If fucking up were a superpower, I’d be considered a god by now.

This fact was no truer than right that second as I picked my way over the cobblestones on Factor’s Walk, nearly turning my ankle in the process. Trying to right myself, I stumbled, knocking my shoulder into the brick façade, and nearly falling ass over tea kettle on the uneven stone.

It was as if the universe itself was waving a huge flashing neon sign that said I should turn around and never come back. Considering who I was and where I was, the universe was probably right, but I couldn’t listen to the wisdom then.

Not with a life on the line.

The arcane side of Savannah was not a good spot for someone like me. As the designated degenerate fuckup of the Bannister witch line, me stepping one toe into the hidden magical world was like slapping a bull’s-eye on my ass.

Rubbing the now-sore spot on my skin, I gave myself a little pep talk.

Get it together, Wren. Ellie needs you right now.

As far as pep talks went, it was lame, but there wasn’t much to be done about it now. Staring at my feet, I minced down the crooked lane, desperately trying not to fall again. Every tourist and their brother took a stroll down Factor’s Walk at least once, the signs reminding them to watch their step. But if you stared too long at the walls, at the rows of historic buildings, at The Walk itself, even human eyes would pick up on the oddities.

Those nearly three-hundred-year-old bricks that had historians creaming all over themselves? Yeah, well, they were made of arcaner bones from the vampire wars in 1723. 

That lane that should be straight, but wasn’t? It followed a ley line—the former bloody battleground where so many lost their lives before the witches and wolves beat the vamps back. 

Those little pockets of green in the middle of asphalt-laden streets? Those were portals just waiting to be used—put there by Fae and witches alike as a way to circumvent the bloody attacks that left so many of our kind turned or dead or worse.

Every part of the city I’d grown up in was practically built for arcaners—leaving me mostly stuck on the outside. But this particular section of town? Well, it had been off-limits to me since I was about ten.

No pity parties, Wren. You have shit to do.

Yanking up my big girl panties, I headed for the one place that might help me. Considering I’d already lowered myself to asking my mother—only to have her deny me—this was my last resort. Granted, what I was asking for broke about four arcane laws that I knew of—and probably a few I didn’t—but I was desperate.

Ellie Whitlock was my best friend in the whole world, and she needed me. I’d relied on Ellie my entire life. She’d been my only friend in school, my only lifeline to a stable upbringing, and my only confidant in twenty years. We’d been BFFs since Pre-K—my mother making me go to school on the human side of town after an unfortunate incident at an arcane school when I was three. My fucked-up magic—or lack thereof—didn’t affect Ellie or her family. 

Hell, there were times I’d wished her family would have adopted me.

And now her mom was in the hospital and might not make it. The thought of losing Mrs. Whitlock made me want to scream. If Ellie had been my only friend, Alice had been my only mom. My parents hadn’t ever been what one would call attentive. Hell, most of the time, I was pretty sure having me had been an accident—the pair of them too busy with their own love affair to actually parent their only child.

You’d think my mother would want to keep the woman who’d raised me alive, right? Wrong.

We can’t interfere in human business, Wren. You know better than to ask me.

Rolling my eyes, I plodded ahead, my goal in sight. The Azalea Apothecary was the oldest witch shop in Savannah, but it was also the most rundown. The faded sign was a single storm away from falling off the building, the rusted bolts hanging on by a thread. But word on the street was that Carmichael Jones was who you went to if you needed something off the books.

From what I’d heard—which was limited since I didn’t exactly run in witch circles—Mr. Jones wasn’t exactly a crook, but he wasn’t exactly an upstanding gentleman, either. What he was for sure was a top-notch warlock who specialized in healings.

Whether or not he’d help me heal a human, though, was a whole other matter.

A shiver of unease raced down my spine as I clamped onto the rickety latch, and I had the strongest urge to not go in. Honestly, if I wasn’t absolutely positive any spell I tried to do would backfire miserably, I would have turned tail and run. My gaze darted up and down Factor’s Walk, the sensation of eyes on me nearly making me lose my nerve.

Ellie and Alice need you. Get it together.

