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answers.
    I gave the cops ten minutes to get clear, grabbed my coat and left my apartment. There was one place I’d get the lowdown on Reign. The
Metro
offices in Kensington. I needed to clear out my desk; while doing that, I could do a little investigating of my own. Whatever crime Reign may or may not have committed, the
Metro
’s database would have it. There was information in their network that would make politicians blush. I was about to discover everything Mister I Don’t Pay for Anything had to hide.

Chapter Four
    My ID didn’t work when I tried to swipe into the
Metro
offices at Northcliff House. I was forced to plead my way in by name-dropping colleagues. Not even a day off the job and they’d already forgotten me.
    Barely 7:00 a.m., and the offices buzzed with early-morning enthusiasm. There was a story in the air, a buzz. I caught glimpses and heard snippets as I passed by. A high-profile party had turned sour. The day before, I’d have been all over it, but that morning, I kept my head down and quickened my pace.
    Northcliff House is a vast art déco–style building. Cool-white columns frame huge and elaborate black windows that appear to drape from the top of the building to just above the canopy sheltering its entrance. The most influential and somewhat notorious members of the press corps call it home. I’d called it home too. I could lament the loss of my job later, and hopefully, if my instincts about Reign paid off, I wouldn’t have to lament anything. I’d be right back at my desk, where I belonged, soon enough.
    The
Metro
’s central servers held files on every celebrity, should any of them suddenly find themselves worthy of front-page material. Reign had a file, a large one at that. Like every well-known figure, he had a love-hate relationship with the press. Or, in Reign’s case, the press loved him because his escapades helped increase sales, while he hated them, most likely because he couldn’t sneeze without someone spinning it into a story. Still, he didn’t exactly help himself. Some clichés never die. Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll. Reign used the cliché as a guidebook, and being fae, he didn’t need to answer to anyone outside of his own kind. Gauging from the size of his file, either trouble liked to follow him or he created it.
    Two nights ago he’d been snapped attending his own exclusive after-party, entourage in tow. The Fae Authority had clamped down on the revelers in the early hours, preventing the guests from entering or leaving until daybreak. The file hadn’t been updated since, but clearly something had happened. Was the party the reason Reign was on the run? I scanned the guest list. London’s elite liked to flaunt their association with the fae; as though they could compete with their exotic and deadly beauty.
    ***
    I set all of Reign’s files to print and hurried to the print room before anyone noticed. Printers hummed in unison as I closed the door behind me. Thankfully alone, and grateful I didn’t have to explain my actions, I found my printer, brushed a cobweb off, and watched my files on Reign spew forth. I could absorb the information at home. What I was going to do with it was another thing altogether. This potential story was way above my pay grade, and now that Reign had made himself scarce, my connection to the facts had fled. But there was no letting this go, not now that I was on the scent. Especially after Reign’s cryptic parting words.
This isn’t my story, Alina …
    The printer snarled and scrunched up a sheet. “Damn.” As I reached around the back a dash of movement to my right drew my attention toward the bank of printers along the far wall. A dozen or so machines blinked various colored lights, but otherwise all was in order. I’d finally jerked the guest list for the party free of the printer when a shiver rippled down the back of my neck, lifting the tiny hairs and scattering goose bumps across my skin. I wasn’t alone. Time to