Mei
The air in the lower courtyard was thick with the scent of pine needles and damp earth, but as Mei approached the West Garage, the atmosphere shifted to something more industrial: gasoline, rubber, and cold steel.
She was on her way to the supply cellar to find a specific oil for the hinges of Alaric's chair—the mountain humidity was making the metal groan, and the sound was grating on his already frayed nerves. But she stopped dead when she saw the silver flash of a luxury vehicle parked in the center of the bay, its headlights glowing like malevolent eyes in the gloom.
Leaning against the hood was Lucian.
He had traded his charcoal suit for a black leather racing jacket that made him look even more like a predator out of a nightmare. He held a glass of amber liquid in one hand, swirling it slowly, watching the way the overhead fluorescent lights danced in the crystal.
