Page 40 of Stroke of Shadows

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Harper jumped at the new voice, recognising the accent immediately. “Ivan.”

“Be a good girl and follow your orders,” he said, running a hand over the gun on his hip. “Or maybe Angel will give me the honour of punishing you next.” He looked down her body as a predator would size up a prey.

“Come near me again and I’ll tell him everything.”

Ivan dragged his eyes back up to meet hers, the picture of mocking cruelty. “Try it, and I’ll make it hurt worse.”

Harper didn’t want to be in the room alone with him any longer, holding her breath as she passed. He shifted slightly, seeming to rub his arm against hers. Between two other people it would mean nothing but an accidental brush, but with him it was a warning. A threat.

The basement storage was much larger than the gallery upstairs. Harper guessed around twice the size, with the space being sectioned with stacked crates. Some seemed to be the size of cars, stacked high enough they almost reached the tall ceiling. She’d never really been allowed to spend time there, and it showed with the way the workers watched her curiously.

Eyes prickled along her skin as she walked further, some of the men openly staring.

She found Angel by one of the largest crates, speaking to the manager who she’d met on occasion. Gary Lotte was an overly friendly guy and one of Angel’s inner circle, giving her uncle council on more than one occasion. Not because of his net worth, but because of his loyalty at over thirty years.

“Tell me we haven’t got any concerns,” Angel said, reading from the clipboard and flicking through the attached papers. “I don’t want this fucked up again.”

“We’re having a little issue with the dockmaster at the northern port. He’s worried about the shipment coming in.” Gary’s eyes flicked to Harper and then back to Angel. “He’s a bit sketchy if you ask me, boss. The delivery’s due Tuesday and I’m worried he may run.”

“Find someone to replace him. One of our people. I think the current dockmaster needs to be reminded who the fuck we are.” Angel handed the clipboard back, anger evident in the tension along his spine.

His hand snapped out, gripping Harper by the arm and forcing her to the side. “I thought I told you to go home,” he whispered, his breath hot against her face.

“I have one last request,” she said with what little courage she had left. “It’s about the artefact Wyatt has me hunting, as well as the Kelleigh piece you need.”

Angel pursed his lips, but released his grip. “I’m listening.”

“I have a few meetings lined up, but these people are incredibly private. They won’t give me the information I need if I have an escort.” A lie, but one she could keep to if needed.

“It's a safety precaution. You know we've been having some problems with the police sniffing around.” He dismissed her concern entirely. “Charles stays until I say so.”

“No, you don’t understand.” She placed her palm on his forearm, stopping him from turning away. “Charles can make people uncomfortable, and it will affect my ability to negotiate with them. It will make me seem weak. Beauchamps aren’t weak.”

His eyes narrowed. “You’ve never had any issues with being escorted before.”

“Wyatt’s chalice has been more difficult than expected.” Sweat on her nape, but she chose her next words carefully. “I don’t want to disappoint you or Wyatt.”

The moment stretched, and she thought he’d see right through her.

A deep sigh, Angel dragging a hand down his face. “I’ll organise someone to replace Charles when possible. They won’t interfere with your search.”

Harper felt the tension release from her shoulders, her stomach no longer cramped.

“Thank you, uncle.”

Chapter 15

Sythe

The only good thing. And Sythe, honest to the fucking Fates, meant it when he said the only good thing about the Church of the Light was the fact their buildings of worship weren’t surrounded in graves. Having to break into a building was already a ball ache, but doing so with hundreds of dead eyes was just a fucking nuisance.

He couldn’t even see ghosts, not unless they were powerful enough to draw energy from something living. Like him. Ghosts were, respectfully, a pain in the arse. The mentally capable ones tried their hardest to manipulate their way into someone’s life. They’d syphon energy from the living to recapture the feeling of breath in their lungs and earth beneath their feet. And then there were the repeaters, the ones that were on a constant loop of their last moments. Sad, really.

Sythe hoped when death came for him, he wouldn’t become a fucking ghost who literally chased after life like some pathetic loser who’d peaked in high school.

Guess he could ask his brother Xander to send him to the light, or whatever was after death. Or he could just haunt the ghost-seeing-bastard. Either, or.

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