58

London Bridge, London

Jason was leaning against a London Bridge railing when the body plummeted off the Tower Bridge’s elevated walkway roof. Someone near him screamed, and then everyone began pointing upward or snapping photos, some of them managing both simultaneously.

The body could belong to Wiley or the kid or even a random jumper, but there was the slimmest chance it was the Grimalkin plummeting into the Thames.

Jason smiled.

This wasn’t a business for men who played games. Rules were necessary, but not the ones the Grimalkin demanded: Think of me only as Charlie Arthur Thackeray when I am with Salem, the Grimalkin when I am with you. Never look at me as if you recognize me. Never question my commands.

The woman standing next to Jason on the bridge, who had been turning to say something about the falling man, stopped when her gaze met Jason’s. Her face went soft, her mouth slack. She looked as if she’d entered the Rapture.

Jason felt as beautiful as he appeared.

The Grimalkin had attacked him at St. Brigid’s. He’d slid a knife into Jason’s neck. Blood had spurted. Jason had fallen to the ground.

And then a miraculous thing happened.

His neck skin closed over the wound.

He hadn’t known he’d possessed that power. He’d laid on the ground until the Grimalkin was gone, and then he’d stood, shoved his way through the gaping crowd, and made his way back to London with the realization that he’d been born again.

He’d known the finale would take place at the Order’s Tower Bridge penthouse and came by to watch as a tourist. He hadn’t dreamed it would go so … generously. He shoved his hands in his pockets, his angelic mien still in place.

The Order wasn’t going to like this. Not at all.

Jason walked away.