Page 60

I pull a slim device from the side pocket of my utility pants, another fancy piece of Dax’s tech that can bypass the wards, and use it to unlock the back door. Dax already killed the alarms, and the jammer at my hip is riding the back of whatever interference those weird as fuck wards are giving off. He says it’ll buy me two hours, tops, which is fine. As long as I don’t get caught in an unknown magical trap, I’m good.

I slip through the back entryway and make sure the door closes behind me. The kitchen opens up on my left, and a locked door is directly to my right.

“The door to the right,” I whisper. “Where does it go?”

Dax, who pulled all internal blueprints in anticipation of tonight, answers swiftly.

“Basement level. Probably worth checking out.”

“Yeah, I’ll hit it on my way out. I want to get a feel for the rest of the house first.”

I continue down the hall on silent feet until it spits me out into a large open concept living room.

I nearly recoil in disgust.

The whole place looks like someone’s grandmother decorated it. Lace doilies, glass trinkets, floral print accent chairs, and… beige. So much fucking beige.

“Fates… The decor is a disaster.” I mutter in a low voice. “It’s like someone saw an episode of Bridgerton and said, ‘Yes, that.’”

Dax barks out a laugh, “Damn, that bad?”

“Worse,” I confirm, picking my way around a glass coffee table and heading toward the west wing. “I’m going to check out the study, since we know that’s where Daddy Dearest spends most his time.”

I continue down the long corridor, and the further I get into the west end of the home, the more jarring the drastic change in decor is.

This half of the manor looks like it’s been decorated by someone who grew up with dreams of living in the Bat Cave. If this is supposed to be a reflection of Varenthrall’s state of mind, then we may be underestimating the level of his delusion.

I check a few open doors, noting some guest rooms, and a bathroom swimming in marble and glass, before coming to a door on my left that refuses to open. I disengage the lock quickly, slip into the room, and shut the door behind me.

The room is spacious, with red velvet drapery and pristine hardwood floors. A large desk sits in front of a picture window that looks out over the yard and into the forest beyond.

Shelves line the walls, filled with leather books, and two large leather chairs fill the open area facing the desk.

It would seem I found Varenthrall’s study.

“Jackpot,” I mutter, and waste no time heading straight for the desk, where I dive right.

None of the drawers are locked—another oddity—and I search them one by one with a quick efficiency born of thousands of hours of experience.

Either there’s nothing here, or Varenthrall is so arrogant that he never considered that someone could make it this far into his home.

All the paperwork I find is normal shit: estate records, quarterly donations to public charities, tax filings, annotated printouts of corporate board meetings, security staff rosters.

“Boring, boring, boring…” I shuffle through the last few papers, and as I move to replace them, a folded piece of yellow legal paper slips out and flutters to the ground.

“Here we go,” I mutter, snatching it off the floor.

“What’d you find?” Dax asks, alert.

I read the words, trying to make sense of what the hell I’m seeing. “It’s a list of names. Five first names and a last initial and⁠—”

I squint. What the fuck?

“There are blood types listed next to them.”

“That tracks,” Dax responds sarcastically. “When I’m bored, I, too, organize my victims by blood-type.”

“Not helpful,” I grunt, snapping a quick photo on my phone and replacing the paper. I shut the drawer and double check that everything looks the way it did when I came in.