The abandoned warehouse in Brooklyn smelled like rust and desperation.
We'd been hiding there for six hours since escaping the FBI safe house, using Marcus's emergency protocols to stay off the grid. No phones, no credit cards, no electronic signatures that could lead the consortium back to us.
"Any word from the others?" I asked, pacing between stacks of moldy shipping containers.
Alexander shook his head. "Elena's group made it to the Albany safe house. Maya's circles are scattered but accounted for. No word from the European delegation."
"They probably went home. Smart move."
"Or they're dead."
I stopped pacing. In the past week, I'd gotten used to the idea that people around us might die. But thinking about Vera, Lysander, and the other Ancient Council members being hunted by consortium assets made my stomach turn.
These were beings who'd survived for centuries. If the consortium could kill them...