Gritting my teeth, I snatched the door open and marched inside. Azalea Apothecary was no better on the inside than it was on the out. Dusty tables filled with odd trinkets and half-full jars gave way to bookcases stuffed with worn tomes and mounds of junk. Piles of random objects occupied the corners of the room hoarder-style, while bundles of dried herbs hung from every square inch of the ceiling. A grizzled gray man stood near the back of the crowded room near an ancient cash register, an unlit cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth.

“Get out,” he barked, crossing his beefy arms over his substantial belly. “Ain’t no way I’m gonna let a Bannister tromp all over my shop. Who knows what you’ll break?”

Not that half the shit in this hovel wasn’t broken already, but still, tears prickled at my eyes. Gritting my teeth against the sting, I managed to stand my ground. This wasn’t the first time I’d been kicked out of a witch shop, and given my history, it wouldn’t be the last.

“Please,” I begged, reaching inside my bag for the wad of cash. Ellie and I had planned on moving in together after college, but here we were two years post-graduation, with no apartment in sight. Unearthing the fistful of bills, I held them in front of me to ward off my ousting. “I can pay.”

His gaze snagged on the money in my hand, and he licked his chops. By the looks of this place, Mr. Jones hadn’t seen a paying customer in longer than I’d been alive. “What? You stub your toe or somethin’? I ain’t wasting my time on no silly girl with a hangnail.”

Don’t back talk the healer, Wren. Don’t do it.

“It’s not for me, you judgmental ass. It’s for my best friend’s mom. Do you really think I’d be tromping through here looking for you if it was something I could fix with a nail clipper and a manicurist? I’m liable to get tetanus in this heap.” Gnashing my teeth, I took a deep breath, doing my damnedest to not start screaming. “It’s systemic organ failure. Can you fix that?”

Carmichael narrowed his eyes. “Your friend’s mom. Not your mom?” A slow smile pulled across his lips, exposing yellowed teeth and a fair amount of tooth decay. “You have my interest. What class is your friend’s mother? She a witch like you or…”

This was the sticking point. If I couldn’t get him to agree, Alice had no hope. It wasn’t like I could bribe my way into my mother’s good graces or beg my father.

“Human,” I breathed, praying he wouldn’t make a fuss.

He simply blinked at me for a solid thirty seconds. “I’m sorry—what was that?”

Stomping through the piles of junk, I slapped the money on the counter before reaching into my bag for the second roll of bills. It was my entire savings. Everything I’d squirreled away to set myself up. It wasn’t just an apartment I was getting. It was a chance.

But it meant nothing if Alice wasn't breathing.

“She’s human,” I hissed. “Are you gonna help me or not?” The bank teller had audibly squawked when I’d pulled every dime from my account, her face purpling when I’d asked for it in cash.

Carmichael reached for the bills, but I slapped his hand before he could get within an inch. “Are you helping, or am I going to have to go down to the River Walk and deal with them?”

The “them” in question were the Fae, and I had no intention of dealing with that sort at all. Ever. Making deals with the Fae was tantamount to jumping off a cliff with piranhas, sharks, and razor-sharp rocks at the bottom. Anyone who had ever made a Fae deal regretted it, and I wouldn’t be making the same mistake.

Luckily, my poker face was top-notch—otherwise Carmichael would have seen right through my bluff.

“What you’re asking for is illegal, you know.” He pretended to contemplate the legalities while pulling at his long, grizzled beard. “Healing humans ain’t rightly my business, but I do love a challenge.”

Raising a single eyebrow, I waited for him to continue. Hemming and hawing wasn’t a promise he’d do the spell, and until I got that, I wasn’t letting him anywhere near this money. I’d learned this the hard way at least twice—more if you counted how many times I’d begged my mom for things, only for her to tell me she hadn’t agreed to anything.

“Fine,” he barked, crossing his arms over his big belly. “At least your mama taught you that much, though, I’ll be asking for my payment upfront before I get started.”

“Shake on it,” I insisted, one hand still on the money and the other outstretched. “In exchange for ten thousand dollars, you will perform one healing spell on Alice Marchand Whitlock. Today.”

Carmichael coughed, sputtered, and nearly fell over. “Ten thousand dollars?” he croaked, turning a little red as he pinned his gaze on the pile of bills I was protecting. “Hell, girl, for that much I’ll do it right now.”

