The Setup

Lilah · Chapter 1 of 5 · 7-minute read

I should have known better than to believe in rewards, especially ones that involved rare books, overnight stays, and the man who had watched me steal my ex-boyfriend’s toilet paper a week ago.

Not even a week since Raven and I had planted surveillance in Charlie and Rune’s house—a mission that had gone from routine to personal faster than I could say “emotional baggage”—and here we were on what Drusilla Saint Augustine called a “thank-you assignment.” A reward for my quick thinking when I tackled Rune two days ago while she was trying to steal The Book of Heroes from the library, which would have essentially ended life as we know it.

No big deal. Just another Monday at the Special Collections Library, the most important occult library in the world since Raven had blown up the one in Ireland.

I squinted out the window as we drove past historic homes dripping with Spanish moss and wrought-iron balconies. No matter what time of the year, Savannah was always postcard-perfect, which only made me more suspicious of Dru’s intentions.

“Pick up a rare book from a respected antiquarian bookstore and enjoy an overnight stay in a charming B&B across the street.”

That was the plan Dru had laid out. Suspiciously pleasant, with absolutely nothing to do with dead languages, ancient curses, or Charlie’s thieving new bride, who constantly flaunted the diamond ring he’d planned to offer me when we were on assignment in Ireland last year.

“You’re overthinking this,” Raven said, glancing at me from the driver’s seat of Dru’s government-issued “low-profile” car we’d picked up at the library, a sleek black sedan that screamed “federal agent” in twelve different languages.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. I can practically see the gears turning in your head. Stop fidgeting, okay?” He grabbed my hand and squeezed for half a second to prove he wasn’t imagining my anxiety. Then he set my hand back on my knee and patted it as if the gesture would keep it still. “It’s a simple pickup.”

He sounded so sure. I wanted to believe him. That was the dangerous part.

“Nothing is simple with Dru,” I muttered, adjusting the pewter cuffs to cover the scars on my wrists. “Especially not when she uses the phrase ‘you’ve earned this.’”

I didn’t want to say it out loud, but this felt more like matchmaking than logistics, which was exactly what Dru had done with Charlie and me a couple of times.

And look how spectacularly that turned out!

My ex was now married to an international book thief with a grudge against me and Raven specifically, and against our entire secret society generally. Dru and the Order of Daegan hadn’t squashed Rune yet because she was the key to a larger network that might have had plans to expose the priesthood or might have simply planned to profit off what it could steal. I wasn’t sure which was worse: the fact that Charlie might be complicit in her schemes or that I had to see him at work every single day.

Dru was the one who’d brought Charlie to town as our only credentialed librarian and, as she’d admitted privately, as a gift to me to get my mind off the last Mr. Wrong in my life. And now she was giving me a gentle push toward Raven Darbyshire. It wasn’t like I still believed in fate or fresh starts. I just kept hoping one might sneak up on me anyway.

“I’m not saying we’re walking into a trap,” I continued, “but we might be walking into a ‘growth opportunity,’ which is somehow worse.”

Raven chuckled as he guided the car into a parking space half a block from our destination. “Would it help if I promised to be a very attentive chauffeur for the next twenty-four hours?”

He meant it as a joke, but some reckless part of me tucked the offer away like it might be a promise, because wanting things had never worked out well for me, but I still hadn’t learned how to stop.

“You’re way too calm for a guy about to spend a day and night in a historic district full of haunted houses and overpriced fudge,” I accused, but I couldn’t help the small smile that caught one corner of my mouth.

I made it a joke, like I always did. If I let myself admit how much I liked the way Raven made this feel easy—how much I needed it to be easy—I’d start expecting things I couldn’t afford to want.

“I’ll add ‘ghost tour panic’ to my itinerary,” he deadpanned. “Why are you so paranoid about Dru’s plans?”

I rolled my eyes. “Because when Dru says ‘you’ve earned this,’ what she means is, ‘I’ve got the popcorn ready.’”

The words came out easy. But this wasn’t nerves. It was the memory of too many days that started with a smile and ended with blood on the floor.

Still, as we stepped out of the car into the warm Georgia sunshine, I let myself hope. Maybe this was exactly what it appeared to be: a simple thank-you mission after the emotional rollercoaster of seeing Charlie and Rune’s domestic bliss, or lack thereof, up close.

