeze through.

Someone was using the space beneath the raised road to store massive tractor tires, and I wound between stacks of rubber before halting at the line of police tape, my stomach aching and sick. Traffic roared overhead, the echoing clamor obliterating all noises of my approach—just as it would’ve muffled Yana’s calls for help, if she’d cried out. It was so dark back here, the stacks of tires and heavy concrete supports cutting off the view from Vernon Street.

It was a dark, hidden hole. Easy to access, easy to escape, difficult to spot.

Lifting the police tape with a gloved hand, I stepped onto the crime scene.

Fifty yards from the road, the gap beneath the overpass ended in a concrete wall where Yana had died. Her body was gone, but it wasn’t dark enough to hide the bloodstains.

Forcing my horrified stare away from the wall and Yana’s dried blood, I glanced around one more time. Footprints and other tracks disturbed the dirt where a forensic team had gathered evidence, but otherwise, the spot was devoid of any signs of life.

The killer had chosen the location well. No one from the street or neighboring buildings—if anyone was even around this late—would see me, just as they hadn’t seen a murder taking place yards from their workplaces.

Zylas, I whispered inside my head.

Red light flared over the infernus, then streaked toward the ground. My demon took form, fully armored and eyes already narrowed as his gaze swept his new location—analyzing everything from the terrain to escape routes to signs of danger.

“It is loud.” His nose wrinkled. “And it stinks.”

I twisted my hands together. “Can you smell the sorcerer?”

He canted his head, nostrils flaring, then sank into a crouch to sniff unenthusiastically at the ground. Grumbling complaints, he moved closer to the bloodstains and inhaled again.

“I smell …” His head snapped back, eyes blazing as he looked up into the steel crossbeams that supported the overpass. His lips curled in a silent snarl. His claws unsheathed and power snaked up his hands and over his wrists.

A shadow moved: the shape of a man uncoiling from the darkest nook.