This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Trial by Spell, The Witches of Hollow Cove, Book Twenty-one

Copyright © 2025 by Kim Richardson

Cover design by Kim Richardson

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction

in whole or in any form.

1

TESSA

Iwoke to find the other side of my bed empty. Again.

It had been like this for the past three weeks, ever since the town announced Marcus was under investigation for the whole “cursed monster rampage” thing. You try eating pancakes like a normal person after your husband gets possessed by an ancient wereape purity curse designed to strip him of free will and nearly takes out half your family.

Technically, the curse was gone. Soren Tex, my long-lost elven cousin, part-time villain with a full-time ego, had removed it. I’d seen the whole white-light-veils-of-doom ritual myself. Very dramatic. Ten out of ten for flair.

Marcus had told me he was fine. Normal. Back to himself. And I wanted to believe him. I really did. But lately, “fine” felt a lot like code for “I’m pretending I don’t feel a dark storm brewing in my chest while also not sleeping and brooding near windows.”

He’d been distant. Quieter than usual. Not in an “I need space” way but more like he was trapped in his own thoughts, rewinding a tape I couldn’t hear.

So yeah. I was worried. Sue me.

Still, he’d been getting up before dawn every morning and heading straight to the office. Probably trying to show the town he was still in control, still strong, still chief material, even though he wasn’t allowed to technically be chief right now. Minor detail.

I had asked Iris to casually (more like obsessively) keep an eye on him at work. I might’ve also told her to report back if she noticed anything weird.

I knew it was slightly stalkerish. But listen—if you had a magical baby and a husband who recently turned into a rage-fueled gorilla monster, you’d have trust issues too.

Also, we’d just survived Darian’s first Christmas. And if you thought cats were bad with Christmas trees, try a half-witch, half-demon, half-wereape toddler with zero impulse control and a deep, personal vendetta against ornaments. He didn’t just knock the tree over. He climbed it. Every chance he got. We stopped decorating after December 18 and started calling it “The Tree Formerly Known as Festive.”

And speaking of magical babies…

I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling, dread curling in my stomach. Darian. My son. My impossibly fast-growing, magic-exploding, demon-blooded child. I had no idea what age bracket to shop for anymore.

What kept me up at night, besides, you know, my son’s growth spurts, was Morgana Draeven and her very polite, very terrifying threats.

The Gray Council wanted to “evaluate” Darian, which was really just their way of pretending this was a friendly little magical checkup while actually planning to whisk him away to an undisclosed area and raise him as their magical hostage because they’re afraid of his power and also maybe just enjoy ruining lives.

Yeah. Not happening.

And this Morgana? I knew her playbook. Cold, controlled, power-obsessed. She didn’t rattle me so much as she ticked me off.

Soren Tex, on the other hand… he rattled me.

Because, unlike the council, Soren didn’t play by any rules I recognized. He didn’t want Darian—at least not yet. No, he wanted something from me.

I had no idea what that something was. No clue. And that scared the crap out of me.

Because I’d made a deal with him—a favor owed. And when an immortal elven elemental illusionist asked for a favor, it was never something simple like babysitting or helping him move a couch.

Nope. It was more likely to be: “Hey, can you sneak into the Netherworld and steal a demon crown for me? Oh, and don’t die. That’d be inconvenient.”

I let out a long breath, the kind that always felt heavier in the early morning light. So much had happened in the last few weeks. Too much.

I missed when my biggest concern was whether Ruth was hoarding gnome poop again or Beverly was dating five guys at once. She did. She truly did.

Now? I was being watched, my kid was a magical anomaly, my husband was under investigation, and the council was breathing down my neck.

My stomach growled. The universal sign to get up and steal breakfast from my aunts so I didn’t have to cook. Honestly, I considered it part of their sacred auntly duties—feeding the magically exhausted and emotionally fried.

Good plan.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, grabbed a pair of jeans off the floor, pulled on a bra, and yanked on my oversized gray wool turtleneck. It had a coffee stain on the sleeve from yesterday, but honestly, that just added character.

With a yawn and a halfhearted attempt to fix the disaster that was my hair, I padded across the hall to Darian’s room.

His crib was gone. Well, not gone. Just… replaced. A new toddler bed, low to the floor, covered in witchy star-patterned blankets, sat in its place. House had conjured it last week after Darian literally took his crib apart. He was too big for it anyway.

It still felt too soon for a toddler bed. He wasn’t supposed to be this big yet.

Except… he was.

In the last three weeks, he’d gone from a chubby-cheeked baby to a full-blown preschooler. His hair was thicker, curling around his ears in dark, soft waves. His legs were longer, his voice clearer. He looked like a three-year-old now. A very cute, potentially world-altering three-year-old.

And right now?

He wasn’t in his room.

My heart skipped a beat. “Darian?”

Silence.

“Darian!” I shouted, panic rising as I whirled around and bolted for the stairs. “This is not funny! Darian!”

I hit the first floor in record time, barefoot and fully prepared to bolt outside and scream like a banshee down the street for my kid, only to stop dead at the sight in the living room.

There he was. My son. Fully dressed, shirt, pants, and mismatched socks, all by himself, sitting cross-legged on the rug.

He looked up at me with a gap-toothed grin and pointed toward the front door. “Pancake,” he said proudly.

Of course. That was his new favorite word. He said it with reverence. With purpose. Like he knew exactly who he was and what his destiny involved. Maple syrup and carbs.

“Oh, you absolute menace,” I breathed, pressing a hand to my chest as I stumbled over and crouched beside him. “You scared the crap out of mommy.”

He reached out and took my hand with his little fingers, like he was the one reassuring me. Then he said it again. “Pancake.”

I laughed under my breath. “Yeah, yeah. I got the hint, boss baby.”

I scooped him up and stood, his head resting on my shoulder for a brief, magical moment that made everything else—Soren, the council, Morgana, the creeping dread—fade for just a second.

Then I lowered him to the floor, pulled on our winter boots, took his hand, and opened the front door. Together, we stepped into the early Hollow Cove morning, the icy air biting at our cheeks and a thin layer of frost crunching beneath our boots as we walked across the snow-dusted porch and down the short path to Davenport House.

At 7 a.m., it was still pitch-dark in January. Frost clung to the railings, and a golden glow spilled from the kitchen windows. I opened the door, and we stepped into the familiar scent of butter, coffee, and a hint of something bubbling that was either syrup or an experimental potion. With Ruth, you never really knew.

Ruth stood with her back to us, humming off-key to something jazzy on the radio, her pink spatula flipping pancakes on the griddle with mechanical precision.

She wore an apron tied over her chunky red sweater, her hair coiled into a messy bun that was somehow defying gravity and common sense. Steam curled from the stovetop, and a pan hissed as butter met batter.

The floor creaked as we stepped in, and Ruth spun around. “Oh, hi, Tessa, Darian.” The words across her apron read, DON’T MAKE ME FLIP MY BROOM.

Darian let out a gleeful squeal. “Pancake!”

I smiled down at him, ruffling his too-long curls. “Yeah, yeah. I got your order, little dude.”

Ruth beamed. “That’s exactly what I’m making. They’re blueberry this time,” she announced triumphantly, pointing the spatula like a weapon.

Darian squealed again and climbed up onto the kitchen island stool like he’d been doing it for years. Ruth had already put out a placemat and a small glass of orange juice at his usual spot. Clearly, she was expecting him.

Well, we had come by every morning for the past three weeks, so I guessed she had the pancake routine down to a sacred ritual.

I looked around the kitchen. No sign of Hildo or Tinker Bell. Which meant they were either off doing something helpful, or something deeply questionable. I didn’t want to know.

I moved to the coffee machine, poured myself a steaming cup of what I like to call brown heaven, and took a slow, reverent sip. It was strong, hot, and blessedly caffeinated.

“I think coffee is like my second oxygen,” I muttered.

“There’s no such thing, silly.” Ruth chuckled, her eyes still on the griddle. “That’s just the caffeine talking.”

I grinned. “I know. But I still need it.”

The floor creaked followed by the sound of confident heels clicking against the hardwood. Beverly walked in like a queen arriving at court—already dressed in high-waisted pants, a silken cream blouse tucked perfectly into them, and a structured black coat that showed off all her curves. Her blonde hair was styled in soft waves and her lipstick matched the precise shade of “I woke up fabulous.”

“Thought I heard someone,” said Beverly as she breezed in. She leaned over and kissed the top of Darian’s head. He blinked up at her like she might be a goddess of pancakes and then went right back to sipping his orange juice.

Beverly grabbed a mug from the shelf and poured herself some coffee before joining me by the counter.

“Where’s Dolores?” I asked, noticing the lack of grumbling, paper rustling, or unsolicited town updates.

Ruth flipped a pancake. “She was up early. Left for the council office about an hour ago.”

That pulled me up short. “Is this still about the investigation on Marcus?”

Ruth gave me a small nod, not meeting my eyes as she adjusted the burner. “Yeah. She said she needed to check on something.”

I stared into my coffee like it might give me answers. Or strength. “I just wish it was over.”

Ruth gave a gentle shrug. “Me too.”

A tightness bloomed in my chest. I hadn’t said it out loud, but part of me kept waiting for the council to announce some ridiculous decision, like exiling Marcus. Or worse.

“He’s trying so hard to prove himself,” I said. “Getting up early, going to the office like nothing happened. He’s not even allowed to be chief right now, and he’s still showing up.”

Beverly gently bumped her hip against mine. “Don’t worry. That wereape has survived curses and political sabotage. He’s not going down because of some overreaching council with a superiority complex.”

“Still. He’s under their microscope. And so is Darian.”

“Stop worrying,” Beverly said, eyeing the swirl of cream in her coffee. “You’ll deepen those forehead wrinkles. And trust me. You don’t need more.”

Right.

Ruth slid a plate in front of Darian. Two golden pancakes stacked like an edible treasure. “Extra blueberries, just like you like ’em,” she said.

Darian didn’t even answer. He was too busy trying to fit an entire bite the size of his head into his mouth. Kid had priorities.

Just as I reached for the syrup, I heard the sound of the front door opening and closing.

Cold air swept into the kitchen, biting at our ankles and sending a few rogue napkins fluttering. Dolores appeared a moment later, her long gray braid swinging over her shoulder, her coat still dusted with snow, and her signature scowl dialed up to “absolutely do not test me before coffee.”

Her eyes flicked to Darian and then to Ruth before landing on me. Tight. Focused.

“Good morning,” I said slowly, already bracing. “What’s the matter? Is it about Marcus?”

Dolores marched over to the coffee pot, poured herself a cup, took a sip, and stared into the mug.

“Dolores?” I tried again.

Still nothing.

That’s when I knew something was seriously off. Dolores didn’t do quiet. Dolores did opinions. She did speeches. And above all, she liked to explain why she was always right and you were always wrong.

I set my mug down. “Did something happen to Marcus?”

After a long pause, she said, her voice low and flat, “As mayor, I’m not at liberty to talk about some things. Things I… can’t repeat. Even to family.”

That shut me up. For half a second.

“But I’m his wife,” I said, my heart thudding. “And I’m your family. And if something’s wrong—”

Before I could finish the sentence, the toaster on the counter gave a loud clunk. Then it started to rattle.

Everyone froze.

Ruth’s spatula hovered midair. Beverly paused mid-sip, her eyes narrowing. Darian glanced up from his plate, his pancake dripping from his fork like he was about to witness something fantastic.

The toaster clattered again, and then a message card shot out of the slot like a piece of toast.

Dolores, being closest, snatched it up even before I pushed off the counter. Her eyes scanned the card fast, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her silence was worse than her scolding.

“It’s about Marcus. Isn’t it?” I said, already inching closer. “Is he in more trouble? Are they trying to pin something else on him now? Tell me.” At her silence, I pressed, “If this is about my husband, you’re going to need more than a stern look and a cup of coffee to shut me up.”

Her eyes darted to me, and for just a second, I saw something flash behind them—pity, maybe. Or hesitation. Which was somehow worse than anger.

“It’s not about Marcus,” said Dolores finally. Her voice was low, clipped. “It’s worse.”

My stomach dropped. Only one thing was worse than them coming after my husband.

Darian.

But then she said, “The Gray Council is reopening the Witch Trials.”

Ruth’s face went pale. She gripped the edge of the stove like she needed to steady herself.

Even Beverly, who could usually smirk her way through a demon uprising, looked rattled. Her mug lowered slowly, her eyes round with shock.

I blinked. “But… we’ve all done the Merlin Witch Trials.” I had passed… barely. I would have most probably failed if I hadn’t used a ley line. Which, for the record, the late Silas insisted was cheating.

Dolores shook her head. “This isn’t that. This is the Gray Council.”

I stared at her, trying to piece it together. “I still don’t get it.” What? I was a bit slow in the morning. Full brain functionality required a second cup of coffee.

She met my eyes, her expression grim. “It’s a magical audit. And if they don’t like what they find… they can strip you of your witch status.”

The room went silent.

Even Darian stopped chewing.

And all I could think was…

Oh, shit.

2

TESSA

Ihad one of my infamous brain-fart moments, trying hard not to panic, which of course meant I absolutely did.

I threw out my hand. “Let me see it.”

Dolores hesitated but then handed me the card. My gaze dropped to the printed words:

Formal decree from the Gray Council Department of Magical Governance

Effective immediately, all witches residing within Hollow Cove are required to report for individual power audits and magical evaluations.

Noncompliance will result in disciplinary action.

Council Auditor Morgana Draeven has been appointed to oversee the assessments.

Testing begins within twenty-four hours.

I stared at the card. I knew I’d see Morgana sometime soon, just never this soon—and not with her orchestrating a magical audit with all the warmth of a guillotine appointment.

I looked down at Darian, who was now stabbing his pancake with unnecessary force and giggling at the syrup splatter like he was conducting a scientific experiment.

Ruth set her spatula down. “Power audits?” she said, her voice tight. “They haven’t done something like this since—”

“Since the Witch Trials,” said Dolores grimly.

“Which Witch Trials?” asked Beverly. “The ones where they tied women to chairs or the ones where the council tried to suppress witches’ magic with runes and regulations?”

“The second one,” Dolores replied. “Though the first wasn’t much better. This version started over two hundred years ago. The Gray Council called it a stabilization initiative. Said magic was getting too chaotic. Too wild. Witches were rising too fast—getting too strong, too fast.”

“Translation,” I said, “they got scared.”

Dolores nodded. “They sent out enforcers. Auditors. Anyone who failed their so-called evaluations was stripped of their status. Some lost their magic permanently. Others lost their covens. Their homes. Their minds.”

Ruth sank into the nearest chair, looking like someone had punched the air out of her. “There were suicides. Families torn apart. A lot of witches never recovered.”

“They don’t want witches to be stronger than them,” added Dolores. “Not in power. Not in influence. Not in potential.”

I looked over at Darian again. He was licking syrup off his fingers and humming to himself like the world hadn’t just shifted under our feet.

But mine had. Because what the council feared most was already sitting in this kitchen, wearing socks with cartoon dragons and a blueberry pancake mustache.

They’d come for him. I knew it in my bones.

Beverly shook her head, visibly shaken, which never happened before coffee unless canceled dates were involved. “You know, if this is a male-dominated audit, I could maybe flirt my way out of it. A wink here, a tight blouse there—voilà, no paperwork.”

Usually, this was where Dolores would have made a snappy comment about her being inappropriate or inappropriate and delusional. But my tall aunt was tight-lipped. Her face screwed up in worry.

“This is because of my son. Isn’t it?” I asked, my voice lower now. Heavy.

I looked around the room, and their expressions said it all. Even Beverly, who’d just made a joke, wasn’t smiling anymore. They were scared.

And that scared me more than anything.

That Morgana had orchestrated this entire “audit” to get to Darian. It was starting to feel like more than just a gut instinct. It was starting to look like truth.

“Yes,” said Dolores, finally. “I think that has a lot to do with it. But you as well, Tessa. The Gray Council has been watching you for a long time, longer than you think. Your mixed blood. Your ability to manipulate ley lines. Your ease with power words and defense magic.”

“My demon mojo,” I added.

She nodded again, slower this time. “They’re afraid of what they can’t control. And they cannot control you.”

“No one controls me,” I said, feeling my anger rise. I swallowed, my mouth dry as I looked over at my kid. He’d gone back to eating like nothing in the world was wrong. Syrup on his cheek. A smear of blueberry on his shirt. His tiny feet kicking happily under the island stool.

He was a baby. My baby. And they wanted to evaluate him like some kind of magical threat.

“What happens if I don’t comply?” I asked. “What if I don’t let them test me?”

Dolores hesitated but then met my gaze. “They can strip you of your magic.”

The silence that followed was instant. Ruth’s hands tightened around the edge of the table. Beverly let out a soft gasp.

My jaw fell open. “They can do that?”

“They have the power,” confirmed Dolores. “And the authority. They can classify you as unstable. Dangerous. If they declare you a magical risk, they can deactivate your magic core. Permanently.”

I blinked. Once. Twice. “Like flipping a switch?”

Dolores nodded grimly. “It wouldn’t kill you. But it would feel like it. You’d be alive, but you wouldn’t be you anymore.”

“Like I’d be human.” The idea of losing my magic, my spark, my connection to the energy that flowed through every ley line, every thread of who I was, felt like someone had reached into my chest and squeezed.

“But this is about Darian,” I said again, more to myself than anyone. “They’re just using me to get to him.”

“It’s both of you,” said Ruth gently. “You’re the match. He’s the fire.”

I turned away from them, staring at the kitchen wall like it might have answers hidden in the paint.

No. I wouldn’t let this happen. Not to me. And definitely not to him.

“Screw her,” I said flatly.

Dolores raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

I turned back to them, my eyes stinging with something that wasn’t quite fear anymore. “Morgana Draeven. The council. This whole audit. Screw it. I’ll never let her do it. I don’t care what they threaten. I don’t care what they say. She’s not touching my son. And she’s not taking my magic.”

Beverly slowly put her coffee down. “Well… that’s going to go over well.”

Ruth gave a half-hearted nod, clearly trying to find optimism where there wasn’t much to go around. “We’ll figure something out. We always do.”

Dolores didn’t smile. She just looked at me, steady and serious. “You can’t stop this, Tessa. They’re coming. And they won’t just audit you. They’ll audit me, Ruth, Beverly… Every witch in Hollow Cove is at risk of losing their magic.”

Her words hit. I looked around the kitchen, suddenly seeing it differently. This house, this family, this town… every single witch who lived quietly, who used their magic to heal, to protect, to grow gardens and charm their tea kettles—every one of them was about to be evaluated like a piece of malfunctioning equipment.

“And it won’t matter if we’re good witches or not,” added Beverly. “All it’ll take is one failed scan. One misread surge. One little flicker of ‘too much power’ and poof—”

“No more magic,” Ruth finished, her face grim.

I closed my eyes for a second, overwhelmed. My thoughts were racing, scattered.

Dolores gave a small nod. “They’ll go after all of us. One by one.”

I thought about it. “What kind of tests are we talking about?” I was already turning it over in my head, thinking angles, possibilities. I mean, I’d outwitted Dark wizards, crazy sorceresses, and a banshee with unresolved emotional baggage. I could outsmart a bunch of stuck-up auditors.

Dolores gave me a look like she could hear my inner monologue. “It’s not like you think. They’re not just handing out personality quizzes and asking if you’ve hexed anyone in the last thirty days.”

“Shame,” said Beverly, sipping her coffee. “I’d pass that one with flying colors—unless they start asking how many single men I’ve hexed during sex. In which case, I’ll need a priest, a lawyer, and a cocktail on standby.”

Dolores continued, unfazed. “They’ll perform a full magical scan. It reads your power core, your magical signature, your history with certain spell types. It can detect spellcasting residue and track how often you use certain kinds of magic, especially dangerous or restricted classes.”

“Charming.” I sighed.

“They’ll test reaction time,” she added. “Magical reflexes. Pressure evaluations. They simulate high-stress situations to see how your magic reacts when you’re cornered.”

“Like a magical pop quiz,” said Beverly.

“And they’ll test for stability,” continued Dolores. “How well you can contain your magic when they push it. That’s the most dangerous part.”

“I knew a witch who did the last trials,” Ruth chimed in. “Said the council made her channel a lightning spell while standing on a wet floor. In heels. And a rubber chicken hat.”

“What?” I blinked. “Why in heels and… a chicken hat?”

“She said it helped her focus,” answered Ruth with complete seriousness. “Also, it freaked out the auditor. Claimed it gave her a psychological edge. She failed, of course. Set a curtain on fire and accidentally summoned a weasel. But she said the hat was the real winner.”

Dolores rolled her eyes. “Ruth.”

I shook my head, trying not to smile. “Look, I’m not worried. I’ll just… downplay my magic.”

Dolores turned toward me slowly. “You can’t downplay your power.”

“Sure I can.” Watch me.

“You’re on record as a ley line manipulator,” argued Dolores. “That’s not something you just tone down, Tessa. They’ve got you in their system.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. “I can be subtle,” I said, lifting my chin. “I’ll play it cool. Act a little unsure. Maybe fumble a spell. Throw in a fake sneeze. Something humble.”

Dolores looked at me like I’d just suggested summoning a ghoul demon for relationship advice. “They’re the Gray Council. Not the PTA. You think they haven’t seen witches try to play it cool? They’ll eat that up. And then they’ll start digging.”

“I’ll just be… underwhelming,” I said, determined.

“Tessa.”

“Yes?”

“It cannot be done,” said Dolores.

I huffed. “I can fake being basic. It’s practically my side talent.” I was stubborn as hell. I was going to make this work.

Ruth made a strangled noise that might’ve been a laugh or a tiny cry of doom.

Dolores sighed and rubbed her temples. “Just... promise me you’ll be careful.”

I looked over at Darian again. He was now attempting to stack cut-up pancakes into a tower while humming what sounded suspiciously like the intro to Jaws. Weird.

“I will,” I said softly. “But I’m not going to let them take anything from us.”

Not my kid. Not my magic. Not our lives. Not without a fight.

I imagined drop-kicking Morgana Draeven straight into Ruth’s compost pile of gnome poo and fermented mushroom guts. It was a very good visual. She’d land with perfect council poise, of course—probably adjust her blazer midair and quote some bylaw as she crashed—but it still gave me a deep sense of joy.

It had been a while since I’d had a good magical smackdown with another woman. Not since Allison—my personal favorite gorilla Barbie and part-time psycho. Now that had been satisfying. The hair-pulling, the spells, the banter. She tried to kill me, sure, but honestly? Ten out of ten for fight choreography.

Morgana, though? She was a different beast. No manic smiles or wild threats. She was polished. Cold. The kind of woman who could ruin your life politely with paperwork and precise rune placement. A bureaucratic nightmare in very sharp heels.

Still… I was itching for round two with someone. Anyone. Preferably someone who deserved to be magically launched through a ley line.

Let her come. Let them all come. They had no idea what they were walking into or who they were screwing with.

Dolores suddenly stood with that sharp, clipped motion that usually meant she’d just made a decision that would ruin someone’s day. “I have to go,” she said.

Ruth made a face. “But you haven’t had your pancakes. I thought I’d make yours in the shape of a pointy hat,” she added with a smile.

Dolores was already halfway down the hall toward the front door. “I’ll take a rain check.”

“She’s in a mood,” Beverly muttered, sipping her coffee. “Which means someone—probably us—is about to have a very bad day.”

“Where are you going?” I called after her.

Dolores paused just long enough to glance back at me. “To the office. I need to make the announcement. Officially. To the entire Hollow Cove community.”

Ruth let out a soft groan. “Oh, it’s going to be a mess. Isn’t it?”

Dolores didn’t answer.

“A meeting at town hall?” I asked.

She nodded once. “This afternoon. I’ll send word. People need to hear it from me, their mayor, before the council’s enforcers start showing up on doorsteps.”

“I’m coming with you,” I said, pushing back from the counter. I turned to Ruth and Beverly. “Can you guys watch Darian for a little while? Just until I get back.”

Ruth perked up instantly. “Of course we can. We were planning on building a pancake fort later anyway.”

I tried not to laugh because Ruth seemed very serious. “A pancake fort?”

“Don’t worry,” Ruth said with a wink. “There will be supervision. Probably.” Before I could question that further, she held up her hand to Darian and said, “High-five.”

And he did it.

He gave her a high five. Palm to palm. No hesitation. Just a grin and a perfect little slap.

I stared. “He can high-five now?”

Ruth shrugged, still smiling. “Apparently.”

It was weirdly adorable. The way he looked at her, like they shared some inside joke or secret spell only the two of them knew. Like he got her. Like they had some kind of weird, pancake-based soul bond I wasn’t invited to.

It was cute. And honestly… a little concerning. But mostly cute.

“Okay,” I said, backing toward the hallway, my eyes still on the tiny hand that had just expertly slapped Ruth’s. “No summoning anything bigger than a mouse while I’m gone.”

“No promises,” said Beverly, already refilling her coffee.

I felt eyes on me and turned to find Dolores watching me, her eyebrows raised.

“I’m not stalking you,” I clarified. “I need to see Marcus. He needs to know what’s coming.”

At the mention of his name, something flickered across her face. Something tight. Something she didn’t want me to see.

She opened her mouth, clearly about to say something, but then stopped herself.

“Say it,” I told her. “Dolores… what is it?”

She hesitated just a second too long.

And that was all it took for the feeling to settle in my gut like cold lead.

Something was wrong.

And whatever it was, it had everything to do with Marcus.

3

TESSA

What does a witch do when she’s in a hurry to see her husband and needs to speak to him, like, yesterday?

She pulls a ley line, of course.

Heart thumping and nerves already performing a small interpretive dance in my stomach, I reached out and tapped into the ley line that so conveniently ran under Davenport House, like a magical subway system with way more personal space and a much higher chance of landing in a shrub.

“You need a ride?” Dolores asked from the hallway, reaching for her coat on the old brass hook. “I can drop you off to see Marcus on my way to town hall.”

“Thanks,” I said, already focusing, “but this can’t wait.”

Dolores opened her mouth to argue, but whatever she was about to say got swallowed by the sudden, wild rush of magic as I gripped the ley line and jumped.

Colors, white, gray, brown, and green, blurred as I vaulted forward.

And then, five seconds later, I landed. Hard.

I stood on Shifter Lane and glanced up at the bland, gray brick rectangle with narrow windows, zero charm, and a large sign out front that read: HOLLOW COVE SECURITY AGENCY. The sidewalk beneath me was still wet from the melting snow, and I half-slid, half-scrambled to steady myself like a very determined ice skater in boots. I smoothed down my sweater, shook the ley-static out of my hair, and glanced up at the building.

I needed to see Marcus before the council started knocking on doors. Before Morgana showed up with her magical clipboard and doom aura. And definitely before my brain exploded from worry.

I pulled open the glass front doors and walked in. The familiar whoosh of warm air and overworked heating system greeted me. I strolled through the hallway, inhaling the comforting scent of burnt coffee, paper, and underlying magical stress—basically, the signature fragrance of Hollow Cove’s law enforcement.

I moved toward the reception area, my boots clicking against the floor, and spotted a witch sitting behind the desk. Chin-length dark hair, a black lace top, and what looked like a long velvet skirt, very goth. She was staring at something on her desk and didn’t even notice me.

The agency was definitely busier than usual. More bodies. More talking. A subtle hum of tension beneath the usual morning shuffle. I spotted Lori off to the left speaking to a group of shifters in uniforms. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but their expressions were tight, serious. Like something had just gone down.

I didn’t let myself get distracted. I was here for one reason. Well, two—first Iris and then Marcus. My Dark witch friend needed to know about the magical audits. And knowing Iris, she’d want to start panic-planning approximately ten seconds after I told her. Which meant I had to beat the council to the punch.

I hurried forward and plopped my hands on her desk. “Did you hear about the magical audits?”

She blinked up at me, startled. “Uh, what? No? What are you talking about?”

My eyes narrowed. She looked rattled. Distracted. Which I immediately chalked up to the same reason I was spiraling—council dread.

“It’s the Gray Council,” I said, my voice dropping to a hushed whisper even though we were surrounded by shifters and half the staff looked like they’d rather be anywhere else but here. “They’re reopening the Witch Trials. Not the fun kind, if there ever was one. They sent an official decree.”

Iris straightened a little. “Wait—what?”

“They’re calling it magical audits,” I said quickly, waving a hand like that might soften the blow. “They’ll scan us, evaluate us, decide if we’re too powerful. And if we are, strip us of our magic. Just like that.”

Iris blinked hard. “They can do that?”

I nodded. “Dolores said they can. It’s happened before. A long time ago, over two hundred years, I think. The Gray Council started testing witches under the excuse of stabilization. But really, it was about control.”

Iris frowned. “I remember reading about it once. Barely. It sounded… vague. Political. Something they covered up fast.”

“Dolores said they called it the Witch Trials,” I explained. “Witches were tested. If they failed, they lost their status. Their magic. Some were cast out. Others didn’t make it at all.”

I didn’t say the word suicide, but it hung in the air between us anyway.

“They made examples out of people,” I added quietly. “Witches who didn’t fit the mold. Like maybe those with mixed blood or unusual gifts.”

Iris looked at me, suddenly pale. “So… witches like you.”

“Witches like me,” I repeated.

She stared at me for a long moment. “And Darian.”

Yes, especially my son. That was the part I didn’t want to say out loud. The part I’d been trying not to think about since I first saw that cursed decree. This wasn’t just about powerful witches. Or mixed bloodlines. Or political control.

This was about my kid. Darian.

Barely two and a half months old. He was just a child. But to the Gray Council? He was a threat.

Something cold and sharp twisted in my gut. Fear, yes, but underneath that, anger. A low-burning fury flickered hotter with every second. Because this, this entire audit charade, wasn’t just about oversight.

It was a smokescreen.

An excuse to come into my town, evaluate my family, and get close enough to take something.

I stared past Iris, my jaw clenched. My magic buzzed just under my skin, humming in time with my pulse. “They want to test all of us,” I said quietly. “But they’re really after him.”

Iris didn’t argue. She didn’t need to. She knew I was right.

And now that the thought had solidified in my mind, I couldn’t unsee it. The pieces all fit too well. The timing. The pressure. Morgana. The decree. The sudden urgency to start the audits immediately, no delays.

They were coming for Darian.

Iris exhaled and pushed her chair back slightly as if trying to give herself more room to breathe. “When are they supposed to start?” she asked, her voice low. “The trials. The audits. Whatever we’re calling them.”

I rubbed my hands together, trying to keep the chill off my fingers. “The message said within twenty-four hours.”

Iris blinked, stunned. “That soon? I thought we’d have at least a month. Or two weeks. This is crazy.”

I nodded. “Dolores is calling a town meeting today. At town hall. She wants to make the announcement before the Gray Council shows up.”

Iris pressed a palm to her forehead. “That’s going to cause panic.”

“Yeah.” I glanced around at the agency, at the quiet tension building. “I think it’s going to scare a lot of witches.”

“It will,” she said, almost to herself.

Because we both knew what fear could do in Hollow Cove. Fear made people crazy, reckless, and stupid.

And if we weren’t careful, it could give the Gray Council exactly the excuse they needed to take everything away from us.

Iris leaned back in her chair, her jaw tightening. “Do we know who’s overseeing it?”

“Morgana Draeven.”

Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

“Yeah,” I said. “That was my reaction too. Of course they would send her. Guess she didn’t like to be told no.” No at wanting to take my son. I would have drop-kicked her if she had tried.

For a long moment, Iris said nothing. Her hands were still. Her eyes dropped to the edge of her desk, unfocused.

“She’s probably already making a list,” I said. “I’ll bet you a hundred dollars I’ll be the first one they test.”

“If it’s alphabetical, it’ll be me before you.” Iris sank back in her chair, her lips tightening. “I’ve been careful, but some of my spellwork lately… it’s not exactly subtle. I used some pretty bad stuff when we were fighting Soren. If they run a full scan—”

“They’ll see what they want to see,” I cut in. “Dolores said it doesn’t matter if we’ve been careful. If they think you’re too powerful—or too unpredictable—they’ll shut you down.”

“Right.” She nodded slowly, but her eyes didn’t quite meet mine. Something about her posture was too tense, too guarded. And the longer I stood there, the more it nagged at me.

Iris had already been through another magical ordeal with her family, more specifically, that they’d erased her memory. Erased us. Her friends. Even Ronin. So she was still dealing with the aftermath of her dysfunctional family’s kidnapping. This wasn’t the time to add more stress.

But as I glanced at my Dark witch friend again, I could tell there was something else she wasn’t saying. And I knew Iris well enough to recognize when she was keeping something under wraps. It wasn’t fear about her own audit. It wasn’t even fear about mine.

She was hiding something else, something that had nothing to do with Morgana.

I tilted my head, watching her carefully. “How’s Ronin doing?”

A tiny smile curled her lips. “He’s good. Busy.”

“Busy?”

“With the new grocery store tenant.”

I leaned forward. “There’s a new tenant?” I’d been wondering what was going to happen to Gilbert’s old grocery store, now that he was, well… dead. Or rather, killed, after trying to sell out the town and ending up on the wrong end of a witch’s wrath. Long story.

Iris nodded. “Yeah. Moved in yesterday. Some distant relative of Gilbert’s. I think her name is Gilda.”

“Gilda?”

She smirked. “She’s like Gilbert, but in a female body. Same judgmental stare. Same suspicious tone. Same weird obsession with shelf alignment and produce pricing.”

I laughed. “So she came preloaded with the Gilbert gene?”

“Absolutely,” Iris said. “She even rearranged the front display this morning because ‘the oranges were radiating too much chaotic energy.’ I think Ronin almost ripped up the lease on the spot.”

That made me laugh louder than I should’ve. A few people turned, including Lori again, who gave me another one of her patented can-you-not glares. I ignored it. Two of the shifters she’d been talking to glanced over, and one of them actually shook his head.

“Okay,” I whispered, leaning closer to Iris again. “What the hell is going on in here? Why is everyone so uptight?”

Because now I was officially on edge. Something else was definitely brewing in this building, and I was starting to think it wasn’t going to be good.

Iris blinked fast and then glanced toward the hallway. “There’s… something else,” she murmured.

“What is it?”

She looked back at me, her mouth parting like she was about to say it. But then she stopped.

And I got that awful feeling again, like something was curling up in my stomach and settling in for a long, painful visit.

I straightened a little. “What?”

Her gaze flicked toward the hallway. Then back to me. “I was about to come find you.”

“Why?”

Iris hesitated. “It’s Marcus.”

A cold ripple slid down my spine. “What about Marcus?”

My Dark witch friend just looked over past Lori to where Marcus’s office was.

That was all I needed.

I pushed off and headed down the hall, my boots striking the floor harder with every step. My pulse was already ticking up, and I wasn’t sure if it was panic, anger, or both. Probably both. Probably more than both.

The hallway was familiar. Bare walls, outdated sconces, the smell of burned coffee and paperwork stress. I’d walked this corridor dozens of times. I could find Marcus’s office blindfolded.

But when I reached the door, something made me stop.

Where once a name had been stenciled in clear block letters, MARCUS DURAND, something else was there now. A new name.

BASTIAN REYES CHIEF OFFICER

I stared at it, my heart thudding in my ears. No. No, no, no. They hadn’t. They couldn’t.

I spun around, my eyes locking on Lori across the room. “What the hell is this?”

Lori froze mid-sentence with one of the shifters and looked at me like she’d been caught doing something she didn’t want to explain. The men she was with fidgeted awkwardly. One cleared his throat. Another looked away.

“I said—” I took a step forward. “What is this? Where’s Marcus?”

Lori just stared at me, and then she looked away.

The silence spread like a slow-moving spell across the whole space. Conversations faded. Chairs creaked. No one made eye contact.

It was like the entire agency had agreed—telepathically—not to be the one to tell me.

My jaw clenched. “Someone say something. Now.” Or I was about to do something really stupid, like burn that new name off the door.

And that’s when the door opened.

I turned sharply, already halfway to marching inside and demanding answers, when a man stepped out.

Tall. Impeccably dressed. Long charcoal coat, tailored slacks, black button-down, crisp, minimal, not a wrinkle in sight. His dark brown hair was neatly combed back, and sleek rectangular glasses rested on the bridge of his nose like punctuation. Everything about him was polished, precise.

But the eyes got me.

Cool. Sharp. Watching everything. Like he was cataloguing the room for weak spots, or secrets.

He shut the door behind him and turned toward me with unnerving calm.

“Ah,” he said smoothly. “You must be Tessa Davenport.”

Here we go.

4

TESSA

Istared at the man. The stranger. Composed and completely unreadable.

I didn’t move. Instead, I did what any decent witch would do when faced with a potential magical threat in a blazer. I sent out my witchy vibes.

A slow, steady sweep of energy rippled from my core to brush against him. His aura flared back at me, distinctly magical. Not shifter. Not were. No fur or fang energy. No animal aura.

But it wasn’t the kind of magic I’d recognize from a White witch. There was no warmth, no echo of ancestral roots. It also lacked the sharp, cold pricks I felt when brushing against Dark magic. And it definitely didn’t thrum the way mage power did. Mages had that high-frequency buzz, all precise runes and formal training.

This was something else. Electric. Controlled. Familiar.

I felt the same tingling current the first time I met Jarod, the chief marshal of Grimway Citadel.

A magician.

Which meant he wasn’t just magical. He was trained, sanctioned, and very likely dangerous in the way that came with paperwork.

Wonderful. Just what I needed today.

“And you must be the guy standing in my husband’s office,” I said evenly, my voice calm but edged. “Would you like to explain why?”

His expression didn’t shift. Not even a blink. But I felt his energy sharpen. He was observing me, measuring. His gaze flicked down my body once. Quick, professional, and somehow still managing to make me feel like I was being scanned for magical fingerprints.

“You ley-jumped here. Quick arrival, faint trace of residual spark on your sleeve. Likely unglamoured. Which tells me either you’re angry, or you’re worried. Or both.”

“Excuse me?” What the hell was this? And how the hell could he know that. I was both impressed and creeped out. Mostly creeped out.

“Your coat’s unzipped,” he said. “No gloves. Rushed. Eyes are red. Recent stress or lack of sleep, likely related to the recent events involving your husband. And you’re standing between me and the office like it’s your job to protect it.”

I blinked. “Did you just… deduce me?” He was oozing Sherlock Holmes vibes.

He gave a small nod. “Only enough to confirm who you were. Though your reputation did most of the work.”

“My reputation?” From the corner of my eye, I saw Iris making her way over, but she stood a safe distance away. “I have a reputation?”

The magician finally looked directly at me again, his eyes sharp but not unkind. “You have several, depending on who’s doing the talking.”

Strangely enough, that didn’t surprise me.

I stepped forward. “Let me be absolutely clear. I don’t care who sent you, what your credentials are, or how many magical résumés you’ve padded. That door…” I pointed at Marcus’s office. “Doesn’t belong to you.”

“It does now,” he said without a trace of smugness. Just fact.

And that made it worse.

I stared at him. “Who are you?”

“Chief Bastian Reyes,” he said, offering his hand like we were at a brunch mixer and not in the middle of a silent mutiny. “Appointed by the Gray Council.”

I ignored his hand and took half a step forward before I could stop myself. “I’m sorry, appointed?” I repeated, heat rising in my chest. “To replace Marcus?”

“Temporarily,” he confirmed. “While the council completes its investigation into the… recent incident, I’ve been authorized to assume operational control of this office.”

For a split second, something flickered behind his expression. Not pity. Not guilt. Curiosity. Like he was trying to figure out just how far I’d go for the man they’d just replaced.

My fists curled at my sides. “And when, exactly, was anyone in this building going to tell me that?”

Bastian didn’t flinch. “The official notice was delivered this morning. I was instructed to arrive without delay and begin transition procedures immediately.”

“And Marcus?” I asked, barely keeping my voice steady. “Where is he?” Yeah, where the hell was my husband. I knew he came to his office this morning. But he wasn’t here now.

“He was informed in advance of my arrival,” said Bastian carefully, choosing every word. “He is complying with the council’s directive.”

The fact that he didn’t tell me where my husband was didn’t escape me.

My spine stiffened. “So what—you just showed up this morning and he disappeared?”

Bastian didn’t respond right away. His expression didn’t change, but the pause was just long enough to set every nerve in my body on edge.

“Where is he?” I demanded. “Is he still in Hollow Cove?”

Bastian gave a small, measured nod. “Yes. As far as I’m aware.”

“Did you take him?” I stepped forward now, my voice sharper. “Did the council arrest him? Drag him off to one of their holding cells while I was eating pancakes with my kid?”

“No,” said Bastian evenly. “He left on his own this morning after my arrival.”

“That’s not an answer,” I snapped. “Did someone make him leave? Was he threatened? What exactly did you say to him?”

Bastian remained calm, his hands folded behind his back like we were having a polite tea conversation instead of a rapidly spiraling interrogation. “I told him what I was authorized to tell him,” he said. “That I was appointed to assume temporary control of the security agency. He chose to step aside without resistance.”

My jaw clenched so tightly I felt it in my temples. “Why didn’t he tell me?” I muttered, more to myself than to Bastian. “Why wouldn’t he—”

“He may have intended to,” Bastian interrupted gently. “But things moved quickly. The council’s orders were… abrupt.”

No kidding.

I stared at him, heat buzzing under my skin. My magic stirred, restless and reactive. “Let me be crystal clear, Reyes. If anything happened to Marcus, if you or the council touched one hair on his head, I will burn your fancy title down to the foundation and salt the ground beneath it. Are we understood?”

He inclined his head with frustrating composure. “Perfectly.”

But that didn’t make me feel better. Not even close.

I stared at him, rage bubbling just under the surface. So that was it. They’d pushed Marcus out. No warning. No conversation. Just… replaced.

Because of the curse. Because he had killed someone and gravely injured another.

But that wasn’t him. It was the damn curse.

And now this magician with a perfectly pressed coat and an unnervingly calm aura was standing in his place, talking like this was just a standard transfer of power.

Someone was going to pay for this.

“Would you like to come inside my office to further discuss this?” he said, gesturing toward Marcus’s office that now had this new guy’s name on it.

My heart thumped with wary adrenaline as I stepped fully into the room, letting the door swing shut behind me. I kept my voice level, lacing it with a dry edge of sarcasm to mask my unease. My gaze never left him as I inched further inside, casually positioning myself so I was between this stranger and the only exit.

He turned to face me, utterly unperturbed by my frosty reception. Now that I saw him head-on, I took in a few more details. He was around my age, maybe a bit older, with neatly trimmed dark hair and a clean-cut look. A pair of calm, steely brown eyes met mine. He didn’t seem ruffled in the slightest to find an irate witch blocking his path. In fact, the faintest hint of a polite smile tugged at one corner of his mouth as if I’d merely caught him in a library after hours, not trespassing where he shouldn’t be.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said, his voice composed and deep.

“And I’ve never heard about you.”

He must have noticed my scowl because he dipped his head in a subtle, respectful nod. “I apologize if my presence is alarming.”

“No shit.” And considering the trouble brewing in town lately, I wasn’t in the mood for surprises. “Funny. I happen to be married to the man whose name used to be on the door, and he didn’t mention a word about meeting you today.” I let a sliver of accusation color my tone. Maybe this Bastian was telling the truth. Maybe not. Until I knew for sure, I was keeping my ire front and center.

Bastian Reyes didn’t flinch at my insinuation. He simply clasped his hands behind his back in a relaxed stance. The movement made the light catch on something pinned to his lapel. A small silver emblem, though I couldn’t make out the design from here. “I understand your concern,” he said with infuriating calm. “Given the circumstances, you have every right to be cautious.”

“Oh. I am.” My eyes flicked to the object he’d just slipped back into his pocket. A sleek, silver pocket watch. Polished, simple, probably enchanted six different ways. The way he handled it, like a trusted tool rather than a timepiece, told me more than he realized.

