By Friday evening, I had decided that I needed one night where nobody talked about broken windows, Black Reapers, missing journal pages, or mysterious people searching through Lawson Customs.
Unfortunately, the Iron Vipers had apparently decided that meant poker. I should have known better.
The clubhouse had been loud enough all afternoon and by the time Jace picked me up, Hunter had already sent three messages reminding everyone that poker night was "serious business."
I had replied that I didn't even know how to play properly and his answer had arrived almost immediately.
You'll learn.
That should have been my first warning.
We drove into town just after seven and Jack Murphy's pub was already crowded when we arrived. The building sat on the corner of a busy street and warm light s
