

Hammer and Anvil

Greystone-in-Training Book One

Lou Paduano

Eleven Ten Publishing

BUFFALO, NEW YORK
Copyright © 2019 by Lou Paduano

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Eleven Ten Publishing

P.O. Box 1914

Buffalo, NY 14226

Publisher's note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Printed in the United States of America

Edited by JD Book Services

Cover art design by MiblArt

First edition published 2019

Library of Congress Cataloguing in Publication Data

Paduano, Lou

Hammer and Anvil / Lou Paduano

LCCN: 2019914709

ISBN-13: 978-1-944965-20-4 (paperback)

ISBN-13: 978-1-944965-16-7 (eBook)

Other Books by Lou Paduano

The Greystone Saga

Signs of Portents

Tales from Portents

The Medusa Coin

Pathways in the Dark

A Circle of Shadows

The DSA

Season One

The Clearing

Promethean

The Bridge

Spectral Advocate

Dark Impulses

Broken Loyalties

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# Table of Contents

#

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

# About the Author

# Enjoy the book? Consider leaving a review.

# The Greystone Saga

# DSA Season One, Book One

# Greystone-in-Training Book Two

#

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For Nora Bridget

A truly wondrous world awaits you.

# Chapter One

The closed sign swung over him like a pendulum. Each pass caught his attention and delayed his entry. Sweat collected along his brow and matted down his hair. He wished for rain, or anything to break up the humidity of the late summer air.

Around him, the Allure marketplace was quiet. The cobblestone streets that wound around the eclectic shops were deserted at the late hour. No one bothered taking to the streets in Portents once the sun set—an unspoken rule of the populace.

Eddie Domingo ignored the rule despite the internal alarm bells ringing between his ears. They started the moment he arrived in the area. The marketplace always freaked him out. He lived close by, always coming and going through the space to reach the clubs downtown or the subway for the coves to the north. Strangers stared at him any time he visited. Their gazes made him wary of their intentions—as if he had intruded on them and threatened to expose some unknown secret.

When he'd noticed the shop a week earlier, he knew he would be back. The antique shop sat at the end of the block, the entrance away from the dim lamps adorning the street. No cameras were positioned to view the store and no metal grate covered the window. There were no security measures of any kind other than the deadbolt. The goods inside were delicate, intricate in detail. Each was an heirloom to the right person, a treasure to be held, and appeared expensive. Expensive products meant cash on hand, and because he had mentioned it in passing to his cousin, it was no surprise they'd decided to make their way to the shop after business hours.

Eddie led the way in his signature faded t-shirt and a pair of jeans with the left knee torn open. When pressed for more information Eddie had been content to provide the location. He was always willing to do anything to earn his keep, to prove himself to the rest of the Domingo family. That included his cousin, Tony, who acted like a big brother though Eddie was older by four years.

Tony—slicked back hair and leather jacket no matter the temperature outside—leaned against the wall supervising their progress. As the boss' son, he made it a point to play the role whenever he could in preparation for when he took over. It was his sole ambition in life.

"We in?"

Eddie continued to stare at the swaying sign behind the glass, waiting for it to fall. The lock fought against him. He applied too much pressure to the tension wrench and his pick struggled to drive the pins to their correct position.

"Cuz?"

Eddie took a deep breath. He raked the pins with his pick and the lock finally clicked. The door creaked open. "Got it."

Tony slapped his back before heading inside. "My man."

Eddie followed close, quick to shut the door behind them. Each move was cautious. Eddie was wary of the occasional shadow on the periphery. There seemed to be more out tonight.

They kept the lights off. The moon acted as their guide. Stacks of baubles and trinkets lined the shelves along the walls. A counter sat on the far end of the store, and more goods were scattered across the glass cabinet structure. Each item carried the name of its owner—restoration seemed to be a major portion of the business.

The air felt heavy in the shop. Sticky and ancient, it stuck in his nostrils. This was never what he wanted in life—to steal for a living.

"Tony, you sure about—?"

"Register is behind the counter?" Tony interrupted. The score was all that mattered to him. For as much as Eddie wanted to prove himself worthy of their shared last name, Tony lived very much in the shadow of his father and always would until he stepped out and made the name his own.

Tony's father demanded obedience above all. The business evolved with his generation. Lost were the days of knee-breaking and protection rackets. White-collar crime filled their schedule—stock manipulation and money-laundering schemes through seemingly legitimate fronts. Tony longed for a return to the old ways, a constant argument at the Sunday dinner table.

Tony shuffled around the counter, knocking items aside to clear his path. Anything to make his presence known, even when unnecessary. Eddie, however, kept his mouth shut.

The items in the shop were incredibly maintained. Each was crafted with care, painted meticulously. Their gears were loud, a sign of their age, but all ran without issue. The shop owner was a true artisan.

Eddie stopped near the counter and bent low to look at a cuckoo clock shaped in the form of a castle. It was stopped, the hands frozen on the hour. Paint was chipped all over—a current project.

The broken timepiece reminded the young man of the clock in his mother's kitchen, a lifetime ago. When it sounded the hour, a knight on horseback would ride across the drawbridge and around the castle grounds to protect the imaginary citizens within. His mother would tell him stories about the knight and his travels, how he stood up for those without the strength to defend themselves.

She was usually nursing a bruise or ten when she told the tales—always while puffing on a cigarette or popping pills. Her life was difficult to say the least, but its unceremonious ending did quell the pain. For that, Eddie was grateful, though he missed her most days.

The register slammed against the glass under Tony's less-than-graceful grip. Eddie fell back. The clanging metal on glass caused him to lose his balance. The younger cousin guffawed at Eddie's clumsiness. His two front teeth, much too large for his mouth, blocked all the others from view.

"Hello?"

The voice rang out from the back. Both fell silent. Tony instinctively removed the pistol from his shoulder holster.

"Tony?" Eddie whispered. He found his footing and blocked the man from the door leading to the back. Tony tried to push ahead, but Eddie pointed back to the register.

Smiling, Tony slipped a hand to the small of his back and removed a second weapon. He spun it around his palm until the handle faced Eddie, who stared at the glinting metal with concern.

Tony pushed the gun into his hand and closed his fingers around the grip. "You got this, cuz."

Eddie accepted the task with an uncertain nod. Appearing weak in front of family was never the answer. "Yeah. I got this."

Eddie nudged the door open. He peered around the wood and saw a dim light on in the distance and the passing shadow of the owner returning to his work. A restroom sat to the right, dark and empty. There were supplies on wire mesh shelving along the hall—metal scraps, screws, and tools used in the fixing of the goods out front.

The cramped office at the end of the narrow corridor was more of a workshop than a place to handle business affairs. Wooden tables lined the walls, and the dim light now blazed like a sun. A tall old man scrunched tight over a magnifying glass aimed at the latest work: a doll in need of repair. His clothes were worn along the edges, his straggly white locks uncombed and pointing in all directions. Delicate fingers—weathered by age—picked at the damaged surface, careful not to tear away any more than necessary. More tools lined the table before him. Small chisels and tweezers. Screwdrivers of all sizes and shapes. Tape and paint in a hundred varieties. Everything was in a specific place, tucked in containers and bins. Only one item lay alone, displayed above the man's workstation.

A hammer.

Eddie felt drawn to it and approached, his steps careful and delicate against the cold concrete. He held his breath, afraid to add to the cacophony playing between his ears. He was afraid the glass would pick up his reflection or that the old man would sense his presence.

Stopping short, Eddie raised the gun. "D-d... don't turn around," he stammered. His hand shook nervously. "Don't even flinch and you won't get hurt."

The old man settled back in his chair. He kept his hands on the table. Ancient eyes of sky blue stared at Eddie through the glass on the hammer's display case.

"I understand, young man."

"Good," Eddie started, but he was immediately cut off by the stomping of footsteps into the back.

"Three-hundred bucks?" Tony scoffed. He carried a pack of bills in his left hand, while his right squeezed the handle of his pistol. "All this old junk and you're carrying a measly three-hundred bucks?"

He stuffed the money in his pocket, then raised his gun at the old man. Eddie's own weapon fell away. "Cuz? What are you—?"

"I don't buy it, Eddie. Where's the rest?" Tony's face was flushed with anger. The old man said nothing. He merely peered ahead, the unfinished doll more of a concern to him than the pair of hoodlums in his shop. Tony spun the chair around in disgust, meeting the man face-to-face. "There a safe somewhere back here in this heap?"

More silence.

Tony cocked the gun. "Well?"

"No," the storekeeper answered. His voice was strong and assured, confident despite the situation. "No safe. No more money for you."

"You're lying." Tony jammed his face in front of the old man. "You know who I am?"

Eddie's hand fell on his cousin's shoulder. "Hey, man, don't."

"I'm Tony Domingo," the young man continued. "I own this city and everyone in it. Time to pay your dues."

Fear gripped Eddie, locking him in place. The room spun out of control. Reality slipped away—or so he wished. The old man, however, didn't flinch. He didn't beg for his life. Through it all, he somehow held no terror in his heart. "I've paid them many times over."

"Not to me."

Tony, don't! It was meant to be a scream, but the words never came out. They never made it past his lips. His hand reached for his cousin's, but missed the mark and only nudged his aim.

The shot soared free, thundering in the confined quarters of the workshop. The old man dropped to the ground. A stream of blood ran along his right temple. Shelving shattered from the impact. Bins scattered their contents over the fallen shopkeeper. The display case holding the lone hammer tipped over the edge of the table and cracked on the ground.

Eddie barely heard any of it. Not the crashing of the old man or his belongings, his life's work. He couldn't hear anything but the terror in his heart. This was his fault. He planned this. He told Tony about a big score that never materialized, and the owner paid the price for his mistake.

"Why?" Eddie mumbled. "Why did you—?"

Tony was already at the door. He kicked tools and the broken doll out of his path in anger. "Nothing here. Nothing!"

"You didn't have to do that..." Eddie's words were lost to the empty room.

"Move it, Eddie," Tony called from the shop. "Let's go."

The young man with the torn jeans paused before following his cousin. He wanted to prove himself worthy of the Domingo name, yet every action he took pulled him farther away from himself. What was left of him in any of it? He no longer knew.

Something drew him back to the room. It wasn't the shallow breathing of the old man, fading with each passing second. It wasn't the random ticking of the clocks adorning the wall or resting on the shelves.

It was the hammer. The handle, golden and intricately inscribed with small glyphs in thin rows, glowed under the bright lights. Eddie reached for it and took the tool in hand. A chill ran up his arms. The hammer was heavy, but with each passing moment, the burden lessened. He tucked it in his belt, careful to make sure it stayed in place.

"You coming, cuz?" Tony said, irritation in his voice.

"Yeah," Eddie replied. Sullen eyes wavered on the old man before turning to the darkness of the street outside. "I'm coming."

# Chapter Two

Capture a minotaur...

Those words had started the fight long before she threw the first punch. Sightings had alerted them to the situation. Though junkies and drunks were not the most reliable witnesses, the descriptions they offered made the problem clear. For Mentor, her teacher and advisor, it was enough to start the hunt.

It was Soriya's first case as the Greystone. It had been a decade in the making. She'd waited for this moment since she began her training—the time when he would pass the torch to her and bring her to the streets to tackle the most dangerous menaces.

She'd spent ten years reading and researching, learning about the world through books and endless legends while also peering deep into her own soul to find her place among them. Mental strength matched physical in the classroom. Mock battles, weapons training, yoga and gymnastics all mixed with religion, science, and math for a well-rounded—and intense—education. All so she could take her place as the Greystone bearer in title.

That day had at last arrived.

They found him south of the coves. Screaming pedestrians pointed to the spot pretty clearly, eliminating all need for endless debate on where to concentrate their search. Mentor complained of her approach the entire time, though he left the final decisions for her—mostly so he could poke holes in them later, but still, she appreciated the latitude offered by her aging teacher.

She appreciated the trust handed to her by bringing her into the field and was grateful for the chance she'd been given. She knew fifteen was young, but had spent years attempting to disprove his reticence through constant training, non-stop questioning, and soul-searching.

Nothing would stand in her way. Not even a minotaur.

The beast lay in wait, seated in a heap along the side of a department store. The wall was covered in graffiti, color marring every inch. Even hunched over, he was taller than her. His fingers were thick as tree branches and ran over the brick and his curious stare followed his movements along the edifice. Lost in his exploration of the world surrounding him, he failed to notice Soriya's approach. Mentor hung back, yet quietly reached for her.

Puffs of hot air rose from flaring nostrils. Her scent caught on the wind, and the monster turned. Large eyes, black as night, widened. The Minotaur rose. His chest heaved to carry his massive frame. Hooves cracked the ground beneath him. He towered more than two feet over her, casting her in darkness.

It failed to deter her. Without a word, without a thought other than Mentor's edict, Soriya rushed the beast. Her fist, clenched tight and cocked, swung out and connected with the beast's side.

To no effect.

"Soriya!" Mentor's tone was reflected in the movements of the creature: confusion and anger. She leaped into the fray without thought, impulsive and ambitious—two traits she believed strengthened her resolve. Mentor viewed her as reckless and dangerous.

The Minotaur bellowed, a guttural growl. It was incomprehensible other than the emotion beneath it. Any chance to talk things over was lost. Any opportunity to end the situation peacefully dissipated with her brazen act.

He swung out, forcing her low. Concrete scraped her cheek. Her legs kicked out and drove her back up. She ricocheted off the wall and back at the threat. Another punch connected with the Minotaur's arm. It rocked him back a step. She did the same. The impact shot through her body, and her knuckles split from the blow.

Mentor continued to play the silent observer, though with each stolen glance she noticed his concern grow. It was a concern she'd never noted before, one that swallowed up the hope in her breast.

"Look out!" her teacher cried.

Distracted by her stubborn need for approval, Soriya failed to stay in the fight. She wavered between expectation and the danger before her. It cost her.

She was off her feet before the blow finished connecting. The Minotaur slapped the air and met her side soundly, like swatting a fly buzzing around his ear. Soriya slammed into the wall and collapsed, the air sucked from her body.

"Soriya!"

She shook off the blow and stood to face her first real test. She had prepared for ten years—ten years of sacrifice and learning. Ten years of waiting for this night. To hell with playing it safe. This was what she'd dreamed of since those early days. This was her chance to take control of her destiny, to be more than some little girl who had lost everything.

This was her chance to be the Greystone.

The Minotaur screamed. His heat raged over her like a hurricane. She stood her ground, letting the beast have his moment. She knew there would be no intimidating her, no scaring her into submission. When the silence returned, Soriya smirked with fists clenched.

"That all you got?"

Her arrogance caused the desired reaction. He lashed out. She dodged the strike and kicked out at his elbow. It drove him right and she followed up with a leaping kick to the Minotaur's back. He slammed into the wall, brick collapsing beneath him.

She landed without a sound in the street. Long black strands of hair whipped back from over her face. Soriya's excitement flourished. This was her job, what she was born to be, and it was time to show everyone.

The Minotaur's arms flailed in the twisted wreckage of the broken wall. He snatched gravel and debris and threw it across the landscape. Soriya knocked aside the first pieces but not all. A large chunk of brick slammed into her side, right where the beast had connected. Something snapped beneath the skin, and she faltered. Fighting to stand from the pain, her gaze widened at the approach of the beast.

He was smiling, joy boring through her from dark eyes.

Her body screamed as she avoided the first strike. The stomping hoof missed her by inches. Concrete shattered under the pressure. He kicked out, blasting her across the street. Her teacher ran for her, and she held him back with a wave. She shook her head vehemently. This was for her—her challenge. Failure was not an option.

Using everything she had left, Soriya stood to face the threat of the Minotaur. She cradled her ribs, which were broken along her lower right side. Her breath was ragged, the words staggered between gulps. "That's... about enough... of that."

The beast didn't bother to listen. He didn't care to hear her words of protest or see the pain he'd inflicted on her young, muscular body. Thick fingers reached out and snatched her. He slammed her into the side of the building—once, then twice—before discarding her like a piece of trash.

She rolled back to her former position. This time Mentor was at her side. She could barely make him out through the bruise covering most of her left eye. Warm liquid trickled across her skin, blood from the scrapes and cuts of the brawl. When he reached for her, she flinched.

"I've got this," she pleaded, her words a whisper. "I do."

Mentor peered at the beast, who licked his lips. Small plumes rose from his nostrils. His hooves scraped the pavement and he inched closer for the kill. Her teacher shook his head.

"You don't."

Without another word, the stone was in his hand. The Greystone. It was the source of not only their name but their power. It was not a move made lightly, only to be utilized when necessary. She'd failed to produce it during her fight. She did not want to rely on the stone. She wanted to prove herself, wanted to believe she held the strength to see this through to the end.

She had failed, and her teacher was witness to it all.

"Mentor..."

The Greystone lit, and the surface rune blinded everyone in the alley. Despite the clear night, the rumbling of thunder rose up in the quiet. Clouds formed above them. They thickened and spread in a deep circle.

Lightning crashed to the earth.

The Minotaur jumped back at the last second. The lightning decimated the concrete where it struck. The beast bellowed at Mentor. When he stepped forward, the creature hesitated at the sight of the dimly lit rune still present on the stone's surface. Fury sparked through the Minotaur's eyes as the light grew on the stone once more.

The beast fled before another strike could erupt. He leaped and caught the side of the building, before bounding overtop for the roof. Stomping feet carried him out of sight and out of mind as Mentor returned to Soriya's broken body.

He reached out to her. "Here, child."

"I'm fine," she snapped, swatting the hand away limply. Mentor sighed and helped her to her feet. She refused to look at him, refused to acknowledge his assistance in the slightest despite the weight it had taken off her. "I was doing fine."

"Three cracked ribs and a dozen contusions tell a different story."

She ignored the summation. She tried to pull away from his embrace before slipping. He caught her once more and held her close.

"He's getting away."

"For now," Mentor replied. "Not for long."

He led her across the street. The few pedestrians had long since departed. No one cared to know the true city hidden in the darkness of Portents. No one cared to see the world how it truly was. At that moment, Soriya understood completely.

They reached the subway entrance along the city's C Line—the path home. Soriya stopped at the steps leading underground.

"We should go after him."

"We should but we're not. We're going home."

"Mentor..."

He closed his eyes, then took her hand to help her down the stairs. "There is nothing more to be gained this night, Soriya. Nothing but reflection on the choices ahead."

# Chapter Three

The marketplace on Allure brought in a certain clientele. The typical shopper did not travel down the double-wide cobblestone street. Instead of clothing stores and chain restaurants, the businesses dotting the three-block framework were small-time affairs. They served specific needs. A baker. A fruit cart. A music store.

The Cobbler's Den was one such shop. For more years than most remembered, the storefront had remained open and inviting to the community. New shoes, handcrafted and meticulous in style and wear, were on display for all willing to give them a try. Each was molded to the individual, each measured and built around a person's needs.

When Bethany Schmidt slipped on her pair of flats there was only one reaction to give. "Heavenly." She closed her eyes and sighed. Ecstasy. Pure, unbridled bliss at the warmth and the comfort running through her soles.

The shop was out of her way, out of everyone's way in fact, and part of the appeal of Allure to begin with. Foot traffic was always minimal, but those that knew the joy of what they could find kept the place booming. Beth played her part, always willing to help—always hoping to do more.

The old man smiling over her agreed. Crumbs dotted his wrinkled chin. The pastry left a film on his fingertips as he munched.

"I was about to say the same of these rugelach," Johannes said. He finished the bite, moaning with pleasure over the treat his guest had brought him. "How do you always manage to cheer up this old man, Bethany?"

Her parents had brought her to Johannes at a young age. She required more arch support, a better shoe than the chain stores offered. Johannes looked the same then, preening over the child, bending over backward to give her the world, as he did today. How could she do any less for him after all these years together?

She stood and took a test run across the store with the shoes. They were form-fitted, the measurements locked in his agile brain. She barely noticed the carpet beneath her, like she was floating on air.

"I have to keep my cobbler happy. He does his best work on a full stomach."

Johannes laughed and patted his gut. "Ach. I could stand to lose some of this full stomach."

She cocked an eyebrow, hands to her hips. If he weighed more than one-hundred-fifty pounds she would have eaten her new shoes. Turned aside, he almost disappeared from a room.

"You work too long and too hard," she assured him. "I'm happy to help, Johannes."

"And I am happy to see you, child." He returned to the pastry, another gift from her visit to Allure. The baker at the end of the marketplace provided the best rugelach in Portents. Another well-kept secret she tried to tell people. Johannes nibbled at the end. "Now tell me."

"What?" Beth sat beside the rest of her belongings. She grabbed her old shoes, put them in her purse, and buttoned up the bag.

Johannes joined her on the bench. "I may be old but not yet blind. You have been staring at your ring since you walked in."

It was reflex—a new sensation that ran up her finger, causing her a momentary pause to remember where the ring came from. The band was gold and the diamond atop was small, but it danced brilliantly under the dim lights of the shop. She marveled at how such a miniscule object could change so much, how it set someone on a completely new path they never quite imagined possible.

"He asked me."

Johannes grimaced. "The policeman."

She ignored her companion's reaction. Greg Loren was a detective for the Central Precinct. Everyone blamed the police for everything wrong with the city. From the weather—not quite under their jurisdiction—to the traffic—somewhat their fault thanks to an aggressive need to ticket even the smallest offenses. Beth, however, knew things to be very different. Greg worked ceaselessly to keep people safe, stranger and friend alike. He was diligent, almost obsessive, in every effort.

And he loved her. Out of everything, that was the one point that bordered on impossible. But she felt it too.

"I never expected it," she said. "We've been living together for a few months now, but—"

"It suits you."

Beth nodded. "He suits me."

Johannes struggled to stand, and she ably assisted him with a hand. The aging proprietor offered a silent thanks, then inched across the shop. He lifted up a pair of loafers to display them for his guest.

"Where is he then? A proper wedding requires proper shoes. Not those ratty things you always complain about."

Beth laughed. He remembered everything she shared, every detail that slipped from her lips during her visits. Johannes was always ready to throw them back at her. The shoes were only the tip of the iceberg when it came to the items mentioned. Greg called them his lucky sneakers, but with holes dotting the side and the soles flapping loose like a pair of lips, they hardly passed as wearable. Not that anyone could tell him differently. She'd tried, but ultimately realized the futility of some battles.

"That will be a greater challenge than the proposal, Johannes." She paused, gaze captured again by the glint of the diamond on her finger. Her lips curled up once more before she tucked her hand in her pocket. "It's good to have someone to talk to about all this."

He noted the concern in her comment. "A problem, Bethany?"

"No. It's good. It is..." She sighed. He read her too well, recognized the signs more often before she did. "Greg's been wonderful about the whole thing. He wants to run to City Hall and make everything official."

"Not you though?"

"I can't settle on a date," Beth admitted. She slung her purse over her shoulder and paced to the front of the store to stare out at the street. "I can't even think about it, yet it's all I think about, you know? Every time it comes up, I make an excuse. I've even started early morning jogging to avoid the conversation when he gets home from his shift. I don't know why."

Johannes leaned close, a hand on her shoulder. "I think you do."

He showcased the neighborhood—one she tried to share in her writing. Some of it anyway. There were secrets to spread, wonders to share with the world at large, but others? Some were too precious to put in her writing. Some she kept for herself.

"That doesn't—"

Sirens cracked the silence of the street. Red and blue flashing lights covered the cobblestone. Police cruisers and ambulances raced deeper into the district. Beth started for the door, then paused at the sight of her companion. The conversation faded, which was fine with her. She had no answer as to what kept her from picking a date. There was no reason for putting off her happiness a minute, let alone the two weeks it had been since Greg proposed.

She turned her attention to the emergency vehicles screeching to a halt two blocks away. "What's going on?"

Johannes joined her in front. He leaned along the brick. "God."

"What is it?"

"The antique shop."

Beth shifted in front of him to block the chaos unfolding. "Do you know the owner?"

"An old friend." Johannes nodded with sadness in his eyes. "There aren't many of them left these days, I'm afraid."

Beth rubbed her companion's shoulder. She led him back to the door and ushered him inside. "I'll go see what I can find out."

"You don't have to, child."

She smiled and passed over the money she owed. "Happy to help, remember?"

# Chapter Four

Beneath the streets of Portents there was a wellspring of light. A cradle of life, a path to everywhere, hidden from all. A secret kept—one for the betterment of the people above. Or so the lessons went.

Tucked in an abandoned junction of the C Line through downtown at the heart of the city, a metal staircase descended to a concealed chamber. The vault was forty feet high and supported by four immaculate marble pillars—each had been scrawled from top to bottom with languages long since erased from existence, more secrets long since held. At the center was a glowing orb emanating a green hue throughout the expanse—the Bypass. Memories shimmered beneath the surface. The past and the future. All possible paths through the wilderness called life. It was a crossroads to the infinite.

And a distraction for Soriya Greystone.

Her body threatened to expel everything she'd eaten since her birth. Her guts tightened and flamed in revolt. Her skin, covered with bruises and cuts, bubbled and froze. Nothing lined up, nothing made sense, other than the constant pain.

Mentor hovered over her, cutting off her gaze at the swirling green mist of the Bypass. He held his Greystone over her injuries, a rune emblazoned on the surface.

Sowilo. Every contusion, every broken bone, tingled from the sensation. They struggled against their natural tendency, forced to act to protect the host and pull her back together.

It was the fourth treatment in as many hours. Each took its toll—on both players in the drama. Her teacher, exhausted from the effort, fought to stand. She slipped in and out of consciousness, but the agony of her wounds always snapped her awake for another round.

When he reached the tips of her toes, Mentor lowered the stone. "Better?"

She forced a breath out from strained lungs. There was discomfort still, but considerably less than before. "Much."

Their words had been sparse since their return. Disappointment flickered in gray irises. She didn't know what felt worse—the wounds inflicted by the Minotaur thanks to her impulsive attack or Mentor's reaction to her defeat.

Pushing through both, Soriya fought for the edge of her bed. "Now let's—"

He stopped her. "Sit. Rest."

"The Minotaur is still out there," she snapped as she held tight to her ribs. "He's—"

"My responsibility."

Those were the words she had been waiting to hear. She had dreaded them ever since he stepped in to save her from the Minotaur's assault. His decision had come the moment he helped her to her feet. It had been present in every stray glance during their long walk in silence to the Bypass Chamber.

"What are you saying?"

Mentor stood and turned for the open frame to her room. The Bypass glowed brighter behind him, taunting her with its presence.

"I thought—hoped—the Minotaur would prove to be an acceptable test of your skills. That you were ready for the challenges ahead." His head bowed. "I was wrong."

She struggled to find her feet. Her ribs screamed at the act, and he returned to settle her along the edge of the bed. "Don't do this, Mentor."

He shook his head and held out his hand. "Your stone."

"I can stop him!" she protested.

"No. You weren't ready. The fault is mine."

She failed. Her one chance and she blew it in her haste. She'd jumped in, ready and willing, only to meet a challenge too powerful and too dangerous. If only she had considered the possibility of defeat, if only she hadn't tried so hard to prove her worth to her teacher above the job at hand.

One chance and it was gone, like a puff of smoke in the wind. He took her purpose, her destiny, away after building it up in her mind for a decade. It was over.

His hand inched closer. "The stone, Soriya."

She swiped away her tears, then reached for the hand-woven pouch at her right side. She'd made it when she turned six, so proud to have mastered the needle and thread. A sacred place to hold her Greystone—her one remembrance from a life lost. Mentor was proud of the care she put toward the enigmatic instrument. His pride grew when he opened the one she made for him.

Pride no longer entered into it. Only disappointment remained. Soriya removed the stone from her side. Warmth rushed through her body from the delicate object, even in the coldest of nights. So small, yet so vital to her being.

"I worked for this, Mentor," she said, her voice strained to hold back her sadness. "Spent years training!"

The stone fell into his waiting hand. "Not long enough."

He moved for the mantel at the far end of the room. He placed the stone upon it and it taunted her from its perch. Beneath, the fire in the hearth dimmed—a fading light. She didn't fight the judgment. Soriya could only sit in defeat, finally and totally beaten. Not by some mythical beast but broken by her own teacher—her only true connection to the world.

"Leave it for now." He passed for the open expanse of the chamber. She tried to catch his attention but he refused to look at her.

"Where are you going?"

"To find the beast."

It was the fatal blow, and proved too much for her. She disregarded all pain, all common sense and stood to face the man who raised her. "You can't do this, Mentor! I'm not a child anymore!"

"You are, Soriya," Mentor replied, his words cold and robotic. "I should have realized that sooner. Rest, little one."

She staggered after him. When she reached the door she used the frame to prop her battered body up. "We can talk about this. Fix it together."

Mentor continued for the stairs, unwilling to listen. His hand grabbed the railing, and he stopped. His gaze remained ever forward on the darkness above. "No. I will handle the monster in our midst. It's my job."

Without another word, he departed for the city. Portents—it was supposed to be her city. It was the place she had dreamed of protecting for so long. Mentor's departure left her only with the dull hum of the green glowing orb floating in the chamber. It flickered and faded, spinning slowly in place, held by the four pillars. Beneath the surface, tucked just out of sight, was the future—all futures.

She no longer required the Bypass to know hers. Mentor had made it clear with his final words, which repeated endlessly in her thoughts. He was the Greystone and always would be. Her job, her role, and the destiny she'd dreamed of for as long as she could remember—gone.

# Chapter Five

The wail of the ambulance split the silence, as the siren screamed down the roadway. The emergency vehicle passed Beth, which caused her concern to grow. She crossed the street, trailing the ambulance's path back to the antique shop.

A crowd gathered along the sidewalk, spectators in a sport with no winner. The act did none of them any good, but they could not look away—rooted to the spot to find out something, anything, about what had happened. They hugged tight to the police cordon, which was still being locked down. Beth slipped through, taking advantage of an argument between one of the officers and a large Hispanic woman unable to speak a lick of English.

The news didn't appear positive. She dreaded sharing it with Johannes. Heartache followed him in his life, always present. He was never able to appreciate the world for too long before another loss sucked the air from his lungs.

Beth rounded the street corner for the entrance to the shop. Officers ran back and forth. They answered calls and transferred evidence to the stationary cop on site to maintain the integrity of the scene. One, however, didn't bother with the standard uniform. He wore dark khakis and a ratty old shirt—the Superman logo on the front faded by age. He let out a long stream of smoke from a cigarette clutched like a life preserver between two fingers.

All concern melted the instant Greg Loren came into view. Beth smiled and called after the distracted detective. "Does your fiancé know you still smoke?"

Greg blinked hard, still waking up despite the hour. The late shift always had that effect on him, but he preferred the casework during the night hours. It kept him busy, moving.

"Beth?" Joy filled his face, which brightened his pale skin. He went to take another drag of his cigarette then paused. "This?"

He tossed it to the ground and stamped the butt out. "Last one. Honest."

Moving to greet her, Beth sidestepped his outstretched arms. She bent down to retrieve the discarded butt. Holding it out for him to view, she carried his garbage to the corner receptacle and tossed it away.

"I was going to do that," he said when she returned.

"Just come here, you liar."

He picked her up and kissed her. He kept her pressed against his lips, long and deep, with no regard to the mounting glares from the other officers on scene. Her body soared under his affection. His love stole away the entire world for a time.

When the kiss ended, the embrace continued. Greg rubbed her arms to battle back the slight chill of the night wind. "What are you doing out this late? The city isn't safe."

It was his number one position on Portents: murder and mayhem. Nothing else could possibly exist. "I think I know the city a little better than you."

He glanced down the block, first east then west. "I actually have no idea where I am right now."

Beth laughed. "Spend less time smoking and more time with a map. Or one—"

"—of your books," Greg recited from memory. "I know. I'm terrible."

It was another eternally broken promise, much like his smoking. She'd authored four books on Portents during her academic career. All had centered on her hometown's secrets. Histories she had uncovered and secrets she'd unlocked. They surrounded the people of Portents every day, yet no one saw any of them.