“So,” I said, keeping my voice sharp, “you weren’t invited here. You were appointed. By the Gray Council.”

He nodded once, no guilt, no pride. “Correct.”

“And they sent you to replace Marcus.”

“Temporarily,” he replied. “Until the investigation concludes. The council determined a neutral administrator was required.”

“Neutral,” I muttered, my arms still crossed. “Right. Because the Gray Council is just overflowing with neutrality these days.”

Bastian didn’t take the bait. Of course he didn’t.

I studied him again, my mind racing. “You’re here. Pretending this is standard protocol. But this isn’t a routine appointment. This is political. You’re part of it.”

“I follow orders,” he said. “I don’t make them.”

“That’s convenient.”

Silence stretched between us. He didn’t fill it.

I narrowed my eyes. “Are you even aware of what the council’s doing? The audits? The power scans? The Witch Trials they’re trying to spin as administrative procedure?”

His expression didn’t change, but I saw something flicker in his gaze. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve read the full directive.”

“Then you know what this really is,” I said, my voice quiet and cutting. “You know it’s not about safety. It’s about control. They’re not protecting anyone. They’re eliminating threats before they can arise.”

His brow furrowed slightly, but it was the kind of shift only someone trained to watch for it could catch. “I’m aware of the council’s history.”

That was the safest possible answer. Not denial. Not agreement.

I stared at him, trying to see where the cracks might be. But his aura remained tightly coiled, his face unreadable. Whatever thoughts he had, he wasn’t sharing them with me.

“Let me make something very clear,” I said. “You might be here wearing the title. You might even think you’re doing your job. But this town doesn’t belong to the council. And my husband—Marcus—was not replaced. He was pushed aside.”

Bastian’s voice was calm when he replied. “I don’t intend to interfere with your family. My role is purely administrative. I’m here to maintain stability until the council concludes their review.”

“And when they decide to come for my son?” I asked, my voice low. “Will you be the one standing at my door with the order in your hand?”

His silence stretched just a moment too long. “I don’t make the orders,” he repeated.

“Right,” I said, stepping past him. “You just enforce them.”

I moved around Marcus’s desk and perched on the edge. My hands were steady, but my chest was tight. My gut screamed not to trust him. And my gut had a pretty solid track record when it came to council operatives in pretty coats.

Bastian remained where he was, standing with polite patience, as if none of this tension belonged to him. He tilted his head slightly, watching me with those observant eyes. I got the uncanny sense he was seeing through me, reading every subtle shift in my mood. The thought put me even more on edge. I straightened my spine, refusing to look away first. If he wanted to play statue stare-down, I could do that all day.

“Should I expect you to deduce my shoe size and childhood pet’s name next?” I asked him. “Or are we done analyzing me?”

His lips actually quirked at that, and I caught the ghost of a polite laugh in his eyes. “Apologies,” said Bastian quietly. “Analyzing people is something of an occupational habit. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” He inclined his head again in that courteous way.

I wasn’t about to let him completely off the hook, though. I kept my stance firm. “Just stay out of my head,” I muttered in half-warning, half-jest. “I bite back.” I wasn’t sure if magicians had the ability for mind control, but I was going with it.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied evenly. It was hard to tell in his ultra-composed tone, but I could’ve sworn I heard a hint of dry wit hidden in there too.

He regarded me a moment longer and then gestured lightly to the office around us. “For what it’s worth, I truly am here to help. My expertise will be useful regarding the…” He stopped himself, as if weighing how much he should say. “Regarding the magical disturbances in Hollow Cove recently.”

“Right.” I studied Bastian for another long second, trying to get a read on him. That was the frustrating part. Magically, his aura was controlled to the point of opacity. Emotionally, his face was perfectly schooled. If he was lying or hiding ill intent, I sure couldn’t spot it outright. And logically, if he was some bad guy, he probably wouldn’t stand here conversing politely with me. He’d have tried something more drastic by now. Instead, he was patiently suggesting we wait for my husband to return, all reasonable-like. Ugh.

“If you’re really here to help,” I said, “then fine. Help. But if you step out of line, if I even feel like you’re holding something back, I will find out.”

“I have no doubt you will,” he said.

For a moment, we just stared at each other. Me, all storm and suspicion. Him, unreadable and calm.

Whatever he was really thinking, he kept it locked down tight. And that only made me trust him less.

One thing was certain. Bastian Reyes was not a man who missed much. And as much as that quality set my teeth on edge, I had a feeling it would prove useful for whatever storm was brewing in Hollow Cove. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, still on guard but slightly intrigued against my will.

I didn’t like it, but he was here for now, whether I liked it or not.

For now, I remained a protective sentinel in my husband’s office, a witch guarding her territory, while the magician stood by with cool patience. The air between us was still taut with unspoken questions and tentative trust. I could sense that both of us were measuring each other, even in silence.

We’ll see what you’re really made of, Bastian Reyes.

Because if he intended to help us, he’d have to prove himself under more than just polite conversation and observational tricks. And if there was more to this magician than met the eye—well, I would find that out soon enough.

I headed toward the door, not bothering to hide the frustration in my steps. “I’m going to find my husband,” I said, my hand gripping the knob. “And if the council had anything to do with where he is—”

“You won’t find him in the usual places,” said Bastian.

I stopped mid-turn and looked over my shoulder. “Excuse me?”

He didn’t move, just adjusted the cuff of his sleeve with quiet precision. “He left this morning carrying a change of clothes, a sealed satchel, and some old tomes. He’s not hiding. He’s searching.”

My pulse jumped. “How do you know that?”

Bastian finally looked up, his eyes steady behind those sharp, analytical glasses. “Because I notice things, Miss Davenport. That’s why they sent me.”

He returned to adjusting his pocket watch like the conversation had ended.

I stood frozen in the doorway, my heart hammering, unsure whether I wanted to throttle him or ask what else he’d seen.

But I walked out anyway. Because if Marcus was searching…

I needed to know what for.

And why didn’t he tell me?

5

MARCUS

The engine ticked quietly as it cooled beneath the hood. Outside, the wind blew through a grove of pine trees, rattling frozen needles and sending powdery flakes drifting down the windshield like dust from a shaken memory.

I sat in the driver’s seat of my Jeep, staring at a worn photo wedged into the dash. Tessa. Smiling like she knew a secret. Darian, in her lap, making a face like he was planning something dangerous and sticky. It was taken just a few weeks ago, but it already felt like it belonged to another life.

She was everything in that picture. Everything I’d fought for. Everything I’d nearly lost.

There’s a kind of love that settles in your bones, solid, unshakable. The kind you don’t question because it’s part of who you are. That’s what she is to me.

Tessa.

The woman who never backed down, even when I turned into something I couldn’t control. Who stood between me and death with fire in her hands. Who held our son like he was made of starlight, even when the world called him unnatural.

Loving her wasn’t gentle. It was wildfire and war drums. A constant roar in my chest. It was the kind of love that made you walk through fire willingly, and I had. I knew I would again.

Because loving Tessa meant protecting her. Providing for her. Bleeding, if I had to. It meant giving everything, even when I had nothing left.

My phone buzzed again on the passenger seat.

Tessa.

Her name lit up the screen, same as the four missed calls before it. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Not yet.

She’d find the note I left at the cottage. Eventually. Probably after she stormed around the house yelling my name and threatening to blow up the furniture out of spite.

A smile twitched across my face, but it didn’t stay long.

Because underneath everything, the cold, the silence, the weight of the choices I’d made, a heat burned inside me. Subtle. Constant. I pressed a hand to my chest and exhaled slowly. Still there. Still lingering.

The curse.

Soren might’ve pulled it out, sealed it in a fancy curse-proof vase, but something remained. A shadow in my bloodstream. A splinter in my bones. When I was calm, it slept. But when I was angry or afraid, it stirred.

And right now, it was stirring.

I tried to steady my breathing, but my thoughts kept circling back to this morning, back to the man the Gray Council sent in my place.

Bastian Reyes. He’d walked into the Hollow Cove Security Agency like he already owned the place. Calm. Precise. Magic clinging to him like aftershave, except cleaner, sharper, colder. Not witch. Not shifter. Not mage. He smelled like Jarod and the rest of the enforcers from the Grimway Citadel—a magician.

Structured. Sanctioned. Tidy little boxes for dangerous things like me.

The moment I stepped into the same room as him, I’d felt the tension in my spine twist tightly. Magicians always made my skin itch. They didn’t trust instinct. Didn’t trust chaos. And most of all, they didn’t trust anything they couldn’t quantify and file into a report.

I hadn’t liked him. I hadn’t trusted him. And I hated myself for leaving Tessa alone with him. With all of it. But I needed answers I wouldn’t get sitting behind a desk or watching my son grow up wondering what kind of monster his father had almost become.

I needed to know how deep the order had gone. How long they’d been watching me. Planning. Waiting.

I needed them to pay.

Leaving Tessa like that hurt. But not as much as staying silent while a threat like the Order of Fenrir kept circling closer.

A month ago, I’d barely thought of the order. They were old-world extremists. The kind of monsters whispered about in alpha war stories, all blood oaths and ritual sacrifices. Fanatics obsessed with purity and tradition.

And now I knew the truth.

They were real. They were active, and they’d cursed me.

Not just to send a message but to destroy my life from the inside out. And worse, my own mother had been involved with them.

Katherine Durand. Regal, proud, cold when she needed to be. I used to think she was simply old-school. Stubborn. But I hadn’t known she’d once sworn herself to the order. That she’d taken a blood-bound oath to uphold their cause, the same cause that saw my mate and child as abominations.

That betrayal twisted something in my gut.

I rolled my shoulders, trying to ease the pressure out of my spine, and looked at the crooked mailbox ahead. The address was scrawled on a yellow sticky note in the console: Carl DeLaney. No visitors. No exceptions.

Carl was a wereape. Older, meaner, exiled by his pack decades ago for following the Old Ways, the rituals the modern world didn’t understand anymore. I’d met him once, a long time ago. He still had scars from the time he tried to challenge the order and was “reminded” of his place.

I stepped out of the Jeep and into the biting cold. My boots crunched on ice. The forest around me was silent, except for the occasional groan of a tree shifting under the weight of snow.

The cabin looked abandoned from the outside. No lights. No smoke from the chimney. Just a sagging roof and a warped door with scratch marks along the frame.

I knocked. Once. Twice.

Nothing.

Then, a scrape of wood. The door opened just enough to reveal a scarred face, wild eyes, and one hell of a beard. The man stared at me through a narrow slit, his eyes sharp beneath thick white brows. His beard was longer than I remembered, and I saw new scars on his neck.

“You’re late,” Carl growled. “And stupid.”

“Good to see you too, Carl,” I said.

He opened the door the rest of the way. “Come in before you freeze your balls off. You still have those, right? Or did the order curse those too?”

Carl stepped back from the door, leaving it open just long enough for me to enter before he shut it again with a sharp thud.

The inside of the cabin looked like it had been built by a lumberjack who had beef with drywall. Everything was wood—walls, floors, massive hand-carved chairs that could double as battering rams. The fireplace crackled low behind a pile of old logs and ash, barely warming the space. A bearskin rug lay stretched across the floor, its head still intact and looking permanently unimpressed.

Carl limped past me and dropped into a hulking armchair, the leather groaning under his weight. I stood for a moment until he gave me a grudging nod toward the second chair. I took it. The seat creaked under my frame, but it held.

The old wereape didn’t offer tea, or coffee, or civility. Just that same glare that could peel bark off a tree.

“I heard about what happened,” he said after a beat. “You’re lucky to be breathing. And dumber than I thought for coming here.”

“I need answers,” I told him. “I need to know why they did this. I want you to tell me everything about the order. All of it.”

He grunted and reached for the fire poker, jabbing at the logs like they owed him money. “The order’s moving. Quiet-like. Smells like preparation.”

“Preparation for what?”

His eyes flicked up to mine, and for the first time since I arrived, something behind them looked real, haunted. “A purge.”

“A purge?”

Carl leaned back, the firelight catching in the silver scars that ran down one side of his neck. “They call it cleansing. Tradition. Purity. Same old crap they’ve always preached. But this time? They mean it. They’re reorganizing, recruiting, reawakening rituals that haven’t been used since before cities had names.”

My jaw clenched. “Why now?”

He tilted his head, studying me. “Because you and others like you broke the chain. You mated outside the bloodline. And worse—you made a kid with magic in his veins. They see that as a threat, a crack in the wall.”

“They cursed me,” I said quietly. “Used me like a weapon. Made me hurt people.” And I almost killed my mate, my wife.

Carl snorted. “You think that was personal?” He leaned forward. “That was practice. Testing the strength of the old marks. Seeing how much anarchy one of their own could cause if twisted just right.”

A growl erupted from my chest.

Carl jabbed a finger toward me. “You don’t get it. You think you’re here to find them, but they’ve already found you. They’ve been watching for years.”

I stared at him. “They’ve been watching me? Why?”

“You were supposed to be one of them,” he continued, his voice low. “Son of Katherine Durand? You were golden. Until you started thinking for yourself. Until you chose love over legacy.”

I looked down at my hands and flexed my fingers. “So what? You’re saying this is punishment?”

“No,” Carl said. “This is warfare.”

The room fell into silence but for the crackle of flame and the wind pushing against the windows.

“You think you’re ready to fight them?” Carl asked after a moment. “You’re not. Not yet. You’ve no idea what you’re up against.”

I looked him dead in the eye. “Then tell me.”

Carl didn’t answer right away. He just stared into the fire, like the flames might draw the memories out for him.

“They sent me to oversee a ritual in Montana,” he said finally. “One of the old rites. Bloodbinding. We were supposed to initiate a young wereape, fifteen years old. Kid had strength, discipline, loyalty, but he’d been caught sneaking letters to a witch girl in the human town nearby.” Carl exhaled through his nose. “They said it was a test. That if he truly belonged to the order, he’d survive the purification. He didn’t.”

Rage burned through me. “The kid died?”

He glanced at me then, his face a ruin of regret and defiance. “You want to know what they did to me? I stopped the ritual. Got the kid out. Hid him. Didn’t matter. They found him three days later and made an example out of both of us.” He tilted his head, revealing the ragged, burned-in scar that traced down the left side of his neck like twisted branches. “That’s what happens when you break the oath,” he said. “They burned it out of me. Said I no longer had the right to carry their name. But I still feel it—just like you do. A splinter in the bones.”

“I hate these bastards.”

Carl snorted. “They don’t forgive. They don’t forget. And they don’t stop.”

I leaned forward, my elbows on my knees. “So where are they now? Give me names. Places. Something.” Because I was going to find them and tear them apart, every single one of them, every bastard who did this to me.

Carl looked at me like he was sizing me up all over again. “Even if I had a full list, they’d be gone before you reached the border. They live off the grid. Move like shadows. You don’t find the order. They let you find pieces of them.”

“But you said they’re preparing something. That means they’re gathering.”

He hesitated. “There’s a place,” he said slowly. “Old land in upstate New York. Abandoned shifter settlement. Used to be a meeting ground back in the old days. If they’re bringing the old rites back, they’ll start there.”

I nodded. “What’s it called?”

“Graymaw Ridge,” he said. “You’ll know it when you feel it. The earth there doesn’t just remember. It resents.”

I stood, my muscles tight, the name already etching itself into my brain.

Carl looked up at me one last time. “You’re walking into fire, Marcus. And this time? No one’s coming to pull you out.”

“Names,” I said, my voice low. “I need them. Who’s leading the order now? Who’s calling the shots?”

Carl leaned forward, resting his scarred elbows on his knees. He studied me for a long moment like he wasn’t sure whether I was asking as a soldier—or a son.

“You’re not going to like what I tell you,” he said.

“Good,” I growled. “I already hate it.”

He scratched at his beard and then let out a sharp breath. “Last I heard, Rurik Draal was in command. Calls himself prime fist now. Thinks he’s the reincarnation of the old alpha bloodline—back when we were worshipped as gods and feared like monsters.”

“Rurik Draal,” I repeated, getting a feel for the bastard’s name on my tongue. I didn’t recognize the name. But the way Carl said it told me I should have.

“He’s the one who revived the blood rites,” Carl continued. “Had most of the old council executed for dilution. Started from scratch. He wants the order pure again. Fanatical. Loyal.”

“And?”

Carl raised his fingers, ticking names off like bullets. “Toma Grell. Ex-pack enforcer. Brutal, smart, follows orders too well. He trains the initiates. The young ones. Mirna Sedge. Handles communication. Ritualist. She’s the one who marks targets and coordinates the blood oaths. Orik Vell. One of the oldest surviving Fenrir. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. If he shows up, someone dies.”

I memorized every name, letting the weight of them settle in my bones.

“Those are the top wereapes,” Carl said. “Below them? Dozens, maybe hundreds, of loyalists spread across North America. Some are sleepers. Some are just waiting for a signal.”

“You’ve got a list,” I said. “You didn’t remember all that off the top of your head.”

Carl hesitated and then rose from the chair and crossed to a rusted filing cabinet shoved behind a dusty bookshelf. He pulled open the top drawer with a grunt, shuffled through a few folders, and then yanked one free.

He tossed it onto the table between us. The folder was thick. Well-used. Stained in one corner with something that looked suspiciously like blood.

“Half of what’s in there is outdated,” he warned. “But if they’re moving again, some of these names might resurface. Keep your eyes open, especially if you hear anything about someone called Ash Talbot.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“Because he’s your replacement.”

I studied the old wereape. “My replacement.”

“He’s younger. Loyal to the bone. And if Rurik wants to prove the old ways still work, Ash is the poster boy. He’s what they think you should’ve been.”

I felt something inside me snap. “I don’t give a shit what they think,” I growled, “or what they want. They cursed me. Tried to turn me into a weapon. Put my mate, my son—my town—in danger. I’m done playing defense. I’m going to take them down. All of them.”

Carl let out a low whistle and leaned back in his seat, the firelight glinting off the scarred side of his face. “There it is,” he said with something between a smirk and a wince. “The ape in you finally woke up.”

I didn’t smile. My whole body hummed with heat. Not the curse this time but rage. Cold and focused.

“They cursed you to punish you,” Carl said again, his voice quieter. “But this? Now they’re trying to erase you.”

I met his eyes. “Let them try.”

But the words turned sour on my tongue because I remembered. Not the headlines. Not the council’s reports. Not the aftermath. I remembered the feeling of being nothing but muscle and instinct, of hearing my mate scream and not knowing her name, of claws I didn’t recognize tearing through flesh I once vowed to protect.

I wasn’t Marcus in those moments. I wasn’t a man, a wereape. I wasn’t even a monster. I was a thing—a creature of nightmare. No reason. No mercy. No control.

And somewhere, deep down, I knew. I knew what I was doing, but I couldn’t stop it. It was like screaming from behind a wall of my own skin while something else wore my body and fed on my rage.

Being an alpha meant strength, discipline, control. You protected your family. You led. You held the line so they didn’t have to. The curse took all of that and ripped it apart like paper. It turned me into a horror story my son might one day hear whispered from a stranger.

It stripped me of everything I thought made me who I was. And now the order wanted to erase me entirely?

No. I’d already lost enough. They didn’t get to write the ending.

Carl huffed. “Look at you? You think you can destroy the Order of Fenrir?”

“I don’t think,” I said, stepping toward the door. “I will.”

He barked a sharp laugh behind me. “Can’t be done.”

I looked back over my shoulder, fury seething just beneath the surface. “Then I’ll settle for making them bleed.”

Carl’s grin faded. “You sound just like your mother did—right before she joined them.”

I stared at him for a beat before turning the knob and walking out into the cold.

Because if they wanted a war…

They were about to get one.

6

TESSA

Istood in my kitchen, my coat still on, the cold from outside clinging to the fabric like the weight in my chest. A note trembled slightly between my fingers as I read it again.

Tessa,

I have to leave for a few days. There are some things I need to do. I’ll call you when I know more. Be good. I love you.

Marcus.

That was it. No details. No explanation. Just a scribbled goodbye taped to the fridge like it was an afterthought. Like it was enough.

It wasn’t.

I stared at the words, trying to make them say something else. Trying to read between the lines. There were no lines. Just silence.

He hadn’t said a word this morning—not that I would remember since I was sleeping. But I hadn’t seen the note this morning when I rushed out the door with Darian for some pancakes at Davenport House. Nope.

I blinked hard and folded the note in half. Then in half again. My hands felt too tight.

“Be good,” I muttered. The words stung more than I expected. As if this was some casual trip, as if we were fine, as if we hadn’t just survived a nightmare only to wake up in a worse one.

I moved to the kitchen island and set down the note. The world outside the kitchen windows was pale and cold, the January frost clinging to the glass.

He was gone. And I hated how hollow that felt.

Marcus didn’t run. That wasn’t his way. But disappearing like that? There was only one reason the wereape would do that.

To protect—me, our son, our town.

I leaned against the counter, my mind spinning. I’d just come from his office, from the conversation with Bastian Reyes, the new council-planted “interim” chief who somehow managed to be both irritating and composed in equal measure. He’d said Marcus left early this morning, just after he arrived. Left with a change of clothes and a satchel. Left without telling me where he was going and why.

I closed my eyes for a second. He was chasing something, and I had no doubt what it was.

The Order of Fenrir had nearly destroyed him. Had nearly taken everything from us. I knew my husband well enough to know that whatever he was doing now, it had to do with them. And I had a terrible feeling he was going to face it alone.

Which meant I needed to move fast.

Because if he thought he was going to keep me out of this, he was wrong. But my stomach twisted with something heavier than just anger. This wasn’t about pride. This was about fear.

Marcus was one wereape. Strong, yes. Brilliant, yes. Sexy as hell. Oh, yeah. Terrifying when he needed to be. But still—just one. And I had no idea how far the order’s roots had spread. Did they have compounds? Networks? Probably. How many were there? Hundreds? Thousands?

He was going up against an extremist faction that had operated in the shadows for generations, one built on bloodlines, purity, and power above all else. From what Katherine had told us, they didn’t compromise. They didn’t forgive. And they weren’t just dangerous. They were resourceful, armed with ancient magic most witches wouldn’t dare touch. Magic old enough to carve blood curses into the bones of their own kind. Like the one they put on my wereape.

And Marcus, my husband, my stubborn, brave, maddening husband, was going to throw himself straight into their den with nothing but guilt in his chest and vengeance on his back. I understood it. Hell, I felt it. I hated them too. Motherfrackers. For cursing him. For making him doubt himself. For turning him into a monster and what they nearly took from us.

But hate didn’t armor you from death. Rage didn’t shield your heart. And right now, the only thing louder than my fury… was my fear.

I couldn’t lose him.

I stared at the note on the counter, and something inside me hardened.

If the order thought they could break him, they’d have to go through me, too. But even as the fire flared in my chest, another truth curled up beside it. Uglier, colder.

The Witch Trials were coming. I couldn’t just leave and look for Marcus. The Gray Council had given us twenty-four hours before the magical audits began, more like twenty-three now, and every witch in Hollow Cove was at risk, including my aunts. Including Iris. Including me. Especially me. And if I failed those tests, if Morgana Draeven decided I was too dangerous to keep my magic? They wouldn’t just strip me of power.

They’d come for Darian next.

My son, who could already command demons with a look. Who glowed with magic he hadn’t even begun to understand. Who was born from the kind of union that factions like the Order of Fenrir wanted to erase.

If I left now, if I followed Marcus across who knew how many miles, I wouldn’t be here to protect Darian when the council came knocking. Because, for one, I had no idea where Marcus was. Though, with my ley lines, traveling was a hell of a lot faster. But without a clear idea of where he was going, that could take me days. Maybe even weeks.

But if I stayed… and something happened to Marcus? I wasn’t sure I’d recover from that either.

I paced the kitchen once… twice… my boots heavy on the wood floors and my heart heavier.

I hated this. Hated feeling torn in two directions. Every instinct I had was screaming, Go to him. He needed me. He shouldn’t be doing this alone.

But the other voice, the quieter one, said I needed to hold the line here. That someone had to. And I couldn’t leave Darian unprotected, not that my aunts couldn’t protect him. But with the Gray Council breathing down my neck, I didn’t trust that they wouldn’t just take him. More like steal him. Yeah, I bet they would.

Damnit. I dragged a hand through my hair and then reached for my phone. If I couldn’t go to Marcus right now, I sure as hell wasn’t going to sit around doing nothing.

I needed a plan. I needed my aunts. And I needed to figure out how the hell I was going to survive a magical audit while my husband was out there somewhere plotting the downfall of a wereape death cult.

No biggie.

I grabbed my coat off the hook by the door, half-zipping it in a rush. I had to talk to my aunts and see my kid. Darian didn’t know his father was gone, or maybe he did? With all those new powers he was exhibiting, it wouldn’t surprise me if somehow he knew.

But the moment my hand touched the doorknob, the doorbell rang.

I froze.

Not many people rang the doorbell. Not unless they were selling enchanted soap or delivering magical threats.

Morgana. She was early, and I was going to fry me a mage bitch.

You know it. I know it.

I yanked on my magic and pulled open the door.

“Iris?” I was not expecting her.

She stood on the threshold, still, her face pale and tight. Her expression was wide-eyed with the “brace yourself” look that only showed up when things were about to go very, very sideways.

“What is it?” I asked, already preparing for the worst.

“Two Gray Council officers are in town,” she said quietly. “They’re looking for Marcus.”

Of course they were. “Looking for him as in, want to interview him?” I asked, knowing full well that was wishful thinking. They were here investigating my husband, to see if his version of the events were true. That he was indeed cursed and not a murderer.

Iris shook her head once. “As in, ‘Where is he, why did he leave, and do you know how to reach him’ kind of looking.”

The kind of looking that came with veiled threats and spells hidden in their sleeves.

Crap. I glanced back at the note on the counter and then at Iris. “I just found out he’s gone,” I said. “He left me a damn note. That’s it.”

“Then we’ve got a problem,” said Iris. “Because the officers aren’t just snooping. They’re asking questions like he’s a fugitive.”

I stared at her, my anger rising fast beneath the panic. “He’s not a fugitive. He’s just not here at the moment. They have no idea what he’s gone through.”

“They don’t care,” she said, stepping inside. “They’re here on orders. And if they can’t find him, they’ll assume he’s hiding. And if they think he’s hiding…”

“Then he looks guilty.”

I shut the door behind her and turned toward the kitchen. The walls felt smaller. The air thicker with that creeping, suffocating feeling when you know the walls aren’t just closing in. They’re already pressing against your back.

“He’s not guilty,” I snapped, louder than I meant to. “He’s… he’s trying to make it right.” And if I knew my husband well, that meant killing all those bastards in that order.

“I know that,” Iris said gently, but her expression was grim. “You know that. But they don’t. And now that he’s disappeared, it looks like he ran. It looks like he lied.”

“Lied?” My heart thumped. “About what?”

“They need proof, Tessa,” she said. “They want to test him. They want blood samples, magical scans, sigil resonance. The works. They’re claiming it’s to verify that he was cursed, and that now it’s gone. That he’s no longer a threat.”

Shit. I’d forgotten about that. “And without him here…”

“They can’t verify anything,” she finished. “Which gives them every excuse to assume the worst.”

I moved to the counter, my hands bracing against the edge with my fingers curled, nails biting into the wood. “They think he’s still cursed or that he’s just insane.”

“Yes, or that he might be hiding it,” said Iris. “That maybe Soren didn’t remove it. Or that Marcus is still dangerous. Maybe even planning something.”

“That’s insane,” I said, but my voice had gone hoarse. “He almost died. He’d never—”

“I believe you,” Iris cut in. “But that’s not what matters. What matters is what the council believes. And they don’t see Marcus the way we do. They see a threat who’s already killed.”

The truth of it hit like ice down my spine. He had killed. Under the curse, yes, but that wouldn’t matter to them. The blood was still on the ground. And now he was gone, no longer under their surveillance.

I turned to Iris, my pulse thudding in my ears. “Where are they now? The officers?”

“Still at the agency,” she said. “They were with Bastian when I left.”

“Do you think he called them?”

“I don’t know.” Her mouth tightened. “But something about them feels… wrong. Not just strict or official but more sinister. They’re mages, both of them. I could feel it the moment I walked into the room. That cold, scraping magic that hums against your skin like a blade you can’t see.”

I swallowed hard. “And Bastian?”

Iris hesitated and then shrugged. “He was calm. Polite. Unreadable, really. Honestly? I can’t tell if he’s helping them or if he’s just letting them do their thing while he watches.”

“Do you trust him?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. Ronin stopped by the agency earlier to check in and saw them talking. He pulled me aside and said, ‘Once a councilman, always a councilman.’”

I rolled my eyes. “That’s comforting.”

Iris gave a humorless smile. “Yeah. Ronin’s not usually the paranoid type, but even he doesn’t like how fast they showed up.”

I looked at Iris, my heart pounding in my chest. “We have to find Marcus before they do.”

She nodded once. “We do, but first, we need to buy some time.”

I exhaled slowly, my mind racing. “Then let’s stall them.”

I turned and leaned against the counter, my arms crossed and eyes unfocused as plans started to form, layer by reckless layer. “Maybe we give them something to chase,” I said. “A problem. A magical disturbance. Something just serious enough that they have to deal with it.”

Iris arched a brow. “You want to distract council officers with a side quest?” She smiled. “I like the way you think.”

“Me too,” I said. “No. Maybe. I don’t know. I’m brainstorming here.” I rubbed my temple. “What if we staged a magical breach? Something dangerous enough to trigger a full council investigation, like a ley line fluctuation.”

Iris shook her head. “Too subtle. The Gray Council only responds when it’s big—political or explosive.”

“Right,” I said, thinking fast. “Then we push it further. Say there’s residual fallout from the curse that hit Marcus. Dolores could rig a reading, make it look like the magic’s destabilizing the area. Like it’s spreading.”

Iris tilted her head. “You really think they’ll buy that?”

“Not forever,” I admitted, “but long enough to delay the investigation. Shift their focus. Make them think Marcus’s curse left behind a magical footprint in Hollow Cove that’s more urgent than tracking down a guy who just wants to be left alone.”

She was quiet for a moment and then gave a slow nod. “That could work. Especially if we make it look like it’s affecting the townspeople. Public safety’s always a council priority.”

I grinned. “Exactly. Nothing makes them panic like a possible liability.”

“Or,” Iris added, her eyes narrowing slightly, “we give them a false trail. Make them think Marcus went somewhere he didn’t. Send them chasing a ghost in the wrong direction.”

My smile widened. “Now we were talking.”

Iris leaned one hip against the counter thoughtfully. “We could charm a piece of his clothing, leave a residual magical signature somewhere inconvenient, like halfway up the coast or, I don’t know, an ogre karaoke bar in Jersey.”

I blinked. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Ronin once got stuck in one. Apparently, ogres love ABBA.”

“Well, now I’m tempted to send them there just for that.”

Iris frowned, thinking. “These guys aren’t amateurs. The council doesn’t send regular mages. They send their best. So whatever we do, it has to be good enough to fool them.”

“We could enchant one of his old hoodies,” I said, already turning the idea over in my mind. I paused and then added, “We could plant it somewhere like at a shifter-friendly diner in the next town over. Somewhere he’d plausibly run if he was hiding.”

Iris nodded. “And then maybe toss in a few subtle signs of magical stress. Like he was still cursed. Leave a smashed tree or two, something just unnerving enough that they think he’s unstable.”

“And dangerous,” I said grimly. “So they chase him instead of waiting around to interrogate us.”

She looked at me. “That gives us time. A day, maybe two. But once they figure out it’s fake—”

“They’ll double down,” I finished. “Yeah. I know.”

I’d do whatever it took to make sure they didn’t get what they wanted.

And maybe… just maybe…

To buy my husband enough time to finish what he started.

7

TESSA

Just as Iris and I popped over to Davenport House, ready to plot how to send the Gray Council’s officers on the wildest goose chase in magical history, we were met with a bit of mayhem.

Ruth was darting around the kitchen, her apron flapping, as Darian squirmed in her arms and made impatient little growling noises.

“Oh, good. Here,” said Ruth just as she saw me, sounding about two inches from a nervous breakdown. She thrust Darian into my arms like a live grenade and pivoted back toward the stove, where one of her cauldrons was dangerously close to bubbling over, to turn off the burners.

I barely caught him, laughing under my breath as Darian immediately reached out with his sticky little hands and tapped my face, pat-pat-pat, like he was checking to see if I was real.

I kissed his palms, breathing him in, and swung him onto my hip. “Wow. Did you get bigger while I was out today?” I asked, only half-joking. But as I shifted his weight, feeling the pull in my muscles, the joke died somewhere between my throat and my heart.

He was heavier. Not just “maybe he grew an ounce” heavier—noticeably heavier. A few pounds at least. His magic-fueled growth spurts were getting faster. Less predictable. And a whole lot more terrifying.

Before I could process that, Darian locked his big gray eyes on mine and said, clear as anything, “Daddy.”

I froze.

Iris, who had just stepped fully into the kitchen behind me, stiffened too.

We exchanged a look over Darian’s head, one of those silent conversations where a thousand questions pass in a second.

Did he know? Did he feel it? Did he sense that Marcus was gone?

It wasn’t just the word itself that shook me, it was the way he said it. Like a tiny alarm bell ringing in the pit of my stomach, telling me my son knew something wasn’t right.

“Did he just say Daddy?” said Beverly, breezing into the kitchen in high-heeled boots and looking like she was ready for cocktail hour at a five-star hotel.

“He did,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended.

Tinker Bell swooped into the kitchen, her wings buzzing, while Hildo pranced along behind her, his paws silent on the floorboards.

“Isn’t he a bit young to say words?” the fairy inquired, her voice curious but a little sharp around the edges.

“He’s not a normal wereape cub,” said Hildo matter-of-factly, straightening the tiny belt at his waist like he was about to deliver royal news. “He’s special.”

The words landed harder than I expected.

Special.

Yeah, I knew that. We all knew that. But hearing it out loud from someone like Hildo, a being who sensed magic the way most people sensed heat from a fire, somehow made it realer. Bigger. Less the thing we whispered about over coffee and more a fact etched into the fabric of the world.

I hugged Darian a little closer, feeling the solid weight of him against my side. He wasn’t just talking earlier. He was communicating. Connecting.

And growing at a rate that wasn’t natural for any witch, demon, or wereape. Every time I blinked, he seemed a little heavier, a little taller. More alert. More aware.

It was thrilling and terrifying all at once.

Because I wasn’t ready. Not for this. Not for how fast he was changing. How quickly everything was changing.

One minute he was this tiny, fragile thing curled against my chest. Now he was practically a toddler. Strong, alert, and smart enough to know his father was gone.

And it was happening so damn fast.

I glanced around, trying to rid my head of these thoughts. I had enough on my mind as I took in the rest of the kitchen.

Beverly wasn’t the only one dressed up. Ruth was in a dark green sweater dress and had even swapped her usual bare feet for sensible black boots.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said, adjusting Darian on my hip. “What’s going on? Why are you all dressed up?”

“Dolores called a town meeting,” said Ruth quickly, dodging another pot boiling over.

I stared at my aunt. “For the Witch Trials.” Of course, as the new town mayor Dolores had to inform the town that the Gray Council were on their way.

“We’re already late,” added Ruth, checking the clock. “And you know how she gets if we’re late.”

Yeah. Dolores on a good day was about as forgiving as a vengeful spirit trapped in a mirror. Dolores when you made her late? That was a whole new level of danger.

I looked down at Darian, still clinging to my jacket and babbling softly.

He’d said Daddy. He knew something.

And I had no idea how to protect him from what was coming next.

Beverly grabbed the car keys from the wicker basket on the table. “I can’t believe I had to cancel my date. Antoine had plans. Naughty plans. Plans that involved whipped cream, hotel curtains, and me calling him General. And now?” She glared at Ruth. “Now I’m spending the night arguing about magical liability with women who think sexy means a new pair of sensible loafers.”

I snorted. I couldn’t help it.

“Everybody in the Volvo!” cried Ruth, already charging down the hallway. Her hair, piled high with what looked suspiciously like two yellow highlighter pens today, wobbled with every determined step.

“This is going to be very interesting,” I said.

“I’m texting Ronin.” Iris pulled out her phone with one hand and scrolled furiously. “Pretty sure he already knows about the meeting.”

I didn’t doubt it. If there was a town event involving chaos, drama, or potential property damage, Ronin usually popped up like a bat signal had been lit.

I shifted Darian higher on my hip, adjusting the weight of him. His little arms wrapped tighter around my neck like he knew something was coming, and honestly, he probably did.

“Okay, buddy,” I said, pressing a kiss to his soft, warm cheek. “We’re going to a meeting. At the town hall. It’s going to be very long and very boring. This is me, apologizing in advance.”

I considered, briefly, whether I could drop him off at my mother’s instead, but knowing her, she’d already be parked front row at the meeting, wearing a scowl with one of her ridiculous protest signs and making everything worse.

Before I could finish the thought, Darian squirmed in my arms, leaned back to look me squarely in the face, and clapped his chubby little hands once.

A sharp, clean sound.

And then—

Whoomp.

Magic hit me like a cold slap.

Not my magic. Nothing I’d felt before.

Darian’s.

It rippled out from him, invisible but powerful. The air around us bent and warped, twisting sideways. And before I could even shout, the kitchen of Davenport House vanished in a flash of disorienting light.

I clutched Darian tighter as the ground dropped away beneath us. The world twisted and tilted, shapes and colors blurring past in a dizzying rush—walls, doorways, the vague outline of Ruth’s favorite ugly chair—all melting into a smear of motion.

The air snapped cold and sharp around us, tugging at my hair and pulling us forward like we were caught in the slipstream of a storm.

Then, just as suddenly, my boots hit solid ground.

But we weren’t in Davenport House’s kitchen anymore.

We were standing smack in the middle of the Hollow Cove town hall.

Rows of witches, shifters, and supernaturals turned toward us, conversations dying mid-sentence. Every eyeball in the building locked on to me and Darian like we were about to break into a dance.

Darian giggled proudly in my arms, his little hands patting my jacket like ta-da!

I blinked, still trying to process the sudden teleportation while my heart tried to jackhammer its way out of my chest.

Holy shit. My kid had just pulled a ley line. On his own. No training. No warning, just clap and go.

I gave him a slow, horrified smile. “You are way too powerful for your own good,” I whispered.

Darian clapped again happily.

Several people visibly flinched. A few scooted their chairs back like maybe they could dodge whatever magic was coming next.

I looked around, trying to spot a familiar face, and sure enough, there at the long table up front, perched between a very stiff-looking Martha and a stack of grim-looking scrolls, was Bastian Reyes. His eyes were already fixed on me, cool and unreadable.

Perfect. Just what I needed. A full audience, complete with a council babysitter.

Before I could even adjust Darian on my hip, Dolores materialized out of the crowd, moving with the kind of speed and authority usually reserved for tornado warnings.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed under her breath, grabbing my elbow in a firm, no-nonsense grip.

“I—what?” I blinked at her, caught between guilt and indignation.

“Using ley lines!” she snapped quietly, her braid swinging behind her. “Right in front of the entire town. In front of the council!” She jabbed a finger toward the long table at the front where Bastian sat, straight-backed and watching everything like he was mentally filing it away for future prosecution.

“I didn’t…” I leaned in closer, lowering my voice to a whisper. “It wasn’t me. It was Darian.”

Dolores froze for a split second, her stern expression cracking just enough to show scandalized horror. Her gaze snapped to Darian, who was now smiling up at his great aunt like nothing at all was wrong with the universe.

“We’ll discuss this later,” she said tightly, her expression smoothing into practiced calm. She pointed toward a row of empty chairs along the side wall. “Sit over there.”

Ronin was already seated, his legs stretched out, arms crossed, and face unreadable but clearly disinterested. Across from him sat my mother, her posture stiff with one leg crossed and a fashion magazine open in her lap. She flipped a page with deliberate care, glancing up only briefly to acknowledge my presence before returning to the magazine. Her expression carried a mix of impatience and irritation, like she had more important things to do than be here.

I adjusted Darian on my hip again and marched toward the seats, trying not to feel all the eyes following me like I had suddenly grown horns and started breathing fire.

“Where’s Iris?” asked Ronin as I took the seat next to him. “I thought she was with you?”

“She is. She was.” I waved a hand vaguely, trying to pull my brain back into order. “Long story. She’s on her way.”

My mind wasn’t exactly cooperating. I couldn’t stop thinking about what Darian had just done. About the snap of magic in the kitchen, the way it pulled us through the ley lines like it was nothing.

If Morgana Draeven found out. If Bastian found out… Nope. Not going there.

My mother turned around and gave me a pointed look. “You’re late.” Then, without missing a beat, she broke into smiles and waves for her grandson.

Of course she would.

“Is this about Marcus’s replacement?” Ronin asked, leaning slightly toward me, his voice low and sharp. His dark eyes flicked toward the front table where Bastian Reyes sat, his posture perfect with hands folded neatly on the polished wood.

“He’s part of it,” I told him. “But there’s also the fact that the Gray Council is reopening the Witch Trials.”

Ronin’s brows lifted. “Witch Trials? You mean the kind where they light you up or hang you and call it justice?”

“Kinda.” I rubbed a hand over my face. “But this is more about magical audits. Testing. Power evaluations. If they don’t like what they see, they can strip a witch of her magic.”

Ronin let out a low, humorless whistle. “Guess they’re really rolling out the hospitality carpet.”

“Yeah,” I said dryly, “welcome to Hollow Cove. Please enjoy your complimentary terror.”

Before he could respond, a loud bang cracked through the air as Dolores slammed her gavel down on the table at the front of the hall.

The conversations died instantly.

“Thank you all for coming,” began Dolores, her voice carrying easily through the high-ceilinged room. “I know this meeting was called on short notice, but we have urgent matters to discuss—”

The double doors at the back of the hall burst open with a crash.

“Wait! We’re not late!” Ruth’s voice rang out, echoing through the stunned silence.

Every head in the place turned.

Ruth came barreling down the aisle at full speed, one hand waving frantically while the other gripped the hem of her skirt to keep it from tangling around her knees.

“Hey, it rhymes!” she crowed joyfully as she ran, completely ignoring the scandalized stares.

Behind her, Beverly strolled in with the easy grace of someone who had decided public shame was a peasant’s burden while Iris trailed after her, trying to hide her face behind her hair.

Ronin snorted beside me, clearly struggling not to laugh. “Now, here comes the entertainment. I should have brought beer.”

Dolores closed her eyes briefly, muttering what looked suspiciously like a prayer for patience.

When she reopened them, they were full Dolores Mode—cold steel wrapped in a polite smile.

“As I was saying,” Dolores continued icily, ignoring Ruth’s enthusiastic wave as she scrambled into a seat, “we have urgent matters to discuss regarding the safety, stability, and future of Hollow Cove.” She lifted her gavel again like she might just start chucking it at anyone who so much as coughed. “First,” she said, her voice carrying to every corner of the town hall, “allow me to introduce Bastian Reyes, the new interim chief of Hollow Cove.”

She gestured crisply toward the long table at the front, where Bastian sat. He gave the room a polite, brief nod. No smile, no words, just calm, composed acknowledgment, like someone who had no intention of trying to win anyone over.

A low ripple of whispers moved through the room. Shifters, witches, and even a few weres glanced at each other uncertainly.

Ronin leaned over slightly, keeping his voice low. “You meet the new chief yet?”

“Yes,” I answered. “Briefly. You?”

“Yeah. Didn’t like him. Never trust a guy in a cheap suit.”

I bit back a smile. “Good to know.”

Ronin shrugged, settling back in his chair and stretching out his long legs. “It’s always the quiet ones in bad polyester. Mark my words.”

Okay then.

