Shirley
I sat on the porch of my father’s old house, the leather-bound book still heavy in my lap. The pages were weathered, the ink faded in places, but the symbols were unmistakable. I had seen them before—on my neck, in my dreams, and now staring back at me from ancient parchment that smelled of dust and secrets.
The mark wasn’t just a curse or a hunter’s scar. It was a key. A map. Dr. Myles had tried to tell me, but I hadn’t listened.
And now… I had questions. Too many.
The sun was slipping beneath the treeline when Asher’s black sedan pulled up to the curb. I didn’t text him. Didn’t call. But somehow, he always showed up. Like he could sense when I needed him—or maybe, when he needed to control the narrative.
I stood before he could even get out of the car.
“We need to talk,” I