History fascinated her. Not him, though. To Greg, the past was a trap. He focused on the present. It was the part she loved most about him.

He cleared his throat. "Back to what you're doing here?"

"Meeting an old friend in the neighborhood."

Greg cocked an eyebrow. "Good-looking guy?"

Beth slapped his shoulder. "For his age. He's concerned about the owner."

"He should be," Greg replied and edged for the corner. His gaze trailed the departed ambulance. "Neighbor heard the shot and called it in. The owner's in critical condition. He's heading to Mercy for surgery. A centimeter to the left and the news would be much worse."

This was Greg's world, what he dealt with and witnessed during every shift. The worst in the world, yet somehow he managed to smile at her side. Somehow he thrived in the chaos.

"Who would do such a thing?"

"Looks like petty theft gone wrong. The usual chaos for Portents."

"In your eyes," Beth said. "Can I take a look?"

"What?" Greg balked. He lowered his voice and pulled her away from the forensics team finishing up inside. "No."

"Just a quick peek inside. I won't disrupt the integrity of the scene or whatever you call it."

"Which is exactly why you shouldn't be in there."

"That didn't stop you before, Greg," Beth said. It had never been a great tactic with him. He had regretted letting her in at the theater shooting as well as the gangland slaying at the docks. She had pushed for access, hoping to add the research for her books. It had gone against his training as well as all common sense, but he'd allowed her a small window rather than let her sneak in on her own when he hadn't been around to protect her. "I just want to see if I can help, either this poor man or you."

Greg sighed, hands to his hips. "This isn't for a book?"

She shook her head and patted her pockets. "I didn't even bring my camera."

He hesitated, scanning the street once more. Heavy eyes fell on her. "All right."

He escorted her to the door, his pace measured. He didn't like it, didn't like having her in his world. She pressed more and more, trying to be a part of his work.

"Where's Mitchell?" she asked to break the silence.

"Flu," Greg said, rolling his eyes. Mitchell was the latest in a long line of partners. No matter how much she loved her husband-to-be, most others failed to share her affection for the man. "I'd be better off without a partner. More peaceful at any rate. Not that I'm ever alone."

A tower of an officer guarded the door. His shoes shone brighter than the badge on his chest. He swayed on his heels, his thumbs in his pockets while he whistled.

"This is my chauffeur du jour," Greg announced. "John Pratchett, this is my fiancé Bethany Schmidt."

Pratchett's eyes widened and his cheeks reddened. He settled on his heels and his hands snapped loose from his pockets. The jerking motion knocked the hat from his head. He went to grab it, while reaching for Beth's waiting hand. Conflicted between the two, he let the hat fall to the ground and took her hand with a firm shake.

"Hey," he said. "Hello there. Hi."

Greg retrieved the hat and tossed it to the man. Pratchett bobbled the brim before clutching it to his chest. "Smooth, Pratchett."

Beth smirked. "Nice to meet you, John."

"You too," Pratchett said. "Yes. Definitely nice. To meet you, that is."

Greg patted the man's back, nudging him from the door. "We'll only be a minute."

"In there? Are you—?"

"One minute," Greg repeated. "Watch the door."

"Don't I always?"

The door closed after Beth and cut off any need for a response, though knowing Greg there were four or five simultaneously in the works. His wit was endearing and frustrating at the same time. He had a superb analytical mind with the temperament of a child.

"Sorry about him," Greg said.

He ushered her deeper into the shop. She surveyed the storefront rapidly to capture the layout and the items within. She was surrounded by relics of a forgotten age, all refurbished and rebuilt. She could tell already that the shop owner was a true craftsman who put care into each work, and it showed in the quality of the product on display.

"He's nice."

"For an awkward giant of a man." He led her to the narrow corridor in back. His shoulder grazed the shelving, and he quickly righted the rickety unit to not upset the scene. He held her back a moment. "Watch your step."

"I'm not made of crystal, Greg."

"I'm aware," he responded with a smirk. "Trust me."

The workshop was brightly lit. Evidence placards set by forensics marked the room. There was a bloodstain splattered across the floor and the table in back. It covered a number of projects and tools scattered throughout.

"What was in here?" There appeared to be nothing of value—no real assets to procure through a robbery.

"What you see is what you get from what I've been able to determine," Greg answered with frustration. "We're trying to nail down some records. Old guy like this though? Probably never recorded a sale, much less took inventory."

He might have been right. He usually was when it came to the job. Something nagged at her, however. There was more to Johannes' concern than for the owner, and it was for that reason she'd pushed for access to the scene rather than merely inquiring as to the condition of the shopkeeper. There was a secret kept in plain sight. She found it in the form of a shattered display case on the floor. Glyphs had been etched along the edges. No, not glyphs—letters. Greek letters, carved into the case. She crouched to take a closer look.

"Detective?" a voice called from the hall.

"Crap," Greg uttered. He rubbed her shoulder. "I'll be right back. Don't—"

"Touch anything. Got it."

"Nothing really here to worry about though, right?"

"I don't know about that," she whispered after he vacated the room. Her phone was in her hand, and she snapped a quick picture before hiding it away in her purse—guilt rising at the promise she'd just broken. "I think this held something pretty important."

Johannes had only told her half the story. The owner of the shop had been an old friend, to be sure, but not in the traditional sense. They had shared a hidden truth, one that was evident by the craftsmanship of every item restored within the confines of this small workshop. All centered around the cracked display case on the floor and the outline of a single tool. It was unlike any other in the shop. Beth quietly catalogued the evidence before her and realized the truth about the owner and the item once held by the shattered case—an item that was now stolen and loose in her city.

The hammer of Hephaestus.

# Chapter Six

Eddie found the notebook in his desk drawer. Why he ended up looking inside the never-touched piece of furniture hidden behind a wall of boxes crammed in his apartment, he couldn't say. Nor was there a reason behind pulling out the spiral-bound pad. Yet it stayed with him through the night.

By the end of the following morning, more than a third was filled with writing, doodles, scrawling, sparse notes, and even thinner concepts. All were invited by his fast-moving pencil and the never-ending stream of thoughts that inspired them.

When Tony called, inviting him to the club, he brought the notebook with him. That and only one other object—the hammer he'd found in the wreckage of their botched robbery. It had stayed at his side ever since, sometimes cradled in his hand or jammed in his belt. He couldn't leave the tool behind, like it had become a part of him somehow.

They arrived at Domingo's in their usual fashion. Tony drove with the top down and an ear-to-ear grin that demanded the attention of the line accumulated with the evening hours. Security took the car in hand to park, while allowing the man who shared the same last name as the building to skip the line completely.

Eddie followed. Though the name was his to claim as well, he never did so in public. He never played the part—never looked the role of a true Domingo. His family grew up separate from the rest and his parents' deaths forced him under his uncle's care. He appreciated what his uncle provided and did what he could for the family. He had always tried to prove himself to Tony and the others. They gave him everything. How could he not do the same?

When they reached the offices of the second floor, a pair of bruisers halted them. They were beefy men in sunglasses with names like Biff and Duke. Their true names were rarely uttered unless a grievance was about to be filed by their boss. No one wanted that outcome when it came to the work.

The delay irked Tony, but he swallowed his frustration. Or at least, he did for a time. Ten minutes later, he paced the thin corridor, silently fuming over the closed door blocking his audience with the head of their family and his father.

Eddie didn't mind the wait. The notebook occupied his every thought. His pencil swerved across the page. The line art was sloppy but the notes cleared up any confusion for future reference. It had started in the middle of the night, hours after returning from the antique repair shop. A question plagued him and when the answer arrived it shocked him.

It had been that way with everything since. Overnight, his eyes were opened to all possibilities. Questions and answers, all flowed through his pencil to the pad. The hammer remained near him through it all and he pondered its role in his discoveries.

Was the hammer responsible? Was that possible?

The questions diminished with the opening of the door. Seth Fisher, head of security for the club, stepped out. The nameless brutes mirrored his movements, ready to pounce at a moment's notice.

"He'll see you now."

Tony's pacing ended and his brow creased with anger. He pounded his feet, shoulders slumped, as he plowed past security. "About time."

Eddie hesitated, drawing back his cousin long enough for Tony to slap the notebook shut. He pulled Eddie to his feet and continued through the open doors to the office suite of the club.

Domingo's, like so many other businesses bearing the name, offered a unique view of the city. A baser, freer way of life for Portents. The club found a way to bring in patrons to fill their need for companionship, booze, and drugs even in the dead of night, a time when most fled the downtown area. Tonight, though, the club floor remained empty, the doors shut to fit in the last-minute meeting.

"Tony," Eddie called as he tried to catch up to his cousin. "I don't like this."

"I heard that," Tony replied. Spit flew from his lips toward Seth, who led the pack. "Lack of respect."

Seth stopped, a human blockade from their destination. "Earn some, little man."

Eddie rolled his eyes. He read the signs a second before it started. Tony's fist was in mid-flight, a scream on his lips, all to put the head of the brutes in his place.

Seth ducked the strike with ease. Then he snatched Tony's collar and slammed him into the nearest wall.

Tony struggled, kicking out to no avail. "Do you know who I am?"

Seth merely grinned.

Behind them a door opened and a rakish man stepped out. He straightened his navy blue suit coat before running a hand through his stark black hair.

"A child," Frank Domingo answered.

Seth dropped Tony and backed away. The embarrassed kid jumped at the security head, which earned little reaction. Eddie stayed silent until his cousin cocked his head toward the waiting office and the man they came to see.

Frank ushered them inside. "One who needs a reminder of his place."

The door shut behind them. Frank kept private offices throughout the city at each of his properties, of which there were plenty. Over the last two decades, the Domingo name was uttered in the same sentence as Evans when it came to domination of Portents, a fact that warmed the cold heart of the family don.

Tony shook his head. He clearly struggled to put aside the last sixty seconds. Anger came quick for him, something Eddie tempered when possible, but failed more often than not.

He moved to hug his father. "Pop, look—"

A slap crashed against Tony's left cheek. "No," Frank snapped. "Not a word. Not a sound from that idiotic mouth of yours. You realize what you've done?"

Both men bowed their heads. It was the reason for the delay in opening the club for the night and the reason for their wait outside: the shooting that had resulted from their botched robbery.

"He made us," Tony whined. "Saw our faces. Heard our names."

Frank shook his head. He paced the length of the office. There was strength in Frank's stride. He held his head high, his eyes focused on every aspect of the room. "Because you're too dumb to pull a simple job," Frank said. "One no one wanted you to pull in the first place."

Seth ducked in the office at the sound of his boss' voice. Frank ushered the rest in and they took up positions at the door. Seth continued to the far side of the room, covering the window overlooking the club. Without a single word spoken Frank held their respect—the same way Eddie had felt about the man for so long.

It was why Eddie always strove to prove himself. He had hoped to do well by the family name. With the death of his parents came a gaping hole his uncle filled. Frank had provided more than a home and security for the young lad. He gave him purpose, even paid for Eddie's education—not that much came from his studies. Every effort made on his own garnered the same results with Eddie: failure. The Domingo way was the only way, and Eddie served them proudly. It was the only thing he knew how to do.

Frank leaned against the desk, fists clenched along the edge. "They have half the Central Precinct canvassing the area. How long until they identify Eddie's truck? How long before they come knocking on your door or, God forbid, mine?"

"Pop."

Frank stopped him, with a raised finger. "You are my son, Anthony. Eddie, my nephew. But leave the business to me and my men. Understand?"

It was the last thing Tony wanted to hear. It was a repudiation of his every effort, of his every desire. He rushed at his father, eyes wide in frustration. "I can do the—"

Another slap silenced him. "The mouth!" Frank shouted. Tony reeled back, subdued by his father's irritation. "Do you understand?"

Tony rubbed his cheek. "Yeah." Frank's hand rose, causing the boy to cower further in defense. "Yes. Yes, sir!"

Frank sighed. He shook his hand, the act beneath him yet necessary. The aging mobster paused before the silent player in their drama. There was disappointment in his eyes. "You're supposed to keep him in line, Eddie."

"I know."

A hand fell on Eddie's shoulder, and his uncle pulled him close. With his arm wrapped around him, Frank guided Eddie towards the window in the office wall that looked out over the dance floor. There was a long moment of silence as the pair stared at the emptiness of the club. "You're family, Eddie. I've given you everything you've ever needed, haven't I?"

"Of course," Eddie said. "Yes."

"Keep him in check."

Eddie read the gaze clearly and shrank from his uncle's side. "I will."

Frank nodded. "Now get out. Both of you. I have actual business to conduct."

Seth's sneer followed them from the office. The doors slammed shut behind them. Frank was already moving on with the business of the day. Neither said a word, neither made mention of the sound castigation they'd just received. Tony stewed as he power-walked from the second floor. Eddie followed, a hand to his belt to make sure the hammer remained in place while he trapped the notebook under his arm.

By the time they made it to the street, the club doors were opened and impatient patrons were filtering inside. The hiatus was over, the delay for gratification ended—all with only a word from Frank Domingo.

Tony and Eddie circled the block until they reached the alley running adjacent to the club. It was as far as Tony could manage before losing all control. His bellow echoed in the canyon between buildings and he lashed out at the garbage cans stored within. Trash skittered loose, spreading in all directions. Eddie could do little but watch the tantrum play out. It was a scene he was all too familiar with after their shared childhood.

"Can you believe him?"

Eddie shook his head. "Tony..."

"Did you hear him?" his cousin continued. "Talking to us like we were nothing. Like I was nothing. What are we going to do to change that?"

"Cuz," Eddie said in a quiet tone, hoping to calm his younger cousin. "He just told us to fall in line."

"And do what?" Tony asked. "Collect? Like some alley kid in the Knoll? Forget that. I need a new angle. Something he can't ignore."

"I..."

The answer hit Eddie like a bullet to the brain. He staggered back, clutching tight to the notebook in his grasp. He flipped through the pages, the answer suddenly stuck in his head and growing clearer by the second. The doodling, and the notes pieced together like a great puzzle, provided the answer to the question.

Tony leaned close. "What is it, cuz?"

Eddie stared at the image in the notebook. A plan started to take shape. "I have an idea."

"You do?"

Eddie smiled. "Yeah. I think I do."

# Chapter Seven

Daylight. There was sunshine in this place—the realization was one of many that came to the Minotaur in the morning hours.

He crouched within the confines of an abandoned domicile, brought low by a fire of some kind from the smell of the place. The shattered windows and charred frames were boarded up with thick plywood that cracked and split enough to allow the creature a view of the world outside.

Outside. Another mystery. To him, there had only ever been the labyrinth. He had served at Minos' pleasure, a carnival sideshow, murdering tributes sent from Athens for the death of the king's son. Daylight, clear skies, and outside—these were foreign terms.

Now he stood in a world comprised entirely of foreign terms. Where am I? It was a city, greater than any rooted in his imagination. A city with lights and people and incredible potential—so much so that the Minotaur's heart swelled.

His fingers danced across the sunlight shredding into the space. Deep groans escaped; the huffs of disbelief and amazement. Light filled the sky, pure, unbridled, and free—like him.

The Minotaur had never believed any differently. The labyrinth had been his home. He had served Minos from his post in the depths beneath the castle—always the dutiful son despite the controversy behind his birth. He had protected the kingdom.

How wrong he was—the maze had been nothing more than a prison. He'd been locked away from view, the monster in the basement, with nothing more to do than slaughter any trespassers. He had been ripped from the light of the sun and from humanity as it swelled across the earth.

No longer.

The way had been clear—though he hadn't looked for it. It was in the deepest corner of the maze, a passage rarely utilized. He had taken a stroll, marking tunnels so he could return to his altar where his trophies lay. The beast always collected items from his conquests. Weapons and armor. Clothing. There was even a body part here and there. He'd lost count of how many victims he claimed in his years. Hundreds would have been a respectable guess. Minos was nothing if not vindictive.

The mighty king had never mentioned the exit, never in all the Minotaur's years in the dark. The torchlight—so dim—offered little compared the blazing globe hovering over the city in the morning hours. Minos had never elected to even hint at the possibility of a way out.

The way presented itself.

The flicker of the torch illuminated a small breach in the wall perfectly. The breach was not only a gift from the light, but also from the sound outside. The chirping of birds cut through the silence of the labyrinth. Dogs carried on conversations behind windows and along the streets. The animals called to him as did humanity, with their booming music, the horns of their motorized vehicles, and the screams—some innocent and others less so.

All had beckoned him to the spot in the wall. Fingers dug into the marble. He'd ripped at the barrier, pulled down the stone. The sun summoned him forth to a new place, a new world—a new maze to conquer.

The woman had stood as his challenger and a worthy one at that. She had barred his path, playing the protector as he once had to his own kingdom. More than a protector, she carried a stone much like her keeper. It was a legend, told even during his own time. A Greystone.

He would have to show her the truth. None would stand in his way again. None would keep him locked away, trapped in a prison he never understood.

People passed along the street. They stared at devices clutched in their fragile mitts, beeping and booping, terrible machines connecting them to others. None gazed up in wonder at the city or the gleaming sun. None spoke of the glory of being in the world. They merely rushed from place to place with their heads to the ground, or the small glowing screens that occupied their thoughts.

The noise of their movements, of the vehicles racing up and down the streets, wore at him. The Minotaur slipped away from the window and covered his ears for momentary relief. Night brought some peace to the city and its own version of awe to the beast's black eyes. So he waited for nightfall.

Or hoped to at any rate.

Chatter, static and choppy, reverberated from the street. The Minotaur edged forward. His stomping hooves threatened to crack the weakened floorboards with each shift. Two men stood next to a vehicle with lights flashing on top. They wore uniforms, golden shields emblazoned on their chests.

It took the monster a moment to recognize the word on the vehicle—They call them cars, he suddenly thought. Language had somehow unlocked in his mind, and the word echoed in his thoughts.

POLICE.

They were protectors—soldiers of the populace. Just at a glance he understood who they were and their role in the world. As they approached the ramshackle domicile, the beast retreated deeper into the shadows. Anticipation built in his stark black gaze as he waited for the arrival of a new challenge.

# Chapter Eight

The patrol car sidled along the sidewalk. Marc Kowalski informed dispatch of their arrival before silencing the engine. She was a good squad car, the best he'd had in his sixteen years on the force. Most came with an odor—either stale food from the previous occupants or worse, considering the company kept in back at times. This one was pristine, and he kept it that way.

They had been due back to the Second Precinct, the northernmost in the city. Meetings had been scheduled, or so they were told. What it meant was more sensitivity training or other bull to keep the brass happy—not that such a feat was even possible. What they desired was deniability, a way to distance themselves from missteps in the department. Paperwork, bureaucratic nightmares, none of it mattered to the job yet it continued to grow year in and year out.

The call gave him an excuse and he happily took it—much to the chagrin of his partner, who continued to stew in the sweltering cab of the vehicle. Elton Spencer preferred the allure of the job compared to the day-to-day work. He enjoyed desk work, rather than placement in the field. But, the young officer of three years had the unfortunate ability to piss off everyone around him—including his captain who stuck him with Kowalski.

Who was actually being punished with this arrangement had yet to be determined.

Kowalski stopped outside his partner's window. Noise complaints had brought them to the area, but the house was long since abandoned—consumed by an accidental fire months earlier. The call was enough to warrant a look. The structure wasn't safe for occupants—squatters or otherwise.

"This the right address?" Spencer asked. He sat with his arms across his chest, hesitant to unbuckle his seatbelt. He gave the word 'slow' new meaning with every passing shift. He preferred the term meditative when referring to his method of working at a snail's pace.

Kowalski called it wasting his damn time. "Why do you always do that?"

"It's a legitimate question."

"One dispatch answered on the way here," Kowalski replied. "Twice."

The dour lead opened the car door, like a chauffeur. The lanky youth sighed and released his seatbelt before he waded into the heat of the late summer morning. He pulled at his uniform, which had wrinkles on it from the ride over. Kowalski didn't mind the kid most days. Spencer handled the reports, Kowalski maintained proper procedure in the field. They complemented each other nicely, except when they were busy insulting each other.

Spencer stopped short of the stoop, hands to his hips. He peered around to find an excuse, any reason at all, to return to the car. First it was his cell phone. Then it was his flashlight. By the third trip, Kowalski hooked a hand around his arm and held him back.

"Why do you always do this?"

"Do what?" Spencer asked, oblivious to his faults.

Kowalski turned him around and pushed him for the door. "Walk."

"I need—"

The stout officer shook his head. "You always play this game. First with the questions and then with the delays. And why do you do it? Because you know I won't stand for it and I walk right into the situation. Not this time."

Kowalski ushered him forward. He tripped up the steps until he stood before the door. Sweat dotted the man's brow, reminding him of endless promises of hitting the gym on his off days. Tomorrow. Always tomorrow.

Spencer pushed away from the man. "I am offended," he scoffed. "You, sir, have offended me."

Kowalski rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, say that again before you eat a mushroom omelet at the Coffee Hut."

He reached for the knob and pushed the door open. Kowalski gestured inside as though he was showcasing the darkness within, blissfully pleased to give the thin-as-a-rail officer the lead on this one. Spencer took the hint and slumped into the abandoned domicile.

"Let's just get this over with."

"Please."

Shadows infested the home. Aided by the charred woodwork from the fire, they deepened with each step through the foyer. Both clutched tight to their service weapons. Kowalski announced their arrival. The sound of his voice echoed up the stairs to the second level and throughout the weakened structure.

The only answer came in the creaking of their footfalls on the rotted planks. That and Spencer, who could no longer hold back from their earlier conversation. "You know," he muttered as he covered the right side of the hall. A shallow bedroom branched from the corridor. He scanned it quickly before heading further. "I would never talk that way to you."

"Yeah," Kowalski snorted. "I always forget how polite you are."

Their banter, the constant flood of insults, was nerves, pure and simple. Their flashlights offered little more than a path to follow through the home. Furnishing was negligible. A rotted table leaned on two legs in the dining room with no chairs. Broken frames lay crumpled on the floor where they had fallen from the walls. Though it was empty and forgotten, the home wasn't the cause of their nerves.

It was the smell that unsettled Kowalski—thick and musty like wet dog. Each breath brought an intense wave of the scent, the trail leading them away from the front door and the safety of their cruiser.

"I thought this was about a noise complaint?" Spencer commented. Only their footfalls in unison resounded through the property.

Kowalski finished his sweep of the dining area. He started for the far end of the corridor. "Last night," he said, reiterating the call both had heard from dispatch. "Crashing sounds. Groans too or something like it. Animal-like."

"Animal-like?" Spencer covered his nose, the stench finally able to penetrate his self-involvement long enough for him to notice. "What do you mean animal-like? Why the hell are we—?"

The sudden silence unnerved Kowalski. He left the confines of the kitchen, the smell heavier in the room, to check on his partner. Spencer was stopped in the living room, frozen at the threshold.

The absent furniture made sense now. From the dining room chairs to the headboard of a bed and more, all lay in a crumpled heap in the center of the spacious living area. Each was shattered, twisted and mangled. Strips were carved in the wood by thick claw marks, which showed the original grain of each piece prior to the inferno that had darkened their surfaces. The pyre reached for the ceiling, broken couches providing a rickety base.

Only one piece remained intact. Both circled the stack for the far side of the room. Beams of light caught a glint in the distance and trailed it to a credenza. The top was covered with a sheet of white; clean compared to the shadows of the former home. Atop sat a series of trinkets—a wristwatch, the display broken and useless, a necklace with a heart pendant, a pair of screwdrivers, and a cell phone.

"What the hell is this?" Spencer whispered. His hands were shaking.

"Trophies," Kowalski said as he inspected the items. They were displayed prominently, like treasured belongings.

Spencer's eyes widened, and he backpedaled for the hallway. "There's nothing here. Let's—"

"Stop," Kowalski called. He sniffed the air. The scent was everywhere now. Spencer stopped, but the creaking footsteps continued. Each caused the younger officer to cower further. His body threatened to shake right through the floor. "That sound like nothing?"

"Could be rats," Spencer said. "Giant, furniture-smashing, furry rats."

A huff of breath escaped behind the frightened officer. Kowalski's flashlight trailed the sound, lifting from the shadows of the room for the corridor. The beam traveled upward until it fell on twin eyes of black.

"Oh, hell."

It towered over them, struggling to fit in the room. Twin horns scraped the door frame. Fur, black and thick, covered the beast's body from head to toe. It roared at the pair.

Spencer didn't bother to turn and face the monster in the room. He dropped his light and ran. "Call it in! Call it—" Fingers snatched the fleeing officer and squeezed. His scream cut out as his chest collapsed from the pressure.

"Spencer!" Kowalski screamed, then snapped his eyes shut in terror. He opened fire on the creature. He unloaded the entire clip in a matter of seconds. Checking his results, Kowalski noted the shattered woodwork in the living room. His intended target remained untouched.

The beast dropped the dead man in his grasp and let out a heavy breath. A wide grin formed. The beast reached for him, swallowing all light in the world.

"Dear God..." Kowalksi struggled with his belt to release his cell phone, wishing he had kept that promise to attend the gym.

# Chapter Nine

"So, what is it again?"

Eddie sighed. This was always going to be a tough sell. For as long as they had known each other, Eddie had never been ambitious. He kept a steady routine—eat, work, sleep. He followed orders and never sparked a stray thought outside the company line. It was mostly thanks to his Uncle Frank, and Eddie appreciated the guidance.

Now he was nervous. He sat behind the wheel of his pickup truck, parked on the outskirts of the plaza. They obscured the plates before heading over, careful to keep their distance from the storefronts lining the block. Especially from the outdoor ATM that beamed under a series of fluorescents.

He never should have said anything to Tony. It had been a mistake the second the words left him. Offering a solution to his cousin's dismal encounter with his father only put pressure on him to perform. Expectations brought disappointment when it came to Eddie Domingo. It was the reason he had bombed out of college and why he had relied on his uncle's generosity to cover his rent and provide him with sporadic work at the club—among other odd jobs.

Most of the odd jobs came from Tony, who sat impatiently in the passenger seat waiting for an answer to his question. He tapped along the dash, heavy fingers beating harder and harder.

"I don't know," Eddie replied with a long breath. The device sat on his lap, an old t-shirt wrapped around it. He unveiled the mechanism, the one that had stolen his sleep from him, that had demanded completion above all else.

It matched the sketch he'd created the first night he held the hammer. The innocent doodle provided a blueprint, and he soon found himself building the device with spare parts in his apartment. He pulled wiring from the coffee maker, plating from the toaster, and more to cobble it together.

He knew where each piece came from, where they were needed, and how they connected. Every answer was there, thanks to the hammer in his possession. Yet, when Tony asked, his confidence shattered and Eddie remembered his place in the world.

"What do you mean you don't know?"

Eddie shook his head, silencing Tony's bark. "I mean, it's basically an electronic lock pick. A skeleton key of a sorts. You pop this on a safe, cash machine, what have you, and boom. Instant cash."

"You said you didn't know," Tony said. His twin chompers dug into his bottom lip. "Is it the thing or not?"

"It is." Eddie flipped a small panel on the side, and a green indicator light illuminated along the front. The display—a gift from his Keurig—read all settings at nominal. The device simply waited for more instructions, or so Eddie hoped. "I'm just not sure it will work."

Tony snatched the device and tossed it up like a baseball. "Let's find out."

"Tony!" His cousin exited the car without another word. Eddie rolled down his window. "Wait. Don't—"

His younger cousin slipped a black ski mask over his face and darted toward the ATM. Eddie cursed under his breath, then joined him. The mask trapped the humidity, turning the air heavy and thick. The eye holes never offered enough peripheral vision for his tastes.

Once he left the vehicle, the clock started ticking. Cameras throughout the parking lot picked up their movement immediately, a central security company no doubt calling them in.

Eddie suddenly wondered if his license plate was obscured enough. He never should have brought his own truck—they almost always borrowed from the old junker lot on Menken. Of course, the way Uncle Frank made things sound, they never did anything right. It was a sentiment Eddie couldn't help but agree with. That, though, was the fear talking, the same fear that had kept him down his entire life.

Tony hovered over the ATM. The delicate apparatus bounced between his hands. "Where do I put it?"

"Give it to me before you break it."

Tony scowled. He dropped the device in Eddie's waiting hand. Through the slits in the mask, Eddie scanned the ATM for the correct interface. The magnets on the outskirts of the device connected with the edges of the screen, and the display overrode the ATM's operating system.

"When'd you learn this tech crap?" Tony asked. "You used to have trouble setting the time on your watch."

A watch now being utilized by their lock pick—or at least the timing mechanism inside. "It... I don't..." An explanation refused to come. The hammer was the obvious reason, the critical component, but to tell Tony that meant relegating Eddie to second-tier status once more. Instead, he bit his tongue and focused on the task at hand. "It came to me."

"Like some fortune teller, swami crap?" Tony jeered. He elbowed Eddie playfully in the ribs. "For real?"

The display continued to sync with the ATM, as Eddie's internal ticking clock rang louder between his ears. "Are we doing this or not?"

Tony backed off. "So long as you don't start chanting some nonsense or summoning spirits."

"The way things are going..."

"Eddie? Cuz?"

"Nothing." The display chimed, ready for input. "Here we go."

Eddie proceeded by keying instructions into the device. The mechanism whirred, reading his message which relayed the necessary instructions to the ATM proper. Then nothing. Eddie's heart sank; his mind raced as to the issues involved and where he went wrong.

Before Tony could react, the withdrawal slot opened, and money shot out in clumps. The wind caught most of the first wave and sent cash flying across the lot. Tony dropped his empty bag and opened it, letting in wads of twenties.

"Unbelievable!" Tony cheered. "You did it!"

Eddie beamed. "I did it."

When the bag was stuffed with cash, Eddie turned off the device. Tony snatched the remaining bills from the air and tucked them in his coat. Sirens approached in the distance, as the ticking clock became an alarm.

"Let's go," Tony bellowed beneath his mask. "Let's go!"

Eddie collected the mechanism and cradled it close. He ran full out across the parking lot and leaped into the driver's seat. The truck was three blocks away before the red and blue flashing lights reached the ATM. Eddie quickly changed lanes, jumping on the expressway to take them as far away from the plaza as possible.

"Now what?" Eddie asked.

Tony thumbed through the money like a lottery winner. "You kidding? We make bank, cuz."

They spent the night crossing the city in a random pattern. An ATM in Venture Cove, then a convenience store cash machine in Lowtown, followed by a quick sprint to Tolliver's Grove before returning downtown for more. Hours passed in their revelry.

It had been what they had always dreamed, the stories they had told each other as kids. Most had belonged to Tony, a vindication for being the boss's kid. Finally, they had a success to put on their résumé.

Through his cousin, Eddie felt the pride of their win. Not the monetary value, though that helped matters, but the ability to contribute to the family and to make them proud on some level—any level.

At the seventh job, the night caught up with Eddie. He yawned as he parked on a vacant street. "Tony? Let's call it for the night. I'm beat."

Tony clutched the device like a drug. "We done when I say we are."

Outside and down the block was another ATM. Tony stepped outside, then slammed the truck door shut. He leaned inside the open window with a glower. "You owe me for that antique shop fiasco."

Eddie closed his eyes. The mere mention of the shop brought him back to the hammer and where he found it. The old man's sad eyes stared through him, condemning his actions.

Tony beat against the doorframe. "Hey, lighten up. We have the key to the frickin' city here."

He left for the ATM, a swagger in his step. Eddie sank deeper into his seat. "That's what frightens me."

Tony was hovering over the ATM when Eddie arrived. He held out the device, barely able to stand still. "Work your magic."

"Alright," Eddie said, setting the mechanism in place. "Just give me—"

"Hold it right there!" A patrolman left his squad car. He called into his radio as he ran across the street.

"Not likely." Tony patted Eddie on the shoulder then turned to face the oncoming threat. His gun was in hand, and he didn't hesitate to pull the trigger.

