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It’s not nearly as fun either. But that’s hardly the important part.
Sighing, I watch a woman in a fur coat exit her vintage car. Her arms and hands are hidden by the coat’s sleeves, but when she closes the car door, the faintest trace of ink peeks through on her wrist. Bingo. It’s the most promising thing I’ve seen all night. I summon Christopher over, and a wide grin spreads across his cheeks.
“Diana Scott. She’s a powerful witch with a cousin in the Septem. Good catch.”
“But what’s the motive?” I ask. “I’ve never met her.”
“I have.” Daemon scoots his chair toward us. “She and my mom despise each other. They’re business competitors.”
I swear I’ve never seen Christopher look so happy. “I can check her wrist first thing in the morning,” he says. “No one has seen her without her coat on, have they?”
Daemon shakes his head, and so does my father. “I have her timestamped four times already,” Dad adds. “I didn’t notice the ink. Otherwise, I would have said something sooner.”
“This is great news.” Christopher’s relief is evident in the way his tense shoulders go lax. I wish I could be so confident, but I can’t quite shake the anxiety that’s eating at my bones. Because what if it isn’t her, and we’re truly just wasting our time here? But I know I shouldn’t think like that; it won’t help the situation.
The door to our makeshift office groans open, and Minerva pops her head through. “What’s great news?” she asks. “You have a suspect?”
“We do.” Christopher points to my paused feed, and Daemon’s mother scowls.
She might hate me, but apparently those feelings are nothing in comparison to this Diana woman. While I know Minerva isn’t a demon, her eyes still flash red for half a second before returning to their normal green hue. “Fucking bitch. If there wasn’t a treaty…”
“But there is,” Dad reminds her. Standing from his chair, he places a calming hand on Minerva’s shoulder and squeezes like they’re old friends. And maybe they are. Or maybe they used to be more than that.
She shrugs away from him and ushers me out of my spot, relieving me of my monitoring duties. “We should finish the search anyway,” Minerva says. “Annie, go get some rest.”
She doesn’t need to tell me twice. My eyes burn from staring at the computer for so long.
As I rise from my chair, Christopher joins me, holding the door open while I shamble my way through it. He places his hand on my lower back and guides me to one of the many guest bedrooms—it seemed inappropriate to continue sleeping in Daemon’s basement with my mate around. My new sleeping arrangements aren’t as nice, but they’re hardly meager either. More high ceilings and bright walls. A spacious bed with a white downy comforter on top.
I stumble my way onto the soft mattress and collapse on top of it face first. “You’ll wake me up when you’re finished?” I ask. The words are muffled and unintelligible through the goose feathers, but Christopher understands me anyway.
“Of course.” Bending, he kisses me on the forehead. “I’ll figure this out, Ann. I promise.”
And for now—because I’m so damn exhausted—I let myself believe him.
I wake in darkness.
Someone removed my socks and unlaced my boots—well, technically Daemon’s boots—and I know instinctively who did it because he’s done it a zillion times before. Faint voices echo from the living room, and I stumble out of bed with no idea what time it is. I think I left my phone in the monitoring room. Feeling along the wall, I flip on the light switch and blink a half-dozen times as my eyes adjust to the searing brightness.
When I push open the bedroom door, I find the rest of the house empty and dark—all except for the faint blue light of a flickering television. Barefoot, I pad across the cold marble to Minerva’s living room. Daemon lays sprawled across the couch, covered in a thin blanket. He’s totally engrossed in the television, where a conventionally attractive woman shrieks as a serial killer hacks at her with a cleaver. A comical amount of blood goes splattering across the screen, and I roll my eyes.
Such bad taste in movies. Also, a bit cliché, given he’s a demon.
“That’s the fakest blood I’ve ever seen.” The voice comes from the floor. I crane my neck and find Christopher there, also covered in a blanket, surrounded by pillows. “How do you watch this stuff?”
I don’t bother stifling my chuckle. “I’ve been asking him that for years.”
Both men turn when they see me, scrambling to clear a place for me to sit.
“I wanted to let you sleep,” Daemon says. “It’s five in the morning. Not much we can do right now.”
“And you’re awake because…?” My gaze flicks between Daemon and Christopher—to the freshly made spaces beside them. Even though the couch would be exponentially more comfortable, I do what I know I’m supposed to, and take the floor instead, leaning my head against Christopher’s shoulder.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Daemon says. “Eternal torture and all that.”
“And you?” I arch a brow as I pull the blanket over me and pretend the cold, hard tiles aren’t hurting my ass. Christopher smiles just as the 1990s horror movie girl shrieks again.
“I’m always up this early. Usually, I spend the morning running.”
