Elvira moved to the bedroom where her suitcase lay open, clothes neatly packed beside the tools of her darker trade—herbs bound in black silk, bones that had never belonged to anything that walked in daylight, a knife with engravings older than written language. Her fingers traced the edge of an old silver locket buried beneath it all, the metal warm against her skin when it should have been cold.
The clasp opened with a soft click, revealing a photograph so old its edges had begun to yellow. The Sawyer estate garden, everyone posed in their Sunday best. Her father Leonard standing tall and proud, one protective hand on her shoulder. Roxanne beside them, beautiful and terrible as a predator cat. Uncle Damon with Myna and their children—Alec golden in the sunlight, Daisy small and delicate