The officer fell to the ground. His weapon skittered across the pavement and out of reach.

"Holy!" Eddie shrieked. "Is he—?"

"No," Tony said with a grin. He sauntered over to the crawling cop and leveled the pistol on his head. The shot echoed in the silence of the night. "Now he is."

Eddie froze, unable to act or even speak. Sirens blared in the distance, closing in from multiple sides. Their wild night had caught up with them in spades.

Tony blitzed for the car, gleeful despite the lack of cash in hand. "Go! Go!"

Eddie removed the device from the cash machine and followed. The truck roared to life, and their tires squealed for freedom. He slowed as he passed the dead man in the road.

"You didn't have to kill... Why did you—?"

Tony slapped at his shoulder and pointed for the open road. "Drive already!"

Eddie peeled out then turned right at the end of the block. He started for the docks in the distance. His thoughts remained with the dead officer. With each shift, with every squeal of the tires along the cracked pavement, the dead man's cries grew. They begged for Eddie to act. Every ounce of pride from the night was taken from him. Everything he had done was for the Domingo family, to pay back the opportunities afforded him thanks to his uncle. Now, his actions meant nothing but death in his eyes. The screams of the fallen officer took over Eddie's every thought and held firm.

It was time for a change.

# Chapter Ten

Sleep eluded her—not that she needed rest. In fact, in her estimation, rest was the last thing she needed. Idle time led to thinking, which was always a dangerous affair after an argument with Mentor.

He'd come back to the chamber twice since starting the hunt. No news left his lips but by the grimace on his face as he nibbled at what little nourishment he took, his prey continued to elude him. The Minotaur was still out there, hidden in Portents.

It was her fault. It came down to that in the end. She failed to live up to the potential heaped upon her by her teacher and had allowed a threat to remain in their city. This was the job, to protect against the monsters in the night, and she blew it.

Frustrated, Soriya left the comfort of the bedroom. Her cramped nook was tucked in the corner of the Bypass chamber, but she always found the hum of the glowing orb of light a soothing background noise to the space. It would carry her to sleep, the green glow of time and space comforting her with its presence. The past and future all wrapped in one, the infinite potential was always within reach.

That was true, at least, when she held the stone. It sat on the mantel, and she moved for it instinctively. The surface was warm to the touch despite the dampness of the cavern. She cradled the stone close, before she returned to the edge of her bed.

Even after all these years, the object stayed by her side. She had found it beneath the burning wreckage of a van. The charred vehicle had burned bright along Olcott Curve. Her parents were still inside, yet somehow she had been thrown clear.

At least, that had been what she was told in the aftermath. She had no memory of the event itself, no memory at all of her former life. She never knew the face of her mother or if she had the same wild eyes of her father. Those were for normal people, memories of traits and characteristics to carry through their lives—the legacy of the previous generation.

Soriya had no connection, no link to the past, except for the stone. Everything else had been taken in the accident. Her parents, her name, her world. All had been lost in an instant.

Until Mentor offered another path out of the dark.

She accepted without hesitation; her need had been too great to ignore. He carried his own stone. The matching set hummed in proximity, almost destined for something more—just as she once was. Through a decade of learning, nonstop lessons of religion, spiritualism, myths, and the lore for the monsters in their midst, she grew into the woman of today.

Only to fall short in her first true test.

Mentor demanded perfection in the task. She had none to give, only the perpetual failings of youth. Was he right? Was she not ready for the task? Would she ever be? Doubts crept in while her body continued to knit itself back together. Her wounds were now more superficial than anything. Aches persisted along her side, a lucky blow from the Minotaur and nothing more.

Given the chance...

That was it though. Her chance was gone—taken by her teacher. Her first opportunity to prove herself and she let the only man she ever admired down. Mentor would handle the Minotaur. He would protect the city as he had for decades—not her. In his anger, he'd cast her out from the role she spent years preparing for.

No.

Soriya squeezed the stone tight to her side. She stood from the bed and returned to the Bypass chamber. Green light swirled along the surface of the orb, which illuminated the entire room. She was meant to be the Greystone—to serve the Bypass and protect Portents. It was more than a feeling, more than a need buried in her breast. Her destiny called and she would damn well answer with everything she had. No matter what Mentor demanded.

The Minotaur needed to be stopped before innocents were injured. Before the threat grew beyond their capabilities. She was the one to stop him. It had to be her.

Soriya moved for the stairs. All thought of her injuries disappeared. Every doubt vanished over her purpose. She'd started the fight with the beast, and she would finish it.

At the base of the metal steps, she paused. The Greystone remained at her side. Her stone. It was her link to the past and the future. Soriya opened her fist and ran her fingers along the surface. The comfort ran through her like a blanket.

The stone was a crutch and one she refused to rely on. Soriya returned to the bedroom and placed the enigmatic weapon back on the mantel. This was her fight and hers alone. She would fight it without her teacher—and without the stone.

This was her battle, and she would see it through to the bitter end.

# Chapter Eleven

Two days without a sighting of the beast. It was not a good sign, in Mentor's opinion. Going to ground meant lying in wait. It meant planning, which required an intellect beyond the creature's apparent capability. Intellect, when combined with the Minotaur's physical prowess, added up to a dangerous combination. Forethought and damaging strength could prove quite deadly to any who stood in the beast's way.

Mentor wished for Soriya by his side more and more.

He was right to hold her back. She needed to heal. Using the Greystone in such a capacity, accelerating the process, did little to cut into the overall recovery time. The pain would subside faster, but the knitting of bones, the reconnecting of vital tissue and gathering of internal strength from her encounter with the beast would require longer.

It would also give her time for reflection. Taking on the mantle at such a young age would be a burden, and he regretted asking her to bear it. When he'd become the Greystone, tough choices were involved. A level of sacrifice he could never ask her to consider. Part of him was grateful she had no familial connections. It made the training easier, as easy as one could imagine with a child. Soriya had been nothing if not temperamental. She had always fought against the current no matter the task before her—no matter the challenge presented.

Yet she met them all head on. She never backed down, never yielded to the pressure or the threat. Not even when he urged her to do so for her own safety.

This time was different, however. More than mere safety, Soriya's life was on the line. Mentor could not risk the life of a fifteen-year-old. More training would ease her into the position. More meditation, lessons, and everything else she hated to sit through now that the days were long and the nights so short.

At least they had once felt that way to Mentor. Now every night dragged. His muscles had weakened from the constant movement, the perpetual hunt thanks to the latest menace to stalk the streets. And now, two days into his search for the Minotaur, Mentor ached for sleep.

But he couldn't. He stopped at the Bypass for nourishment, a quick bite to eat, and a bottle of water. He did so while hoping to avoid his student, praying she heeded his advice to find rest's sweet embrace for a time. She failed on every front, except to remain in the chamber—a victory in his eyes.

They did not speak of the case, or anything else for that matter. He came and went as quickly as possible to avoid the debate. To keep from witnessing the sting in her eyes, the sadness of her spirit thanks to his punishment.

She would understand someday. He hoped she would at any rate.

By the end of his second night, Mentor was preparing to return to the Bypass for good. Research, the task he had assigned to his ward, looked better and better as an avenue of tracking the monster. As he left the quiet of the coves and raced into downtown by way of rooftop express, Mentor paused.

They'd encountered the beast for the first time just outside Venture Cove. Rows of residential housing bled into business complexes that fed into an entertainment district downtown. In his initial search, he had moved west from that point, the direction of the Minotaur when they first confronted him.

This time he trailed south. The inspiration came from a notch in the brick edifice at the end of the street. It had not been from the battle. The sound of Soriya's body breaking from the assault still caused Mentor to shudder with terror. She was too young to deal with it, too young to be lost in a sea of violence and death.

Two blocks from their encounter, Mentor stopped. Small businesses occupied the area. A local periodical shop was stationed on one corner, a McDonald's on the other. Each shop ran the gamut, from the Middle-Eastern grocer to the Wiccan novelties across the street. Brooms, totems, and unlabeled bottles of various colored liquids decorated the window. Mentor passed without a second glance, the innocuous display nothing more than someone selling cheap trinkets and home remedies. Next to the shop in the center of the block was a narrow alcove.

Mentor slipped inside. His fingers grazed damaged walls. Deep grooves ran the length. The monster's incredible girth caused his horns to scrape into the brick the entire way. An impenetrable darkness filled the deepest recesses.

Without a word, the Greystone settled in Mentor's hand. He held it out, pure will channeled through the enigmatic instrument.

Light showered the alley to reveal the broken edifice. The wall was boarded up in spots, the work hastily completed. Mentor snapped the top board and peered inside. Brick shifted to stone and marble. Ornate in decoration, the walls flowed in all directions; three distinct tunnels ran beyond what the stone was able to pierce with its light.

The labyrinth.

It existed, right beneath the surface of the city. It was hidden behind a single wall, a gateway that pierced the veil into another world. It was a doorway, much like the Bypass itself.

Someone knew about this.

Worse. Someone set the beast free.

The thought carried him back to the street, where he stood pondering the situation. Someone had found a door to the labyrinth and unleashed the monster on an unsuspecting populace. Was this why the Minotaur had gone to ground? Had his benefactor approached him, and if so for what reason?

Too many questions, and another slapped him in the face as he peered at the empty storefront opposite the alcove. A sign hung in the window, barely noticed in the darkness of the night.

CAMPAIGN OFFICE FOR

KAREN WINTERS

A STRONG NEW VOICE FOR CITY COUNCIL

Karen. He hadn't spoken to her in months. Their last discussion had ended in an argument. They had fought over the use of the stone and the knowledge locked in the Bypass. She had pushed for open access and he continued to restrict her at all turns.

It was tiresome and he had sought an end to it. He no longer returned her messages. Karen Winters was once a useful ally, but her methods concerned him. Running for City Council almost topped the list. It certainly would have if not for the proximity of the office to the opening of the labyrinth.

He swore to keep a closer eye on her going forward. It was a promise he tucked away until after the current crisis—a promise for the future.

# Chapter Twelve

It had been a wasted night—exactly what Soriya hoped to avoid. She blitzed down the city streets, adrenaline and anger driving her toward her prey. Yet she only found emptiness and frustration.

The Minotaur was in hiding. A hilarious notion considering the beast's build and relative demeanor. To keep out of the light of the day was one thing, but to cower in the shadows with the fall of night in Portents? It never entered her thoughts, had never even been a consideration.

It should have been. If she had been thinking clearly, she would have realized why Mentor failed to bring the struggle to a conclusion immediately. He was still on the hunt as well, and half her efforts were spent avoiding her teacher instead of thinking through each movement.

She needed rest. Her injuries, faded thanks to the efforts of the runic healing power of the Greystone, persisted in hampering her fluidity. They struggled against the jostling of each leap, climb and run up the Knoll and around downtown.

Tired and worn, Soriya left the rumbling of the insomniac city for the quiet of the pier and the old estates of the Riverfront district. Businesses dotted a waterfront strip, mostly manufacturing but some office buildings in the mix as well. Second-floor landings allowed outdoor activities, though they were rarely used.

She jumped to the closest one, her ribs screaming in defiance. She caught the railing and somersaulted to her feet along the decking. Soriya loved coming here during trips to the city. Usually Mentor recommended the stopover. It took her time to understand why. At the edge of the landing you could see everything. From the ships arriving in the harbor—still a major source of income and tourism for the city—all the way toward downtown and the spires of Portents. The other side offered a view of Portents University, and the campus was almost a separate entity from the rest of the city.

Her city. Mentor always tried to expose her to some new facet of Portents with everything they did. With each lesson, each edict, all were meant to point her toward a singular goal. To serve others. To protect everyone.

Soriya sighed and took a seat along the cool concrete landing. She glided her legs between the railing, then kicked her feet into the air as she had as a child.

Maybe Mentor was right. Perhaps study was the correct approach with this case. She had served him in that capacity for years; bringing vital intel to each case presented. She had always been willing to research the monsters and myths that filtered through the city like a revolving door.

Knowledge might have been the key here. Learning more about the Minotaur's background, his practices within the labyrinth that served as his home for so long, might have provided an answer for how to stop him here in Portents.

She had few other options. Yet this one sat in her gut and hardened, almost causing her to retch. It was an admission that Mentor was right, that his way would always serve the cause better than her own.

It was proof that she wasn't ready to accept the mantle of Greystone.

Soriya refused to accept that conclusion. Returning to the Bypass with her tail between her legs would be to admit defeat in her mission, especially if Mentor was waiting for her there. Looking him in the eyes now would mean a total collapse for her. A return to the days of being the child—his little one—something she had grown beyond—had to grow beyond in order to be who she wanted to be, someone her teacher would be proud to call student and more.

The Bypass chamber was out. Home was the past, the Minotaur her future. The right approach centered on research into the creature. Soriya shifted away from the railing to rest her back along the brick edifice of the building. Eyelids heavy and shoulders aching, the young woman allowed slumber to finally win. She required a few hours of sleep and recuperation before the hunt resumed.

It brought a smile to her face. She had a plan and answers were mere hours away. She knew where to start and how it would end.

As soon as the morning returned to Portents.

# Chapter Thirteen

Beth brought the paper in with her after her jog. The morning was beautiful, the sunrise an incredible display of color against the skyline. Crisp air rushed along the streets. The temps were decent though it was never quite as warm as anyone hoped. Everyone wanted to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the previous winter, but time slowly circled back around for another pass. This morning, however, promised a fresh start.

More than a few joined her around the grounds of Templeton Park. It was a small area, with wrought iron gates separating the precious space from the rest of the city. A playground sat in the center, a wave pool rarely used adjacent to it. Basketball and tennis courts dotted the perimeter, encircled by a bike path perfect for her needs. It was close enough to home to reach without driving and far enough away to provide her a chance to see a different crowd than the usual suspects plaguing King's Lane.

Her favorite section of the park was in the northeast corner. A rose garden sprouted with the spring and brought a field of color to the naturally green space. The hedges had been shaped like the city founders. The park was named after one of the first advocates in Portents. Leopold Templeton had fought for civil rights decades before the nation took hold of that sentiment. His presence in the park was felt with each turn, with each passerby. She smiled and waved at the people surrounding her, before continuing with her circuit. Five miles in, she stopped and sat for a brief time. The strenuous pace she'd set had already drained her water bottle. The sun acted as her guide and when it tipped toward the obsidian tower at the heart of the city, she headed home to start her day.

Greg was home by the time she arrived. Work spread across the coffee table, files and reports mish-mashed in a mess. The unit came with a second bedroom, one converted to perfectly adequate office space, but he preferred the living room. There was more room for him to pace, to work out the details nestled in his brain from the overnight shift.

It was always difficult for him to come down from work. Exhausted as he might be, there were always loose ends gnawing at him. He wore his work on his sleeve—his fears and anxieties on not closing out a case as quickly as he would have liked. Had he missed something? Insecurities dominated his thoughts, tucked away while on duty. With her, though, he allowed the mask to come down. He let her see his true face, and every strength and vulnerability that came with it.

With cases like this his obsessive nature took hold, and the work chewed away at his thoughts. The light in his eyes turned cold and distant. Every effort went into solving the mystery laid out before him; every instinct pulled him away from her.

She always made the attempt to bring him back. "You're worrying Mrs. Arbogast with your pacing."

He stopped at the sound of the door closing. It shook him from his study of the open reports along the table.

"Greg?"

Ponderous thoughts faded, and his smile flourished. "What?"

"Our neighbor?" Beth chided as she inched deeper into the room. She set the paper on the mantel. "Sweet little lady that puts up with way too much from us and everyone else in this building."

"Yeah, right," he replied. He moved to the couch and the plate resting on the cushion. He picked at the contents, running his fingers over the texture. "She should be more concerned about what she considers home cooking. Have you tried this nut bread from her?"

"It's... different."

He tapped it against the side of the plate. The sound was more like metal than a baked good. "It's inedible. I could break a tooth on this."

"That bad, huh?" she said with a grin. She took the bread from him and dropped it back on the plate. She ran her hands over his shoulders and behind his neck. "Work, I mean. Something's bothering you."

"Work's fine," he said. He turned back to the notes, disconnected and garbled in their organization. "It's... yeah. There's more here I'm not seeing."

Beth let go, then joined him at the table. She peered over the collection of scattershot reports and filings from the last few nights. They centered around a series of ATM robberies. There were traffic cam photos of a fleeing truck with obscured plates, the date stamped the same on each. A different vehicle was photographed the next night. Same method, same results.

"What are these?" she asked, confused. Greg worked in Homicide. A dead body was required for him to enter the equation, and nothing here indicated the need for his presence.

"Heists, coordinated and quick."

"Connected to the antique shop?" Beth worked through the reports before dropping them back to the misshapen pile. "These aren't your notes."

"Shouldn't be. Not my case. Not yet anyway."

"Not yet?"

Greg dug through the reports and pulled out the latest. Even without the red stamp on the cover, the chalk outline decorating the initial image would have been a dead giveaway. "Cop was killed in the line during the first string of robberies. I've put in the request to Ruiz. Just waiting for the word."

"Is that why it's taking over my table?"

"I don't know. There's something off about them. How they were able to access the machines to steal the cash. Probably nothing. I'm obsessing, like always."

"It works for you."

His grin widened. He pulled her close, and his lips dotted her with kisses along her neck and down her shoulder. He lifted her left hand up, his fingers grazing the diamond shining under the morning light. "So does next month if you're ready to make this official."

Beth stepped away. "Greg..."

"Autumn colors," he continued. He was a man on a mission. He hated unanswered questions. "Not too cold. Something small outdoors? Your friends. My, well, my one friend: Ruiz. What do you say?"

Every instinct begged her to respond, ordered her to grab hold and never let go of the man who loved her more than life itself. Yet, silence remained. Some nagging doubt refused to abate, refused to allow her some small measure of happiness.

Bethany Loren. It rolled off her tongue when she practiced in the mirror—like it had always been her name and it simply had taken her time to find it. The quiet hurt him, pained him more than words could ever express, yet she wanted the moment to be true—to be perfect when she finally knew without that lingering doubt whether it was meant to be or not.

Looking for an escape, Beth turned away from the pressing detective. Eyes locked on a fallen item tucked behind the couch leg. She smiled and retrieved the pack of cigarettes. She held them tight in her hand.

"I say these are the real reason behind the pacing."

For a moment, she believed the distraction failed, that Greg wouldn't drop the question until an answer came out—any answer at this point. Was she pushing him away with her indecision? Was she jeopardizing what they had built over the last year?

He sighed and reached for the cigarettes. "My last pack. Scout's honor."

She pulled them away at the last second. "Good. Then maybe you'll be home on time for once."

"Doubtful," he said. He hugged her close. "Everything all right? I'm not trying to rush you or anything. I—"

"I know."

"I love you, is all."

"I know that too." She kissed him, never wanting him to leave her, never wanting to be separated. Not even for a second. She needed him like a drug. The moment slipped away, though. Fingers danced up her arm for the desired pack. Grumbling, Beth ended the embrace. "Take them already."

She tossed them in frustration. Greg snatched the pack out of the air, his smile ever-present. "Thanks."

He started for the door. His jacket lay on the ground next to the coat rack, and he grabbed the thin green material and shook the wrinkles out.

"Off to think?"

"Yeah. Can't sleep yet. Fresh air might do me some good. You?"

She glanced back at the reports. She could see the files for the antique shop shooting poking out from beneath the ATM heists. "I have some work too."

"Be back soon."

He pecked her cheek and was out the door without another word. Their discussion hovered between them, constantly dogging every word, every thought, yet it achieved nothing in the process.

She appreciated the time and space Greg offered her for her deliberations. If only she understood the need for them in the first place. If only she had the answer she needed to move forward.

Instead, she sat on the couch and turned her focus to the reports. She combed through the notes gathered and the photos accumulated over the last week. Then she returned to the antique shop and her own picture: that of the empty display case.

"It means something," she muttered. There was a long day ahead. Greg believed the robbery at the antique shop connected with the ATM heists somehow, yet both were on completely different levels. Between the bumbling behavior of the first to the precision strike of the second, something changed. "But what? How does the hammer fit into all this? What is going on here?"

# Chapter Fourteen

There were few places Beth enjoyed more than Atlas Books. Of all the stores contained within the budding metropolis of Portents, the bookstore was one of the single most populated repositories of unique and rare editions. Volumes dated back centuries, handwritten and meticulously maintained, adorned the shelves under the watchful eye of Allen Mason.

Allen was a scholar and practiced as much in business. Recognizing the decline in avid readers for the joy of endless hours of television, he had reached out to the local universities and made them a deal. He opened his doors to the next generation of creatives, allowing them access to his private collections for their studies. The back room, once storage and overflow, turned into a meeting room—a lucrative endeavor attended by dozens of groups in the city. From book clubs to theater troupes, Allen made sure his shop was always available to suit everyone's needs.

He was a savvy businessman in that regard. It, unfortunately, also made him shrewd and belligerent when it came to his customers. His books were his life, and though he allowed access to his prized possessions, he questioned everyone about everything.

Even Beth.

"It's just for a day or two," she stated as she leaned against the counter.

The argument went on for minutes. She'd left her apartment later than she would have liked—her morning jog had taken more out of her than she had thought—and headed right for the shop to find the material she needed about the hammer.

She had found the tome in the back room, not quite the restricted section but the placement limited her ability to leave with the text—Allen's rules, which she did her best to circumvent as often as possible. She set to working the man the way she had ever since they met in college.

"I need—"

"To break the rules," he interrupted. His arms crossed his chest, resting atop his burgeoning gut. He spent too much time in the shop and not enough walking. "Like always. Beth, if it was anyone else I wouldn't even let you finish the request."

"You didn't let me finish, Allen."

"Force of habit," he said with a shrug.

Her hand lay on the tome, an unknown account of the Greek gods from a written-off prophet. Imagery littered the text, and the hammer was one of the centerpieces of the work. "Is that a yes?"

He sighed. "As long as you keep that boyfriend of yours—"

"Fiancé."

"What?"

Her fingers spread across the book and the diamond ring shone in his face. "Fiancé. So watch it."

Allen's cheeks darkened. There was a time when he'd hoped for that title, one she never foresaw for them. To her, Allen was a friend and a colleague, one she cherished enough to remain connected to over the years but never anything more.

"Well," he grumbled. "You keep him away from my books. I keep finding coffee rings in them and I know it's him."

"Greg?" she scoffed, louder than intended. He was absolutely right. Greg had found out about Allen's infatuation from a lifetime ago and, coupled with the proprietor's attitude when it came to arguing over research materials, the overly-protective officer decided on a juvenile revenge. She scolded him on it, while she tried not to smile at the act. He never damaged the written word, only added to the flavor of the page. She shook her head vehemently. "Never. He loves books too much."

"Uh-huh."

She pulled the text close. "Thank you, Allen."

He called her back to the counter before she made it three steps. "Writing a new book?"

If only. She'd spent years building up her career. Her non-fiction works were niche—historical accounts of Portents and the secrets hidden around the city. She spoke at schools and libraries to small audiences—those with wonder in their eyes, those willing to believe in something greater.

"Something like that."

"A departure from your usual suspects," Allen pressed.

"Just some background information," Beth replied. "You never know when you might need it."

His brow furrowed. "When referring to Hephaestus' hammer? Probably not anytime soon, I would imagine."

And you would be wrong, Allen. Very wrong. "Pays to be prepared." She patted the book and backed toward the stacks deeper in the store. "Thanks again."

She turned down the closest aisle, making a quick departure to avoid further questions. Allen was clueless about the true city but somehow remained one of the most inquisitive men she had ever met. He sought truth in his own manner, though through a myopic lens.

The nagging feeling that the hammer was loose in the city pulled at her, and she needed to focus. The thefts described by Greg and the empty display case at the antique shop opened the door in her mind, one she was unable to close until she knew the truth.

Beth was so wrapped in her thoughts, she failed to notice a young woman in a hooded sweatshirt blocking the aisle. She bowled into her. The collision caused her to stagger back a step but she managed to catch her balance before she fell from the accidental collision.

"I'm sorry," she muttered. Her hands clutched tighter to her hard-won possession. "Please excuse me."

"My fault," the girl said. She pulled the hood back, revealing long black locks lying straight down to her shoulders. Her dark skin accentuated the deep, brown eyes reflecting the bright lights of the shop. "I was just looking for—"

"No problem," Beth answered without listening. She returned to the book, and hurriedly headed for the rear of the shop and a chance to crack open the tome. "I'll let you get to it."

"Actually," the girl called. "I could use your help, and I might be able to help you too."

There was a fire in the girl's eyes and a knowing smirk rose from her lips. "I don't—"

"What do you know about minotaurs?"

The question halted her at the end of the aisle. Beth shook her head. The words replayed in her thoughts. The girl approached, closing the gap between them.

"The mythological creature or the rugby team?" Beth asked. The comment failed to land. The only reply was a puzzled look on the girl's face. "Sorry, kiddo. Poor joke. Wish I could help with your research project but—"

"Not a research project and I'm not your kiddo," she returned, the words sharp as knives. She held out her hand. "Name's Soriya."

Beth stared at the blistered fingers and cracked knuckles of the young woman, barely old enough to drive. She accepted the hand with a firm shake, careful not to drop the book under her arm.

"Beth."

Soriya nodded. "I know about the Hammer of Hephaestus. It's in the city, isn't it?"

"How could you—?"

"I can help you find it if you can give me a hand with my slight minotaur problem."

Beth's mouth refused to close. She struggled to return to her research and the book under her arm. The question was too intriguing, much like the growing mystery of the woman before her.

"What kind of problem?"

# Chapter Fifteen

She knew this was wrong. Not even deep down, buried like a whisper. No, this was a scream from the voice of Mentor trapped in her mind, begging her to reconsider her course of action. Soriya, however, swallowed the voice and steamed ahead—forever defiant.

The choice to her was an obvious one. Mentor had proved unwilling to work with her, forsaking her and the role he had groomed for her. When she found Beth at Atlas Books, when she realized someone else knew the truth about Portents—and held the insight necessary to understand what truly happened behind the scenes of their everyday lives—she took a chance.

She didn't regret it. Despite the reservations she still had thanks to Mentor's training, the drills long since instilled, she felt Beth was different. More than everyone else, she was someone willing to step into the shadows and face her fears instead of following the path of so many and locking the door the moment the sun fell below the horizon. Portents was meant to be embraced, not reviled, and Beth held her home in high regard.

Upon departing the bookstore, thankfully right before the proprietor sensed Soriya's presence in the shop and shooed her for the door, she led her companion north of the Knoll. The downtown spires took over, but for a time there were still smaller neighborhoods interspersed between the worlds of high finance and law enforcement.

Positioned on the corner of Dewey and Rogers was a boutique that had seen better days. The entire face of the shop, once covered in glass with displays running the entire length, now lay shattered, and the shards spread across the boutique's floor. Displays and mannequins settled in heaps, broken under heavy footfalls and snapped to bits by large hands.

Beth hesitated on the sidewalk. She peered around cautiously, then followed her escort inside. She seemed wary of violating an active crime scene or possibly questioned her choice about joining Soriya in the first place, though the young woman didn't think the latter was likely.

Her blond colleague was a truth seeker. The light in her eyes sparked at the mention of the Minotaur present in the city. Even now, amid the disaster of the women's fashion shop, Beth analyzed the scene intensely, unwilling to miss a detail. She approached the disarray more like a detective than a researcher.

Soriya let her roam the perimeter. The sound of glass crunching under their feet filled the space. Wind blew through the busted windows. Soriya leaned over the center counter, where there were earrings and other jewelry covered in more shards. None had been taken, however.

This wasn't a theft, and certainly not part of the random crimes rampant throughout downtown of late. This was different, targeted not for profit but inspired by sheer rage.

"What a mess," Beth said to break the silence.

"Luckily no one was here at the time," Soriya muttered. The break-in had occurred the previous night. There had been no witnesses. No cameras caught the intruder either—just a giant shadow before nothing at all. The feed was as destroyed as the rest of the shop. Every detail fell into place with only one logical conclusion.

Soriya's companion was less than convinced, however. "And you think—?"

Soriya nodded. She led Beth deeper into the store. Lifting one of the fallen mannequins, she tossed it at her unsuspecting companion. Beth jumped, bobbling the catch before the broken torso of the naked dummy sank into her grasp. Scratches ran the length of the mannequin's back.

Claw marks.

"Not think," Soriya said. "Know."

She pointed to the back wall near the changing rooms. Two punctures dug through the plaster. They were consistent with the horns of the beast. Beth ran her fingers along the edges of the right one, amazement building in her voice.

"The Minotaur," she uttered. "You've seen him? Actually seen him?"

Soriya lifted the sleeves of her hoodie. Her skin bore bruises of blue and purple from her previous encounter with the monster. "Been on the receiving end of his rage."

Beth shook her head. Her hands ran over her face and through her thick hair. "Who are you?"

"Someone trying to help Portents," Soriya answered. "The true Portents. One few see in the shadows."

"Aren't you a little young for a career in crime fighting?"

Soriya's cheeks burned at the comment. Her fists clenched tight to her sides. "I've been training for this since I was five."

Her anger melted as quickly as it arrived, thanks to the shop surrounding them. The wreckage had awakened her to the truth. For all her training, for all her pride at taking on the role of the Greystone, at building herself up to the moment it all became real, she had failed.

The shop was proof. The damage wrought, the lives threatened thanks to her inability to prevent the beast from moving into Portents—to prevent his evil from taking root. Yet, here she was bringing someone else into her affair when she should have been focusing on hunting down the threat, the way Mentor would have wanted.

She leaned along the bent frame of the counter, her back to her guest. "I should have stopped him the first time."

Beth joined her, voice soft against the whistling wind whipping through the store. "Hey. I wasn't trying to disparage you. I admire your spirit, Soriya. I wish others cared about this place the way you do."

Soriya smirked. "There's always you."

"I try," Beth said. "Not like you though. I study and write about Portents so others can appreciate it more. I'm not a fighter though."

"Yeah, well, sometimes my fists aren't enough." Soriya paused and raised her hands before her. The knuckles were cracked and peeled of skin. She'd let them lead her into a battle with the mythical beast—too impulsive, too reckless—and it had cost her everything. "The Minotaur is loose, somehow freed from his labyrinth. I can't let anyone else get hurt; I won't let others suffer for my shortcomings."

"I get it, I do," Beth said. "What I don't understand is why he's reacting like this."

"What do you mean?"

"Why pick this place? Why unleash his fury on an empty store unless he was trying to say something, some message left behind."

"I don't—"

Beth lifted the mannequin close to the counter. It was still intact, the only one able to be salvaged from the wreckage of the boutique. The pale dummy wore a leather jacket, tight in the shoulders, over a purple blouse. Jeans, torn along the thighs, rested just beneath her hips.

Soriya peered down at her own outfit beneath her unzipped hoodie, and the similarities jumped out immediately. "What are you saying?"

"I'm not sure yet," Beth said, dropping the prop. "Listen. King Minos built the labyrinth to punish the beast and to hide his wife's infidelity with a bull. Long story. Anyway, Minos fed Asterion, the beast's true name, scraps. He forced him to kill those he sent, usually tributes from Athens to prevent full-on war. What I'm getting at is, shouldn't he be glad to be free of such restriction? Unless he doesn't see Portents as freedom? Unless... he never saw the labyrinth as that, but more like an obstacle to be overcome. Like maybe he believes this to be a new test."

Soriya shook her head. "It doesn't matter."

Beth reached for her, but failed to connect. "You said it yourself, Soriya. Fists aren't always enough."

"They have to be," Soriya snapped. "I don't care what he's going through. I only care about ending the threat before it escalates. The way I was trained to act. To be the Greystone Portents needs."

"Greystone?"

Soriya didn't bother to explain further. She bolted from the shop. Failure and frustration rushed through her worse than the wind whipping down the avenue.

