“How do clothes fit someone too well?” I asked, following her lead and lowering my gaze. “Some people are great shoppers.”

“Cheap clothes are made to fit a wide range of body types. They’re generic. That’s why, before Kieran fixed you up, you always wore high-water pants and your tops looked like second-hand acquisitions from a circus. You have a pretty standard body for someone who’s in moderately good shape, but you’re an Amazon. Nothing on the racks fit you well, let alone perfectly.

“This woman’s cheap-ass clothes mold to her body perfectly. Nothing is too loose, or too tight. Based on the size of those—very expensive—fake boobs, that is a damn miracle. No.” Bria shook her head and upended her glass, draining it dry. “She had those cheap-ass clothes tailored to fit her body. Odd, right? She probably spent more on the seamstress than she did the clothes. Hello, sore thumb.”

Surprised Bria had caught so much from a crappy outfit, I flicked my gaze back up, careful not to make eye contact or stare for too long. I didn’t want the woman to know I was checking her out.

Her durable yellow cotton shirt cinched in at the waist like on the mannequins in the stores. Except, as I’d learned the hard way many times, mannequins always have the excess material clipped in the back. The V-neck showed just enough cleavage of the woman’s large, perky breasts to be sexy while still practical. And the color, one that should fade quickly in the wash, was still a vibrant yellow. Bria was absolutely right. There was no way a top like that would fit this well. I’d always looked like a square.

“Her slacks are the same way,” Bria continued, staring at Liam as he picked his nail. “They end above cheap runners that will give her blisters if she intends on chasing us. Someone thinks we’re idiots.”

“Dressing the part…to chase us?”

“Yeah. Unless Mick has a big secret?” She glanced over at him.

“Feck off, that’s my secret,” he grumbled.

“That’s no secret, bud. It’s almost a shout.” Bria jiggled the ice in her glass, attracting Liam’s gaze. “She’s here for us, I’d bet my next drink on it.”

I licked my lips, fear tickling my gut. None of Kieran’s spies had heard a peep about the ghosts we’d freed—or the missing employees who’d kept them prisoner—since. But only a fool would think Valens hadn’t noticed. The silence was deafening.

“But still,” I said in a hush, lowering my gaze again, “maybe she’s just trying to fit in so she doesn’t get mugged.”

“What’s her magic level?” Bria asked, spinning ice cubes around her tumbler. Liam headed off to make a new one.

I bowed my head and closed my eyes for a brief moment, tapping into the ability I’d picked up from magically connecting souls with Kieran. Immediately, I felt the pulse of the woman’s magic. Strong and sure, fairly powerful—a solid class four or a little less. Not as strong as Bria, who was a class five, but strong. I said as much.

Bria nodded, accepting another drink from Liam. “What bullshit.” She took a large gulp. “I wanted to spend some quality time in here, getting hammered.”

“What do you think she does?” I asked quietly, hesitant to drink any more. If I needed to react quickly, alcohol would make things difficult.

“Spy.”

I started at hearing Mick’s raspy voice.

He reached for his whiskey. “She thinks we’re daft.” His lip curled into a snarl as he lifted the whiskey to his mouth. “She works for Valens. Should have his bollocks cut off, duh coont.”

Sometimes it didn’t even sound like English.

“Do you know her?” That was the last thing I’d expected to come out of him. The absolute last.

“No, I don’t fecking know her.” His spit pummeled my face. “Don’t need to. You seen one, you seen ’em all.” Mick shot back his whiskey and slammed the glass down on the bar. “Ahhhhh,” he said, much too loudly, while looking aggressively at the woman down the way.

“We’re going to be great friends,” Bria said with a smile.

The woman’s eyes darted up at the noise, and stalled on Mick’s hostile-eyed stare. Her jaw set, and I could see her weighing and measuring her opponent. The Six did it all the time—even Mordecai and Daisy were starting to do it. No question about it. This was no civilian.

Her gaze flicked to us, hitting me for a fraction of a second before lingering on Bria. She then jerked her gaze down to her drink, slumping her shoulders as if submitting.

“It’s me she is interested in,” Bria said quietly, finishing her second drink in record time. “Let’s see if she’ll follow me. Come on, Alexis, drink up. Let’s reel in this fish.”

