Cane’s presence was so heavy it seemed to pull the oxygen from the room. He looked like a god of war, his eyes fixed on the map of Zone 4.
“The herbal salve,” he said, his voice cutting through the silence.
I held up a ceramic bowl filled with thick sludge and twisted my face in disgust. It was a mix of Silver Moon sage, crushed marsh lily, and a chemical neutralizer.
“It’s a scent-masker. It mimics the smell of water and industrial ozone. The Iron Claw won't smell us. They’ll smell the swamp and the machines,” Cane explains.
Viper, leaning against a support beam in his human form, looked at the sludge.
“Good,” he replied.
Cane took the bowl, rubbing the salve over his forearms and the back of his neck. He moved toward me, his hand catching my chin, forcing me to look up before s