"Hey..." Beth joined her, blue eyes begging for more. Soriya had nothing more to give. There was no depth to the beast—only the fight ahead. If the woman couldn't see things that way, the fault was with her and she wasn't the assistance Soriya once believed her to be.

"I shouldn't have—" she started. Something caught her attention on the periphery; a white blur hugged the shadows three blocks over. One moment there and the next gone. "Hold it."

"What is it?" Beth asked.

"I have to go."

"What?" Beth exclaimed. "Hang on. Soriya, I want to help."

"Not with this."

"What's wrong?"

Soriya pushed past her. "I'll meet up with you later."

Beth's hand caught Soriya's arm, stalling her progress. She held out a card from her pocket. "Here. I don't understand half of what's going on but take this. To reach me later."

Soriya took the card. Beth's address and number were written in tiny print along the bottom edge. "Thanks."

Without another word, she fled down the street. Beth's concern followed close behind, but the woman herself stayed out of it. This was on Soriya, though she feared who might be monitoring her movements—and what they had to say about her activities.

# Chapter Sixteen

Confidence left him when he reached the door. The drive over had been rapid, lights all working in his favor exactly when he wanted more time to pause, more time to consider his options. Instead, residential districts faded in a blur before the spires of downtown.

Domingo's was packed, the weekend in full swing. Eddie swayed between the patrons. He was merely another lost soul to the blistering tunes screeching from the kid spinning tracks in the corner. The noise obscured all thought, not that there had been a fresh one since Eddie had witnessed the murder of that cop.

The dead officer was with him every time Eddie closed his eyes, every blink, every second when his mind eased. He was there, begging and pleading and then dead. Tony's laughter echoed louder than the music of the club, which forced Eddie to cover his ears until he was at the back stairs.

Seth ushered him up, then left the solemn figure in the hall outside the office. It was not right to make family, especially a devoted nephew who did everything he could to make his uncle proud, sit in wait—to take a number in order to have a simple conversation.

He needed to have this one. It had been a long time coming. He'd had doubts about his place in the business for years. Tony's actions had cemented it for Eddie, and his confidence soared.

Until Seth opened the door. Until the young man with the torn jeans and faded shirt stood from the bench seat occupying the hall. Until Frank Domingo came into view with his hands clasped against his back. He stared out the window to oversee his investment—one of dozens that brought in more capital than any scheme Tony could dream up.

Eddie's knees wobbled, his voice trembled, and a greeting stuck in his throat. No strength presented, no resolve at his decision. Only the mutterings of a child, scared of disappointing the man he admired more than anyone.

The door closed behind him. Frank caught his shuffling steps in the reflection of the window.

"I thought we had this talk already," he said. His voice thundered over the pounding of Eddie's heart. "I thought we came to an understanding."

"We did," his nephew's voice squeaked. He kept his gaze low and away from the domineering force at the window. "I just..."

Frank turned and checked his watch. "Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. I have business to attend to. What can I do for you?"

"Well, it's..." What hadn't the man done for Eddie over the years since the loss of his parents? A home, college, a job—all had been appreciated, yet none had been enough to give him the strength to stand on his own. It had taken a dead man to push Eddie ahead, and his words were barely a mumble when they escaped. "I can't do this anymore."

"What was that?"

"I..." Eddie swallowed, then straightened his back. "I can't do this anymore."

Frank lowered his pen, letting it clatter to the desk and roll to the floor. "Do what?"

"This," Eddie said. He took a sharp breath, forcing his head up to meet his uncle's eyes. "What we do. With Tony. With you. I—"

"What we do?" Frank repeated. He pushed from the desk, his words slow and measured. "You mean what put a roof over your head after your waste of a father croaked? Or after your mother overdosed in the bathroom? You mean what put you through that fancy engineering program only to see you run home with your tail tucked between your legs? Who took you in, gave you a job, a purpose?"

Eddie cowered under his uncle's words. "You did, Uncle Frank. I never meant—"

"I'm sure you didn't," Frank said. A finger depressed the intercom at the corner of his desk, a buzz sent to the men gathered in the hall. "Like Anthony, you have to learn. Only for you the curve is a little steeper."

Seth entered, ushered forward by Frank's waiting hand. "What's up, boss?"

"Uncle Frank, what—?"

"Your gun, Seth," Frank ordered. Without hesitation, without question and only the curve of his lip to denote his acceptance, Seth handed over his pistol.

"What are you doing?"

Frank took the gun in hand. He leveled the barrel at Eddie's brow. "You work for me until I say differently. You think for even one second this life isn't something you desire and I will send you to the next. Without hesitation."

"But," Eddie pleaded, "I'm family."

Frank scoffed. "Family? Your parents were miserable layabouts, Eddie. They earned their end." The gun pressed harder against his forehead. "Don't force me to be the cause of yours. Do we understand each other?"

Eddie closed his eyes. The cop was dead because of him. The old man from the shop was dying. Death followed him because of his actions, and now his own life was on the line. There were no options for him, no other paths to follow—only the Domingo way.

"Yes, sir."

The gun fell away, quickly handed back to Seth, who pocketed the weapon without a word. Frank fixed his collar and returned to the chair behind his desk.

"Good," he said, ever the master in the room—the boss of every situation. "Now get out of my sight."

Eddie nodded, head slumped with his shoulders as he shuffled for the door. Just as Tony had realized during their last visit, they were less than nothing in the eyes of Frank Domingo. Eddie was disposable in every sense of the word. He might have carried the Domingo name, might have curried some favor when he stood at his uncle's side and bowed to the man's every wish, but no longer.

Now he knew his place and how trapped he truly was in this life.

# Chapter Seventeen

The shadow fled, and the warrior pursued. Not across some expanse of never-ending desert but between skyscrapers and amid pillars of the community. Four blocks vanished behind her frantic pace. Her chest heaved and her lungs burned at the prospect of catching the spy monitoring her actions.

Smooth pavement turned to choppy brick—the old district of Portents. Wide lanes narrowed. She lost sight of the shifting shadow around bends and curves. When she reached a footbridge crossing over a tunnel, she halted.

All trails ended. There were no signs of her prey. No footfalls along the ground. No ragged breathing from the pursuit. There was nothing to point to their direction or how they managed to elude her. Just emptiness.

Large arches obscured much of the bridge from sunlight. Soriya crept along, peering through corners in the hopes of catching the voyeur down below or on an adjacent rooftop. The bridge connected two small one-way streets. Over the years, the passage had turned to pedestrian traffic, the stone no longer safe enough for the heavy pounding of automobiles. The lower road still allowed a motor vehicles to pass through, albeit slowly and inefficiently. Most people avoided the district completely, preferring the high-rises surrounding it. They buried the past, pretended it never happened, so they might better enjoy the moment or dream of a perfect future—one that never came.

Distracted, she almost failed to notice the hand creeping from the darkness. Pale fingers reached out, attempting to snatch at her shoulder. Instead, she met the hand with her own, grabbing the spread fingers to pull the figure loose from its hiding place.

"Gotcha!"

The arm was in view and the body fell forward from the force of her assault. Or so she believed. It was a feint. From her left came the other hand, this one too quick to avoid. The fist collided with her shoulder and knocked her back.

"Hey!"

She staggered, then leaped forward, the shadow no longer there. Soriya caught her breath and opened her ears, hoping for some small hint of their presence in the dark. A kick shot out. It caught her behind her knees, sweeping across, and knocked her to the ground.

The figure stepped out of the thick black. His foot came to rest atop her chest. Mentor stared at her, not with the disappointment she would have expected, but with anger and fury.

"You left yourself vulnerable," he said, his words sharp. "You display no stealth, no caution, just the stubbornness of youth. Something I hoped would have diminished by now."

Picking up his foot, she shuffled loose and rolled away before standing. She snapped, frustration overwhelming her good sense. A fist flew before she could give it a second thought. Mentor caught the clumsy blow without effort, then squeezed her hand tight.

"Let me go."

He did so. Mentor moved for the edge of the footbridge and stared out over the cobblestone of the old district. "You should be resting."

"I did," she replied. "I'm fine."

"No," he said without looking. She kept to his back, waiting for him to turn, to reconnect with her, but he did everything in his power to remain detached. Ever the teacher. "You're inexperienced and defiant to a fault. This is the time for neither of those traits."

"I can help."

His eyes blazed when he turned. "You would have, little one, had you listened and stayed safe with the Bypass. Now give it to me."

"What?"

He held out his hand in wait. His body blocked the light, casting her in shadow. She could still catch the glint from his gray eyes. "The stone, Soriya. We discussed this."

She slapped the hand away. "You mean you decided for me, don't you? Same with everything. I'm not five anymore."

"Then act your age," Mentor yelled. "The stone. Now."

"I don't have it!" Her scream echoed throughout the passage. It settled over them and she shrank from her anger, unwilling to let him win. "It's where you left it."

The truth surprised him, yet he said nothing. He merely started down the walkway, back toward downtown and the spires. Where the threat was, where the monster waited. She was nothing to him, just an impediment.

"This is my fight, Mentor," she called after him. "I won't back down."

He bowed his head in acceptance. "Instead you'll break every rule I taught you."

"I don't—"

He held up a hand. Between two fingers sat the business card offered by Beth. Soriya balked, reaching for her now empty pocket. "An outsider, Soriya? How much have you shared with this woman?"

He had been monitoring her actions, watching her movements through the city. How long had that been going on? How many hours or days spent under his watchful eye? Had she truly noticed him, instigating their chase through the city, or had he tired of the dance and wanted it to end?

Soriya pressed harder. She grabbed for the card only to see it disappear before her eyes like a magic trick. "She can help. She knows about Portents."

"It won't work out, little one. It isn't safe for you or for them."

The same lessons over and over again. That was all that was left to him, all he could hope to instill in her from a lifetime of instruction. He didn't know how to reach her beyond the idioms of the past, the short snippets meant to inspire and tutor a broken and lost little girl.

But she was no longer a child. No longer broken or lost.

"She's more open about the Minotaur, about what's going on in the city, than you." She blocked his path—unwilling to let it end without a fight, even if another argument was the last thing either of them wanted. "When were you going to tell me about Hephaestus' hammer? That it's missing from the marketplace?"

"The hammer is missing?"

The news surprised him. That had never happened, not in all the years they spent together. He always knew, always had some inkling or educated theory about everything occurring within the city limits and even beyond. He was her all-knowing teacher, the one with all the answers. To see him lost in this, the shock at missing something so vital, worried her.

"You didn't know."

He shrugged it off and pushed past her. "It's not a priority at the moment. The Minotaur is. Go home, little one. I will be there shortly."

"No."

"Excuse me?"

Her hands fell on her hips. "I'm going to stop this beast."

"I forbid you—"

"You are not my parent!" she bellowed, inches from his face. "And I am done listening to your lessons."

The words escaped without thought, without reason other than the heat of the moment. Other than wanting to stab at him the way he had when he'd taken away the stone, when he cut her out of the role she had dreamed of since first stepping foot in the Bypass chamber.

They succeeded in that regard. His hardened gaze shattered. She no longer cared. She had a job to do and had wasted enough time.

Soriya moved for the edge of the footbridge. "This is my life, Mentor. Stone or not. Whether you like it or not."

She leapt to the street below and broke into a full run. Tears stained her cheeks, but she refused to look back, refused to hear another word from him—she couldn't stomach more disapproval from him. More than anything, she refused to look back to catch the sadness in his eyes, the breaking of his heart, at her cruel words.

# Chapter Eighteen

She stormed off into the city. A shadow amid the gleaming spires, her lithe figure escaped along the alleyways and dead ends that marked the streets. She was angry, violently so, though she restrained herself. She fought back the rage and the hurt from their argument.

He had watched it all from a distance, yet close enough to hear every bitter word, to taste the pain that wracked her weary frame. He'd beaten her soundly, broken her body.

Her teacher took the rest.

The Minotaur hid in the corner of the church tower. The light failed to reach his position near the bronzed bell. The intense rays from the sun disoriented him, so much brighter than the torchlight of the maze. So much confounded his senses in this new level, these new challenges—including the girl with the stone.

Part of him wished for nothing more than an end to their game. To leap down from the shadows and finish the battle already begun. They hunted him as clearly as he did the same. They closed in on his trail. They tracked his every movement and attempted to predict the next step before he made one. He was well ahead of them.

The stone bearer would have made easy prey. She was riddled with self-doubt—not only over their previous confrontation but from her teacher's berating. His faith had ebbed and it reflected in her sullen eyes. Yes, she would have made a simple kill—a challenge for a lesser beast. Not for him. Not for the son of Minos, the conqueror of the labyrinth.

That was the lie he told himself, at any rate: that any challenge to him had to be pure. Any struggle with the stone bearer had to come at the height of her power. The lie was necessary to make up for his escape from the maze to this new world. The escape had only occurred because he took advantage of an opportunity that had presented itself and had nothing to do with his own skill and mastery of the labyrinth. He'd passed no test. He'd overcome no challenge. This time, however, would be different. This time would be honorable. For Minos—always for the king he called father.

Yet there was still the teacher to consider.

The old man hesitated in the wake of his student's departure. A hand waved at her fading shadow, fingers outstretched to pull her back—to gain another moment and another chance to reason with her, though none would come.

The old man was a problem. He'd interfered in their battle before and surprised the beast with that stone of his. The power it contained shook the Minotaur. It had forced him to flee like a craven coward.

Never again.

There was no point in pursuing the conclusion of their struggle until the advantage returned to the Minotaur. It was a lesson learned over the centuries. With each challenger thrown into the pit, the advantage always remained his.

In this place of light and humanity, he required new strategies. The city overwhelmed him with the sounds of traffic and the motorized vehicles that rushed in all directions. There was so much to see, so much to experience. With every encounter, every interaction in this new maze, he learned more of the city—of what his place should and could be in it. Understanding was the key to victory. That and one thing more.

When the old man exited the footbridge for the open road, the beast shifted in pursuit. Slow to follow, the Minotaur tracked the distracted figure through the city streets.

Waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.

# Chapter Nineteen

The Franklin Center sat in a cozy nook in the center of old Portents. When the city had first been founded, with narrow roads made of cobblestone, the districts were looped in a series of maze-like corridors and dead ends. As the boundaries expanded and the settlers arrived to occupy the space, these designs converted to wider avenues and brick, eventually to be replaced by pavement in most cases.

The modern city took hold, growing and building higher and higher into the sky—Evans Tower always at its epicenter. The old was forgotten, lost to time, much like its history.

And with it the Franklin Center. It was a sad state of affairs considering the building's importance. Leaders, both political and religious, had always gathered in the grand hall—seated comfortably around the cherry table in the conference room—to discuss the future of their city, as well as to rebuild the past.

It was here that the legend of William Rath was born. Requiring an inspiring figurehead to promote the birth of Portents, the fictional founder offered potential residents a colorful tale of heroism and patriotism. All had been a false front to hide old mistakes and even older sins.

Over a century ago, they'd mapped out the expansions that continued to this very day. From Rose Riley Park to the coves, from the roadways to the school system, everything originated in the dimly lit hall. Decisions were made behind closed doors, away from the people they sought to lead.

Those meetings still occurred, albeit in a different fashion.

Beth paced the conference room, waiting for hers to begin. She'd spent most of the afternoon at a coffee shop across from the demolished boutique. Sipping a steady stream of caffeine, she put aside her encounter with the intriguing teen and pored through the tome acquired at Atlas Books. It offered background on Hephaestus and his fabled deeds, yet no conclusive evidence of her working theory about the hammer. For that, she continued to return to Greg's casework and the questions the separate incidents raised. Those questions brought her to the Franklin Center.

She adored the place, drab decoration and all. For her, history was born here—legends created and sustained for over one hundred years—to the point where the truth of the matter was lost. An incredible feat and one she perpetuated to a degree by the company she kept.

Julian Harvey monitored her movements from the head of the table. At seventy-five, Julian had put in more than his required twenty years with the police department. He refused to give up the job, even in retirement. Protecting people, making the streets safer, was a calling for him, and he had always answered no matter the strain on his aging body.

Sconces were staggered on the wall, the plaster bare between them. Beth paused before one such blank wall. "You should hang a picture or two over here. Liven up the room."

Julian smirked, cracking the hardened look typically found on his face. It wasn't his fault. His chosen profession had forced him to view the darker side of humanity, to see the world through a lens of deceit and violence.

His drive inspired her. Seventy-five and he still pushed to make Portents better for those living within the city limits. His will brought her to the fold, his passion to uncover the secrets in their midst. Lately, however, something had changed, and the harder edge became tougher and tougher to crack.

"You don't approve of the decor?"

Paintings lined the wall to the right of the foyer: portraits of influential people in Portents' history. Or those that should have been influential had they not been rewritten in the early days, and rightfully so. The red eyes of one man in particular, drew her close and caused her to shake her head to break the connection.

She shifted for the blank canvas to her left. "I have a photo I took with Greg a couple weeks ago that would look great."

Happier moments took hold, those too few and far between for her liking. She had convinced him to join her on a day trip to the Grove, their final destination kept secret until their arrival. He hated heights, disliked the notion of climbing in general. He fought her, tried to convince her there were better vantages for the photo of the Portents skyline, yet he relented in the end. He always did when it came to her.

They sat at the peak of the old mill and stared out at the city for hours, hand-in-hand. It had been the perfect weather and perfect company for the perfect day.

"How is the detective?"

"Good," Beth said, unable to contain her smile at thinking of Greg. "He's good."

"I hear congratulations are in order."

Beth cocked an eyebrow. "It scares me how well-informed you are, Julian."

He never cared for his first name, preferring Harvey when possible. For her, he made an exception. He pushed his tired frame from his chair, and stood to join her near the wall.

"You know us shadows, my dear. We're everywhere."

A Circle of Shadows. The name of their little group. Where he failed to care for the use of his first name, she did the same with the moniker attributed to their group. The name felt seedy and circumspect, when it should have been a point of pride—they helped to serve others, which was what had brought her to the table in the first place.

They stood together for a common goal—to protect Portents from the menaces in the dark. There was enough evidence to point to a number of incidents over the years, unexplainable phenomena, myths and legends taken right from the past and plopped within the city limits. Beth had been recruited for her expertise in both the city and the past, in general. She'd accepted the role to learn more, to decipher how these menaces existed and why they centered on her home.

"Yeah, well," she said as she peered at the ring adorning her finger. "I don't think he'd much approve of all this." She kept the secret from him. She'd never meant for it to be that way. She'd intended to share everything, yet she held this back from the man she promised her life to. "I'm still not sure myself about—"

The door slammed open. Stomping feet pounded their way through the foyer into the conference room. Pratchett loomed over the pair. He wiped the sweat pooled beneath his scattered hair.

"Am I late? Did I miss anything?"

Beth grinned. The big goof always had that effect on her. His innocence brought a more light-hearted atmosphere to the dismal meeting place. "Relax, John. We were waiting for you."

"Beth," he panted, catching his breath. "Hey. Sorry about the other night. I don't do well in pressure situations."

"It shows," Julian grumbled. Pratchett was many things to people. An officer of the law. An unambitious layabout. A naive fool. But he was in the unique position of being Julian's nephew, a connection that had been much harder on the man.

Beth stepped between them. "It was fine, John."

Pratchett nodded, grateful for the reprieve. The Circle demanded much from its members, time and secrecy being the most important. Sometimes the two worlds bled too much, and the burden wore on even the most steadfast of the group.

Julian's patience had reached its end. He cleared his throat to draw them closer to the table and the book waiting on its surface. "If we could," he started. "You believe you've found something of interest, my dear?"

"I think so," Beth replied. "Something was missing from the antique shop on Allure."

She reached for the book. Pages filled with different images and icons from the past flipped by. She settled on one in particular, the page she'd studied for hours prior to her arrival. She put the book down and backed away for her companions to get a better view.

"This."

Pratchett squinted. "The hammer of Heph... Hephalumps?"

Julian sighed.

Beth laughed. "Hephaestus, John."

"I was getting to it," he said with a shrug.

"We don't have that kind of time, Johnny," his uncle commented. He ushered him aside for a closer look at the page.

"Thanks, unc."

"What is it exactly?" Julian asked, curiosity taking over.

Beth smiled. This was her favorite part and her reason for being a member of the Circle: the history of the event. "Hephaestus was the Greek god of fire and metalworking. He was their master forger, the creator of weapons and so much more. He created Hera's Aegis and the arrows of Artemis. Hephaestus was one of humanity's greatest promoters and patrons of the arts. He used his gifts to help us." She pointed to the page and the image in the center. The tool favored most by the god. "He did so with this hammer."

"What good is the hammer without the man?" Julian asked.

"That's what I've been wondering as well," Beth said. "Greg's been looking into the ATM heists from a couple nights back. There was some kind of device used."

"Security cameras caught an image of it," Pratchett chimed in. "Never seen anything like it before. Just overrode the machine and caused it to spit out all the cash."

"You believe the person who took the hammer built this device?" Julian followed her train of thought. She nodded in agreement, wary of her own assessment. "How?"

"I'm not sure," Beth continued. "But what if the hammer is more than a mere tool? What if somehow, over the centuries, Hephaestus' skill, his gift as the master forger, imprinted on the hammer?"

Julian rubbed the stumble at his chin. "One capable of forging any weapon?"

"And more, Julian," she reminded him. "Medical instruments. Jewelry. Anything imaginable."

He left the book behind to pace the length of the room. "Someone is walking around with this."

"Possibly."

"Incredible," he muttered, a measured excitement in his voice. "It could change everything." Quiet confusion escaped the pair of observers, and Julian recognized it immediately. His hands danced before him as he spoke. "Think of the good we could do as a group with the hammer in our possession."

"True," Beth said, though her tone was hesitant. "But the danger—"

"Negligible," he interrupted. "Can you locate it?"

Could she find a lone object in a city of millions? An object that may or may not actually exist and be loose on the populace? 'Impossible' barely hit the mark in her mind. "I don't know," she said, unable to meet his wide gaze. "Like I said, Greg's interested in the case."

Julian sidled close. He lifted the book and carefully handed it over to her. "Beth. Find it. The hammer will be safer with us."

"I..." she paused. He wasn't wrong in that regard. If the hammer was loose, if it was in the wrong hands—those of a thief—it certainly could do better. Wasn't that why the Circle existed, to keep Portents safe from potential danger? Wasn't that why she had joined them? "I'll do my best."

"Good," Julian said. "You mentioned something else when you scheduled this meeting? An encounter you had?"

Soriya. Beth had meant to tell them about the Minotaur and the teen who brought the beast to her attention. She had yet to fully understand what either meant to her, or to the city at large. "It was nothing. Don't worry about it."

"I see," Julian said. The book settled in her arms as their debate did in the conference room of the Franklin Center. "Keep me informed on your progress."

She nodded.

He moved for the back of the complex, head cocked toward his nephew. "Johnny? A minute?"

"Sure, unc," Pratchett called after the departing leader. His shoulders slumped but he offered Beth a tired smile. Both understood Julian's tough love approach when it came to the work. "Coming."

Beth placed the book down upon the table once more. The page fell on the hammer of Hephaestus. Delicate fingers grazed the image. She tracked her colleagues as they left her to the work ahead. Julian's drive had always inspired her. Tonight, however, it did more.

It frightened her.

"Will it be safer with us? I'm not so sure about that."

# Chapter Twenty

After her meeting with Julian and Pratchett, Beth returned to the coffee shop near the boutique. She told herself it was to continue her research, to learn as much as possible about Hephaestus and his hammer. The truth, however, was she hoped Soriya might show up.

The teen intrigued her. The hammer of Hephaestus was a find in itself, but to have a minotaur stalking the streets at the same time? It boggled her mind. Rapid thoughts blurred. She was unable to focus on any singular path, any clear way to solve the mysteries cropping up around her.

Julian called while she waited. Well, Pratchett was the voice on the line, but the message was his uncle's. He wanted to follow up on the hammer, to offer advice on how to proceed with her search. The hammer was all that mattered to Julian.

His insistence so soon after learning about the instrument spurred her concern. The Circle was meant to protect people. Putting everything on the hammer, making it the centerpiece of their mission, did nothing but help themselves. Or so Beth believed, though she failed to come right out and say such things.

He might have been old and eccentric, but Julian never lost his wits. He never lost the cunning edge required on the force as a detective. She preferred to stay in his good graces. Besides, she had barely begun to scratch the surface of her own quest; all thoughts of continued research on the hammer were lost to a young girl's insane question about a mythical beast.

A minotaur. No. The Minotaur. The legend of old. How ridiculous, she told herself when she finally surrendered and made her way home. How fascinating...

The Circle was founded on the belief of the true city, the myths and legends that seemed keen to make their return here of all places. There had been plenty of evidence to back it up, plenty of sightings, but she had yet to see one up close and personal. Her role was research based. She always provided intel from a distance. Maybe it was Julian's way of protecting her, keeping her safe from harm. The same way Greg treated her when it came to what he experienced on the force. They set her aside or pushed her out of the path of danger. It annoyed her, frustrated her even, but she rationalized the notion. It was simply their way, and she dealt with it as such.

It didn't mean she would ever like it.

That was the appeal of meeting someone like Soriya. The idea that someone so young—and a woman to boot—was out on the streets battling back the forces of evil on a nightly basis intrigued her.

"Now I'm starting to sound like one of Greg's comic books," she said. Her quiet steps carried her from the cafe and back to her apartment. Beth hesitated at her door, a hand hovering over the knob.

Was that missing from her life? The thrill of the hunt? The danger involved? Was that why she had joined the Circle in the first place? Was that why she hadn't settled on a date yet with—?

"Bethany?" The door behind her creaked open. "Everything all right, dear?"

"It's fine, Mrs. Arbogast," Beth answered. She tilted her head slightly to acknowledge the stout elderly woman half hidden by her door. "Lost in thought."

"Did Greg like the nut bread?"

She fought a smile. "Loved it. Absolutely loved it. I'm sure he'll tell you all about it next time you see him. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Beth slipped inside then let a laugh loose when the door hit the frame. Her back leaned against the wood, and she remained motionless for a long moment. The laugh dissipated, lost at the sight of the man snoring on the couch across the room.

His work continued to monopolize the coffee table. A pad lay atop the pile. Greg's own notes were starting to take shape. They were so alike in that regard, sucking in copious amounts of information and stimuli, before piecing the puzzle together bit by bit, note by note, until the solution became clear.

She shuffled to his side, her steps light and soft against the creaking hardwood. She nudged his shoulder. "Greg? Greg..."

"Huh?" He jumped at the touch. With a sudden roll, he turned and crashed to the floor. Beth winced at the sound, quick to rush to his aid with a helping hand. He rubbed at bloodshot eyes. Sleep may have come for a time, but it had taken a while for him to get there. "I meant to do that."

"I could tell."

His lower back popped as he stretched forward. "What time is it?"

Beth pointed to the window and approaching dusk. "Late. You slept here all day?"

"Looks that way."

"We have a bed, you know."

He took her hands in his and squeezed. "We do. That's our bed. It's empty without you."

She kissed him, unable to hold back any longer. "That was smooth."

"That was the truth." He lifted her hand and kissed the back. His eyes widened at the time displayed on her wristwatch. "Crap. It is late."

He rushed for his jacket, still on the floor instead of the coat rack mere inches from where it had landed. Beth followed close. "The case that isn't yours yet?"

"It is now," Greg replied. "Ruiz called a few hours ago. But first I have to close up a couple other things. Taking statements. Always a colorful task."

She pecked his cheek, the accumulated scruff sharp along her lips. "Have fun."

He shook his head, trying to force the exhaustion from his eyes. "Can't. Pratchett will be with me."

"He seemed nice."

"That's one point of view," Greg muttered, then smiled. "Breakfast tomorrow?"

"Bring home something spicy."

"Don't I always?" He snatched her hand and pulled her close. Taking her in his arms he dipped her and kissed her deeply. She melted against him and closed her eyes. If only time stopped, just for a second longer; she would have done anything to make it stop right then.

When the kiss subsided, Beth slapped his shoulder playfully. "Move it, mister, or you'll be calling in today."

"Worth it."

He planted another one on her then rushed for the door. His sneakers flapped open with each step. The door snapped shut, and Beth moved for the lock to click it in place. Voices rose in the corridor. Mrs. Arbogast called after the fleeing detective in the hopes of a compliment that would never come.

Beth's smile carried her across the room to the window overlooking the front of the building. The sun waned over the city with deep, dark hues of pink and purple cutting overhead. Greg waved from the sidewalk on his mad dash for the subway he would no doubt fail to reach in time.

"It was worth it," she whispered, finger to her lips. Every second, every chance they managed to steal to be together, and every one to come.

"You never told him about the hammer."

The voice caused Beth to jump in terror. Her shout echoed in the living room. She turned, heart in her throat. A shadow in the hallway stepped into the light.

"Why didn't you tell him?" Soriya asked.

"What the hell?" Beth exclaimed, half out of her skin in panic. The kitchen window, which led to the fire escape, was open, and a cool breeze fought against the roiling rage in her veins. "This is my home, Soriya. You can't just—"

"He could help," she said, ignoring the complaint. The young woman crouched at the coffee table. She picked at the files left—another mistake in his rush for the office—one she'd taken advantage of more times than she cared to admit.

"He could." Beth grabbed the files away from the intruder and threw them down on the pile. Soriya stood, then backpedaled to give her space. Beth sighed. Her anxiety melted at the sight of the innocence in the young woman's eyes. Beth's arms crossed her chest. "It's too much to know. He's not ready."

"Neither are you," Soriya replied. Beth's brow furrowed. She didn't understand the comment. Soriya pointed to the calendar hanging from the refrigerator. "No date set for the wedding?"

Beth huffed in disbelief. Her hands fell to her side, clenched tight to hide her ring. "They skipped basic manners during your training, didn't they?"

Soriya smiled. "I failed that course."

"It shows."

"Sore subject?"

Beth stomped across the apartment and shut the open window. She secured the latch in place to lock it. She returned to the living room and opened the door to her apartment. Her keys dangled from her fingers. "You tell me your story and I'll tell you mine. Up for some dinner?"

# Chapter Twenty-One

The fast-approaching twilight didn't affect the diner on King's Lane just north of the cresting hill that wound through the Knoll. Patrons sat comfortably along the booths positioned before the window. They sipped coffee and ate gingerly, enjoying the quiet of the night as it settled over the city.

Beth picked it for dinner because of Greg. The restaurant was one of Greg's favorite places to visit—mostly because of its proximity to home. For as long as he had lived in Portents—going on four years—he knew very little outside his minor sphere of influence. The apartment was the same as when he moved from Chicago. The neighborhood was his domain, a four-to-six-block range depending on which direction he traveled. After that, everything was strange and required explanation.

Or maybe he simply liked Beth's explanations. The history she gleaned from each landmark, even someplace as mundane as a common diner.

Not that Pescatelli's was mundane. The small eatery had been around for decades, opened just after the second World War by Giuseppe Pescatelli—a war hero, though he preferred to think of himself as merely a survivor. He offered a communal place, a home away from home, so people could come together for a common goal and a decent meal. He never went above and beyond expectations when it came to the food, but his company was legendary.

He'd been a storyteller, and his children carried on the legacy. Three generations picked up the torch laid by their ancestor, happily working in the kitchen or swabbing the counter at all hours of the day to treat customers with a fresh meal and a smile.

Luca was working the kitchen when they arrived, and he bellowed a warm greeting through the slit window divider. Beth and Soriya took a seat in a corner booth away from the crowd. Beth wondered if the young man would have kept the smile present if he realized how much food he'd be preparing for her companion.

Soriya shoveled the remnants of a burger past her lips, chewing loudly and savoring the flavor of pepper jack cheese and red onions, drowned in mustard. Without taking a breath, she dove for the rest of the fries on her plate, sending them to the abyss with haste.

It was her third plate of the night, and Beth pushed her own across to satisfy the endless maw. She was content with her coffee. "Don't they feed you at home?"

The teen paused. Leaning back against the cushion, she wiped her lips with her napkin. Some manners remained intact, it seemed.

