“Gives me the creeps,” he said before pushing his helmet on and kicking off.

“Do I want to ask who he’s talking about?” I asked. Roman gave a chuckle as he hopped on his Harley.

“No,” he grunted before starting his bike. I looked up at the sky. A large black bird circled overhead, barely visible in the soft glow of the city. I ground my teeth. I didn’t like being followed but if it meant having a chance to get inside the Tower…if it meant having a chance to take it, I’d put up with it. This was a rare opportunity. The man who owned what I wanted was currently obsessed with me. I couldn’t ask for a better setup but something felt off… It seemed a bit too easy.

Our racing spot was still in the industrial district, not far from where we were. Late-night businesses were a rare thing around here, meaning most everything was closed down at night. The particular place we picked was near warehouses close to the shipping yards. It was deserted minus the occasional security guard and the low glow of security lights. The street lights glared down on oil-stained streets.

The racers didn’t mess around, lining up next to each other and waiting for our time to go. I looked down the line. There were four tricked out racing bikes with four guys riding. Roman parked off to the side as others followed suit. He looked around before checking his watch.

“Let’s just go without him,” a muffled voice came from behind one of the helmets beside me. The werewolf revved his engine in impatience.

“You want to piss him off?” Roman asked, silencing the man’s complaints. I looked up but saw no sign of any birds. I started to wonder if maybe it was Viktor we were waiting for. Though I couldn’t imagine him climbing atop a bike in that expensive suit.

The other pack members and anyone else they wrangled from the party at the club made a little crowd next to the street. They jokingly howled at the moon and I huffed out an exasperated breath as I pushed my kickstand down and leaned back, crossing my arms.

A moment later the special guest arrived. I heard the growl and scream of a Hell-cursed bike. Everyone perked up and the people toying around on the sidelines grew quiet in a way werewolves rarely did. My stomach squeezed itself in anxiety.

“Fuck me,” I hissed. “The Dullahan?” I leaned forward and pushed my kickstand back up, wondering if I should ride off. I’d been raised on stories of the Dullahan. He was supposed to be terrorizing the Emerald Isle, not here. The Irish were terrified of him–humans and supernaturals alike. He was a class of his own and apparently, he detested my kind.

My grandmother was the one who told my sister and me to stay clear of him. He was bad news—a death omen—and if he ever turned his attention towards us she told us to run. Don’t bribe, bargain, or attempt to fool Dullahan. Just run.