He stood straighter, hitching up his pants a little. Then he waved his hands in a complicated set of movements, which had me backing away from the counter, money be damned.

“No,” I shouted, waving my own hands in the universal sign to “Stop.” “You can’t do it while I’m he—”

The ground pitched, sending the piles of junk toppling to the floor. I quickly followed, landing on my ass as a nearby cauldron sparked to life. The contents of said cauldron bubbled over, hissing like acid as it dripped onto the dirty floor.

“What the hell is goin’ on? You did th—”

But Carmichael never got a chance to finish that damning sentence. All at once, the windows of his apothecary blew in as the caustic brew caught fire. Dodging glass and the heat of the flames, I scrambled to my feet, racing for the shop owner.

“You have to get out of here,” I yelled over the now-roaring fire. “Now.” It didn’t matter whose fault it was—and if anyone asked, I’d say it was his—this whole place was going up faster than a damned tinderbox.

Carmichael swiped his meaty arm across the counter, scooping up the money in one greasy, grizzled paw. Then the bastard took off, the heavy man moving far faster than I gave him credit for. He weaved around junk toward the back of the shop almost faster than I could track, leaving me behind. Almost as soon as he was out of sight, the path he’d taken was blocked by flames.

Maybe it was the smoke inhalation from the now-burning junk, herbs, and tinctures, but it took me a second to realize I should also be getting the hell out of there. 

Coughing, I stumbled through the room, tripping over something or other. I fell, landing on my hands and knees, my palms cut to shit from the broken glass littering the floor. Then, I wasn’t on the ground anymore, I was hanging upside down over a man’s shoulder, the light of the early spring sunshine blinding me. 

Unceremoniously, I was tossed off said shoulder, my ass taking the full brunt of the landing as I was dumped onto a patch of grass. Struggling for breath, I hacked and coughed up the caustic smoke, the fresh air slowly but surely filtering into my lungs. 

Eyes tearing, nose running, I was so busy trying to breathe that I barely noticed the man who’d saved my life until he was already turning away. I wanted to say thank you to whomever kept me from frying like a red-haired shish kebab, but before I could get out a word, he was down The Walk, weaving through the stream of lookie-loos.

“There she is, Agent.” Carmichael’s booming Southern drawl echoed off the high brick walls. 

Turning my head, I spied the beefy shop owner pulling a harried man through the gathering crowd. Where he’d fetched an Arcane Bureau of Investigation agent from, I hadn’t a clue, but it didn’t really matter.

Before now, I’d managed to stay off of the ABI’s radar, but as the agent barreled toward me, I knew those days were over.

Once again, I’d fucked up. 

Only this time? 

I might just be in deep shit.

My mama always said I’d catch more flies with honey than vinegar. That just showed what she knew.

I seriously doubted when Mama was spouting the merits of honey and bees that she had murder in mind or was living in a world made of chaos. There was also a pretty good chance Mama hadn’t been in the middle of a black magic spell to steal a boatload of power and damn the consequences, either.

Then again, she married my daddy, so anything was possible.

The spell I was in the middle of was a whole mess of vinegar, exactly zero honey, followed up by a little sewage for flavor.

You can do this, girl. Just breathe. This is the last one.

Internal pep talks were one thing, but there was little that could make me feel good about the dark magic I was polluting my veins with or what I would have to do next.

Two and a half years ago, an Unseelie Prince closed every single Fae gate in the world. Most cities were fine, the Fae populace so scant it had barely been a blip. Places like Savannah? It was bad. The Fae couldn’t go home, couldn’t see their families, couldn’t access most of their magic. They turned feral—attacking any arcaner they could steal power from.

And worse?

My best friend was stuck on the other side of one of those stupid gates, trapped in the Unseelie realm with a king that wanted her magic for his own.

Wren Bannister was the only person on this planet that never looked down on me for being a Jacobs witch. Never gave me shit for my family or what my daddy did for a living. She’d saved my ass from certain death. She’d looked for me when no one else would. She never quit on me. And I’d be damned if I would ever stop looking for her—not until she was found, or I died trying.

