The swamp swallowed the last light of day before Rowan saw the first flicker of flame between the cypress trunks. Lucien’s SUV bumped over the old dirt path that barely counted as a road, its headlights cutting through hanging moss and steam rising off the wet earth. The air tasted like rain and salt and magic too old to name.
Rowan’s fingers dug into the edge of her seat. Every mile closer to the Guthrie Circle made her skin feel tighter, her breath more ragged. She hadn’t set foot on this land since the day she ran barefoot through these same trees with her mother’s curses echoing in her ears.
Lucien’s knuckles were white on the wheel. He didn’t say anything. He hadn’t since they left what was left of his house behind. Maybe he could taste the ghosts here too. Or maybe he was listening
