The garage door was halfway down when the first stone hit the metal.
Clang. It wasn't a pebble. It was a jagged piece of masonry that left a silver gouge in the paint. I froze, my hand still white-knuckled on the pull-chain. The street was a graveyard of long shadows and the smell of burnt fat drifting from the diner's grease traps.
A low, guttural snarl of an engine vibrated the concrete under my boots.
Max was there. He wasn't parked; he was hovering at the edge of the curb, the matte-black bike idling like a restless beast. The weight of those silver daggers at his belt caught the flicker of a dying street lamp.
"Get on the bike, Lena," he said. No preamble. No "hello." Just a command that scraped against the humid night air.
"I’m not going anywhere with you, Max. I told you. I’m c
