then watched as his face turned hard. He tried to take the dagger, tried to slide it next to the curved sword at his waist, but the moment he sheathed it, the dagger vanished. Damien cursed as, with a heavy clunk, it rematerialized in the chest below. He tried again to retrieve the dagger. And once more the weapon would not be removed. In a fit of rage he left the house, flying past her, his mouth screaming hate.
Pearla doesn’t understand the demon’s actions, doesn’t understand the significance of the dagger, but it’s the one piece of information she has to report, so she tucks it away for her rendezvous with the Commander.
Soft footsteps pull her attention back to her mark. A woman approaches, crossing the street and stepping into the entryway next to Damien.
His human voice is low, threatening. “You came highly recommended.”
Fear presses through the woman’s satin shirt, but her voice is steady when she speaks. “So you said.”
Damien steps closer. “I’m reminding you because I’ve yet to see progress, and my fingers are just itching to send that e-mail.”
“Oh, stop. I’ll get it. Things take time.” She turns to go.
“You’re stalling,” he growls, yanking her back into the doorway.
The fear multiplies, but Pearla’s impressed by the woman’s ability to sound unmoved. “And why would I do that?”
“I don’t know.” Damien’s eyes rove her face. He really doesn’t know, and Pearla can see that bothers him. “But you being here, in Stratus, now, seems far too convenient.”
She pokes at his chest with a long fingernail. “You didn’t care where I was when you found me. You just wanted that bracelet. And I’ll get it.”
He pushes her back against the wall, a massive forearm to her throat. “Why Stratus?”
“The bracelet is here, right?” she says, her throat scratching for air. “Why does it matter?”
He releases her, but not before pressing her into the wall once more. “You had ties here before. Your work predates our arrangement.”
“You’re blackmailing me. That’s not really an arrangement.”
His hands curl into meaty fists. “You’re not answering me.”
“Look, the foundation has to do actual work from time to time. We can’t just continue to funnel money into Henry’s addictions. When Javan disappeared, that became possible again. And the girl . . .”
“Brielle?”
“Oh, please. Kaylee. She intrigued me. She’s smart. A fast learner. We could use someone like that at the foundation.”
Damien scowls. “That’s it? Your interest in Stratus is a gangly teenager?”
“Yes. Like you, I’m looking for a protégé.” Her words are delivered with precision. “Why would I lie to you?”
“You wouldn’t, because one rogue e-mail to the authorities and you’ll spend the rest of your life rotting in a jail cell.”
“You’ve made that perfectly clear. What you haven’t made clear is exactly why you want the girl’s bracelet.”
“Collateral.”
She steps into him, running her fingernail along his chin. “That’s a big word for a bad man. Are you sure you know what it means?”
Again he pushes her back. “Watch your tongue. We’re running out of time, and I need time to test it before . . .”
“Before what?” Her almond-shaped eyes narrow. “What else do you have planned?”
“Just get it. And keep your phone on. I don’t like having to find you.”
“We done?” she asks.
Damien shoos the woman away. Fear covers her body, but she moves as if she’s used to the substance, worn it often, made friends with it. With hardly a tremble in her step, she leaves the entryway and turns right, her high-heeled shoes taking her away from Damien.
He watches her go and then steps from the curb and strolls down the center of Main Street. His swagger says Stratus is his for the taking. But Pearla can’t stop thinking about the bracelet that seems to have captured his imagination.
What does he want with it?
And why didn’t he tell the Prince he had other plans?
23
Brielle
Dad is cursing when I step out of the shower Monday morning. I hear his voice through the bathroom door, hear the hurt in his words, the anger, the hangover.
I wrap a towel around myself and slide down the wall, listening. Sheriff Cahill’s trying to calm him. “We don’t know. We just don’t know, Keith.”
Dad curses. Again. “What do you mean you don’t know? It’s been a day now, you should know something.”
“Well, we do know there were . . . explosives involved.”
“Explosives? Like firecrackers, that sort of thing?”
There’s a long pause, and I press closer to the door, imagine the sheriff taking off his hat, scratching his