"The crypt?" I repeated, looking at the silver pin in the mechanic's grease-stained palm. It was authentic—solid platinum, a custom piece Cyprian gave only to his inner circle.
"Oryn figured you'd head for the high ground," the mechanic grunted, shoving the pin back into his pocket. "He said the missus likes dramatic backdrops."
"He's not wrong," Cyprian murmured, leaning heavily on my shoulder. His skin was burning up; the infection from the dirty sewer water was setting in fast.
"We have a van," the mechanic said, jerking his thumb toward a battered delivery truck parked in the alley shadows. "Not pretty, but it's shielded. Faraday cage lining. Sterling's drones can't sniff inside."
We piled in. The back of the van smelled of oil and old copper wire. Elara huddled in the corner, pull
