Crimson Covenant (Onyx Assassins 1)

“Is your wrist okay?” Valor asked once I’d settled back in my seat.

I furrowed my brow. “It wasn’t my wrist the guy cut, it was my forearm.”

Valor arched a brow, her eyes falling to where I rubbed the delicate skin of my wrist.

I immediately tucked my hands beneath the desk and shrugged. “It itches. Probably something from one of these books I’ve been practically sleeping with.” I laid my palm flat over one of said texts, and Valor’s concerned gaze softened.

“Sleeping is right,” she teased. “I wouldn’t be able to keep my eyes open if I had to read…” She eyed the spine. “Histories of Secret Sects and Societies, 1776-1889.”

I bit back a smile and wagged a finger at her. “Don’t knock the history,” I chided. “Besides, I can think of nothing more boring than business books. I mean, who wants to run a fortune-five-hundred company anyway?”

Valor pursed her lips at my deliberate jab. “I never said I wanted to run it,” she said. “But with my family?” She shook her head, releasing a long-winded sigh that tugged at the center of my chest.

I’d never met any members of the prestigious Moorehouse family—the same of Moorehouse Industries, one of the oldest and most successful pharmaceutical corporations in the nation—but she’d told me enough about them to know she was trapped in her ambitions. A centuries-old family business meant she didn’t have a choice but to take over with her brother when her father retired.

“You think I’m overprotective,” she continued. “I step one toe out of line, and my father sends an entire team of his brethren to set me straight.”

In the past, I might’ve said something like, “At least you have a family,” but I’d learned long ago that wasn’t always the case. Sometimes, no family was better than a bad one. Not that Valor’s was terrible, but she certainly hadn’t recounted tales of a Norman Rockwell type of childhood.

It certainly wasn’t a barrage of group homes and foster care like mine had been, but everyone had a different path. I was just happy our paths had crossed. She was the first real friend I’d held on to after a life of moving from home to home.

College had offered me the freedom and independence I’d always longed for. I couldn’t believe six years of hard work were about to come to an end. With my doctorate and my years of research, I’d finally have the credibility I needed to start my nonfiction book. A historical theory regarding the ripple effects powerful secret societies had on today’s national agenda.

A loud chirping sound cheeped from Valor’s pocket, the high-pitched note practically bouncing off the near-silent walls of the library. More than a few hisses followed the sound, followed by even more glares. Valor flipped off the glaring students, then checked her phone and sighed. “I’m being summoned,” she said, her tone laced with suffering.

I scooped up my books, tucking them carefully into my over-the-shoulder bag. “No worries,” I said. “I’m finished anyway. My brain is fried today for some reason.”

“Being attacked in the park can do that to a girl,” Valor chided as we walked out of the library and into the crisp night air.

“I wasn’t attacked,” I said, breathing in the fresh air. I’d always loved the smell of the city at night—so different from the warm smells of the day. The earthy tones were sharper, the city’s food trucks more savory, and tonight a hint of cocoa-citrusy-cedar beckoned me like warm cookies straight from the oven. Something about the pinpricks of light in the inky sky, the glowing silver moon, and the chilled breeze gave the atmosphere a revitalized energy that my tired soul gobbled down like oxygen.

“What would you call it then?” Valor asked as we took the concrete stairs down and away from the library, turning left and heading toward the parking garage where I’d left my car earlier that morning.

I shrugged. “Wrong place, wrong time?” I couldn’t explain it any other way. It wasn’t like the creep had targeted me specifically. I’d merely gotten in his way. And thank goodness, too, because him plowing me over had slowed him down just enough for the man and his friends to chase after him. Or, at least, I assumed they did since they’d disappeared faster than my eyes could follow.

“Whatever the case,” Valor said, stopping at the parking garage’s entrance. “You drive from now on.”

I arched a brow at her. “That sounds an awful lot like an order,” I teased. “And I don’t remember you being my mother.”

An old pain flashed behind her eyes, but she blinked it away. “I’m better than a mother,” she said, draping an arm around my shoulders. “I’m a bitchy best friend who happens to love you.”

My heart warmed at her declaration. If there was one thing being an orphan had taught me, it was to appreciate true compassion and friendship when it came along. Such a rare thing, to love someone wholly and trust them implicitly. Before Valor, I’d only done so with books.