Chapter 23 · The Undercity Hates Dead Men

"Get your hands off me before I rip them off!" Mara spat, twisting her wrist.

The man didn't flinch. His grip was a vice—cold, clinical—pinning her against a jagged limestone pillar. He held a leather ledger under his arm, the binding stained with something dark and old.

"You're shaking, Mara Vance," he whispered. His voice sounded like grinding gravel. "Is it the shock of losing your brother? Or the realization that you're nothing but a ghost in a dress?"

Mara slammed her elbow into his ribs. Nothing. He didn't even grunt. He just tightened his hold, pulling her chest flush against his coat. He smelled of ozone and formaldehyde. The scent of a man who lived in the morgue.

"Where is Leo?" she hissed, her voice cracking. "Where did he go?"

"The vault took him. The bell wanted a payment, and he was the only currency you had left." He leaned in, breath cold against her ear. "But you? You're the prize. You aren't just a runner, Mara. You're the reason this city keeps screaming."

"Let her go."

Raw. Barely a whisper. But it carried the weight of a death sentence.

Mara looked over her shoulder.