Chapter 1The List

The rain hammered the corrugated roof as Sorin slipped through the warehouse's broken window. *The list should be waiting. One exchange. Thirty seconds. Then he'd be gone.*

His fingers found the envelope taped beneath the rusted pipe—exactly where Elias had promised. Inside, thirty-seven names. Every Syndicate blood trader attending the Blood Market auction. The key to exposing their inner circle.

Sorin tucked the envelope into his jacket and turned.

Elias stood in the doorway, silhouette framed against the neon glow of the city beyond. A Syndicate enforcer flanked him on either side.

"You're early," Sorin said, keeping his voice flat.

"Morwen pays better than guilt, Cross." Elias's hand emerged from his pocket, a silver-plated pistol gleaming in the dim light. "She sends her regards."

The first shot tore through Sorin's left shoulder before his body registered the command to move. Heat bloomed, black and wet, as he crashed backward into a stack of wooden crates. The enforcers advanced, boots splashing through puddles on the concrete floor.

Sorin's vision sharpened. The wound would slow him, but not stop him. It never had.

He grabbed a splintered plank and swung. The first enforcer caught it across the jaw, dropping like a stone. The second drew a blade, but Sorin was already inside his guard, driving his palm upward into the man's nose. Cartilage cracked. The enforcer staggered, blood streaming through his fingers.

Elias was running.

Sorin lunged, but his shoulder screamed in protest. The wound was worse than he'd thought—the silver poisoning beginning to numb his left arm. He stumbled, and Elias disappeared through a side door.

The list. Elias had the list.

Sorin followed, rain lashing his face as he burst into the alley. The street stretched empty, neon signs flickering in the wet darkness. A trail of blood—his own—marked his path.

He'd gone twenty yards when a shadow detached itself from a doorway.

"Don't move."

The voice was female, low, and accompanied by the press of cold steel against his temple. Sorin froze, calculating. The gun was loaded with silver rounds—he could smell the metal, sharp and acrid.

"I'm not your enemy," he said.

"You're a vampire. That makes you my enemy." The woman stepped into the light. Mid-twenties, dark hair plastered to her face by the rain, eyes hard with a hatred he recognized. The kind born from loss. "Where's the list?"

"Gone. My contact took it."

"Liar." She pressed the barrel harder. "I've been watching that warehouse. You came out with nothing."

Sorin's knees buckled. The blood loss was catching up, the silver burning through his veins like acid. He caught himself against the wall, breath ragged.

"Your sister," he said, the words scraping out. "She's in the Blood Market. Isn't she?"

The woman's gun hand trembled. A crack in the armor.

"Who told you that?"

"Nobody. It's written all over you." Sorin met her eyes, letting her see the exhaustion, the failure. "My mentor is dead because I trusted the wrong person. I know what desperation looks like."

She didn't lower the weapon, but she didn't fire either. In the distance, sirens wailed. Syndicate backup, probably.

"I know who you are," she said slowly. "Sorin Cross. The defector. They say you sold out your entire coven."

"Then you know I'm not loyal to the Syndicate."

"Doesn't make you trustworthy."

"No," he agreed. "But right now, I'm the only chance you have."

A shout echoed from the warehouse. Flashlights cut through the rain. The woman's jaw tightened, and she made a decision—Sorin saw it in the slight relaxation of her stance.

"Move," she said, jerking her head toward a narrow passage between buildings. "Before I change my mind."

---

They found Elias in a dead-end alley, counting bills beneath a flickering streetlamp. He looked up as they approached, and his face twisted into a sneer.

"Should've known you'd survive, Cross. You're like a damn cockroach."

"The list," Sorin said.

"I already handed it over. Morwen's people are on their way."

"Liar." The woman stepped forward, her knife appearing in her hand like magic. "You're still here. Which means you haven't made the drop yet."

Elias's eyes darted to the side. A trash can. The list was in the trash can.

But the woman didn't look. She kept her focus on Elias, her blade tracing a line through the air between them. "I've spent three months tracking my sister. Three months learning everything about the Blood Market. Who attends, who profits, who dies." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I know you have a daughter, Elias. School records. Medical history. A little girl who gets asthma attacks in the winter."

Elias's bravado crumbled. "You wouldn't."

"Try me."

For a long moment, nobody moved. Then Elias reached into the trash can and pulled out the envelope, tossing it at Sorin's feet.

"The auction's in seventy-two hours. You'll never stop it."

Sorin picked up the list, scanning the names. The weight of it settled in his chest like a stone.

"Seventy-two hours," he repeated.

"Give or take." Elias's smile was ugly. "Morwen's already moving the merchandise. Good luck getting past her security."

The woman grabbed Elias by the collar and slammed him against the wall. "Where's my sister?"

"I don't know every donor, lady. They're kept separate. Private." He laughed, a wet, choking sound. "You'll never find her in time."

She hit him. Once, clean, and he crumpled. Sorin watched her hands shake as she stepped back.

"We need to go," he said. "Syndicate will be here soon."

She didn't argue. They left Elias unconscious in the alley, the rain washing the blood from their hands.

---

The safehouse was a cramped apartment above a laundromat, the windows covered with newspaper and the walls lined with maps. Sorin sat on the floor, pressing a cloth to his shoulder while the woman—Mira, she'd finally given him her name—paced.

"I don't trust you."

"You've made that clear."

"Then why should I work with you?"

Sorin looked up from the list spread across the floor. "Because I've been inside the Blood Market. I know the layout, the security rotations, the blind spots." He paused. "And because you can't do this alone."

Mira stopped pacing. Her reflection stared back at him from the darkened window—a ghost of a woman, hollow-eyed and desperate.

"I had a partner," she said. "A human. We were supposed to do this together. The Syndicate killed him last week."

Sorin said nothing. There was nothing to say.

"He was a good man. Believed in the resistance, in Dawnlight's mission." Mira's voice cracked. "He didn't deserve to die in a sewer with his throat ripped out."

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry doesn't bring him back."

"No." Sorin stood, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. "But helping me might save your sister."

Mira's hand went to her gun. The same motion as before, automatic, defensive. "Give me one reason I shouldn't kill you right now."

"Because you need me." Sorin held her gaze. "And because I've already betrayed everyone I ever loved. I have nothing left to lose."

The silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of decisions that couldn't be unmade.

Then Mira drew her gun and aimed it at his head.

"The list," she said. "Hand it over."

Sorin reached into his jacket and pulled out the envelope. He held it out to her, palm open, offering everything.

"Your sister is in the Blood Market," he said. "We have seventy-two hours to save her."

Mira's finger hovered over the trigger. Her hand shook.

Then she lowered the weapon.

"Seventy-two hours," she repeated. "And if you betray me, I'll make sure you die slow."

Sorin nodded, the list still extended between them.

"I know."