It had taken a while, but we managed to find the prince responsible—not that finding him did a lick of good. It didn’t matter that I’d trapped him in a cage so perfect that no one—especially my bosses—could sense him. It didn’t matter that I’d crafted weapons especially for him—filled with magic, sweetening, and everything else I could think of to get him to break.

Nearly a year straight of interrogations and torture, and bargaining hadn’t made a dent. He wouldn’t cave. And if I didn’t want the Alpha of one of the largest shifter packs in the South to lose his fool mind, I was going to have to do some things a fuck of a lot more drastic than I’d already done.

But the Acosta pack had taken me in, given me shelter when shit went sideways, and my best friend just so happened to be married to their Alpha. Getting his wife back to him had been at the top of my to-do list for every second she’d been gone.

And if the idiot prince in the Acosta dungeon wouldn’t break, then I’d just have to break him myself.

The hard way.

The problem with the hard way? It had a bunch of consequences—ones only I would pay.

Swallowing hard, I tried to suck in a breath as I timed my steps just right.

This is the last one. 

No coven in Savannah would help us. Trust me, I’d asked. No. I’d begged. My superiors, my contacts, anyone I could. No one would lift a finger to put an end to this. They didn’t care that the Fae were stuck or that they were stealing magic from regular arcaners who’d never done anything to anyone. They didn’t care that Savannah was changing for the worse day after day.

The ABI didn’t give a shit, the witches couldn’t give that first fuck, and the arcane community was at a standstill.

And I was trying to be good. Where I’d come from, what I’d done before I joined the Arcane Bureau of Investigation… I was trying not to be that person anymore. I’d done everything I could to not be the Jacobs Coven darling. To not be the enforcer my father made me to be, to not…

Someone once said that I was better than what my father made me to be—that I was better than him. Damn if I wasn’t proving her wrong.

But there was no one to help, so I’d just have to do it myself.

I needed twelve deaths to get enough juice—twelve witch deaths, to be exact. A coven’s worth of power was the only way I was going to be able to do this alone. I’d killed eleven people for this spell—a spell that made me no better than my daddy. That made me just as evil and debased as he had always wanted me to be.

Eleven. 

And I needed one more. One more, and then I could take that Fae bastard’s power. I could open the gates myself. Maybe not all of them, but I could open one. I could get Nico his wife back—my best friend back.

And then… then I’d…

Okay, so there wasn’t a plan past opening the damn gate. If I stayed breathing after that, I’d wing it. I was good at that.

But it was one thing to kill in the name of self-defense. I’d done that before plenty of times. It was quite another to be combing files I only had access to as an agent for the Arcane Bureau of Investigation to pick out just the right targets. The ones with power, the ones with a dark past, the ones that had bought their way out of trouble. The ones that had gone free when they shouldn’t have.

The ones that needed killing.

That was one thing I could say for myself. At least I was taking out the trash while doing something awful. It was more than my daddy could ever say.

Initially, I’d thought I’d do the world a favor and start picking off the Bannister clan. Wren’s family was the worst. The problem was that the Bannisters had practically fallen off the map, hiding where no one could find them—not unless I wanted to break down their damn door.

So I’d combed the case files, looking for the worst I could find. And I found them all right.

All I needed was this last one, and I’d be done. I just had to not die in the process.

Mitchell Rhodes was a Rhodes Coven lieutenant—not that the Rhodes Coven was much nowadays. Almost extinct, they had damn near been run out of Savannah after some mysterious deaths. The ABI files told a different tale. Mitchy-boy was not just a murderer. He was a harasser, abuser, and a rapist. The only thing that had kept him out of prison was a very important friend on Savannah’s Arcane Council and two cousins in the ABI.

I’d love to say that the ABI was any better than the human side of things, but I’d be lying my pretty little ass off.

One thing left out of the ABI files? Mitchell loved carousing human strip joints, abusing the employees, and then wiping just enough of their minds for them to know they were hurt but not be able to tell who’d done it. And if I timed my steps just right, I’d stop him in the act just this once.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” A rumble sounded from the dark recess of the doorway to my right, a familiar voice that should in no way be here. The athame in my hand was at Theo Acosta’s gut before I ever really gave it the command to move.

