Page 104 of Ash Storm

“There,” Griffin said, pointing to a set of slanted windows on the ground.

Bingo.

Rich people would want natural light flooding their basements—even if it made them that much less safe.

Griffin kneeled by the lock, a set of tools already in his hand.

“Griffin, Ash,” Rogue said in Ash’s ear. “The pair of guards have turned around and are coming your way.

“I’ve almost got it,” Griffin muttered. Moments later, the window opened.

“Where the fuck did you learn to do that?”

Griffin smiled a wolfish smile and made as if to pull his leg inside. Ash stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“I go in first.”

It was a tight fit for him, and for a moment he thought Griffin might have to push his shoulders in, but eventually he made it, falling awkwardly but silently into the room.

Seconds later, Griffin landed beside him, stealthy as a cat.

Ash turned on the light on his wrist and looked around. He’d expected … he didn’t know quite what he’d expected—something dark and humid, perhaps—certainly not this futuristic-looking games room.

The only lighting in the room seemed to come from blue and purple LEDs hidden in gaps between the ceiling and the walls, and under the main pieces of furniture.

A large glossy pool table reigned in the center of the room.

Off to one side of that was a bar area that wouldn’t have been out of place in a fashion magazine. Ash didn’t recognize most of the bottles lining the shelves, but Griffin whistled as he walked by.

“Eclectic tastes,” he said in a low voice.

Off to the other side of the pool table was a corner designed for relaxation. An enormous bookcase filled up one entire wall, flanked by two of the largest armchairs Ash had ever seen.

A spot behind Ash’s eyes throbbed.

Maybe I made a mistake.

Maybe Chloe isn’t here.

His eyes fell on the well-thumbed paperback lying on a small glass table between the armchairs.

The hairs on his arms stood on end.

The Prince, by Niccolo Machiavelli.

He looked around, the discomfort growing, until he suddenly realized the problem. He paced from one side of the room to the other.

The proportions are wrong.

“Look,” Griffin said, pointing at a crescent-shaped scratch on the otherwise spotless, smooth wooden floor.

Something had been moved on that spot—often.

Ash and Griffin approached the bookcase from either end.

There has to be a way in.