"Long day," she said, careful to swallow the stubborn mush made of her fries. "Skipped a meal or three."

"Right." As well as a shower or two in the process. Soriya was only a kid, and her job—as she claimed—seemed more intent on killing her than aiding others. Beth quietly considered her options, whether or not to force the issue, while she sipped at her lukewarm beverage. The cup returned to the saucer, rattling against the porcelain. "Besides being a terrific burglar and a first-rate professor on minotaurs, I realize I don't know much about you, Soriya. Including your last name."

She snuck a chip from Beth's plate. Her eyes stuck to the tabletop rather than meet her companion's. "Don't have one in the traditional sense."

"Everyone has one," Beth replied. "Your parents—?"

"Died in a car crash," the young woman answered, cold and detached. Or a reasonable facsimile. Her wavering eyes told another tale. "I was four."

The confession shut Beth up quickly. She didn't know what to say or how to continue. The situation was strange to her. Her life had been lucky in that regard. She never had to struggle with connections. Her parents had raised her well before they passed. She had been out of college and working full time for a local bookstore. She had her own place, a life they had helped her build with their support and encouragement. They had always loved her, always propped her up even in the darkest times.

When she lost them it had hurt. But she had known them at least, held their memory in her heart and always would. Unlike the girl before her, lost and alone.

"I'm sorry," Beth whispered. "So who do you live with?"

"My teacher. Mentor."

Beth's brow furrowed, concern in her gaze. "That's what you call him? Mentor?"

Soriya lowered her fork and pushed Beth's plate away. She cleared her throat, peering around the diner before leaning close. "Names have power. We derive ours from the roles we play in each other's lives. That's why I go by Soriya Greystone."

"Greystone?" Beth asked. Soriya had mentioned it the previous night in passing but never explained.

"A powerful weapon," Soriya went on, miming a small round pebble with her hands. "It channels pure will into the elemental forces of the world."

Incredible, Beth thought. To think something like that could exist, could be used in the modern world. "Can I see it?"

Soriya's shoulders slumped. "I don't have it with me."

"I can't believe it," Beth muttered. Her companion's eyes snapped wide, causing Beth to shake her head. "Oh, I do. I do believe you. I'm just surprised I never came across this Greystone before in my studies."

She smirked and pride filled her dark brown globes. "We try to keep outsiders away from our affairs."

Beth understood. "Must be pretty lonely."

"We have each other."

"Teachers are great, but what about friends?"

"Distractions," Soriya said. Beth could tell from how quickly and sharply Soriya had answered that the word was not her own. Another lesson from her supposed teacher.

"Like I said. Lonely."

Soriya took a deep breath, then stared at the crowd. Beth followed her gaze out at the community gathered in the small diner on the Knoll. Couples. Families. Connections long since held or coming together, bound by love or blood, both strong in their power. Did the girl know what she was missing? Beth thought she did, which was why she immediately shuffled deeper into the booth to block her view of the place.

"Have you learned anything new about the Minotaur?"

"Not yet," Beth said. "I keep circling back to his behavior at the boutique and with you on the street. If Portents is a new labyrinth for him, he might be fixating on a new challenge."

"Challenge?"

"Minos would send them to the labyrinth to manipulate the beast into battle. The Minotaur might be looking for a new foe to face."

"He found one." Soriya grazed the bruises on her arm. Her knuckles were still healing from their initial encounter.

Beth nodded slowly. "That's where I was headed."

"He'll be looking for me."

"Yes."

Soriya smirked. "Good."

"So you say."

Soriya was clearly spoiling for a fight. There was fire behind her words, in her clenched fists and tightened jaw. The Minotaur had hurt her, caused her more than physical pain in the fallout of their confrontation, and now she wanted revenge more than anything else. Beth believed it was the wrong path to follow, but Soriya appeared set on it to prove her worth not only to the creature but her teacher. Proving herself seemed more important than connections, more crucial than friendship.

"Any luck on hammer detail?" Beth asked, hoping to put some distance from the situation.

Soriya shook her head. "Nothing. I checked the Courtyard, but no one has tried to pass through with the hammer. Even Kok'Kol was stumped though he played it off as a lesson. Ravens."

Blinking hard, Beth tried to replay the last fifteen seconds. "Raven? Courtyard? Back up. What exactly are you talking about?"

Soriya took a breath. Her world, no matter how much she'd shared during their time together, was still a mystery. "There are certain—"

Screeching tires shattered the conversations of everyone in the diner. Three cars, old junkers, hopped the curb and raced over the sidewalk. Each was modified with a plow on the front. The lead sedan raced up the shallow steps to the diamond exchange across the street and slammed into the front of the art deco structure. The other two skidded to a halt. The metal added to the paneling of the vehicles acted as a barricade.

"What the hell?" Beth crept toward the window of the diner.

Men exited the vehicles. They wore black ski masks, and each carried a pistol in one hand and an empty burlap sack in the other. Alarms rose from the building, but they failed to deter them as the group blitzed inside the makeshift entrance created by their collision.

"What are they doing, Soriya?" Beth turned to see the teen on her feet. She moved for the door without looking back. Beth followed, after she had dropped money on the table to cover their tab. "Soriya?"

She caught up to her outside in the growing crowd. The diner patrons were flocking outside, and the rest of the block joined them. From every direction sirens broke out. Red and blue filled the night sky, converging on the exchange.

"Holy."

The men in masks, with their bags full from their speedy withdrawal, had their guns aimed at the oncoming wave of officers. Gunshots cracked the air in loud pops. Beth covered her ears. She inched forward unintentionally, as more people gathered to witness the display.

"Stay back," Soriya said. She grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her along the side of the diner to a nearby passage.

The masked criminals shot wildly, not caring where they aimed. Four men took point and blasted the cruisers blocking the road. The officers took shelter where they could—behind cars and around the corner to stay out of the line of fire. The protected thieves pressed their assault to allow others of their party to dive into their waiting vehicles. Motors revved as they slammed through the cordon created by the police and headed for the open streets.

"What is this?" Beth asked. "Who are they?"

"I don't know." Soriya stared them down. Her eyes trailed each departing car but always returned to the four men still out in the open. "Look at the plating on their chests, though. And that plow on the car."

Beth hadn't noticed the plating, not until her companion mentioned it. To her, it looked like a thin coat, but the glint of metal shone under the streetlights. "Reinforced steel. Almost fitted. Like armor."

"Forged," Soriya corrected.

Beth's eyes widened. "The hammer."

It was loose in the city, taken by the scum who'd robbed the antique shop and shot an innocent old man. Now they were using it for their own ends. ATM heists weren't enough. They were getting bolder in their efforts, and innocents were paying the price.

Beth reached for Soriya. "Come on. They're getting away."

Her friend pulled Beth low to the ground. Bullets cut above them. The crowd screamed. Some fell from the shots while more fled in a panic. They scattered in all directions to find cover. One of the remaining gunmen fell under a barrage of police fire. The officers were flanking from both sides now to gain control of the situation.

"Soriya?"

"This isn't my fight."

"What?" Beth exclaimed, shocked at the statement. "Soriya, look around you."

Emergency crews raced through the block, doing their best to reach the growing number of casualties. The last of the gunmen retreated to the alley beside the diner. He passed by the stunned crowd in a blur of shadow.

Beth stood and shifted through the swath of humanity for the alley. "People are hurting. If they have the hammer—"

"I will find it," Soriya snapped. "After the Minotaur."

"I get it, Soriya. I do. He beat you, shamed you. But pushing away everything else, ignoring everything but your revenge is what a petulant child would do. Not this Greystone person you claim to be."

Soriya's eyes went cold, brown darkened to deep black shadows. "You don't understand at all."

"I think I do," Beth said, tired of the fight. She was tired of the violence that took over her city— she was tired of doing nothing about it. "I'm going to help because I can. What are you going to do?"

She didn't wait for answer. Racing from the scene, she trailed the path of the fleeing crook—intent on making a difference.

# Chapter Twenty-Two

What the hell am I doing?

The question carried her through the crowded corners of the Knoll, away from the diner. Pedestrians faded behind, and darkness took hold. The noise and clatter of the chaos, the cries of those injured dissipated until there was only her ragged breathing and the slamming of sneakers against pavement from the man in front of her.

She never should have left the scene, never should have opened her mouth like that. Soriya didn't deserve that. She was just a child, hurt enough by her previous struggle with the Minotaur and the pressure of an impossible job. She didn't need Beth to add to it.

Disappointment took over, and she failed to keep it in check. Soriya was like a bright light in her eyes, an inspirational force to the bookish researcher. Happy to help may have been Beth's mantra but she was a passive force in the city—using the written word to pass along her message instead of screaming it from the rooftops. Soriya fought for her beliefs, struggled to overcome the obstacles set against her. To see her fall back, determined to sit out the fight unfolding before them, had unnerved Beth in no small degree.

It angered Beth to action, or so she wanted to believe. Part of her, though, wondered if it had more to do with running away from something than running toward it. She could almost feel the ring on her finger tightening, like someone's ears burned at the mere thought of being mentioned in conversation.

Why hadn't she given Greg a date? Everyone wondered the same thing, and they pestered her at every turn for a response. She had none to give. Her nuptials, impending or not, confused her. They sent her spinning, lost in her own doubts and fears. Was love enough? Did she know him well enough, and if so why were there still secrets between them? He did the same with his stupid cigarette addiction. He hid things from her, all in an attempt to protect her. Was that what she was doing, protecting him by not setting a firm date? Did she keep secrets to safeguard their relationship or because she couldn't risk losing him to the truth?

This was a foolish move. Chasing an armed crook in an effort to what? Get hit by a speeding bus zooming along the city streets? Or maybe take a bullet from the fleeing criminal?

Still she ran, racing farther from the scene of the crime. They left the sirens of the Knoll, east toward the river. The docks swayed in the rolling water that ran against the shallow bluffs. The armored thug shucked off his shoulder pads and torso-binding plating. They clattered against the ground but the motion did not deter his movement. He clutched tight to the bag in his right hand—his take from the evening's activities.

He turned down Porter, where the stress of the situation faded to excitement. The lean figure danced along the catwalk by the water. He hooted and hollered at his freedom. Beth slowed to give him as much room as possible. She trailed him two more blocks before he came to rest in a commercial park with manufacturing plants and storage warehouses dotting the lane.

The man looked around, cautious in his approach to one building in particular. When his gaze flitted her way, Beth dropped. Her knees crashed to the pavement and her head dipped behind the row of crates blocking all view.

She cursed as she pressed her back to the makeshift barrier. Rubbing at her reddened knees, Beth snuck to the corner of the box for a better vantage.

The man was barely in sight. He entered a warehouse in the middle of the block; the word DOMINGO had been etched into the front in large black spray-paint. The front door to the place boomed as it closed behind him, leaving her to the hammering of her heart in her chest. Beth banged her head against the crate. Anger and frustration built from her words to Soriya and the foolish chase across a dozen city blocks.

What the hell am I doing? It was no longer a viable question. The only one left was what to do next.

"Alright, Bethany," she muttered under her breath. She ducked out from behind the crate and crept closer to the plant. "You played the detective. Now call some real ones to the scene."

A quick call to Greg would bring the full force of the Central Precinct down on the men inside the warehouse. No matter how armed they were, no matter the edge provided by Hephaestus' hammer, they would be no match for law enforcement.

Beth turned to get some distance before making the call. She didn't gain two steps before she caught the glint of silver from the barrel of a gun leveled at her chest.

"I don't think that's going to be happening, lady."

The man slicked his greasy black hair back with his free hand. The gun was cocked sideways at her. When he spoke he looked like a rabbit, the two upper front teeth over-sized and nibbling at his lower lip.

Smiling with those enlarged chompers, the man grabbed at her before she could flee. The gun dug into her back, and he twisted her arm up until she cried out from the pain.

"What are you doing?" Beth asked.

"You'll see," he whispered in her ear. Spit dotted her cheek from his excitement. Then he pushed her toward the waiting warehouse. "Now walk."

Beth obeyed, rubbing at her arm to wipe it clean from his touch. She wished she had listened to Greg about the dangers of the city at night instead of playing it off like she was above such things. She wished she had trusted him further with the case and the secrets that divided them. More than anything, she wished she had answered his proposal—given him the closure he deserved.

Before it was too late.

# Chapter Twenty-Three

Soriya fumed at Beth's allegations. Her decision was never about inaction or the lives of some outweighing others. It was Mentor's teaching through and through. There were two threats, one human and one not. There was no discussion which posed the greater danger—no question about the right move.

Yet Beth's words lingered.

The Minotaur's rampage needed to be quelled. His strength put him at the top of the priority list. Or was it more that he had beaten her in a fight? Was it an issue of pride? Was she that shallow, that petty, to put her own needs over those of everyone else?

Mentor taught her to stay out of human affairs, to stay detached from the world they sought to protect. It was a warning she wished she'd heeded prior to making a friend in Bethany Schmidt. And friend she remained in her eyes—someone to talk to about the true city, someone to understand the struggles that piled on day after day. Or so she thought.

How could Beth not see the truth in this? Every life taken through the use of the hammer paled in comparison to what the Minotaur might accomplish should he remain in Portents. Eventually, if left unchallenged, the beast would step out from the shadows for all to see—too ignorant to the ways of the world. If that happened, if the city realized the hidden nature of Portents, then everything would change. If everyone learned the truth about the city no one would be safe.

Soriya wanted to chase after Beth, to make her understand. Instead she remained locked in place, a witness to the carnage.

Bodies lay on the street, some pummeled by the rushing vehicles during their arrival to the scene. Others fell from the gunfire that rang out to cover the thieves' escape into the night. The crooks had disappeared as quickly as they arrived, but the effect of their visit remained for all those still present.

Emergency crews worked with what they had, but their vehicles were stuck more than a block away thanks to the gridlock created by the thieves. EMTs treated the screaming and the dying, the terrified and the injured, alike. Police did the same as they pulled victims from the wreckage of the diamond exchange, while questioning everyone they could. Even the bystanders assisted where needed. They pushed through the shock of the event and ran from technician to officer, carrying vital information or supplies.

For all her anger, for all her rage over Beth's allegations, Soriya remained motionless. She wasn't searching for the Minotaur. She had no answers to stop the massive monster hidden somewhere in her city. She merely stood in place, not helping anyone—until forced.

A hand reached out and snatched her own. "I said, hey!"

"What?"

An EMT pulled at her hand and placed it on the leg of a screaming woman. The gash was deep and stained with crimson. The tech squeezed her hand over the wound.

"I need you to hold this for me."

"I—"

"She will die if you don't," the man snapped, not caring for an explanation. He moved for his pack and left Soriya with the dying woman.

"I'm sorry," the woman whispered. Her skin was almost transparent. She was middle-aged with strands of white hair mixed with a deep brown. Wrinkles ran from her eyes, tired and terrified at the same time. "I'm so sorry."

"You..." Soriya stammered. She squeezed tighter and shifted closer. "You have nothing to be sorry about."

"My husband," the woman said, her voice fading. "Had a fight. Said terrible things. Didn't mean them. Stormed out for a walk, and now?"

"You'll see him again," Soriya replied. "The EMT will be right back. He'll take care of you and—"

The woman's eyes closed. Her chest heaved once and then stopped. Soriya squeezed harder on the leg.

"Come on. Hey," she exclaimed. "Stay with me. Stay—"

"She's gone," the tech called from behind her. "I'm sorry. I wasn't fast enough. Didn't have the—"

Soriya stopped listening and stood. Her arms trembled at her side and her fists clenched. "This wasn't your fault. It was mine."

She stumbled from the scene, unable to meet the concerned look of the tech. She should have done more, been there sooner, or reacted appropriately. Beth had been right. Everyone else always was when it came to who Soriya should be, how she should be and what she should be doing. When was it going to be enough? When would she finally make the right choice?

Exhausted from the night, Soriya leaned along the front of the diner and slid down to the cold concrete. She ran her stained hands over her face and through long black strands in need of a trim and a comb.

Then she saw him.

At first he appeared to be like so many others at the scene—in shock over the casual violence displayed. He was clearly upset at the destruction wrought. Only there was more to the man who wore a thin windbreaker and a pair of jeans torn at the left knee. His eyes were sullen at first, but then the expression turned to outrage. There was too much concern and too much remorse in his gaze for him to be a mere bystander to the event.

Soriya followed when he left, curiosity getting the better of her. She trailed him eight blocks west to an apartment building on the border of Lowtown just under the expressway. News of the incident had yet to be felt this far out. The world was just spinning in its usual fashion to those ignorant enough to wander the darkening streets.

She stopped at the corner after he entered. There were too many people milling about, too many ways a confrontation might go wrong. She had already made enough dubious decisions over the course of the day.

A third-floor light clicked on moments later and a shadow passed the window. Soriya took to the fire escape. Feet glided along the metal to avoid as much noise as possible. Her lithe frame whipped around the railing until landing solidly next to the window of the newly illuminated unit.

The young man collapsed on the couch inside. Sobs rocked his body. Curses escaped, growing louder and more vulgar with each one.

The living room was a disaster. Books were scattered across the floor beside movies and video games. Crumbs dotted the coffee table interspersed between sheets of note paper covered with drawings. The television was an ancient tube-style, and the couch seemed rickety under the man's weight.

It all registered to the silent observer outside the window. She noticed everything in an instant, but only one object jumped out at her and demanded her attention.

The hammer on the table.

Without hesitation, without thought, Soriya crashed through the window feet first. She landed like a cat and pounced at the shocked man. He leaned back in terror, hands raised in defense. They did little to sway her.

She grabbed his collar and slammed him against the couch cushion. Flames danced in her eyes, the dead woman's face locked in her memory as she confronted the mastermind behind the tragedy in the Knoll.

"It's you."

# Chapter Twenty-Four

"Who the hell are you?" Panic filled his voice. He flailed against her grip, struggling to free himself from both her and the couch cushion threatening to suffocate him. "What do you think you're doing?"

Soriya lost all control, the vision of the dead woman caught in her memory. Her anger bubbled in a scream. She lifted the young man from the couch and tossed him aside.

He crashed to the floor and skidded along the stained carpeting. His head slammed against the wall. Dazed from the impact, the man rubbed at the bump already forming along the back of his skull. Rug burns ran along the underside of each arm. He shook himself awake, trying to focus on his attacker.

Soriya studied him closely. He appeared disheveled from the long day. The news of the shooting had shocked him as much as her. There was sadness in his movements, a lack of a struggle other than when the couch attempted to steal his ability to breathe. He didn't care to fight, didn't care if that was all she wanted.

And she did.

The dead woman demanded it. So did Beth in some small degree. They both pushed her to act, to gain retribution for the violence on the Knoll. Papers flew from the sudden shift of wind blowing in from the shattered window. The drawings of the young man cowering in the corner soared from the table, and left only the hammer at its center. Soriya's hand hovered over the handle of the mythological instrument.

"I wouldn't touch it!" the young man exclaimed.

Soriya smirked. "Nice try."

"Listen," he snapped. He shifted closer, taking to his knees to approach. He kept his hands visible and open in an attempt to make himself seem like a non-threat, not that he was one to begin with. He had no muscle mass, no imposing figure. He was just another deadbeat from all appearances. Except for his eyes. His eyes told a different story, bursting when the hammer reflected against his green irises. "Please."

She said nothing. Taking a step away from the hammer, Soriya heeded the warning. For now.

"Thank you."

"I don't want your thanks," she replied. "An explanation wouldn't hurt though."

"It..." He paused. His hand went to his creased brow. "The hammer does something to you. I don't know how or why. I haven't slept more than four hours at a stretch. The ideas keep coming."

"It's your fault," Soriya said. She pointed to the window. Sirens blared down the road for the diamond exchange. "All this? You made this possible."

"No," the man answered. "No way do you put that on me. I found out about it on the news! I had nothing to do—"

"The cars say differently. Those men tell a very different story."

"I didn't have a choice!"

Soriya pulled her fist back and jumped at the man. He dropped to the ground, hands defending his face. She loomed over him. "Tell that to the old man you shot. The one you stole the hammer from. Or the cop you killed during your little spree the other night. Tell me again how you had nothing to do with it!"

"I didn't," he spat. "Tony shot the old man. Tony killed that cop. I tried to stop him. I tried—"

"Don't." She lifted him up and hurled him against the wall. Cocking her fist, she let it fly, and it crashed through the thin piece of drywall next to his face. The young man closed his eyes and turned away. Flecks of debris covered his cheek. Soriya removed the hand and let him go. "Just don't."

"I had to give them something or I'd be in the middle of the bay in garbage bags," he said as he swiped at his cheek. He peered at the gaping hole in his wall with disbelief. "Look, lady, the Domingos don't take kindly to failures. Even if they're family."

"Domingos?"

"You kidding?" Swift steps carried him around the table, where he collapsed against the couch. He snatched the hammer from the table. He spun the head of the tool against his palm. "What, are you new to this city?"

No, she thought with another spark of anger creeping down her arms, merely ignorant to the human threats in Portents. It was no longer a viable excuse. The loss of life was unacceptable on any level. Someone had to pay for what happened to that poor woman, to all those innocents who wouldn't be finding their way home tonight.

"Why not get rid of the hammer?" she said. She pointed at the instrument being used as a toy rather than for the purpose it had held for centuries. She wanted to snatch the hammer away, put it somewhere safe and away from this weak-willed fool.

He settled against the seat. His eyes were locked on its golden sheen as he cradled the tool close. "The hammer made me special. It opened my mind to possibilities, ideas I hadn't considered since college. Hell, maybe ever. You think I wanted this life? A hood for Frankie Domingo? My own uncle? He looks at me like a turd on the sole of his shoe. I tried to walk away, to get out of this godforsaken city. I tried."

The why of it. What Beth had preached in the diner and before that, in the shop where she first observed the behavior of the Minotaur. It was a new way of looking at the situation, of finding a way out of the dark. Not everything was meant to be a physical confrontation, a battle of fist and weapon. There was room for reason and logic. It was simply another path—a better path, according to her newfound friend.

The man stewed in his own guilt. She recognized the feeling, the way it crept inside and insinuated itself in every thought, in every action. Guilt demanded change. It demanded an answer.

More than anything, it demanded a helping hand to pull you back to the light. Or at least make the offer. Some, not all, had to come from within.

"I can help you," she said over the whistling wind rushing from outside. She stood before the shattered window, tall and confident compared to his sullen despair.

"What?" he asked, confused. "Why?"

"Because you are going to help me."

"No," he said. He caught her looking at the hammer and tucked the instrument away in his belt. He paced to the far side of the room. "No way. Frank will kill me. Well, he'll have Tony kill me. God, he'd love it too. Tony and that damn overbite of his will be the last thing I ever see. Probably be with me forever and I'll never—"

Soriya's fist clenched at her side. "Stop."

He skittered to a halt. "Okay. Stopping. I can stop." Her offer was still waiting for his reply. The man with the torn jeans scrubbed at his cheeks and pulled back his hair. Tired eyes turned to her, full of concern and doubt. "You really think you can help me?"

# Chapter Twenty-Five

The news came too late. Two men were dead—police officers who'd responded to a routine noise complaint. Their bodies had been dumped outside a tenement near the Second Precinct, discarded like trash.

It wouldn't have spiked on Mentor's radar usually. Violence was mankind's natural tendency despite millennia of evolution. No, it wasn't the senseless death that brought the aged warrior to the scene of the crime.

It was the fact their bodies had been crushed.

It had been the Minotaur's doing. Worse, he'd taken trophies. Badges and weapons. Their radio and personal cell phones. Mementos collected by the beast, prizes of the victory. The mythic monster continued the ways of the past, the ways of his time and the methods inflicted upon him so long ago.

Portents was different and would suffer for his arrival. Everyone was at risk, yet the cops had no clue of the culprit—no idea who might have the strength to carry out such a heinous act against two of their own.

Mentor listened from the shadows for the location of their last call. It was his first true lead in days. If he had been faster, more thorough in his search, he might have saved the men from their fate.

He missed too much of late. Soriya had made that much clear in their last argument. Never a discussion or a conversation anymore—it was always a fight, a struggle between them. Hephaestus' hammer was loose in the city as well now. How had he not known about the old man's assault? Had he lost touch with the specials occupying the marketplace? Had it been so long since he reflected among his brethren in the Courtyard? Was he so disconnected from the city and those he swore to protect that his effectiveness diminished?

Mentor felt it in his bones, weary and aching from the long nights. His age showed in every movement. His travels brought him to a waylaid residential district. Derelict homes on both sides were marred by overgrown bushes and cracked paint. Off the main road, the neighborhoods brightened, full of life and love compared to these.

He dropped to the sidewalk and started up the stoop. As he stepped cautiously, he kept his ear to the ground, which gave him the lay of the land. No noises emanated from within the property in question, a two-story locked in darkness. Mentor opened the door. His hand hovered over his hip and the Greystone tucked in the small hand-woven pouch—made by Soriya so long ago.

He wished she was with him to keep him company. Her youthful exuberance balanced his exhaustion, raised his spirits more than he had realized. More than anything, he wished he could make things right between them; find a way to bridge his feelings, his fears, with his words to make her understand.

You're not my parent!

He hadn't been much of one. He'd spent so many years pushing her to this day only to dismiss her at the first sign of trouble. He'd overreacted, of that there was no doubt. Never just the teacher, always more than he intended. He never meant to replace her lost parents, never wanted to fill that role.

It was a natural fit thanks to his own experience and those he left so long ago in the hopes of keeping them safe from the dangers hidden in the city. His daughter would have been older than Soriya, college bound. He wondered what she studied in school, what interested her, what excited her about the world? Part of him wished to reach out, to reconnect. But the work was too important, and he hoped someday she would understand that.

Soriya did. She wanted to help, to stand by his side. He pushed her away. He played the parent, overprotective and fearful of her every step to adulthood. Mentor wished only to keep her safe. No matter how prepared Soriya was for the role of the Greystone, the danger existed on all sides. The threats were not imagined.

The Minotaur was dangerous and capable of murder. He proved that much with the two cops. What if Soriya rushed into matters as she always did? What if she threw a joke instead of a punch and paid the price for her arrogance at the situation? He had already seen her injured. Could he live with sending his student to her death?

Foolish thoughts for a foolish old man. So foolish he barely noted his surroundings. Detectives had done their best with the scene at the site of the dead officers' final call. They'd combed the first floor and marked the living room as where the men met their end. The blood pooled along the rotted floorboards certainly painted that picture. More was spread along the base of the massive pile of furniture in the center of the room.

The only piece unaffected by the murders was a wide credenza, the tabletop pristine and empty. Mentor leaned over the surface, running his finger along the wood grain. The dust was thick except for in a few smaller areas.

This was his altar.

The trophies were gone now, as was the beast.

Or so Mentor thought. He was so lost in his wayward thoughts he failed to recognize the shadow in the room. Hot breath blew over him, causing the old man to turn to meet his company. He had been so worried about Soriya and her exuberance, Mentor had stumbled into a trap of his own making.

The Minotaur roared in anticipation of his next kill.

# Chapter Twenty-Six

The beast raged. Fists lashed out and struck fiercely but without focus. Its only aim was to demolish the threat in his midst.

Mentor dove under the blows. He raced in a wide arc around the furniture pile in the center of the room. He cursed beneath his breath to push his weary frame forward. The Minotaur had followed him, trailed his every movement. This was planned and executed flawlessly. The beast's intellect worried the fleeing figure.

Mentor didn't get far. The Minotaur swept the room with his bulging right arm, and furniture collapsed from the pyre. Debris scattered. Wood chips cut Mentor's bare flesh. It slowed his escape from the room enough for the creature to strike.

The blow slammed into his right side. Mentor flew across the corridor and crashed through the rotted paneling into the dining room. As he picked himself up from the ground, Mentor's hand jumped to his side. A stray board stabbed through his clothing just south of his ribs. Blood seeped from the corners, coloring his tan shirt in crimson.

"Damn."

Fingers squeezed the end of the board. His jaw clenched to hold back the scream. Then he pulled. The pain caused his body to tremble. His vision dotted and black clouds threatened to take over. He held firm, fighting through it. When his gaze cleared, the board was in hand.

And the Minotaur was barreling at him.

The beast's hand spread, and his enormous fingers ensnared Mentor like a great web. His momentum carried him further, through the dining room to the nearest wall and on. The weakened frame collapsed under the assault. Within moments, both smashed out the backside of the house.

They found themselves in a courtyard, a communal space for homes in the area. A well sat at the center, and there was a gazebo built around the stone structure. Walkways extended to each domicile with rows of bushes along the lawn to separate one from another.

Once outside, the Minotaur brought Mentor closer. His fingers, rough despite the fur covering them, dug into the old man's fresh wound. It joined dozens of minor cuts from their short trip. Scrapes decorated his cheeks and hands.

Mentor still held the wooden board and he seized the only opportunity left to him. He slammed down hard with the board. The jagged end connected with the Minotaur's shoulder and dug deep.

The monster cried out and tossed his captive aside. The battered figure skipped across the lawn like a stone, until he rolled to a stop just shy of the gazebo.

Every bone in his body ached. His muscles demanded a reprieve. He tried to stand, legs struggling for each inch. He refused to go down on his knees, refused to allow this to be his last night, not with Soriya's final words locked in his mind.

You're not my parent!

No, he wasn't. But he was her teacher, and the one lesson he hoped to instill in her was to never surrender. Not against one foe or an army. Surrender, admitting defeat, was never justified.

The Minotaur ripped the board loose from his shoulder. Deep red splattered along the overgrown grass. He threw the desperate weapon back at the house where it joined a multitude of splinters and ash from their impromptu escape.

He then turned to face his target once more.

There was no winning a physical battle. Mentor recognized the stakes of the conflict, and how wounded he was—the endless nights of searching did not help his situation. One recourse remained.

The stone.

It slid from the pouch to his hand. In the old days there would have been no hesitation. The Greystone's purpose was to protect Portents, to wipe out the monsters who threatened the city. When he started, the connection between man and stone was immutable—cohesive. Like an extension of him. Age had diminished his viability, and more will was required with each successive use.

Already drained, Mentor worried about the end result. For naught it turned out.

The stone's surface lit up in tune with the sky. The Minotaur, however, was prepared for the strike. He bellowed in revolt, then leaped aside as the lightning shot toward the earth. A second blow cascaded from the clear sky to no avail. The beast was too fast, too aware of the threat the stone presented.

By the time Mentor realized his precarious position in the yard, it was too late. A third strike hit too close, temporarily blinding the aged teacher.

The Minotaur took advantage of the moment. Mentor's right leg gave out under the power of the beast's hoof which connected below the knee. Pain wracked his weary bones as he fell. The stone remained in hand, though, and he focused everything he had left, every ounce of willpower and strength, through the powerful instrument.

The beast's mighty hand collapsed over his to stop him. Bones crushed and fingers snapped at the pressure of the monster's grip. The stone fell limply to the ground, followed quickly by Mentor's exhausted and useless body.

His scream filled the air, lost to the solitude of the night. Only one heard him, and he didn't care enough to let up his grip. The Minotaur merely towered over him, boundless anticipation in his black eyes.

# Chapter Twenty-Seven

She wanted to scream. She wanted to kick ass, punch, and bite at everyone and everything. To fight back against the indignity of it all. But Beth couldn't. Her mouth was gagged, a thick cloth tied tightly around her head. Her hands were bound together at the wrists, as were her ankles.

The punk kid with the overbite—Tony, he declared, begging her to repeat it—couldn't even be bothered to let her sit. She lay on the cold, dusty floor of the warehouse, while she stared at the back of a crate. Shuffling along the ground, careful to avoid loose nails sticking up from the surface, Beth made her way between the stacks and caught sight of her captor.

He rested casually along the edge of a crate, with a smirk on his face. Open boxes filled with cash and jewels surrounded him and she could tell it was all he could do not to dive into the riches of his endeavor for a swim. He didn't care how many had died to make it a reality.

