One year after
James stood in the mausoleum, his hands steady as he worked through the ritual. Magic wasn’t easy—certainly not compared to surgery, which felt like child’s play next to some of these spells. But he’d served his time, and now he held three bags of blood, the final piece of the puzzle.
With a sharp gesture, he broke the spell and pried open the coffin.
“That was… refreshing,” Arran’s voice croaked from inside.
James couldn’t help but laugh. Arran sat up, yanking the blindfold off his face and grabbing the blood bags. He drained them in seconds, his movements fast and desperate.
“Where is she?” Arran demanded, his voice low.
“She had her memories wiped,” James replied, shrugging. “Last I heard, Hunter went to the elder asking about her. And the kid.”
“The kid?” Arran’s