4

Valens

“Sir, I have eyes on the subject,” Flara said through the cellphone in a sultry voice.

With the phone against his ear, Valens glanced at his son, sitting across the expansive living room with his gaze rooted to the smear of vibrant colors streaking the evening sky through the darkening window.

“Oh yes?” Valens said, pushing up from his seat. The movement drew Kieran’s notice, a slight question in the depths of his eyes.

Despite Valens’s best efforts, the boy had turned out more like his mother. He dallied around all day setting up government aid for the sick and the poor, people who had no place in Valens’s city. He was even organizing a magical fair, of all things, dragging him into the squalor of the dual-society zone. If it wouldn’t severely strain their already tense relationship, Valens would have ended that accursed fair and demanded his son stay in the magical zone where he belonged, learning the ropes of government. He had plans for the boy.

Valens made a light gesture with his hand, indicating the call was nothing, before retiring to his library. He had been about ready to make the move anyway.

“And where is that?” he said into the receiver as he climbed the stairs.

“The Necromancer is in a decrepit bar in the dual-society zone near the ocean.”

“Decrepit goes without saying in that waste of an area,” he murmured, stalling the conversation until he could sequester himself in his library. His son never ventured very far into this room. His disgust for Valens’s hunting conquests was plain, though that was probably because his son didn’t understand the cunning and endurance required to bring down some of these beasts. A manticore, for example, was a formidable foe. The creature had nearly taken Valens’s skin.

Or maybe it was another example of his son’s weak constitution.

Right now, Valens’s allies were giving Kieran a pass. They were letting the boy breathe to mourn his mother. Soon, however, they’d start to wonder if Kieran was hard enough to take Sydney. They’d wonder if Valens could execute his plans for expansion with his son as his partner.

Valens was starting to wonder that himself.

In another few months, Valens would be forced to give his son an ultimatum, one with possibly devastating consequences for both of them: continue the family business, or you will cease to be useful. He had not spent his life creating an empire to see his wife’s weak blood ruin his efforts. She’d weakened him once—he would be damned if he allowed her to do it again from beyond the grave.

Valens walked around his desk, checking the doorway to make sure Kieran hadn’t followed him, and then sat in his chair.

“Who is she there with?” Valens asked Flara. He’d chosen her for this lowbrow task because she was decent at blending in, powerful enough to hold her own, and rarely, if ever, professionally engaged. He didn’t like his bedmates bruised. Her greatest asset came when she spread her legs. Not to mention all of his elite staff were assigned to higher level duties, at present, getting his complex plans into action.

“She showed up at the bar with a female in her mid-twenties, and they sat next to an older man with a staring problem. The older man is a drunk and is trying to pick a fight.”

“Ignore him. The other female—do you recognize her?”

“No, but I’ve had the team run her face. She’s a lower-level Ghost Whisperer living in the dual-society zone. She’s a nobody.”

Valens clenched his fist and leaned against the dragon scale desk. A desk he’d commissioned after stalking and killing one of the most fearsome creatures in the magical wild. It was said that a man who could take down a dragon could do anything. But here he was, nearly two months after his employees had disappeared, and he still had no clue who’d done it, or why.

They’d already ruled out a crime of passion. The complete lack of evidence indicated a cool head. The bodies hadn’t turned up, and there was no sign of foul play.

It had to be someone with access to the government building. The security footage had been expertly manipulated. Three hours had been cut out, and footage from a different day with the same time stamps had been spliced in. His team had nearly missed the anomaly. The security booth was rarely empty, but this person had managed to get in unnoticed, which spoke of someone with access codes and familiarity. And yet, all the checks had come up clear.

How had the perpetrator even known what those particular employees did? There had been rumors of them calling ghosts, but he’d kept a tight lid on their true function. Not even all of his Elite knew about the spirit trappers. He’d grilled those who did know mercilessly, enough to feel confident they hadn’t let the information slip. Someone must’ve figured it out for themselves.

The Necromancer—Bria Stevens—was a strong class five who couldn’t keep a job. She had a problem with authority and a penchant for unlawful behavior. She bounced from place to place, living in squalor and dressing like an inmate. No one with any pride would hire her.

Or would they?

She was the only stranger in his territory with the right sort of magic.

“That Ghost Whisperer,” he said, thinking through this new information, “what is her power level?”