EMMA
The Royal Mint had been the site of my first major architectural restoration, but tonight, the familiar stone arches didn't feel like a monument to history. They felt like the ribcage of a beast that had already swallowed me whole.
The "invitation" had arrived via a courier at the Whitechapel safe house: a stiff, cream-colored card embossed with the seal of the Starlight Foundation. It was a charity gala I had designed the floor plan for three years ago. The irony was a jagged blade; Damien was inviting me back to a space I had built, using a cause I cared about to lure me into a killing floor.
"You are not going," Gabriel growled, his voice vibrating through the concrete floor of the cellar. He was loading silver-tipped magazines into a sleek, black submachine gun, his movements s
