Chapter Seventy-Four

Beckett

Silas’s office smells like oil and old metal and something rotten underneath both, and the fluorescent lights flicker every few seconds like they’re warning us to run.

Silas leans forward in his chair, his eyes never leaving me or Harlow as I lift my hand to her face. He watches with those same cold eyes that used to hover over Harlow when she was too young even to understand what his kind