Aries climbed in beside me, slamming the door.

Killian jumped into the driver’s seat and threw the vehicle into reverse.

We surged out of the garage and into the torrential Manhattan rain.

The wipers slapped violently against the windshield as we navigated the slick streets.

I looked out the window, watching the blur of city lights fade as we headed south toward the docks.

Aries sat in the dark beside me, his breathing finally slowing down.

He reached out and took a corner of the wet silk shirt from my hands.

“The dye,” he said, rubbing the fabric between his gloved fingers. “What is it?”

“It is a midnight blue dye,” I said, my voice steadier now. “But it has been altered.”

“Altered how?” he asked.

“The texture is too stiff,” I explained. “And the smell. It has a faint scent of bitter almonds.”

“Cyanide,” Killian said from the front seat, eye met mine in the rearview mirror.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “It is something more complex. Something that absorbs through the skin when heated by body temperature.”

“A contact nerve agent,” Aries said, his voice flat.