Waking up to my sin
I muttered, my voice sounding like gravel under a boot.
The man I was meeting—the contact Malakai had listed in his encrypted 'In Case of Death' files—flinched. He was standing by a rusted, oil-leaking Peugeot, lighting a cigarette with hands that wouldn't stop trembling. His name was Henri, a former Council informant who owed Malakai his life—and, according to the files, his tongue. When he saw me, his eyes widened, scanning my face for the softness he’d heard about in the rumors. He found none. Whatever girl had loved Malakai in the light had been buried under the ice.