Ezekiel’s POV
"You are wasting your time looking for a corpse, Ezekiel," the voice rasps from the darkness of the south wing shelves.
My fingers freeze on the spine of the NeonViper registry. The leather is cold. Damp. The heavy scent of mould and old paper vanishes, replaced instantly by the sharp, metallic tang of fresh blood and wet wolf fur. I do not turn around. I let my thumb press into the cracked binding until the glue groans.
"I do not waste time, Iris," I say, my voice flat, level, cutting through the dead air of the library. "I look for leverage. There is a difference."
A soft, scraping drag follows. Footsteps. Slow and deliberate. She steps into the dim ring of candlelight casting shadows over the reading table. Iris looks worse than she did three days ago. The skin beneath
