The Siren’s Last Lie

Before the blood painting of Dekaris could dry on the floor, Misha lunged forward and grabbed Jazz’s arm.

“You...” he began, staring up at Jazz’s expressionless face. “What are you? A bodyguard?”

Jazz turned slowly to him. “I'm a judge.”

Misha stalled. For a second, something flickered in his eyes—hesitation, maybe hurt—before he yanked his hand back, as though Jazz’s skin had turned to flame. “Right,” he muttered, forcing a grin. “Didn’t seem very logical, though.”

There was a quiet beat. Jazz didn’t answer. His gaze lingered elsewhere—past Misha, toward the boy with the wild hair and scraped knees.

“What he did was perfect,” Ru said, stepping forward. His voice was low but unwavering. “That man was the vampire lord—the one who made us sign the contract, right?”

Jazz’s posture shifted, almost imperceptibly, at Ru’s words. He didn’t speak, but his fingers twitched by his side, like he was restraining something.