Theo Acosta was the biggest pain in my ass, but unfortunately, I couldn’t get rid of him. As second in command of the Acosta pack, Theo had been in my business since the day we’d met. I’d managed to avoid him while in the middle of my little murder spree, but if he was here, the jig was up.

“I’m looking for a job,” I quipped, tilting my head to the side like I was a little soft in the noggin. I mean, we were in a strip club, after all. “The ABI can’t pay all the bills, you know.” That was a bald-faced lie, but given my glamour and outfit, it sure as shit looked like the truth. How he could see through said glamour was a little concerning, but I couldn’t think about that right then.

He gripped my wrist as he plucked the blade from my fingers like he was taking it away from a toddler, moving into the harsh illumination of the club’s neon mood lighting. He’d gotten a haircut since I’d seen him last. His usual shoulder-length black locks were cropped close to his head in the back and left a little longer in the front, highlighting his strong jaw and fabulous cheekbones.

It suited him, the bastard.

I’d never met someone so pretty and so shitty all at the same time.

“Bullshit, Jacobs. You’re up to something.” The green of his wolf lit in his eyes, showing me just how pissed off he was. “You’re always up to something.”

In two and a half years, Theo hadn’t trusted me one bit—not that I’d given him a reason not to. He had some kind of beef with all witches—Wren excluded—so him warming up to me just wasn’t going to happen. The rest of the Acostas loved me. Mari and I painted our nails together. Dayana and I shared dessert recipes. And his mama? She adored me.

But Theo? No such luck.

“Of course I’m up to something, you dope. I’m trying to get enough power to break the Fae in your dungeon, or did you forget about him while you were being so judgy? So why don’t you go home, mind your business, and I’ll get the answer to all our problems, mm-kay, Pumpkin?”

Those green eyes narrowed to slits as his jaw solidified. “Eleven witches are missing, Jacobs. No one has found the bodies, but I know they’re dead. You planning a takeover? Expanding the coven for dear, old daddy?”

I ripped my wrist from his hold as well as the blade. “No, you moron. I’m getting enough power to make that Fae do what we need him to do before Nico decides to get himself killed. How many packs would love to take over Savannah, hmm? Five? Ten? And how well will your pack fare without a true Alpha when they come? How long do you think Nico will hold on without Wren?”

“Bull—”

The tip of my athame was at his throat in a blink. “No coven will help me—help us,” I hissed. “And no, I didn’t ask my daddy for help because the last thing we need is Josiah Jacobs in Savannah.” My father had pretty much taken over most of Tennessee and all of Kentucky. His fingers were in all the pies, he’d greased all the palms, and his hold was ironclad. Georgia would be next on his list if he even got a whiff of instability in Savannah.

I removed my blade and stepped back, my gaze drifting to the door where Mitchell Rhodes was about to lose his life. “This is the last one, and then I can… I can…”

My stomach churned. I associated dark magic with what I assumed a heroin addiction might feel like, you know, without all the high bits and keeping all the withdrawals. My bones hurt. I couldn’t make myself eat anything. I was tired every second of every day. Breathing was a challenge. The likelihood I’d survive after this was damn near nil. But I wasn’t going to tell Theo that.

I’d never tell Theo that. The fucker would probably throw a damn parade.

“In case you were wondering, the man I plan on taking out is a rapist and an abuser. They all were. I didn’t take anyone innocent.” I hadn’t wanted to take anyone at all. I hadn’t—

Theo inhaled a sharp breath through his nose, a low growl building in his chest. “Fine, but watch yourself. This better not blow back on us, you got me?”

By “us,” he meant the pack, and no matter what I’d done or how I’d helped, in his mind, that would never include me. Try as I might to ignore them, the words still stung. Two and a half years under Nico’s protection, and Theo didn’t think of me as anything other than a nuisance that helped occasionally. If he thought he could get away with it, he’d probably throw me off the closest cliff and be done with it.

And as if I would be so careless as to let anyone take the fall for my crimes. No, I was taking the brunt of the consequences on this one. As I should. If my wards had been better—if I would have protected Wren more—we wouldn’t be here right now. She’d be safe, and I wouldn’t…

Be a murderer? Don’t lie to yourself, girl. You were living in the grey long before you started down this road.

