“St. Claire,” I say as I look up at Ares. “A relative of James’s then? Same last name.”
“Maybe,” Ares says. “It was important to James. There’s hardly anything here, so we have to assume anything we do find is significant.”
I flip through the pages, scanning lines as I go. The language is old. No one from this century uses this kind of language. There are references to blood and revenge. It talks about hiding things and waiting.
I don’t like it.
“We take it back with us,” Ares says as he casts his gaze around the room again.
“These don’t look like they belong here,” Roman calls out, his head buried in the closet. He pulls two tubes out, both of them very recognizable as blueprint storage containers.
We gather around the bed as he pulls one set of prints out and lays it on the bed, and then the other.
“This one’s for a property I’ve owned for five years,” Ares says, tapping the edge of the parchment. “And this one belonged to Augustus before he left it to me.”
I step closer. Two different buildings. Two different parts of Manhattan. There are no notes with the prints, no marks.
“He’s definitely looking for someone,” Roman says, those vivid blue eyes rising to Ares and then me. “Guess this narrows things down for us. Five of your buildings down to two.”
“But why the hell would he be looking for a body in these huge buildings in Manhattan?” Juliet questions, folding her arms over her chest. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“No coincidences,” I murmur, shaking my head.
“We need to check both of them,” Ares says, his tone heavy and dark. “But maybe this old journal will tell us what we’re looking for.”
“Let’s wrap this up,” Roman says as he turns and digs into the closet once more.
We do one last sweep of the apartment. There’s nothing else. No letters, no photos. There isn’t even a single bit of food in the fridge. It’s chilling how temporary this place feels, knowing James has worked for Ares for two and a half months.
Satisfied there’s nothing else to unearth, we head for the door. Roman locks it behind us. Ares carries the blueprints, and I hang on tightly to the journal.
The hallway feels darker on the way out.
And James St. Claire doesn’t feel like an assistant anymore.
He feels like a dark threat, one we don’t yet understand.
We step out of James’ apartment building just as the city begins to dip into evening. The sky is a deep steel blue, caught somewhere between fading light and the encroaching night. Neon signage flickers to life. The street hums around us, people rushing by, taxis honking as if time itself is trying to beat the city into submission.
Juliet lets out a breath, slow and almost wistful. “I kinda missed this place.”
Ares and I glance at her, surprised. She’s not looking at us, just watching a couple bicker as they cross the street arm in arm.
“You’ve lived here?” I ask.
She nods. “Moved here just after I turned eighteen. Did all my medical school here. Didn’t leave until I Resurrected.”
“And you chose Chicago over New York?” Ares asks, more curious than skeptical.
Juliet smiles, not defensive, just honest. “New York made me tough. Sharp. But Chicago made me whole. That’s where I found my people. Where I fell in love. Where I stopped running.”
Roman, walking beside her, laces his fingers with hers. Those intense eyes of his turn down to his wife, and there are about a hundred emotions in them. Admiration. Love. Respect. Reverence.
Juliet adds, “Hard things happened there, too. But Chicago is home. Because of who’s in it.”
Sometimes, home isn’t a place, it’s a person.
I realize it with every fiber in my being as I glance at Ares.
