Viktor Kane stepped into sublevel four like he was touring his prize collection.
Smaller than I'd expected—maybe six feet, runner's build, the kind of pale complexion that came from too much time in windowless buildings. But his eyes made my skin crawl. Ice blue, empty as winter sky. Like staring into a security camera that happened to be shaped like a face.
"Miss Montenegro." His voice carried boarding school pronunciation and country club confidence. "Even more impressive in person than in the surveillance footage."
"Can't say the same." I let silver light pulse around my fingers, making the overhead fluorescents flicker like dying insects. "Though I gotta admit, this whole 'dungeon chic' thing you've got going really brings out the war criminal in your personality."
