Jeremy doesn't answer me. He doesn't need to. His silence says it all.
Killion must have stolen it from the Midnight Syndicate vault. It was inevitable. Sooner or later, everything falls into his hands, even the things that shouldn't.
I cross the room to close the curtains, my fingers brushing the fraying fabric, and glance out at the balconies across the way. The woman who always smokes there—wicked and beautiful, her dress like liquid obsidian—hasn't appeared for days. It's unnerving. People don't simply vanish from the undercity. They're either swallowed whole or dragged into pieces.
"Let's not dwell on that," I say, pulling the curtains shut and turning back to Jeremy.
"What happened in there?" he asks, his tone sharper than usual. He's always hated Killion. Not that I can blame him; Jeremy's smarter than I'll ever be about avoiding danger. He's spent years honing that instinct, while I seem to run straight into the wolf's mouth every time.