Dolores pressed on without flinching. “Chief Reyes will be handling security for Hollow Cove while the Gray Council conducts their investigation.”

From the back of the room, someone—Mrs. McKinley, I thought—called out, “Where’s Marcus? Shouldn’t he be here?”

Dolores’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. Her gaze flicked toward me for half a second, a warning, an apology, a silent “don’t you dare open your mouth.”

“Marcus couldn’t be here right now,” she said briskly, sidestepping the question like a pro. “Moving on.”

Another ripple went through the crowd. This one sharper and more afraid.

“Now,” continued Dolores and then paused, glancing sideways at Martha seated stiffly beside her at the long table. The two witches exchanged a quick, worried look that said more than words ever could. Whatever was coming next, it wasn’t good.

Dolores faced the crowd again, her spine straightening. “We have another matter to address—a serious one.”

The energy in the room shifted. The tension tightened.

“Effective immediately, the Gray Council is reopening the Witch Trials.”

The room fell deathly silent. For a heartbeat, no one moved. No one breathed.

Then the noise broke loose. Gasps, horrified murmurs, chairs scraping against the floor as people twisted in their seats, whispering sharply to one another.

I felt the fear roll through the hall like a living thing, thick and suffocating.

I sat there, my heart pounding, holding Darian tightly against me while the town around me cracked wide open.

“They’re starting tomorrow,” announced Dolores, raising her voice to be heard over the rising noise. “All witches living in Hollow Cove are required to report for magical audits at assigned times.”

A witch in the middle rows, Mrs. McKinley again, leapt to her feet, her face pale with panic. “This isn’t right. We haven’t done anything wrong!”

“We’re not criminals!” another voice shouted from the back.

“What, exactly, are they going to do to us?” an older woman with long white hair near the aisle demanded, her voice trembling. “Strip us of our magic? Arrest us?”

Dolores slammed her gavel once, sharp and loud, restoring a shaky kind of silence.

“You’ll be tested,” Dolores said tightly, her voice strained but steady. “Your magical control. Your spellwork integrity. Your alignment to the coven laws. The Gray Council wants to verify that no threats exist among us.”

A younger witch stood up, her voice cracking. “Why here? Why Hollow Cove? We’ve done everything right. We’ve obeyed the laws!”

Dolores hesitated, just for a breath, but it was enough. Her gaze flicked so fast most people wouldn’t have noticed, but I did.

She looked at me. Right at me. The world around me seemed to tilt.

We both knew they weren’t here because Hollow Cove was dangerous. They were here because of me. Because of my bloodline. Because of my magic. Because of Darian.

And they were going to tear apart the entire town just to get to us.

The trials were coming.

And none of us were ready.

8

TESSA

Today was the first day of the Witch Trials. Needless to say, I’d barely slept.

Dolores and Beverly had kept me up for most of the night, right into the blurry, desperate hours of early morning, trying to coach me through how to “downplay” my magical mojo without looking suspicious. Which was, frankly, like asking a bonfire to pretend it was a birthday candle.

Every time I thought I had the right level of “normal witch,” Dolores would make a disapproving noise, and Beverly would start suggesting wardrobe changes to “sell the helpless witch vibe.” At one point, Beverly seriously suggested I wear beige to look less threatening.

Ruth had taken over the potions room, muttering happily to herself as she brewed something she called a misdirection charm. The enchantment was meant to confuse magical trackers and draw the council officers off Marcus’s scent and toward our decoy, his old sweatshirt.

I hadn’t seen the Gray Council officers yet today, but I could feel their presence. Soon enough, they’d let it be known. Soon enough, they’d come knocking.

Tinker Bell, who had been surprisingly enthusiastic about the whole thing, had offered to transport Marcus’s sweatshirt for me.

“I’ll do it,” she’d said, a bright smile on her face, like she wanted to do something devious. “You stay here and get ready for the trials. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Fairy magic didn’t exactly run on ley lines, but it moved just as fast—sharp, unpredictable, and almost impossible to track. If anyone could pull it off without getting caught, it was her. Love that little Tinky.

Still, my nerves hadn’t settled. Not even close.

And speaking of the man currently giving me a stress ulcer, I woke to a text message from Marcus sometime after dawn, when the gray light was just starting to seep through the windows.

Marcus: I’m okay. Just figuring out stuff. Be home soon.

I stared at it for a solid minute before texting back.

Me: Gray Council officers are looking for you. You need to come home. Now.

Then I waited. And waited. I watched the screen like it held the last lifeline to my sanity. I waited for those three little dots to pop up, the universal sign that he was typing, that he was listening, that he was there.

But they never came.

That was two hours ago. Now I stood in the living room of Davenport House, clutching my phone and trying not to scream.

The town was bracing itself for the Witch Trials, and my wereape was still missing. Gone. I had no idea where he was. And somewhere out there, the council’s dogs were sniffing the ground for any excuse to tear my world apart.

Wonderful. Just another beautiful, relaxing morning in Hollow Cove.

I forced myself to move, pushing away from the living room window like that might somehow force the day back into something normal. It didn’t.

I headed for the kitchen, trying to find something—anything—that resembled a distraction before I had to face whatever fresh horror Morgana Draeven had cooked up for us.

The smell of pancakes hit me first.

And not in the usual, heavenly Ruth-made-pancakes kind of way. No, this smelled... slightly burnt. A little rubbery.

I reached the kitchen and found Beverly standing proudly at the stove, flipping a sad, lumpy pancake onto a plate.

Darian sat at the kitchen island, a plastic fork clutched in one hand while eyeing the plate in front of him with deep, solemn disappointment. It was the kind of look you gave someone when they handed you a balloon and then popped it in the same breath.

“See?” Beverly said brightly, plopping another misshapen pancake onto the growing pile. “Breakfast of champions.”

Darian poked the stack with the tip of his fork. It wobbled like it was considering fighting back.

I tried not to laugh but failed spectacularly. “He’s used to Ruth’s pancakes,” I said, setting my phone down on the counter. “You know... fluffy, golden, edible.”

Beverly sniffed. “Ruth’s busy with Tinker Bell and Hildo doing her little potion project. Someone had to step up and nourish the child.”

Right. She meant me. Her comment might have pissed me off on another day but not today. Today, I just let it slide. I had more important things to take care of.

Unfortunately, Beverly was just warming up.

“You know,” she added casually, flipping another mutilated pancake onto the pile, “this takes me back to a night with a gorgeous warlock who thought maple syrup was an essential part of foreplay. Let’s just say breakfast ended up happening on the kitchen counter... and the dining room table... and the porch swing.”

I stared at her.

Darian, unfazed as ever, gnawed thoughtfully on the edge of his fork.

“That’s a lot of surfaces to sanitize,” I said dryly, grabbing my coffee mug.

Beverly gave me a wicked little grin. “Worth every sticky second.”

Okay then.

I leaned over and kissed the top of Darian’s head. He gave me a mournful look, like he was trying to figure out whether eating the pancakes was a form of punishment.

“I promise we’ll find you real food later, kiddo,” I whispered.

Before Beverly could defend her culinary crimes, heavy footsteps echoed down the hall.

Dolores appeared in the doorway, already dressed in a long dark skirt and blazer under a gray wool coat.

“They’re here,” she barked. Her mouth was tight, her eyes sharper than usual. “Morgana Draeven and her group. They’ve chosen the Hollow Cove High School gymnasium for the audits.”

Of course they had. Nothing says “witches on trial” like bad lighting and old basketball banners.

“All the witches have been notified, including Iris,” said Dolores, looking at me as I reached for my phone to text Iris. She glanced at the clock and then back at us, her expression darkening. “We need to leave. Now. I will not be late for the first audit.”

Damnit. The one person I wanted, needed, wasn’t here. I wasn’t just missing my husband. I was missing my best friend. The one person who could make me laugh when the world felt like it was falling apart. The one person who could lean close, brush his knuckles down my arm, and remind me that no matter how bad things got, we had each other.

I needed him now. Not just to calm my nerves. Not just to “shoot the shit” about how ridiculous this whole Witch Trials circus was shaping up to be. But to wrap me in his arms and remind me that no Gray Council, no witch trial, no ancient vendetta could touch what we had built together.

Even a little sexy time wouldn’t have hurt either.

Anything to ground me. To pull me out of my own spiraling head.

But he wasn’t here. He was out there somewhere, chasing old ghosts while I stood here trying not to drown under the weight of what was coming.

Marcus, where are you?

Darian clapped his hands again, delighted by the tension, and sent Beverly’s stack of pancakes toppling over.

“Same, buddy,” I muttered.

I heard the potions room door burst open just as Ruth came sliding across the floor like an Olympic curler who’d just nailed a perfect shot.

She stopped right next to the counter, grinning. “Finished the misdirection charm,” she announced triumphantly, brandishing a bubbling little vial. “Marcus’s sweatshirt is dripping with it.”

Right behind her, Tinker Bell zipped into the room, holding said Marcus’s old sweatshirt. She hovered midair and gave us a crooked smile. “Well, I’m off to sneak this sucker somewhere far, far away.”

“Do you know where you’re going?” I asked, curious.

The fairy just smiled. “Nope. I’ll let instincts guide me. Oh, and good luck, witches. I have a feeling you’re going to need it,” she said with all the sass of someone who knew exactly what kind of storm we were walking into.

And with that, the kitchen back door swung open by itself, and Tinker Bell shot out into the morning mist, Marcus’s sweatshirt trailing behind her.

Dolores clapped her hands once, all business again. “All right. Enough theatrics. Let’s go.” Her sharp gaze snapped to Ruth, who was still standing in the middle of the kitchen looking like she’d survived a minor magical explosion. Her sweater was stained with something purple, and a suspicious green smear streaked across her cheek.

Dolores’s mouth tightened. “What are you waiting for? You’re supposed to be ready. Stop fooling around. This is important. It’s my first audit as mayor. I will not be late because of you.”

Ruth rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said breezily, sauntering over to the kitchen sink. “I’ll sparkle for the nice scary witch auditors.” She turned on the faucet, splashed some cold water on her face with both hands, and then leaned in and gave herself a sniff under each arm. “Smells like the best potions witch in town,” she announced proudly, grabbing a dishtowel to pat her face dry. “I’m good.”

Beverly snorted. “And hopeless.”

I smiled. Loved my aunt Ruthy. But Dolores looked like she might actually have an aneurysm right there on the linoleum.

I coughed to cover a laugh as Ruth grabbed her sweater sleeve, wiped a smear off her forehead, and gave me double thumbs-up like she was about to run a 5K.

Dolores turned to me. “Tessa, what about Darian? Are you taking him to the audits?”

“Hell no,” I said without hesitation, making Beverly laugh into her coffee.

I marched over to the basement door off the kitchen, flung it open, and leaned down into the stairwell.

“Dad!”

A moment later, footsteps echoed on the stairs, and my father, Obiryn, demon of casual menace and surprisingly good taste, emerged.

He looked way too put together for this hour, wearing a sleek dark suit and a smirk like he’d just won an argument no one else knew about.

“Hello, ladies,” he said, his silver eyes gleaming. He turned to me with a nod. “Your mother’s already on her way to the audits, though I’m not sure why she should bother.” His mouth twisted slightly, the closest my father ever got to outright mockery. We all knew what he meant.

My mother, bless her narcissistic heart, had about as much magic as a soggy tea bag. But rules were rules, and all witches, even duds, had to report.

I raised an eyebrow. “Every witch has to attend, apparently. Even the ones who can’t light a candle without a lighter.”

My father’s mouth twitched. “Ah, yes. But she’s so beautiful when she tries.”

Yup, my mother was as magical as a human, but it seemed Morgana was being thorough. Or maybe she had another plan in motion. And I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like it.

Obiryn stepped further into the kitchen, smoothing his jacket sleeve. “I’ve heard of these kinds of trials before,” he added casually, like he was talking about an inconvenient rainstorm. “Hundreds of years ago. They were brutal. Stripping witches of their magic. Binding them. Some... didn’t survive the process.”

His voice was calm, but the undercurrent of anger wasn’t hard to miss. “We have something similar in the Netherworld,” he went on. “It’s called The Severance.” Obiryn’s eyes gleamed faintly, like he was remembering something he wished he could forget. “They test demons for loyalty and obedience. Those who show... too much individuality, too much power outside sanctioned lines, are subjected to The Severance. Their magic is ripped from them, their will broken.” He paused, his mouth curving into something that wasn’t a smile. “Few survive it intact. Fewer still survive it at all.”

Dolores’s mouth pressed into a thin line. She clutched her handbag a little tighter under her arm. “I don’t believe this Gray Council will allow it to go that far,” she said, her tone brisk, almost defensive. “These audits are supposed to be structured. Controlled. Different.”

“You hope,” Beverly muttered, flipping her hair over one shoulder as she snagged her coffee cup. “But I don’t trust the Gray Council farther than I can hex them. And trust me, I’ve got range.”

Nobody laughed. Not this time. Because we all knew hope was a fragile thing when the Gray Council got involved. And right now, hope felt like it was hanging by a very thin, very frayed thread.

I walked back to Darian still sitting at the kitchen island. He beamed at me, pancake syrup stuck in his hair like war paint. I had no idea I could love anyone more than life itself. I guess it took having my own child to make me realize that.

“Be good,” I said, smoothing his hair down. “No spinning Grandpa into another dimension. Okay?”

Darian giggled, which I tried really, really hard to take as a good sign. Still, a sliver of worry tightened my gut.

His magic was getting stronger. Faster. Wilder. And none of us had a manual for raising a toddler who could bend ley lines like spaghetti.

I straightened and looked at my father seriously. “He pulled a ley line yesterday. On his own. No words. No warning… just poof.”

Obiryn’s smile vanished. What replaced it wasn’t his usual amused patience. It was something harder. The kind of look that said the stakes had just gone from bad to catastrophic.

He studied me for a beat and then inclined his head once. “I’ll be on guard.”

But he didn’t move away. Instead, he glanced at Darian, still happily mauling what was left of his syrup-sticky pancakes, and then back at me.

“Have you been training him?” he asked, his voice low but urgent.

I shifted my weight. “Sort of.”

Obiryn’s eyes narrowed slightly. Not angry, concerned. And that somehow made it worse.

“I’ve tried a few times,” I admitted. “Little sessions here and there. I’ve been trying to get him to show me what he can do... control it... but all he wants to do is laugh and climb furniture like he’s auditioning for the circus.” I dragged a hand through my hair, frustration bubbling up. “His magic doesn’t show up on command. It just... happens. When he’s emotional. When he’s excited. I don’t even know where to start with him, and now…” I broke off, biting down the knot rising in my throat.

Now, with the Witch Trials breathing down our necks, when was I supposed to find time to sit calmly and train my toddler how to not accidentally bend reality?

Obiryn’s expression darkened further. His voice dropped into that low, dangerous rumble he usually reserved for enemies. “You must find a way. Especially now.”

The weight of his words landed squarely in my gut. I knew he was right. If the council found out just how powerful Darian already was… If Morgana Draeven so much as sensed what he could do…

No. I wouldn’t let that happen.

Dolores checked her watch and gave me a look that said, “Move your butt.”

I threw on my coat and grabbed my bag. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

It was time. Time to walk straight into the fire and pray we came out the other side.

“Watch out for that Morgana character,” said Hildo suddenly.

He leapt gracefully up onto the counter, his sleek black fur gleaming under the kitchen lights. He eyed Darian’s toppled pancakes like he was debating whether eating one would be considered a personal failing. He leaned in, sniffed the syrup-soaked disaster, and leaned back immediately, his ears flattening against his head in deep feline disapproval.

“Word on the street is that she’s nasty,” he added darkly.

I cocked a brow. “You got word from the street?” I didn’t even know what that would mean coming from a witch familiar and from our paranormal town.

Hildo sat back on his haunches, looking insufferably pleased with himself. “The familiars,” he said simply. “All the witch familiars in Hollow Cove—cats, dogs, a few rather gossipy crows, even the old tortoise that guards the bridge on the south end. We share... information.”

I blinked. “You guys have an actual underground network?” I was seriously impressed.

He licked his paw nonchalantly. “Of course we do. We’ve had one for centuries. Humans are slow. Familiars see everything. Hear everything.” He lifted his chin, pride in every syllable. “Some of the older familiars remember Morgana Draeven from before she rose through the council ranks. Even then, she was cold. Ruthless. Used power like a surgeon’s scalpel—precise, but deadly. She cut witches down when she thought they were unworthy. And she never forgot a grudge.”

I shivered slightly. “I could’ve told you that,” I muttered, but the back of my neck prickled anyway.

If the familiars, the creatures who watched the town more closely than any witch ever could, were worried about Morgana, that meant she was worse than I thought.

Hildo flicked his tail and hopped down gracefully, casting one last disdainful glance at the pancake mess. “Be careful,” he said without looking back. “She smells like someone who plays the long game.”

I frowned. So did I.

Dolores straightened her coat, smoothed her braid like she was preparing for battle, and snapped, “Let’s go, girls.”

Without another word, she spun on her heel and marched down the hall, her shoes clicking sharply against the floor. Beverly followed, tossing her hips like she was heading to a cocktail party instead of a public execution. Ruth scurried after her, mumbling something about whether she had packed enough breath mints in case she made friends with an auditor.

I stayed back for a second, glancing over at Darian. He was still perched on his seat at the kitchen island, happily stacking syrup-soaked pancake ruins into a leaning tower of stickiness.

A fresh wave of worry rolled through me. Leaving my son behind—even with my father—felt like pulling off my own arm.

But I didn’t have a choice. Not today.

I forced myself to turn away and follow the others down the hall, my boots thudding heavier with every step.

Morgana Draeven was waiting. I squared my shoulders, shoved the fear down deep, and walked out into the cold.

Because ready or not, the real trials were just beginning.

9

TESSA

After a five-minute drive, all crammed into the old Volvo station wagon like circus clowns with way more personal baggage, we finally pulled up to Hollow Cove High School.

I got out, squinting into the weak gray morning light. I spotted Iris and Ronin waiting near the entrance, standing under a giant, hideous yellow sign that read: WITCH AUDITS.

“Hey,” I said, jogging over to them, my coat flapping behind me.

“Nice signage,” said Ronin dryly, jerking his thumb at the monstrosity. “Really captures that welcoming, please-come-in-and-let-us-ruin-your-life energy.”

I smirked. “They forgot the skull and crossbones.”

Iris gave a weak laugh, but her fingers twisted nervously in her coat sleeves. I didn’t blame her. My own nerves were starting to vibrate under my skin.

Dolores barked at us to move faster, already marching like a woman with places to be and witches to save.

We fell into line behind her. Ruth, Beverly, Iris, and me—our little half-dysfunctional, half-terrified parade.

Dolores shoved open the big double glass doors, and we stepped into the Hollow Cove High gymnasium.

And immediately, I wanted to turn around and leave.

The gym had been cleared of everything remotely cheerful. No basketball hoops, no faded team banners. Just cold folding chairs in rows and a long table set up at the far end where a cluster of desks had been arranged like a tribunal.

My eyes found Bastian Reyes first, cool and composed as ever, his hands folded behind his back. His gaze swept the room like he was already taking mental notes for future indictments.

Seated at the long table were six other mages, all draped in somber gray robes with the Gray Council insignia stitched over their hearts—paired keys wrapped in thorns.

And right in the middle of them was Morgana Draeven.

Her gray council robes draped perfectly over her tall frame, every fold precise. The sides of her head were shaved clean, giving her an even more intimidating air while the top was braided into an intricate plait that trailed down her back. Her skin was pale, her lips neutral, and her eyes, dark brown, nearly black, swept the room with slow, surgical calculation.

Then they landed on me.

Our gazes locked.

I smiled sweetly and gave her a little finger wave. What? I couldn’t help it.

I could’ve sworn I saw one of the mages to her left twitch like he wasn’t sure if he should laugh or arrest me on the spot.

I wasn’t about to show that woman an ounce of fear. Not now. Not ever.

Behind me, Ronin leaned close and muttered, “Place has all the warmth of a serial killer’s basement.”

I glanced around, my gaze settling over the bleachers. They were packed with onlookers.

“Oh my god,” I whispered. “Is that a produce stand?” I pointed to the wooden stand next to the bleachers complete with a red-and-white checked tablecloth, stacked fruit crates, a pyramid of garlic bulbs, and a chalkboard sign that read:

TRIALS GOT YOU DOWN? GRAB A TURNIP AND FIGHT BACK!—Gilda’s Grocery

Keeping up morale (and fiber) during magical persecution!

Behind it stood a woman about five feet tall, round as a teapot and just as stubborn-looking, dressed in a fitted 1950s teal skirt suit, complete with matching pumps and a brooch shaped like a carrot.

Her brown curly hair was piled high on top of her head, and her sharp green eyes scanned the crowd like she was about to start auctioning off apples.

She caught someone glancing her way and snapped, “You’ll want potassium before a magical audit, sweetheart. No one faces doom on an empty stomach.”

“That must be Gilda,” I said slowly, blinking as I added this colorful character to memory.

Iris burst out laughing. “Doesn’t she look like Gilbert?”

She did. A female version of him. If Gilbert had been reborn with a produce obsession and a “no refunds” energy that could crack stone.

Yup. Money-making was clearly genetic.

“Non-magical companions and staff can wait in the bleachers,” called a thin, nasally voice from somewhere near the desk—one of the council mages, no doubt.

Ronin sighed dramatically and started walking. “Bet they don’t even sell beer up there.”

My half-vampire friend gave a lazy two-finger salute and wandered over to the packed bleachers with the other non-witch paranormal residents who had shown up to support or just to gawk. More like just to watch.

Ronin dropped down onto the first row with a groan loud enough to echo.

“Y’know,” he said, stretching out like he owned the place, “if anyone needs me, I’ll be up here perfecting my people-judging face.”

“Be supportive,” Iris hissed at him.

Ronin just grinned. “This is supportive. Judging’s my love language.”

Oh boy.

“This way,” motioned Dolores, herding us toward the rows of folding chairs set up for the witches being audited.

My tall aunt was being bossier than usual. I knew she was under a lot of pressure as the new mayor and now being audited by the Gray Council, so I let it slide.

“Oh, no.” Ruth clutched my arm tightly.

I turned, my heart immediately jumping. “What?”

“I forgot to use the bathroom before we left,” she whispered frantically. “When I get nervous, I have to pee. I have a weak bladder.”

I knew the feeling.

“Hold it,” Dolores said from ahead without turning around. “And stop panicking. You’ll only make it worse.”

Ruth whimpered under her breath like she was about to die from sheer bladder pressure.

But the truth was, my heart was pounding too hard to find anything truly funny. Morgana Draeven was still watching me, and I had a bad, bad feeling—

This was only the beginning.

When we reached the set of chairs, they were nearly full with rows of witches packed in tightly, shifting nervously or trying to look unfazed. I didn’t know most of them. I recognized Martha sitting in the back row, looking paler than usual, and a couple of other witches whose names danced just out of memory.

We slid into an open row. Iris on my left, Ruth next to her, then Beverly, and finally Dolores on the far end with her arms crossed like she was about to critique every witch’s magical abilities.

Just when I took my seat, I saw her. My mother sat near the center row, her legs crossed elegantly, perfect dark hair pinned in a loose chignon, and red lipstick flawless.

She met my eyes with a dismissive flick. “Honestly, this is a waste of everyone’s time,” she said, brushing an invisible thread off her lap. “I was halfway through organizing my winter scarves when your aunt called. I didn’t even get to label the bins.”

Right. My dearest mother. It was always about her.

Before I could respond, a hush fell over the gym.

Morgana Draeven had risen from her seat.

The silence that followed wasn’t just awkward. It was heavy, weighted with something old, structured, and magical.

Her voice carried like frost gliding across glass. “Now that everyone is here,” she said, her gaze dragging over the room until it landed on me and my aunts, “we may begin.”

I felt Ruth tense beside me.

Morgana let the pause stretch just long enough to assert dominance. Then she continued, “It is the duty of all witches to maintain accountability to the Gray Council.” Her tone was flawless and practiced. “Magic is not a right. It is a responsibility. And with great power comes an even greater need for oversight.”

“Heard that in a superhero movie once,” called Ronin from the bleachers.

I bit my lip hard enough to keep from laughing and noticed Iris’s face had turned a few shades darker.

Morgana went on, completely unfazed. “Lately, we have received reports that magical activity in this town has gone unrecorded. That certain witches…” Another pointed glance in our direction. “Have failed to comply with proper documentation, reporting, and boundaries. That is why we are here. To ensure Hollow Cove’s witches are operating within our code. To evaluate and, if necessary, correct.”

Oh good. I always loved when people used correct as a threat.

Beverly leaned in, her voice low. “Three of the six are male.”

I glanced at her. “And?”

In response, she pulled her blouse down to showcase her cleavage. Then she casually licked her finger, ran it along the curve of her chest like she was frosting a cake, and sighed theatrically.

Iris let out a tiny gasp.

“They look tense,” said Beverly, her eyes locked on the nearest male auditor. “I’m just trying to loosen things up. Maybe offer a little... incentive for leniency. Sex appeal is a service, Tessa.”

One of the male auditors noticed her wink and promptly dropped his pen. The other two were openly staring.

Ruth shook her head. “Sweet cauldron, she’s weaponizing her breasts.”

“Let Mommy work,” continued Beverly, leaning slightly forward.

Yup. This was my life.

The air in the gym shifted as Morgana Draeven stood, pulling my attention back to the audits and not my aunt’s breasts. Morgana’s robes fell into place with precise elegance. Her eyes moved across the room, measuring and weighing.

“Witches of Hollow Cove,” she began, her voice calm but unyielding. “You are here today for a formal audit process, reinstated by order of the Gray Council. This is not a punishment. It is a safeguard.”

Sure. And I’m the Easter Bunny.

“You will each undergo five standardized evaluations,” she continued. “The first is the Aura Integrity Scan, which detects curses, magical instability, or outside interference.”

Uneasy glances passed around the room.

“The second, Spell Residue Dissection. Every spell cast in the last six months will be analyzed.”

Iris shifted in her seat. But a fresh wave of anger spread through me.

“Third,” said Morgana, “Intent Verification. Your magical motivations will be examined. If you’ve used power for personal gain or harm, it will show.”

That got everyone’s attention. And, yup, that just angered me more.

“Fourth,” she continued. “Is the Ancestral Echo Trace. Your bloodlines will be reviewed for irregularities, corruption, or forbidden ties.”

Demon. She meant demon blood like mine. It was no secret that the Gray Council disapproved of witches mating with demons. In fact, it was forbidden because that usually meant the child would be more powerful. And they didn’t like that.

“And finally, the Power Suppression Test,” declared Morgana. “A temporary containment spell will be used to ensure your abilities can be restrained if necessary. These measures are routine,” she said. “If you’ve followed the laws, you have nothing to worry about.” And with that, Morgana returned to her seat, her expression unreadable.

But judging by the tension in the room, nobody believed that.

“Anabeth Alder,” announced the bald auditor with ink-black eyes and a faint scar across his scalp.

A slim witch near the front stiffened. Her hands were balled into fists in her lap, knuckles white. She rose on shaky legs.

“Please step forward,” he said, motioning to the center of the gym, where a large, circular sigil had been drawn in chalk—full of layered runes and lines that shimmered faintly with magical energy. “Stand inside the evaluation circle and remain still.”

Anabeth nodded, her face pale as parchment. She stepped into the circle and took a deep breath.

The bald auditor raised his measuring rod. Runes along the shaft lit up with slow pulses of blue.

“Aura Integrity Scan commencing,” he announced. “Do not move.”

“Go, Anabeth!” called Ronin from the bleachers, grinning like the devil in denim. He clapped his hands twice, adding a whoop for good measure.

Several heads turned. Iris looked like she wanted to crawl under her seat.

“What?” he said, feigning innocence at the stares. “I’m just trying to bring some school spirit.”

I snorted. Yeah, loved my half-vampire friend.

Anabeth blinked in confusion as her aura flickered under the pulsing scan.

The circle flared once, bright and white, and then dimmed to a steady glow. A long moment passed.

“Minor instability,” he said aloud, glancing toward Morgana. “Residual tracking spell. Recently dissolved. Otherwise intact.”

Morgana didn’t nod, didn’t speak. She just took a note on the parchment in front of her.

“Proceed to Spell Residue Dissection,” commanded Morgana and another auditor, this one female with short hair stood up and walked over to Anabeth while the bald mage sat back down.

The red-haired mage extended her palm. Anabeth winced.

A swirl of gold and blue light rose from her chest like smoke, forming a string of shimmering orbs. Each one represented a spell she’d cast.

The red-haired mage moved her fingers through them one by one, murmuring quietly. “Preservation charm. A mild luck hex. Sleep enchantment—twice used. Fire dampening shield. And…” She paused. “A minor vengeance spell. Intent unclear.”

Anabeth let out a sound between a gasp and a whimper. “That wasn’t… I didn’t mean… He was harassing my sister…”

The mage didn’t blink. “Intent Verification follows,” she said flatly.

And just like that, a third auditor, male, with sharp eyes and a long coat, took her place. He raised a hand and spoke a single word I didn’t recognize.

A red haze pulsed in the air around Anabeth. It flickered… then sputtered… and turned gray.

“No malicious intent detected,” the mage announced.

A relieved sob burst out of Anabeth, and I was both sorry and angry that she had to go through this, knowing it was because of me.

Damnit. I hated this. I wished I could put a stop to it, but I couldn’t.

A fourth auditor stepped forward for the next test. He held a long silver thread between his fingers and flicked it through the air. The strand danced, weaving into her aura. For a breathless moment, it hung there… then coiled into a simple spiral and vanished.

“Bloodline clear,” he declared. “No irregularities.”

“Proceed to Suppression Test,” said Morgana, her tone flat, almost like she wasn’t interested, though I knew that wasn’t the case.

The final auditor—a squat man with thick fingers—raised both hands and cast some kind of suppression spell, which was way beyond my skill.

Anabeth staggered but didn’t fall. Her hair lifted slightly in the magical wind, but she held her stance.

“Magic restrained successfully,” the man said. “She’s cleared.”

“Thank the cauldron,” whispered Ruth, looking a bit green as she wiped her palms on her thighs. “My bladder just tried to cast its own escape spell. One more rune lighting up, and I might’ve peed out a protection circle.”

Beverly arched a brow. “Well, at least then we’d know you’re still useful under pressure.”

Anabeth stepped out of the circle, shaking, and someone ushered her back to her seat. I didn’t miss how her legs buckled slightly.

I glanced toward the front of the room and spotted Dolores watching the exchange with a subtle nod, her features smoothing with quiet relief. Probably glad Hollow Cove hadn’t embarrassed itself on the very first witch out of the gate.

One down.

I swallowed hard.

Only the rest of us to go.

My eyes drifted to the chalk circle. It still hummed faintly with power. Sooner or later, I’d be standing in it.

And I had no idea what they’d see when I did.

10

MARCUS

The runes were old. Older than anything I’d seen in New York. Maybe older than anything I’d seen, period.

I crouched behind a slope of rock and moss, the frozen breath of Graymaw Ridge biting at the back of my neck. The entrance to the site was carved into the mountain’s base. Nothing more than a slab of stone hidden behind tangled brush and snow-dusted roots. But the energy leaking from the edges was wrong.

Familiar. Violent.

Like whatever had been sealed behind that door was still angry.

I knew the feeling.

My hand slid to my jacket pocket, brushing against the phone I hadn’t checked in over an hour. Earlier this morning, before stepping off the grid, I’d texted Tessa. Just a quick message to say I was okay. Not that I felt okay. I couldn’t. Not without her.

I missed her more than I wanted to admit. Missed the way her mind worked, how fast she could slice through lies, how she made the world feel less broken, less dark. I hadn’t told her everything. I couldn’t. Not yet. But she’d figure it out soon enough.

And now, she was back home dealing with the Witch Trials.

That oily magician Bastian, had told me about them before I left. The council didn’t make moves like that without a reason. And I sure as hell didn’t believe they picked Hollow Cove by chance. They were after something.

They were after my son.

A growl worked its way up my throat, low and rough. I bit it back.

They wouldn’t get him. Not while I had breath in my body.

I wasn’t worried about Tessa passing their tests. She’d burn the damn place down before she let anyone tell her she wasn’t enough. No, my concern was what she might do to them. My mate didn’t bluff. She didn’t scare. And when it came to protecting our family, she didn’t stop.

Just like me.

And yeah, I knew the optics. The Gray Council had sent officers to investigate me. Sent their dogs sniffing around while I slipped out the back door. To them, it looked like I’d run. Like I was hiding something.

Let them think it. I didn’t care about appearances. I cared about results.

Tessa would handle the council for now. She’d stall them, mislead them, maybe even scare the truth out of them.

And when I came back, I’d finish what I started.

I’m the alpha. It’s my job to protect what’s mine.

And if the order thought they could curse me, break me, and erase me from my own life, they’d learn real fast that I didn’t stay broken.

They took their shot. Now it was my turn.

I exhaled slowly and reached for the scroll in my jacket pocket, the one Carl had given me. Old order symbols, half-burned at the edges but enough left to show a sequence—a way in.

I didn’t need magic to read it. Just blood.

Mine.

I pulled a blade from my boot and nicked my palm, letting the blood drip across the rune-seal etched into the stone. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the air shifted. The runes glowed, dim red at first, and then white-hot before the rock trembled.

The door groaned open.

Inside, it was colder. Damp. The kind of dark that clung to your skin and whispered secrets into your ear.

But I didn’t need light.

My wereape vision kicked in instantly, sharpening the shadows into shape. Every corner, every jagged stone and tangle of webbing shone crystal clear in shades of silver and gray. Tessa used to grumble about that. Said it wasn’t fair that I could walk through a pitch-black cave like I was strolling down a sunny sidewalk. She wasn’t wrong.

The thought of her hit harder than I expected. Her voice. That quick wit. The way she tilted her head when she was trying not to laugh at me, but failing. And Darian… damn, I missed my boy. His tiny hands, his wild giggle, the way he looked at me like I was the strongest man in the world.

But I had to bury it. I had to do this first. Because until the order was gone, truly gone, they’d never be safe. Not Tessa. Not our son. Not anyone.

The order had come after me once. I wouldn’t let them do it again.

Even if it meant dragging this entire damned legacy down with my bare hands.

My hand drifted unconsciously to my side, fingers pressing against my ribs. The spot burned, a low, simmering throb that hadn’t flared up in weeks. It wasn’t pain, exactly. More like static. Pressure. Like something deep inside me had lifted its head and sniffed the air.

I exhaled slowly, my jaw clenched. The walls here were soaked in old magic—order magic. And whatever they’d done to me, whatever fragment of that curse still lived beneath my skin, was reacting.

The air felt thicker. My vision sharpened, my breath coming harder. My shoulders flexed, tense without meaning to be.

The beast in me stirred. It wasn’t a full shift, but it was close. Muscles tensed, tendons pulling taut beneath my skin like cords wound too tightly. My nails bit into my palms. I could feel it rising—that dark, familiar pressure curling like smoke in my chest. It coiled low in my spine, hungry and twitching, ready to break free.

Not now. I dragged in a slow breath and held it, pressing my back to the nearest stone wall. The cold scraped against my skin through my jacket, grounding me and reminding me who I was. Who I still was.

The curse wanted out. I didn’t know why it flared here, why my blood burned hotter, my skin itched like it didn’t fit, and my muscles twitched like they remembered pain I hadn’t yet felt. This place… it stirred something buried deep.

Soren had pulled the curse from me, ripped it out with his elven magic and sealed it away. But not all of it. A sliver had remained, an echo lodged in my bones.

And now, here, surrounded by the order’s rot, it was awake.

I clenched my fists, my jaw tight, forcing the heat back down. I forced him back down.

I hadn’t come all this way to lose control. I came for answers. For the truth.

And I’d get it. Even if every inch of this place clawed at the part of me that wasn’t entirely mine anymore.

The tunnel narrowed before opening into a wide, circular chamber, the air still and heavy with the weight of years. Stone shelves lined the walls, crammed with scroll racks and mold-covered tomes. Broken crates and shattered furniture slumped against the edges. Bedding rolls, stiff and rotted, were tucked into carved sleeping nooks—forgotten by the ones who’d once called this place home.

The ashes of a long-dead fire sat cold in the middle of the room, a rusted cooking pot beside it like it was still waiting for dinner that would never come.

No heat. No scents. No life.

But once this place had thrived. Wereapes trained here. Ate here. Slept here. Raised cubs here. I could feel the history like a phantom heartbeat.

Now it was all bones and silence. Long gone.

But not forgotten. Not by me.

And in the center of it all was an altar.

I approached slowly. The runes along its surface weren’t decorative. They were instructions.

The Purging.

The moment I saw the phrase etched into the side of the stone, my stomach turned. I ran my fingers over the carved sigils. It wasn’t just a curse. It was a goddamned ritual.

Structured. Repeated. Planned.

What they’d done to me hadn’t been spontaneous or desperate. It was something they’d perfected, a way to unmake someone from the inside out.

I swallowed hard and scanned the altar. Underneath a pile of ash and wax were old scrolls. My fingers brushed over the cracked bindings of the scrolls on the shelf. Most disintegrated at a touch—withered by time and rot. But one felt different. Heavier. Charged. It was wrapped in old cord and sealed with a symbol, a twisted silver ape ringed in fire.

The order’s symbol, from what Carl had told me.

I grabbed it. The parchment was stiff and dark with age, its edges curled like it had been burned but survived. I unrolled it carefully. The markings were old, rough, primal.

Old Wereape.

I hadn’t seen it in years. Most of us couldn’t even read it anymore. But my mother had forced me to learn. Said a chief should always know the words of his ancestors.

Back then, I hated every second of it. Now, I was grateful.

The title scratched across the top was clear enough: The Purging of the Tainted.

My gut twisted. I read on, each word dragging a fresh memory of pain and fury.

Soul-Binding. The Inversion Rite. Isolation. Breakage.

It was all there. Everything they did to me. The ritual wasn’t just a punishment. It was a protocol. Designed to reduce the strongest of us to beasts. Controlled, leashed, or erased.

I tightened my grip until the parchment crinkled in protest. They didn’t just curse me. They planned it. They practiced it. Perfected it. For others. For more.

I wanted to scream. To rip the scroll in half. But I didn’t. Not yet. Because this was proof.

This was the beginning of the end—for them. No more hiding. No more shadows. The order wanted monsters? They’d created one.

I rolled up The Purging of the Tainted and tucked it into the inside pocket of my jacket. My jaw clenched so hard it ached. The bastards hadn’t just punished me. They’d followed a script, a ritualized system for control. And there were probably others. How many had they broken before me?

As I moved to leave, something caught my eye.

Near the base of the scroll shelf, a chunk of stone had broken loose, revealing a narrow cavity behind it. Dust coated the edges, thick and undisturbed. But something inside shimmered faintly in the dark—just enough for my vision to catch.

I crouched and reached in.

A second scroll. Older than the first. The parchment was brittle, the ink faded to a reddish-brown that reminded me uncomfortably of dried blood. I unrolled it carefully, scanning what I could. This wasn’t a ritual. It read more like notes, fragmented entries, dated and signed with different initials.

Then I saw it.

A line scrawled near the bottom:

“The Testament of Korr-Duun remains sealed in the Hall of First Blood. Only the worthy may open it. Only under the blood moon shall the true form be known.”

My pulse kicked. The Testament of Korr-Duun. I’d never heard of it, not in any of the council briefings or old wereape stories passed down in secret. Which meant it had been hidden for a reason. Probably a damned good one.

I read on.

“It is not for the impure. It must not be touched by those of weakened line. The testament will awaken the old form… and with it, the truth.”

So this was what the order was after. Not just control. Not just blood purity. They wanted the old form. The original wereape legacy, before the council, before civilization, before everything was bound in law and treaties.

Whatever the testament was, it held the key to something ancient. Something dangerous.

And if they got to it before I did…

I rolled the scroll back up and tucked it beside the first. No. That wasn’t going to happen. I was going to find the Hall of First Blood.

And if I had to burn down half the order to do it, so be it.

I stood, ready to leave, but then I stilled.

A shift in the air. Quiet. Subtle. Wrong.

The fine hairs on the back of my neck rose. My beast stirred again, not with rage this time but with warning.

I wasn’t alone.

11

TESSA

“Iris Clairmont,” called the mage with the runed rod, his voice echoing off the gym walls like a courtroom sentence.

I glanced at my Dark witch friend as she stood, slow and measured, the way a lioness might rise before a fight she expected to win.

“You’ve got this,” I murmured, gripping her hand briefly before she let go.

So far, sixteen witches had walked into that glowing circle—ten women, six men—all with the same stiff posture and twitchy fingers. Some trembled. Some smirked like they had nothing to hide. A few even looked bored, which I found highly suspicious.

But they all passed. Passed what, exactly, I wasn’t sure. The Gray Council didn’t hand out report cards. Just a stiff nod and a scribbled note on some enchanted clipboard, like they were tallying livestock.

Still, no one had burst into flames or been dragged off in cuffs yet. Small victories, I guess.

But Iris wasn’t like the others. They were all White witches—steady, nature-bound, safe. She was a Dark witch. And while being a Dark witch wasn’t exactly illegal, it wasn’t exactly celebrated either. The Gray Council tended to frown on their kind. Said they were too easily corrupted. Too likely to cross the line into Black magic and never come back.

Maybe that’s why few were left. Not in Hollow Cove, anyway.

Iris, like others before her, borrowed her magic from demons in the Netherworld. She didn’t harvest herbs under a full moon or draw strength from ancestral lines. Her power was sharp. Dangerous. It came at a cost, and the council knew it.

So as she walked into that circle, she wasn’t just another witch up for audit. She was a risk.

And now she was walking straight into a trap disguised as a test.

“Come on, babe,” shouted Ronin from the bleachers. “Show them what your sexy Dark witch ass can do.” He leaned forward and announced in a loud, dramatic voice, “All right, I’m starting the bidding at a hundred bucks—says she fries the measuring stick and at least one smug auditor’s eyebrows.”

Heads turned. Several shifters and weres exchanged looks.

A pale paranormal male with unnatural good looks, vampire most likely, snorted. “Make it a hundred and twenty if she makes one of them sweat.”

“I’m in,” said another male paranormal I vaguely recognized as a weredeer. “Fifty says the ward circle short-circuits.”

Ronin grinned wide, already collecting bills. “Ladies and gents, place your bets. The Gray Council doesn’t allow entertainment, so we’ve got to make our own.”

Iris turned on her heel just long enough to shoot him a look that promised pain. Ronin responded with a wink and two thumbs up.

Iris shook her head, rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, and said, “I’m going to hex him later.”

I leaned closer and said, “Do it after the audit. That way it won’t count against you.”

Iris gave me a forced smile and then moved forward with smooth, deliberate steps, her boots clicking across the gym floor. She approached the edge of the chalk-drawn circle and stepped in without hesitation—the same circle where Anabeth had nearly wet herself and the male witch Ivan had looked like he’d suffered a stroke. The air shifted, heavy and expectant, like the gym itself was holding its breath. The chalk lines at her feet pulsed once and then steadied into a slow throb of golden light. She rolled back her shoulders, her jaw tight and her gaze fixed on the stone-faced auditor in front of her.

I noticed Morgana edging forward ever so slightly. I hated the way she watched Iris. Like she was a problem to solve—or worse, a threat to erase.

The same mage raised his rod, his face as warm and welcoming as a tax audit. “Aura Integrity Scan commencing. Do not move,” he droned.

The measuring rod in his hand lit up—just as it had with the others—but this time, the light didn’t pulse. It sizzled.

A low, whining hum filled the space as the runes etched into the rod flickered erratically. Sparks shot out of the top, and the auditor’s brow furrowed.

“Your aura is unstable,” he said. “There is… interference.”

