Chapter 13

In addition to unionizing factories, he’d been creating caches of warded weapons and munitions across the country, for other groups like theirs that watched for creatures from the Realms—all underneath his own board’s nose.

“I know we have been,” Damian said, in a conciliatory fashion. “Which is why I was thinking we could break up certain other factories, and gift them to other Wardens that can run them. Mills has been successful in teaching her spells to some other magic users and—”

“Zach! I’m sorry I’m late! I overslept!” Mills ran right through Zach’s open bedroom door, in tight yoga pants and a loose T-shirt, her long hair flowing behind her like a cape, before stopping as she sensed the tension in the room. “Did… I… miss something?”

Zach waved her over, relaxing a fraction. “No. You did not.” He knew Mills at least was telling the truth—she was cursed to never lie. “I still need to be the Beast and give an important press conference—although Damian was telling me how I should use this opportunity to dive.”

She blinked, and he watched assorted social calculations cross her face. “He’s not wrong, Zach—you could use this conference for that if you wanted.”

“What would I even do with myself, if not this?” he complained aloud, as she raised her hands to his face. He closed his eyes as light and heat emanated from her fingertips and changed his appearance to be Damian Blackwood the Elder again, an approximation of Damian’s dead father so that their family resemblance was sealed.

“Not be someone you hated for sixteen hours a day,” Damian told him when she was finished.

“Or,” Mills said, much more kindly, “just be yourself.”

Zach shook his head at the both of them. “I’ve got to go. Don’t expect me for dinner,” he said, walking to the door.

DAMIAN WASN’T WRONG, which was the frustrating part. There were multiple groups of Wardens across the world that kept an eye out for creatures coming over from different Realms through the rifts that occurred when magical worlds brushed up against Earth’s reality. They were loosely organized, but they all shared information, and several of them would be just as competent at running their stockpiles of weapons warded to not hurt normal humans in a firefight.

It was just the thought of… letting go.

It’d be one thing if he had something else to turn to. But he’d been so laser-focused on the Beast’s success.

And even if it was the right thing to do—which it wasn’t—it would still take some time for him to even conceive of doing it. Now was far, far too early. A handful of newspaper articles and court cases wasn’t going to dismantle the Blackwood name, not without a steady hand at the wheel.

The very thought was preposterous.

His driver dropped him off in front of Blackwood Industry’s downtown skyscraper, where reporters were already gathered, waiting for the press conference he’d scheduled the second he’d gotten up. Alastair’s men were there in moments, using their outstretched arms and looming presences to push reporters back. His fleet of secretaries—who’d probably been alerted by some sort of “oh shit!” phone tree once the headlines had hit—were already safely inside the building, protected by bulletproof glass and security guards, and he could see the stoic men and women inside begging him not to engage with reporters with their eyes.

He’d only punched one reporter, once, when they’d gotten overly familiar with Andi this past summer. He’d saved the man’s life, seeing as Damian’s dragon would’ve—quite possibly literally—bitten his head off, if he’d known. But now everyone assumed he was a hairsbreadth away from doing it again, all the time.

A microphone jabbed through his bodyguard’s arms, waved in his face, heard him grumble, and then he was safe inside.

The bravest of his executive assistants strode forward. “We reserved the large conference room for you, like you asked, Mr. Blackwood.”

“Thanks, June.”

Zach waved her away, but she held her ground to whisper, “And the board wants to meet with you. Beforehand.”

“No.”

He let his voice raise, loud enough for it to carry, he wanted everyone to hear—Zach knew his true show had begun the second he’d stepped out of his car’s door. “One of them betrayed me. I don’t need to take meetings with traitors.”

Let the games begin.

June looked pained. “It’s just—”

“I know exactly what it is,” he growled at her. “Bring me coffee.”

Then he walked up two flights of the building’s wide marble stairs to the executive conference room on the third floor. Three of its walls were currently untinted glass, so everyone could see who went in and who came out. He’d use it as his base of operations for the day, turning it into a warroom of sorts, so he could be seen going to battle against his company’s internal enemy… himself.

Zach snorted, installed himself behind the table at the conference room’s far end, and made a show of looking at his work phone, ignoring frantic emails demanding action from board members and major shareholders alike.

Only one man was brave enough to visit him there in person. Alastair stood for half a second outside the glass door, waiting for acknowledgment, and Zach bade him enter.

Alastair was strong and silent as a stone, except for when he’d been ordered to do things. He came in with a sheaf of papers hidden in a folder beneath one arm. “I wasn’t sure if electronic communications were the safest way to handle things, considering,” he said, passing the folder over.

“Indeed,” Zach said, opening the folder up. “In times like these, the shredder retains a certain charm.”

He flipped through page after page of Stefan Larios’s life, wondering what hold the man could have on Stella or Starry Sky, all the while stroking his chin in thought. Larios was wealthy, but so were a lot of men locally— including himself. And he’d offered Stella funds the prior night. So it couldn’t be that…

Alastair cleared his throat, still standing to one side. “What is it?” Zach asked without looking up.

“Is there a chance the tape is fake? Did you want my team to pursue the reporter?”