Page 112 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

And to top it all off?

Calypso, Carr, and I spent our afternoon quelling tempers at La Lune Noire due to a “freak cyber glitch” that overbooked every. Single. Room. The lobby was a chaotic mob of exhausted, hungry, increasingly pissed-off travelers with nowhere to stay.

It was as if only international trips got rerouted into the glitch—every last one of them had endured at least fourteen hours of travel to get here.

In addition to the hundred dejected guests we were scrambling to accommodate, our reviews plummeted from a wave of one-star ratings claiming we had bedbugs, leaky pipes, and—my personal favorite—ghosts.

There wasn’t a nicer hotel south of Manhattan, and lilyloo98271 could kiss my pasty fucking ass for claiming otherwise.

As it became more and more apparent that these compound inconveniences were a brilliantly orchestrated dismantling of our livelihood, the star in my coat pocket started burning a damn hole through the silky lining.

God.

Fucking.

Damn her.

Well-organized causes were a prerequisite for balance.

Causes required resources—i.e., funding.

Funding required proper income and, more often than not, a way to launder that income.

She wasn’t just here to burn Paladin down.

She was gonna do it with fucking flare.

The fact that no one had a single goddamn lead worth chasing was on me—and our people were starting to resent the failure.

Needless to say, it was a two-cigarette kind of day.

Which was what brought me here—lurking on the rooftop while the estate below filled with equally aggravated Wings, all busy putting out metaphorical fires like their lives depended on it.

I was taking a long drag when I spotted my father materialize beneath the great oak in the front yard, head down, shoulders tense as he marched toward the porch. Blowing out a long stream of smoke, I stubbed the cigarette out on a shingle and slipped into the shadows, gliding down to the front steps behind him.

“Dad.”

Everything that needed saying landed heavy in that one fucking word. To my relief, he hesitated—then turned, the exhaustion in his pale face etched into every line. He jerked his head toward the barn. I nodded, and we both misted into the world between worlds.

“You alright, son? Long day.”

“Yeah,” I said flatly. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Straight to the point. Always been like your mother in that way.”

My face must’ve twisted into a scowl without me realizing, because his turned scolding. “Meant it as a compliment.”

“She hasn’t exactly been forthcoming lately.”

“She’s spooked,” he said—an excuse that fell flat.

“And hiding things from our fucking family.”

“Cyrus—”

“Don’t, Dad. You can’t convince me any of this is coincidence. You’re both hiding things. Taking intruders into private meetings. Refusing to shoot straight about strategy or intent in the war that’s coming. Where, pray tell, does the balance lay?”

“You deserve explanations,” he said, that soothing tone meant to placate a child. It did nothing for me. “But allow us to get our story straight.”