Of course there was. Iris wasn’t a White witch. She wasn’t nurtured by wildflowers, sunrises, and the family tree of righteous magical purity. She was Dark—a borrower of Netherworld magic. The kind the council barely tolerated, let alone understood.

Iris stiffened and I felt my insides squirm. A faint shimmer of dark energy coiled at her fingertips before vanishing, like her magic was trying to crawl back inside her skin. She rubbed her arms, suddenly looking small in the center of that glowing chalk circle, her coat too heavy and her breath coming faster. Her gaze darted to me—just for a second—and I saw it.

Fear. She knew what was coming.

Damnit. I had to do something. But if I ran over, magic blaring, it wouldn’t end well for me or for the auditors. And let’s not forget what Dolores would do to me if I ruined this for her, her first magical audit as mayor of Hollow Cove.

I had to stay put and pray to the goddess that Iris was going to pull through. Let’s hope.

The auditor frowned and turned slightly to glance back at Morgana, who hadn’t moved an inch. The mage’s eyes, dark and fathomless, were fixed on Iris, as if dissecting her from the inside out. No nod came. No words. Just a still, unwavering stare that told the auditor everything he needed to continue.

“Proceeding to Restraint Test,” the auditor said stiffly, stepping back. And I noticed they weren’t switching auditors anymore.

“Oh, no,” whispered Ruth. “I can’t watch.” She slapped her hands on her face. “Last time I saw someone twitch like that, it was our old rooster getting struck by lightning. He never crowed right again.”

Dolores didn’t even turn her head. “If you don’t shut up, Ruth, I swear I will fry your frontal lobe and serve it with parsley.”

Ruth dropped her hands and blinked. “You don’t have to be so graphic. I’m already stressed.”

“Good,” snapped Dolores. “Stay that way. It’ll keep you quiet.”

Beverly was perched in her seat, showing off all the goods and blowing kisses toward the auditors across the gym like they were the judges of a magical beauty pageant.

“Darlings,” she cooed. “If you’re looking for fun, dangerous power, I’ve got enough in me to make you forget your own names.”

One of the male auditors wiped the drool from his mouth.

“Slut,” muttered Ruth, her hands still covering her eyes.

I pulled my attention back to Iris, just as a beam of pale blue magic slammed into her chest. Iris staggered. The other witches had barely flinched under the same spell. But her magic fought it. Black tendrils flared around her, lashing out like coiled whips made of smoke and flame. The circle flared dangerously, and several council mages stood up, murmuring under their breath.

“Iris,” I whispered, clutching the edge of my chair. “Hang on.”

My Dark witch friend nodded. Her hands trembled. Her teeth clenched. The suppression spell pulsed again, stronger this time, and she dropped to one knee.

“Inversion resistance detected,” the auditor called out, his voice rising above the hiss of magic. “Attempting to neutralize foreign source.”

“Foreign source?” I said sharply, rising halfway from my chair. “What the hell does that mean?”

Iris’s eyes were wide now, her mouth parted in pain as her fingers trembled at her sides. Her entire body looked like it was caught in a silent storm—like she was being pulled apart from the inside. She didn’t scream. She was too proud for that. But I saw it in the tightness of her jaw, the flicker of panic she tried so hard to bury.

“Sit down,” Dolores hissed from beside me, her voice low and urgent. “Do not make a scene.”

“They’re hurting her,” I shot back, my voice shaking. “She’s trying to stand still while they burn her from the inside, and you want me to just sit here?”

Dolores’s gaze snapped to mine, sharp and cold. “Yes. Because unlike you, I have an entire town to protect. If you jump up and shout, they’ll turn those rods on you next, and then they’ll start asking questions we can’t afford.”

“What do you mean we can’t afford?” I whispered harshly.

“I mean,” she said tightly, “I’ve spent years keeping Hollow Cove out of the Gray Council’s crosshairs. I am not letting one poorly timed emotional outburst jeopardize that. Not now.”

My fists curled in my lap, my nails digging into my palms as I looked back at Iris. Her knees wobbled, her skin pale and shiny with sweat, and her lips were pressed into a line so thin it was practically invisible.

She wasn’t just being tested. She was being punished.

And we were all supposed to pretend this was fine.

Iris had used magic she wasn’t supposed to. Forbidden runes. Demonic hexes. All to help me—to save this town.

And now she was paying for it.

Damnit. I shifted in my seat and angled my body forward. I felt like a complete asshole. Iris should not be suffering because of me.

“Tessa.”

I turned to the sound of Ronin’s voice as he stood up from the bleachers. His face had lost all its usual cocky charm. He looked stricken. Dangerous. “What are they doing? Are they hurting her? Are they going to hurt my witch?”

My heart twisted. “Ronin, don’t,” I said, trying to sound steady. “Just… stay there. Let them finish. It’ll be fine.”

But I knew it wouldn’t be fine. I could feel it—the hum of unstable magic vibrating in the soles of my boots. Whatever they were doing to Iris wasn’t some neat, clean scan. It was invasive. Brutal.

Ronin didn’t sit. He stood on the edge of the top step like he was calculating the fastest way to get to her. His fingers curled into fists, and his jaw clenched. “If she falls—if she screams—I’m coming.”

Dolores turned toward me, her eyes narrowing. “Keep your vampire boyfriend on a leash,” she snapped.

I didn’t respond. Because I was barely holding myself back too.

Iris’s chin dropped. Her breathing came fast, shallow. Her arms jerked once more.

Dolores leaned closer and hissed, “You will not make a scene. Do you hear me?”

“They’re hurting her,” I whispered, my voice shaking with rage.

“She’ll survive,” Dolores replied, her face like granite. “But if you jump in, you won’t. And then they’ll start digging into all of us.”

I looked at Iris again. My best friend. This was about to get really ugly.

“Administering suppression rune,” the mage said flatly.

“What?” I breathed, standing halfway up in my chair. “Wait, that’s too much—”

My mind was already racing. Suppression rune. I’d read about it. Buried deep in one of the restricted entries of the Merlin database. A dangerous rune etched in arcane language, designed to bind a witch’s magic—not block it but suppress it. Slowly. Painfully. Like turning a faucet down to a drip while pressure still surged behind it.

The body rebelled. The magic rebelled. Most witches barely survived the first hour with one on them. It wasn’t meant to teach. It was meant to punish.

“Shit.” Horror struck me. I turned sharply to Dolores. “You knew about this. You knew they would do this. How could you not tell us?”

Dolores’s face had gone pale, her fingers tight around the arms of her chair. “I didn’t think they’d go through with it,” she whispered.

“Well, they did,” I hissed. “And if you think I’m just going to sit here while they rip her apart…” I shoved back from my chair, ready to move, to intervene, to do something.

Ronin was already two steps down from the bleachers, his voice sharp with panic. “What the fuck is a suppression rune?”

“It’s bad!” I shouted, my eyes locked on the mage who now held a glowing talisman etched with curling, black script. “It strangles a witch’s magic from the inside out.”

“Iris!” Ronin bellowed, and I could see him shifting his weight, about to bolt.

But then the auditor made a gesture.

The rune ignited.

And everything went to hell.

The mage ignored us. He lifted his rod and traced a sharp symbol into the air—one I recognized far too well. The suppression rune flared to life, jagged and angular, glowing with the cold, cruel light of ancient magic. The air around it thinned, like the oxygen had been sucked from the room.

And then it moved.

It didn’t just touch Iris. It slammed into her chest, embedding itself in her skin and glowing for a fraction of a second before vanishing beneath the surface.

Iris arched with a sharp gasp, her limbs jerking as if she’d been hit by lightning. Her coat fluttered around her like caught wind. Her eyes went wide, blazing with panic and with pain before rolling back.

Her knees buckled. Her whole body trembled violently as if something inside her was clawing to get out. And then, like a puppet with its strings cut, she collapsed in the circle, crumpling in on herself.

For a second, no one moved. Then Morgana Draeven rose from her seat, her expression unreadable.

“She has been marked for further evaluation,” the auditor announced coldly. “Due to irregular magical behavior and instability.”

I stared, shocked and angry, my hands shaking.

Beverly leaned over, her eyes wide. “Well,” she said, her voice thin. “That’s one way to kill a mood.”

“Iris!” I shouted, bolting forward, but Ronin was already ahead of me, vaulting the bleachers.

The mage who’d cast the rune raised a single hand. “Do not interfere. The subject’s reaction is within acceptable parameters.”

“To hell with your parameters,” barked Ronin, his voice ragged with panic, fists clenched, shaking like he was holding himself back by the sheer force of will. “What the hell did you do to her?”

“Oh no. This happened to Myrtle Binder in ’74,” came Ruth’s voice behind me, her tone an octave higher than usual. “They hit her with one of those suppression runes. She never woke up. Just sat in her rocking chair for the rest of her life singing nursery rhymes and drooling into her tea.”

“That’s not helpful, Ruth,” snapped Beverly, though her face had gone pale.

I barely heard them. My eyes were locked on the still form of my best friend lying in that circle.

“I swear,” I whispered, rage threading through every word, “if she doesn’t wake up—”

“Tessa,” warned Dolores sharply, stepping in front of me. “Don’t. Just don’t. Not right now.”

“Oh, really?” I hissed, my eyes narrowing. “She’s dying, Dolores.”

“She’s not dying,” said Dolores, looking over her shoulder at Morgana and the other mages. She turned slowly back to me. “She’s just… reacting to the rune.”

“She hasn’t moved,” growled Ronin, his panic now full-blown fury.

I glanced at Bastian, expecting him to step in to say something—anything—after what they’d just done to Iris. But he remained exactly where he was, his arms folded and eyes sharp, silently observing like this was all part of some twisted experiment. He scribbled something in his notebook, his face unreadable. It was like watching someone take notes during a fire.

I took another step forward, magic sparking at my fingertips. “I’m going to kill him.” I glared at the mage who arched a brow at my threat. He had no idea who he was messing with.

“No, you’re not,” said Dolores, grabbing my arm. Then she lowered her voice and added, “You’ll make it worse. Think of Darian. Think of the rest of us.”

That was the only thing that stopped me. But I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Iris lay still. Too still.

And then the lights above the gym flickered. The rune on her chest sparked again—faint but pulsing.

“Uh…” whispered Ruth. “I don’t think that’s supposed to happen.”

Then Morgana Draeven stood. “The audits are concluded for the day.”

Dozens of voices erupted at once—questions, protests, hushed murmurs of fear.

Morgana raised a hand and the room fell eerily silent again.

“They will resume tomorrow morning at eight o’clock sharp,” continued Morgana. “Witches are to return here and await further instruction.” Her gaze slid to me—me, specifically—and it stayed there, flat and unreadable.

I didn’t blink.

Behind me, Ronin knelt at Iris’s side, gently gathering her in his arms, his jaw clenched so tightly I thought his teeth might shatter.

Iris still wasn’t waking up.

And as the crowd began to file out under the steely eyes of the Gray Council’s enforcers, I stood rooted to the spot, the weight of what had just happened anchoring me to the floor.

This wasn’t a test.

It was a message.

And tomorrow, I was next.

12

TESSA

“I’m fine, really,” said Iris, pulling herself up to a sitting position on the couch. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Liar.

Ronin, who’d carried her into Davenport House bridal-style five minutes ago like a man on the verge of a heroic murder spree, hadn’t said a single word. Not one. His jaw was clenched, his nostrils flaring, and he looked about two seconds away from tearing Morgana Draeven’s limbs off and using them as a mop.

And honestly? I wouldn’t stop him.

As soon as he’d laid her down, Iris’s eyes had snapped open like she’d been hit with a defibrillator. She was pale, a little disoriented, and very clearly trying to downplay the whole being magically branded and knocked unconscious situation like it was a mild case of the sniffles.

The first day of those damned audits had gone worse than I could’ve imagined. All the other witches, those good little council-approved types, had passed just fine. Not so much as a blister.

But Iris? My friend had been hit with a suppression rune. The kind of thing I’d only read about in the deepest, dustiest corners of the Merlin database.

And tomorrow, it would be my turn. Oh, joy. Let me go get my best soul-crushing-sigil outfit ready.

The only semi-good news was that the house hadn’t been reduced to rubble while we were gone. Which, in my world, counted as a massive win.

When I walked into the living room, I saw why.

Darian was on the floor, belly-down, chubby fists pressing into the rug as he made little grunting sounds, like he was trying to lift the coffee table with sheer willpower. And beside him, my father sat cross-legged looking rather pleased with himself.

They were surrounded by a circle of floating household items, books, spoons, a pot of Ruth’s African Lilies, even a few pillows.

“Uh…” I said, raising my brows. “What, exactly, is happening here?”

Okay. So not ceiling-fan-level magic, but we were definitely leveling up.

“I’m training him,” answered my father without even glancing back. “You said it yourself. He pulled a ley line. This boy is more than just magic. He’s something else entirely. And if he’s going to survive what’s coming… he’ll need to be ready.”

And that got me thinking.

“You seem to be very good at it,” I said slowly. “Would you consider doing all his training?”

Yes, I was taking advantage of the situation. Shamelessly. But, hey, he was Darian’s grandfather. That came with perks. Like lifetime babysitting and, apparently, magical boot camp.

Besides, with everything going on—my missing husband, the Witch Trials, the looming threat of demon-hating mage bureaucrats—I needed help.

My demon father studied my face for half a second too long and then finally said, “Let me think about it.”

I took that as a yes.

I scooped Darian into my arms just as my father disappeared through the basement door. My son squealed and clapped his hands like I’d just announced chocolate cake for dinner. Which, honestly, didn’t sound like the worst idea.

Darian leaped out of my arms and ran to the kitchen as Ruth came bustling into the living room holding a tall glass of something vaguely purple and ominously frothy.

“Drink this,” she said, handing it to Iris like it was a fresh mojito and not what I knew was a bubbling cauldron of nasty.

Iris took the glass with a wary glance. “What’s in it?”

“Just a few magical boosters. Some ironroot. A dash of devil’s clover. Oh, and a little pinch of salamander sweat. For flavor.”

Iris blinked. “Did you say sweat?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to,” I told her, relieved beyond words that the cup wasn’t being shoved into my hands for once.

To her credit, Iris downed the tonic like a champ as she gagged once, winced twice, and blinked back tears. “Tastes like a corpse’s armpit.”

“Thank you,” said Ruth proudly. “That means it’s working.”

I scooted closer to the couch. “Hey, Iris. I need to ask… do you have a mark? A magical one. Like a scar or symbol?”

Her brow furrowed. “Not that I noticed.” She lifted her shirt to check her torso, revealing a clean line of pale skin. “See? Nothing.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Ronin, leaning forward. “Turn your head.”

Iris did, and Ronin leaned in, brushing her hair aside. His jaw tensed. “There. On her collarbone.”

I leaned over and saw it too.

A faint black mark, jagged and curling like cracked lightning, etched just beneath her skin.

The suppression rune.

“Shit,” I whispered. I straightened, my eyes locking on Dolores. “You should’ve warned us.”

Dolores stiffened, crossing her arms. “I told you it was going to be bad.”

“Yeah,” I snapped. “You said bad. You didn’t say crippling. You didn’t say rune branded to the bone.”

She threw up her hands. “Oh, don’t you start blaming me for the council’s insanity. I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours putting out fires and trying to keep this town from falling apart!”

“You could’ve at least told us what to expect,” I shouted after her as she turned on her heel and stormed toward the kitchen.

Dolores poured herself a glass of wine with the flair of someone who fully intended to drink the whole bottle. “I told you. I didn’t think they’d go through with it.”

“You were wrong,” I said.

Beverly was already at the kitchen table with her own goblet, swirling it lazily and sighing. “Honestly, if they’re going to be evil, the least they could do is be attractive while they’re at it. The only thing those male mages were seducing was my will to live.”

“You tried to blow kisses at a guy who looked like a boiled potato,” snorted Ruth.

“He had potential,” said Beverly, undeterred. “Like, with a hat. And maybe a goatee. I can work with that.”

I turned back to Iris, who was now dabbing her collarbone with a damp cloth.

That mark… it wasn’t just a warning. It was a leash, a quiet curse stitched into her skin, and it scared the hell out of me.

Iris caught my look and gave a one-shouldered shrug. “It’s fine,” she said breezily. “I’ve had worse. I once summoned a nymph demon by accident. That thing left scorch marks on my—”

“Iris,” I said softly. “You’re shaking.”

Her fingers paused on the cloth, just for a second. Then they resumed. “I’m okay.”

No, she wasn’t. Not even close. Her voice was tight, and she wasn’t meeting my eyes.

Ronin was pacing the living room, and then he whipped around. “These runes should be illegal,” he growled. “They hurt her. How is that allowed? How is any of this allowed?”

“It’s not,” I said, though I wasn’t sure about that. “It shouldn’t be. But the Gray Council wrote the rules… and they enforce them.”

Ronin stopped, his fists clenched at his sides. “Then maybe it’s time somebody broke a few.”

I swallowed hard. I’d love nothing more than to punch a few smug mage faces, preferably their man berries. That’s if they even had any. Looked like Morgana was the one with the lady balls. She called the shots. That was obvious.

But it wasn’t that simple.

“Believe me,” I said quietly. “If I could bring that whole council down myself, I would.”

Ronin didn’t smile. Neither did I.

I pulled out my phone and stared at the blank screen for a beat before typing another text to Marcus.

Me: Where are you? Just give me a sign that you’re okay. Please. I sent your old sweatshirt with Tinker Bell, hoping she can throw them off your scent. Still no response from you. Starting to worry.

I hit send and watched the screen. No reply. Nothing. No three dots. No ping. No sarcastic message telling me to relax or that he missed me too. Just the cold, glowing silence of a man who’d vanished into the wind to fight a war he wouldn’t talk to me about.

I set the phone down slowly, my chest tight. Marcus was out there somewhere, doing what he always did and protecting the people he loved—his family, this town, me. And I hated him for it. Not really. Not in any serious way. But I hated that I didn’t know where he was. Or what he was facing. I hated that he thought he had to do this alone.

I just… missed him. And not just missed him, like I wish he was here to rub my hands all over his glorious body. Okay, maybe a little.

But I missed his voice, the steady weight of his presence beside me. The way he always knew when I needed someone to hold me or when I needed space so I could blow something up in peace.

I missed my best friend.

And the worst part? He wasn’t just gone. He’d left without telling me why. Without saying where he was going. And now I was stuck here, helpless, while the Gray Council poked and prodded at my life like it was some kind of magical science experiment.

I could still see Bastian Reyes in my mind, back at the gym, standing off to the side while his precious council associates branded my friend like she was a faulty appliance. He didn’t even flinch. Just stood there, calm and collected in his tailored shirt with his detective demeanor as though this wasn’t personal.

But it was. It was very personal.

I turned away from the window, my heart pounding as my thoughts circled the same hopeless track. What if Marcus was hurt? What if something went wrong? What if he didn’t come back?

No. I wouldn’t go there.

He was strong. Too stubborn to die. Too alpha to stay down for long.

But damnit, Marcus. Come home.

And now that I was thinking about it…

“Tinker Bell’s not back yet,” I said, looking around.

“She’ll be fine,” said Ruth, breezing through the kitchen with a tray of mismatched cookies and what might’ve been flour on her chin. She handed one to Darian without looking. “Probably just got distracted by something shiny. She loves anything gold.”

“Really?” asked Beverly, swirling her wine. “Maybe that explains the disappearance of my lucky gold earrings.”

“You’ve got lucky gold earrings?” mocked Dolores. “Why?”

Beverly gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Because. Whenever I wear them, I get lucky.”

Normally that would have won a snarky reply or a clap from Ronin, but my half-vampire friend was silent, looking at his girlfriend like he might lose her again.

Just then, I spotted Hildo sitting next to his food dish with his ears flat on his head and tail slashing behind him.

“Hildo looks hungry,” I said, though he looked more angry than hungry.

“I offered him leftover spinach quiche,” said Ruth. “He told me to go to hell.”

The black cat raised his head. “I don’t do leftovers.”

“Fine,” Ruth rolled her eyes. “I’ll make you an omelet.”

Hildo perked up. “With extra cheese please.”

My smile quickly faded as my eyes returned to Iris and that mark on her skin.

“Ruth,” I asked suddenly, turning toward the potion queen of the house. “Can suppression runes be reversed?”

My aunt hesitated, just for a breath. “In theory, maybe,” she answered slowly. “But they’re complicated. Old. Most of the reversal methods are locked away in the council’s archives, and even then… they’re not perfect.”

“Not perfect how?”

Ruth gave a sheepish shrug. “Sometimes it works. Sometimes it leaves you with scrambled magic. Or scrambled brains.”

“Comforting.” I sighed, rubbing my temples.

Iris pulled the blanket tighter around herself and offered me a weak smile. “It’ll be fine. I’ll just… keep a low profile.”

Sure. Because nothing about a fainting Dark witch wearing a glowing rune said “low profile.”

Dolores, who had been silently pacing by the kitchen with a frown etched into every line of her face, finally turned toward us. “Suppression runes aren’t just complex. They’re dangerous. I’ve only seen a few cases in my time. And that was decades ago. But…” She glanced toward her office down the hall. “I’ll check my older tomes. There might be something.”

“Thank you,” I said, spotting Darian sitting on the floor beside Hildo. The black cat familiar sat, tail twitching, watching Ruth fuss at the stove. Darian sat cross-legged beside him, hands in his lap, looking entirely too composed for a toddler. His gaze drifted toward the stove like he, too, was waiting for an omelet. Probably was.

Great. My son and my demonic cat familiar had synchronized their hunger schedules.

“But know this,” added Dolores, her voice sharper now, pulling my attention back to her. “If we tamper with that rune, Morgana will know. They built it that way.”

“I don’t care.” I met her gaze dead-on. “If there’s a way to fight back, if this audit is just a petty excuse to control us, I want to know every loophole they didn’t seal shut.”

Dolores gave a small, reluctant nod. “I’ll look tonight.”

“Thank you.” A thought occurred to me. “Dolores,” I said slowly, keeping my tone calm even though panic was rising, “how long do these runes last? A few days? Then they vanish. Right? And the witch goes back to normal. Right?”

I looked over to Iris and Ronin. Both had gone still. They wanted to know, just like me.

I glanced back at my tall aunt when she didn’t answer. Her eyes flicked toward Ruth, who suddenly found something fascinating on her sleeve. Beverly sipped from her wineglass like it was a lifeline and avoided my gaze entirely.

“Dolores,” I said, firmer now. “How long?”

Dolores exhaled and finally met my eyes. “I’m not sure.”

I watched her for a moment. “What do you mean you’re not sure? What the hell does that mean? Aren’t you the witch who’s supposed to know everything?” Yeah, I was going there.

“Exactly what I just said,” replied Dolores. “It could be that the rune wears off after a few days. And it could be…” She trailed off and then sighed. “That it doesn’t.”

I stared at her. “So it could be permanent?”

“It’s ancient Gray Council magic,” she said grimly. “Not exactly something they print manuals for.”

Iris shifted on the couch, the blanket slipping slightly from her shoulders.

And suddenly, it wasn’t just anger pulsing in my veins. It was fear. Because if they did this to her, what would they do to me?

Ronin stood abruptly, his chair scraping back with a sharp screech across the floor. “Unbelievable,” he snapped. “She already went through hell with her own family. Had her damn mind wiped. And now you’re telling me she might be stuck with this mark forever? That she won’t be able to use magic?” His voice cracked at the end, not with weakness but with rage.

Dolores looked up from her wineglass, startled. “I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t not say it either,” he shot back, pacing now. “You’re telling us that maybe—maybe—the council just stole her power, and you don’t even know if it can be undone?”

“We don’t know anything for sure yet,” answered Dolores tightly, clearly trying to hold her composure. “And shouting about it isn’t going to help.”

“Neither is sitting on our asses while they brand the people we care about,” he growled.

Iris, pale but alert, reached out and touched his hand lightly. “Ronin,” she said softly. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not fucking okay,” he said, his jaw locked.

I looked between them, my heart tightening.

Because the truth was, we didn’t know what came next. Not with the audits. Not with the runes. Not with anything.

But I knew this much. I was done letting the Gray Council take whatever they wanted, even if I had to burn the damn rulebook to stop them.

“Speaking of sealing things shut,” announced Beverly. “I have a date.”

I cocked a brow. “You had time to arrange a date?” Seemed like my aunt’s love life never stopped.

“One of the auditor mages,” she said airily, fluffing her hair in the hallway mirror. “The tall one with the broody stare and the spell focus riding low on his belt like a promise. I’d let him file a complaint—right after he ruins my reputation.”

Ruth sucked in a breath. “Beverly, you traitor.”

Beverly grinned wickedly. “Oh please. I’m not betraying anyone. I’m gathering intel. Very close-range intel. If you know what I mean.” She giggled.

I rolled my eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“Yet utterly essential to morale,” continued Beverly, strutting toward the door with a wink. “Someone has to keep spirits high during the Trials of Doom.”

Dolores pinched the bridge of her nose. “We are doomed.”

I looked down at Iris, who was still pale and shivering under her blanket, and back toward the kitchen where my phone sat silent. Still no word from Marcus. Still no sign.

When I needed him most, he was gone.

And whatever was coming next, I’d have to face it without him.

13

MARCUS

After a few hours of driving through the winding backroads of the Adirondacks, I parked the Jeep at the edge of what barely passed for a dirt trail and continued on foot.

The hidden valley of Dreadpine Reach was exactly that—hidden. No signs. No markers. Just miles of silence and a tension that pressed against the skin.

The night air was colder here. Higher elevation, maybe. Or maybe it was just the kind of cold that came from being watched by ghosts.

I paused once, turning slowly in the dark while searching the tree line.

Back at Graymaw Ridge, I’d felt it. A presence, distant but deliberate. Something had been watching. I’d hoped I’d shaken it on the drive up, but the unease hadn’t left me.

I scanned the shadows now, my wereape eyes cutting through the dark and searching for movement, for breath, for the weight of another presence.

Nothing. Just the wind whispering through pine and rock. Still, I didn’t let my guard down.

I moved quietly through the pines, the ground uneven and cracked with age. The forest had thinned out hours ago, giving way to jagged cliffs and loose shale. No trail. No path. Just instinct and the faint, pulsing heat that stirred somewhere deep in my bones, like something was calling to me.

I didn’t know if it was the remnants of the curse or my wereape DNA, but I felt it. So I followed it.

The scroll had mentioned coordinates etched in Old Wereape code. I’d deciphered them using old clan tricks, ones I hadn’t touched since I was a teenager trying to impress my father.

Turned out that knowledge had been good for something after all.

Above me, the moon struggled behind clouds. No sound but the crunch of my boots and the steady rhythm of my breath.

The Hall of First Blood. That’s what the scroll had called it, the place where it all began, where the bloodline of the first wereape was sealed in stone and vow. The order believed it was sacred. Pure. And now they were trying to reclaim it.

I planned to find it first.

Because I wasn’t about to let whatever power it held fall into the hands of fanatics with a purity complex and a history of using blood curses like party favors.

I stopped near a twisted tree, its bark scorched black from something old and angry. My senses prickled. I scanned the dark, my eyes slicing clean through the murk.

There. Carved into the rock ahead, barely visible beneath the moss and time, was a set of ancient markings. Not just decorative but a warning.

I moved closer, brushing away the dirt. The script was in Old Wereape, the same dead language used in the scroll. But one phrase stood out, etched deeper than the rest:

“Only the Unbroken may enter. Blood must answer blood.”

The beast in me stirred. Not from rage this time but something older—a tether, like this place remembered me.

And the curse felt it too, low in my gut, like a splinter starting to heat up.

It was worse here. Stronger. Like whatever Soren had pulled out of me had left a bruise—and this place was pressing hard on it.

I gritted my teeth, focused, and pushed it back down.

Not now. I needed my head clear. I needed to find the entrance.

The wind shifted, carrying with it something old, a dust and ash and memory. I paused at the edge of a craggy slope, squinting through the tangled limbs of dead trees until I saw it—a shape carved into the rock, half-swallowed by roots and time. The door wasn’t built but formed, chiseled straight into the mountain face, narrow and tall, flanked by the remnants of two great stone statues. One had crumbled to rubble. The other still stood, though its features had been worn smooth by centuries of wind and snow.

A gorilla. Kneeling, its fists pressed to the earth. Reverent. Proud. Like a king waiting for the end.

I stepped closer, my heart thudding as the pulse in my bones quickened. This was it. The Hall of First Blood.

I pressed a hand to the stone. It was cold—colder than it should have been—but it gave way with a low grinding groan. The slab swung open into thick, ancient shadow.

Inside, the air was heavy with silence. Not just quiet but dead, like even sound had forgotten how to live here.

The hall opened up slowly, descending in tight, slanted steps, the walls etched with worn symbols. Some I recognized from the scrolls but some I didn’t. All of them were in the old wereape tongue, the language we’d buried along with most of our history.

As I stepped forward, a row of ancient torches lining the walls flared to life one by one, casting a dim, golden glow along the stone corridor. I paused, watching the flames catch without a single spark.

Magic.

Wereapes weren’t fond of it. Most of us avoided spells like poison ivy. But apparently, whoever built this place didn’t mind using a little enchantment, at least not when it came to illuminating their sacred hall.

I kept moving, deeper into the flickering dark, the symbols watching me like silent witnesses to whatever the hell I was about to find.

I didn’t need to translate it to know this place mattered. Because if the scroll was right, the hall held the origin of our kind—maybe even the Testament of Korr-Duun, the artifact the order wanted. They thought it would restore their supremacy.

I wouldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t.

The corridor opened into a wide, domed chamber.

The ceiling stretched high above me, ribbed with ancient beams of petrified wood and stone. In the center stood a dais, circular and cracked, with a ring of scorched runes circling it. Around the edges of the room, I saw alcoves. Some lined with skeletal remains in armor and others with offerings long turned to dust.

This was no temple. This was a tomb.

And in the largest alcove, directly across from the entrance, lay the body of a prime fist—his bones still clad in ceremonial armor, his massive hands resting atop the hilt of a shattered war staff.

He’d been buried with honor.

And something else.

I crouched by the dais and examined the stone surface. A deep groove had been carved into the center, empty now. The shape of it reminded me of a scroll tube, long, curved, and sacred.

The Testament of Korr-Duun.

And someone had taken it.

I stood slowly, my jaw tightening. It had been here, and now it wasn’t, which meant the order already had it… or someone else got to it first.

I turned in a slow circle, my breath catching.

Because that’s when I felt it.

The weight of a stare, cold and measured.

Someone was here.

I scanned the shadows, but nothing moved.

I knew that feeling. That buzz just under the skin, the hunter’s presence. Someone was watching me from the dark.

I clenched my fists, every sense wired tightly.

“Show yourself,” I growled.

No answer. Just the drip of water echoing from deeper tunnels and the unsettling stillness of a place holding its breath.

But I wasn’t alone.

Not anymore.

Whoever had taken the testament was either still nearby… or they were waiting for me to follow.

And if they thought I’d turn back, they didn’t know who the hell I was.

The scent hit me first, sharp and male. Another wereape.

I turned fast, my heart already hammering. A shadow peeled away from the far side of the chamber, tall with broad shoulders and blond hair tied back in a low ponytail. His arms and chest were inked in tribal tattoos and symbols I didn’t recognize.

“Well, well,” he drawled, his voice rough with amusement. “The great Marcus Durand.”

I didn’t move. “Who the hell are you?”

He smiled. Not friendly. Not even close. “Name’s Ash. I’m what comes after you.”

Ah. My replacement.

Ash stepped into the flickering torchlight, and for a heartbeat, I saw what the order had built him to be—hulking, controlled brutality. He was younger than me, probably by a decade, with pale skin. He rolled his shoulders and flexed, deliberately trying to appear broader and meaner than he was. You learned that kind of posturing from too many years of trying to prove yourself.

I’d seen it before. Hell, I’d crushed it before.

He was big, sure. But I was just as big with more scars and a hell of a lot more fist-pounding experience. I didn’t need to puff out my chest to prove I was dangerous.

I wasn’t afraid of this clown, not even close.

He tilted his head. “Didn’t think you’d actually come here. Thought you’d be too busy playing house with your little witch. Very pretty. With a great ass. I get why you wanted to play with that.”

I didn’t rise to the bait. Not yet. “You’re with the Order of Fenrir.”

“Still am. Unlike you.” He glanced around the stone chamber. “Shame you came all this way. Whatever you’re looking for? It’s gone. Rurik Draal got here first.”

My pulse thudded. “The Testament of Korr-Duun.”

Ash’s grin deepened. “Marcus, Marcus, Marcus. You’re too late. The future of the order doesn’t include you. You’re a stain we’re scrubbing out.”

The heat inside me flared. The curse, what remained of it, responded like it had been touched by fire. My skin itched, and my muscles coiled.

“I’m giving you one chance,” I said low. “Walk away.”

“See,” said Ash, rolling his neck like he was warming up, “they warned me you’d say that.”

Ash’s lip curled into a sneer. “You smell like her, you know. Like witch filth.”

I still didn’t rise to it.

He flexed his shoulders again, trying to make himself look even bigger. “They said you’d be taller.”

“Yet here you are,” I said dryly. “Still shorter than me.”

He growled, stepping closer. “You’re nothing now, Durand. You broke the code. Took a witch to your bed. Had a freak kid. You’re what the elders call rot.”

“Their curse didn’t work. Guess they forgot to mention I’m still standing.”

“Not for long.”

Then he lunged.

We slammed into each other, our fists cracking against flesh and stone. I grunted, caught his elbow, and twisted, but he powered through and drove me backward into the wall. Rock splintered under the impact.

I bared my teeth. “You don’t even know why you’re here. Do you?”

“I know enough,” he spat. “You don’t deserve the hall. You’re a traitor. I was chosen to replace you.”

Chosen. That word snapped something loose inside me. Rage surged up fast, hot, and wrong. Not just mine. The curse stirred, stronger than it had been in days.

It felt this place, the Hall of First Blood, like the walls remembered the old ways, and the curse remembered them too. And now it wanted out.

My breath hitched. My spine stiffened.

Let me out, it hissed, the voice sharp and slithering, wrapping around my ribs like barbed wire. Here. Now. Finish what they started.

No. Not here. Not like this.

I gritted my teeth, but the pressure kept building. Then my bones cracked. Muscle stretched, twisted. Fur spilled across my skin like wildfire.

And my beast tore free.

Across from me, Ash transformed into a monstrous silverback. His body was a brutal wall of muscle with scars gleaming across his chest like twisted trophies.

He charged.

The hall shook with the violence. Each blow landed like a thunderclap. Rock crumbled. Dust rained from the ceiling.

He swung wide. I ducked low, slammed my shoulder into his gut, and sent him crashing into the wall.

The air sparked around me. Ancient magic soaked the stone. The hall wasn’t just sacred. It was alive.

The curse, the thing inside me stirred—coiling, hungry. More awake here than it had been in weeks.

Let go, it whispered, slick and venomous. You’ll never beat him like this. Let me finish it.

My jaw clenched. Heat licked at the edges of my vision. For a second, my muscles twitched, almost obeying.

Not yet. I shoved it down, hard.

I fought harder, smarter.

Ash came at me with wild swings. Too fast, too eager. He thought strength was everything. It wasn’t.

I caught his arm mid-swing, twisted, and drove him face-first into the stone floor with a bellow that shook the cavern.

He wheezed, pinned beneath me.

My chest heaved, steam rising from my fur as the curse thrashed inside me, still hungry. Still not done. But I was.

I pulled back, reining in the beast one breath at a time. Bones cracked. Muscles shrank. The silverback form collapsed inward, skin stretching tightly as I shifted back to human—bare-chested, bruised, but still standing.

Ash stayed down.

His body shuddered beneath me, a breath and then another. Then his own shift began more reluctantly, like defeat had to peel off him inch by inch. His snarling muzzle pulled back into a bloodied face, bruises blooming across his cheek and jaw.

Now human again, he blinked up at me, his eyes wide with something I didn’t expect—disbelief.

He’d thought he was the future.

I pressed my forearm to his throat and dropped my face close.

“Where’s Rurik taking it?”

Ash coughed, blood smearing his teeth. “You think they tell me everything?” he rasped. “All I know is... you’re too late. He’s already got it.”

My grip tightened. I could end him right here. Snap his neck. Silence one more mouthpiece of the order.

But I didn’t. I released him. Slowly. Controlled.

I leaned in tighter, my voice low and sharp. “Then tell him this. I’m coming for all of you. Every last one. I’m going to burn your precious order to the ground. I’ll tear it out by the roots and salt the earth behind me.”

He coughed, wheezing through my grip.

“I’m not just here to stop you,” I said. “I’m here to end you. Permanently.”

And I meant every word.

I stood, my chest heaving. The beast inside me snarled once more… and then faded into the dark.

Ash didn’t move. He just lay there, glaring up at me with something between rage and disbelief.

Good. Let that burn.

Because if Rurik Draal thought he was the future of the Fenrir…

I was going to make damn sure he didn’t have one.

14

TESSA

Iwoke up with a migraine from hell. Totally understandable since I’d barely slept, and I was wired tight. I couldn’t sleep. I was worried about my husband. My mate. My wereape.

Also, he’d sent a text around two in the morning.

Marcus: I found out that Rurik Draal had the Testament of Korr-Duun. I have to find it and destroy it.

Me: Who the hell is Rurik? And what is this testament? Come home. I can help you. We’ll do it together.

But that was all he wrote.

Obviously, I would get no sleep after that.

And even after three coffees, I still felt like a zombie. Walking around without the control of my body, there was even some drool to add more visual effect.

“Tessa? Did you hear me?” came my tall aunt’s voice.

“Hmmm?” I looked up from… staring at the floor, apparently, and met Dolores’s eyes. “Sorry. What?”

Dolores glared at me. “I said, we need to go. Now. Ruth and Beverly are already in the Volvo.”

I set my empty mug into Davenport House’s empty sink and rubbed my eyes. Then I hurried over to Darian who was sitting on the rug in the living room floor, throwing cereal at my father’s face.

I kissed the top of my kid’s head. “You listen to Grandpa. Make Mommy proud.”

Darian giggled and continued to assault my father.

“Sorry,” I told my demon dad. “And thanks for looking after him again.”

Obiryn, to his credit, didn’t even flinch. He simply reached up, plucked a napkin from thin air like he was performing sleight-of-hand magic, and calmly picked a piece of cereal from his hair with the weary grace of a man who once commanded legions of demons and now got ambushed by breakfast.

“I’ve faced infernal wars,” he said. “But none so relentless as this one.”

“You’re doing great,” I said, patting his shoulder.

Obiryn gave me a slow blink like he was calculating how many more hours he’d have to endure this indignity.

I hadn’t forgotten that my father hadn’t said no to the training part. He hadn’t said yes either, but I was hoping he would. He was perfect. He had mountains more experience than I did, and he clearly was the best choice. I was praying he’d do it.

Dolores appeared in the hallway, her arms crossed, already dressed in her version of battle armor, a slate-gray wool coat with clunky boots.

“Are you deaf or just trying to make me lose my job!” she barked. “I don’t want to be late. I have to speak with Morgana before the audits begin.”

That woke me up. “Why?” I asked, grabbing my coat.

“She and I need to discuss procedures,” said Dolores. “And I also need to make sure they don’t pull another suppression rune stunt without proper oversight.”

“Ah, yes. Properly supervised magical assault. Very comforting.”

I grabbed my shoulder bag and followed her to the front door, my stomach twisting into an angry pretzel. I still hadn’t heard from Marcus. Just the one cryptic text and then radio silence. Not even a “Good morning, love of my life. Here’s a heads up that I’m still alive.”

And what the hell even was the Testament of Korr-Duun? I was going to need a glossary for all these ancient wereape artifacts. But I was also going to do some research. Maybe the Merlin database had some information on that. I made a mental note to look into it after the audits.

Outside, Ruth was waving frantically from the backseat of the Volvo. Beverly, in the passenger seat, had her compact open and was applying lip gloss with the focus of a woman preparing for a romantic date.

“Guess I’m riding in the back,” I said, climbing in.

“You snooze, you lose,” said Ruth brightly, patting the seat beside her.

Beverly glanced back, already mid-text. “Speaking of snoozing, Morgana’s associate mage was a total bore yesterday. Didn’t give me any inside information on the audits. Plus he was a terrible kisser.”

I snorted. “He should be shot.”

“Amen, sister,” said Beverly. “But the other, the dark haired one, winked at me yesterday. I’m going to ask him out later.”

“Please tell me it’s for information-gathering purposes,” I said.

“Of course,” she said with a devilish grin. “I plan to interrogate him thoroughly. Over dinner. Possibly naked.”

Ruth gasped. “Beverly!”

“What? A girl’s gotta multitask.”

Dolores turned the key in the ignition and backed the Volvo from the driveway onto the road.

I leaned back in my seat, exhaustion and dread creeping in again. I missed Marcus. Missed the calm he brought, even when he was charging through forests in gorilla form. And now he was chasing down ancient relics while I was dodging magical audits with my hormonal family.

Please be safe, I thought, staring out the window as the trees zipped by.

Because if anything happens to you, Marcus Durand, I will raise hell.

And that’s not a metaphor.

I yanked out my phone and fired off a quick text to Iris.

Me: How are you feeling? I haven’t heard from you since last night. You okay?

My heart did a weird twisty thing as I waited. The three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then came back.

Iris: Not sure. I feel… weird.

That was never a good start.

Me: Weird?

Iris: I tried summoning my magic this morning. Just to check. And it’s off. Like I had to redo my spell five times to make it work. I feel like I’m losing it.

Motherfrackers.

I could practically feel my blood pressure spike. My hands clenched around the phone, and I fought the urge to yell something dramatic and unhelpful like “I’m gonna burn down the Gray Council.”

Me: Don’t worry. Ruth and Dolores are working on a suppression rune reversal. Don’t do any more magic. I’ll keep you posted.

Iris: Okay. And good luck. Let me know what happens at the audits.

Me: I will.

But the truth was, I didn’t feel lucky. I felt like a bug crawling under Morgana Draeven’s magnifying glass, and any minute now, she was going to light the match.

Suppression runes. Just saying the words in my head made me want to hurl.

What else did they have planned? What kind of twisted spells did Morgana and her council goons keep up their perfectly pressed sleeves? If they could slap one rune on Iris without so much as a warning, what could they do to someone like me?

Someone with demon blood. Someone with… secrets.

“Iris just told me she had a hard time channeling her magic this morning. It’s going to get worse. Isn’t it?”

I watched as my three aunts all stayed silent, all avoiding my gaze. Yeah. That was all the answer I needed.

Iris’s magic was going to slowly evaporate if Morgana and her mages had their way.

But I was going to stop it. I just didn’t know how at the moment.

I stared out the window as the Volvo bumped down the road. My reflection flickered in the glass. Tired eyes, messy hair, and a storm brewing behind my irises.

They were testing us. Not just our power but our patience, our loyalty, and our limits.

A few minutes later, I bounced in my seat as the Volvo pulled into the Hollow Cove High School parking lot, my stomach already churning with dread.

Today was going to suck. You know it. I know it.

Dolores killed the engine and stormed out of the car without a word.

“Well,” said Beverly, popping open her door, “someone’s been sipping vinegar tea this morning.”

“I’m just impressed she didn’t run over a squirrel on purpose,” I said, grabbing my bag and following them across the parking lot.

“Has anyone seen Tinker Bell today?” I asked. “Or Hildo? They weren’t in the kitchen this morning.”

“Oh, Tinker Bell’s fine,” answered Ruth with a casual wave. “She dropped off Marcus’s shirt in Queens around three this morning. Said it should keep the council officers busy until they realize they’ve been duped.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Good.”

“Traffic alone should stall them for hours,” Beverly chimed in, adjusting her sunglasses even though we were headed indoors. “Maybe days, if one of them tries to parallel park.”

