Darien sat inside his car with his hands at ten and two, his fingers not merely gripping the steering wheel but indenting the leather. He had been a predator for over a century, he knew the shape of silence, and the silence coming from The Roasted Bean was starting to smell like a trap.
Through the crack in his window, he monitored the street. He could hear the hum of the city, the splash of tires on wet pavement, and the steady, rhythmic heartbeat of Amara.
Then, the back door of the cafe creaked open.
Darien's eyes snapped to the side mirror. He saw them. Amara was hunched against the drizzle, her shoulders pulled in, looking small beside the rugged, hurried frame of Hansen. They didn't head toward the main street. They moved with a frantic speed toward a nondescript, beat-up silver hatchback tucked into the shadows of the neighboring warehouse.
