Page 9 of Terror at the Gates

“Go home, Lilith. Or I’ll make you.”

Make me, I wanted to say, because there was a part of me that wanted to see what he would do, but then I knew—he’d shove me in one of his SUVs and order Felix, his driver, to take me home and walk me right to my door.

So I didn’t challenge him.

“The man who had the knife said he killed a priest for it,” I said.

Zahariev paused at the door. He did not look at me, but he turned his head, listening.

“You should probably detain him.”

He nodded once and then left.

I waited for a few minutes before letting my hands drop from behind my back. In one, I held the dagger I’d slipped from Zahariev’s pocket. I should feel triumphant, but I knew better.

Zahariev had let me take it.

Zahariev

“She treats your territory like she owns it,” Cassius said when I stepped outside the holding room.

“That is how Lilith treats the world,” I replied.

Chapter Two

I went home like Zahariev ordered but only to change into dark jeans and a tank top. I needed something that wouldn’t draw attention as I made my way down Smugglers’ Row, a street in what was probably the most dangerous part of Nineveh, known as Gomorrah. I also needed my gun, which I kept holstered under my jacket.

The streets were crowded tonight, but that was because there was just as much garbage as there were people. The ground was sticky, and I had to peel my boots up with every step, but there was no way I’d venture into this part of town without at least two inches of rubber between me and these piss-filled streets.

It was a stark contrast to Hiram where I’d grown up. It was a district full of tall white buildings and mirrored skyscrapers. There, the sidewalks were quartz and scrubbed clean every night, though it was easy to do since a strict curfew was enforced. No one was allowed out past ten, and anyone caught was arrested and fined, though that wasn’t even what kept people obedient.

It was the threat of having your name and face splashed across every billboard in the city at rush hour the next morning.

In Hiram, there was nothing more powerful than shame.

Nineveh might not be as beautiful, and life here might be harder, but I would take it over the simulated perfection of Hiram.

The blare of a horn caught my attention, and my gaze shifted to the street, which was lined with sleek sports cars and roaring vintage trucks. A man with shorn hair yelled out the window of a shiny red convertible. “Hey, beautiful, want a ride?”

My lips quirked, though I wasn’t amused.

“You’re going the wrong way,” I said, continuing down the sidewalk.

“I can change,” he said, and to my great annoyance, he exited the car and jogged up to me, falling into step beside me.

“I’m afraid you’re wasting your time,” I said, not only because I wasn’t interested but he wasn’t either. I couldn’t sense a single drop of lust in this man.

“Why?” he asked. “You married?”

“No,” I said.

“Then I don’t see a problem,” he said, cutting me off. I tried to step around him, but he stuck out his arm to stop me. I let my gaze slide to his, and still there was nothing, no sign he was the least bit aroused by me. I suspected he’d pegged me as an easy target, some young woman he could snatch from the streets and sell into the sex trade, a market Zahariev didn’t condone in Nineveh, though I couldn’t say the same for the other families.

I studied his face. I wanted to remember it so I could give Zahariev a good description.

I tilted my head to the side. “You think you can change my mind?”

“Just one ride, baby,” he said with a grin. “That’s all it takes.”

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