I cracked a small smile. “Sounds like fun.”

The moment we stepped into the high school gym, the tension wrapped around me like a cold, wet towel.

It looked exactly the same as yesterday—rows of metal chairs, cold fluorescent lighting, and council mages standing like they’d been grown in little Gray Council pods and left to ferment overnight.

But there were some obvious absences.

No Iris. No Ronin. And more than a few chairs were now conspicuously empty. The witches who’d already been audited likely decided they’d had enough government-sponsored trauma for the week.

My mother was already seated near the front, her arms crossed and mouth tight like she’d been asked to eat a plate of raw kale. She didn’t even glance at me when I sat next to her.

“I hope I get called next,” she muttered. “I hate this. I have a life, you know. Things to do.”

“I’ve got men to do.” Beverly laughed, taking her chair.

“Whore,” whispered Ruth, sitting next to her.

Yup. This day was going to be awesome.

I stared at my mother. “Yeah, well, we all have to do it.” I glanced around. At the front of the gym, Morgana Draeven was speaking to Dolores. From the look on Dolores’s face, it wasn’t going well.

My aunt’s jaw was set tight, her lips pressed in that particular way that meant she was either trying not to scream or calculating whether punching a mage counted as treason.

Standing off to the side of them, his arms crossed and brow furrowed, was Bastian Reyes. Of course he was.

He was sipping tea. Not coffee. Tea. Like we were at a damn garden party instead of a magical witch trial where people were getting magically branded. Every now and then, he’d jot something into a little notebook tucked into the inside pocket of his coat, his expression unreadable.

He didn’t look alarmed. Or outraged. Or even particularly interested.

Just… mildly curious. Like he was watching a murder mystery and already knew who the killer was.

And that somehow made me want to launch a rune at his smug face.

Before I could get a better feel for what was going on, one of the council mages stepped forward and called out, “Henry Coulter.”

A tall male witch stood and moved to the center of the chalk-drawn circle. I recognized him vaguely. Quiet guy. Good at herbals.

He barely had time to breathe before the audit began.

“Aura Integrity Scan commencing,” the auditor announced, raising his glowing staff.

Henry flinched as the runes lit up. A second later, the same mage snapped, “Inversion interference detected.”

Then came the words I’d been dreading.

“Administering suppression rune.”

“No,” I breathed, sitting forward. “Not again.”

Henry barely had time to gasp before the rune slammed into his chest. He staggered, his eyes wide, and crumpled.

Gasps rippled through the gym.

“Asshole,” I hissed, knowing that Henry was about to suffer the same thing as Iris, slow magic evaporation.

“Another one?” exclaimed Beverly. “Are they just handing those things out like candy now?”

And it didn’t stop there.

The next two witches—a young woman named Selina, and then a middle-aged man named Rupert—were also marked. No hesitation. No explanation.

Just glowing runes and fallen bodies.

My hands were fists in my lap, my jaw aching from how hard I was grinding my teeth. I wasn’t sure how many of us were going to be left standing when it was my turn.

I was mid-glare at Bastian when I felt it.

Morgana’s eyes on me.

Her smile was wrong, small and calculated, like she already knew how this day would end. My stomach clenched.

And then I heard it.

“Tessa Davenport.”

Oh, shit.

The room went quiet. Chairs creaked. Someone muttered my name in a low voice. Probably Martha.

I stood slowly, brushing invisible lint off my coat just to give myself three more seconds of mental preparation. Morgana didn’t stop smiling.

Beverly patted my arm as I passed her. “Go get ’em, tiger.”

“Try not to explode,” whispered Ruth.

Noted.

The gym floor felt longer than it had yesterday as I walked toward the front, my boots echoing like I was in some kind of witchy courtroom. Maybe I was. The circle was already waiting, same white chalk, same weird magical buzz vibrating the air. Like it was hungry.

The mage, same bald guy with the glowing rod, gestured to me. “Step into the circle.”

“Got it.” I did.

My breath slowed. My palms were already sweaty. And somewhere, deep inside, something stirred. Not the usual flicker of power. Not even the simmering hum of my demon mojo. This was different. Newer. Heavier. It coiled low in my gut like a second heartbeat, silent but pulsing with a purpose I didn’t understand.

Weird.

“All right,” said the mage, a look on his face like he’d been waiting for this opportunity for a long time. “Aura Integrity Scan.”

The rod lit up blue and then pink… then it hissed and sparked like I’d just dropped it into a bathtub.

He frowned and tapped it against his hand. “Tessa Davenport, remain still.”

I raised both brows. “Believe me. I’m not going anywhere.”

He tried again. This time the rod flared red. Bright, violent red.

“Unstable,” he declared, looking smug. “Foreign magic detected.”

“No shit,” I told him. That was my demon father side.

The air around me cracked. A spark of violet leapt from my fingers and hit the floor. My demon mojo was awake now. Very awake.

The mage cleared his throat, clearly flustered. “Proceeding to Restraint Test.”

Oh, goody.

I braced myself, my teeth clenched as the magic hit me. I felt the pressure immediately, trying to crush me inward. But it didn’t hold. Not really.

Instinctively, I pushed back.

A sharp ripple of energy burst from my chest. The chalk circle sizzled and smoked. The mage took a step back.

Someone in the crowd gasped. Another swore.

“Proceeding to Inversion Test!” barked the auditor, his voice clipped with growing unease.

The spell hit. Sharp and invasive, like claws trying to rip through the seams of my magic, twisting it, flipping it inside out. It burned. Hell yeah. But not as much as I thought it would. And it was over faster than it had been with Iris and the others.

From the flash of anger on the mage’s face, he’d realized that too.

“Administering suppression rune,” the mage snapped, desperate now. “Now.”

He raised his rod, traced the rune in the air, the same one used on Iris and the other witches, angular, glowing, wrong.

It slammed toward my chest. And fizzled.

The rune didn’t brand me. It bounced off. Like my body had its own shield made of spite and pure cosmic sass.

The crowd gasped.

Morgana stepped forward, her brows low now and her fake smile long gone.

The mage tried again. Same result, but this time, I didn’t just repel the rune. I absorbed it.

A pulse of black-and-silver energy burst outward from me, and the gym floor cracked.

I stood there, blinking, feeling… different.

Power hummed under my skin. Hot. Electric. Controlled—but barely. And then I remembered what Wynona had told me, that being pregnant with Darian might alter my magic. She’d been right.

And the kicker? A little heads-up that absorbing suppression magic might vaporize my entire outfit would’ve been nice.

Feeling a chill, I looked down.

“Seriously?” I hissed, now standing barefoot and fully, gloriously naked in the middle of the gym.

Holy shit.

“Right,” I said, tossing my hair back like I was on a shampoo commercial and totally meant to go full magical nudist.

Okay, so I was naked. Big deal. I’d been covered in demon goo, survived childbirth, and once shared a bathroom with Aunt Beverly during her spray tan phase. This? This was nothing.

Beverly’s voice echoed from the row of seats. “Honestly, if I had those boobs, I’d incinerate my clothes on purpose.”

Pregnancy had changed me. Darian had changed me.

Whatever I was now wasn’t just a Shadow witch with demon blood.

I was something else.

Something the Gray Council hadn’t prepared for.

And I was not going to be marked.

15

TESSA

It came as no surprise that Dolores, Beverly, and Ruth were all marked by the suppression rune after I’d obliterated mine. Yay me. Only my mother passed the audits without a scratch. But she was a dud, so there’s that.

It’s not that I wanted to do it. It just sort of happened. Whatever new magic was brewing in me because of my kid had changed me and saved my ass today. I was lucky. So far.

But not my aunts, the other witches, or Iris.

The ride back home had been a silent one. Dolores’s face was red, and she refused to speak to anyone after the rune was put on her. She was humiliated. Embarrassed. So was Beverly. So was Ruth. But Ruth looked more sad than embarrassed, like someone had given her a puppy and then taken it back.

By the time the audits were finished, Martha and about twenty other witches were all marked with the suppression rune. Tomorrow was the last day of the audits, and according to Dolores (before she went into her silent mode) about thirty witches were left that hadn’t been processed yet.

We dropped off my mother first. She grumbled the entire time.

“I should have never been involved in this stupid audit in the first place,” she huffed from the back seat. “I’m barely magical. They should’ve exempted me on account of my limitations. It’s discriminatory, really.”

“No one was exempted, Amelia,” said Dolores flatly, not even turning around.

“They should have made an exception,” she snapped. “And my audit was so fast it was insulting,” she went on, clearly not finished. “They just asked a few questions, waved that silly rod, and let me go. I mean, yes, I passed, but they could have at least pretended to be impressed.”

“She’s still talking,” Ruth muttered from beside me.

By the time Dolores parked in front of my mother’s quaint little garden path, Amelia had worked herself into full melodrama mode.

“I swear, if this Gray Council ruins my whole week, I will write a letter—a formal one.”

“Great,” I said. “Start drafting it while walking to your door.”

She scoffed, flung the door open, and stepped out with all the grace of a dethroned pageant queen. “The world has no respect for boundaries anymore,” she declared. “But don’t worry about me. I’ll somehow survive. Alone. Unappreciated. Trampled by magical bureaucracy.”

Then she slammed the car door and marched up her walkway.

I didn’t say anything. Not because I didn’t have something to say but because I was too damn tired to start a conversation that would end in me screaming into a pillow.

I wanted to tell her that none of this was just about random audits. That I could feel it in my bones. The Gray Council wasn’t here for some power scan checklist.

They were here for pressure. For fear. For Darian. And right now, I didn’t have the strength to say it out loud.

I’d wait to discuss it when my hands weren’t shaking, my head wasn’t pounding, and I wasn’t picturing suppression runes burning across the people I loved.

For now, I just leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes.

And prayed to whatever listening power was left that Marcus would come home soon.

As we pulled into the Davenport House driveway, the mood in the Volvo had settled somewhere between “funeral” and “volcanic implosion.” Dolores killed the engine and stormed into the house.

Ruth and Beverly trudged behind me up the porch steps, both moving like they’d aged twenty years in the last twenty-four hours.

Inside, the house was unusually quiet.

And there, curled up on the couch like a tiny maple-syrup-scented angel of destruction, was my son.

Darian was passed out, one chubby hand still clutching a wooden spoon. His curls were mashed sideways, his sock half off, and he was snoring softly. My chest squeezed tightly.

Obiryn looked up from the armchair beside him, straightening his dark cuffs. “He did well today,” he said, his voice low so as not to wake him. “Learned the difference between magical push and magical stop. Took it very seriously. Then promptly collapsed after hurling a stack of books across the room.”

I blinked. “Wait—magically?”

He nodded once. “Quite impressively, too.”

“Of course he did,” I said, pressing a hand over my chest to contain the sheer pride and terror whirling inside me. “Thanks for staying with him again.”

Obiryn rose and adjusted his suit. “Why are you not wearing boots? Where are your clothes?”

Ah. Right. “Long story,” I said, pulling Dolores’s coat tighter around me. My toes were cold, but Ruth had spelled my feet with what she proudly called her “invisible socks.”

“I get cold feet at night,” she’d added after my toes were filled with warmth. “Works better than wool and doesn’t itch.”

Totally true.

“He’ll need more discipline,” continued my father, and I pulled my eyes from my feet to meet his gaze. “But I’ll return tomorrow for another lesson. You…” His eyes scanned over my face. “Look like you need rest. And possibly a war council.”

I offered a tired smile. “We’re working on it.”

“Well then,” said Obyrin. “I shall return to your mother. She was… nervous about these audits this morning. More like she was afraid.”

“Afraid?” I asked, taken aback.

My father nodded. “Yes. I know she pretends to be strong and fierce, like you, but she was terrified they would send her away because she’s not like you. Not magical enough. That she would be banished from this town.”

Damn. That made me feel like a giant asshole. I should have paid more attention, should have seen the signs that she was afraid. But I was too wrapped up in my own mess to notice.

“I’ll see you later, daughter,” said Obyrin, grinning.

I smiled back. “See you later, Father.”

With a nod to the others, my demon father disappeared into the hallway, and a second later, the basement door creaked open and shut behind him.

A moment later, Ruth emerged with cheesecake and a fire in her eyes. “This is war food. We need sugar to think.”

“Wine,” Beverly announced, yanking open the cabinet and pulling out a bottle of something French and probably expensive. “Wine makes me blush. I happen to look fabulous while blushing,” she added with a wink.

Okay then.

Dolores was still standing stiffly near the window, her arms crossed and braid twitching with every angry breath.

While everyone was here, I needed to ask them a question. “So, the suppression rune didn’t work on me. I have my own theory. Any takers?”

Ruth swallowed and pointed at me with her fork. “Demon blood,” she said simply. “The rune was likely made for witches. Pure witches. You’ve got demon magic. That kind of old Netherworld stuff doesn’t exactly follow standard instructions.”

“Valid.” I nodded. It really did make sense. However, I had a feeling Morgana already knew that I had demon blood, so the rune would have been adapted for that.

“Or,” said Beverly as she filled her glass, “maybe the mage was just too distracted by my breasts.”

I stared. “What?”

Beverly took a long sip. “Come on. Everyone saw how the male auditors couldn’t take their eyes off of me. They all desired to spend time with this glorious body. Trust me. The mage was paying attention to something, and it wasn’t the incantation.”

“Beverly,” said Dolores through clenched teeth.

“I’m just saying,” continued Beverly. “Magical cleavage is a powerful force.” She giggled.

Dolores finally turned from the window. “It wasn’t your cleavage.” Her eyes locked on me, steady and sharp. “It’s Darian. You’re not the same witch you were before you carried that boy. Something shifted. The rune didn’t fail. It recoiled.”

I nodded, coming to the same conclusion. “You think my magic mutated?”

Dolores didn’t blink. “I think it evolved.”

Ruth, mid-bite, perked up. “Like those lizards that grow extra tails when you cut one off? Or was it frogs with three eyes? I read somewhere that pigeons in big cities are developing GPS. Isn’t nature amazing?”

We all just stared at her.

“I think you’re talking about… evolution,” I said carefully.

Ruth nodded, her eyes wide. “Exactly. You’re basically like a magic pigeon now.”

Beverly snorted into her wine.

Dolores muttered something that sounded dangerously close to a prayer for patience.

I leaned back, rubbing my temples again. “I’m going to need something stronger than wine.”

I looked over at Darian again. Still small. Still sweet. Still scary as hell.

And the worst part? I agreed with her.

The Gray Council didn’t come here just because of my bloodline. Or Marcus’s past.

They came because they knew what we’d made.

I rubbed at my temples. “So, we’ve got council spies, curse-happy auditors, and now magical evolution. Fantastic. We’re one haunted spoon away from full-blown magical Armageddon.”

Ruth held up a forkful of cheesecake. “Want a bite?”

At least someone in this house understood coping mechanisms.

“Yes, please.” I grabbed the chair next to her and sat, glancing around at them. “Are you… any of you feeling a little different?” I hated to ask, but this was important. The faster they did, the faster they would lose all their magic.

Dolores said nothing, but she nodded, and that made my stomach twist. Beverly was just staring into her wineglass, her expression solemn.

But Ruth had a determined gleam in her eye. “I’m working all night on the rune reversal spell,” she announced, slicing the cheesecake with what could only be described as grim purpose. “I don’t care how old the runes are. Magic can be broken. And I will break it.”

“I’ll help,” said Beverly, sipping her wine.

“If I’m right…” Dolores’s voice was low. “By tomorrow night, we won’t have any magic left. So we better hurry up.”

Crap. Guilt hit hard. I didn’t know why. Yes, I did. First there was the guilt that I brought Morgana and her minions to Hollow Cove. And second, my magic was still intact while my aunts’ was slowly fading.

The front door opened, shaking me out of my thoughts.

Ronin strode in first, looking like a man about to throw a chair through a wall. Iris followed, wrapped in a long coat, her face pale and her eyes hollowed out with exhaustion.

“Hey,” I said, standing up. “How are you?”

“Still marked,” said Iris, tugging her coat aside. Her shirt was pulled down enough to show the faint edge of the rune peeking from her collarbone. Ruth’s marked rune was on her ankle. She’d shown me, and it looked exactly like Iris’s. But Dolores and Beverly kept theirs to themselves, like they were pretending it never happened.

“I tried to do a simple light spell earlier,” continued my Dark witch friend. “Could barely hold the flame.”

Ronin crossed his arms, his jaw tight. “This is bullshit. You should never have been tested like that. And now this… this… suppression curse…”

“Rune,” corrected Dolores. “It’s not a curse.”

Ronin glared at her. “Same difference if it ends up frying her magic.”

I had to agree with him.

Dolores flinched and then turned away to pour herself a glass of wine.

Iris sat beside me at the kitchen table with a tired thump. “I can still feel it. Like something’s coiled around my power. Holding it down.”

More guilt hit. I couldn’t just sit here and do nothing, letting Morgana strip away Iris’s and my aunts’ magic. It was wrong.

Suddenly, the back door creaked open and then slammed shut in a burst of magic.

Tinker Bell shot through the air like a streak of glittery caffeine followed by Hildo, his tail twitching and ears back in suspicion.

“We’re back,” chirped the fairy, her wings buzzing as she hovered in front of me. “I don’t know if Ruth told you, but your package was delivered. One musty wereape shirt successfully dropped in Queens. Near a sewer vent.”

I smiled, genuinely relieved that at least something was working out as planned. “Thank you, Tinky. That’ll throw the council bloodhounds off for a bit.”

“My pleasure,” she added with a flourish. She looked around then, blinking at the collective tight-lipped expressions and the smell of fear and frustration. “Uh… what’s going on?”

Before I had a chance to open my mouth and answer, Hildo, who had slunk under the table and was currently sniffing Ruth’s ankle with more focus than usual, pulled back with a hiss. “They’ve been marked.”

Tinker Bell’s brow furrowed. “Marked? Marked by what?”

“With the suppression rune,” said the black cat familiar grimly, sitting back on his haunches. His ears flattened. “I’m so sorry, Ruth.”

Ruth, who had been quietly spooning cheesecake into her mouth, paused. She stared down at her plate and then very deliberately jabbed her fork straight into the cake.

“I’m going to break it,” she repeated, her voice sweet as sugar but vibrating with resolve. “It’s going down.”

Hildo gave a solemn nod. “If anyone can, it’s you.”

“Damn right,” said Beverly, raising her wineglass like they were about to toast to council destruction. “They have no idea who they’re messing with.”

I sat back in my chair, letting the moment settle. “I have to fight back. I can’t just sit here and let this happen. If this rune is the council’s leash, we’re going to find the scissors and cut that thing right off.”

Ruth raised her fork. “To scissors.”

From the living room, Darian let out a sleepy sigh and rolled over.

I glanced at him and then turned back to Dolores. “You said you don’t know how long these runes last. Right? But once they run out of mojo, or whatever it’s called, when they burn out, your magic is restored. Right?”

Dolores didn’t answer.

I stared. “Dolores?”

She looked at Ruth. Then Beverly. Finally, she said, “The truth is, I don’t know. We don’t have access to the council’s spellbooks or their audit records. We’re guessing.”

A growl erupted from Ronin’s throat, and he looked ready to tear something apart.

Iris just closed her eyes, looking defeated.

No. I was done being afraid. I glanced at my tall aunt. “So, you’re saying, if we had a look at these spellbooks or whatever the council has, it could help?”

Dolores watched me a moment. “Yes. They would be quite valuable. We could definitely work a much stronger reversal spell if we knew exactly what we were dealing with.”

I nodded. “Where are Morgana and her minions staying while doing their audits?”

“At the Hollow Cove Inn,” answered Dolores, her eyes narrowing. “Tessa? Why are you smiling?”

“Because,” I said, my grin spreading. “I’m going to find you those audit records and spellbooks. Tonight.”

Ronin pushed off from the counter. “Count me in.”

I flashed him a quick smile. Having Ronin with me as backup was smart, especially with Morgana involved. She was slippery, unpredictable, and the type who’d smile while sticking a blade in your back. I didn’t know what we’d find, but with Ronin watching mine, at least I had a shot.

I was going to show them what happened when they pushed a witch too far.

Especially one with a kid, a fury complex, and a deep, abiding hatred for bureaucratic assholes in robes.

Here I come.

16

TESSA

The Hollow Cove Inn was a two-story, country-style building with black shutters and a cream exterior. Golden Christmas lights framed the roofline like a holiday postcard, and every single window had a wreath with a perfect red bow, as if Martha Stewart had personally threatened the staff.

It was beautiful. Quaint. Idyllic.

Too bad I wasn’t here to admire the decor.

Nope. I was here to commit light breaking and entering.

It was nine thirty at night. The streets were mostly deserted, the kind of quiet that made you feel like the town was holding its breath. Apart from the streetlamps and a few strands of blinking snowflake lights still hanging across Main Street, Hollow Cove was wrapped in wintery darkness.

“According to Bastian, Morgana and the others are dining out at Cape Elizabeth,” Dolores had told me before I left with Ronin ten minutes ago. “I don’t know how long you have until they return. So hurry.”

Translation: Steal what you can, don’t get arrested, and for the love of the cauldron, don’t be obvious.

I’d left my kid in very capable aunt hands. Besides, Darian was still asleep when I’d left, still passed out mid-sugar buzz.

Ronin had flat-out refused to ley line travel, muttering something like “not dislocating my favorite organ,” so we’d taken his sleek black BMW and parked it one street over from the inn, just in case someone decided to take note of a half-vampire with muscle car vibes prowling near Morgana Draeven’s rental.

Now we stood at the edge of the snowy sidewalk, staring at the front of the building.

Most of the lights inside were off, the lobby empty and the front desk abandoned. The entire place looked like it had been neatly packed up for the night—just the way I liked it.

“Morgana has rented the entire building,” Dolores had added before we left. “So she’s the only one with a key.”

Keys? Please. I didn’t need keys.

I turned and glanced at Ronin. “I’ll jump a ley line in and unlock the door for you.”

He gave me a look. “What if there are magical wards? What if it explodes? What if it’s a trap?”

“I’ll let you know after I explode,” I said sweetly. “Back in a second.”

Before he could argue, I pulled on the nearest ley line, the thread of magic stretching through the sidewalk. With a tug, I let it pull me forward, reality bending in a rush of wind and static.

A heartbeat later, I popped into the lobby of the Hollow Cove Inn, stumbled like a drunk, and smacked my palm against the wall to stop from face-planting into a potted fern. Smooth.

I straightened my coat, took a breath, and looked around.

Soft amber light spilled from a table lamp on the front desk. The wood floors were glossy and warm underfoot, covered with overlapping Persian rugs in deep jewel tones. Someone had gone all-in on the quaint-and-cozy vibe. I saw a sitting room to my left—wingback chairs, a stone fireplace, and a bookshelf full of novels that looked more decorative than read. Everything smelled like cinnamon, pine, and overpriced potpourri.

I muttered, “Okay. Time to get those audit records.”

“Let’s do it,” said a voice right behind me.

“Ah!” I jumped a foot in the air, spun around like a caffeinated ninja, and jabbed my arms forward in what could only be described as the worst karate pose known to witchkind. “Ronin? How the hell did you get in?”

He shrugged and wiggled some keys. “I own the building.”

Of course he did. I lowered my arms and stared. “Why am I not surprised.”

He grinned. “Got it for cheap three years ago.”

Right. “You should have told me,” I grumbled.

“Where’s the fun in that?” he said. “Besides, you looked very determined doing your witchy warp thing.”

“Warp thing,” I said flatly.

He nodded solemnly. “Very, Star Treky.”

I rolled my eyes and moved toward the front desk. “Okay, smartass. Let’s focus.”

Because behind all the cinnamon-scented ambiance and kitschy holiday decor, this place was enemy territory. Morgana and her coven of clipboard-wielding power sniffers had rooms upstairs. They were out dining somewhere fancy, according to Dolores. Either way, they’d be back eventually. I didn’t plan on being here when they waltzed through the door.

I scanned the front desk and the area behind it—a few sets of keys on hooks, a bell, a bottle of hand sanitizer. No visible files, but I didn’t expect them to be out in the open. Morgana wasn’t exactly the “casual paperwork” type.

Ronin joined me. “You think it’s in the office?” he asked.

I shook my head, my eyes scanning the key hooks behind the front desk. “Nope. Let me ask you something. What’s the best room in this place?”

He tilted his head, thinking. “The suite. Top floor. Room ten. Big fireplace, fancy bathroom, the works. Why?”

I pointed. “Because that’s where she is.”

He blinked. “You think Morgana’s staying in the suite?”

I raised a brow. “Yeah. Only the best for this Morgana. She’s in the suite.”

Ronin followed my gaze to the keys. “Well, when you put it that way…”

I reached for the brass key marked 10, grabbed it, and tossed it once in my hand. “Let’s go visit the queen.”

He gave me a mock bow. “After you, your majesty.”

The floor creaked under our boots as we crossed the lobby and started up the main staircase. Each step groaned like it had secrets. Holiday garland still wrapped the banister in a sad, half-lit tangle, and some faint instrumental carols played from an unseen speaker. Nothing like a little Bing Crosby to soundtrack a felony.

I reached the landing and whispered, “Remind me again why we’re sneaking into the personal room of a powerful Gray Council mage?”

“Because you’re mad as hell and I’m terrible at saying no to you.”

“Good.” I laughed, my hand tightening around the key. “Let’s see what Morgana’s hiding.”

And with that, we climbed toward room ten.

Halfway up the staircase, Ronin glanced over. “You heard from Marcus?”

I hesitated. “Yeah. Kind of. He sent a text around two this morning. Said something about Rurik Draal and the Testament of Korr-Duun. That he had to find it and destroy it.”

Ronin frowned. “The testament of what now?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I haven’t had time to look it up in the Merlin database, but I will. Just… everything’s been happening so fast.” And it was hard to focus on one thing when my brain was all over the place all the time. I needed Marcus. I needed him to come home.

“Never heard of it,” said Ronin. “Sounds old. And ominous.”

I offered a half-hearted smile. “That’s because it probably is.”

Ronin bumped my shoulder with his. “Don’t worry. Marcus is a big guy. Literally. And lethal. He can handle himself.”

“I know,” I said softly, my eyes fixed on the hallway ahead. “But that doesn’t mean I stop worrying.”

Because if Marcus was chasing something powerful enough to make him disappear without telling me where he was going? Yeah. I had every reason to worry.

We reached the top floor and paused outside room ten. The hallway was quiet, dimly lit, and smelled faintly of lavender and old rugs.

I turned to Ronin. “Can you hear anything?”

He tilted his head toward the door, his eyes narrowing. His half-vampire senses kicked in as he went still.

“Nothing,” he said finally. “No breathing, no movement. Place is dead quiet.”

I nodded. “Let me check for magical traps. Just in case Morgana’s the paranoid type.”

Let’s face it. I wasn’t as skilled as my aunts or even Iris when it came to detecting wards. But I did what I could with my gifts. If there was something magical and threatening, I’d sense it.

I closed my eyes and sent out my witchy senses. The air around the door felt… still. No resistance. No fizz of wards. No pulse of protection spells. If anything, it was disappointingly mundane, like Morgana had assumed no one would dare break into her sanctum.

The bitch was arrogant. I opened my eyes. “It’s clear.”

Ronin stepped aside with a little flourish. “After you, oh fearless burglar.”

I slipped the brass key into the lock and turned it.

The door clicked open, and we stepped into Morgana Draeven’s suite.

I took a few steps inside, my eyes scanning the plush furnishings and perfectly arranged decor. It looked more like a designer’s staging than a lived-in space. Velvet pillows. Crystal decanter. A ridiculous fur throw that was probably cursed just to keep people from using it.

The room was… annoyingly beautiful with a high ceiling, soft lighting from wall sconces, and a huge bed with perfectly pressed white linens. Heavy velvet curtains framed a pair of tall windows overlooking the back gardens. A small seating area held a tufted chaise lounge, a polished oak writing desk, and a reading nook complete with antique floor lamp and a cup of tea that was still warm.

“Oh, she’s definitely evil,” I said. “No one this tidy is emotionally stable.”

Ronin chuckled softly and closed the door behind us. “All this and not even a single bloodstain. I’m disappointed.” He wandered toward the writing desk in the corner, flipping through a few papers. “Nothing here but travel brochures and an empty notebook. Maybe she keeps them on her.”

“Wait,” I said, lifting a hand.

I felt a soft pulse, faint and magical, like a heartbeat, just under the skin of the room. My witchy senses, amped up from the last two days of madness, snapped to attention. I turned slowly, following the hum.

And there it was.

A wall near the bookshelf shimmered for just a moment, barely visible unless you were looking for it.

“Well, well, well,” I muttered, marching toward it. “What do we have here?”

Ronin followed. “What am I looking at? Please tell me you’re not going to redo your living room with this wallpaper. It’s from the 1980s.”

I didn’t answer. I happened to love everything eighties—the clothes, movies, and the music.

I reached out and pressed my palm against the wallpaper. The shimmer blinked again—this time responding to my touch—and a seam split down the center of the wall. A hidden door creaked open with a sigh of stale air and old magic.

“Whoa!” Ronin whistled. “You pulled that one right out of your ass. Didn’t you?”

I grinned, proud of myself. “I did.”

I stepped into the secret room. It was small and windowless, lit by a row of glowing orbs, or witch lights (really needed to get my hands on some of those). The walls were lined with shelves of black binders, each marked with initials and symbols, and in the center sat a squat iron pedestal with something on top.

I’d seen a picture of that before. I knew what it was.

A magical extractor.

Holy crap.

It looked like a cross between a gothic blender and a medieval lantern, pulsing faintly with trapped light. Magic. Someone’s actual magical essence.

“What the hell is this?” whispered Ronin, his voice tight.

I didn’t answer. I was too busy moving toward the pedestal. Beside it was a small safe built into the wall. I extended my hand toward it, feeling the wards wrapped tightly around the lock.

“Give me a sec,” I said, stepping closer.

The safe was protected with some kind of reinforced ward. Old magic. Nasty, coiled stuff. The kind that didn’t like being tampered with. Fine. I didn’t like being tampered with either.

I raised my hand, focused, and whispered, “Inflitus.”

A sharp pulse of kinetic force burst from my palm and slammed into the safe. The ward sizzled and cracked before shattering like glass under a boot.

The metal door creaked open with a groan.

“Subtle,” said Ronin behind me.

I grinned. “It worked. Didn’t it?”

Inside were dozens of folders. Real, paper records, each stamped with the Gray Council’s seal.

And every one of them had a rune diagram. Notes. Ratings. Some even had red slashes across the top.

“Tagging,” I whispered. “They’re not just suppressing magic. They’re tracking witches. Categorizing them. Marking them for…”

Ronin leaned in. “Control. Or worse.”

“Elimination,” I finished, my throat tightening.

We looked at each other.

This wasn’t about safety. This wasn’t about oversight. It was a damn magical registry.

I pointed to the pedestal. “That thing? It’s a magical extractor. It traps magic, someone’s magical essence.”

Ronin frowned. “So…”

“So,” I said, my voice catching, “inside it could be hundreds of magical essences. Maybe thousands. The council’s been collecting them.”

A thick silence dropped between us.

Ronin looked from the extractor to me and then back again. “Iris’s too?” His voice was low and tense. The calm-before-the-storm kind of low.

I swallowed, my throat dry. “I don’t know. Not yet. But maybe it will be. And soon.”

He reeled back like I’d hit him. “Are you saying they’re harvesting her magic? That... they’re taking it out of her like she’s—like she’s livestock?”

I didn’t answer right away.

Because, yes.

That was exactly what I was saying.

And suddenly, the room felt ten degrees colder.

“She said it felt like something was coiled around her power,” I whispered. “I thought it was the rune, but this…” I looked back at the extractor—that silent, humming monster. “What if that mark is a siphon? A channel. What if this thing is pulling from them remotely, like magical Wi-Fi for the morally bankrupt?”

Ronin stepped away, his hands clenching into fists. “They’re hurting her. They’re draining her.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. Because the more I stared at the extractor, the more I realized this wasn’t just a vault of magic. It was a damn prison.

Every essence in there... every pulse... someone had once fought to keep it. And the Gray Council had taken it anyway.

A horrible thought knotted in my chest. What if they were saving it? Storing power from witches they marked until they needed it for something else?

I couldn’t let Iris be one of them. I couldn’t let any of us be.

“We have to stop this,” I whispered.

Ronin turned to me, his eyes burning. “Fuck it.” He moved toward the pedestal. “Let’s break it.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” came a calm, deliberate voice. Cold. Female. Too composed.

I didn’t have to look to know who it was. Still, I turned slowly. Dread crept over my skin and settled in my gut.

Morgana Draeven stood in the doorway, her arms crossed and her expression unreadable. Flanking her were three other Gray Council mages in full robes, their eyes glowing faintly from recent magic. The air behind them shimmered. Reinforcements.

They knew we’d come. They’d been waiting.

My breath caught as Morgana’s gaze settled on me.

She smiled. “Tessa Davenport,” she said smoothly. “You just couldn’t help yourself. Could you?”

My pulse roared in my ears. Ronin stepped protectively in front of me.

Too late. We’d been caught red-handed in the lion’s den.

And from the look on Morgana’s face, she’d already decided what to do with us.

Whoops.

17

TESSA

What does a witch do when she’s caught red-handed?

Easy. She slaps on a fake smile, stands up straight, and pretends like she didn’t just break into a locked room at the Hollow Cove Inn. That’s what.

“Morgana. I love what you’ve done with the place,” I said, plastering on the friendliest grin I could manage.

Ronin snorted beside me. “Good one.”

I shrugged. “You bet.”

Morgana didn’t bother hiding her disdain. “This was a bad move, Tessa. Breaking into a secure council site and tampering with restricted relics is a capital offense. Punishable by death.”

I raised a finger. “Technically, we haven’t stolen anything.” I smiled. “Yet.”

Her frown deepened, pinching the corners of her mouth like she’d just smelled something offensive. “This is serious. I would be well within my rights to eliminate you and the half-breed.”

“Hey.” Ronin pointed to himself. “Who you calling half-breed? I’m the sexiest half-vampire in the state. Possibly the Eastern Seaboard. You wanna fact-check that?”

Morgana blinked once. Not amused.

I turned back toward the glowing pedestal and the surrounding books and binders of horror. “This,” I said, gesturing, “is what I’d call a capital offense. Does the Gray Council know you’re draining magic from witches and bottling it like organic juice shots? Or is this your little side hustle?”

One of the mages behind her shifted slightly. The taller one. He looked vaguely uncomfortable, as if he’d accidentally worn the wrong robe to work.

Morgana didn’t flinch. “You don’t understand what you’re dealing with.”

“Oh, I understand just fine,” I said, crossing my arms. “You’re tagging witches with suppression runes, bleeding their magic into your little magical Dyson, and calling it auditing. I’ve seen cults with more subtlety.”

Ronin leaned closer to me and muttered, “So what’s the plan here? Because I left my throwing knives and guns in the car, and I’m feeling very under-accessorized.”

“Still working on it,” I said under my breath, though we both knew Ronin didn’t need weapons. He was a weapon.

Morgana took a step forward. “This chamber is protected. Everything in here is council property. You’ve overstepped.”

“And what were you planning to do with the magic once you had it all?” I asked. “Use it to light scented candles? Or does the council have a grander scheme involving domination, manipulation, and the complete dismantling of magical independence?”

She stared at me, cold and unreadable, with that same eerie stillness in her eyes. Like she could calculate my undoing without blinking.

Behind her, one of the other mages lifted his hand slightly, something silver glinting at his hip.

I straightened.

Ronin saw it too. “Okay. Now I’m definitely feeling the lack of knives.”

“You’ve got talons. Use them,” I reminded him.

“Oh, right.” Ronin flung his wrist, and dark talons sprouted from his fingertips. “Ah-ha. Now we’re talking.”

My pulse quickened as I tapped into my magic. “What are you going to do now that I know your secret?” Okay, so maybe I wasn’t helping the situation, but this room, these things, really pissed me off. They were extracting witches’ magic, which meant soon my aunts’ magic would be in that thing too. Not going to happen.

Morgana smiled, just barely. “I can’t let you live. You know that. Don’t you? Let’s just say you’ve seen what you’re not supposed to have seen. You will die tonight and your son will be without his mother.”

“Nice,” I said, “but if you think I’m just going to let you kill me, you’re even more stupid than that ugly hairstyle.”

Ronin let out a laugh. “Another good one.”

Morgana flinched, her expression one of murder.

But I was already a step ahead of her.

“Kill them both,” she ordered.

Three mages moved at once. Two males, one female. The woman was tall and thin with hair braided down to her waist like a silver rope. Her robes shimmered unnaturally, and her expression looked like she’d smelled something rotten… and that something was us. The men were both broader—one bald with a heavy brow and eyes like pits and the other wiry with sharp features and a scar that ran down one side of his cheek.

They came fast. I didn’t wait.

“Ventum!” I shouted, hurling my hand forward.

The air detonated between us in a rippling wave of wind. It slammed into all three of them, sending them flying like bowling pins. This distraction gave Ronin and me enough time to charge out of the little back room and into the open space of the suite.

The floor trembled beneath our feet. The bald mage groaned, rolling over, but the other two were already up, graceful, too graceful.

Morgana remained near the doorway, her arms folded. She watched with a calm, satisfied expression, like this was all part of some twisted, magical chess game, and we’d just walked into checkmate.

She didn’t move because she wanted to see me fall. Wanted me dead. Wanted my kid.

And that was all the motivation I needed.

One of the male mages surged forward, his fingers splayed with lightning rippling across his palms.

Ronin didn’t even flinch. “Ata boy.” He grinned and vamped out.

His fangs lengthened, his eyes darkened, and with a blur of motion that shouldn’t have been possible, he intercepted the mage mid-spell and slammed him against the wall with a crunch. The second male mage was on him instantly, and the two began trading blows like a supernatural MMA match from hell.

I didn’t have time to watch.

Because Silver Braid (that’s what I was going to call her) was on me.

She raised her hand and shouted something like, “Carnexus!”

The word snapped through the air, sharp and commanding.

“Protego!” I yelled, and a semitransparent shield rose up before me. Her hex hit. But it was… different. Older. Like her magic wasn’t just power but ritual. Blood-deep.

The shield cracked under the weight of it.

“Well, that’s not good,” I muttered.

And then I realized something.

She was using power words.

Not like mine but close enough. Enough that my magic recognized it and didn’t like it.

“What the hell are you?” I snapped, ducking under a blast of greenish fire that hissed as it passed. I’d never met anyone who could use power words like that, like me.

Silver Braid sneered. “The council’s best. And you are… obsolete.”

“Cute.” I took a breath and then let loose. “Inflitus!”

The power word ripped from my mouth, laced with heat and fury. It surged down my arm, crackling through my fingertips in a blaze of white-violet energy before exploding outward in a kinetic blast that distorted the air.

It hit her square in the chest with a soundless thud—not like fire or lightning but pressure, raw and unforgiving. That kind of hit tore the air from your lungs and rewrote your center of gravity.

She flew back, crashing into the bureau so hard the entire thing collapsed beneath her. Shards of wood splintered across the room.

I straightened, panting slightly. “And stay down.”

Out of the corner of my eye, Ronin was still fighting both male mages, using his talons like a blur of steel. He caught one across the face and flung the other over the bed.

“Hold still!” one of them shouted.

Ronin growled back, “Why don’t you come over here and make me, Mr. Fireball Hands?”

I almost smiled. Almost. Except Morgana hadn’t moved. She just stood there, watching it all unfold and waiting for us to weaken.

She was waiting for her moment. She wasn’t going to fight. No, she was waiting to collect the pieces. Me and Ronin.

And if she got her way—Darian.

Not gonna happen. Not tonight. Not ever.

I dropped into a crouch, my eyes fixed on Silver Braid as she pulled herself out of the broken wood and glared murder.

“You want obsolete?” I said. “Let’s see how obsolete this is.”

Silver Braid wiped the blood from her mouth and nose with the back of her hand. “Oh, I will,” she said and spat on the floor.

She didn’t wait.

Her lips twisted, and she hissed out a word, “Seitazar!”

A bolt of crimson-black light erupted from her palm, whipping through the air toward me. I jumped sideways, the heat searing past my shoulder, and rolled behind the overturned coffee table.

“Power words,” I muttered. “Of course she has her own damn spellbook.”

Another word cracked through the air.

“Ravagar!”

The table exploded behind me in a thousand splinters. I hit the ground hard, coughing and shielding my face. Okay. No more playing around.

I surged upright and flung my hand forward. “Declinare!”

White light blasted out from my palm in a wave, deflecting her next strike—a jagged net of green lightning that curled in on itself and fizzled with a hiss.

“Not bad,” she snarled, stalking forward. “Not great either. Just… mediocre.”

“Silver Braid,” I said, sidestepping a swipe of her magic. “I haven’t even started.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Ronin sweeping and slashing at the two male mages at once, his talons ripping through wards and air alike. He was fast, a blur of dark and muscle, ducking spells and landing solid hits.

“Consumatum!” shouted the tall, thin mage who looked like he ironed his hair.

Holy crap. He’d used a power word too.

It slammed into Ronin’s chest and lit up the entire room.

“Ronin!” I screamed.

He went flying, smoking, his shirt incinerated, and slammed into the far wall with a crack that rattled my teeth. The smell hit a second later. Burned flesh, seared leather, and something acrid and wrong.

I choked on it.

He groaned once, slid down the wall, and didn’t move.

Then I lost it.

My vision flickered red. Power surged through me so fast it crackled under my skin like static fire.

“Inspiratione!” I shouted, and red-hot fractures of magic erupted from my palm. They cracked through the air like lightning with teeth, jagged and sharp, aiming straight for Silver Braid’s chest.

She took the hit square on—and laughed.

Her body flung backward, slamming into the bureau with a crash, which splintered it in half. Wood and decorative bowls exploded across the room, but before I could even blink, she pushed off the broken mess like she’d just slipped on a rug.

Her pale eyes glowed unnaturally now, magic thrumming from her fingertips, and her long silver braid had come loose. Hair flew around her like she was standing in the eye of a magical hurricane.

“You call that magic?” she spat. “Cute. Let me show you what real power looks like.”

“Let me guess,” I said, circling her. “You’re the type who talks about herself in third person and cries if her eyeliner smudges.”

She snarled. “Fractora!”

I barely dove aside as the spell ripped into the floor beside me. It didn’t just hit. It shattered, a violent shockwave of force that sent a spiderweb of cracks across the stone. Heat surged against my cheek. My ears rang like church bells during a demon parade.

“Okay,” I gasped, crouched behind a broken chair leg. “That one stung.”

Silver Braid advanced, slow and steady, her boots crunching on the fractured floor.

“You think you’re strong because you resisted the rune,” she hissed. “Because you’ve got some sloppy Shadow witch blood in you? You’re a child holding a torch. I’m a storm.”

“Wow. That’s original.” I rose slowly, brushing off dust. “Tell me, do you write your own material, or do you just read from the backs of cereal boxes?”

“Ignas Vellum!” she growled.

Flames shot toward me, fast and furious.

“Oh shit.” I twisted to the side and shouted “Protego!” My shield bloomed to life just in time. The fire hit the glowing sphere and hissed out like it had been dumped in water.

I staggered slightly, the heat still licking my arms. My magic was holding—for now—but she was fast, skilled, and clearly had a grudge. And magic always took its payment. I was getting tired, really fast.

“I don’t know what you’re so angry about,” I wheezed, panting, “but, those gray robes? They gotta go. Trust me.”

“Shut. Up.” She lunged again. This time, we collided—no magic, just bodies. She slammed me into the wall. My head snapped back, and for a second, stars danced behind my eyes.

Okay. Ow.

I kneed her hard in the thigh and shouted, “Inflitus!” again at close range.

