POV RUBY
The smell of ozone and Silas’s cooling blood lingered in the sub-basement as the heavy thrum of helicopter bladesvibrated through the stone foundations of the Wicklow manor. The Ascendancy was no longer a shadow; theywere a storm on the horizon.
Nevan stood over Silas’s body, his silhouette jaggedagainst the flickering emergency lights. He didn't look likea man who had just killed his brother-in-arms; he lookedlike a king who had realized his throne was built onquicksand. He reached down and tore a small, silverpendant from Silas’s neck—a locket I had always assumedheld a photo of a lost love.
"He didn't do this for money," Nevan rasped, flipping thependant open.
It wasn't a photo. It was a high-density micro-drive, glowing with a faint, malevolent blue light.
"He was trackin
