Page 154 of Dance of Ruin

The phone’s spiderwebbed screen flickers to life. When the lock screen finally pops up, I reach into my pocket and grab the Ziploc bag containing the other small token of Omar I needed to get back there.

Thankfully,oneof his eyeballs managed to avoid turning to soft-scrambled eggs in his fall. And that’s what I hold up in the plastic bag, angled at the screen.

I grin as the phone unlocks.

The home screen is a chaotic flurry of missed calls and texts. I scan a few of them, but it’s just mundane crap. His email is likewise just regular bullshit.

No secret files. No hidden folders. Almost nothing but sports betting websites and porn in his web history.

Shit.

I growl to myself, aimlessly swiping through the phone before suddenly I stop and click on his photo gallery.

At first, it’s about what you’d expect. Saved stupid memes, shitty selfies of him out at some dumb club. A couple of terribly lit pictures of hissupremelyunimpressive dick, photographed, bizarrely, with a toilet in the background.

I keep scrolling through the photos. Suddenly, I pause when I get to a video.

The thumbnail is just a dark blur. But the video isforty-three minutes long.That gets my attention.

At first, it’s just dark shapes and the background noise of a bar. Then I fast forward a little and the view changes, as if Omar picked up his phone. There’s a brief glimpse of his face as he positions the phone half behind a napkin holder, giving a view of him sitting in a dark booth in a cruddy-looking bar.

With his phone recording, and half-hidden?

Color me curious.

I end up fast forwarding through twenty gripping minutes of Omar checking his watch and sipping a beer.

Then suddenly, another figure appears—his hoodie up over a baseball hat as he slides into the booth across from Omar. He glances behind him and over Omar’s shoulder before he finally slips off his hood.

What. The. Fuck.

The guy in the hat sitting across from Omar isVaughn.

On screen, Omar clears his throat. He’s obviously trying to adopt an authoritative demeanor, but it’s also clear he’s a little afraid of Vaughn.

“Well?” Vaughn says, spreading his hands.

Omar scowls. “You need to drop it.”

“Be specific,” Vaughn grunts, his voice rougher than I remember it.

“You know I’m talking about the Black Court.”

My nostrils flare.

“You not supposed to be poking around them,” Omar continues. “That’s not the Marquis’ plan right now.”

“Well, it’smyplan,” Vaughn growls. His voice is low, almost feral.

“The Obsidian Syndicate,” Omar says tightly, gripping his beer, “is not about what you might want. It’s bigger than you. And what the Marquis says, goes. Period.”

Vaughn sighs, shaking his head as he glances away. “This is important.”

“Look,” Omar grunts. “I’ve helped you with off the books shit before. But this is different. You’re done.”

“I’mnot,” Vaughn says flatly. “I need access to the Black Court. Either help me or get the fuck out of my way.”

“I’m fuckin’ warning you,” Omar hisses. “This isn’t a suggestion. Walk away from whatever the fuck you’re doing nosing around the Black Court and get back to business as usual. That’s a direct order.”

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