Chapter 22 · The Gargoyle's Old Job

"You worked for the city."

Calder didn't deny it. He didn't look at me either. Just leaned against the warehouse wall with his wings folded tight, staring at the blood still drying on the concrete.

"Mara—"

"Don't." I stepped closer. The cuff dragged him forward half a step before he dug his claws into the brick. "My father's name is on that wall. Your blood wrote it. So yeah, I'm asking. You worked for the city."

He exhaled through his teeth. "I did."

"Doing what?"

"Deliveries."

I laughed. It came out sharp enough to echo. "Deliveries. You're a gargoyle. You've got claws that can rip through steel and you make jokes about murder like it's small talk. What the hell were you delivering?"

"Things people didn't want moved through normal channels." His voice stayed flat. "Relics. Contracts. Evidence. The kind of cargo that needed someone who could fly quiet and didn't ask questions."

"So you were a smuggler."

"I was licensed." He finally looked at me. His eyes caught the dim light coming through the broken roof. "Everything I moved had a manifest. A signature. Your people called it asset transit. I called it paying rent.