I swallowed hard, ignoring the insidious voice in my head that had the audacity to tell the truth. “That’s the plan.” At Theo’s resolute nod, I took a step away. “What? No lecture on how killing is wrong?”

Theo huffed, turning his back on me as he started down the hall. “That would make me a hypocrite, don’t you think?”

Yeah, it probably would. Theo was no stranger to spilling blood. It was just usually at the end of his claws.

Well, I didn’t have claws, so I’d just have to use what I could.

I watched Theo’s back as he sauntered down the hall and out of sight, annoyed that he was working that suit for all it was worth.

Pretty but shitty, thy name is Theo.

Gritting my teeth, I slipped into the last room on the right where Mitchell was playing with his latest victim. According to the girls I’d spoken to, he started out tame as a pussycat before he pounced. Right then, his arms were stretched out along the back of the couch as a petite brunette slowly slipped out of her bra.

It seemed like I’d caught him just in time.

Waving my hand, I turned up the sweetening spell I’d perfected in my teen years as I slowly undid the buttons of my coat. Underneath was acres of pale skin and a skimpy emerald lace set. My glamour had me as a busty redhead with a rack that could be seen from space. I’d even changed my face a little, sharpening my nose and filling out my cheeks a bit to stave off that gaunt, dark magic look that was making eating a challenge. And Mitchell’s eyes were exactly where I wanted them: on my overly inflated boobs.

“Well, look at what we have here,” my mark muttered as he widened his lips into an oily smile. “And it ain’t even my birthday.”

More like your death day, but who’s counting?

Tilting my head to the side, I twirled a finger in my hair and bit my lip. “Oh, no, Sugar. The pleasure’s all mine.”

The dancer in between us shot me a confused look. Well, confused and a little pissed. I was horning in on her dance, but she didn’t know what I was saving her from. Catching her hand, I yanked her to me and turned us so Mitchell wouldn’t see me whispering in her ear.

“You want to leave this room,” I murmured, turning up that sweetening spell so high it was possible she’d walk out of this room and never return.

She stumbled back, catching herself on her skyscraper heels before sweeping out of the room like her life depended on it. Funnily enough, it did.

“Hey, wait just a damn minute he—” Mitchell groused, but his tune changed as soon as I planted my ass onto his lap. He enjoyed one solitary second of my ass in his hands before my athame was at his throat.

Unlike Theo, Mitchell didn’t have the skills or instincts to realize when he was in trouble, couldn’t smell it on the air, or read it in my smile. And I wouldn’t give this man the chance to change his circumstances. He didn’t so much as gurgle before his throat was sliced from ear to ear, the blood draining out of him in a flood of scarlet.

Bile raced up my esophagus as I smeared the hot blood across his face, murmuring the dark magic spell that would lend me his power.

This is the last one. 

Oily strands of magic lifted from his rapidly cooling skin, slamming into me with a force that knocked me off his lap. My blade went flying, and I struggled not to vomit all over the commercial carpet floor that was likely filled with a whole host of nasty things.

This is the last one. 

Gritting my teeth, I swallowed a scream as fire lit in my bones.

This is the last one. No more. Just make it through this, and you’re done.

And just like every other time I’d done this, I cursed myself for refusing to do the power exchange as my father would. I didn’t perform the other spells that would ease this form of acquisition of power.

I didn’t debase myself any more than I had to.

And this was why I wouldn’t follow in my father’s footsteps. I wouldn’t crave power or money or favor. I would be…

Better? Girl, you’re a murderer. How does that make you think you’re better?

I was no better than Josiah Jacobs. No better than the man who was one tiptoe away from a full-on kingpin of the gods-be-damned Heartland.

Managing to peel myself from the disgusting floor, I cleaned up my mess, set myself to rights, and got rid of the body I now had on my hands. That was the one benefit of the magic I’d stolen—disintegrating a body was a snap. But it was only after the blood was gone from my skin and I’d opened the door did the real side effects set in.

