The idea that the war was coming to an end was something to herald for everybody in the Brotherhood’s mansion. Except for Syn. He was not built for peacetime.

Choosing a random direction to go in, he strode over damp asphalt and used his nose as radar. The fact that all he picked up on was old motor oil and the sweet perfume of gas—thanks to the beaters he walked by—made him worry about the future. As he pictured endless nights of nothing to do, no one to kill, nobody to torture, a cold, numbing despair washed through him—

The falter in his step would have been a surprise if he’d noticed it. He didn’t. He was too busy testing the air to see if what he was scenting was right.

Syn’s body stopped dead without his brain giving his muscles and joints an order to cease fire. Then his head moved from side to side on its own as he sifted through the shitty bouquet of the city.

Meadow. He was smelling a fresh, summer meadow in the midst of the grime and the trash, the pollution and the exhaust. The scent was so compelling, so resonant . . . so overpowering . . . that he blinked and saw an image of wildflowers in moonlight.

Drawn by what had to be a mistake of his senses, some wire getting crossed between his sinuses and the synapses in his brain, he walked forward like a dog, snout out, body dragged behind. Passing under fire escapes and by doors locked with chains and deadbolts, he continued along the street. Off in the distance, there were sirens, and then the dampened beat of a car stereo’s subwoofer. Some human on a moped with a milk crate full of food that was going to be ice cold when delivered swerved out of his way when he refused to divert from his course, the man barking a curse at him—

And then the wind changed.

Syn stopped and put his arms out like he could fight the thief that had robbed him of the scent. Circling in place, he tried to catch the trail again, drawing night air in through his nose like it was his last shot to breathe before he drowned.

Someone came out of a doorway, took one look at him, and quickly retreated back into wherever they’d tried to leave. They probably thought he was on drugs.

Given his sudden lack of control over himself, he felt like he was on drugs.

Unable to regain the scent, he closed his eyes and had to wait before he could sufficiently calm himself to dematerialize. When he was able, he ghosted up to a rooftop and prowled around the lip of the drop-off, looking down, searching, his blood pounding in his veins.

But for once, it was not because he was hungry to kill.

No, this was hunger for a different reason entirely. And it was the kind of thing he was wholly unfamiliar with.

Yet there was no one he could see in the maze of streets and buildings, his target eluding him in spite of the number of vantage points he shifted to. And in all his frustrated, frantic searching, he felt as though he were in a dream, the object of his desire ever out of reach, a figment of imagination rather than anything of true flesh and blood.

Eventually, he forced himself to stop.

He had obviously imagined it.

As he resolved to get back to work, he was aware of a ringing disappointment in the center of his chest, sure as if he had been cheated out of a promised benediction.

Then again, for one brief moment, he had had something other than killing on his mind.

Considering the fact that murder and the desecration of corpses had been his only motivator for as long as he could remember, it was a surprise to mourn his return to normal.

“Of course Gigante wasn’t happy when he answered,” Jo said, keeping her voice down. “But that’s not a surprise.”

Officer McCordle, the beat cop friend of Bill’s who she’d come downtown to meet, frowned like someone had accused him of wire fraud.

“Wait, you really called him?” he asked.

“What did you think I was going to do with the number? Play Uno with it?”

The pair of them were about three blocks west of the crime scene, not that it would have mattered if they’d been right in front of where Frank Pappalardo’s nephew had been peeled like a grape. The CSI unit had done their thing and cleared the site, and then a commercial cleaning crew had come in to make sure none of the club-goers in the neighborhood took selfies with the aftermath. Not that there had been much blood or guts. But still.

And man, you could smell that bleach.

“Did he threaten you?”

“I’m not afraid of Gigante,” she said.

Officer Anthony McCordle had “Good Guy” stamped all over him. Underneath the brim of his police hat, his honest face seemed to struggle to contain the not-happy expression his mood had cast his even features in, and his hand went to the holstered gun at his hip. Like he was protecting her from the mob even though the two of them were alone.

“This is bad.” McCordle shook his head. “I never should have given you—”

“There’s going to be retaliation, though, right? I mean, I don’t know much about the real-world Mafia, but all those movies and books can’t be wrong. If you kill your rival’s nephew, you’re in trouble. Right?”

