Chapter 8 · Burn the Badge

The Guild tower smells like bleach and silver polish. I hate it.

Drake shoves through the lobby doors like he's ready to tear the whole building down. His hand's wrapped tight around his Glock, knuckles white. The receptionist looks up, opens her mouth, and he flashes his badge—except it's not on his chest anymore. He's holding it between two fingers like a piece of trash.

"Where's Vera."

Not a question. The girl behind the desk goes pale.

"Sir, I—"

"Where."

She points to the elevator. Her hand's shaking. Smart kid.

I follow Drake into the lift. The doors slide shut and the fluorescent lights hum above us. He jabs the button for the top floor hard enough I hear the plastic crack. His jaw's locked, teeth grinding. The silver in his blood is starting to burn again—I can smell it under his skin, sharp and wrong.

"You need to feed," I say.

He doesn't look at me. "After."

"Drake—"

"After."

Fine. I tighten my grip on the rune blade. The handle's still warm from my palm. My mother carved this thing four hundred years ago. It cuts blood pacts. It cuts a lot of other things too.

The elevator dings.