Page 8 of Thorn of Sorrow

“Go ahead, Giovanni. I’ll wait. Take your last call.”

I started to charge him, but the ringing stopped, only to start again. Malachi wasn’t in the habit of repeat-dialing me, which meant it was important.

Shit. “Attack me while I take this call, and I’ll shove my blades up your—” I couldn’t bring myself to finish that repulsive threat. Demons were truly grotesque in their natural forms. The sound of his hooved feet clicking on the pavement was already wearing on my nerves.

Khaelix gave a mocking bow, twirling his clawed fingers in front of his forehead.

“What?” I ground out when I answered. “Kinda in the middle of gutting a disgusting pig.”

Khaelix curled his lip. I flipped him off.

“Dane and Kyson were arrested. Meet me at the police station.”

“What in the fuck were they arrested for?” I growled. Just like I knew he would, Khaelix snapped forward, his hand raised. Swinging my arm behind me, I drove the blade of my dagger into his bulbous neck. He squealed then snarled before I twisted the hilt. What could the two have done to warrant an arrest? I yanked the dagger free. Why had they left the castle in the first place?

Khaelix crumpled to the ground, the glow dying out as I stepped over him, ready to rip the police station apart to get to the males.

“I don’t know,” Malachi said in a low, deadly tone, “but I’ll soon find out.”

I sheathed my daggers, pocketed my phone, and headed down the two blocks to a small building, its brick façade washed in muted oranges and yellows by the weak gleam of an overhead streetlamp. It was situated between an outdated laundromat and a diner whose neon sign buzzed faintly, missing the “Y” in “EATERY.”

Three cruisers lined the front, their light bars catching the flicker of a passing car’s headlights as I stood there. The air carried the faint metallic scent of cooling engines, mingled with the oily residue of exhaust.

Kyson was inside, but was he sitting at a desk, cuffed to a bench, or in a cell? Had the cops treated him right, or would Sheriff Whitmore need new deputies?

Malachi emerged from the shadows, his gaze scanning the area as he approached. I met him halfway, the gravel crunching under my feet.

“How did Whitmore allow this to happen?” His lip curled as he glanced at the station, where untrimmed weeds clung to the base of the wall.

“I’m arriving the same time as you.” The hollow clang of the metal clip against the flagpole echoed in uneven bursts through the stillness, the flag itself faded under the spotlight.

We moved toward the door as one, our steps falling into a soundless rhythm. The entrance was a single glass door, its glass streaked with rain residue and finger smudges. Malachi walked inside first, the smell of stale coffee and old paper floating past me, carrying with it a faint tang of sweat and something metallic—like coins left too long in damp hands. The fluorescent lighting was biting against eyes too attuned to darkness.

I’d never been inside the station before. The foyer consisted of a single, short hallway, the scuffed mat beneath us holding the faint grit of dried mud tracked in on worn boots. Beyond the mat, the white tile was yellowed with time and dirt that no amount of scrubbing could erase.

No clue where I was going, I followed behind Malachi, who headed straight until the hallway revealed a cluster of desks on the right. The cheap metal was scratched and dented like it had seen too many years of elbows slamming down during tense moments.

Three males were present, their voices a low hum punctuated with bursts of laughter. Two deputies were leaning back in their chairs across from each other, feet braced on the edges of their butted-up desks as they traded jokes. The faint rustle of a paper accompanied the sound of a pen tapping caught my attention.

At the front desk sat Deputy Harrington, his posture too casual, his smirk too knowing. Every instinct in me prickled.

My gut told me he was the reason Dane and Kyson had been arrested.

Harrington slowly rose, tossing his pen and newspaper onto his desk. The male tucked his thumbs into his utility belt before puffing out his chest. “Can I help you gentlemen?”

Malachi’s imperceptible snarl didn’t bode well for this small-town station. “You have what belongs to me.”

“Do I now?” Harrington rocked back on his heels, his smile oozing with satisfaction. “Last I checked, you couldn’t own another person.”

I took a casual step forward, tucking my hands behind my back. “Let’s not play this game, Deputy. You’re holding two males that belong to us, and you really don’t want to test my patience.” My sheathed daggers vibrated under my untucked dress shirt, pulsating for blood, even while still tainted with the demon’s.

Harrington’s smile faltered ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing a fraction.

“Is that a threat?” His stance widened like he was about to draw his service weapon as a flex or in preparation for a shootout.

A subtle curve of my lips emerged. I could practically taste his blood on my tongue. Movement behind Harrington showed the two deputies rising slowly to their feet.

All three would be drained before they even realized I’d moved. One began to text with trembling hands, the other growing paler by the second.

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