“Is that what happens?”

“Sure. Didn’t you see that one?”

His lips curved in a grin, defrosting his icy gaze. “Yeah, maybe I did.” He leaned back against the wall. “So, how’s Robert Vasic?”

I blinked, startled. “Uh, fine…good.”

“Still teaching at Stanford?”

“Uh, yes. Part-time.”

“A half-demon professor of demonology. I always liked that.” He grinned. “Though I did like it better when he was a half-demon priest. Not nearly enough of those around. Next time you see Robert, tell him Troy Morgan said hi.”

“I—I’ll do that.”

“Last time I saw Robert, Adam was still a kid. Playing baseball in the backyard. When I heard who Lucas is dating, I thought, that’s the Winterbourne girl. Adam’s friend. Then I thought, whoa, how old is she, like, seventeen, eighteen…?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Man, I’m getting old.” Troy shook his head. Then he met my gaze. “Mr. Cortez isn’t leaving until you talk to him, Paige.”

“What does he want?”

Troy arched his brows. “You think he’d tell me? If Benicio Cortez wants to relay a message in person, then it’s personal. Otherwise, he’d save himself the trip and send some sorcerer flunky. Either way, half-demon bodyguards are not in the know. The only thing I do know is that he really wants to talk to you, enough that if you insist on inviting him upstairs, he’ll come. The question is: Are you okay with that? It’s safe. Hell, I’ll come up and stand guard if you want. But if you’d feel more comfortable in a public place, I can talk to him—”

“No, that’s fine,” I said. “I’ll see him if he comes up to the apartment.”

Troy nodded. “He will.”

An Offer I Can Refuse

THE MOMENT I STEPPED INTO MY APARTMENT, I HAD TO grip my fists tight to keep from slamming the door and throwing shut the deadbolt. I was about to meet Benicio Cortez. And to my shame, I was afraid.

Benicio Cortez headed the Cortez Cabal. The comparison between Cabals and the Mafia was as old as organized crime itself. But it was a bad analogy. Comparing the mob to a Cabal was like comparing a gang of teenage neo-Nazis to the Gestapo. Yet I feared meeting Benicio, not because he was the CEO of the world’s most powerful Cabal, but because he was Lucas’s father. Everything that Lucas was, and everything he feared becoming, was embodied in this man.

When I’d first learned who Lucas was, I’d assumed that, having dedicated his life to fighting the Cabals, Lucas wouldn’t have any contact with his father. I soon realized it wasn’t that simple. Benicio phoned. He sent birthday gifts. He invited Lucas to all family functions. He acted as if there was no estrangement. And even his sondidn’t seem to understand why. When the phone rang and Benicio’s number appeared on the caller ID, Lucas would stand there and stare at it, and in his eyes I saw a war I couldn’t imagine. Sometimes he answered. Sometimes he didn’t. Either way, he seemed to regret the choice.

So now I was about to meet the man. What did I truly fear? That I wouldn’t measure up. That Benicio would take one look at me and decide I was’t good enough for his son. And the worst of it? Right now, I wasn’t sure he’d be wrong.

A single rap at the door.

I took a deep breath, walked to the door, and opened it. I saw the man standing there, and my heart jammed into my throat. For one second, I was certain I’d been tricked, that this was not Benicio but one of his sons—the son who’d ordered my death four months ago. I’d been drugged and, coming to, the first thing I’d seen were Lucas’s eyes—a nightmare version of them, their deep brown somehow colder than the icy blue of Troy Morgan’s stare. I hadn’t known which of Lucas’s half-brothers it had been. I still didn’t know, having never told Lucas what happened. But now, as I stared into those eyes, the steel in my spine turned to mercury and I had to grip the door handle to steady myself.

“Ms. Winterbourne.”

As he spoke, I heard my mistake. The voice I’d heard that day was riveted in my skull, words bitten off sharp, staccato, and bitter. This one was velvet-soft, the voice of a man who never has to shout to get anyone’s attention. As I invited him inside, a harder look confirmed my error. The son I’d met had been in his early forties, and this man was another twenty years older. It was an understandable mistake, though. Smooth some of the deeply etched lines on his face and Benicio would be a carbon copy of his son. Both men were wide-shouldered, stocky, and no more than five seven, in contrast to Lucas’s tall, rail-thin physique.

“I knew your mother,” Benicio said as he crossed the room. No “She was a good woman” or “I’m sorry for your loss” tacked on. A statement as emotionless as his stare. His gaze swept the room, taking in the secondhand furniture and bare walls. Part of me wanted to explain, and another part of me was horrified by the impulse. I didn’t owe this man an explanation.

Benicio stepped in front of the couch—part of a perfectly serviceable if threadbare set. He looked down at it as if debating whether it might soil his suit. At that, a small inkling of the old Paige bubbled to the surface.

“Don’t bother sitting,” I said. “This isn’t a tea-and-crumpets kind of visit. Oh, and I’m fine, thank you for asking.”

Benicio turned his empty stare on me and waited. For at least twenty seconds, we just looked at one another. I tried to hold out, but I broke first.