How could she have been so stupid? She'd run off in anger at the lack of support from a girl she knew nothing about. That wasn't completely accurate though. Soriya was indeed a stranger, but she felt the connection between them, and moreover thought if anyone would stand against the violence overtaking the streets of Portents, it would be the feisty little teen. Soriya was lost in her own battle, however. She obsessed over a singular threat while everything else crashed down around them.

It wasn't her fault. She was trained to believe in the world a specific way, raised by a teacher instead of a parent—disciplined to achieve results instead of accepting that she would make mistakes along the way. Beth regretted her words and the sharp tone that divided them—almost as much as she did getting caught by the moron with the gun.

The door slid open to the warehouse, and a cool breeze rushed inside followed by three men. The first wore a tailored suit, tight in the shoulders. Perfectly trimmed black hair and a swagger completed the picture. She recognized him immediately from his picture in the paper.

Frank Domingo: head of the Domingo crime family. Alleged, Greg always said sarcastically. Everyone knew the truth though. They simply weren't able to pin it on the man.

"What the hell is this, Anthony?" Frank said. His two bodyguard bruisers fell back to bar the door from anyone else. It shut behind them and cut off the drips of rain starting to fall outside.

"Pop, just hear me out." The kid jumped down from the crate and clapped his hands excitedly.

"Where the hell are they?"

"Who?"

"Who, he says," Frank sneered, jaw clenched tight. "Those morons you work with."

"I sent them home," Tony mumbled. He shuffled closer to his father. "They'll be back tomorrow to go through everything. Figured you should be the first to—"

Frank slapped his son across the cheek. "You don't call me away from business. Not on an open line. Not spouting nonsense. And surely not mentioning multiple counts of armed robbery and murder."

"Pop," Tony said, rubbing at his reddened skin.

"Help like you I don't need, Anthony."

Tony slammed his hand against the nearest crate. "Would you listen for a change?"

Frank fixed his collar and sighed. "Say something worth listening to, boy."

"How about this?" His earnings glittered under the warehouse overhead lights. "All from one night. One night! And that device Eddie came up with?"

"Eddie?"

"I know, Pop, I know." Tony left his old man behind for a nearby bag resting on a pile. He removed a single object, a circular device with a display on the front. He held it out for Frank. "He's done it though. I can't figure out how but with this electronic lock-pick thingie, we can own the city. Bank vaults, safety deposit boxes, the works."

"Money," Frank spat before his lip curled. He took the mechanism in hand. His wide eyes washed over every component. "It's all money to you."

"Not you?"

"Show some respect." The hand went up, and Tony cringed from the blow that never arrived. Frank set the device aside, then loomed over the goods collected from their heists. "What you're talking about could give us access to corporate records, every black book and dirty secret from every city official. I'm talking low-level paper pushers in the transit authority all the way to the mayor's office."

Tony cheered. His hands slapped his father's back playfully despite the disgust on the man's face. His approval was all that mattered to the ambitious crook.

While they chatted, Beth squirmed against her bindings. The delay offered her a chance to escape, and she wasn't going to wait for another to magically appear. She rolled back, trying to position herself against the edge of a crate so she could slice through the ties along her wrists, when a nail slid into her bicep.

Cries cut through her gag, and Beth lurched away from the sharp pain. Her body slammed into another crate, which jostled the pile. Not enough to cause it to fall, but more than sufficient to draw attention.

"Anthony?"

Tony's hand covered his brow. "There was one small hitch, Pop."

Frank scowled. "Of course there was. Of course there was. What?"

The punk approached, and Beth struggled to slide away. She didn't get far before his hands were on her again. He pulled her to her feet and dropped her on the crate.

Frank's eyes filled with anger. "Are you kidding me? We've been talking and you've had her in the damn room? Are you a complete moron or just actively trying to ruin the family?"

Tony stammered, struggling to return to the pride he'd displayed mere moments earlier. If Beth's arm wasn't in such pain from the nail, she might have laughed.

"Why didn't you kill her?" Frank asked. "You, my trigger-happy loose cannon. Why?"

"I was about to," Tony muttered. He rubbed at his neck. "I was. Then you showed and—"

"The truth, Anthony."

Tony shrugged. "Come on, Pop. I just wanted to have some fun with her first is all. That's all."

"I'll give you some fun."

The voice echoed in the warehouse from above. All turned to the second floor landing overlooking the entire operation. The bodyguards at the door reacted instinctively, their weapons in hand and ready for orders. Soriya snared every gaze as she stepped into the light.

She leaped over the railing and landed next to Beth. She stopped there, unmoving. A quiet glare caught the captive in the room, confident and unafraid.

"Anthony?"

"Don't look at me, Pop," Tony replied.

"That's right, Pop," Soriya said. Beth tried to stop her, to protect her. Soriya silenced her with a smirk. "Look at me instead."

Frank shook his head. A finger raised, ushering the men by the door closer. "Get rid of her."

"I'll show her out, Pop." Tony stopped them. He smiled and slicked back his hair. "That and more, girlie. But that's what you want, isn't it?"

"Absolutely," Soriya said. She clenched her fist tight behind her back. "Don't you?"

Tony reached for her arm. Soriya snatched his wrist inches from her body and his smile faded. "What are you—?"

She snapped his hand back, and bones separated beneath the skin. Tony fell, cradling the limp appendage and screaming in pain.

"Anthony!"

"She... She broke my wrist!"

Soriya pushed him aside. His head slammed against a box. "Wasn't that fun?"

"Shoot her already!" Frank yelled.

The warrior raced out of sight, ducking between crates and away from Beth in an effort to keep her out of the line of fire. Gunshots followed her. Bullets slammed against the goods piled throughout the space.

"I can't get a bead," one commented. He leaned left to track the figure moving like a shadow. Soriya darted from corner to corner without pause. He looked right, then back again, all in seconds and every time he could clearly see Soriya run circles around them.

"She's everywhere!" the second bellowed over the rain of gunshots.

"Nope," Soriya announced, jumping up behind them. "Right here."

Her fist plowed across the face of the still shooting goon. Bullets battered the ceiling as he fell back. Then she kicked out, and caught the second in the gut. As he bent forward from the blow, Soriya drove her elbow down on the neck. He slammed into the ground and didn't move to get back up. The first struggled to recover from her uppercut. She didn't give him the chance. A kick across the face sent him to join his partner in dreamland.

She smiled at the gagged Beth. Their shared joy faded when Tony popped up, desperate to escape her wrath. He continued to cradle his broken wrist.

"Stay away from me," he cried. "Stay away!"

He turned to flee but slammed face first into a metal support beam. His nose crunched to the left and his eyes rolled behind his lids. He collapsed to the ground.

Frank had nearly made it to the door while she worked on the others. Unfortunately for him, his men had failed in their assigned role, and Soriya beat him to the exit. He skidded to a halt, almost falling from the effort.

"Nuh-uh," she chided as she wagged her finger at him.

"You little—"

"That's not exactly the way to win me over either."

He led with a punch, slow and awkward. She sidestepped the blow and knocked him aside. He slammed into the cartons of goods and crashed to the floor. Dust covered his tailored suit. Soriya grabbed his ankle and dragged him along the wooden boards back to the center of the warehouse where Beth continued to wait.

"What are you doing?" Frank said.

She dropped the mobster and removed the gag over Beth's lips, then loosened the knots locking her wrists in place. The binding slipped to the ground.

"They hurt you?" Soriya asked. The rope surrounding her ankles joined the rest. Relief returned as Beth stood and stretched.

"I'm okay."

"Good."

Beth smirked and patted her friend's shoulder. "This is the part where I apologize for speaking out of turn earlier, right?"

"Couldn't hurt."

"Soriya—"

The teen waved her down. "You weren't wrong."

"Wasn't my place."

They shared a smile between them. As they reconnected, Frank attempted to shift away. His slow crawling did little to hide his actions. Soriya cut him off. She snatched his ankle and pulled his leg up. His face slapped the floor, and he spit at the dust surrounding him.

"Let me go. Do you know who I am?"

"The bad guy," Soriya answered. She lifted him by his collar, helping him to his feet. "Now apologize to the lady."

"Are you nuts?" Soriya grabbed a finger and started to bend it back until he yelped. "Okay, okay! I apologize, all right?"

"Not even close," Beth said. Her fist slammed into his gut, followed by a swift knee to the face before she allowed him to collapse with a thud.

"Feel better?"

Beth shook her sore hand, unable to deny the excitement pounding in her chest. "Much. Now what?"

Soriya pointed to the exit. "Come on. There's someone you should meet."

"What about them?"

They scanned the wreckage of the warehouse, including the four men writhing on the floor. Soriya reached for a cord of rope.

"Call it in."

Beth found her phone with her belongings on top of a nearby pile of crates. "What are you going to do?"

Her smile spread from ear to ear. "Oh, I have an idea or two."

# Chapter Twenty-Eight

The long night just got longer. It started with statements. Another killer finally behind bars had left only paperwork that stacked three inches high on his desk. There were requisition forms, lab requests, and evidence to catalog. The actual police work was the easy part for Greg Loren.

Three hours of interviews left him running on empty. He grabbed Pratchett and the pair hit the streets for some food. No sooner had they arrived at Gino's for their world-famous meatball hoagie—Pratchett's opinion, not some random organization testing the quality of every meatball sandwich on the planet—when the call came through from dispatch.

Shots had been fired outside the diamond exchange near the Knoll. That and more. From their position uptown they could see the flashing lights in the distance, hear the screeching of tires, and the rending of metal on metal from multiple collisions.

A disaster zone was the only way to describe it. It looked like something out of an over-the-top action flick—unreal even in the midst of the affair. Loren and Pratchett stuck to the perimeter, unable to wade through the mass of humanity coming and going from the three-block radius surrounding the exchange.

They needn't have bothered trying anyway. Moments after vacating their vehicle, dispatch rang through once more. Pratchett answered but quickly handed the receiver to the senior partner of the pair. Loren's words were sharp, his sandwich cold and unsatisfying at his side instead of filling his gullet. He perked up when he heard the details left for him by the anonymous tip.

Sirens rang out from the cruiser. Pratchett jostled the car with each turn. He raced through intersections without glancing at opposing traffic. Loren snapped his eyes shut. His hands shook too much to work a cigarette to his lips.

Filthy habit.

They arrived near the docks less than ten minutes later. Loren checked his phone for confirmation of the address given. He also looked for word from Beth. There was nothing—not a text or a call of concern—nothing from the woman he wanted to marry. It was silly to think about. She had never been one to interrupt his work. She knew about the frequent comings and goings, as well as the late hours he managed on the overnight shift.

Still, it irked him. He enjoyed hearing her voice, listening to her serene tones, even through the scratchy speaker on his out-of-date cell. More than anything, he needed an answer. It wasn't complicated. He loved her, she loved him. They hadn't killed each other in their shared apartment. Instead, they thrived. Marriage seemed logical, a reasonable next step. She'd agreed to an extent, and accepted the proposal, but was unable to commit to a date. Had he been wrong to ask?

Murder made more sense to him somehow.

They parked outside the front entrance of Domingo's in the shipyards. The warehouse was used as a supply depot for the many enterprising businesses of Frank Domingo. Businesses was a laughable term. The man was involved in mob activities, illegal gambling, drugs, theft and more, though the department had yet to make any of the charges stick over the years.

Pratchett notified Central of their approach. The door was open, so Loren took the lead. His gun pointed the way as he edged through the door. Darkness radiated throughout the warehouse.

"This is the police!" he called. He entered. Behind him, Pratchett's shadow swallowed the light outside. "There was a call for assistance from this location. We are coming in!"

No response. Nothing but the chitter of mice in the distance and the rumbling of loose paper blowing in the wind from an open window on the second-floor landing on the far side of the structure.

"Pratchett?"

The lumbering officer reached for his radio and called in support. Procedure demanded they head back until help arrived so they could make a proper sweep of the place. Loren, however, continued forward.

"Detective?" Pratchett said, as curious as his colleague.

"Try and find the lights," Loren said. His knee slammed into a crate. He fell back a step, then rubbed at the bruise earned through his idiocy for not finding a light switch earlier. "I don't need to knock over the Phantom Zone projector accidentally."

"The what?"

Loren sighed. "The lights, Pratchett. Make it snappy."

"I'm on it," he replied. He snickered as he hugged tight to the wall in his search. He let his phone guide him, and the flashlight app illuminated the far wall.

Loren rolled his eyes. He followed Pratchett's lead this time. The phone was an obvious solution he always overlooked. Technology was for other people. Hell, he was lucky he knew how to turn on his computer let alone find the word processor and the proper templates to complete his workload.

The light offered a thin beam of illumination, and he scanned the area. Crates were stacked in rows wide enough to allow a forklift to pass through, though it would have been a tight squeeze. All were marked with the Domingo family name in big bold letters. Red tags placed on the sides accounted for their contents. Booze for the club downtown. Tables and chairs for the rental company. Domingo had his hand in too much and none of it was above board, no matter how many books he cooked.

Something flitted along the ground halfway through the warehouse. A piece of paper, but it wasn't the standard white—it was green. Loren moved closer and tucked his gun away. He lifted the curious object from its landing place on top of a pile of crates marked for Domingo's collection service. He rolled the smooth paper between his fingers.

Money.

His phone trailed its path along the ground. More notes were scattered along the stained hardwood flooring. "What is this? Pratchett, I think—"

The loud click boomed in the warehouse. Every light in the place came to life at once. Loren snapped his eyes shut to block the brightness so he could adjust to the sudden shift.

"A little warning next time?"

"Detective?"

Loren turned for the door. The tall blur eventually came into focus. Pratchett stood motionless, his gaze up and over the confused detective. He pointed, and Loren followed the silent directive without a word.

Hanging from the landing by a thick rope knotted around their chests were four individuals. All dangled upside down, their cheeks flush from the blood rushing to their heads as they limply spun in midair.

"Well, how about that?" Loren chuckled.

Pratchett joined him. He removed his hat and swiped at his brow. "Is that—?"

Loren nodded. "Frankie Domingo and his inept son. Oh, and look at this, Pratchett. We have Seth Mancini and Donnie Fiorri too—a pair of knuckle-draggers implicated in quite a few less-than-savory incidents over the years if I remember correctly." The jubilant detective peered up at the gagged mobsters, who screamed into the cloth jammed in their mouths. "I have to thank you for leaving the cash in the open for us, Frank. My captain is going to love this."

"Should I cut them down?"

"No way," Loren said. He took a seat on a nearby crate, suddenly grateful at backup's delay. "I'm enjoying the view."

Pratchett smiled. "Who do you think did this?"

"No idea. Maybe I have an angel looking out for me."

# Chapter Twenty-Nine

The call took time they didn't have to begin with. It was important to wait, necessary to make sure the Domingo threat stayed contained with everything else they had to deal with. Beth was insistent, but she didn't need to be.

Soriya agreed with her. After watching the woman die outside the diner, after being pulled into the conflict she could never understand, she had to see it through to the end. She had to make sure the villains got what they deserved. Plus, she'd made a promise to the young man—a promise to be reciprocated upon her return.

Beth was quiet for the journey. Apologies were shared, but beyond that there was silence over what their separation had wrought. Answers came, insight into one problem on both ends, but they came at a cost. The demure elder of the pair rubbed at her arm delicately. She trembled when Soriya shifted too close to her on their solemn walk to Lowtown.

She was spooked and rightfully so. Tony Domingo had that effect on Soriya as well. It was in his eyes, ravenous and craving more than he would ever receive in this life. She would make sure he didn't, if only for her frightened friend.

Beth stopped across the street from the apartment. Soriya's curious look trailed her finger as she pointed to the shattered window on the third floor. A shadow danced inside across the light of a lone lamp illuminating the space.

"Your doing?"

Soriya shrugged, unable to hold back her contentment. She led the pair to the front door and up the steps. Their hurried pace took the stairs two at a time. The door opened under her palm. It stopped at a series of obstacles which barred it from completing the arc into the room. Three backpacks and one suitcase sat in a heap and Soriya kicked them aside, allowing Beth a clear path inside.

In the back corner of the living room, the young man rushed to jam his precious belongings in another bag. He bent over a bookcase, shoveling items in, his crack on display for the new arrivals.

"This is the guy?" Beth asked, her eyebrow cocked in surprise. Soriya's hand went to her brow. She rolled her eyes and a slight nod escaped her.

The man stopped. His head fell to his chest, and he cursed under his breath. He turned to face them, fingers crossed on both hands. "Please don't let it be you. Please don't let it be... Damn."

"Yeah," Soriya said. "Not the best host. Beth, this is...?"

"You didn't catch his name last time?"

The man shook his head. "Too busy with the punching and the yelling."

Soriya sighed. "It's a gift."

Beth shifted between the glaring opponents. She held out her hand. "Beth."

The man sniggered in disbelief, then dropped his open bag. He took her hand and gave it a soft shake before letting go.

"Eddie. Charmed, I'm sure." He retrieved the bag and the zipper hummed closed to secure the contents. It settled along his shoulder, and he tightened the straps to keep it in place. "Now if you'll excuse me."

Soriya blocked the door with her arms across her chest. "Not a chance."

Eddie huffed. The hammer was in his belt. The handle poked out from under his over-sized shirt. He lowered the bag and cracked his knuckles.

"That's probably not a good idea," Beth warned.

The fool didn't listen. He charged at Soriya like a bull. Both arms extended in his rush, hoping to overwhelm the trained warrior with surprise. Soriya ducked under his reach, then snapped her hand up to catch him by the throat. Her momentum caused him to leave the ground. He kicked out like a child throwing a tantrum.

"Let me go!"

She dropped him on the couch. His hand immediately rubbed at his neck. The wound was negligible, barely a red mark on his pasty skin. Pettiness overtook her, and she swatted the hand away, unwilling to play into his desire for pity.

"You owe me."

"I told you where to find Tony and Frank," Eddie replied. His face was inches from her, demanding to be heard. Satisfaction caused his lips to curl. "I just gave you the biggest bust Portents has ever seen. You're welcome."

For all Soriya knew, it was true. The Domingos were a lost aspect of her training, a threat not from supernatural means but the darker side of humanity shining through. Part of why Mentor had warned her away from making connections, their complications and the eternal gray area created by others in Portents.

"I think that makes us more than even," Eddie continued, tired of her failure to respond. "Now, I'm getting outta here while I have the chance."

He tried to stand, but Soriya's hand on his chest pushed him back into the couch. His eyes filled with anger and he rose again. The same result followed. Soriya forcibly controlled his fate. When the futile exercise entered its third round, Beth stepped into the mix.

"Please stop," she called. "It's embarrassing."

Eddie sank into the cushion. "Don't you people get it? This is my chance. The Domingos are done in this town. What I'm hearing already? What you did to them? No one will ever respect the name again. If I leave now? If I get the hell away from their mess, I can start over. Free and clear."

"No," Beth answered, to Soriya's surprise. The blond researcher's fear from earlier had disappeared and her confidence returned.

"No?" Eddie scoffed. "Lady, I don't—"

Beth cocked her fist. "What was that about respect?"

Eddie shrank. He tucked his knees in to his chest and raised his hands in defense. "Sorry. I'm sorry!"

"That's better." Beth caught Soriya's grin. She tried to hide her own laughter at the man's reaction. "Now, from what I've heard, you owe Soriya."

"And I think the bruises make up the difference. I don't owe anyone but myself. Same as everyone else."

"Is that how you view yourself, Eddie? The same as everyone else? After what you've done?" Soriya recalled his remorse, the guilt that had sent him reeling from the diner scene. From the dead strewn about the street thanks to his creations. "You're not, Eddie."

"You don't know me," he grumbled, head to his knees. "You don't know anything about me."

Beth read the look and leaned closer. "I think I do. And I'll prove it to you."

"Forget it," Eddie said. He kicked his legs out and jumped to his feet. He pushed Beth aside in his haste and made for the open door. "I'm not—"

When he turned for his freedom, he met Soriya's fist head on. Her punch, a jarring right cross, slammed into his left cheek. His eyes rolled back in their sockets, and his body surrendered to the sudden impact. He crashed to the ground. The coffee table snapped to pieces beneath him.

Beth glared at her. "Soriya!"

"What?"

"A little overkill?"

Soriya stared at the unconscious man between them and shrugged. "At least it will be quieter."

# Chapter Thirty

A soft hum filled the room. Beeps in steady rhythm accompanied the background noise. Monitors spiked and numbers shifted. An IV dripped steadily. The symphony gave them something to focus on other than the quiet of their entrance—and the dying man they came to visit.

Soriya stood in the back corner. Her comfort level had fallen through the floor when they entered the hospital. This wasn't her place, not part of her training. She was a child who had lost everything. Standing so close to another death, witnessing that loss firsthand and without a hand to hold, was too much for her.

Any trepidation on her part, however, did little to deter their arrival. Soriya had snuck them through security, which had been a feat considering the dead weight slung over her shoulder. No one noted their presence, no one questioned their place in the hospital—except Soriya, who had more than a few but kept silent. She may have been completely uncomfortable with the situation, but she never stopped, never turned away from Beth—they had earned each other's trust over the long night.

Eddie slumped in the chair next to the hospital bed. His head fell along his left shoulder. Drool ran from his bottom lip and soaked the fabric of his shirt. His cheek was a blue and purple stain, a gift from Soriya's sudden blow. It was not exactly the best way to win him over, but that had become Beth's job.

When Eddie stirred, both jumped from their positions in the room. All thoughts, dark and lonely, faded as they each pulled back to the present. Eddie's hand immediately ran to his cheek. His eyes struggled to open, jarred awake once he realized he was no longer in his apartment.

"Huh? Where?"

"Welcome back," Soriya said before Beth could stop her.

The young woman's very presence was enough to cause Eddie to flinch. He winced at the touch of his cheek, yet continued to prod the wound. "What the hell did you do to me?"

A finger settled along Beth's lips. "Quiet down, Eddie."

Soriya shifted closer. Her hands ran across the back of his chair, and she leaned over the frightened man. "Yeah, Eddie. Before I have to do it again. I won't be as gentle this time."

"You have serious emotional problems, lady. You know that?"

"You should talk."

Beth couldn't help but grin. When she looked at Soriya, she could see the maturity about her. It was in the way she saw the world, the way she gleaned every detail. But in truth she was only fifteen and very much a child at heart—especially when it came to dealing with Eddie.

"Can we move on?" Beth asked. She kept her tone calm and the volume low. Shadows danced in the hall. Their time was limited at best. She needed them on the same page while they had the chance. "Please?"

Soriya nodded and backed off. She was clearly irritated but was unwilling to argue the point. The teen circled the hospital bed for the opposite wall near the windows.

Eddie leaned in his chair. His elbows rested on his thighs. "What is this?"

Eyes flitted between the respirator and the monitors decorating the space. From his vantage he failed to note the occupant of the bed, only the shape of the man resting among them.

"Don't you recognize your handiwork?"

"My—?" The young man shook his head and stood. He was quick to make the identification. A hand fell on the hilt of the hammer on his belt. "The old man."

"Hephaestus," Soriya clarified.

"Who?"

"The forger." She pointed to the tool his fingers still grazed. "The hammer was his for centuries."

"What?" Eddie scoffed. "Centuries?"

Beth nodded. "He's thousands of years old, Eddie."

"Yeah, right." The man's brow creased and his hands waved away the claim. He pointed to Soriya. "I knew she was nuts, but it must be contagious. There's no such thing as immortals."

"I'm telling you the truth, Eddie," Beth said. "Accept it or don't."

Eddie grumbled, then he ran his hands through his hair. "Okay. Say I buy that. So he just decided spend eternity slumming it at an antique shop? Get outta here."

"He didn't see it that way." Beth fell silent. Her eyes washed over the man in the bed. His ruffled hair was white as the snow. What little could be seen anyway from the bandages wrapped along the right side where the bullet had creased his skull. His chest rose and fell in syncopated rhythm, aided by the machines at his side. His hands, worn and calloused from centuries of physical labor, lay flat and empty—something she imagined happened quite rarely thanks to his time with the hammer.

So many had suffered in Portents of late. So many poor souls had been caught in the mayhem that Greg liked to label as the city's specialty. She hated to agree with him. Her love for Portents blinded her to the pain tucked around every corner and locked in every shadow. Hephaestus came to help, as he had always done in his role—only to end up like this.

Beth let out a long breath. The weight of her words was measured. "I know some of his neighbors. I spoke with them after what happened. He lived at that shop. Toiled day and night. Not for profit. Not for greed. Only for others. Building. Repairing. He tried to help where he could."

Soriya drove the point home, once more pointing to the hammer. "Because of that."

Eddie held the mythical tool out across his palms. "He can have it back. I never wanted the damn thing. Don't know why I took it in the first place. Like it just called to me for some reason. I never should have listened. It's brought me nothing but misery."

He moved for the side of the bed, and reached for the old man's hand. Beth stopped him. "No. It isn't that simple."

"Why the hell not?" Eddie said. One of the monitors spiked. The old man struggled for breath but only for a moment. Even if the hammer returned to him, its use would be limited by the man's condition. Eddie realized the truth, as he caught the glare from both women in the room. He turned to Soriya. "You need it, don't you? You need me to make something for you."

"Yes."

"What?"

"A weapon," Beth answered. "To stand against a great threat."

Soriya cleared her throat, arms across her chest. "The Minotaur."

"What?" Eddie cried. He nearly stumbled into the bed. Disbelief grew. Beth had hoped to ease Eddie into the true city, to peel back the layers starting with Hephaestus and then slowly reveal the truth about the monster in their midst. The young man could only take so much, hear so much, before sliding backwards. He came from a grounded reality. He witnessed humanity from a lower level—seeing them at their worst more often than not. But they were still human.

"He's a threat, Eddie," Beth said. "One who can harm more innocent people."

"That's not my problem."

"Look out for someone other than yourself for once in your life," Soriya interrupted, hands balled up into fists—but she showed more restraint than Beth imagined possible from their time spent together. They both needed Eddie on board with this. They required the hammer to stop the Minotaur.

"Prove yourself," Beth pressed. "Eddie, Soriya told me that's what you wanted, what you've always wanted. Prove to yourself that you're worth a second chance."

He clutched the hammer tightly. His sullen eyes fell on the old man struggling for another moment of life. He turned away and shuffled to the corner of the room.

"I'm not worth it," Eddie said with a bowed head. "This guy you're describing, this Hephaestus? He knew what the hell he was doing. All I have is his hammer."

"Look what you've been able to do with it," Beth replied. "Look at the doors it's opened in your mind."

Soriya stepped before him. "Call it psychic energy passed on over the centuries. Call it a transference of sorts. Everything this man did, he did with that tool. The hammer stood with him, almost learning from him like an apprentice. Now all that, everything accumulated in his life, has been passed to you."

Beth nodded. "You can do this, Eddie. You have to do this."

A frustrated groan escaped his lips. "The cops will be all over the warehouse," he muttered. "I'll need a new place to work."

Suddenly, it was Beth's turn to be crestfallen. She'd been so concentrated on winning Eddie over, she never considered their next step. She had no idea where they might go to build the weapon Soriya needed to face her challenge.

"Where?" she asked, more to herself than anyone else. She ran through the landmarks that dotted Portents. "I didn't think of that. Soriya? Where can we go?"

Surprise met her. Of all the reactions she expected, the smirk on the teen's face was not even close to making the list. The answer rested in that curled lip, and it caused Beth to chuckle at not having asked Soriya right away.

"I know a place."

# Chapter Thirty-One

The sun set behind the towers in the city. The sky was a tapestry of pinkish hues spread toward the horizon. The shining sphere fading in the sky burned with a red fury as it strained to remain visible for a moment longer, to be free to roam for a second more.

It was the most beautiful thing the Minotaur had ever witnessed. He sat in awe of it, this picture-perfect atmosphere, the beauty amid the despair and disgust that swept through the alleys and the gutters of Portents. He drank it in and his chest swelled at the majesty behind the act—one so easily taken for granted by those above the surface.

They had no idea of the darkness of the labyrinth. Nor what it was like to never see daylight, only the dim blaze of the torches dotting the walls of his prison. Minos tortured the beast—he constantly prodded him to prove his worth. Now the Minotaur had. All except for one challenge.

The clouds changed in the vanishing light, thickening and darkening in the twilight. They pushed quickly from the south. The rumbling of a storm threatened to ruin the serenity of the dusk. When the shadows of night arrived, the Minotaur collected the trophies he'd accumulated since his arrival, unable to leave them behind. He strapped his captive over his shoulder. The old man was bound in chains in case he stirred during the trek. The home may have worked to his advantage when tackling the teacher, but the student was craftier—the true threat of the two. Careful planning brought him to a construction site near a quiet intersection north of the downtown bustle.

Leaving the beauty of the evening sky behind, the beast huffed with anticipation. Everything was ready. All that remained was the invitation.

The old man continued to sleep. His wounds weren't life threatening, but the beating had taken its toll. The years had not been kind to the warrior turned teacher. The Minotaur recognized the mark of each battle—the scar along his left cheek, the bruises dotting his arms. He respected each wound, respected the hard-earned victory that came with each confrontation. It wasn't enough this time, however.

The girl was the challenge—the obstacle that barred his path to freedom in this new kingdom. It was time to end the game.

The Minotaur hung the old man from his chains over a third-floor girder. The crew had gone home for the night, leaving the lot vacant. The chains restricted the teacher's movements. He was locked in place, hovering in the air. The Minotaur refused to let him take part in what came next. His lone role was as bait.

The creature shook the chains to stir his captive awake. The old man's eyes fluttered, and spittle ran from his lip. Recognition came in an instant, terror swallowed in the hope of escape. Chains jangled, and the man's battered frame swung in the chasm of the construction site. All to no avail. There was no escape. His binding was too tight. Minutes of struggle ended with bitter defeat and heavy breathing. The teacher swayed, but never lost sight of the monster at the base of the site.

"This doesn't have to go further."

The Minotaur huffed and heavy plumes of steam rose against the cool evening air. He circled his captive, watching the man's movements.

"You must see you do not belong here," the teacher continued. "In this time or place. I can help you. Find your way back. The labyrinth—"

A fist slammed out. Steel girders flew loose of the closest pile. They clattered angrily. Echoes rose through the construction site, which caused pigeons to scatter in fear.

The labyrinth was not an option. It offered neither peace nor freedom. It was a trap, a never-ending nightmare he'd spent centuries enduring. Returning meant surrendering to the expectations of Minos—facing the hate in the king's eyes whenever forced to gaze upon his illegitimate child. The labyrinth was nothing more than a step backward. This new world was his by right. He earned the chance to prove that much.

The old man took a sharp breath. "This place is not for you. You cannot stay here. I can—"

The Minotaur slammed his foot to the concrete base. It cut the teacher off, silencing him. With the return of the quiet, the beast used his incredible strength to release the chain holding his prisoner. Mentor descended slowly until he met the beast's eyes. Then the Minotaur tied the chains once more and locked the teacher in place before him.

"You have to listen to me..."

The Minotaur shook his head. He reached into his pile of trophies. The uniforms of the officers, their ineffectual weapons, and more. He returned to his captive with the small device carried by every individual he'd viewed over his time in the city. The beast balanced it on two fingers and the display beamed in Mentor's face.

"CALL. HER."

The old man's eyes grew wide with fear. It pleased the Minotaur to no end. "You... you can speak? That's not possible. Nothing in the lore mentioned it."

The Minotaur edged closer. "CALL. HER."

"I won't."

The beast snatched the chains with his free hand. Fingers squeezed, and the old man screamed. His bellows rose to meet the beauty of the night—completing the image in the mythic creature's mind.

"YOU. WILL."