She flew across the room and smashed into the wall—again—but, of course, she twisted midair and landed in a crouch.

Seriously? Was she part werecat?

I wiped blood from my lip and glared. “You just don’t stay down. Do you?”

She stood, slow and smug, brushing imaginary lint from her robes. Then she smiled, cold and cruel. “Your son is next,” she said quietly.

After a beat of silence, something inside me snapped, like a rubber band or the last nerve I had left.

Oh hell no.

My hands tightened, but instead of shouting one of my own power words, a flash of inspiration hit me along with the memory of one of hers.

She’d used it earlier. What was it? Something with flare and drama...

“Fractora!” I shouted, throwing my hand toward her.

Red-gold light exploded from my palm, raw and cracking with unfamiliar edges. The floor beneath Silver Braid exploded, stone erupting like a magical landmine. She was caught in the blast and yelped in surprise before flying back into the very same shattered bureau she’d clawed her way out of minutes ago.

Debris rained down, and a chair fell on her head. The expression on her face before she disappeared under it was priceless.

I pointed to myself. “I did that. Yay me,” I muttered, equal parts shocked and impressed. “I am so fabulous.”

Silver Braid groaned under the wreckage, dazed, her hair now looking less magical storm goddess and more “feral raccoon that lost a bet.”

She shook her head, her eyes blinking fast, clearly trying to figure out what just happened. “What… How did you…”

I shrugged. “What? I pay attention. You shout random Latin… I shout random Latin. It’s called learning.”

She growled low. “That’s not how it works!”

“Oh, it is now, Silver.”

My eyes darted to Ronin. Still not moving.

Shit.

I couldn’t win this. Not like this. Not now. I couldn’t let them hurt Ronin more than he already was. Iris would never forgive me. I would never forgive me.

And Morgana was still standing at the back of the room, calm as a vulture at a funeral. She watched everything with a small, knowing smile, like she wanted me to burn out. Like she wanted me dead so she could get her hands on my son.

Screw that.

I ducked low, feinted right, and then spun around Silver Braid’s next blast of magic. Her fingers grazed my jacket. But not fast enough.

I raised a hand and gave Morgana the finger. “See you in hell, bitch.”

And then I yanked hard on the nearest ley line.

Magic tore up my spine as I dove for Ronin, grabbed his half-conscious, still-smoking body, and vanished.

Light swallowed us. The inn, the pedestal, the mages—all gone.

And I prayed to every power listening that I hadn’t just brought a war down on all our heads.

18

MARCUS

The kid didn’t even realize he was being followed. Rookie mistake.

Ash moved through the forest like a sore loser who thought he’d won. Head high, blood still crusted along his jaw, cocky enough to leave a trail even a blind goblin could follow. Crushed pine needles. A snapped branch. A smear of blood on a tree trunk. I could’ve tracked him with one eye closed and a nose full of dust.

I wasn’t complaining.

I kept to the trees, quiet as shadow, every step calculated. Decades of field experience didn’t fade with a sabbatical. If anything, being chief had only sharpened the parts of me that knew how to hunt.

And the young wereape was the bait leading me straight to the hook. To Rurik Draal and the Testament of Korr-Duun.

The curse stirred in my chest again, not loud but sharp. Like it recognized something.

I gritted my teeth and shoved it down. Not now. Not here.

I’d been following Ash for more than three hours, through snow-packed underbrush, over ice-slicked rocks, and across narrow ledges. The forest here was older, colder. Snow coated the pines in thick white layers, muffling sound and hiding tracks. Every step left a crisp imprint in the powder, and I had to move carefully, matching Ash’s pace without giving myself away.

The silence was deeper here. No birds, no crunch of distant deer, just wind, snow, and the soft hiss of my boots shifting through frost-covered needles.

I kept moving, my breath visible in short, controlled bursts, my footfalls light, and my senses sharp.

I hadn’t said a word since we left the Hall of First Blood. Not that Ash knew I was there. The arrogant bastard hadn’t even bothered to check his tracks. Probably thought no one could touch him.

But I wasn’t just anyone.

Branches clawed at my jacket as I slid between two split pines. Snow clung to the limbs like brittle lace, and every brush sent a flurry of crystals down my back. My boots moved soundlessly over the uneven forest floor, crunching lightly through frozen moss and skimming across thin sheets of ice that cracked like glass beneath the weight. Half-frozen streams twisted between snowdrifts, and patches of brittle undergrowth snapped like dry bones as I passed.

The wind shifted. Sharp, metallic, and cold enough to bite.

And I thought of her.

Tessa. My Tessa. I thought of her laugh, her fire. The way she never let anyone, especially me, get away with bullshit.

God, I missed her.

I missed the sound of her voice, the warmth of her hand sliding into mine like it had always belonged there. Missed our kid’s giggle. Darian’s lopsided grins and sticky hands and the way he’d curl his fingers around mine like he trusted I could keep the world away.

I was doing this for them—every painful step, every breath I took without them near.

The Order of Fenrir had tried to erase me. Break me. Turn me into a beast and leave me that way.

Now they wanted more. Something older, darker. And I knew in my bones they wouldn’t stop until they got it.

Unless I stopped them first. Unless I burned them to the ground and salted the earth they crawled out of.

This wasn’t just about vengeance anymore. This was about the future. My son’s future. Tessa’s.

And I’d be damned if I let the order touch either of them ever again.

I adjusted my pace, keeping just far enough back to stay out of Ash’s awareness. The shadows thickened ahead, but I didn’t hesitate.

Ash limped a little less the farther we went. He was healing quickly, which meant he was almost back to full strength. Not that it would help him if this turned into another fight. I’d kick his ass again. Over and over. He was no match for me.

We climbed a snow-slick ridge and crossed a narrow slope where the wind howled like something wild and angry. Ash stopped.

In my cover behind a split-trunk cedar, I crouched low, my breath held. He reached into his coat, not for anything glowing or magical but for a crude bone pendant etched with deep lines. Old markings. Ancestral. The kind that weren’t enchanted, just… remembered. Sacred, in the way blood was sacred.

He pricked his thumb and smeared the blood across the carving.

A few seconds later, the forest floor groaned.

Snow cracked. Frosted roots trembled. And then wood scraped against stone. An old hatch, half-buried under ice and dead pine needles, lifted from the earth, reinforced with iron bands. No sigils. No runes. Just raw, brutal construction. The kind that didn’t need enchantment to keep outsiders out.

I stayed perfectly still, watching and waiting.

Wherever that hatch led, it wasn’t a place built with magic. It was built with intention. With purpose.

And that made it worse.

Ash slipped through the door and disappeared underground.

I waited a full minute and then another. My pulse didn’t quicken. My breath stayed steady.

Then I moved.

Snow crunched beneath my boots as I slid down the hill, keeping low, my breath tight in my chest. Frost bit at the edges of my collar, and the cold wind cut through the seams of my jacket like knives. My fingers, half-numb, still found their grip.

I crouched beside the hatch, snow drifting quietly around me, and pressed my palm to the rough, frost-laced wood. Warm. Even in this dead cold, it radiated heat, like something alive was trapped beneath it.

Voices rose from below, muffled but clear enough. One was Ash, sharp and eager, a follower desperate to prove himself.

The other was older, measured, cold.

Rurik Draal.

I’d never heard the bastard speak before, but I knew. You didn’t have to see a wolf to know when one was nearby. That voice, low and composed, carried the kind of weight that didn’t need shouting to command obedience. It was control, wrapped in ice and centuries of certainty. It was the voice of the order.

I crept closer to the hatch, lowering myself just enough to catch the drift of their words.

“…the testament is secured,” said Rurik’s voice, smooth and controlled. “Copied. Catalogued. Its contents align with everything, exactly as the elders predicted.”

Another voice responded, this one gruffer. Older. “And the bloodline? Do we have what we need?”

I heard a rustle of movement. I imagined cloaks brushing stone and boots pacing ancient floors.

“The ritual is nearly ready,” Rurik continued. “With the Testament of Korr-Duun, we will return to what we were always meant to be—purity, strength, obedience to the primal code. No more dilution. No more weakness.”

A third voice, higher, reedy, chimed in, “And those who no longer match the original pattern?”

“They will be removed,” Rurik said simply. “Cleansed.”

Removed. Cleansed. I knew what that meant. Death. Extinction. If you didn’t fit the mold, you didn’t deserve to exist.

“The curse was only the beginning,” Rurik added. “An experiment. A warning. Now we move to the next phase.”

My hands curled into fists. They weren’t just planning a comeback. They were planning a mass reset, a return to the bloodline’s origin, using the testament like a blueprint to rewrite what it meant to be one of us. To cut out everyone who didn’t meet the order’s sacred checklist. Anyone who’d evolved, changed, loved.

Like me. Like my son.

A faint hum rose below, magical in nature. They were preparing something. Charging it.

My stomach turned cold. Whatever they were about to unleash wasn’t just symbolic. It was active.

The curse stirred in my chest again. Hungry, clawing, like it knew its maker was close.

I breathed through the burn and shoved it back. I needed my mind clear, my focus sharp, because I was here for a reason—to end this.

I’d spent my life defending others. I was a protector, a leader, and these bastards had tried to turn me into a monster.

They didn’t get to do that and walk away. Not after what they did to me. Not while my wife and son were still in danger. Not ever.

I pulled back, my jaw tight as the icy wind cut across my face.

This was it. Whatever the Testament of Korr-Duun was, whatever the order was planning, it was happening down there. I was close. Closer than I’d ever been.

But I couldn’t just storm in like a rabid fool and hope brute force would carry me through. That’s how you got yourself killed. That’s how you lost. And I hadn’t come this far to lose.

I was a chief. An alpha. I’d led hunts, defended my town, stared down monsters that would’ve gutted lesser men. I wasn’t just a weapon. I was a strategist.

So I crouched in the dark and did what I did best.

I thought. I had no idea how many of them were down there. Five? Ten? Fifty? Maybe more. And if I charged in now, fists swinging and heart full of righteous fury, they’d cut me down before I reached the first stair.

No. I needed more than rage. I needed precision. Patience.

I needed a plan.

My gaze swept the hatch again. No guards, no wards that I could see from here. But that didn’t mean there weren’t more below. If I could lure one out, maybe even two, I could thin their numbers. Create a ripple. Cause doubt. Confusion.

Because I didn’t need them all.

Just one.

One leader. One dead leader sent a message the rest couldn’t ignore.

Rurik Draal.

If I could put him down, if I could gut the head of this rotting, fanatical beast, it would slow them. Maybe even stop them.

Let the order prepare their future. Let them polish their relics and chant their old rites.

I was here now. And I wasn’t coming to ask questions.

I was coming to end them. All of them.

Starting with him.

I crouched lower behind the snow-covered rocks, mapping out every option—distraction, isolation, hit them where it hurt and vanish before they could regroup. It wasn’t clean, but it could work. It had to. If I could take out Rurik, or at least wound the bastard, maybe the rest would scatter. Maybe it would be enough to buy us time. Buy him time.

Because this was all for Darian. For my son. For Tessa.

A buzz vibrated against my thigh.

I blinked.

Slowly, I pulled my phone from my jacket pocket, the glow of the screen almost blinding in the cold dark.

Tessa: Something’s happened. It’s bad. I can feel it. I think they’re after Darian. Please. Come home. I’m afraid.

Everything in me stilled.

The forest, the plan, the hunt, it all blurred at the edges.

She’d never sent anything like this before. Not during the Grimway breach. Not when I was cursed. Not even when I was half out of my mind and clawing at stone walls. But this? This wasn’t just fear. It was dread.

And she was alone with it.

My mate. My son. They needed me.

I stuffed the phone back into my coat, my muscles tensing as I turned to move. I’d make a run for the Jeep. Hit the road. Call her when I was—

The snap of a twig behind me was the only warning I got.

I pivoted—

Pain exploded across the side of my head… something heavy, blunt. My knees hit the snow before my brain caught up.

Shadows moved in fast. Too fast. More than two. Three, maybe four. A fifth behind them, cloaked and hooded. I tried to shift, the beast in me rousing with a guttural snarl. But a spray of white-hot fire seared across my shoulder, slamming me down flat. Magic. Damnit, they were using magic.

Wereapes didn’t use spells, but looked like these did.

One of them knelt beside me, his breath sour with blood and rum. “He’s heavier than I thought.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said another. “We got him.”

They bound my wrists with silver-threaded rope, the metal biting deep. The curse in me surged again, roaring to be freed, but another blast of energy, cold and smothering, snapped against my spine, and the beast shrank back with a growl of pain.

“You should’ve stayed buried,” one whispered into my ear. “You had your time, Marcus Durand. It’s our turn now.”

My vision darkened at the edges.

Tessa. Darian.

I had to get back.

But the last thing I saw before the world cut out was snow falling quietly over boot tracks and the glint of the order’s brand carved into a ring on the leader’s finger.

And then everything went black.

19

TESSA

Idropped my phone on the table after sending a quick text to Marcus.

No response. Just a cold screen and an even colder silence that settled deep in my chest.

I was home, technically. Davenport House was full. Iris was here. Ronin was half-alive in the armchair. Darian was giggling with glee as he repeatedly poked Ronin in the stomach like a kid testing a frog for signs of life. Tinker Bell floated near the bookshelf with her arms crossed, looking worried. Hildo lounged like royalty on the counter, judging us all with the practiced stare of someone with nine lives and zero patience. Yup. Cats.

But I felt more alone than I had in a long time.

I should’ve felt safe here, surrounded by my people. But my wereape, my anchor, was missing. No updates. No texts. Just a brief message last night about the Testament of Korr-Duun followed by nothing.

“Marcus,” I whispered, so soft it barely reached my own ears. “Please come home.”

“And you’re certain you saw a magical extractor?” Dolores asked again, her arms crossed and her mouth tight as if hoping repetition would change my answer.

“For the third time, yes,” I said, pacing near the hearth. “It was there. Big, glowy, awful. Like a vacuum for magic.”

Across the room, Ronin groaned loudly, his head thrown back against the chair. “Tell them I was very brave,” he croaked to Iris, who was kneeling beside him with a cool cloth.

“You were very brave,” she said gently.

Iris was sweet. I loved her. But she was clearly lying.

“My insides are liquefied,” moaned Ronin dramatically, tossing an arm across his face.

“You’re overexaggerating,” said Ruth, stomping over with a jar of something brown and lumpy. She proceeded to slather it across his chest with absolutely no delicacy.

“Is that pudding?” he asked.

“It’s goat bile, sage, and a bit of peppermint for the smell,” Ruth replied cheerfully.

Ronin whimpered. “I hate magic.”

Darian, of course, was having the time of his life. He poked Ronin’s side again. “Poop.”

It probably did smell like poop. Was it weird one of my kid’s first words was poop? No idea.

“Okay,” I said, raising my voice over the madness. “Let’s focus. The magical extractor was real, and the pedestal wasn’t the only thing. There were books. Audit records. It was basically a magical registry. Thousands of magical essences, cataloged and filed away. The council’s been collecting them. And every single one had a rune diagram, notes, and ratings. Some even had red slashes across the top.” I looked around the room. “They’re not just suppressing magic. They’re tracking witches. Categorizing us. Marking us for control.” I took a breath. “And—”

“And?” Dolores’s brow arched.

I met her eyes. “Morgana tried to kill us.”

That got everyone’s attention.

Ruth stopped stirring her next brew. Beverly, who’d just sauntered in with a glass of wine, paused mid-sip. Hildo looked mildly impressed. Tinker Bell zipped over and hovered inches from my face. “What?”

“She ordered three of her mages to kill us,” I said. “Ronin fought two at once. I took on the third. And here’s the part that’ll blow your mind. They used power words.”

Dolores stiffened. “Are you certain?”

“Yes. All of them,” I said. “Every mage there. Different power words. Darker. Sharper. I’ve never seen anything like it.” I paused, remembering the way Silver Braid’s magic had cracked the floor. “She didn’t just fight like a mage. She fought like a witch. A twisted, souped-up, psycho one.”

“That shouldn’t be possible,” commented Ruth, still perched on the arm of Ronin’s chair. “Power words are for witches. They’re bound to our bloodlines, our ancestral magic.”

“Not entirely true,” said Dolores, her voice clipped.

Ruth blinked. “Really?”

Dolores gave a small, reluctant nod. “There were whispers. Years ago. I heard rumors of mages using power words. But I thought it was nonsense. The council dismissed it.”

“Of course they did.” Beverly swirled her wine. “They dismiss everything that doesn’t benefit them.”

Dolores ignored her. “It wasn’t common knowledge, and I never saw proof. But if what you’re saying is true… if they used power words, they weren’t ordinary mages.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What do you mean?”

Dolores inhaled sharply. “They’re half-breeds. Half witch, half mage. That’s the only way they’d be able to wield power words. And be as strong as you claim.”

Damn. I didn’t see that coming.

Beverly raised her glass. “Cheers to hybrid overachievers.”

Ronin groaned from the couch. “Someone stab me. Again. Just harder this time.”

“A witch’s power is bloodline-bound,” continued Dolores. “A mage’s is crafted and controlled. You mix those… and you get something unpredictable. Something dangerous.”

“Like Silver Braid,” I said, “and the others.”

Dolores nodded once. “Morgana isn’t just recruiting power. She’s recruiting hybrids.”

“Hybrid assassins,” added Beverly, taking a sip of her wine. “Because clearly, we weren’t under enough pressure this week.”

Ronin grunted from the couch. “Next thing you know, she’ll be cloning them.”

But I wasn’t laughing. If Morgana was building an army of hybrids, I knew exactly why she wanted Darian. To add him to her army.

Dolores sat back, her brow tight with worry. “That would explain their strength. But it doesn’t explain why. Why now? Why Hollow Cove?”

Ruth paled. “Maybe she’s trying to create more?”

“No,” I said, my voice lowering, “she’s after Darian. It’s why she’s here. Why she orchestrated these magical audits. To put pressure on me. She wants my kid. He’s a half-breed,” I went on. “More than that. He’s stronger than any of us. She saw what I could do when the rune didn’t work. Imagine what she thinks he can do.”

“Not just to use him,” said Dolores grimly. “To weaponize him.”

And that was the moment I felt it. Real, full-bodied fear. The kind that crept through my bones and settled in my lungs like smoke.

I wouldn’t let her touch my son. Not now. Not ever.

I looked at them all. My family. My people. My son still booping a half-vampire who may or may not be faking ninety percent of his symptoms.

“I don’t think the council knows,” I said, my jaw tightening. “About any of it. Morgana’s acting on her own. Using the Gray Council’s name and their authority. But it’s her game. She’s got a plan, and it doesn’t end with a few suppression runes. She’s cataloging witches, ranking them. Stealing power. Probably storing it to use for herself. Or to control them later.”

Iris sat up straighter, her face pale. “How do we stop her from giving out more of those runes? I can barely feel my magic. It’s like… it’s still there, but it’s under ten feet of concrete. I feel lost. Different. Scared. I don’t know how to be me without it.”

I felt a fresh stab of guilt slice right through me. Iris had risked everything for me, for Hollow Cove. And now she sat here, looking like a shadow of herself.

“I’m so sorry,” I said softly. “We’ll fix it. I swear.”

From the armchair, Ronin groaned loudly. “What about me? Fix me. I hurt all over. I was in a ley line. Vampires don’t do lines, Tess. We avoid them like sunlight and group chats.”

Iris rolled her eyes and patted his arm. “You don’t avoid sunlight, you big baby. That’s a myth. And you were in there for five seconds.”

“Yet the trauma will last a lifetime,” he said dramatically, resting his head against the cushion like he was moments away from death. “Do you smell that? That’s my dignity. Burning.”

“You didn’t have any to start with,” I muttered.

“Rude,” Ronin said and then added with a sniff, “but fair.”

“Poop,” said Darian cheerfully, as he poked Ronin in the chest again.

“You’ve got that right, kid,” answered Ronin.

I turned to my aunts. “What about you three? How does your magic feel?”

They exchanged a look. Not just any look. That look—the one they used when something was wrong but none of them wanted to say it first.

The silence was worse than any answer.

The fact that my magic was still intact, hell, amplified, wasn’t something I could exactly parade around right now. My power had survived the rune, maybe even evolved, but this wasn’t the time to flaunt that, not when the three women who protected me, taught me everything I knew about magic, were slowly losing the very thing that defined them.

If we didn’t find a way to stop Morgana… I didn’t even want to think about it. Magic was their lifeblood. Their identity. What were they without it?

Ruth was already fiddling with a matchbox. “I tried conjuring a flame before you arrived, and nothing happened. Had to light my tea water the old-fashioned way. It was humiliating.” She struck a match with a sigh and then blew it out.

“I’m still fabulous,” said Beverly, twirling a strand of hair, “but I tried to enchant my silk robe to do a slow dramatic reveal and it caught fire. And my self-steaming curlers nearly exploded. I had to finish my blowout with a hairdryer like a peasant.”

Ruth tilted her head. “I don’t mind being a peasant. We grow herbs, talk to bugs, and our robes behave themselves.”

“I don’t care,” said Beverly and tossed her hair back. “Point is, I can feel it fading. Like it’s slower, maybe. It’s like trying to cast underwater.”

Dolores was quiet. “It’s slipping through my fingers.” Her voice was calm, but I saw the tightness in her shoulders, the fear buried beneath that carefully composed mask. “Not all at once but fast. Like my magic knows something is wrong and it’s… retreating. By tomorrow night, it might be gone.”

Gone.

I swallowed, hard. The idea of a world where Ruth couldn’t mix her potions, where Beverly couldn’t flash-freeze a wineglass with a snap, where Dolores couldn’t ward a room with a flick of her hand—it was unthinkable.

They’d always been powerful. Unshakeable. The Davenports.

And now they were being slowly erased, one rune at a time.

I blinked, forcing down the wave of emotion threatening to rise. “Ruth,” I said, turning to her. “How’s the reversal rune spell coming? Could we use it to stop this? To help everyone?”

Ruth slumped a little, her shoulders heavy. “It’s taking longer than I hoped. I’m having trouble conjuring the core elements for the runic counterseal. It’s like trying to bake a cake without heat or flour. Or spoons. And I really like spoons.”

“You’re trying your best,” I said.

“I feel like I’m failing.” Ruth’s face was screwed up in worry.

“No, you’re not,” said Tinker Bell as she flew over with her arms crossed and her wings flaring behind her. “You’ve got fairy backup now, so buck up, buttercup. My magic’s still in full swing, and trust me, it packs a glittery punch.”

Ruth blinked. “Really?”

Tinker Bell nodded. “Really. I’ll help you work on the reversal spell. We’ll fairy-witch tag-team it.”

Ruth gave a watery smile. “I like tag teams.”

The fairy beamed. “Me too.”

Iris looked at me, her eyes sharper now. “You’ve got that face.”

“What face?” Damn that witch was perceptive.

“The ‘I’m going to destroy someone’ face. What’s the plan, Tessa?”

I exhaled slowly. “We have to make the Gray Council see what Morgana’s doing. Show them proof. She’s counting on us reacting, lashing out so she can claim we’re unstable or uncooperative. But if we prove she’s stealing magic and using it for her own agenda…”

Dolores shook her head. “Without hard proof, it’s her word against yours. And she’s the mage the council sent. They’ll back her unless we hit them with something undeniable.”

“Then we give them undeniable,” I said, standing. “We find that proof. And we shove it down their throats.”

Tinker Bell punched the air. “Now that’s the witch I signed up to help.”

“Do we have a timeline?” asked Ronin from the couch, one arm draped over his eyes like he’d just survived the Battle of Ley Line Hill. “Because if this is a multiday plan, I’m gonna need a refill. Possibly a neck massage.”

“You’ll survive,” I told him, though a knot of worry was still twisted tight in my gut.

Dolores crossed her arms. “And how exactly are you planning to get this proof?”

I lifted my brows. “Same way I got it last time. I’ll just ley line my ass back into the inn and steal it. No harm done.”

“No harm?” snapped Dolores, her braid twitching. “Morgana’s not an idiot. If she hasn’t already moved everything, she’ll have that place warded tighter than Beverly’s face after her last facial peel.”

Beverly huffed. “You’re just jealous because I have the skin of a newborn and yours is like tree bark.”

“One wrong move and it’ll fry you where you stand,” continued Dolores. “Don’t be stupid, Tessa.”

I exhaled, deflating a bit. Damnit. She was probably right. Again.

“Fine,” I grumbled. “Then we’ll just have to work double time to dig up the truth. If Morgana’s doing all this, someone on the Gray Council has to know, or at least suspect. There’s no way she climbed that high without stepping on a few backs along the way. She must have enemies.”

Ronin perked up, finally lowering his arm. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

Darian, clearly inspired, smacked another glob of brown goop on Ronin’s chest and declared, “Poop!”

“Wow,” said Ronin. “The child is a poet. I’ve been anointed by the future.”

I ignored them both and turned to the others. “We start now. We go after her past. Her allies. Her enemies. Anything that tells us who Morgana Draeven really is.”

Dolores tapped her fingers against her arm, thinking. Then, slowly, she nodded. “That… might not be such a bad idea. You could be onto something.”

I arched a brow. “Glad you think so.”

“She has to have enemies,” added Ruth, who was now administering a lumpy orange substance on Ronin’s arms. “She smells funny.”

“She definitely smells funny,” said Beverly, who was twirling her wineglass. “And let’s be honest, with that hairstyle and those dreary robes? She hates all the beautiful people.”

“Not sure how that helps,” I said. “But… noted.”

Still, they weren’t wrong. Morgana wasn’t invincible. She had climbed the Gray Council ladder somehow, and no one did that without stepping on people. Making enemies. Leaving scars.

It was a start.

Dolores straightened. “I’ll call up the Merlin Board. See if they have anything on her. If she’s ever been disciplined. Accused. Whispered about. I’ll find it.”

“Go for the dirt,” I said. “The older, the better.”

Beverly raised her glass. “Witch-hunting the witch-hunter. I love it.”

And for the first time that day, I felt a spark of something real.

Hope. Morgana Draeven had come to our town thinking she could break us.

She had no idea what we were capable of.

“I can help,” said Hildo, his voice low and feline-smooth from the counter, where he now reclined like he owned the house. “I’ll speak to the other familiars. They gossip worse than Ruth after a bingo night. Some of them have served council witches. Others have witnessed… things.”

“Ears perked,” said Tinker Bell, zipping beside him. “I’ll help. Wards don’t affect me the same way. If there’s a crack, I’ll find it.”

Dolores nodded slowly. “It might work. But you’ll need more than chatter and rumors. The council won’t act unless the proof is indisputable.”

“Oh, we’re going to get it,” I said, my voice firm. “Because Morgana wants to erase us. And I’m not going to wait for her to finish the job.”

Ronin clapped his hands together, wincing at the motion. “Then it’s settled. We dig. We scheme. We save Hollow Cove.”

“And we save our magic,” whispered Ruth.

I met her gaze. “We do.”

The room went quiet for a beat. Even Darian stopped poking Ronin to stare at me with wide, unblinking eyes.

Because the clock was ticking.

And Morgana Draeven had no idea what was coming.

20

TESSA

Iwoke up feeling like I’d been chewed up by a ghoul, spit out by a banshee, and dropkicked a few times.

And honestly? That was generous.

I’d been up most of the night digging through the Merlin database, trying to find anything—anything—useful on Morgana Draeven. Her name popped up a few times in old records, but it was all curated nonsense: “Prodigy,” “rising star,” “first-class audit enforcer.” Apparently, she’d climbed the Gray Council’s ranks faster than anyone in history. Which, to me, meant one of two things. Either she was ridiculously good at kissing magical ass… or she’d buried a lot of skeletons on her way up.

Either way, I didn’t find what I needed. And now, after three hours of sleep and half a cup of lukewarm coffee, I looked like one of those makeup counter horror stories they use to upsell eye cream.

Darian, however, was thriving. He sat in the middle of the living room rug, slapping a stuffed gorilla and wolf together.

So cute.

I was halfway through brushing cereal out of his curls when the toaster rattled.

Crap. Never a good sign.

With a sigh, I stood, crossed the kitchen, and waited as the old brass toaster spat out a single thick message card.

I reached for the card as it popped out of the toaster, missed it completely, and watched it land on the table with a soft thud. Definitely a sign I needed more sleep. I picked it up, flipped it over, and read the message.

Darian Davenport must be presented for magical screening today by 9 a.m.

Council Auditor Morgana Draeven

For a long moment, I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Then I very carefully folded the card in half, walked to the sink, and dropped it directly into the garbage disposal.

Fury rose up fast. I hated that mage and her stupid hair. I knew in my witchy bones that if I ever brought my kid to her, I’d never see him again.

I would rather die a thousand deaths than hand over my son.

Resolute, I picked up Darian and stormed out the front door, praying that Dolores had found something on Morgana through her contacts on the Merlin Boards or even Hildo.

I climbed up Davenport House’s back porch and pushed open the door. I walked in, Darian on my hip, and found all three of them in the kitchen looking like they’d pulled a triple shift in a magical salt mine.

Ruth had green and orange potion stains down her sweater. Beverly had eyeliner on only one eye. And Dolores’s braid looked like it had been electrocuted.

Wonderful.

I slapped the countertop. “They want to screen Darian.”

Ruth’s mouth dropped open. “Who does?”

Dolores straightened. “Santa’s elves.”

Ruth’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Dolores shook her head. “Of course not, you idiot. She means Morgana.”

“Oh.” Ruth lost her smile and then whispered, “It could have been Santa’s elves.”

“Got a message card a few minutes ago,” I told them. “I can’t believe this.” However, I’d known it was only a matter of time before Morgana demanded to see him. This whole stupid audit was to get her hands on my son.

Beverly looked horrified. “What are you going to do?”

A snarl formed on my lips. “Tell her to fuck off. That’s what.”

Beverly grinned. “That’s my girl.”

Dolores swore under her breath. I knew this was affecting her mayor job, and not in a good way, but it was also affecting her family. Family trumped job.

“Is the suppression reversal spell ready?” I asked Ruth, my heart pounding.

She looked like she hadn’t slept. Her eyes were bloodshot. “Almost,” she said weakly. “Tinker Bell’s magic helped, but it’s still volatile. If we used it now, we might fix the runes, or blow off someone’s eyebrows.”

Beverly, seated at the table with a mug of something caffeinated and probably spiked, nodded solemnly. “It’s a coin toss.”

Terrific.

My gaze darted to Dolores. “Did you find anything useful about Morgana?” I looked for Hildo or Tinker Bell, but they were either sleeping or still off somewhere doing their “nightly” hunts.

Dolores rubbed her eyes. “Nothing. Either they didn’t have anything bad to say about her, which I seriously doubt, or they were too afraid to talk. I got the feeling they stayed quiet because they thought she might hurt them. Or worse.” She paused. “I’m sorry, Tessa.”

I forced a smile. “It’s not your fault.”

No. This was all Morgana.

“Let’s go,” ordered Dolores. “The audits start in fifteen minutes.”

Though our audits were over, Ruth, Beverly, and I had decided to go with her anyway. Dolores was the mayor, and today was the final round of evaluations. No way were we letting her face that circus alone.

A few minutes later, we were all crammed into the Volvo. I’d dropped off Darian with my mother, who was in a surprisingly good mood. My guess was because she didn’t have to go to those audits anymore. I was relieved to see my father there, knowing that even if Morgana’s minions tried to take my kid, my father would obliterate them. Go, Dad.

The moment we pulled into the high school parking lot, I spotted the same garish sign: WITCH AUDITS—Day 3. Just in case anyone forgot the trauma.

Inside, the gym looked exactly like it had for the last two days. Cold. Clinical. Smelling faintly of varnish, fear, and cheap chalk.

But this time, Iris and Ronin were already there, seated near the top of the bleachers. Ruth and Beverly flanked me as we climbed to join them. Dolores peeled off and went to sit with the witches awaiting their turn. Her face was set in a don’t-speak-to-me snarl.

I didn’t blame her.

A moment later, Bastian Reyes strolled in like he’d just wandered out of a cozy murder mystery and decided to attend a local execution for fun.

He held a steaming cup of tea—tea—and a leather-bound notebook, which he tucked under one arm as he casually crossed the gym and claimed the empty seat next to Dolores. She didn’t even look at him. He leaned over and said something low.

I watched, curious, as Dolores didn’t reply. At least not that I could see. Her expression remained carved from stone, her eyes forward and jaw tight.

Still, Bastian smiled slightly, sipped his tea, and started taking notes.

“What’s he doing?” I muttered.

“Being creepy,” said Beverly. “And hydrated.”

No one laughed. Because whatever was going on down there, it wasn’t good.

The gym was quieter today, in that tense, waiting-for-a-volcano-to-erupt kind of way. Most of the chatter from previous days was gone. Everyone sat still. Watching. Bracing. You could practically taste the anxiety in the air, like the prelude to something truly awful.

And then I saw her. Morgana Draeven. She stood at the front near the long table, her robes pristine, arms folded, and dark eyes already locked on mine. And she looked pissed.

The kind of pissed that said: Where. Is. The. Child.

I gave her a bright smile and then followed it with a slow, dainty finger wave.

Ronin let out a quiet snort beside me. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m adorable,” I whispered back.

Morgana’s jaw ticked. She leaned in close to the mage beside her, the one with the buzzcut, and the runed measuring rod. He bent toward her, listened, and then gave a single nod of understanding.

Ronin tensed beside me. “What the hell was that?”

I didn’t answer immediately because the chill that ran down my spine wasn’t from the drafty gym.

“I don’t know,” I said softly, “but it’s bad.” Really bad.

The buzzcut mage straightened and called, “Andy Turnbull.”

A young male witch stepped forward. I recognized him. Barely twenty, worked at the Wicked Witch & Handsome Devil Pub downtown. White magic lineage. Practically squeaked when he walked.

He stepped into the chalk circle, his hands shaking.

“Poor bastard,” muttered Ronin. And I agreed with him.

And then, the mage began the tests.

Power scan.

Restraint check.

Ancestral trace.

Then just as the young witch started to smile, thinking he was cleared—”Suppression rune administered,” the mage announced coldly.

A flick of the rod, and that cursed rune flared against his chest.

The kid collapsed.

Ruth let out a tiny whimper and looked torn between rushing over there to help him and staying put.

“Again?” whispered Beverly. “But he’s clean.”

I didn’t move. I just watched, my jaw tight and breath held.

The second name was called.

Same process. Same tests. Same suppression rune.

The third. Fourth. Fifth.

All of them. Marked.

It didn’t matter if they were seasoned or new, male or female, Light or Dark aligned. Morgana was handing out runes like party favors at a cursed birthday bash—one for you, one for you. Everybody got one.

By the time the twenty-seventh witch was marked and helped back to their seat, only three were left in line.

And I was shaking with rage.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” said Iris, her voice low and raw. “Two of those girls are full-blooded White witches. I work with them. They wouldn’t hurt a fly or use any illegal spells or hexes.”

“Dude,” said Ronin, glancing at me. “She’s doing it because of you.”

“She’s doing it because of Darian,” I said, gritting my teeth.

Morgana caught my eye again. And this time, she smiled. No finger wave returned. Just cold satisfaction.

Because she wanted me to see. She wanted me to know. This wasn’t about audits anymore.

This was personal.

And unless I did something fast, few witches would be left in Hollow Cove who could still use their magic.

The last three witches stepped into the circle like they were walking into a firing squad.

Each one—young, old, in-between—took their place, lifted their chin, and braced. And one by one, they were all hit with the suppression rune. Just like the rest.

By the time the final witch stumbled out of the circle, even Ruth was clutching the edge of her seat. Beverly kept swearing under her breath, and Ronin looked like he wanted to launch himself across the gym.

I glanced over at Dolores. My tall aunt sat stiffly, her arms locked and jaw working like she was chewing glass. I couldn’t see her eyes from this distance, but I didn’t need to. Her entire body was vibrating like she was one bad sentence away from throwing a chair.

Then Morgana rose.

She spoke a few words to her mages, who nodded like synchronized death bots. And then, in her painfully calm, public-speaking voice, she turned to the crowd.

“This concludes the Hollow Cove magical audits,” she announced. “We thank you for your cooperation and your… patience.”

I shot to my feet. Something in her tone made the hairs on the back of my neck sit up and salute.

“Due to Hollow Cove’s repeated failure to comply with Gray Council directives,” she continued, her eyes locking on mine, “including Regulation 12-B: Annual Magic Declaration, and Code 27-F: Unreported Magical Mutation, the following action has been deemed necessary.”

Oh hell.

“All witches currently bearing suppression runes,” Morgana said, her voice ringing through the gym, “will be permanently stripped of their magic and declared non-witches effective immediately.”

The gym exploded.

Gasps. Screams. People leapt out of their seats. A few witches actually broke into tears. One man shouted something unintelligible before collapsing into a chair.

Ruth made a choking sound.

Beverly shouted, “She can’t do this!”

Even Dolores looked like she was going to vomit. Her arms dropped to her sides, eyes going glassy.

“No,” I snapped, shoving off the bleachers.

I didn’t walk. I stormed.

I moved fast, pushing past stunned witches and shell-shocked townsfolk. I reached the platform and planted myself directly before Morgana, just as she was about to step down.

“You can’t do this,” I said. “You know this is wrong.”

Bastian stood just behind her, calm and still as always, sipping his tea. It infuriated me even more.

I jabbed a finger toward him. “You okay with this? You gonna just watch while she guts every witch in town?”

Bastian raised an eyebrow. “I’m observing the situation.”

“Observe harder,” I snapped. “Do something. You’re supposed to be the chief. Do your damn job.”

He tilted his head, just slightly. “It’s out of my hands, Miss Davenport. Council decisions cannot be challenged by interim enforcement. And I’d caution you against interfering further.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Is that a threat?”

His gaze flicked to the gym crowd and then to Morgana, who was grinning like she’d won. She hadn’t. Not yet. “A warning,” he said finally, his voice quieter. “Push too far, and the council may label you a dissenter. Or worse. An enemy.”

But something shifted in his expression. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but I caught it. A hesitation, like he wanted to say something else. He seemed to be working something out behind those calculating brown eyes and couldn’t quite stop the flicker of doubt that crossed his face.

Bastian tapped his pen against the small notebook in his hand. Not casual. Purposeful. Recording everything. His tea cup had been discarded somewhere on the chairs. His entire posture had gone from “bored investigator” to something closer to tightly wound observation.

He was watching Morgana. And not in the way her underlings did.

For a second, I thought he might actually speak, say something important. But whatever flicker of rebellion passed through him, he buried it. Deep.

The interim chief straightened. His face reset. Blank. Official. Nothing to see here. Just another rule-following puppet.

Except now… I wasn’t so sure.

“Right,” I said slowly. “Good talk.”

And I turned my back on him.

Because if Bastian Reyes was on our side, he was going to have to prove it before it was too damn late.

Behind me, the gym buzzed. If we couldn’t come up with the reversal suppression spell, we were toast. And it didn’t look like we would.

Dolores strode across the gym floor, looking like she was about to strangle someone, her boots clicking with purpose.

“This is a mistake,” she said sharply, planting herself in front of Morgana. “Half of those witches you just branded are innocent. You know that.”

Morgana didn’t even flinch. “Magic doesn’t lie.”

Dolores narrowed her eyes. “No, but mages do. And council politics? They lie even better.”

A ripple went through the room. Witches started whispering. Then louder. A low thrum of panic and disbelief rose from the bleachers and folding chairs.

“We demand a retrial!” Dolores’s voice cracked through the noise. “An official re-audit!”

That’s when things exploded.

“Yes!” shouted a woman’s voice from behind me.

“She’s right!” cried another, this time male.

“You can’t do this!” came another high-pitched voice. “Retrial!”

Amid crying and shouting, a witch two rows down from me collapsed into her daughter’s arms, sobbing uncontrollably. Another stood and pointed straight at Morgana, screaming something about her sister losing all her magic because of a botched test.

Morgana just stood there, unbothered.

Then she laughed. Not a full cackle. No, that would’ve been too generous. This was worse. Cold. Deliberate. Mocking.

“There is no such thing as a retrial,” she said, her voice smooth and quiet, and it made me want to kick her in the throat. And again because it was fun.

I snapped my head toward Bastian, still seated off to the side. Again, there it was, a small crack in his composure, like he wanted to speak up or didn’t agree, but he stayed silent.

Motherfracker.

Morgana waited until the noise dulled to stunned silence. Then she turned to the crowd, her gaze sweeping across the broken, frightened faces like she was assessing the damage and finding it all... satisfying.

“However,” said Morgana, her voice syrupy with false sympathy, “there may be a solution.”

The gym froze.

I braced myself because my witchy instincts told me what she was about to say would be bad.

Morgana looked straight at me. “If you give me what I want,” she said, “I will personally reverse every rune. Every suppression mark will be lifted. Your magic restored. Your names cleared.”

Silence.

Then, “Give her what she wants!” cried a voice.

“Yes, please give it to her,” shouted another.

It was my turn to feel like I was about to throw up because I knew exactly what she wanted.

Morgana never looked away as she said, “Give me Darian Davenport, and all this goes away.”

Oh, crrrraapppp.

21

MARCUS

Pain was the first thing I felt.

A low, insistent throb pulsed at the base of my skull, like someone had hammered nails through bone and left them there to hum in time with my heartbeat. I blinked, winced, and blinked again.

Stone ceiling. Damp air. Chains.

I pushed up slowly from the cot, if you could call it that, and glanced down at my side. The shirt was torn, darkened with blood, dried in thick swipes like someone had tried to clean it but had given up halfway through.

That’s when I saw them.

New scars. Fresh.

Three jagged lines just below my ribcage, still red, angry, and laced with something darker than ordinary pain. I touched one, and fire licked through me.

Cursed blade.

Son of a bitch.

I sat back, my breath coming slower now as my eyes adjusted to the dim light. The cell was made of cold, dark stone, the kind that smelled of old metal and older secrets. One narrow window slit let in the weak gray morning, and I knew—just knew—we were still deep in the Adirondacks.

They hadn’t moved me far. Didn’t need to. They thought I wasn’t a threat anymore.

They were wrong.

I’d felt it the moment the blade touched me. They’d reawakened the curse. Maybe not the full thing but enough to stir the part Soren hadn’t removed. Like they were poking at it. Testing it. Seeing what would happen if they fed it again.

This wasn’t just about silencing me. This was about finishing what they’d started years ago.

The order wasn’t done with me. Not yet.

My jaw clenched. The order had marked me again. But I wasn’t just some broken dog they could leash. I was a chief. An alpha. A husband. A father.

Tessa.

I sat up straighter despite the pain, my breath coming hard. She needed me. She needed me now. Her last text hadn’t said much, but I just knew it was time to go home. Like something invisible and unbreakable had yanked tight between us in the night.

I’d left to protect them, to destroy the order before they could touch my family again, but they already had. I could feel it in my bones, in the wrongness clawing at the back of my skull.

I had to get out.

I scanned the room. Stone walls. Iron door. No guards. No windows low enough to reach. But there was always a way out. There had to be. I’d tear this place down brick by brick if I had to.

The handle turned.

I tensed, my fists curling.

The door opened, and in walked a woman I’d never seen before.

She was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that came with warning signs. Long dark hair, flawless bone structure, a model’s frame in a black trench coat. Her walk was slow, calculated, like she’d been trained to make men fall at her feet.

I didn’t move.

“Marcus,” she purred, as if we were old lovers. “You’re even more impressive up close. Very, very fine, I must say.”

“Who are you?” My voice came out hoarse.

“Mirna.” She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, her lips curved. “I’m here as a… liaison. Of sorts.”

“Where’s Rurik?” I growled.

She smiled wider. “He’s busy, but he sent me instead. Thought you might enjoy the company.”

“Not interested.” Rurik was an idiot if he thought I’d fall for that.

