The meeting place was known simply as The Rust.
It was a decommissioned shipping yard on the foggy outskirts of the Puget Sound, a graveyard of rusted tanker hulls and collapsed cranes that jutted out of the water like the ribs of dead leviathans. It was technically Silverclaw land, but no patrol ever came here. It was a dead zone, where the magical ley lines were twisted and sour.
Perfect for a meeting of monsters.
Ethan stood on the deck of a rusted barge, the wind whipping his black trench coat around his legs. He wasn't wearing a suit today. He was wearing tactical gear—black cargo pants, a Kevlar vest, and a pair of silver-knuckled gloves.
Behind him stood his army.
It wasn't just Lucas and Jax this time. It was fifty of Silverclaw’s most lethal enforcers, all armed with military