But even as I thought it, I knew better. In my experience, easy missions were usually anything but.

The bookstore, Bent Spines Book Emporium, sat on a quiet corner a few blocks from the hustle of River Street. It was a narrow brick building with a green awning and windows full of leather-bound treasures. According to the sign on the door, they should have been open for another three hours.

But the door was locked.

I told myself it was routine. That’s the thing about lies: they sound better in your own head.

“That’s odd,” Raven murmured, shielding his eyes to peer through the glass. “Lights are on.”

I followed his gaze. Through the front window, I could see movement in the back of the shop. A shadow passing between tall shelves.

“Someone’s definitely in there,” I said, then raised my eyebrows at Raven. “Think they’re avoiding us specifically, or customers in general?”

He frowned slightly. “Let’s give it a minute.”

I nodded, but something felt off. My empathic radar—the sixth sense that had made me valuable to Raven’s priesthood and Dru’s Historical Society long before I knew what the Daeganeans actually were—stirred at the base of my skull like the echo of a conversation I’d walked into halfway through. Not danger, exactly. Just the sense that someone had told a lie and left the truth behind to rot.

But I’d been wrong before. That was my usual way of quietly sabotaging myself: feeling too much, too soon, and then scrambling to recover when my instincts led me astray.

“Nothing says ‘routine pickup’ like skulking around a shop with no customers and a nervous energy signature,” I whispered.

Raven’s mouth twitched. “Back entrance?”

“Back entrance,” I agreed.

We circled around the building, past a small courtyard with a stone bench, and into a narrow alleyway lined with climbing vines. The shadows here were deep despite the midday sun, and the air smelled faintly of jasmine and old brick. A shiny new bicycle leaned against the fence.

We hadn’t made it halfway down the alley when the back door of the shop swung open, and an elderly man stepped out, keys jangling in his hand. He was clearly trying to slip away unnoticed, right up until the moment he spotted us and froze.

“Ah!” he blurted, nearly dropping his keys as he stumbled back a step.

Jerome Bent—if this was indeed the Jerome whom Dru had described—looked like a walking cliché from an illustrated guide to antiquarian booksellers. Early seventies, maybe. Wispy white hair, spectacles too round for fashion, and a tweed jacket too heavy for Southern weather. His bow tie sat askew beneath a nose that had seen too much sun and not enough sunscreen. All he needed was a pocket watch and a Latin dictionary to complete the look.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, looking flustered. “I’m closing for lunch. Normally I would have gone earlier, but my noon appointment arrived way ahead of schedule, and I adjusted to accommodate them.”

I exchanged a quick glance with Raven. Noon appointment? That was supposed to be us.

Stepping forward, I kept my posture relaxed but my voice firm. “The night was cold and dark, but the fire was in my eyes.”

I felt ridiculous saying it out loud. The password was clearly a line from some poem, and in any other circumstance, I might have worked it naturally into a conversation about literature as a subtle way to tip him off that we were the couple he was looking for. Standing in an alley behind a bookstore, though, it sounded like I was delivering a spy movie one-liner.

Jerome backed into the door he’d just locked. “How do you know that phrase?” he demanded, squinting at me like he’d just spotted horns sprouting from my French twist—the updo I wore when I wanted to appear competent, not cursed.

Raven moved to stand beside me. “Professor Drusilla Saint Augustine sent us. We were told a package would be waiting. I’m Raven Darbyshire, and this is my associate, Lilah Burns.”

The bookstore owner stared at us, mouth open on a word he never got to.

“Wait,” he said slowly. “You’re Raven and Lilah?” He hesitated, then shook his head. “That can’t be right. A red-haired woman came for it an hour ago. Said her name was Lilah. The guy with her said he was Raven.” He took off his spectacles and cleaned them on his sleeve, hard. “Uh-oh. Drusilla’s going to kill me.”

The pewter cuff at my wrist went cold against my skin — the tell I always got when a mission started going wrong. This wasn’t a prank or a mistake. Someone had gotten here before us. Someone using our names, our code phrase, our identities.

And they’d succeeded.

Chapter 2: The Pickup →

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