IRIS’ P.O.V.
We were halfway down the ridge when it hit me—like an overdue slap to the back of the head.
Clara.
Clara knew magic. Knew me. Knew my mother before anyone called her dead, and before I knew what it meant to be more than just a cursed Luna-in-waiting with abandonment issues.
I skidded to a halt.
Blake turned, alarmed. “What? Are you glowing again? Do I need to start digging a trench?”
I shook my head. “No. Not yet.”
“Comforting.”
“We need to see Clara.”
He blinked. “Now?”
“Do you know anyone else with a library of ancient grimoires and a scary habit of knowing things she shouldn’t?”
Blake sighed and scratched the back of his neck. “Clara it is.”
XXXX
Clara’s two-storey home sat near the far ridge of Blake’s territory, nestled beneath evergreens and backlit by a sof
