It was nine, and Rhys was alone—again. The wraith had left before dawn, but Rhys had seen him change form, creep across the floor as a shadow, and filter beneath the door. He still hadn’t returned. Rhys wasn’t going to worry about him. The wraith had been well fed, his magical abilities replenished. He could take care of himself, just as Rhys could. Frowning, Rhys picked up the box of cereal. It had been two days since the confrontation in Rhys’ office with Suriel and Keir, and still, the memory stung. Rhys hated being kept at arm’s length, but what he despised more was the ignored request he had sent via Keir for Bran, the Sidhe king, to come to Velvet Haven and talk with him. Rhys wanted answers about what was being done to discover this murderer and the kind of protection he was going to have for the club’s guests. As the owner of the club where inhabitants from Annwyn mixed with mortals, Rhys felt he was entitled to a little information. The psycho killer was sacrificing both mortals and immortals, so no one was safe.