“Mm. You haven’t even heard the offer.” She stepped closer, her hips swaying. “Swear fealty to the order. To Rurik. Join us, and you’ll never be caged again. You’ll be stronger than you ever imagined.”

I stood.

She was quick, already undoing the clasps of her jacket and letting it fall to the floor. She was naked underneath.

Not even a blush.

“You can have me,” she said, walking her fingers up my chest. “All of me. You’d be treated like royalty here. Respected. Desired.”

I stared at her and then laughed.

It was deep and ugly and filled with venom.

Her smile twitched. “What’s so funny?”

“You think I’d sell my soul for a cheap show and some flattering promises?” I sat back down and shook my head. “You’re nothing like her.”

“Her?”

“Tessa.” Her name left my mouth like a vow. “My wife. The woman you could never be. She has strength and class. She doesn’t need to whore herself out because some old man told her to. She fights for what she loves. Not for power.”

The air in the room shifted. Mirna’s expression cracked.

For a heartbeat, I saw the fury behind the pretty face.

She turned away and picked up her jacket with slow, stiff movements.

“You’ll regret this,” she said, her voice cold now.

“I already regret breathing the same air.”

She glared at me as she dressed, each movement jerky, precise. “You’ll beg us for mercy when the purge begins. When the testament resets everything. You’ll see.”

I didn’t respond.

The door creaked open.

Mirna didn’t look at me as she stormed out, her face flushed with anger and humiliation. “He’s all yours,” she muttered coldly.

Then came the sound of boots. Heavy. Measured.

A man stepped into the room like he owned the earth and everything crawling on it. He was taller than me by a few inches, broader too, with battle scars etched across his chest and arms like some twisted roadmap of war. His face was all hard lines and brutal angles, carved from something that didn’t yield. Stone, maybe. Or bone. A cropped cut of dark hair and a short beard streaked with gray gave him the look of someone who’d outlasted too many fights to count.

But his eyes, cold, silver-blue and impossibly still, made the air shift. People followed that kind of gaze without question, a predator’s calm with the quiet confidence of someone who didn’t need to raise his voice to gut you.

He didn’t introduce himself. He didn’t need to.

Rurik Draal.

Because no one else walked into a room like that and made your instincts go still.

Another man walked in behind him. Shorter, compact, built like a cinder block with a buzzed head and a broken nose that hadn’t healed straight. He seemed like the kind of guy who didn’t ask questions, just made people bleed. He didn’t say a word, just nodded once, his eyes like dark steel as they landed on me.

Ash followed. He leaned casually against the wall near the door, his arms crossed, smirking like he’d just won a bet. Smug bastard. Wouldn’t mind pounding him in a second time. Or a third.

“The great Marcus Durand,” said Rurik, his voice smooth and low. “Still breathing. Impressive.”

I stayed seated, flexed my fingers, and stared him down. “Cut the drama. What do you want?”

Rurik glanced at the cot and then at the room, like he was mildly disappointed by the accommodations. “I expected the curse would’ve broken you by now. Turned you into the beast you feared.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” I growled.

Ash let out a snort. “Told you. He’s done. No bite left.”

Rurik ignored him. “But it didn’t break you. Did it?” He tilted his head. “Was it her? Your witch? Did she save you?”

I smiled. “Go fuck yourself.”

That earned a grin from the other wereape. Ash chuckled, too, but Rurik remained composed, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“We can use a man like you, Marcus. You were once the strongest alpha in the East. Respected. Feared. You were on the edge of something great… until you threw it away to become chief in some polluted little town and mated with a witch.”

I stood slowly. My body ached, but I didn’t show it. “You mean until I rejected your little supremacist cult?”

“You call it that. I call it restoration.” He spread his arms, his voice rising just a fraction. “A future where our kind reigns as they were meant to. Pure. Unbroken. A purge is coming, Marcus. One that will cleanse the bloodlines. No more corruption. No more half-breeds. Just the old ways, reborn.”

“Then why offer me a seat at your twisted table?”

“Because I see something in you,” Rurik said. “Something that survived the curse. Something that fought its way out of the dark.”

“I didn’t fight for you,” I snapped. “I fought for my family. For my wife. For my son. And I’d rather burn this place to the ground than stand beside you.”

Ash tsked, pushing off the wall. “Told you. He’s soft now.”

But Rurik still watched me. “No. He’s not soft. Just angry. Misguided.” Then his expression shifted, colder now. “But that will change.”

I smiled, slow and sharp. “Keep dreaming.”

Rurik circled me like an alpha sizing up a wounded rival, his steps unhurried, voice as casual as if we were discussing weather patterns and not the fact that I was chained to a wall in his underground lair. “So,” he said finally. “Why did you come?”

I gave him a slow grin. “Felt like exploring the winter wilderness. Thought I’d stretch my legs. Breathe in some fresh cult air.”

The shorter, stocky one snorted. “Bullshit. We should end him now. He knows where we are.”

Rurik waved at him. “No, let him continue, Toma.” He looked back at me. “Maybe,” he said, “you were curious. Maybe… deep down, you see something in us you don’t want to admit to yourself.”

I raised a brow. “What’s that?”

“You belong with us.”

I laughed once. Short. Sharp. “You mean your little death cult of purity and control? That’s not belonging, Rurik. That’s delusion.”

“No,” he said, with the kind of calm certainty that made my hands twitch for a throat. “It’s purpose. Strength. Lineage. You’ve spent your whole life trying to act like you weren’t born from blood. But it’s in you. Your mother knew that. She was one of us once.”

I felt the growl building in my throat before I could stop it. “She was wrong. She changed. She left.”

“She left because of you,” he said, his voice still maddeningly calm. “But it doesn’t change what she was. Or what you are.”

“She’s not part of this anymore,” I snapped. “And I never was. You want someone to chant your mantras and drink your poisoned bloodline juice? Find someone weaker.”

“Ah,” Rurik said, his smile thin. “There it is. That fire. You think that rage makes you free. But it makes you ours. It’s the same rage we were forged from. You’re just too proud to admit it.”

“I’d rather die than join you.”

“Good,” he said, “because you will.”

He stepped closer, and his silver-blue eyes were all ice and inevitability. “It’ll be slow. It’ll be painful. And it will be the last lesson you learn.”

Toma moved to the door. Ash followed with one last smug glance like he couldn’t wait to watch me die.

Rurik turned as the heavy door creaked open. “Let the curse in, Marcus. That’s all I ask. Let it show you what you really are.”

I paced the length of my chains, my mind whirring.

They were going to kill me. They’d already decided that—a slow, painful death, like I was some animal they were putting down for sport. I’d seen what they did to traitors. I wasn’t stupid. But if they thought I was going to just sit here and let them carve me up like meat, they didn’t know me at all.

There was one way out. One chance.

The old ways.

Even sick, twisted bastards like the Order of Fenrir still bowed to that. A challenge.

It was ancient law. If I called him out, Rurik couldn’t ignore it. Not without looking weak. And a man like him? A man obsessed with dominance and control? He’d never let that happen. Not in front of Ash. Not in front of Toma. Not in front of whatever pack of blood-drunk followers waited in the shadows.

I waited until the footsteps outside returned—Rurik’s heavy tread followed by Ash’s more erratic stride and Toma’s dead-silent approach. They weren’t far. Just outside the door.

Perfect.

I stepped forward, blood humming in my veins. “Rurik!”

Silence.

Then the door creaked open again.

He stepped inside, alone this time. No smug smile. No swagger. Just those cold eyes watching me, calculating.

“You change your mind about dying?” he asked.

I straightened. “I invoke the Rite of Challenge. You and me. One on one. You win, you can do whatever the hell you want with my corpse. But if I win—”

“You won’t.”

“But if I do,” I growled, “I walk out of here. And you tell your dogs to stand down.”

Ash appeared in the doorway, grinning like he’d just heard the world’s funniest joke. “He’s serious.”

Toma didn’t grin. He just crossed his arms and watched.

Rurik tilted his head, studying me like a man who’d just discovered a roach had grown fangs. “You think a challenge is going to change your fate?”

“I think it’s the only chance I’ve got to take you down with me.”

His jaw ticked. And I saw it. That flicker of calculation. He couldn’t say no. Not here. Not now. Not with his men watching. The old ways weren’t just ritual to men like him. They were law. Identity. Power. If he refused, he’d lose all three.

He stepped forward slowly, his gaze sharp. “So be it,” he said at last.

Ash’s eyes lit up, wild and gleeful. “You’re gonna kill him.” He laughed, that grating, high-pitched sound echoing too loudly in the narrow stone corridor. “Then I’m going after his witch. That pretty little thing of his?” He leaned against the doorway, his eyes glinting with something feral. “When you’re gone, she’s fair game. All of us will take her. One by one. And when we’re done, we’ll make her watch while we rip that little abomination of a son to pieces.”

The rage hit so fast, I didn’t feel my legs move.

The chains groaned as I lunged forward, my shoulders straining as the metal bit into my wrists. “I will kill you for that,” I growled. “I will tear your throat out with my teeth.”

Ash didn’t back off. He grinned wider. “Big talk from a dead man.” Then he tilted his head in mock thought. “You know Rurik’s never lost a challenge. Right? Never. Not once. Not when he was young, not now. He’s faster, stronger, smarter. You’re just a relic, Marcus. A broken alpha who got soft the moment he lay with a witch.”

My breathing turned to fire. Every muscle in my body trembled with the need to shift, to rip something apart.

Rurik’s voice cut through the haze like ice. “Enough.”

Ash stepped back, still smiling like the bastard he was.

Rurik looked at me, calm, cold. “One of us dies tonight, Marcus Durand.”

I smiled, all teeth. “Good.”

“You wanted a fight, Marcus,” said Rurik. “You’ll get one.”

I stood there, breathing hard, chains taut and my muscles screaming. “Touch my family,” I snarled, “and I’ll make what I do to you look like mercy.”

Rurik’s mouth curved into a slow, awful smile. “Then I suggest you win, Marcus. Because if you don’t, she’s next.”

He turned and walked out, Ash trailing behind him with that maddening grin.

The door slammed shut behind them.

And I stood alone in the dark, my blood boiling and fists clenched in chains.

It wasn’t just about survival anymore.

It was about ending this, ending him.

And getting back to the only people who mattered.

Tessa. Darian.

Hold on, baby. I’m coming.

Because if Rurik had never lost a battle… Then I was about to make history.

22

TESSA

You know those out-of-body experiences people talk about, where your soul floats above you, observing your life like it’s a bad reality show you didn’t sign up for? Yeah. I was having one of those.

Only it wasn’t peaceful or transcendent or whatever the brochures claim.

It was more like: I just heard Morgana Draeven offer to restore the entire town’s magic in exchange for my child, and now I’m disassociating so I don’t punch her in the throat.

She’d actually said it. With a straight face. Give her my son—my baby—and she’d kindly undo the magical lobotomy she’d just performed on nearly every witch in Hollow Cove.

Generous. In a Voldemort-meets-cult-leader kind of way.

And while the offer had been aimed at me, it involved everyone. Every marked witch. Every person who’d just had their power torn from them like a limb.

So naturally, they were all staring at me.

I felt a shift beside me and turned. Iris had moved closer. Her face was pale, drawn tight with worry, and her eyes flicked across the bleachers like she was bracing for a riot. “This is bad,” she whispered.

No argument there.

That’s when I started to hear it. The whispers.

At first, just a few, low and tentative. Then more. Picking up volume. Gaining momentum.

“She’s asking for her kid…”

“...we’d get our powers back.”

“...just a baby. Right?”

“We’d be witches again…”

Each word tightened something in my chest. Heat crept up my neck, and my skin tingled with the sharp edge of panic.

Morgana stood near the mages at the front of the gym, looking completely pleased with herself. Her posture was relaxed, her arms at her sides and not a hair out of place in that ridiculous braid-horn-bun she called a hairstyle. She was drinking in the reaction like a fine wine, as though this had been her plan all along. Yeah, it was. And she’d played it well.

Behind me, I heard Beverly hiss, “Only ugly women stoop that low. And she’s very ugly.”

Ruth looked genuinely queasy, clutching her stomach like she might hurl. “They’ll never say yes to that,” she whispered.

Yeah. Some of them were. Not all. But enough.

The gym was a pressure cooker, and I was standing right over the burner.

And my son, my sweet, giggling, innocent Darian, had just become the bargaining chip.

I really hated that mage. I felt something twist in my chest—not fear but good ol’ rage. Because if Morgana Draeven thought for one second that I’d hand over my son to fix the magic she broke…

She was about to find out just how violently wrong she was.

“So,” said Morgana, her voice like silk wrapped around broken glass. “What will it be, Tessa Davenport?”

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t blink. I just tilted my head and smiled, all teeth. “How about you go screw yourself?”

That got a reaction.

Morgana’s mages chuckled behind her, sharing smug little glances like they’d just been told the peasant made a funny. One of them, a bald guy with a smirk too big for his face, actually laughed out loud.

“She’s got spirit,” he said to Morgana.

“Shame,” replied Morgana, “that spirit won’t help her.” Then she turned back to me, her expression cool and falsely sympathetic. “Are you truly that selfish, Tessa? That you’d ignore the desperate cries of these witches for the sake of one child? Not even for his safety. Just for evaluation. That doesn’t speak well of you.”

And that’s when the whispering started again but this time louder. It was becoming less like a whisper and more like… shouting with manners.

“She should consider it,” said a voice.

“Might not be so bad,” said another.

“She’s being selfish!”

“It’s just an evaluation!”

“We all lost everything!”

Behind me, I heard Ronin let out a low growl. “Shut the fuck up.” He stood, tall and furious, his eyes flashing like he was one comment away from turning this gym into a pile of broken bleachers and regret. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

I took a step forward, forcing my voice to rise above the wave of muttering, fear, and betrayal. “Are you that stupid?” I shouted. “Do you really think that’s all she wants?” A beat of silence. “She just removed your powers,” I snarled. “And now she wants my son? You think that’s some kind of coincidence?”

Morgana didn’t move. Didn’t speak. She just smiled.

The crowd wavered but not enough. Some looked guilty, others angry. A few just looked tired. Like maybe giving up my kid sounded easier than standing their ground.

That was when Dolores stepped up to Morgana, her shoulders squared and chin up. “There must be another way,” she said firmly. “Darian is just a baby. He’s not ready to be evaluated by anyone.”

Morgana’s smile vanished. She turned her gaze on Dolores like she was about to burn a hole through her skull. “Your position as mayor is over, Dolores. You no longer speak for this town. The Gray Council speaks now.”

Dolores flinched like Morgana had physically slapped her across the face. My tall aunt just stood there, and I could see that hard exterior break.

“But… but… “ stuttered Dolores. Damn. I’d never seen her stammer like that. It broke my heart, but it also did something else. It pissed me off.

Gasps rippled through the gym. And just like that, the temperature dropped ten degrees.

Beverly hissed, “Oh, no she didn’t.”

Ruth made a face as her eyes locked on Morgana. “I should break my green cauldron over her head.”

I watched Morgana while the witches of Hollow Cove began to turn on each other.

And my heart broke a little more. Because this was exactly what she wanted. To divide us. To make me the villain. To make it easier to take Darian.

And I’d be damned if I let her get one inch closer.

Movement caught my eye. Bastian Reyes, our so-called interim chief, was slipping quietly toward the back exit. No announcement. No word. Just turning his coat and vanishing like he hadn’t witnessed the world about to split in half.

“Hey!” I shouted. “Do something!”

Bastian paused, only halfway to the door.

“You’re the chief,” I said, storming forward a step. “You can’t just walk away. You can’t let her do this. You can’t agree to all of this—”

“I don’t,” he said, his voice was flat and dry, “but this is the council’s decision. I have no authority to override it.”

Coward.

I didn’t say it quietly either. “You’re a coward, Bastian!”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t turn back. He kept walking—out the door and out of the fight.

The gym doors groaned shut behind him.

“Well,” came Morgana’s voice, casual and cutting. “I suppose we know where your allies stand.”

I turned back to face her, my blood boiling. She looked me over like she was scanning for weakness. And then, just like that, her smile sharpened.

“Where is Darian?” she asked lightly. “Is he… at your mother’s house, perhaps? Amelia’s not much of a witch, but I’m sure she can manage a diaper or two.”

My heart slammed into my ribs.

She knew.

She knew.

I didn’t speak. Couldn’t. My throat locked up as Morgana’s eyes found mine, and satisfaction gleamed behind them.

“Ah,” she said, taking a slow step forward. “There it is. That look. That fear. You know what that tells me?” She leaned in, her voice a silky blade. “You can’t hide him, no matter how clever you think you are. I will take your son, Tessa. Give him to me freely… and these people…” She gestured to the gym, the crowded bleachers full of trembling witches. “Will remember you as a savior. A hero.”

The room pulsed with silence.

“She’s lying,” Iris growled from behind me. “Don’t listen to her.”

“She’s a manipulator,” Ronin added, next to Iris. “A puppet master with bad hair.”

I took a breath, feeling the rage crawl up my spine, slow and volcanic. “You can dress it up however you want,” I said. “But this isn’t an evaluation. It’s a hunt. And my kid will not be your prey.”

“Oh, but he is,” said Morgana, her tone still smooth, still calm. “Because power like his doesn’t get to exist unchecked. He was born outside the council’s rules. He’s unclassified. Unbound. That makes him dangerous.”

I shook my head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Whispers surged again, but I barely heard them over the white noise roaring in my ears.

Morgana turned slowly, her expression serene, as if she was offering free coupons, not betrayal. “Anyone who brings me Darian Davenport,” she announced, “will have their magic restored. Fully. Permanently.”

No.

For half a second, the gym was silent. Then it erupted.

Chairs scraped. People shouted. Witches stood, shoved past each other, some leaping from the bleachers like they were in a Black Friday sale at a cauldron store.

They were leaving. All of them. Running to find my kid.

The pressure in my chest spiked like a detonated curse. They knew where he was now. Everyone did. They were going to take him. They were going to hurt him.

“Tessa?” Iris’s voice reached me through the static in my head. But it felt far away. Underwater. I couldn’t answer.

I couldn’t even breathe. So I did the only thing I could.

I yanked on my magic and called out to the nearest ley line. I grabbed it with all I had and jumped.

Magic split the world in two for a blink, colors and wind and cold slicing through my skin.

And then a few seconds later I landed.

In my mother’s living room.

“Ah!” she screamed.

“Mom, it’s me,” I said, already crossing the floor.

Darian was in the middle of the rug with a stuffed bear and an open box of dried cereal. He blinked up at me and then giggled. “Mommy.”

I scooped him up in one motion, clutching him to my chest. It wasn’t the first time he’d said that word, but it hit me like it was. I held him close. Maybe too close.

My father stepped out from the hallway. He took one look at me—really looked—and his face turned to granite. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“They’re coming.” I met his gaze. “The whole town. Morgana took their magic away with these audits. And now, she just offered it back. All they have to do is hand her Darian.”

My mother gasped. Her face twisted with horror and then fury. “Over my dead body.”

“Believe me, that’s part of the problem.” I could feel it. That motherly protectiveness coming off her like steam. Even with her being a magical dud, she was ready to fight. And I was too.

But I couldn’t risk it. We needed something bigger. Stronger. Safer.

“Why don’t you take him in a ley line with you?” offered my mother. “You can go anywhere.”

My thoughts raced. “I don’t want to go on the run with Darian. That isn’t a life. I won’t do that to him.”

But there was one place, one realm, where Morgana couldn’t follow.

I turned to my father. “Can he survive the Netherworld?”

Obiryn blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“Can he breathe that air? Can he live there?” My voice shook. “Will he be safe?”

He stared at me for a second and then nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said. “I believe he can. You want me to take him?”

“Yes,” I said, my heart shattering in real time. “It’s the only safe place left.”

A car pulled into the driveway. Tires crunched on frozen gravel.

That wasn’t my aunts’ Volvo.

My mother’s eyes widened. “Hurry.”

I kissed Darian’s head once—twice. “Mommy will see you soon. Okay?” My voice cracked. “I promise.”

Darian placed his little hands on my cheeks and looked right into me—like he knew. Like he understood everything and was telling me it would be okay.

And that nearly shattered me.

My father took him gently. “I’ll keep him hidden. No one. Not even the demons, will lay a finger on him. I promise.”

Another car pulled up outside.

I nodded, not able to form words as tears welled in my eyes and my throat burned.

The basement door opened. My father stepped inside, holding my child. Then the door shut.

Gone.

Just like that.

And I broke.

The tears came hard and fast, and I let them. Because my son was gone.

But he was safe.

And I would burn this whole damn town down before I let anyone take him.

23

MARCUS

The chains bit into my wrists with every step.

It was early morning, but you wouldn’t know it. Heavy, snow-laden clouds hung low over the mountains, casting everything in a shadowed gray. It felt more like night than day. Cold, dark, and still.

Snow drifted down in thick, silent curtains. It melted on my shoulders, vanishing against the heat rolling off me like steam from a wildfire.

The cold didn’t touch me. Not today.

Not with what was coming.

Toma and Ash walked ahead, smug and silent, leading me through the narrow passage cut into the side of the rock. The passage widened, the sound of drums vibrating through the stone floor, deeper and older than anything I’d ever heard.

But the drums weren’t what haunted me.

It was the last message from Tessa.

Still burned into my mind like it had been carved there with a blade.

Something’s happened. It’s bad. I can feel it. I think they’re after Darian. Please. Come home. I’m afraid.

She never said that. Never admitted fear, not out loud. But I’d read it between the lines. In every word she didn’t type. And I wasn’t there.

I’d left her. I’d left them. Chasing ghosts. Chasing revenge. Chasing some damned alpha instinct that told me I had to take the fight to the order before they took it to me.

Stupid. I should’ve been home. With her and our son. Instead, I was here—about to fight a monster in front of two hundred bloodthirsty shifters with nothing but pain in their eyes and rules carved in stone.

Regret twisted in my gut, but it was too late to turn back. Too late to undo any of it.

All I could do now… was survive.

And then crawl, limp, or bleed my way back to her. To them.

Because no matter what happened in that arena—win or lose, live or die—I would not let my son grow up without a father.

And I would not leave Tessa to face that hell alone.

Not ever.

After a moment we emerged. The arena was carved into the mountain itself. Stone benches in tight rings circled a wide pit, snow dusting the edges of every surface. Rough statues of gorillas stood like silent gods at each corner, watching with blank, judging stares.

Two hundred wereapes, maybe more—male, female, all shapes and all sizes—packed into the seats like they were attending the damn Super Bowl. And not one of them made a sound.

They didn’t need to. Their eyes were enough.

At the center of the ring stood Rurik Draal, bare-chested, scarred, towering.

And next to him, the snake herself, Mirna, coiled around him. She ran her long fingers over his shoulders and whispered something into his ear that made him smile.

I wanted to rip out his throat just for that.

Ash gave me a shove toward the ring. “Dead man walking,” he muttered with a grin. “Shame, really. I was hoping you’d last long enough to hear your little witch scream when we come for her. Maybe I’ll keep her for a while. Teach her obedience. And that abomination of a kid?” He made a slicing gesture across his throat. “Gone.”

I didn’t look at him. Didn’t flinch. He wanted to rattle me, rattle the beast inside me.

Too bad. I was steel now.

I turned to Toma, who was already unlocking the shackles at my wrists. “There rules to this?”

Toma met my eyes, his face unreadable. “One rule. The one who dies loses.”

The chains clattered to the ground.

The drums thundered louder. Primal and ancient.

I stepped forward, ready to make history bleed.

I stood alone now, facing the bastard who’d cursed me. He wanted my son dead and thought this was going to be easy.

“Marcus Durand,” said Rurik, stepping forward, his voice thick with mockery. “Chief of Hollow Cove. Traitor to his kind. Look at you. Just a man. No kingdom. No pack.”

“Still standing,” I said. “What’s your excuse?”

He laughed, a deep, grating sound. “You came here to die. Didn’t you?”

“No,” I said, flexing my fists and rolling my shoulders. “I came here to kill you.”

Mirna hissed something, but Rurik waved her off. “You could’ve had a place with us. We offered you power. Legacy.”

“You offered me slavery,” I growled.

“You’d call it that,” Rurik said with a low chuckle, circling slowly through the snow-dusted arena. His breath steamed in the cold air. “But you’ve been shackled by your witch for too long. I see it in your eyes. The beast is starving. You’ve clipped your own claws for her. For them.”

I didn’t answer, because he wasn’t wrong.

But that didn’t mean I was giving it to him.

Rurik smiled, all cold satisfaction. “It’s a shame, Marcus. You could’ve stood beside me. Watched the world reset. Watched the bloodline purified again. The Testament of Korr-Duun will usher in a new era, and you won’t live to see it.” He stopped in front of me, his arms wide. “The Purge is coming. A beautiful cleansing. And you? You’ll be just another relic buried beneath it.”

A murmur swept the crowd, barely a whisper but there. A shift in the air. Unease.

I raised my head and locked eyes with him. “You’re wrong,” I said, my voice hard. “You call it cleansing, but it’s murder. You curse your own kind because they won’t bend to your twisted version of purity. That’s not leadership. That’s fear.”

Rurik’s jaw tightened.

“I’ve seen what you’re willing to do,” I continued. “Your own kind. Killed. Cursed. All because they don’t fit your version of purity. You hide behind words like legacy and strength to justify your sickness, but even your people are starting to see it.”

I glanced around. The wereapes in the crowd weren’t cheering. They weren’t chanting. They were watching closely. Some frowning and some shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

Rurik noticed it too. And that flicker of doubt in his eyes? It was the first crack.

“You think this ends with me?” I said, my voice steady and strong. “You think the other wereape clans are going to roll over and let you rewrite what it means to be one of us?”

Rurik’s jaw clenched.

“I’m just one wereape,” I went on. “But hundreds of thousands live around the world. Clans older than this mountain, stronger…wiser. And when they find out what you’ve done, what you’re doing, they won’t send messengers.” I took a step forward, my voice rising. “They’ll come for you, Rurik. All of them. And they won’t stop until you and your so-called order are nothing but blood in the snow and broken names in forgotten tombs. That’s not a threat. That’s a guarantee.”

A hush spread through the ring. Some of the younger wereapes looked at each other uneasily. One woman near the front, with a long scar down her temple, folded her arms and sat back, clearly no longer impressed.

Rurik’s expression didn’t change, but I saw it. The tightness in his mouth, the flicker in his eyes. He heard the silence. Felt it.

“I’m not afraid of whispers,” he said, low and cold.

“No,” I said. “You’re afraid of the truth. That even your own people are starting to question you.”

Murmurs stirred behind him. Uneven. Hesitant.

He glanced over his shoulder, just for a second, but it was enough. He was rattled.

And I wasn’t done yet.

“You done?” said Rurik, his voice colder now.

“Just getting started.”

The drums surged again, louder, faster.

And the snow kept falling.

“I’ve killed better men than you,” said Rurik, his eyes flashing. “You won’t make it five minutes.”

“Then stop stalling and prove it.”

The drums stopped. The arena held its breath.

Rurik didn’t hesitate. He tore off his coat, unstrapped the leather bands on his wrists, and tossed them to the snow-dusted dirt.

And then he beasted out.

Bones cracked. Muscle stretched. His roar split the air. One second he was a man, and the next, a silverback gorilla with jagged scars across his chest stood nearly ten feet tall and thick with muscle that looked forged in violence.

The crowd stirred.

Yeah, he was a big son of a bitch.

I didn’t wait. I let the shift take me. Heat tore through me. My bones groaned and limbs lengthened. Fur exploded across my skin. I hit the ground in full form, my massive knuckles digging into the snow. I was still smaller than him but not by much. And definitely not in spirit.

The torches roared around us as the crowd rose to their feet.

And then Rurik charged.

His fists came down like hammers. I ducked the first, caught the second across my shoulder, and rolled just as he slammed both fists into the ground, splintering frozen dirt and ice.

We circled.

He bared his teeth. “Uuu weeeek,” he snarled in slurred words.

“Ffuuck yuuu,” I grunted, my chest heaving.

He lunged again. Fists and elbows flying. A brutal kick to the side of my ribs cracked something deep. I went down on one knee but came up swinging and nailed him across the jaw. He staggered but didn’t fall.

This wasn’t just a fight. This was war.

The drums were gone now. No rhythm except breath. No sound but snarls and grunts and the impact of flesh on flesh. I tried to grab his arm, twist him. He flipped me over like I was nothing and brought a boulder of a fist down on my back.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Each hit was a mountain dropping on my back.

The ground cracked beneath me, snow hissing from the heat of my blood. My vision went sideways, blurred at the edges, like the cold itself was trying to take me out of the fight. I sucked in a breath, ragged, wet, and pushed up with trembling arms.

Not done.

I roared, lunged, and caught Rurik with a fist to the ribs that made him grunt and stumble back a step.

My bones screamed and muscles burned, but I didn’t stop.

I went at him again, hook to the jaw, an elbow to the neck, a low hit to his thigh. Anything to bring the bastard down.

But Rurik was already recovering.

He turned fast, too fast, and caught me mid-swing as he gripped my forearm and twisted. Bone cracked, and I howled, dropping to one knee as he kneed me in the chest so hard I heard ribs break.

Then came the fist.

Straight across my face. My jaw lit up in white-hot agony. My ears rang. I staggered back, the world tilting.

I blinked. I couldn’t see straight. Could barely breathe.

Rurik grabbed my throat and lifted me off the ground like I weighed nothing. His silver-blue eyes gleamed with triumph, like something unhinged.

“Diiiieee,” he snarled.

And then he slammed me into the earth.

Snow sprayed. The stone beneath me cracked. Blood filled my mouth. The pain was everywhere. My body didn’t feel like mine anymore. It was a collection of broken parts barely stitched together by rage.

Rurik stalked forward, his chest heaving and eyes wild. “Diiiiee,” he growled. Then he stopped over my body and said a single word.

“Tessss-ah.”

The way he said it… low and taunting, like he was already picturing her scream.

My world went still.

Tessa.

And Darian.

I saw them—clearer than the snow, brighter than the torches. My mate’s smile. My son’s laugh.

No.

Something tore open in me. Not pain. Not fear.

Rage.

Love.

Power.

The curse flared like fire in my veins, but not wild this time. It was sharp. Focused. Mine.

I surged to my feet with a roar so deep it rattled the earth.

Rurik blinked, once, twice, his hulking form pausing mid-step like his brain hadn’t caught up to what his eyes were seeing.

That I was standing, bloodied and broken, but not beaten.

Rurik’s snarl faltered, just for a heartbeat. Confusion flickered in those cold silver-blue eyes.

I saw it.

That crack in the armor. The surprise. The oh-shit realization that I wasn’t done. That maybe, just maybe the curse that was supposed to kill me had made me stronger. That somehow, against all odds, I was still moving, still breathing, still coming.

Too late.

I slammed into him like a boulder, fists flying. He caught one but missed the next three. I drove him back and kept going, fist after fist in a combo that shook his massive body.

Then I did what he didn’t expect. I got under his swing, locked my arms around his waist, and lifted.

And I threw him.

The earth shook as the monster hit the ground hard. He tried to rise, but I was already on him. Blow after blow my fists became a storm.

Until he stopped moving.

Until there was only me.

Standing over the body of the monster who’d threatened my mate. My son. My town.

And for the first time in hours, maybe days… I could breathe.

The curse simmered quietly inside me. Not gone. Not yet. But settled. For now.

Ash bolted from the edge of the ring, his boots slamming into the snowy ground. He dropped beside Rurik’s broken form, shoved a hand against the massive chest, and felt for a pulse.

His head jerked up, his face pale with fury. “He’s dead,” he spat. “Rurik is dead!”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Wereapes stood from the stone seats, murmurs of disbelief rising.

Then Ash turned on me, his eyes wild. “Kill him!” he bellowed, pointing a trembling, blood-streaked hand at me. “Now! Do it! Kill the impure!”

From the corner of my eye I saw Toma hesitate, just a flicker. But then he started forward too, his fists clenched and his face dark with rage and confusion.

My limbs screamed, lungs heaving for air, but I lifted my chin and stared them both down. If they came for me, they were going to bleed.

But before either of them could take another step—

“Stop!”

The voice snapped like a command, unyielding and final.

Everyone froze.

A hush fell over the arena. Even the wind stopped howling for half a breath.

From the far end of the ring, a figure emerged, old and ancient—the kind of old that came with cracked bones, a curved spine, and eyes that had seen the rise and fall of many wereape clans.

The man shuffled forward in layered robes that hung off his narrow frame like frost-dusted parchment. His long, white beard swayed with each step. Wrinkled hands clasped a walking stick carved with gorillas.

Even Ash backed up, just slightly.

The old man stopped in the center of the arena and turned to the crowd. His voice carried with the kind of authority that didn’t need to shout.

“The old ways have spoken,” he said, his voice dry as old parchment. He turned to me. “The challenge was made. The prime fell.” He paused for a beat. “The law is law.”

I stared at him, my chest heaving, barely understanding what was happening.

And then he raised one thin, trembling arm and pointed directly at me.

“Marcus Durand… is prime fist!”

The crowd erupted in chaos, shouts, and shock. A few fell to their knees in submission. Some looked horrified. Others… seemed relieved.

Ash stood frozen, his jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth might shatter.

I didn’t move. I couldn’t. Not until the weight of what he said finally hit me.

Prime fist.

Me.

Holy hell.

I wasn’t simply alive.

I’d just taken the throne.

24

MARCUS

Iwas still bleeding when they crowned me king.

Prime fist.

The title settled on my shoulders like a mountain, cold and unwelcome. I hadn’t asked for it. Hadn’t come here for it. Hell, I didn’t even know what being prime fist meant until they all started bowing their damn heads.

And now here I was, standing barefoot in the snow, my heart still thundering from the fight, wondering how the hell I was going to get back to my family.

“Told you,” came Ash’s voice behind me. “He’s not fit. This is a mistake. He should die. Kill this bastard. Now. He’s not one of us.”

The ancient wereape who’d called me prime fist ignored him. He looked like he’d been carved from petrified wood—bent, wiry, with long gray hair bound in copper rings and eyes that had seen too much and stopped being surprised long ago. He stepped closer, the crowd parting as if instinctively recognizing the weight he carried.

“I am Oris Vell,” he said. “Elder of the order. Keeper of the old ways.” His gaze swept over me—assessing, sharp, but not unkind. “Your fight is done. Shift back, Prime Fist.”

I did. Slowly. Bones grinding, muscles tightening, pain flaring with every snap. But I kept my face still. Kept my eyes on the crowd. Some of them were still wide-eyed. Others—gods help me—looked hopeful.

A sharp, keening wail pierced through the murmurs, and I turned to see Mirna throwing herself across Rurik’s lifeless body, her long dark hair spilling over his bloodied chest and sobs racking her frame like she was auditioning for a tragic opera. Nails clawed at his shoulders, streaked with dirt and ash. She pressed her face to his, whispering something I didn’t care to hear as her lips trembled with devotion, or madness. Hard to tell.

Then she looked up and locked eyes with me. And that was no grief in her stare. It was hate. Pure, venom-laced hate. That kind of look promised vengeance and pain.

I held her gaze calmly, unflinching, because I’d seen that kind of fury before. Hell, I’d carried it. And I knew what it was, impotent, empty, the last desperate scream of someone who’d lost the one thing they thought would make them powerful.

She had nothing now. And I still had everything that mattered.

Tessa. Darian.

And a reason to burn this whole twisted order to the ground if it ever touched them again. So I stared right back and then turned away like she wasn’t even worth the dirt on my feet.

“Tania,” called Oris, waving a thin hand to the crowd.

A woman stepped forward, young with curly black hair and arms wrapped around a bundle of clothes. She didn’t speak, just held them out with a slight bow.

Jeans. A long-sleeved shirt. Heavy boots. A coat lined with fur that probably once belonged to something large and angry.

Before I touched them, I looked over to Rurik’s body where it had fallen, massive and broken in the blood-stained snow. His silverback form had shrunk back to human somewhere in the final blow, just a man now. A man who thought he could remake the world in his image and burn anyone who didn’t fit.

I didn’t feel anything. I thought I might. Guilt. Anger. Regret.

But there was nothing.

Not after everything he’d done.

I’d killed before. Some had deserved it. Some hadn’t. That was the part that stayed with me, the ones who hadn’t. The ones twisted by this place, this order, the curse he helped create.

But Rurik had been the one doing the twisting. And now he was gone.

Good.

I pulled the jeans on with steady hands followed by the shirt. My ribs screamed, but they would heal. The boots were stiff, the coat heavy on my shoulders. They smelled like cold stone and smoke. Power. They’d been meant for a king, for the next tyrant.

Too bad they fit me instead.

I looked up, and all around, they were still watching. Waiting. Because their new prime fist had just stepped into Rurik’s skin.

And I had no intention of wearing it the same way.

But the second I fastened the coat, I felt something dangerous settle in the pit of my gut.

“I’m not interested in your order,” I said to Oris, my voice gravel and steel. “You people tortured me. Branded me. Tried to use me to send a message.”

Ash stepped forward, snarling. “You’re not one of us. You mated a witch. She gave birth to a freak—”

“Careful,” I growled, cutting my gaze to him, low and sharp. “The only reason your teeth are still in your skull is because I haven’t decided otherwise.”

“He’s right,” spat Mirna as she lifted her head from Rurik’s bloodied chest, her face streaked with dirt and tears. Her eyes held nothing but venom. “You don’t belong here. You’re tainted. You’ve been softened by the outside. By love. By witches. You don’t know who we are. What we’ve fought for.”

She stood slowly, brushing blood from her knees with deliberate grace, like she wanted the entire crowd to see her and her devotion to Rurik. “You think killing him makes you worthy?” she hissed, stepping closer. “You think you understand what it means to lead us? To carry the burden of bloodline, of tradition?”

Oris didn’t flinch, but his gaze sharpened, tracking every word, every shift in the crowd.

“You’ve spent too long among them,” Mirna continued, pointing a trembling finger at me. “Witches. Vampires. Mutts. You protect them like they’re your own. And now you think you’ll lead us?”

The crowd murmured again. A ripple of unrest. Of doubt.

I stood tall. “I didn’t ask for your crown,” I said. “I don’t give a damn about your titles, but don’t mistake my silence for weakness. I fought for my life in that ring. I bled for it. And while you cling to old rules and ghost stories, I killed the tyrant you followed.”

Ash stepped forward again, fury etched into every line of his body. “He was your better.”

“No,” I said, stepping toward him until we were chest to chest. “He was a relic, and I buried him.”

Mirna hissed, but I kept my eyes on the crowd.

“You think I don’t understand who you are?” I swept my hand toward the stone statues, the wide-eyed children in the back rows, the women, the warriors, the elders clutching walking sticks. “I know exactly who you are. You’re survivors. Fighters. You deserve better than being ruled by fear.”

The following pause was heavy, breathing space for doubt.

Oris cleared his throat. “You may not want the title,” he said, his voice low but commanding. “But it is yours. And whether you accept it or not, these people are watching. Waiting. They will follow strength.”

I looked past him. Past Mirna. Past Ash’s seething jaw.

And deep down, I knew. If I didn’t take the mantle, someone worse would.

And this wasn’t just about the order anymore. It was about what kind of world I wanted for my son. For Darian. One I could shape from the inside. Or one I’d have to keep burning down from the outside.

Hell.

“You killed the prime,” continued Oris calmly. “You are prime fist now. That is the law of the Hall of First Blood. Not even the order can change it.”

Mirna folded her arms tightly across her chest. “This is absurd. He doesn’t believe in purity. He’ll destroy everything we’ve worked for.”

“He will rebuild it,” said Oris. “It is his right.”

I blinked. “You want me to lead this group of lunatics?”

“I want you to change it,” said Oris, his voice taking on a more serious edge. “Not all of us support what the order has become. Rurik distorted the law to serve fear and bloodline. But the bones of our kind… they were built on strength and unity. You can bring that back.”

I turned my head, watching the faces in the crowd, warriors, parents, cubs clutching their mothers. Some stared at me like I was a threat, others like I was a lifeline.

Damnit.

“I didn’t come here for this,” I muttered.

“I know,” said Oris, his voice gravel rough but steady, “but you came. It is fate.”

That hit harder than I wanted to admit.

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, the weight of centuries behind each movement. “The stars foretold it. The scrolls speak of it. Even the stone remembers. The day the old blood would rise, not from ambition… but from necessity.”

I didn’t answer. I was too busy trying to make sense of what he was saying.

“Rurik was power,” Oris went on. “But you… you are balance. We’ve needed that longer than you can understand.”

I clenched my jaw. “I didn’t come here to be your savior.”

“No,” he agreed, his eyes flashing with something that might have been humor. “You came for your mate. Your child. And still, here you are, standing where no one else could.”

I looked down at my boots. Rurik’s boots. And then at the ring of stone and fire where he’d fallen. “I came to kill him,” I said. “That’s it.”

Oris nodded. “And in doing so, you fulfilled a prophecy.”

I scoffed. “You’re telling me some ancient wereape scroll said a half-naked guy from Hollow Cove was going to waltz in here and fix your cult?”

A smile tugged at his lips. “Not in so many words, but yes.”

The silence around us wasn’t silence anymore. It was anticipation. The crowd was holding its breath, waiting for what I would say next.

“You were meant to take his place,” said Oris, his voice lowering, like the truth had weight to it. “Not because you want it. But because only someone who doesn’t crave power can be trusted to wield it.”

I watched the old wereape, the elder, the wiseman, and I realized something.

He believed it. All of it. It was written all over his face, his eyes. And that belief was contagious.

I swallowed hard. “What if you’re wrong?”

He met my gaze without flinching. “Then we’re already lost.”

The wind cut across the arena again, stirring loose flakes of snow and smoke. I stood there, my fingers twitching at my sides, the fur-lined coat heavy on my shoulders but not nearly as heavy as the weight starting to settle on my chest.

Prime fist. Which was just another, older wereape word for alpha.

I’d turned down that title before.

Zeke had offered it to me many times over the years, back when the thought of replacing him as alpha of the New York wereapes made sense on paper. Tradition. Rank. Bloodline.

But I’d said no. Because the truth was, I never wanted to be an alpha of just wereapes.

I wanted to protect people. All people. Not just the ones with fangs and muscles and old-world ideas of strength. Supernaturals, witches, demons, half-breeds, outcasts… the ones the old orders always forgot or tried to erase.

Being chief of Hollow Cove gave me that. It gave me purpose.

Zeke never understood that. To him, leadership was about dominance. Obedience. Keeping your bloodline clean and your enemies in line. But me? I saw the world differently. Always had.

A paranormal town wasn’t just packed with wereapes. It was covens and coves. Shops run by witches. Shifters and weres working next to vampires. A wizard kid who could light up a room, and maybe the entire damn forest, if he got too excited. That was my world. My people.

I wasn’t their chief because I was born stronger. I was their chief because I gave a damn. Because I’d bleed to protect them. All of them.

And now… here I was again.

Another crown. Another title. Another group of wide-eyed followers expecting salvation.

I stared out at the crowd of wereapes—warriors and kids and elders who looked like they’d been hardened by war and winters I’d never experienced.

They wanted something from me.

But could I be both?

Chief of Hollow Cove… and prime fist of the wereapes?

Could I protect my town and lead this brutal clan to something better?

Tessa would probably say yes. She always did when I doubted myself.

And Darian? That boy had more power in his pinky than most of these shifters had in their whole bloodline. He deserved a father who didn’t run from responsibility. He deserved a future where monsters like Rurik Draal didn’t exist.

I exhaled, slow and heavy, my breath curling in the cold air like smoke.

Maybe this was why I came here. Not for revenge but for change. Real change.

The kind that started with blood and ended with something better.

Tessa.

I thought of her text. The worry in her words. I could feel her pulling at me, like a tether through the cold. Darian. Gods, my son. I should’ve been there. Should’ve held her and told her she didn’t have to be strong on her own.