The music from the club nearly split my skull as I made my way down the hall and out the back entrance, only managing to keep the contents of my stomach in until after I made it out into the hot, muggy night. To anyone else, I probably looked like some drunk party girl losing my lunch on the pavement. To an arcaner? I likely appeared precisely as I was—a witch with too much power and not enough sense.

But I had a Fae to break and a gate to unlock.

I just had to find the strength to do it.

It starts just like they always do, from the blackness of a sleep so deep, the fabric of what is real and what is dream weaves together to make what would be.

An entryway or vestibule, the room seemed small. A little girl had opened the door, a lovely walnut wood, inlaid with a stained-glass window. The mother’s heels clicked against the cream-colored marble floor with an urgent gait as she hurried toward her daughter, her pink skirt suit swishing against her legs as she fiddled with the simple strand of understated pearls at her neck. 

“I thought I told you not to—”

The girl’s white-blonde hair practically gleamed against her skin as her mouth formed an “O” of surprise. She was young, maybe six or seven, and deeply tan, as only children could be with their terminable immunity to the heat and sun.

Moving behind the girl, the shock on the mother’s face morphed into fear so quickly her features seemed to warp, like a piece of untreated wood that had been left to the elements to rot.

She gripped her daughter’s shoulders, shaking her violently in an attempt to get the poor girl to move, to back away from the looming shadow. Clearly male, the figure was backlit by the rising sun. The woman recognized the man, however. She didn’t need to see his face to know what danger lay before them—she could easily see the large caliber handgun gripped in his meaty palm.

Shrieking for her daughter to run, the mother roughly tugged the poor girl behind her back. But her daughter was either in shock or too scared to move because she stayed rooted to the spot, clutching the hem of her mother’s designer suit.

Slowly, calmly, the man raised his gun as if he had all the time in the world to take his shot. The muzzle fired once, and a tiny hole appeared in the woman’s chest. A small trickle of blood bloomed over the heart of her blouse. She went down slowly, dropping first to her knees, sliding to her bottom, and then to her side. Even in death, she was careful not to fall on her child. Again, the muzzle fired, and this time, the daughter collapsed, her wound considerably less pretty, given the caliber of the gun and her small size.

And in that tiny little vestibule, in what was surely a beautiful home of a nice family, the mother and daughter were left to cool in their drying lifeblood.

* * *

I should wake up screaming, but I don’t. After these many years, dreaming night after night of the horrors people inflict on one another, I stopped screaming several decades ago. As per usual, though, I sit bolt upright in my bed, sheets tangled around my legs, damp with cold sweat.

My best friend Evan would call me a psychic, but I tell her on the regular she’s full of shit. Psychics know things before they happen, and I do. On occasion. 

But not enough for me to actually make a difference. 

Not enough to save the people who need saving.

And just once? I’d really like to be wrong.

For curiosity’s sake, I pull my laptop onto the bed, praying I don’t blow up this beautiful piece of equipment. I have a bad habit of frying electrical devices when I’m upset, and watching a mom and daughter get gunned down in their home definitely puts me in the “agitated” column. In fact, this is my fourth laptop this year.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. Once marginally centered, I type the local news site into the browser. Sure enough, the breaking news story is of Victoria Ness, thirty-four, and Vivian Ness, seven, who were gunned down in their University Park home two hours ago. The shooter, Victoria’s estranged husband, then turned the gun on himself.

Figures.

What kind of psychic am I? Well, evidently, I’m the shitty kind. I maybe see ten percent of what I should, and I can’t alter a single second of it. I see what I see, and then I brace myself because it’s going to happen. There’s nothing I can do.

Believe me, I’ve tried. 

Just once I’d like to have a vision I could change. 

Just once I’d like to see something other than how and when someone will die.

But I know my fate, and sanity just isn’t in the cards for me.

Staring out the huge picture window, I take in the view of the mountain range beyond. The craggy rocks and giant boulders are so vastly different from where I started my life. There are fewer trees here in the subalpine Rockies than in the Pacific Northwest, and the sun shines more days throughout the year. The heat, the sun, the smell of dry earth—all these differences help me breathe when I wake from a new vision. 

A new death. 

Seeing that blue sky goes a long way to calm me down when I should be rocking in a corner.

