POV RUBY
The armored vehicle hummed with a low, predatory vibration as we crossed the border of the county, leaving the burning remains of the O’Shea legacy behind. For three hours, Nevan hadn't spoken. His hands were fused to the steering wheel, his knuckles white, his eyes scanning every shadow on the highway like a wolf sensing a trap. The adrenaline that had fueled my frantic escape was beginning to ebb, replaced by a hollow, aching exhaustion that settled deep in my marrow.
Beside me, the mahogany box containing the journal sat like a lead weight. I couldn't stop thinking about the "Old Guest"—the part of my mind that Nevan claimed was a hereditary weapon. If my father had been an architect for the Syndicate, then every memory I had of my childhood was a lie. My life hadn't been an
