The late morning in Eldhollow's market had never felt more suffocating.
Elowen stood at the edge of a stall lined with peppered fish and burlap sacks of herbs, her heart rattling like loose shutters in a storm. She clutched a brown parcel to her chest—on the surface, it contained silver jewelry, simple trinkets wrapped in linen. But beneath, hidden beneath cotton lace, was a carefully packed mound of fresh sea salt—too much for a simple cook. Far too much.
Her fingers trembled.
Only the buyers were being searched.
Why only the buyers?
There were at least thirty people ahead of her, some chatting nervously, others pale with fear. She caught sight of Rhys Glenshade—the vampire detective assigned to the docks—looming like death itself near the market's entrance. He was speaking to guards, eyes sharp, methodical. He didn't smile. He never smiled.
Elowen's breath hitched. His gaze slid across the crowd, stopped—landed on her.
Her knees threatened to buckle.
