Silas Venn did not look like a warlord.
He stood behind a wide oak partner’s desk on the third floor of the administration wing, trimming the wick of an oil lamp with a pair of brass snips. He was in his mid-fifties, with close-cropped silver hair, a neatly pressed gray chambray shirt, and a dark wool cardigan with leather buttons. His eyes were pale gray, sharp and rested, free of the bloodshot exhaustion that haunted every face in Bellweather.
On the desk between them sat a silver-plated tea service, three china cups, and a typed copy of the Candlewake Motel’s original twelve-room county plat.
“Sit down, Mara,” Venn said. His voice was warm, a low baritone that belonged behind a bank teller’s cage or a judge’s bench. “You’ve walked forty miles on bad tires. Finch, bring the shortbread.”
Mara sat in one of the high-backed leather chairs. Luis stood by the tall sash window, looking out over the inner compound, while Gideon remained by the closed door with Administrator Finch.
“I didn’t come for shortbread, Commander Venn,” Mara said, keeping her hands resting flat on the mahogany arms of the chair. “I came for June Mercer.”
Venn set the snips on a small porcelain tray and poured dark tea from the silver pot into a cup, sliding it across the desk toward her.
