The Aston Martin tore through the night, leaving the glass tower and its trapped curator far behind. But as the city lights blurred past, the adrenaline began to fade, replaced by a strange, humming curiosity.
I looked down at the objects in my lap. The leather-bound journal of Elias Thorne and the glass box containing the silver thimble.
They didn't feel cursed. They felt… waiting.
“Where to?” Adrien asked, his eyes scanning the mirrors, checking for a tail.
“Not the estate,” I said, a sudden instinct taking over. “The magic there is too loud. Too many wards. I need somewhere quiet. Somewhere old.”
Adrien thought for a moment. “I know a place. It’s technically Pack territory, but we don’t use it. It’s an old watchtower in the Vosges mountains. No electricity. No running water. Just s
