Page 7 of Paris and the Reaper

“In my private wine locker at Benton’s.”

Jason laughed. “You think they’re gonna let me into a place like that? Breaking into your condo would’ve been easier.”

He maybe had a point. Paris couldn’t recall a single pair of jeans Jason owned that weren’t ripped, and ripped denim was not the recommended attire for one of the nicest restaurants in town. But he also couldn’t recall Jason ever meeting a lock he couldn’t pick. “Jason.”

His friend’s laughter subsided. “What?”

“You’re the best smuggler in Yerba Buena.”

“Charmer.” Paris could hear the smile in his voice. “How much does she owe you?”

“Tell her it’s on the house for being late.”

“You’re a damn softie, Cirillo.”

You’re too soft.

“So I’ve been told.” More times than Paris could count.

“That wasn’t meant as an insult,” Jason said, his voice gentle and sincere. “It’s what makes you one of the best people I know. You help others, you protect them in your own way. You do the thing your dad promises and never delivers.”

His friend’s words chased away some of the chill that had wound back into his soul. Made him believe what he’d been doing was right. That he was right. Maybe he was soft, but that softness, in himself and the things around him, was how he survived the violence. Violence he was asking his best friend to step into.

“Jason, if it’s too risky?—”

“Didn’t you just say I was the best smuggler in YB?”

“Thank you,” Paris said with a small, relieved smile. “Give my love to Kai.”

“Will do,” Jason said. “And in case it’s not obvious, I’m glad your dad didn’t succeed. Love you, buddy.”

“Love you too.”

He flipped shut the phone just as the door behind him swung open, the witch from earlier poking her head out. “Oh, there you are.”

“Sorry, just needed some air,” he lied. “Paint fumes and all,” he said, flashing his stained fingers on one hand while he clutched the phone with the other behind his back.

She knitted her brow, no doubt wondering about those non-existent paint fumes, but a call from inside saved Paris fromhaving to lie his way out of his lie. “It’s safer inside,” she said, holding the door open for him. “Our protections don’t extend beyond the walls.”

“What about the crows?” he asked as he stepped inside. “They’re all over the roof.”

“Well, not all the protections,” she amended before shutting and locking the door behind him. “Have you seen my phone?”

He shook his head, playing the fool everyone thought he was. She scurried past him, muttering to herself about always leaving things behind, completely missing the moment he slipped it back in her pocket to find again soon.

FOUR

“You need to move. Now.”

Paris recognized that deep, serious voice, though it was more strained than the calmer, softer version of several days ago. Hurried footsteps punctuated each word, the raven charging down the hall toward the room at the end Paris had claimed. And painted one whole wall of, from floor-to-ceiling, even the jamb around the door.

But before Mac could reach him, he was waylaid by Liam outside the room. “Where’s the fire, brother?”

“Vincent hired someone to hack the coven’s location. We’re trying to slow him down, but someone made a call out from here. The witch whose phone was used said it wasn’t her.”

“Shit,” Paris cursed as his brush slipped, smearing his guilt across the chin of the young woman from the grocery store parking lot.

A blink later, Mac appeared in the doorway, and Paris stumbled back against the wall behind him.

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