Brooklyn Navy Yard. Pier 44.
It was 2:00 AM. The freezing rain fell in sharp, diagonal sheets. It smelled like rotting kelp, diesel fuel, and rust.
Julian stepped over a thick, slick mooring line. He misjudged the height. His heavy boot caught the rope. He stumbled, catching his balance against a stack of wooden pallets. A splinter dug deep into his palm.
He pulled it out with his teeth. He spat it onto the wet concrete.
He was healing. The Vatican blood was potent. The torn muscle in his shoulder was already knitting together. But his wardrobe had not recovered.
Chloe had forced him to wear a bright yellow, vinyl raincoat. It was two sizes too small. The sleeves ended mid-forearm. The cheap plastic crinkled loudly with every step.
"I look like a crossing guard," Julian muttered. He yanked at the stiff vinyl collar.
"You look waterproof," Elara said.
She limped behind him. Her left knee throbbed with the steady rhythm of a metronome. She had wrapped it in an Ace bandage from Chloe's bathroom. The cold dampness seeped right through the fabric.
They reached a corrugated metal shack at the end of the pier. A single bare bulb glowed above the door.
A rusted sign read: Harbormaster. Authorized Personnel Only.
Julian didn't knock. He kicked the door.
It didn't fly open. It stuck on the swollen, rotting doorjamb. He had to kick it a second time, much harder, to break the rusted latch.
Thwack.
Inside, a space heater buzzed loudly. The air was thick with the smell of cheap menthol cigarettes and stale coffee.
Behind a metal desk sat a woman. She had pale, iridescent scales along her jawline and hair the color of dirty dishwater. A Siren.
She didn't flinch at the broken door. She didn't look up from her phone. A loud, obnoxious TikTok audio looped in the background.
"Door was unlocked, asshole," she rasped. She took a drag from her cigarette.
Julian stepped into the shack. He let his fangs descend. He let the golden Alpha glow fill his eyes. He loomed over the desk, casting a massive, terrifying shadow.
"I am looking for a shipment," Julian snarled. His voice vibrated the coffee mug on her desk. "Forty lead-lined crates. Logged under Thorne BioTech."
The Siren slowly looked up. Her eyes were solid black, like a shark's.
She looked at his glowing, murderous eyes. Then she looked at the neon-green dental shirt peeking out from under the tight, bright yellow raincoat.
She exhaled a thick cloud of menthol smoke directly into his face.
"You look like a radioactive banana," she said flatly. "Get out of my office."
Julian's jaw clamped shut. A vein pulsed violently in his forehead. He reached for her throat.
Elara stepped in front of him.
She slammed her damp, red-tagged manila folder onto the metal desk.
Smack.
"My name is Elara Vance. Supernatural Compliance and Revenue Service," Elara said. Her voice was completely devoid of emotion. She clicked her red plastic pen. Click-click.
The Siren stopped scrolling. Her shark eyes flicked to the federal badge clipped to Elara's belt.
"Roxy," the Siren muttered. Her posture instantly stiffened. Federal auditors were worse than Alpha wolves. Wolves just killed you. Auditors froze your bank accounts.
"Roxy," Elara repeated, writing the name down on the damp paper. "You are currently smoking a non-tax-stamped import cigarette in a closed federal maritime zone. That's a five-thousand-dollar fine. Your space heater is plugged into a daisy-chained extension cord. That's an OSHA violation. Another two thousand."
Elara leaned over the desk.
"Now. Show me the manifest for Pier 44 from six months ago. Or I will padlock this shack and seize your pension."
Roxy stared at the red pen. She crushed her cigarette into a tin ashtray.
"Middle drawer," Roxy grumbled. She unlocked it with a tiny brass key. She hauled out a heavy, water-damaged logbook and slammed it on the desk.
"Six months ago." Roxy flipped the heavy pages. Her webbed fingers left damp marks on the paper. "Yeah. Thorne BioTech. Forty crates."
Elara leaned in. Julian hovered over her shoulder, his chest practically pressing against her back. He smelled like rain, Vatican blood, and furious impatience.
"Who picked them up?" Elara asked.
Roxy traced a long, black fingernail down the column.
"Wasn't your people," Roxy looked up at Julian. "Was a third-party contractor. 'Sanctuary Logistics'. They rolled up with three reinforced armored trucks. Signed the transfer papers and drove off."
Elara frowned. She wrote the name down. "Sanctuary Logistics. Address?"
"No address. Just a routing number and a signature." Roxy tapped the bottom of the page.
Julian looked at the signature.
His breathing stopped. The air in the tiny shack suddenly turned freezing cold.
Elara felt the Mate Bond snap taut like a violin string. Pure, icy shock flooded her chest. The pain in her knee vanished, swallowed by a wave of absolute biological terror radiating from the man behind her.
She looked at the signature on the page. It was elegant. Flowing. Written in thick black ink.
Marcus Thorne.
Elara turned her head slowly. She looked up at Julian.
"Julian," Elara whispered. "Who is Marcus?"
Julian stared at the logbook. His golden eyes were wide, the pupils blown completely out. His hands were shaking. Not from anger. From something much, much deeper.
"He's my brother," Julian said. The words sounded like broken glass in his throat. "And he's been dead for fifty years."