Flipping onto her feet, she shrugged into the jacket and tried to ignore the faint burning sensation around each wrist. Moth approached the would-be vampire hunter and nudged him with the toe of her boot.

“Okay, Van Helsing. Where does your father keep his trophies?”

He coughed and propped himself up on his elbows. He tried to hide a wince as he attempted to lift himself into a sitting position. “What do you mean?”

“Come on, I don’t have time for this. You cost me …” She glanced at the clock on the bedside table and almost gasped. “Two freaking hours?! What the hell did you plug me with?” She narrowed her eyes. “Forget that. What time will Daddy be home?”

Jace glared at her. “He’s never home before dawn.”

Moth felt the tension in her gut ease. “So … The trophy room?”

“He doesn’t take scalps, if that’s what you mean.”

She rolled her eyes. “Ashes, Jace. Where does he keep the ashes?”

“He doesn’t.”

“Yeah, right. Tell me, or I’ll rip the place apart after I take out your other knee.” She gave him an evil grin. “How do you fancy a wheelchair for the next three months?”

Moth was amazed to see his fingers twitch in the direction of the unloaded crossbow. She brought her heavy boot down on it with a satisfying crunch.

“Tick-tock, Jace.”

“Fine. There’s no trophy room.” He raised his hand as he saw Moth about to reply. “There really isn’t. Dad keeps some funeral urns in the kitchen.”

She frowned. “Um … The kitchen?”

“Cupboard under the sink.” He lay back against the floor and closed his eyes.

“Your old man’s a freak, you know that?”

“Screw you.”