McCordle looked around at all the not-much-to-look-at. The alley was barren of even trash cans and empty liquor bottles, although that didn’t mean it was destined for a Caldwell tourism ad. There was a not-so-thin coating of city grunge on the buildings and the pavement, the whole lot of it like a stall shower that existed in a world free of Oxi-Clean. In contrast, McCordle’s shiny new patrol car, which was parked about fifteen feet away, was an example of routine maintenance and care that would never be replicated in this neighborhood.

“Look, I think I’m going to wait for Bill, okay?” McCordle dropped his eyes and stared at the ground, like he didn’t want to be sexist, but some internal code of chivalry demanded that he treat women like crystal vases. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

For a moment, she was tempted to go Annie Oakley and shoot out his taillight, proving viscerally she was armed and had good aim. The trouble was, Caldwell had an ordinance whereby you couldn’t discharge a firearm inside city limits. McCordle thought his conscience was bothering him now? He should see what happened when she put him in the position of having to arrest her for a weapons violation and some willful destruction of police property—or let her go because she was a nice little girl who’d done an oopsie.

“Bill’s in the hospital with Lydia. She’s having problems with the pregnancy.” As the officer’s eyes swung back up, Jo shrugged. “So you’re going to have to deal with me. It’s either that or you go to the national media, and can you really trust them to keep your identity a secret? I’m very sure there’s an official CPD policy against leaks to the press, and those CNN and Fox News people won’t hesitate to give your name up to your superior if they think it can get them even better access. But you can trust me. I’m local, and I have a helluva lot less to lose than Anderson Cooper does.”

Hell, she had nothing to lose. She was just an online editor. But that was not a card she was going to play here.

McCordle’s shoulder piece went off with a squawk. As a bunch of 10-Mary somethings came out of the little speaker, he tilted his mouth down and made a response in code.

“I gotta go.” He leaned in toward her, as deadly serious as a Boy Scout could get. “Don’t reach out to Gigante again, and I’ll tell Bill directly that he shouldn’t do that, either. That old man doesn’t value human life, and he is not afraid of anything. He’ll put a hit on you without blinking an eye.”

“Don’t shut me out, then. I promise not to go near Gigante, but you’ve got to keep me in the loop.”

McCordle walked off toward his patrol car. Given the way he was shaking his head, she had a feeling he was regretting the whole damn thing. Sure he wanted to snag the bad guy, but if he could have run a rewind on getting involved with civilians with laptops and bylines, clearly he would have preferred to make better choices.

“Sorry, not sorry,” Jo muttered as she looked over the notes she had made on her pad.

Considering the blue lights that started flashing and the sound of McCordle’s siren firing up, the cop had been called in on something serious, and sure enough, she heard the rhythmic thumping of a police helicopter overhead.

Maybe the drama would get his mind off things.

So he would take her call when she touched base with him at the end of the night. And then first thing in the morning.

Someone running down the alley brought her head up and she took a step back. The man who went by her was going fast and checking over his shoulder like he was being chased by something with a knife. He paid no attention to her, but he was a good reminder that she should remember where she was—

“Oh, God, what is that smell . . .”

The instant the sickly sweet stench burrowed into her nose, a piercing pain tore through her head and she took another step back, the cold, damp flank of the building catching her and holding her upright.

Roadkill and baby powder. It was a bizarre combination, but she’d smelled it before. She had smelled this before in . . . somewhere dark. Somewhere . . . evil. Glossy oil on a concrete floor. Buckets of . . . blood . . .

A moan rode up her throat and came out of her mouth. But then she wasn’t thinking about the stink or the pain. Something else was coming down the alley, heavy footfalls. Thunderous footfalls. A huge body propelled by incredible strength. In pursuit of the thing that smelled so foul.

It was a man, dressed in black leather and wearing a Red Sox cap. And as he looked over at her, his eyes widened in surprise, but he didn’t stop. He’d recognized her, however. Even though he was a stranger, he saw her.

And she saw him.

As her head ached even more, she wanted to run after him and ask him exactly what it was about her that was familiar to him—

Jo stiffened and looked to the left. Suddenly, the alley seemed darker, somehow. More isolated. The shift came instantly, sure as if the only light in the world had been turned off by the hand of God.

Fear shaved through her.

“Who’s there?” she said as she put her hand on her gun.