# Chapter Thirty-Two

Their winding path took them south. Downtown faded; spires shifted to residential neighborhoods, then blurred into the manufacturing districts of a bygone era. A car would have made the journey faster. It would have eased their weary bones. It might have even stopped some of the complaining—mostly from Eddie, who never let a block pass without some mention of his aching whatever—but Soriya had tossed the idea aside. She didn't need more questions or another soul involved. Two players, novices in the world of the true city, were already too many.

The complaints turned out to be the better part of the deal. Beth's questioning was voracious. Each new building sparked a line of inquiry that carried them further away from the bustling metropolis. They stemmed from discomfort. Beth was the knowledgeable one, the scholar born and raised on what made Portents tick. How things came to be and where the most important events occurred.

Which was why she stopped short when they reached a plant at the end of Bennett Lane. It stretched into a large yard filled with city trucks, surrounded by chain-link fence. The name OBELISK STEEL adorned the edifice, the letters weathered and worn. It had clearly been neglected for far too long. The K on the sign tilted to its side, leaning so heavily on the S, it threatened to fall completely.

"Soriya," Beth chimed, another question on her lips. She had another story of the past ready to be shared. It was all the teen could do not to scream. "This steel mill has been shut down for years. They moved production overseas as a cost-cutting measure. Portents used to be a manufacturing giant in its day."

Eddie scoffed, eyebrow cocked. "Read that in a book?"

"Wrote it actually," Beth said with pride. "Four of them."

Eddie paused and cocked a thumb to the scholar. "She have a point?"

Soriya ignored them and waved them forward. "It's this way."

Beth sighed loudly to catch her attention. It did little to slow Soriya down. Eddie laughed. "I get the feeling she's not listening to you."

Soriya unlatched the shoddy gate. Squatters had long since clipped the lock. Chain-link rattled as she opened the way for the others. They entered warily—their recent tribulations made them cautious. It was a smart approach, the way Mentor would have wanted it. Something, though, told her the time for caution was coming to an end.

The plant floor extended the length of a football field with smelting equipment dismantled and piled along the back wall. Conveyor belts lay in disrepair, cracked and shattered from age. Stations remained set with minor equipment for refinement, the entire operation covered in the dust of age—lost to the past as much as Beth was.

She stopped near the entrance, and the double doors threatened to slam her back outside. Soriya held firm to keep it from happening. Just inside the room there was a dedication posted on the wall—a photo of a man with a thick mane of hair and crimson eyes hung above a placard that read NATHANIEL EVANS.

"Evans?" Beth muttered. "What wasn't he involved in?"

Eddie cut between them before Soriya could respond. "You mean like the big tower? That Evans? That family always acts like they own the city."

"You'd be surprised."

"So will you," Soriya called to usher them deeper into the plant. "Come on."

Their journey took them through the dregs of the manufacturing floor. Instead of pristine equipment and assembly lines filled with finished products for retail, there was only decay and rot. Garbage had settled in a thin layer along the floor. Sleeping bags in makeshift tents hid beneath towering machines. Welding tools, laser cutting centers, inspection stations and more were scattered across the room.

"There's nothing here," Beth remarked.

Soriya smirked, inches from a junction box attached to the wall cutting the plant in half. It wasn't dusty or neglected like the rest. A single glyph marked the middle—a small torch with a flame rising above.

"Then you're not looking closely enough."

Rather than opening the faceplate, Soriya pushed the box in and turned it clockwise. As it reached a full ninety degrees, the hidden mechanism clicked. The wall shifted, sinking to the floor, and a staircase came into view. It led them down into the dark.

Beth's jaw dropped open, unable to find the words. Soriya pulled her ahead. Eddie shuffled along behind with indifference.

"What is this?" Beth uttered, her gaze struggling to capture everything about the place.

"Didn't you find it curious Hephaestus chose Portents to spend his days? What smith works without his forge?"

The stairs opened up to a whole new world. The forge rested in the center, cold and empty. Sketches were pinned along corkboards. Various molds sat on tables. Scrap lined the left-hand wall, while tools decorated the right. There were anvils set up to better refine the work and presses to roll out the material. No dust. No decay. Like something stolen directly from the past and transplanted in the city.

"Incredible," Beth breathed. "This is... How did I not know about this?"

Soriya's hand fell on her shoulder. "We can't know everything, Beth. Makes for a better journey."

She patted the hand and smiled. "You're a smart woman, Soriya."

"I had a good teacher."

A phone rang in response. It startled the trio, but they quickly adjusted. Sudden changes had become their new norm. Beth removed the device from her pocket, but the number on the screen was unknown to her.

"Hello?"

"Why don't we take a look around," Soriya said to Eddie.

"Like we have a clue what we're looking for," he grumbled.

Soriya slapped the back of his head. "Shut up and help me."

"Soriya." Beth's hand stopped Soriya from joining Eddie in his travels. The teen turned to the phone held out between them. Sullen eyes met her.

"What is it, Beth?"

"I... I think..." She covered the receiver. "I think it's your teacher."

"Mentor?"

Beth nodded. The confused Soriya took the phone yet hesitated to answer. Was he more upset with her? Had he found out about the run-in with the Domingos or her involvement with the chaos at the diamond exchange?

Or was he calling to forgive her? To tell her the monster was thwarted and it was safe to come home? She didn't know which option was worse.

"Hello?"

"Little one." His voice came through the speaker clearly. No static. Yet he sounded pained, and there was a strain behind each word.

"What is it?" she asked. "What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry. I had no choice," he said. "I failed."

In the background, a voice boomed like thunder. "TELL. HER."

"Mentor?"

"The construction site at Tamerlin and Andrews." His voice became more distant, lost to background noise on the line.

"What?" she called into the phone. Her concern drew Beth back from her anxious wandering through the forge. "Tamerlin and Andrews? What has he done to you? What—?"

The line went dead without another word.

"Mentor!"

"Soriya? What's going on?" Beth ran over. Eddie followed at his snail's pace.

Soriya's eyes watered, and she swiped at them before turning to greet her companions. A sharp breath calmed her as much as it could. She handed the phone back to its rightful owner. "He has him. The Minotaur has Mentor. I have to go."

"Hold on," Beth said. "We're not ready. Eddie hasn't even started."

The risks were obvious. She was unprepared for a physical confrontation, but that was the only play left to her. No matter what the bruises still covering her body yelled. The beast would not rest, would not stop, until he met his challenge.

"I have no choice, Beth. Mentor's all I have," she declared and started up the stairs. "I have to save him."

# Chapter Thirty-Three

Soriya departed, head down. The posture failed to match the boisterous wonder she had brought with her in every conversation, every interaction since their first encounter. It saddened Beth, who could do little but watch in silence as the young woman took to the hidden stairs for the manufacturing plant above and the city beyond. She had her role to play and a job to accomplish. One made more pressing by the taking of her teacher, her guardian, and so much more if Beth was correct in her assumptions, though Soriya would never cop to the fact.

She hoped to keep her there for a second more, hoped to find some words of encouragement—some sage wisdom to raise the battle-worn teenager's spirits for the struggle to come. Unfortunately, time was against them.

Eddie walked the depths of the hidden forge. He catalogued each mechanism, the hammer clutched tight to his side. One step carried him forward, then he trailed back, lost in the mess of the centuries-old workshop of his predecessor. Concern filled his every stray glance in her direction—and the stairs behind her. The pressure of their dilemma ate at him.

He wasn't ready for this—none of them were. Yet they had no choice. The point was made even clearer when Beth's phone chimed loudly from her pocket. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to swallow the exhaustion creeping up from the long night. She swiped at the screen to read the message displayed.

It was from Greg. A short text but an earnest one, with only three typos—a new record for him. His usual worry opened the message but quickly shifted to the news she had been waiting for. She appreciated it, even if the information added to their burden. She replied as much, letting him know she was fine without going into details.

She wanted to tell him the truth. More than that, she wished Greg was by her side at that very moment to help her through the shock of the day. His strength always managed to carry her.

Instead, she tucked the phone away. Telling him would bring him into matters that weren't his concern. They could handle the Minotaur. They had to be the ones to handle it now.

"Your hubby?" Eddie called from across the room. He kept his head low, while he picked at the scraps of metal on top of a bin.

Beth rubbed her neck. "Fiancé. How did you—?"

Eddie smirked, head cocked to the side. "Saw the rock on your finger. Man has good taste. When's the wedding?"

Her head lowered. She kicked at the pebbles scattered along the floor—anything to keep from answering the question on everyone's lips.

"What?" Eddie pressed. "Maybe I'll get you a blender."

Beth sighed. "We haven't picked a date."

"We? Or you?"

Frustrated, Beth ripped the scrap from Eddie's hand and tossed it back in the bin. "Why are we talking about this? You should be focused on building a weapon for Soriya."

"How?"

"Look around, Eddie."

"I am!" He slammed the hammer to the table before him. The head stuck in the wood, handle arced high and inviting. Eddie turned away from the curse he'd carried for days. "You know what this is like? I've never laid eyes on this equipment in my life and suddenly I know what every piece does. How they connect, what works, what doesn't, and everything in between. I'm no inventor, lady. I'm a damn failure in life. That hammer, that godforsaken hammer, is the brains. I'm the tool."

He stomped off, hands running over his face. Beth held her tongue. She didn't want to push him—she wasn't sure it would do any good. Eddie was a crook, a thief who had never earned anything in his life. Maybe he was right, maybe the hammer chose poorly in this instance—not that it was given much of a choice.

Except it was.

He said so himself. The hammer had called to him, it reached out in the insanity of the shooting at the antique shop. The hammer made the first move. It had demanded Eddie's attention amid the blood and chaos surrounding that night. It wanted Eddie, needed him to carry on.

"Too bad," Beth said. The words were harsh and broke through Eddie's pity party. His hands fell away. "You don't have a choice, Eddie."

"Of course I do," he snapped. "This isn't what I wanted. I want my own life. As soon as that old man wakes up, that hammer is going right back to him."

"That's..." Beth stumbled for her words. She pulled her phone out. "Eddie. That text earlier? He... he's dead."

"Who?"

"Hephaestus is dead."

"No."

"It's true, Eddie." She turned and pointed at the cracked tabletop. "It's your hammer now."

He nearly collapsed, like the air had been sucked from the room. Like the ceiling was caving in and his world went dark. Eddie Domingo had spent his life swimming with the tide and now that he was free from his family, a new wave was coming for him. This one threatened to pull him under completely.

Now it was Beth's turn for pity—not for herself but the desperation in the young man's eyes. Hephaestus was dead thanks to his actions, to the choices he made, and the price sat on the table mere yards away begging for acceptance.

Only he couldn't. "Take it. You do it."

"No."

"I don't want it!"

She shook her head and their eyes locked. "No, Eddie. You don't want it. You want life to be easy. You want opportunities to fall out of the sky as long as they require no effort to maintain. That's not how things work. That isn't life. The greatest gifts are the ones we earn. The tough choices we make. The ones we work at every day of our lives. You can do this, Eddie. You have to do this. No more hiding behind your family. No more running from responsibility."

He fell away. His eyes flitted from the hammer to her and back again. She let the words settle in the room, listening to them play over and over for both parties. Both needed to hear them in the end. The realization was crystal clear for her. But for Eddie?

Eddie wavered near the table. Slowly, his fingers danced along the grip of the hammer. For a second she believed they would falter and fall, that the strength of her conviction was not enough to support him—not powerful enough to help her friend in need.

Then he lifted the instrument free and let it drop to his side once more.

"I can do this." He peered at her for reassurance, and she nodded her head. "I have to do this."

"Not alone," Beth reminded him. She moved to his side, a smile slipping from her lips. "Now tell me what you need."

"Right," Eddie said. She could see it behind his eyes. Ideas formed, pieces fell into place. Everything came together for the young man with the hammer, and he set to the task ahead—aware that time was working against them. "Let's get started."

# Chapter Thirty-Four

This was her fault. She made no denials and had no doubts about her conclusion. Soriya pounded through mounting puddles, the storm raging overhead. Lightning cracked the sky, thunder boomed from the heavens, all in condemnation of her.

Mentor was in trouble. Her teacher had been the one figure in her life that had always been a constant. He propped her up—the only person in the world who cared for her well-being. She could still hear his strained words through the phone. He had begged and pleaded, but for what? To stay away? To leave him to his fate? That was never an option, not with everything he'd taught her over the years. There was never a choice. The moment the call ended, she'd been out the door and on her way. Mentor was the bait. She readily accepted that. It failed to impede her blitz to the trap waiting for her.

The intersection of Tamerlin and Andrews was outside the white-collar district north of Lowtown, which had seen a resurgence of late. Business complexes, outlets and small-time plazas were constantly cropping up, with plans for more in the coming months. What that meant was plenty of hiding places for the Minotaur during his stay in Portents—and plenty of time to plan his next move.

Had he tracked them the entire time? Were they the hunted when they purported to be the hunters for so long? It drove her harder. She ignored the lack of sleep for the last twenty-four hours, ignored the lack of a plan to tackle the behemoth waiting to slaughter her.

For what, the city? A new life? That was her fight as well. She fought for the chance to be the Greystone, to be the warrior she had trained to be for years.

Cars vanished in the background; the cries of angry commuters were lost to her steady breaths and the pumping of her legs as she left humanity behind. She crossed over defunct railroad tracks. The line to Tolliver's Grove had long since been shuttered thanks to the expressway that ran overhead.

The shadow of Andrews and Tamerlin grew, shrouding her. The rumbling of the storm increased as thin streaks of light shattered the darkness overhead. She had no plan, held no weapon capable of stopping the creature. Soriya only carried her fear for Mentor's safety. It would have to be enough.

She stood across the street for what felt like an hour. Rain poured down her skin. He had to be okay. Mentor had to make it through this. They both did, after so much had been said, thanks to her terrible anger at him. She had disavowed their time together with a single phrase.

You're not my parent!

Those had been her last words to the man. Their last conversation had been nothing more than a rebuttal of everything they had stood for since he saved her from Saint Helena's Orphanage. Since he gave her new life, the only one she recalled now, with a purpose and a goal. She'd thrown it in his face, bitter and frustrated words stabbed at his heart.

There was still time to make it right. It wasn't too late.

The site was empty. Steel girders outlined the six-story structure, and the frame for the center was secured with riveted crossbeams. Equipment sat outside the building—cranes and dump trucks full of supplies. Two concrete walls ran along the southern and eastern sections of the first floor, slow to build thanks to the multiple projects cropping up in the area of late. The extra work might have been a good thing but it had left too much undone.

She passed piles of girders resting within the perimeter and circumvented the gaps in the unfinished walls. Rain beat against metal in rhythm with her heart. The fast pitter-patter resonated through the center of the complex.

"I'm here."

The words cracked, trembling and low. Soriya clenched her fists. She stepped out of the shadows of the girders into the center of the site and stared into the storm swirling above. A breath left her, then two, to steady all nerves and all doubts.

"I said, I'm here!" Her voice echoed this time. "I want to see him."

For a moment, there was nothing—just the threat of her own terror whipping around her every thought. Every concern, every worst outcome displayed behind her eyes.

Then he fell. Kicked from the third story, a figure plummeted. Chains rattled, secure around the body, and jerked him to a stop one story above her. Pained moans escaped Mentor, his body brutally beaten. The chains cut into his pale flesh. He dangled before her, his gaze weary and saddened.

"Mentor!"

She moved for him, every fault on display. Every fear threatened to break her down. She wanted to apologize, to beg for his forgiveness. She wished for nothing more than a chance to make things right.

Then the light, the flickering moon struggling to break through the cloud cover, disappeared. The shadow grew, and Soriya faltered back. Her feet slipped on the uneven earth. She fell, but caught her soaked frame with a hand.

The Minotaur dropped from the heavens and slammed to the earth before her. Hot breath wafted from his nostrils, and his black eyes swallowed all hope from her.

"HE'S MINE."

His voice filled her ears. His fury stole her confidence. He was speaking—evolving from his time in the city. Was such a thing possible? What else had he learned?

How can I stand against him?

She didn't have an answer, nor was one necessary. Mentor needed her. Soriya's fist clenched, and she stood to face the beast.

One last time.

The Minotaur's dark stare widened. His steps closed in on her. "AND NOW, SO ARE YOU."

# Chapter Thirty-Five

The blow crashed against the girder. Wind swept across Soriya's right cheek as the fist missed her by a hair. The young woman dove left and rolled to avoid the follow-up as the beast stomped the earth at her former position.

The Minotaur pressed his assault. He lashed out to force her on the defensive. Each strike drove her back across the perimeter of the site. Every attack took her further from the captive dangling between them.

Mentor's eyes blazed in the shadows. His words were soft, his throat raw from the chains wrapped so tightly against his pale skin. She couldn't hear him over the storm. His gaze, however, told the story well enough when she managed to steal a glimpse of her beaten teacher.

His eyes begged for her to flee, to run away from the monster barreling at her. They pleaded with her to survive to see another sunrise. But she couldn't leave him, not like this. Not with so much said between them and not at the hands of the Minotaur.

She refused to walk away, even without the stone at her side, without the weapon promised by Eddie and Beth. She had to stand as she could, and rely on every lesson learned, every strike drilled into her through endless sessions in the Bypass chamber by the man hovering above her.

This was her fight, and she had to win—for all their sakes.

Another strike to the right, but she was ready for it this time. Soriya waited for the massive fist to pass, then wrapped her hands over his arm. Looping around, Soriya landed on top and ran across his muscular frame like a tightrope. Three steps, four, and then she kicked out with both feet.

The strike slammed into the creature's cheek, and knocked him away. Her lithe figure spun in the air, until she landed gracefully on her heels.

Ready for more.

The Minotaur staggered but refused to fall. He swiped at his cheek, where there was a slight cut along matted and rain-soaked fur. A drop of blood, mixed with the rain, dripped to the earth. Plumes of smoke blew into the air as the beast laughed.

"Oh, that is it," Soriya cursed. She leaped at him, slamming his arm with a stiff punch to drive it away. She hit the ground but did not stay there. Instead, she bounced back up, her fist prepared for a second strike—this time into the monster's flaring nostrils.

The laughter ended. The Minotaur crashed, and the sound drowned out the thunder splitting the night sky.

"Much better," she said. The rain pounded against her skin. Soriya crouched before the creature, poised and ready.

Mentor's fear faded; the pleading in his eyes was silenced by her struggle. He was with her, and she felt it. He was barely holding on but she knew he was at her side as he always would be. His lessons fueled her and offered her the one thing she'd failed to hold throughout the night—ever since the call had come in from him.

Hope.

This was her job, the one she fought for with every fiber of her being. This was her city. Not the Minotaur's. Not the Domingos'. Not any creature's.

Her city.

The Minotaur screamed. Anger forced him to his feet. He lashed out and she took each strike, dodging and dancing along the construction site to stay out of his reach. Each blow diverted, each strike avoided, raised her confidence. For every missed punch, she delivered three of her own. The Minotaur was slow, moving in place compared to her. Every second added to her confidence. Every knockdown and glancing blow built her assurance of the outcome. She could do this. She could win.

Her hope ended as quickly as it arrived. All it took was one error, one overeager punch, and the dance was over. She missed, and her error was all he needed to end the fight. A backhand from the left crashed against her chest. She flew from the blow and soared the length of the site before slamming into the concrete wall along the western front. Her left elbow shattered upon impact. The broken limb fell limp to her side.

She tumbled to the earth and splashed into a puddle collecting from the storm. A cry escaped her as pain wracked her all-too-weary frame. For all her hope, for all her excitement at her impending victory, she never realized the toll the fight had taken on her.

The beast had played her and she fell for it. The same as before. Soriya's vision dotted and darkened, but she fought to stay conscious. She refused to let it end this way, to shrink from the fight. She would see it through, no matter the outcome.

Hot breath surrounded her, and the light faded. The Minotaur closed in on her, victory in reach. Then he stopped.

"Leave her alone!"

The voice called to him from the far side of the square. The words thundered against the raging storm, demanding attention.

Beth stood before the beast, tall and proud against the mythic monster. "I said, leave her the hell alone."

# Chapter Thirty-Six

"YOU DARE?"

Panic filled Beth, who quietly wondered if it was rain running down her leg or something else entirely. The Minotaur was real. He was a real, breathing entity standing before her. Why that thought even crossed her mind baffled her, considering what she had seen thanks to Soriya.

Only days ago, she'd believed she knew it all, that she stood as the cornerstone of knowledge when it came to her affiliation with Julian's Circle of Shadows. What a fool she had been—and still was, if her current decision was any indication.

Soriya lay on the ground in the distance. Her arm spread awkwardly along her side. She didn't move. Blood was caked over the dirt and grime on her skin. The rain refused to wash her clean, letting her injuries show through across the moonstricken battleground.

Beth had no choice in the matter. Her friend was hurt and needed time to recover. She needed time to plan her next move—time only the overwhelmed blond could possibly provide. Or so she hoped.

"It certainly looks that way, doesn't it?" Beth said. The swirling darkness of the beast's eyes threatened to swallow her whole, starting with whatever confidence remained in her breast. Still, she puffed her chest and took a step forward. "Yes, I dare. Or are you afraid?"

The beast turned away from his broken challenge. He stood tall and took the light with him. Beth wheeled back, which caused him to grin. Plumes of heat rose from his nostrils, and he started back to his intended victim.

"You heard me," Beth pressed, louder still. "So busy whaling on a child. What a disappointment you've become. If Minos could see you, he'd be ashamed."

Black eyes sparked with anger.

"You want a real challenge?" Beth waved him toward her. "Come and get me, big boy."

"GLADLY."

The Minotaur charged at her. He kicked up dust and debris with each stomp. Beth's hands fell to her sides. Maybe I should have thought this one out more...

"Oh, boy."

A hand stirred Soriya. It poked and prodded her in the shoulder, which sent a wave of pain through her body. She grabbed at the hand, and squeezed the fingers tightly until they relented.

"Dammit, lady," Eddie snapped. "I'm trying to help your stubborn ass."

Her vision refocused, the world resolving from grays and blacks to the steel structure surrounding them. Rain continued to patter the earth. Her left arm caused her excruciating pain when she attempted to move it. Her elbow had swelled to twice its normal size and there was nothing but shards rubbing beneath the surface. Shattered and broken, the limb lay useless at her side.

Eddie rubbed his fingers. "Quite a grip you've got there." She grimaced when he reached for her again. "Come on, American Warrior."

"Soriya," she answered, exasperated. Every ounce of strength went toward standing, and still she almost collapsed immediately. Eddie dragged her away from the center spire of the building and deeper into the girded frame.

"It was a joke," the man said.

"You're bad at that."

He sighed. "Remind me to cross it off my résumé. Now are you good or not?"

Across the way, Beth stood her ground against the beast. He roared, beating against his chest and everything else in his path. Steel flew, piping shattered under his mammoth hooves. His words were lost behind the tantrum, despite the booming sound that echoed with each one. He toyed with the petite blond, threatening her rather than ending it quickly. The challenge had already been met from his perspective. He had beaten Soriya and all that was left was cleaning up the mess.

Soriya shifted against the metal at her back, and her left elbow touched the cold surface for only an instant but caused a cascade of pain throughout her body. There was no way to use the limb, no way to bolster it. She locked it tight to her side, aware the slightest nudge would be agony.

"Hey, tell me now. You good or not?"

Throwing a smirk on her lip, she met his ponderous gaze. "Do I have a choice?"

He chuckled under his breath. "Now who's being funny?"

"You have it?"

Eddie turned away, head low. A slight nod escaped him, and he pointed behind the nearby pillar that seconded as his hiding place from the conflict. Soriya looked over the weapon Eddie had conceived, the great instrument to cripple the threat before them. Hephaestus had been the mastermind of dozens of powerful weapons over the centuries, from the Aegis breastplate—capable of protecting against the deadliest strike—to the knife of Perseus, which slew the Gorgon.

Yet when she beheld the tool forged by Eddie Domingo, her heart sank. "Seriously?"

His eyes narrowed. "It's all I could think of and all I had time for. You want it or not?"

He was right. Eddie came through for her with his best effort. She could ask no more of him. This wasn't the time for second-guessing. There could be no more doubts about the task ahead. Only an end to it at last.

"When I give the signal, be ready."

Soriya left the support of the girder and took her first step back into battle.

"I HAVE VANQUISHED MIGHTY FOES FOR CENTURIES," the Minotaur bellowed. Fists slammed against the ground. They knocked asunder massive piles of equipment for the construction site.

It was a show of force, not that Beth required the display. She quivered with each strike, while she waited for the one that ended her life. She should have run, forced the beast away from her battered friend in an effort to give her some recovery time—something other than standing around in wait.

She didn't move, didn't falter or waver in her resolve, despite the shiver running through her. What would Greg think when he learned what she did here tonight? What would he say about the secrets she'd kept from him, hoping to protect him from a world he would never understand?

"I HAVE RISEN TO THE CHALLENGE OF THE LABYRINTH AND HAVE BEEN GRANTED A BOON FOR THIS LAND," the monster continued, content with the destruction at his hand. He pounded the soaked earth beneath his feet as he stomped his way toward her. "A PRIZE I INTEND TO KEEP. YOU WOULD STAND IN MY WAY?"

Beth took a deep breath. That was the question, wasn't it? But she'd made the choice the moment she met the young woman brave enough to stand against him and everything else that came to Portents. Brave enough to stand for her city. She damn well could do no less.

"I'm here, aren't I?"

The beast grinned. "THEN BE CRUSHED LIKE ALL WHO OPPOSE ME."

His fist raised, ready to strike. The moonlight overhead disappeared, and the rain poured around her like an umbrella. This was the end, one of her own making, one she earned through her need to help, to protect others. Instead of facing it with silent dignity or gross discontent and anger, only one emotion spilled from her lips: laughter.

"Yeah right," she declared.

The Minotaur's fist paused at its peak, black orbs wide at her reaction. "WHAT?"

Beth stepped forward. "You'll botch that like everything else in your life. You're pathetic. All hot air and no follow through. Did you solve the labyrinth or simply stumble through a shortcut? Did you earn this so-called prize? I doubt it."

The creature screamed, guttural and incoherent. He gnashed his teeth and kicked at the ground. His fist fell to the debris. They slammed into the steel, the dirt, everything but her contempt. She hit a nerve, took away his pride with her words.

It wasn't enough. Puffs of air rose from flaring nostrils to center himself. Then he swung at Beth. She didn't blink, didn't flinch. She merely waited for the end.

One that never came. Soriya leaped out from behind the monster and kicked his swinging fist away. The beast staggered back a step in surprise. Soriya landed beside her friend.

"I think that's enough pop psychology for today, Beth."

The scholar ran her hands over her arms and legs, checking to confirm her existence. "Oh, thank God."

The Minotaur towered over them, recovered from the shock of her return. "STONE BEARER."

"Soriya," she sighed. "Someone's going to get my name right eventually. It's not that difficult to pronounce."

"I think it's a beautiful name," Beth remarked.

"Thank you."

"Welcome."

Soriya smirked. "You should get out of here now."

"You sure you've got this?"

"Go," she confirmed. "Hornhead and I need to chat. The only way we know how."

Beth took the hint, backing from the site. Right before the Minotaur unleashed hell.

His rage was all he had left. She took every blow, every strike and refused to stay down—refused to let him win. So he bellowed and snarled. The ill-tempered child demanded his victory, more than ready to earn his prize.

It made him sloppy. Each blow was wild and unfocused. Soriya dodged them all. Keeping her left arm in check at her side, she skirted under his enormous fists and dove out of the path of each kick. She never took the offensive, refusing to play the game that only ever ended with her in pain, broken and battered.

His fury rose with each miss. He lashed out, committed to his impending victory. He leaped at her, hoping to box her in. Instead she flipped back, over the pile of metal untouched by his earlier tantrums. She landed gracefully only to watch him crash headlong into the stack.

He pounded the earth and grabbed at debris. He tossed it clear in all directions. His patience ended. He found his footing, but she was already on the far side of the site. "YOU FLEE?"

Soriya leaned against a pylon, relaxed and assured. "It's called strategy." Her gaze shifted up to the dangling captive between them. Mentor's gray eyes beamed at her, and her smile widened. "Something I've learned over the years. Like the fact that standing on my own isn't always the smart play. That sometimes my fists just aren't enough."

The Minotaur didn't care to hear her words. He bounded head-first for her position. The time for the challenge was over. Only the kill remained, and he would have his pound of flesh before the sun rose in the sky.

She counted on his belligerence, depended on his rage, for what she had planned. It was her last shot. When his eyes threatened to swallow her whole, when his breath was close enough to feel the heat, her hand extended to the shadows.

"Now, Eddie!"

The weapon flew from her companion, his aim true. She caught the handle and squeezed tight with her one good arm. It would have to be enough.

"You see," Soriya said over the thundering steps of her assailant, "sometimes you need a hammer."

It was all Eddie could manage in the time allotted. A giant mallet, forged in steel with a thick handle. She swung out, and the hammer found its target. It slammed against the beast's cheek. Bones crunched under the blow. The impact sent him soaring back until he crashed into the concrete wall at the edge of the site. The mortar crumbled and collapsed. It covered him completely.

Soriya clutched the hammer close and inched toward his position in the debris. Her body threatened to collapse. The one swing was all she had left in her. But she had to know, had to see if it was enough.

The Minotaur rose from the pile. His chest was pumping hard and fast. His right horn was shattered. Blood and sweat coated his fur. He clenched his fists and staggered from the mess. "I... CANNOT... FALL. I..."

Soriya took a breath and waited. Only for a moment. Then the Minotaur stumbled and crumpled to the dirt. His black eyes closed to the world.

The exhausted warrior loomed over the fallen legend. "I beg to differ."

# Chapter Thirty-Seven

The Minotaur failed to move. Slow and shallow breaths escaped through mammoth nostrils. He was alive but unconscious. Soriya called it a win.

She hugged her left arm tight to her side. Every shift caused bone fragments to move beneath the surface. It was agony to keep the appendage in place, but she held firm, and glared at the defeated monster. There was nothing left in her, no strength to even hold the hammer. The key to her victory slipped to the ground where it clanged against the debris strewn about the site.

A moan escaped from above. Soriya nearly toppled backward from lifting her head too quickly to see the dangling toes of Mentor above. He listed back and forth. The battle had ended, but there was still work to do.

"Mentor!"

She staggered to the chain knotted by the massive strength of the sleeping Minotaur. Soriya pulled at the thread, hoping to free him. Each action sent a wave of pain over her body as well as that of her captive teacher.

"Soriya..."

She jumped at the sound of Eddie's voice. His hand fell next to hers, followed by another.

"Let us take care of him," Beth said.

Soriya nodded and gave them room. She tore at her tattered shirt, the cuts along her torso in full view now. Wrapping it tight against her shoulder, she lifted her shattered arm and tied it in place for support.

Her vision blurred as bright halos filtered by black dots took over. She closed them with a snap to fight back the tide of darkness—unable to surrender to sleep just yet. Not until she was sure it was over.

Eddie and Beth worked in tandem. First they secured the chain so Mentor did not fall suddenly. Then they undid the knot and carefully lowered the struggling figure to the ground.

Mentor's legs gave way, and he fell to his side.

"No." Soriya ran, pushing away the pain with each step. Eddie and Beth backed off, matched worry in their eyes. The teen sidled next to her teacher and stripped the chain from around his chest. "I've got you. I've got you now."

Abrasions littered his flesh. His tan skin was shredded along the arms. His right leg was bent awkwardly, his knee swollen and stained in purple. His lower lip was blood red, and his left eye refused to track her presence at his side. Still he reached for her.

Soriya took his hand with her right, and the two stood. He faltered from the effort, but she pulled him close in a long embrace. He cringed at the pain. She let him go, then shifted them to a nearby girder for support.

"Are you okay?" The answer was obvious, but a smile formed along his lips.

"I will heal, little..." He stopped. "Soriya. Thanks to you I will have the time to do so."

It had been a long time coming, and she stood taller from the recognition. Approval was in short supply when it came to the steadfast teacher, but she appreciated what he offered when he could. She was grateful to still have that opportunity. She knew how close they had come to losing each other.

