THE BIKER WHO CAME FOR ME

The first thing I noticed about the stranger was that he knew my father’s name. The second was that my father had warned me never to trust a man like him. The third was the motorcycle. It sat outside Vale’s Garage beneath the flickering security light, black paint gleaming beneath the rain. It was enormous, old enough to have a history, but maintained with the kind of care that told me its owner treated machines better than most people treated their families. I wiped my hands on a rag and stared through the garage window. The man beside it wasn’t what I expected. He wasn’t dressed like the reckless bikers I’d seen tearing down Ravenridge’s highway at midnight. He wore black jeans, heavy boots, and a dark riding vest with a silver-and-black patch across the back. BLACK VULTURES. My stomach tightened. I looked down at the note I’d found among my father’s belongings three weeks ago. Four words. Never trust the Vultures. I’d kept the note because I thought it was just another one of my father’s strange warnings. Now I wasn’t so sure. The stranger pushed open the garage door. The little bell above it rang. I straightened. “Sorry. We’re closed.” His eyes settled on me. Amber-brown. Unusually calm. The kind of eyes that didn’t wander around a room because they had already noticed everything worth noticing. “You’re Vespera Vale.” It wasn’t a question. I folded my arms. “And you’re trespassing.” A faint movement touched his mouth. Not quite a smile. “Your father used to say the same thing.” My heart skipped. Nobody had called my father your father since the funeral. “Who are you?” He stepped closer. “Caelan Draven.” The name meant nothing to me. The surname did. I’d seen it on old paperwork in my father’s office. I just hadn’t known why. “Do I know you?” “No.” His answer was immediate. Then he added quietly, “But your father knew me.” Rain tapped against the metal roof. I studied him. “Did he send you?” “No.” “Then why are you here?” Caelan reached into his vest. My body tensed. He noticed. Of course he noticed. Instead of a weapon, he pulled out a small metal object and placed it on the counter. I stared at it. A motorcycle carburetor. Old. Grease-stained. And familiar. My father’s initials were engraved along the side. M.V. I reached for it. “Where did you get this?” “Your father gave it to mine.” I looked up. “When?” “Twenty-two years ago.” The number made something uncomfortable stir inside me. Twenty-two years. I was eight years old then. “Why would my father give this to your father?” Caelan didn’t answer immediately. That silence told me more than an explanation would have. “That’s what I came here to find out.” I laughed softly. “My father is dead.” “I know.” “Then you’re wasting your time.” “Maybe.” He glanced around the garage. At the motorcycles. The tool benches. The old photographs hanging above my father’s work station. “You kept everything.” “I didn’t have much choice.” “You could have sold the place.” “I could have.” “But you didn’t.” I frowned. “Are you interviewing me?” “No.” “Then stop asking questions.” That almost-smile appeared again. “Your father was right about one thing.” “What?” “You have his temper.” I hated how easily he said it. Like he’d known my father well. Like he had the right. “You knew him.” “Yes.” “How well?” “Well enough to know he trusted very few people.” “And apparently you were one of them.” Caelan’s gaze dropped to the carburetor. “For a while.” Something in his voice changed. I noticed. “What happened?” “My father died.” I waited. “So did mine.” “No,” he said. His eyes met mine. “Our fathers died because of the same secret.” The room suddenly felt smaller. “What secret?” “That,” he said, pointing toward the carburetor, “was supposed to lead me to the answer.” I stared at the object. “Then why bring it to me?” “Because your father didn’t leave it with me.” “He gave it to your father.” “Yes.” “And now it’s mine?” Caelan nodded. I picked it up. It felt heavier than it should have. “What exactly do you want from me?” “I want to know what your father left behind.” I gave him a cold smile. “Nothing.” “You’re sure?” “Yes.” “Then why haven’t you opened the locked drawer in his office?” My blood went cold. I hadn’t told anyone about the drawer. Not my friends. Not the lawyer. Nobody. “How do you know about that?” Caelan didn’t blink. “Because I helped your father build it.” I stared at him. “You?” “Yes.” “You were here?” “Once.” “When?” He looked at me for a long moment. “When you were eight.” A strange pressure formed behind my eyes. Eight. The same age he’d mentioned earlier. But before I could ask another question, he reached into his pocket and placed a folded photograph on the counter. I didn’t touch it. “What’s that?” “Something your father wanted you to have when you were old enough.” My fingers trembled as I unfolded it. The photograph was faded. My father stood beside another man. Younger. Hard-faced. Wearing a Black Vultures patch. Caelan’s father. But that wasn’t what made my breath catch. Between them stood a little boy. Sixteen, perhaps. Dark hair. Amber-brown eyes. The same scar near his eyebrow. I looked at Caelan. Then back at the photograph. “You.” He nodded. I swallowed. “Why would my father have a picture of you?” “Because he trusted me with something important.” “What?” Caelan’s expression became unreadable. “Your life.” I almost laughed. “My life?” “Your father believed someone would come looking for you.” “Why?” “Because of what he hid.” I set the photograph down. “Then tell me what he hid.” “I don’t know.” “You expect me to believe that?” “I don’t expect you to believe anything I say.” His voice softened. “But I need you alive long enough to discover it.” My pulse quickened. “Is that a threat?” “No.” “Then what is it?” “A warning.” Before I could respond, a loud metallic crash came from the back of the garage. I spun around. Caelan moved faster. He caught my wrist and pulled me behind him. “Stay here.” “Don’t” The rear door slammed open. A gust of rain swept through the building. But nobody entered. Caelan released my wrist. I stared at him. “You heard that?” “Yes.” “Then what was it?” He walked toward the back. I followed. “Vespera.” “I said I’m not helpless.” He glanced over his shoulder. For the first time, I saw something warm in his eyes. “I didn’t say you were.” We reached the rear entrance. Nothing. Just rain. And muddy footprints leading away from the door. Caelan crouched. His expression changed. He touched one of the prints. Fresh. Someone had been here. I looked toward the darkness beyond the garage. “Who?” He stood. “I don’t know.” “You seem to know a lot for someone who doesn’t know anything.” He looked at me. Then at the photograph still clutched in my hand. “Your father wasn’t hiding something from you, Vespera.” “Then what was he doing?” Caelan’s answer was quiet. “Protecting you.” A chill moved through me. I looked down at the photograph again. At the boy beside my father. At the boy who would become the man standing in front of me. For the first time, I wondered whether my father’s final warning had been incomplete. Maybe he hadn’t meant Never trust a man wearing the Black Vultures patch. Maybe what he’d really meant was Never trust the man who already knows you.