But I wasn’t.

I came here. Let the alpha in me chase vengeance and blood.

And now I was wearing a dead man’s coat, standing in his place, and holding the future of two hundred wereapes in my bruised, bleeding hands.

I looked up at the crowd again. At Ash. At Mirna. At the statues of our ancestors staring down from the cliffs with hollow eyes.

“Fine,” I said. “You want a prime fist? You’ve got one. But I’m not your puppet. I’m not your banner. I’m your reckoning.”

Oris gave a single, satisfied nod.

“Then may the ancestors hear you,” he said, his voice low. “And may they stand beside you.”

I didn’t know if they would. But I knew one thing.

I wasn’t staying here.

I had a witch to get back to. And a son to protect.

No matter what it took.

25

TESSA

Ahard pound slammed against the front door, so loud it rattled the hallway mirror.

Then a voice followed. Gruff, female, and way too close.

“Give us the kid. We know you’re in there.”

My heart stopped.

Another bang, this time harder, like they were trying to break it down.

My mother froze beside me, her eyes wide. “What was that?”

I peeked through the curtain. Three witches stood on the porch. All of them pissed. All of them desperate. One was holding what looked suspiciously like a crowbar.

Great. They weren’t here to talk.

“I knew this would happen,” my mother hissed. “This is what happens when you flaunt your power.”

“I don’t flaunt my power, Mother.”

Another slam.

“Open the door, Amelia!” shouted another voice. “Just hand him over. We won’t hurt anyone!”

Bullshit.

I turned to my mother. “We’re leaving.”

She blinked. “What? But where are we going?”

“We’re leaving,” I repeated, grabbing her arm. “Now.”

A third slam. The wood splintered near the lock.

I stared at her, hard. “Would you prefer to fight three unhinged witches with crowbars?”

She didn’t answer, but the fear on her face answered for her.

I reached out and yanked a ley line with my free hand. The magic snapped against me, already tuned to the coordinates I’d set in my head.

The door groaned behind us.

My mother made a face. “I swear to the council, if they ruin my antique floor tiles—”

“Hang on,” I said.

And just as the door creaked inward and a boot shoved into the frame, the ley line yanked us into its current—and we disappeared.

A few seconds later, we landed with a thump, right between a row of dusty hairdryers and a shelf lined with shampoo bottles from three decades ago. The smell of burnt lavender, singed hair, and what might’ve been expired perm solution hit me square in the face.

My mother straightened, blinking at the lineup of cracked vinyl chairs, curlers dangling from rusting hooks, and a wall mirror covered in lipstick notes and sticky charms. A faded poster of a 1980s updo glared at us from above the register.

She turned slowly, taking in the hot pink manicure table with a chipped glass top, the tower of nail polish bottles, and the wax warmer bubbling ominously in the corner.

Her nose wrinkled. “You brought me to Martha’s?”

“You’ll live,” I said.

She eyed a salon chair that was still slowly swiveling on its own. “Lovely.” She took one look at the retro hairdryer hoods lined against the far wall and let out a sharp breath. “I’ve had my nails done here.”

“Good. Then you know the drill. Sit and don’t touch anything that glows.”

My mother folded her arms. “This is ridiculous. You can’t expect me to hide like some—”

“You want to live. Don’t you?”

Her mouth parted. “Well… yes.”

“Then congratulations. You’re hiding.” I reached out again and grabbed the nearest ley line.

“Where are you going?” my mother called after me.

“To fix this.” Hopefully.

The ley line swallowed me whole, and I was moving again. Buildings and trees blurred by as I spun the ley line around and directed it toward Davenport House.

Once I saw my aunts’ house, I slowed down the ley line and jumped.

I landed in the front yard, just short of face-planting into the frost-hardened lawn. It was still early, the kind of gray, winter morning that looked like night, thick with clouds and sharp with cold as snowflakes drifted lazily through the air.

I sprinted up the steps, my heart pounding. Maybe my aunts had come back. Maybe they had a plan. A spell. Anything. But then I remembered that their magic was almost gone.

Still, they had their brains, and I needed those right now.

I burst through the front door. “Hello?” I shouted, kicking it shut behind me and charging into the kitchen. “Dolores? Ruth? Beverly!”

Nothing. No cackling. No snarky remarks. Just silence.

A faint fluttering sound came from above, and I looked up to see Tinker Bell flying toward me.

“They’re not here,” she said, landing on the counter. “I haven’t seen them since we got in.”

Damn.

And then it hit me. I hadn’t even checked to see if the Volvo was in the driveway. That’s how fried my brain was. Panic had me skipping steps and missing things—things I couldn’t afford to miss.

“We figured they were with you,” said Hildo, sprawled over the dining table. “At the audits.”

“They were.” I sighed. “They must be still at the gym.” Why the hell would they still be there? They should be here, helping me figure out how to stop Morgana.

Before I could spiral into full-blown panic, the sound of the front door opening and closing reached me.

I spun around as Iris and Ronin stepped in, both looking dreary and tense.

“It’s a damn witch hunt out there,” said Ronin. “They’re going through every house in town looking for Darian.”

Fury bubbled in my chest. “Of course they are.”

“They’ll come here too, looking for him,” added Iris.

“I know.” But they’d never get past House.

And just like that, the ache of betrayal cut deep. These were witches I’d known for years. Some I’d helped. Some I’d saved. And now? Now they were ready to tear through doors and rip a baby from his mother’s arms just to get their powers back.

I knew they were scared. I knew losing magic could twist the mind, make people desperate. But desperation didn’t excuse this. Desperation didn’t justify the way they looked at me—like I was the monster.

If it had been another witch’s kid, anyone else’s, I wouldn’t have joined this madness. I wouldn’t have hunted an innocent child just to light a candle again. Not in a million years.

They’d lost their magic, but somewhere along the way, they’d lost themselves too.

“Did you see my aunts?” I asked them, hating how desperate my voice sounded.

Iris shook her head. “We left as soon as you disappeared. Don’t worry. I’m sure they’re on their way over.” She gave me a worried look. “You okay?”

“Nope,” I said. “Not even close.”

Ronin swore under his breath. “That mage is out of her damn mind.”

“She’s got the town eating out of her hand,” I said, dropping into a chair like someone who hadn’t slept in years.

Ronin stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets. “That’s what fear does.”

He was right, of course.

“They’re going to your mother’s house,” said Iris, her voice high with concern. “Maybe we should all head on over there just in case.”

“I stashed my mom at Martha’s. She’ll be okay.” At least for now.

Iris moved closer, worry pinching the corners of her eyes. “And Darian? Where is he? Is he here? Did House hide him somewhere?”

Right. I hadn’t told them. “He’s in the Netherworld,” I said, my voice quieter now. “With my dad.”

Iris’s mouth fell open. “Really?”

Ronin let out a low whistle. “Well,” he said, sinking into the chair across from me, “that bitch is never gonna find him there.”

“No,” I agreed. “She won’t.”

But the words tasted like ash because I knew deep down that wasn’t a forever plan. It couldn’t be. I didn’t want my son growing up in the Netherworld, surrounded by demon politics and the horrors of that world. I wanted him here. With me. With us. His aunts. His grandma. His father.

Tears burned the backs of my eyes, but I shoved them down. No time for that.

“Just until this blows over,” I added, like saying it out loud would make it true. “He’s safer there.”

Ronin leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “So, what’s the plan, Tess? Because Morgana’s not backing off. Not until she gets what she wants.”

I clenched my fists. “We have to figure out a way to stop her somehow.”

“Great,” he said, his eyes wide. “Let’s call in an airstrike. Maybe borrow a dragon. Or a nuclear ley line bomb. Does that exist? It should.”

I stared at him. “What?”

Ronin shrugged. “I’m just saying we need options. My vampire healing still hasn’t recovered from being used as a ley line slingshot.”

Iris shook her head. “You’re healing just fine.”

Ronin flashed her a sly smile. “I could use some more massaging, if you know what I mean—ow.”

Iris slapped him on the arm. “Be serious.”

My half-vampire friend rubbed his arm. “Who says I’m not.”

I leaned back, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes. How were we supposed to stop someone like Morgana? She had power, control, and the full damn weight of the Gray Council behind her. She’d wormed her way into our town and turned everyone against me with a few vague words and a lot of magical branding. And now, I didn’t even have my aunts. Dolores would know what to do. She always did. She’d have a five-step plan, a flow chart, and a backup plan hidden in a flowerpot.

They should have come straight home, but they still weren’t back yet.

And something didn’t feel right.

I looked toward the window, my heart pounding harder than I liked. The snow had picked up outside, soft and relentless. I couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was slipping through my fingers.

Iris’s voice cut in gently. “Have you heard from Marcus?”

The sound of his name twisted my gut. “No,” I said, my voice tighter than I wanted. “Nothing yet.”

I stared at the floor, my vision blurring, but I blinked it back. No crying. I wouldn’t cry. Not now. Not when Morgana wanted me to shatter.

He would’ve come. I’d asked him, told him that I was afraid, and Marcus wasn’t the kind of man to ignore that. If he could’ve made it back, he would’ve been here already.

My chest ached like something inside it was starting to tear.

What if something had happened to him?

What if he was already… No. I shut the thought down hard. This was exactly what Morgana wanted. To push me so deep into fear and grief that I’d crumble. That I’d hand Darian over just to make it stop. And cauldron help me, maybe… maybe she had something to do with Marcus’s disappearance.

Wouldn’t that be just like her? Tie up every loose end. Eliminate every obstacle.

I was going end her.

Ronin’s voice broke through my spiraling thoughts. “Okay, Plan B: Glamour me as your son, we give me up, and then I punch her in the face.”

I stared at him. “You want to impersonate my toddler.”

He shrugged. “Technically, I’m adorable.”

Iris looked like she might scream. “Ronin.”

“What?” he said. “You said we needed options. That’s what I’m doing.”

I laughed, just once, sharp and broken, and shook my head. “I don’t know what the plan is yet,” I admitted. “But we need one. Fast.”

Because if we didn’t figure this out soon…Morgana wouldn’t just take my son. She’d take everything.

“I need a beer.” Ronin stalked over to the fridge, yanked it open, and grabbed a can. “Nothing like a cold beer on a cold day to keep me frosty.” He cracked it open with way too much enthusiasm and chugged half of it before pausing. “Also, beer pairs well with existential dread and magical blackmail. Who knew?”

Before I could comment on his brand of therapy, the toaster on the counter rattled violently, like it was trying to eject a gremlin instead of carbs.

All three of us froze.

Ronin lowered the can slowly. “Tell me that’s not the toaster of doom again.”

A card shot out with a fwip.

I leapt forward, catching it midair. Nailed it this time. Add that to my growing list of panic-induced superpowers.

But as my eyes scanned the inscription, my stomach dropped to my boots.

Final warning, Tessa. Surrender Darian to me at the gym in one hour’s time, or your aunts will be executed for defiance.

—Morgana

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. “Morgana’s taken my aunts.” Which explained why they weren’t here right now. Because they couldn’t be.

Iris’s face paled. “All of them?”

I nodded. “She has them. And if I don’t hand over Darian, she’s going to kill them.”

Ronin set his beer down on the table with a soft but ominous thunk. “Okay. We go in, we bust some heads, we get the aunts, and we burn the gym to the ground. Maybe the whole school. Or just the cursed parts.”

Iris crossed her arms tightly, her voice low. “This is a trap.”

“Of course it’s a trap,” I said, reading the card again like the words might suddenly change. “But it doesn’t matter. She has them. If I don’t show up with Darian, they die.”

Ronin pointed at the card. “Can we talk about the execution part? That’s a pretty dramatic escalation. Does the Gray Council have a guillotine? Because I feel like I’d have noticed that in the bylaws.”

I didn’t laugh. I couldn’t. My heart pounded hard enough to rattle my ribs. My thoughts scattered like startled birds. I tried to focus, tried to be the witch who always figured it out, but the only image flashing behind my eyes was of my aunts’ dead bodies.

Iris reached out and touched my arm, her fingers warm and steady. “We’ll figure this out, Tessa.”

My throat closed. “I have less than an hour to choose between handing over my son… or watching my aunts die.” My chest squeezed tightly as the weight of it settled. Darian or my aunts. My baby or my family.

How the hell was that even a choice?

My hands curled into fists against my thighs. “She wants me broken. She wants me desperate enough to do something reckless. But if I hand him over…”

I couldn’t finish the sentence. I didn’t need to. She’d take him. Turn him into something he wasn’t. Something I wouldn’t recognize. Or worse. She’d dispose of him the second he didn’t match her expectations. And if she got her hands on him, I’d never see him again.

But if I didn’t go? She might kill them anyway. Just to prove she could. Or maybe they were already dead.

The thought slammed into me, and I swayed, catching the edge of the table as I tried to breathe.

Ronin, still holding his beer, muttered something about field executions and flaming swords. I barely heard him. My head was filled with white noise.

She’s bluffing, I told myself. She’s not bluffing, said the other voice—the cold, realistic one I usually tried to ignore.

“I need to think,” I whispered. “I need to move. I need to do something.”

Ronin picked up his beer again and glanced warily at the toaster like it might spit out another threat. “Guess I’ll chug this and get ready to commit some light war crimes.”

I didn’t smile, but I appreciated the effort. I needed every last ounce of fight I had left.

And whatever I decided next… It would change everything.

26

TESSA

What does a witch do when she can’t think of a plan, when an evil mage threatens the life of her beloved three aunts in exchange for her son?

She does what she does best.

She wings it.

We piled into Ronin’s car after forty-five minutes of frenzied pacing, circular arguments, and an overwhelming lack of magical epiphanies. Forty-five minutes of trying to come up with a plan that would destroy Morgana Draeven, save my aunts, and not get me locked up in Grimway Citadel for life. Or, you know, executed in front of an audience.

We couldn’t. It just wasn’t happening.

Ronin slammed the car door shut and muttered, “If this ends in a fireball, I just want it on record that I didn’t sign up for a suicide mission.”

“You kinda did,” said Iris, next to him in the passenger’s seat. “And we’re heading straight for it.”

He grunted. “I thought that was more metaphorical.”

I stared out the passenger-side window, my heart twisting as the town blurred past. Frost clung to the edges of every house where wreaths still wilted on doors. Hollow Cove looked the same as it always did, peaceful, quiet, storybook. The kind of place where you’d expect to find hot cocoa, not magical threats and public executions.

But beneath the quaint charm, everything had shifted. Everyone had turned.

The witches. The mages. My neighbors. My community.

They were ready to sacrifice a child for a taste of the power they’d lost. And it made me sick.

If Marcus was here, this would never have happened.

Ronin turned down Shifter Lane. “Tell me again how we are doing this?”

I didn’t answer right away because I didn’t have an answer.

I was going in blind. No magical weapons. No plan. Just rage and love and the unbearable tightness in my chest that came from picturing Dolores, Ruth, and Beverly trapped in Morgana’s claws.

“I’ll figure it out when I see her,” I said, my voice like gravel. “It’s kind of my thing.”

Iris turned back in her seat. “Tessa…”

“I know.” I exhaled slowly. “I know it’s a trap. I know she’s baiting me. And I know she probably already has her hand hovering over some ancient murder rune, just waiting for me to step into range.”

“Exactly,” agreed Iris.

“But if I don’t go,” I said, “they die.” It was a no-win situation.

The car was quiet after that.

The gym came into view, rising like some ominous stone creature in the falling snow. Lights blazed from every window, and shadows moved inside.

Ronin slowed the car, parking a block away. “I’ll be ready if you need backup.”

“You are my backup,” I said and opened the door. Cold slapped me in the face, but I barely felt it.

My boots crunched over frozen pavement as I walked toward the building that used to host school dances, magical talent shows, and bake sales. Now it was a battleground.

I reached for the ley lines humming beneath my skin, just to feel them. Just to remind myself I wasn’t powerless. Her suppression rune hadn’t worked on me, which was the only thing I had going for me at the moment.

Ronin’s and Iris’s steps sounded behind me as I reached the gym doors, shoulders straight, pulse steady, and walked into whatever came next.

Morgana Draeven wanted to take everything from me, and I was about to show her what happened when a witch had nothing left to lose.

The gym doors groaned open as we stepped inside, and all three of us braced for whatever horror show Morgana had decided to stage.

And oh, she did not disappoint.

Morgana stood at the front of the crowd like some smug dark queen in a courtroom drama, her mages flanking her like grim-faced gargoyles. And behind her, floating midair, bound in a cage of glowing violet runes were my aunts.

They were suspended, hovering just above the polished gym floor like puppets caught mid-performance. Their arms hung limply at their sides, their hair tangled from the magical static crackling through the air. Their faces were frozen in open-eyed awareness.

If I had to guess, they could see everything. But they couldn’t move or speak.

“Morgana,” I said, my voice hard. “Let them go.”

She turned, her smile slow and satisfied. “Ah. The hero arrives. And where’s the child?”

I didn’t answer because the question was poison, and we both knew it.

Morgana moved forward, her robe swishing and the air crackling faintly around her shoulders. Her mages flanked her like bodyguards, but she didn’t look at them. She looked at me.

Her smile dropped. “You were told to bring him,” she said, the pleasant edge vanishing from her tone. “You were warned, Tessa Davenport.”

Around us, the gym grew tense. No one moved. No one breathed.

I felt Ronin shift beside me, and Iris’s fingers tightened slightly on my arm.

“I don’t see a child,” Morgana went on, her voice rising and tone sharp now. “I see disobedience. Defiance. You had one simple task. Bring me the boy. And instead, you bring me what? Sarcasm? A vampire and a curse-born?” Her voice echoed off the gym walls. “You think this is a game?”

The temperature dropped by a full ten degrees. The runes around my aunts pulsed once in warning, dangerously bright.

Morgana’s eyes burned with fury now. Her composure cracked, just a hairline fracture, but I saw it. She was furious that I hadn’t given her what she wanted. Looked like she hated being denied.

“I think you’re the one playing games,” I told her.

“It’s simple,” continued Morgana. “Give me the child. The chaos ends. Magic is restored. Your beloved aunts live.”

“Go to hell,” shot Ronin beside me.

I barely heard him. I was staring at the runes, trying to reach them.

“Viverra,” I whispered, and a pull of kinetic force threaded through the air toward Ruth’s flickering form. But the moment I touched the spell, it slapped me back with a pulse of energy that made my teeth ache.

Locked tight. Okay. Morgana wasn’t playing anymore.

She turned to the crowd, her voice rising. “One child… or three pillars of this community. You choose, Tessa Davenport.”

Whispers erupted like wildfire. Some witches shifting uncomfortably. Some looked at me with pity. A few had raw, hungry desperation in their eyes.

Iris gripped my arm, her knuckles white. “She’s turning them again.”

Morgana lifted her hands. “Let’s be honest. The child is untested. Dangerous. None of you knows what he’ll become. But we know what they are.” She gestured to my aunts. “Leaders. Protectors. Loved. All I ask is one small sacrifice for the greater good.”

More murmurs. That seed of doubt was sprouting again.

And I could feel Morgana smiling inside. She thought she’d won.

Fine. Let’s change the game.

I met her gaze and said, “Take me.” Like I said, this was me winging it.

Morgana’s expression flickered. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” I said, louder now, letting my voice carry across the gym. “You’ve been watching me for years. The council’s interested in me, not just Darian. I’m a Shadow witch. Half-demon, the only witch in Hollow Cove who obliterated your suppression rune like it was made of glitter and cheap glue.” I swept my arm out dramatically because, hey, if we were doing theatrics, might as well commit. “I’m the shiny new magical anomaly,” I continued. “Not my kid. So let my aunts go. Forget Darian. And take me instead.”

The room went silent.

Even Ronin stopped breathing for a second.

Iris whispered, “Tessa…”

But I didn’t back down. I stared Morgana straight in the face, daring her to say no. Daring her to admit that this had never been about balance or safety or law.

It was about control. And right now, she didn’t have it.

Not unless I gave it to her.

Morgana’s eyes bore into mine, and at that moment she realized it. She must have read it on my face. I saw it in the way her shoulders stiffened, the way her lips curled just slightly away from her teeth. That single, furious breath she took before speaking told me everything.

She knew I was never going to give her my son.

Her fury was ice and flame, all at once. She turned slowly, almost theatrically, her voice ringing like a death knell across the gym.

“Kill the aunts.” Then she screamed, her voice shattering across the space like broken glass. “Kill them all!”

Yeah. I knew she’d go there eventually.

Gasps. Cries. Screams.

The runes around my aunts flared a deep, thrumming violet, magic coiling tighter, preparing to crush.

“No!” I shouted, my magic exploding to the surface as I surged forward.

“Tessa, wait!” screamed Iris.

But I couldn’t wait. I wouldn’t.

Around us, the gym erupted into madness as witches scrambled for the doors, overturning chairs and climbing over one another like terrified animals. The bleachers were a mess of screaming bodies and falling limbs with everyone trying to escape what was suddenly, very clearly, a war zone.

Morgana stood in the center of it, her expression twisted in righteous fury and arms outstretched as her mages closed in. “You could have ended this peacefully!” she shouted as her magic pulsed. “You could have given me what I asked for!”

“I’ll give you something,” Ronin muttered beside me, his fangs descending.

But I was already pulling on my magic. Because no one—no one—was going to touch my aunts.

And if Morgana wanted war? She was about to get it.

I didn’t hesitate.

“Inflitus!” I shouted, blasting the first mage sprinting toward my aunts.

My power word hit but fizzled, absorbed by the sickly violet glow around the suspended rune cage.

Damnit.

A second mage closed in. “Vigmarart,” he shouted. I didn’t recognize the power word—guttural, old, wrong.

I snarled. My instincts flared inside me, and I flung my hand forward.

Black tendrils coiled from my hands. The nearest mage barely had time to blink before the tendrils lashed out, striking with a violent snap.

His body lifted off the ground, spasming midair, back arched, and mouth open in a silent scream. For a second, the tendrils wrapped around him, and then they exploded outward, sending him crashing into the bleachers in a cloud of smoke and singed cloth.

He didn’t get up. Oh yeah. That worked.

“Who’s next?” I hissed, turning toward the rune cage.

The runes were pulsing brighter now, almost desperate, like they knew I was coming. I raised both hands and tried again, calling out, “Declinare!” to unravel the binding magic, but it just bounced off.

Two more mages were circling around to flank me, their eyes glowing and hands raised.

I spun to intercept—

I saw a blur of movement, a wall of muscle, and then crack!

One of the mages dropped like a sack of bricks, skull caved in.

The other mage turned to run, but a massive silverback gorilla caught him by the back of his robe, lifted him, and threw him straight into a concrete pillar.

The pillar cracked. The mage did not get up.

Marcus, my gorgeous gorilla husband turned, baring his teeth. “Hiii, baaabbbbe.”

I almost sobbed. Or tackled him. Or both.

But no time.

Behind him, witches were still screaming. Mages were throwing out their own power words—deadly and fast—striking down anyone who got too close. Most of the Hollow Cove witches couldn’t even defend themselves. They’d lost most of their magic.

“Help them!” Iris yelled, shielding a younger witch as a mage approached them.

Ronin stepped in front of her like a vampire pit bull, his claws out and eyes black. “Dude. You deserve to get your ass kicked in that robe. Just saying.”

I turned back to the rune cage and pressed my hand against the magic. “Come on,” I whispered. “Give me something, anything.”

But the power was still locked. I couldn’t get through to them.

Movement caught my eye, and I spun in time to see Morgana coming at me, robes flaring, hair wild, and face twisted into something between glee and murder.

Her mouth twisted. “Tenebris Ruina!” she barked.

A blast of black fire laced with violet sparks erupted from her palm, ripping toward me like it wanted to eat my soul. I ducked, barely, the heat skimming my cheek and the gym floor behind me erupting in a hiss of molten wood and smoke.

I flung my hand forward. “Fulgur!”

A crackling bolt of lightning snapped through the air, white-purple and screaming.

She snarled and swept her arm across her chest. My power word shattered like brittle glass.

Wonderful.

“Ignavum infantem,” she spat. “You’re a child with fireworks.”

I gave a one shoulder shrug. “I like fireworks.”

Morgana raised both hands and yelled, “Frangor Terranis!”

The gym floor split open beneath my feet with a deafening roar, ancient runes flaring around the crack like it had been waiting to happen.

I flew backward and slammed into a bench, pain blooming in my ribs.

Morgana wasn’t just using power words. She was weaponizing them. Ancient ones. Stolen ones. Magic ripped from thousands of witches and funneled into that damned extractor, now running through her veins like it was hers to wield.

If I was right, I wasn’t fighting one mage with great power. I was fighting all the witches she’d ever stolen from.

Excellent. My day was just getting better and better.

I rolled to my feet, my lip bleeding and heart pounding. “Let’s finish this,” I hissed, summoning everything in me.

And just when I thought she was about to kick my ass with her super-duper power words, a boom shook the walls.

Everyone froze. And then—

“No!” Morgana screeched, staring wide-eyed at something behind me.

I turned, panting, and saw Bastian Reyes, standing in the middle of the gym and holding a shattered pedestal. I recognized it at once.

The magical extractor.

Its twisted core was now broken and sparking in his hands.

He tossed it at Morgana’s feet with a clunk. “This ends now,” he said, his voice calm and cutting. Then he held up a black leather ledger.

Ah. The audit log.

“The Gray Council authorized an evaluation,” he said, “not magical theft. Not a power grab. Not torture. Morgana Draeven, by order of the Gray Council, you are under arrest for conspiracy, magical extraction, and endangering council-protected civilians.”

I stared as a wave of gray-robed officers surged in behind him, their boots pounding in unison across the floor. The air crackled with restrained magic. I counted at least ten, maybe more, forming a wall of power behind Bastian.

A ripple shimmered through the air, thin and silvery. My skin prickled as the static charged around us, raising the hairs on my arms.

Across the room, a witch staggered backward, her hands lighting up with sudden glow. Another dropped to his knees, his fingers trembling as sparks danced between them. Gasps echoed against the gym walls. One woman let out a raw, ragged cry, clutching her chest as if something lost had just slammed back into place.

Magic was back, and everyone felt it.

Above me, the rune cage cracked and then shattered.

Dolores, Ruth, and Beverly dropped to the ground, dazed but conscious.

“Never been so humiliated in my life,” snarled Beverly, staggering to her feet and brushing off her pants. “Suspended in midair and not even with a man. Ridiculous.”

“I swear I’m going to shove a rune so far up that woman’s—” Ruth started.

But I was already moving.

Morgana was turning, trying to flee through the anarchy. I guessed smashing the extractor meant she’d lost all that stolen power. Whoopsy.

In a flash of a long coat, Dolores was there, catching Morgana by the arm.

“No!” shrieked Morgana, trying to pull free of Dolores’s death grip. Yeah, been there. Not possible. “I will not be undone by that half-witch! I am the council!”

And then—pop—Dolores punched her square in the face.

Morgana’s eyes rolled in the back of her head, and she crumpled to the floor.

“Now, that’s what I’m talking about,” said Ronin, clapping and whistling like it was game night and Morgana had just scored her own goal.

“You’re crazy. I love it.” Iris stood next to him, laughing, her face bright with affection for her half-vampire boyfriend.

I turned slowly, taking it all in.

The gym was a wreck of smoke, scorch marks, and overturned benches, but the mages were down. Every last one of them. Some were groaning, and some had been tied up with magically recharged restraints courtesy of some very pissed-off witches. And in the center of it all, Bastian Reyes stood calmly, brushing soot from his sleeves and giving me the tiniest smile.

My knees buckled. Before I hit the ground, strong arms caught me. Warm. Familiar.

Marcus.

Back in human form, shirtless—okay, gloriously naked—bruised, and still somehow managing to look like the cover of a paranormal romance novel.

He dropped to his knees beside me, pulling me into his arms like he never planned to let go. “It’s over,” he said, his voice low and steady.

I leaned into his chest as the exhaustion hit me. “What took you so long?”

Something flickered in his eyes, dark, weighted, and not quite healed. He kissed the top of my head. “Let’s just say… I’ve got a hell of a story to tell you.”

I closed my eyes, listening to the sound of witches cheering, Ronin loudly demanding someone find him a celebratory burrito, and the deep, steady beat of Marcus’s heart beneath my cheek.

We’d survived. For now. But if anyone came for my family again?

They were getting a broomstick enema. Deluxe edition.

27

MARCUS

We went home. Straight home.

No more blood. No more power-hungry mages. Just home.

Just as we entered our cottage, Tessa rushed to the basement door, flung it open, and yelled, her voice steady but sharp, “Dad. Bring me my son.”

Obiryn didn’t argue. He appeared like smoke, silent and holding Darian close. Our boy looked tired—his usual spark dulled from being hauled through the Netherworld. But he was safe. Still ours.

Tessa took him into her arms, and I watched as she curled him into her chest like she’d been holding her breath for days.

She didn’t cry, but her silence said everything.

Obiryn met my eyes, gave me a look I couldn’t quite read, and then disappeared without a word.

Tessa climbed the stairs with Darian, and I followed, slowly and quietly. She laid him down like she’d done a thousand times, smoothing his curls, brushing his cheek, and tucking the blanket just right. I didn’t move. I just stood there, my arms crossed, watching my entire world settle into one tiny bed.

She turned to me, her eyes fierce and jaw set. “Talk.”

I gave her a grin. “Love it when you get bossy. Very sexy.”

A tiny smile spread across her face. “Don’t push your luck.”

We moved out of my son’s room and shut the door. The second we were in our bedroom, she folded her arms and gave me the look.

“Tell me everything.”

So I told her.

About the trail. About following Ash. About the fight pit and the bastard who thought he could break me. About Rurik. About the chains. The pain. The offer. The rage.

I told her everything.

Every blow. Every insult they threw at her and at Darian. Every moment I nearly lost control. Every time I dragged myself off the ground because staying down meant never seeing them again.

She let the silence settle for a few beats, like she was letting every word soak into the air around us. Then she lifted her head slightly and looked me square in the eyes.

“So…” she said slowly, her tone cautious but laced with curiosity, “you’re prime first now?”

“Prime fist,” I corrected with a half-smile. “Not first. Though I guess I technically am that too.”

She raised a brow. “Sounds like a bad wrestling name.”

“Sounds like a lot of pressure,” I said.

Another pause.

“Are you going to do it?” she asked quietly. “Lead them?”

I didn’t answer right away. I’d been asking myself that same question since the second Oris Vell spoke the words.

I ran a hand down my face and let out a breath that felt like it’d been caged for days.

“They need me,” I said finally. “More than I realized. The order’s been broken—twisted into something it was never meant to be. If I walk away now, someone worse than Rurik will rise. And next time? There might not be a me to stop them.”

Her gaze softened, but she didn’t speak.

“They’re not just warriors,” I went on. “They’re lost. Raised on blood oaths and blind obedience. They don’t know another way. But they could. If someone showed them.”

She tilted her head. “And that someone is you?”

I gave a slow nod. “It has to be. I’m not doing it because I want the power. I’m doing it because if I don’t, someone else will. And that someone might not stop at curses and control. They might go for blood.”

Tessa stared at me, searching my face. Then she gave a small, crooked smile. “You big softie,” she said.

I huffed a quiet laugh. “Don’t ruin my alpha moment.”

“You should’ve told me,” she added, her voice low. “Before you left.”

“I know,” I said. “It wasn’t about not trusting you. It was about thinking I had to do it alone. I came back.”

She nodded, her voice quieter now. “Damn right you did.” She reached out and touched my chest gently with her fingers. “Just don’t lose yourself in it. Okay?”

I covered her hand with mine. “Not possible,” I said. “I’ve got you to remind me who I am.”

She leaned in, resting her head against me again. I held her close and felt her breathing even out, her warmth seeping into every jagged edge I didn’t know I still had.

Whatever came next. Whatever rebuilding I had to do, wherever this new role took me, I knew this. I wasn’t doing it alone.

But damnit, she made it hard to think.

Her scent, wildflower and flame. That fire in her, banked but never extinguished. Her strength, her mouth, her wit. Everything about her made something primal rise in me.

I pulled back just enough to look at her.

She tilted her chin, her brow arched. “What?”

“You,” I growled, my voice low and hungry. “You’re the most maddening, fearless, brilliant woman I’ve ever known.”

Her lips quirked. “That better be a compliment.”

I took her all in. She was beautiful. Messy hair, sharp tongue, eyes like trouble and fire. She was everything. My mate, my anchor, my damn heart walking around in boots and sarcasm.

And Mirna thought she could tempt me? Please. She wasn’t even in the same league.

“No,” I said and dipped my head to her neck, brushing my lips along the curve of her jaw. “It’s my way of saying I’m two seconds from ripping off your clothes.”

Her laugh was quick, breathy, and layered with heat. “Marcus—”

Too late.

I had her pinned to the wall before the word left her mouth, and the sound of fabric tearing filled the room.

“Oh my god, Marcus!”

“Shhh,” I murmured, grinning against her skin. “I’ll buy you some new clothes.”

She let out another laugh, but her nails were already digging into my shoulders as her legs wrapped around me, her kiss fierce and molten.

“You’re a very naughty gorilla,” she whispered.

“For you?” I bit her earlobe as I lifted her higher. “Every damn time.”

And when her mouth met mine again, soft and wild, fearless and mine, I forgot everything else.

Titles, power, duty.

I was just a man. Madly in love with his wife.

And determined to worship her until the sun came up.

28

TESSA

What does a witch do when the evil mage Morgana is taken away by Gray Council officers with a bloody nose and a busted lip, and her husband is cleared of all charges?

She has her aunts throw a party in celebration. That’s what.

It wasn’t exactly a wild party—no music blaring, no dancing on tables—but for Hollow Cove standards, it was basically Mardi Gras in January. Which meant finger foods, magically refilling champagne glasses, a playlist that leaned a little too hard into jazz flute, and Ruth’s cauldron of celebratory stew bubbling happily on the stove, even though no one actually knew what was in it. (I asked. She winked. I stopped asking.)

Two days after Morgana’s humiliating exit, Bastian Reyes showed up with a team of tight-lipped, grim-faced Gray Council officers at our house. Judging by the exhaustion in their eyes and the lingering smell of subway tacos, I could only assume they were the same ones who’d been sent chasing Tinker Bell and Marcus’s hoodie all over Queens.

They didn’t look pleased about it. Too bad.

But they got right to work. Magical scans. Evidence review. The whole bureaucratic shebang. Marcus handed over the scrolls he’d brought back from the Hall of First Blood—yellowed, brittle things that looked like they might dissolve into ancient wereape dust if someone so much as sneezed on them.

After about an hour of reviewing the evidence and conversing with the officers, Bastian stood up, his expression unreadable as always, and declared, “All charges against Marcus Durand are dropped. He was cursed without consent, and the evidence confirms the source was the Order of Fenrir.”

Which explained why tonight, Davenport House was in celebration mode.

Even my mother and father were here. Martha had cornered them near the fireplace and was now enthusiastically demonstrating what looked like a can of enchanted glitter spray. I couldn’t hear the details, but judging by the way she aimed it at my mother’s Lady V and announced something like, “For freshness and flair where it counts,” I had a good guess. My mother gasped and slapped her hand over her heart. My father? He was nodding along, looking far too impressed. Traitor.

“There’s more than enough of me to go around, boys,” came Beverly’s voice, currently nestled between two paranormal males. One looked like a James Bond body double. His eyes gleamed amber, and when he blinked, I caught a vertical slit. Werecat. Obviously.

The other was bulkier, wearing a polo stretched to its limits across shoulders built for trouble. Probably werewolf.

Beverly trailed a manicured nail down the werecat’s chest while her other hand wrapped possessively around the werewolf’s bulging biceps. “Honestly, being this desirable is a full-time job. I should come with a warning label.”

Okay then.

Glancing around, I noticed a few of my aunts’ usual house party friends were a no-show. Probably because they’d been part of the mob that tried to take my kid. While I was out shopping this morning, I caught a few pointed stares from those same witches. Others couldn’t even meet my eyes. Were they ashamed of what they did? Probably. Would I ever forgive them?

Never.

Iris was curled on the couch beside Ronin, who looked positively smug as he raised his beer and declared, “To all the near-death experiences I so dramatically survived.”

Across the kitchen, Tinker Bell was tossing tiny chocolate balls into Hildo’s open mouth like it was an Olympic sport. Ruth stood behind them, her apron stretched across her chest with the words MY OTHER CAULDRON IS A CROCK-POT embroidered in hot pink glitter.

“Three for three!” she cheered. “Somebody get that cat a medal!”

Hildo, his mouth full of chocolate, gave a smug flick of his tail and leapt to the counter with all the grace of someone who definitely thought they deserved a trophy.

And I should’ve been enjoying myself. Really, I should have. After all, that cow Morgana had been taken away by Gray Council officers—still bleeding, still snarling—and Marcus had been cleared of all charges. The worst was over.

Except, of course, it wasn’t.

Because Bastian was about to test Darian.

Just yesterday, he’d stood in my kitchen and asked, calmly and logically, if we would allow him to test Darian. He’d promised no harm would come to him. That if anything troubling surfaced, he’d tell us first before informing the council. That Marcus and I could decide what to do next.

After hours of arguing, second-guessing, and more coffee than I’d like to admit, we’d agreed. Might as well get it over with. If we knew what we were dealing with, we could plan ahead.

And now, I stood near the back of the room, my stomach twisted into a knot that refused to loosen.

Dolores appeared at my side, her usual scowl softening just a tad. “He’s ready,” she said quietly.

But I wasn’t.

I looked across the room and found Darian laughing as he tried to catch one of Tinker Bell’s chocolate balls in his chubby little hands. His fingers were sticky, his hair wild, and his entire face shone with delight.

And cauldron help me, I didn’t want to let him go.

Still, I crossed the room, scooped him into my arms, and pressed a kiss to his chocolate-smeared cheek. He laughed and squished my face with both hands like he knew I needed it.

Marcus was already moving toward us. I gave him a nod and tilted my head toward the stairs. He followed. So did Dolores.

We climbed the stairs to the second floor and filed into the small study that Dolores used for everything from potion theory to low-key hexing. Bastian stood near the window, his sleeves rolled up and expression unreadable, of course.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice calm.

No. Not even a little. But I nodded anyway.

Bastian stepped forward, his magic subtle but precise. He held his hands out, murmured something I couldn’t quite catch, and closed his eyes as a soft aura shimmered around Darian. The room quieted. Even Darian stilled, blinking up at him with wide, curious eyes.

After a long moment, Bastian opened his eyes.

“He’s powerful,” he said. “No doubt about that. But not a threat.”

“What?” Relief surged through me so fast it almost knocked me sideways.

“He’s… something new,” added Bastian, glancing between me and Marcus. “Something the council hasn’t seen before. And I’ll make sure they understand that. But that concludes the council’s interest in the boy.”

It took a few beats for me to fully comprehend the words that came out of the magician’s mouth.

Not a threat… concludes the council’s interest…

“Thank the cauldron.” Dolores clutched the edge of the wall like she was about to fall over.

I understood the feeling. My knees weren’t exactly steady either.

I held Darian closer, his small body warm and solid against mine. My heart thudded so loudly in my chest it nearly drowned out my own voice. “Thank you.”

Bastian gave a simple nod, precise and composed, like always. “Of course.”

Marcus stepped forward and extended a hand, his broad shoulders still tense, though his expression had finally started to loosen around the edges. “Appreciate it.”

The magician looked at him for a beat and then accepted the handshake. “Just doing my job.”

A flicker of something passed between them. Mutual respect, maybe? Or at least the acknowledgment that neither of them had throttled the other during all of this. That counted for something.

“You’re not so terrible after all,” I said, half-teasing, my voice softer now.

Bastian paused at the door, one hand on the knob. His tailored coat shifted with the motion, the collar catching the light just enough to remind me that nothing about him was accidental.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he said without turning.

I think he might’ve smiled. A little.

Marcus exhaled beside me, long and deep, like he’d been holding his breath for hours. He brushed a hand over Darian’s head and let it linger there.

Then Bastian was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

We made our way downstairs, me, Marcus, Darian and Dolores, and as soon as we stepped into the living room, Iris jumped to her feet.

“Well?” she asked. “How’d it go?”

I smiled. “He passed,” I said. “He’s powerful. But not a threat. We’re good.”

Ronin let out a dramatic breath. “That’s a relief. I was already drafting a rescue plan involving crossbows, glitter bombs, and a rather unsettling number of fake IDs.”

Darian leaped out of my arms, clung to the sidewall like Spider Kid, and then sprang off and landed on all fours like a baby gorilla before charging toward the kitchen—where Tinker Bell was now lobbing cheese balls into Hildo’s mouth like it was a sporting event.

I shook my head. “I’ll never get used to that.”

Marcus stepped close, the warmth of him sliding against my side. He kissed my cheek and then let his lips drift lower, brushing the edge of my jaw, the sensitive spot beneath my ear. “You will,” he murmured, his voice like velvet and trouble.

A flicker of last night’s heat curled in my stomach.

Then he was gone, striding proudly after our son. Two wereapes heading straight for the snacks.

“You okay?” asked Iris beside me.

I blinked. “What?”

“You were staring. If you’d stared any harder, Marcus would’ve burst into flames.”

I grinned. “Just... happy.”

And I was. For the first time in weeks, maybe longer, I wasn’t running from something or toward something. I was here. With my family. My friends. My mate. My son. It was peaceful. Which obviously meant it wouldn’t last.

But for tonight? Tonight, we laughed and we lived.

The sound of the doorbell reached me.

“Expecting more guests?” Iris asked, glancing toward the front door.

“Not that I know of. But with my aunts, it could be anything, from a wayward witch to Ruth’s gnome poop subscription service.”

I made my way to the door and pulled it open.

No one was there.

Just a single white feather, resting on the porch step.

Long, smooth, and veined with delicate threads of gold. It shimmered faintly in the porch light, almost too still, too deliberate.

The moment I looked at it, I felt it. The unmistakable buzz of illusion magic curling beneath my skin, threading up my fingers before I even touched it.

Not just any magic. His magic.

I didn’t need a note. Or a voice. Or a dramatic monologue.

I knew exactly who had sent it.

Soren Tex was calling in his favor.

And whatever it was… It had just begun.

Don’t miss the next book in The Witches of Hollow Cove series!

BOOKS BY KIM RICHARDSON

WITCHES OF NEW YORK

The Starlight Witch

Game of Witch

Tales of a Witch

THE WITCHES OF HOLLOW COVE

Shadow Witch

Midnight Spells

Charmed Nights

Magical Mojo

Practical Hexes

Wicked Ways

Witching Whispers

Mystic Madness

Rebel Magic

Cosmic Jinx

Brewing Crazy

Witchy Little Lies

Magic Gone Wild

THE DARK FILES

Spells & Ashes

Charms & Demons

Hexes & Flames

Curses & Blood

SHADOW AND LIGHT

Dark Hunt

Dark Bound

Dark Rise

Dark Gift

Dark Curse

Dark Angel

TEEN AND YOUNG ADULT

SOUL GUARDIANS

Marked

Elemental

Horizon

Netherworld

Seirs

Mortal

Reapers

Seals

THE HORIZON CHRONICLES

The Soul Thief

The Helm of Darkness

The City of Flame and Shadow

The Lord of Darkness

MYSTICS SERIES

The Seventh Sense

The Alpha Nation

The Nexus

DIVIDED REALMS

Steel Maiden

Witch Queen

Blood Magic

NEWSLETTER

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kim Richardson is a USA Today bestselling and award-winning author of urban fantasy, fantasy, and young adult books. She lives in the eastern part of Canada with her husband, two dogs, and a very old cat. Kim’s books are available in print editions, and translations are available in over seven languages.

To learn more about the author, please visit:

www.kimrichardsonbooks.com