They almost lost even more thanks to the Minotaur. Both turned to the beast, still collapsed amid the debris of the construction site.

Beth circled the fallen foe. Her phone was in her hand to set the camera up. When she caught the dirty looks from the pair, she smirked and put the device away.

"Is that really him?" she asked. Excitement mixed with the shock of the night. She peered up from her intensive study of the monster. "Him? It?"

"Him," Soriya confirmed.

"Did you check?"

Mentor grumbled at the comment. Beth's hand covered her mouth, mortified. She shook her head and her hands rapidly waved the notion away. "You know what? Not appropriate in the least."

They shared a laugh, forgetting the pain and the terror of the night. They felt only the joy at seeing it through to the end.

"Mentor, this is Beth," Soriya started as she helped her teacher in his unsteady approach. "I couldn't have done this, saved you, without her help."

He took her hand and shook limply. "Then I am in your debt, Beth."

"Not in the least," Beth replied. "You raised a strong woman, Mentor."

"I certainly did."

Pride beamed beneath the layer of injuries coating his skin. He reached to the pile of trophies beside them and retrieved the Greystone mixed between badges and uniforms kept by the creature. He let the tool blanket him with warmth. Soriya moved to assist but stopped at his silent request.

Beth's eyes widened at the stone. "Is that—?"

"Yes."

"What is he—?"

Soriya grinned. "Watch, Beth. Questions later."

"In other words, shut up," Beth snickered. "Understood."

The stone beamed. Light grew and filled the space. Soriya sucked in a deep breath. The healing glow washed over her and her teacher. His entire body was bathed in white.

Then the darkness and the remnants of the storm returned. Beth stood in awe, her enthusiasm brought out much the same in the young woman at her side. The wounds remained, the swollen lip and the abrasions upon his skin, but the stone's presence renewed Mentor. Not pristine by any measure, but a good first step in the process.

It was a helping hand—much like her own.

He limped ahead without assistance, each step measured and considered before proceeding.

"Can I help—?"

The wounded teacher snatched a broken pipe from the debris. He tucked it beneath his arm for ballast, a makeshift crutch to assist in his journey.

"I'll secure transport for our friend here," Mentor said. "It will take time to prepare the labyrinth for his return."

"I'll be here," she called after him.

"I know."

His words, his smile, and his poise bolstered her. His very presence made her grateful to still have him at her side. Awful words had been exchanged, hurtful and, most of all, untrue. Mentor would always be more than a teacher, much more, and she aimed to show him that from now on.

# Chapter Thirty-Eight

They stood over their fallen adversary, side-by-side. Soriya tightened her sling to tuck her arm closer, lost to the memory of the battle. For Beth, however, the meeting went beyond the struggle. It rocked her to the core. It reshaped everything she understood and believed.

Yes, there were secrets in Portents—threats in the darkness. The Circle took care of those when they could. But she had no idea about the Greystone, about Soriya, Mentor, and their role in things. Or just how those menaces, those monsters in the shadows, added to the texture of her great city.

It wasn't about good and evil. It wasn't about hope and fear, but about everything together—all melded into one. The unexplained had their place right next to the cops and the scholars. Everyone cared for Portents, and it took every aspect of the city to protect it in the end.

Eddie hid among the debris in the distance. Hephaestus' hammer sat in his belt. The hammer of his own creation, the only weapon he'd been able forge in the time allotted, rested in his hands. Beth waved him over and he shook his head. Instead, he drew away from the site for the city beyond.

Soriya caught the act, and shuffled toward him. "Eddie!"

Beth stopped her, a soft touch to her shoulder. "Let him go."

"The hammer," she said without need. "It's dangerous."

"Trust me, I know," Beth replied. "He does too. I think he finally understands that better than anyone."

"He's a crook, Beth," Soriya said. "I can't just—"

"You have to."

"Why?"

"Because he deserves the chance," Beth said with a smirk. "Because I want to give him a chance."

"Are you sure?"

She waved to the passing shadow of the man as he departed from the scene. He was no longer the criminal, the self-involved dreamer of untold riches. Eddie Domingo was something else, changed by the experience.

"I am," she answered, strength behind the words.

She wished he had stayed to share his next move, but she understood why he had to walk away. Eddie had a choice to make, and it had to be his own. No longer trapped in the path set before him by the Domingos—a life of orders and subjugation—this was his chance to take his own step forward. Come what may, mistakes or not, they would be his from now on. The thought was terrifying to them all, but Beth appreciated the weight of the moment and hoped for the best for the young man who had stepped up when necessary to help their cause.

The Minotaur still rested at their feet. His cheek swelled beneath the dark fur covering his skin. His right horn was cracked from the blow, and blood caked to his ear from the impact with the steel. His mammoth frame heaved with each breath but remained in the dust and debris of the construction site—the fight long since knocked out of him.

"You did it," Beth muttered, amazement caught in her throat.

Soriya cocked an eyebrow, hand to her hip. "Was there ever any doubt?"

They laughed and the sound rose up to the storm passing overhead. They wiped the rain from their faces, smiles locked in place at the truth behind Soriya's confidence.

"Thank you, Beth."

"Happy to help, remember?"

The blond circled the fallen monster, her curiosity getting the better of her at last. If only there was time to study him, to learn of the past through him and his firsthand knowledge. The Minotaur represented another world, one merely written about in story. He came from another time, but to see how his history impacted their own could open up so many avenues of research.

Was the labyrinth a part of Portents somehow? Was the maze connected to the city of her birth in a deeper way than any of them understood? What had caused the door to open? Or, worse, who caused it?

Soriya waited patiently from the far side, giving the researcher time for her quiet analysis. Beth relented when she recognized the danger her questions brought—she knew some things were better off buried in the past despite her conscious need for answers.

"You could have gone further," she said to the tired, wounded warrior. "After what he did, I imagine he earned a more severe beating."

"Oh, I wanted to. Trust me on that."

"What stopped you?"

"This isn't his place. His time. He didn't need pain. Only understanding."

The why of it. What Beth brought to the discussion the previous night. Looking beyond the fight for the reason it existed in the first place. Beth returned to her friend and pulled her close for a long embrace.

"I'm very glad to have met you, Soriya."

"Same here, Beth."

She stepped back and squeezed the young woman's shoulders lightly. "If you ever need anything you let me know."

"You too."

Soriya bent beside the unconscious foe. She winced from the movement, but she fought through the pain to lift the mammoth's arm over her shoulder. She hauled the beast up, dragging him along the ground for the entrance to the site.

"Do you need any—?"

"I've got it," she said. "Promise."

"I believe you, kid," Beth chided, fully aware that the appellation bothered her friend. "But if you ever need anything in the future?"

"I know where you live."

"Yeah," Beth said. She reached into her pocket for the item she had been carrying since the hospital. "You might want to try this next time."

A black marker rested against her palm. She held the writing instrument out for Soriya, who had a puzzled gaze on her face.

"A marker?" She took it in hand. Soriya analyzed the gift deeper than Beth had the beast.

"No more scaring the crap out of me," Beth explained. "Leave me a note next time with a time and place. We can meet in the real world."

Soriya smiled as she inserted the marker in her pocket. "I'd like that."

"Me too."

Her young friend started on her way, the Minotaur a weight but not an unbearable one. It was time for them to part, to get back to their separate lives and their different worlds. Though maybe not so different anymore; the lines had blurred in both their eyes.

Soriya stopped beneath the north wall. Rain poured down from the girders around her. "What about your fiancé? Figured out what you're going to do?"

Beth paused and lifted her hand to stare at the ring adorning her finger. The question had haunted her from the moment Greg slipped it on, the moment their relationship changed beyond her perception.

She held back so much from him—the Circle, her association with Pratchett, Julian, and the others in their quest to protect the city. Greg did the same with his job. They both served a higher calling, protecting the other from seeing too much, knowing too much. Greg did it for love, to keep her safe, to keep her in the light. Beth, though, had done it out of fear. Fear of losing her unique connection to the city of her birth, but also a fear of losing Greg should he ever see the truth behind Portents.

It was a fear she could no longer afford. One she faced in the swirling black eyes of the Minotaur. One that threatened to pull her away from Greg and their love, something she refused to surrender in that moment. Something she refused to waste or toss away without a fight. It was time to face her fear and to face Greg.

Beth smiled to her newfound friend, her ring glinting from her finger. "I have an idea or two."

# Chapter Thirty-Nine

The rain slowed to a drizzle, a mist coating the city. Drips ran from flower boxes and gathered in the corners of every yard. The stream scurried to the gutter, down to the darkness of the sewers. The flow added to the song of Portents that accompanied Beth's walk home.

Her entire body ached. It was tension more than anything else, from confronting a creature she imagined only in her dreams. Never could she have believed such a beast would be standing in front of her, ready to end her life. When she closed her eyes, all she saw were his black eyes and his enormous hands reaching for her.

It caused her body to tremble, helped along by the cold front sweeping through the Knoll from the storm. She cradled her arms tight around her sides. Her bicep was still tender where the nail had punctured her. Her coat was drenched through and through. Her new shoes might as well have been non-existent as they squished along the sidewalk.

So many conflicted emotions poured through her. She had so many doubts and so much terror over what almost happened. They mixed with excitement and joy over coming to terms with her feelings about Greg and their pending nuptials. The night made everything so much clearer for her.

She was so distracted in her walk, Beth almost missed her apartment. She skidded to a halt past the building on King's Lane, almost slipping from the quick turn.

It was not the only thing she missed in her musings. A car waited in front of the building, the front wheel along the curb. The black sedan leaned awkwardly and the tinted windows of the back seat obscured the passenger waiting within until the door opened.

"There you are."

Julian exited the car, shuffled steps swiping the walkway clear of the rain. Pratchett followed from the other side. He carried an umbrella. Noting her shivering, he raced to her side, ignoring his uncle's hand for the shield from the diminishing weather.

"Beth?" He hovered over her with the umbrella. "Is everything all right?"

She wiped at her brow to clear it of rain. Her hands spread before her. Grime and dirt covered her pale skin, the accumulation collected from her adventurous night. Pratchett's worry made more sense to her, but a smile appeased him.

"I'm good, John," she replied. Then she turned to Julian, who waited impatiently. "What's up?"

"We were expecting you at the gathering earlier," Julian began. Impatience melted to worry, as evidenced by the soft tone offered instead of the gruff typically saved for his nephew. "Thought there might have been some trouble."

"Trouble?" She nearly laughed at the notion. Trouble? Just a fight with a Minotaur. Nothing major. Her hands ran along her jeans, cleaning them along the denim. She patted Pratchett's arm, appreciative of the umbrella's covering. Then she bit back her grin and stepped back out into the rain. "No trouble. Lost track of the time is all."

"The hammer?"

Her brow creased. "I'm sorry?"

Julian moved closer to temper his words. Nearby, a few pedestrians raced along the sidewalk to get out of the rain. "Were you able to locate it?"

The truth of his concern became clear. It wasn't being unaware of her whereabouts that brought him to her door in the middle of the night. It was the hammer and only the hammer. The prospect of wiping the city clean of the threats hidden beneath the surface had brought Julian to her.

"No," she said, the proclamation concise and definitive. Eddie Domingo may not have been the ideal candidate to hold the hammer of Hephaestus, to carry on the tradition of the forger for years to come, but he deserved the chance. He deserved to make his own path, as she hoped to do in her own little way. "Not a trace. If it was ever here in the first place."

He read her stare, using his detective skills to pierce her soul for the truth. She never wavered. Julian rested on his heels and rubbed his chin roughly. "I see. You seemed so sure last we spoke."

"Everyone makes mistakes, Harvey," Beth said. "Everyone."

Julian made no reply, the message clear in its delivery. Especially the use of his last name to drive the sentiment home. The hammer was a moot point, lost to him and their cause. To press further risked losing Beth in the process. Neither wanted that.

Pratchett stepped between them, a hand to her shoulder. "You sure you're okay, Beth? You seem—"

She met his gaze though he towered over her. Her hand fell on his and squeezed. "Promise, John. Just tired from a long day. Looking forward to a good night's sleep."

"If only we all could," Julian said. He reached for the car door. "Come along, Johnny."

Pratchett hesitated. There was more to say, more to know, and he tried to pry it loose in his silence. She patted his hand until it fell away. There would be time for talk another day. Tonight's events remained for her and her alone. The Circle had no place with what she had seen, who she had met along the way, or what it all meant going forward.

He relented with a smirk. "Get some rest."

"I will, thanks."

He rounded the car and stepped inside. The engine roared to life and exhaust billowed from the back. Wipers ran quickly to clean the windshield, but the sedan remained at the curb. The back window lowered, and Julian peered outside to beckon her over. She leaned close, the misty rain running down her cheeks.

"We will see you at next week's meeting?"

"I'll be there." The shadows were necessary. They did what they could to protect the city, and Beth was always happy to help.

Julian nodded. "There is much more work ahead. If only you could have found that hammer. A useful tool, to be sure."

He fell silent, and she waited for him to finish. Instead, he tracked her gaze. Curiosity filled his eyes. He waited for a reaction from her—a tell or some kind of slip to give her away. He knew the truth to some degree or was aware that there was more to her night than she cared to share.

Eventually, he conceded. "Oh, well. Goodnight, my dear."

"Goodnight."

She stood. The window rolled up without hesitation. He was done with her for now. The question lingering on his lips did not need to be asked. He would remember for a time, but there would always be some other obol, some other icon, that would arise to take their attention—some new threat to contain.

The car entered the lane and sped away. Beth stayed close to the curb, watching the dim taillights until they fell out of view. In their absence, the night suddenly turned darker, with more shadows around. Julian's words followed her back into her home and so did her doubts.

"Useful or dangerous?" she whispered in solitude, the question lost to the remnants of the storm. "If you held the hammer, which would it be?"

# Chapter Forty

It took a flatbed truck and a large tarp to conceal their travel with the unconscious Minotaur. Soriya fought the urge to question how her teacher managed to procure the vehicle, though she did ask to drive. Citing her age and lack of license, Mentor managed to stymie the unnecessary argument before it went too far.

Their shared silence carried them north to the waiting alcove. Straining from the weight, Soriya and Mentor together carried the beast into the shadows between storefronts for the boarded-up wall at the end. Mentor had cleared the path before picking her up. They entered the labyrinth and returned their defeated adversary to his true home.

When they returned, their bodies ached. Their feet dragged across the ornate stone of the past to the cracked pavement of the present. Small handholds in the walls turned under Mentor's careful guidance as they departed. Soriya, baffled by the act, hesitated at the mouth of the maze.

The walls shifted in the distance, deeper into the great maze. Dead ends opened up then collapsed into new corridors. Other egresses twisted, marking sharp curves and ending suddenly where once they ran the length of the structure. The labyrinth changed before them, evolved to hold its captive.

The flickering flames of torchlight faded from view. Stone shifted, and a new brick edifice formed in the darkness of the alcove. The maze closed itself off to Portents, the door shut.

Mentor removed the Greystone from the hand-woven pouch at his side and took aim at the debris scattered across the alcove: the wooden boards and the cracked brick from the Minotaur's escape. Light billowed from the rising rune.

With the rune came the wind. The sudden breeze swept across them and carried the scattered remains of the act away. It wiped the scene clean. There would be no hint to the outside world of what occurred, no clue to the danger hidden behind the wall should anyone stumble upon the area. It disappeared with the storm overhead, lost to the past.

Mentor lowered the stone and let out a long breath. "It's over."

"Forever?" Soriya asked. She disliked standing still, ever the bystander in his presence.

"I've done what I can to block the gateway into the city. The maze has shifted enough to make it difficult, to say the least, for the creature. You above all know, however, nothing is forever, little one."

Sullen eyes dropped, and she kicked at the ground. "Back to that then?"

A hand settled beneath her chin, and he raised her gaze to meet his own. "You disobeyed me. Repeatedly went against my wishes. You brought in outsiders and risked our work by exposing secrets of the city. You were foolish and reckless." He sighed, resting on his heels. "But you saved my life."

The admission stopped her in her tracks. "I..."

"Not finished," he said. His hand tightened on the pipe supporting his battered right leg. "You did the job. Not the way I would have or those who came before us. You did it your way, something I should have encouraged from the start. I am grateful to have you by my side, my child."

Thoughts collected at the tip of her tongue, but she held them back. His sincerity astonished her. All she wanted to do was hug him close and rescind everything she'd said, every bitter and angry word of a petulant teen. That wasn't who she wanted to be—wasn't the role she meant to play at his side.

Soriya cleared her throat. "Can I speak now?"

"If you must," Mentor groaned.

She smiled at his reaction and slid against him to help his steps to the street. "You know, I never caught an apology in there."

"Soriya."

"Don't get me wrong," she continued. "The compliments were fantastically delivered. However, the words I was hoping to hear were I am sorry for... well quite a bit actually."

He stopped, muttering grumbles from his lips. Soriya laughed at his hesitation, content to be at his side. Content to share another night together, no matter the outcome. Soft gray eyes washed over her.

"I worry," he whispered. "That's never going to change. I am sorry if that interferes with the work."

It wasn't quite the pleading-on-bended-knee approach she would have preferred. His words, though, came from the heart—the truth of the matter finally aired between them. He was a father concerned for his daughter, a parent worried at their child's approaching adulthood—always far faster than they wished.

"Thank you," she replied.

They stood at the edge of the road. The flatbed was parked on the far side. Behind them, the Minotaur slept in his prison—tucked in the past like a memory.

Soriya squeezed Mentor's hand, but he pulled away. Shaking fingers slipped into his pocket and removed a small object, cradled close. He opened his hand, and her Greystone sat upon wrinkled skin—precious in his grasp.

"I made a quick detour before picking you up at the construction site."

"You—"

"Feel free to thank me for the laborious endeavor," Mentor chided, his smirk hidden behind thick white whiskers. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to take those damn stairs with a crutch?"

"You wanted to live underground," she retorted, laughter on her lips. "Now, am I actually thanking you for this or are you merely toying with me?"

He held it out further. She cradled her hands and he let the stone fall against her palms. The stone instantly wiped the cold from her body. A fire burned beneath the surface. The power and mystery of the Greystone always present—always waiting to be unlocked. It felt right.

"You think I'm ready?" she said, afraid of the answer.

"I think..." Mentor said, pausing for a time. "I think there is still much for both of us to learn."

"Oh."

More lessons. More time in study. A decade had been spent, and still he pushed the role of student upon her—on both of them now.

Mentor smiled. It forced her doubts and concerns away. Aching fingers ran along the Greystone. "I was wrong to take this, though. The stone belongs to you, Soriya, and it always will."

Maybe there was more to learn, more to understand. It didn't change the truth behind his admission. The stone was hers, the final gift of a life she no longer remembered—a past swept away like the wind carrying them from the alcove.

She wasn't ready yet, but someday she would be. On that day she would stand against the darkness in Portents. She would protect the city.

Her city.

It was her fate—her destiny.

Soriya knew without a doubt, without hesitation, her day would come. That one day she truly would be the Greystone.

# Chapter Forty-One

The torchlight welcomed him back to the world. Dim and flickering, the small flame warmed his fur, still drenched in sweat and blood from the battle. Bold, black eyes wavered on the image, the illumination almost hovering before him like a wraith.

Then they widened in fear.

No.

He fought to speak, but his mouth refused to utter the word. A hand went to his throat, willing his voice to return but it failed. The thought was there but the talent, the ability once held in the outside world, had disappeared—as had his freedom.

Torches surrounded the chamber, one he recognized immediately. The altar at the center made it clear, his trophies collected atop the marble table. Shields and swords—weapons of another age. They were from a world he had sought to put in the past in order to move forward and become something greater.

Only to see it wiped away in a single blow.

The hammer. The hammer defeated him, not the girl. It was an unfair challenge. She had cheated him of victory, of ruling the new labyrinth to prove his worth to Minos, to the father who rejected his very being. He had earned that chance over the centuries.

He would have it again. The Minotaur stepped forward. He leaned over the trophies of the past, those complacent reminders of his place in the world. With the sweep of his hand, he wiped the surface clean, anger bellowing from his lips. Inarticulate groans of a beast, the only expression left to him.

Weapons clattered to the corners. They took their place next to the dead remains of those who had challenged him for dominance in the dismal halls of the great maze. His maze. He ruled here, the superior being.

It wasn't enough. Not anymore. He'd tasted more, sought to achieve more, and now it was gone. No, not gone. Stripped from him.

The Minotaur stomped away from the chamber, the path clear. He'd marked it well the first time around. His intelligence took him that far, at least. The maze was his domain, and he ruled every corner, every twist and every trap. They were his to master.

Tunnels faded to darkness. The torches blinked out from his pace. A stiff wind pursued him, pushing him ahead for his freedom—the one deserved for so long. The final victory and the prize offered by Minos. The altar disappeared. The echo of his footfalls carried him deeper and deeper through the twisting corridors of the labyrinth.

Claw marks scraped the stone. Each sent him on his path. Each pulled him, and the anticipation built inside—all for another chance to witness the sunrise, to feel the warmth of the daylight. To bathe in the blood of the damnable stone bearer and her teacher. No more honor, no more respect—just the prize he earned.

The thought caused a smile to grow, a tremble in the beast's breast. Excitement and temptation. Revenge and fate. He'd served his time in the labyrinth. The girl would not take his reward from him. Not with a single blow from a hammer. Not with that smirk on her face and the ego to match it.

He deserved the light.

The smile vanished as quickly as his hope. The Minotaur turned the corner and met a wall. One that had not been there previously. His claw mark made that clear. The passage should have continued another fifty yards before turning right to the exact spot where the opening was last time.

Panic set in. The beast backpedaled, then skirted to the next junction. He ran, stomping along the marble. Twisting and turning with each bend in the maze, he raced to find that lost light—to rediscover his freedom.

It was gone.

It had been taken from him with the closing of a wall—with the shifting of the labyrinth. The maze was always changing—evolving—as he was meant to. The walls collapsed in places or twisted in the opposite direction. The path he'd taken was lost.

The Minotaur spun in place, black eyes terrified. He didn't recognize his position or how he came to be there. He didn't know his prison anymore. He collapsed to his knees and pounded at the ground in a fury. Then he let it out, the cry of a beast and nothing more, forever locked in a hell of his own making.

# Chapter Forty-Two

She waited in the hallway, still in her pajamas. She had slept the day away, a fitful and restless sleep. When she woke, her notebook was in hand, and she was feverishly jotting down thoughts and avenues of research.

There was a new book on the horizon for Beth. The concept would be completely ripped from the last few days of her manic life. Names were unnecessary to share, but the beliefs behind each player, the myths and the iconography found throughout Portents brought her a new level of understanding.

By the time she finished with her rapid-fire outlining, the thoughts still forming with each passing moment, the sun was already in decline. The storm came and went, like the Minotaur's presence had brought it to bear against the city's populace. Or maybe it had been a form of protection by Portents itself, forcing people indoors and away from the threat loose on her streets.

A nice thought and one added to the notebook before Beth closed it up and tossed it along the nightstand. The margin contained a small black line. She had discovered the page during her work. It had been marked with a rune, the same one seen on Mentor's Greystone. Beneath was a time and place, followed by a single word.

THANKS

Soriya's gratitude was unnecessary. If anyone should have been tossing out recognition it was Beth. Soriya had provided her the inspiration to keep working and the strength to swallow her fear to help those in need. Beth owed her much.

Water ran hot in the bathroom across the hall. Steam rose from the sink. Greg splashed his cheeks, clean shaven—a rare treat. The look never suited the detective, who preferred the scruff, but Beth enjoyed viewing his handsome face. Greg reached for the towel to pat the water away. He ran his hand against the finished product—judge and jury accepting the work completed. He carried a satisfied smirk—one that had been in ample supply ever since he'd brought Frank Domingo to the Central Precinct in cuffs.

Cheers had broken out in the stationhouse. Dozens had made the trek to witness the monumental bust. The press played up the arrest—the news replayed the events every half hour with few to no actual updates from the original telling. Beth had heard her own version directly from the exuberant detective. She noted the flourishes with each installment. In one, flowers were tossed like a wedding procession. In another, a crowd outside burned effigies of the famed mob boss. She burst out laughing at the last in which Greg escorted the mob leader shirtless.

The memory brought a chuckle to her lips and caught Greg's attention. Turning for the hallway, he dropped the towel to the vanity. "What are you doing?"

She leaned against the wall, a smile on her face and love in her eyes. "Watching you."

Greg sighed. He reached for his shirt. The light of the bathroom clicked off. "It took me weeks to get this reservation. Ruiz practically held me at gunpoint so I would take the night off."

"Maybe it was to put your shirt back on after the Domingo bust."

He laughed. "Did I mention my hair was a foot longer, billowing in the breeze?"

"In the middle of the precinct? Someone should check the HVAC system."

She met him in the center of the narrow hall. He fought to finish the buttons on his shirt. He ruffled out what wrinkles he could before surrendering. There was only so far he was willing to go, though she appreciated the effort. As he struggled with his tie, she stepped in. Delicate fingers laced the striped silk and looped the knot in place before pulling taut. Greg caught her hand and held her tight.

"What are you doing standing around for, really? We're gonna be late."

She nodded. Greg ran a comb through his hair as he searched the apartment for his errant wallet. She monitored the investigation, wondering when he would remember it sat on the mantel, where it was always stationed. A creature of habit, he set rules for everything, whether he admitted it or not.

Watching him brought her comfort. It brought her joy. He was right about one thing, she never wanted to be late with him—not from a fear she sought to suppress for too long.

The greatest gifts are the ones we earn. The tough choices we make. The ones we work at every day of our lives.

Beth called to Greg from the hall. "I was thinking November 10th."

Greg returned with his wallet in hand. Curious eyes led him back to her. "Huh?"

"For our wedding," she said. "How does November 10th sound?"

He was at her side in an instant. Pulling her close and lifting her from the ground, Greg planted a deep kiss. She held him there, savoring the sweetness of his lips, the scent of his aftershave. He was perfect, and she was better for being with him.

He let her down and she ran her hand against his cheek. "Is that a yes?"

"Well, I don't know now," Greg said.

"Hey!"

Greg laughed. He spun her in the corridor of their shared home and their shared life. "A million times, yes. Today, tomorrow and always."

She agreed. It was the start of something wonderful.

# Chapter Forty-Three

Stained fingers danced delicately across the frame of the clock. Wood grain—a cherry finish—beamed across the sides and the base. The front was painted and arched at the top. Deep blues and greens in the form of a castle. From the front drawbridge to the side tower ran a track. The man's tired index finger tilted the minute hand to the peak where it met the hour.

Chirping rang out from inside the structure. Making his way out across the drawbridge was a miniature knight, sword in hand. He raised the perfectly sculpted facsimile of a weapon as he marched along the track to his destination on the other side. The hour sounded, bells dinging with each chime, until silence returned to the clock and the shop as a whole.

Eddie smiled. So did the woman across the counter.

"You did it," she exclaimed. She clapped her hands at the performance.

The clock sat between them in the antique shop. Eddie swiped at tired eyes. Long nights had consumed him since the arrival of the item between them. It had been collected months earlier in the aftermath of the robbery, and the owner had been afraid it would never be completed. That fear was now averted thanks to his efforts, and those of the hammer at his side.

"It looks amazing," the round brunette said as she inspected the piece. Sleep refused to come until he had finished. Not only the trim and the appearance of the intricate heirloom, but the innards as well. The gears needed replacing, the track required greasing, and other subtle manipulations that left his hands frayed and stained from the efforts.

He loved every second of it, and the joy in the customer's face equaled his own pride in the completion of his task.

"How did you manage? No one else I've taken the clock to had a clue how to bring it back to life."

He'd heard the same question a dozen times since reopening the shop on Allure. After that night at the construction site, Eddie Domingo's life ended. A new one began, and the shop called to him, as it must have called to the old man a lifetime earlier. It was his chance to give back instead of take.

"Trade secret."

The woman understood, laughing under her breath. "Well, I swear it looks brand new. Like my great-grandmother just bought it in 1923."

"I aim to please."

"It's funny," she continued, lost in memory. "I was always so scared of it when I was a kid. Now it's like a small piece of the past is with me, supporting me, watching over me. Sounds silly, I'm sure."

"Not at all," Eddie replied. He recalled the stories told by his mother so long ago. "Not one bit."

"Well..." the woman muttered. Her hands returned to her side and rummaged through her purse for her wallet. When she retrieved the swelling folio, Eddie slid the bill along the counter. She lifted the scribbled piece of line paper. Surprised eyes and a shaking head answered the waiting figure. "This can't be right."

"It is."

"For the work you've done?" She pushed the paper back to him. "Please charge me the full amount."

"That is the full amount," Eddie assured the flustered customer. "It was my pleasure."

A slight nod escaped her—the battle over, not that there was a need for the fight. It truly was his pleasure. To fix something from the past so that the future might enjoy it. It was his gift to wield, and he wouldn't use it for profit, only as a means to an end.

With the money settled on the counter, a grateful look spread along her cheeks. Eddie took the small stack of bills and slid them into the register hidden from sight amid the boxes of accumulating projects.

"Thank you, sir," the woman said. She lifted the clock, careful to keep the mechanism steady and safe. Eddie moved to help, hands at the ready, but the slight woman shook her head.

"Edward," he said with a hand at his chest. "You can call me Edward."

"Smith, right?"

Edward Smith—the change was necessary for many reasons. Frank and Tony still made headlines, even months after their arrest. Indictments rained down upon the once mighty Domingo family, their downfall all but achieved. They were the past, and Eddie only looked toward the future.

"That's right."

"It suits you."

"I hope so, ma'am," he said. He opened the door for her. The morning sun beamed along the corridor of the marketplace. She headed for her car and her husband popped the trunk at her arrival. Eddie waved, then slipped back into the shop.

He stayed by the door, the world surrounding him in a way it never had before—including him instead of kicking him to the curb. No longer an outsider looking in, he was here among the people, helping as only he could thanks to the gift left to him. Always a gift, he promised.

"I truly hope so."

Edward Smith set about his work, the hammer in his hand—ready to tackle anything. There was no more need to prove himself. It was all about living now. Free from names, histories, and family.

Finally living.

# About the Author

Lou Paduano is the author of the Greystone series of urban fantasy adventures and the conspiracy thriller series, The DSA. He lives in Buffalo, New York with his wife and two daughters.

Sign up for his e-mail list for free content as well as updates on future releases at www.loupaduano.com.

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#  THE GREYSTONE SAGA

# AVAILABLE NOW

BOOK ONE - SIGNS OF PORTENTS

BOOK TWO - TALES FROM PORTENTS

BOOK THREE - THE MEDUSA COIN

BOOK FOUR - PATHWAYS IN THE DARK

BOOK FIVE - A CIRCLE OF SHADOWS

AVAILABLE NOW

The residents of Bellbrook, Ohio have vanished.

Seven thousand people in a four-mile radius disappeared overnight. A dead zone remains, no outgoing signals emanating from the ghost town.

Ben Riley, framed for a crime he never committed, is the latest recruit to the Department of Special Assignments—a secret agency handling unsolved cases, those with open questions and unexplainable circumstances. Unsure what to expect or whether or not he deserves this second chance, Ben is thrust into a bizarre case of science gone wrong.

Now, Ben and the rest of the field team must find out what happened to the residents of Bellbrook... before it happens to them.

# COMING JULY 2020

The world will be wiped clean of sin.

Shiva has returned and every life in Portents is at risk. His goal is simple—to purify humanity and transform the world.

Soriya Greystone faces a threat she can't defeat: a monster bent on destruction with the power to back it up. All hope for survival lies with Kali, Goddess of Death.

The only problem is Kali doesn't care whether or not the world burns.

Soriya must find a way to convince the reluctant goddess to stand with her before Portents is swallowed up by Shiva's growing darkness.

Soriya's training years continue to unfold in this electrifying adventure that puts everything she's learned to the test.

