Love POV
“A puppeteer is inside the castle gates,” I say.
The heavy oak door swings back with a groan. Cordelia steps into my private chambers. Her fingers lock around the frame.
“What did you just say?” Cordelia asks.
The air between us turns cold. A puppeteer spell is ancient. It is a dead art. It is the kind of magic that leaves a foul taste in the back of the throat.
“You heard me,” I say.
Anika pushes past her. Her face is pale. The rest of the coven elders crowd the corridor behind her. Their robes rustle like dry leaves.
“Is it Audrey?” Anika asks.
Her voice drops to a sharp whisper.
“No,” I say.
I snatch my heaviest leather grimoire from the desk. I shove a thick glass bottle of moon-salt into my coat pocket.
“Audrey does not have her pendant,” I say. “She does not have