Getting out of bed, I immediately rip off the sweat-soaked sheets. It’s a ritual of sorts. A fresh start. A means of washing away a death I can’t change, and the helplessness of another life gone. Snapping the clean sheets on the bed, I begin bracing myself for the total freaking production tonight will be.

I have an art show this evening, and though it’s July in Denver, I’ll be covered from neck to ankles to hide the ink on my skin, wear contacts to cloak the eyes that mark me as what I am, and pray that no one finds me. Yes, it’s Denver, and yes, even grandmothers are inked these days, but it’s the eyes that get people.

As a seer, I was born with the ability to observe events that will come to pass in vivid Technicolor right inside my little noggin. And my eyes? They marked me before I ever had my first vision. My irises are an extraordinarily pale, milky green. Like in old westerns where the elderly guy is blind, and he has those freaky eyes where the iris and pupil nearly blend into the sclera? Yep, that’s what I’ve got going on here.

But my sight is better than most humans. Likely better than most Ethereals, too. But the Ethereal community prefers not to remember we even exist—our presence reminding them that there’s no such thing as a true immortal. Everything dies. Witch or warlock, wraith, or even a meager human, they all perish in the end. And when they do, flames and wings are what you better hope you see.

It’s better than the alternative. 

And let’s not get into the fact that sometimes I randomly electrocute people without meaning to. If people weren’t already looking at me funny before—which they are, because my eyes freak people way the hell out—they would after I randomly zapped them.

So I wear contacts when I leave my home, because if I don’t, people assume I’m blind, for one, and they act all awkward and try to help me do stuff or get around. Or numero dos: their faces say they are skeeved way the hell out. Also, when I’m pissed, they kind of, well, glow. 

Like an incandescent bulb, glow.

So the fact that I’m different is really fucking obvious and that doesn’t even touch on the flames. 

Or the wings.

Hello, my name is Aurelia Constantine, and I am a phoenix.

No offense to Greek mythology, but I’m not a damn bird. I’m a person. I just so happen—on occasion—to burst into flames, have visions, and electrocute people with a shield that I can’t seem to control. Oh, and those wings? Very, very real. 

And they’re persnickety little bitches to boot.

My last phase totally ruined my favorite leather jacket. I’ve had that jacket for the past twenty years. They just don’t make leather like they used to. Replacing it was a pain in the ass, and in the end, I had to have it custom made.

Also, I don’t age. Or die. Wait. I take that back. I’ve died. A lot. I just don’t stay dead.

I’ve looked thirty-ish for the last one hundred and fifty years or so. Since I was born about thirty years prior to the aging halt, I’m assuming my kind ages at a normal rate until we reach our bodies’ maturity. Then we stop aging altogether.

Or it could just be me.

I should know all these details for sure, should be knowledgeable about the basic facets of my species, but escaping my Legion at twenty means I was never taught several important aspects of being what I am.

What I do know is that when you’re a seer in my culture and reach maturity, you get permanently blinded so your visions will be “pure”—whatever the hell that means—transforming a lowly seer into an oracle. 

Our visions are important. Seers and oracles alike foresee visions of death, and in predicting death, we can direct the gentry to the dead or dying to send the souls on to be reborn. Seers cannot change the outcome of their visions. Oracles, however, have enough advanced warning and the power to change the future.

In my mind, it is the only advantage for the price they paid when they gave away their eyes.

One hundred and eighty years I’ve been alive, and for nearly all of them, I’ve been running. Hiding amongst the humans so ignorant of our existence. Trying so hard to blend in, not get caught again by the people I once called family. Doing my best to make sure I don’t lose what little autonomy I have left. 

But all it takes is one person to put two and two together and realize I’m not human. 

All it takes is one person to notice my differences or see me change into what I really am.  

All it takes is one person to remember me, and I’ll be fucked. 

Truth be told, I’d prefer not to go to the show at all and just get the check for any of my work that’s sold. I’d rather change into fresh pajamas, order takeout, and binge Supernatural for the five-zillionth time. But Evan, who does double duty as the curator for the James Gallery and the poor soul who calls herself my best friend, has decided I’m a shut-in long enough three hundred or so days a year. 

Every single opening, she makes me go and pretend to look at my art like a real live person, who breathes and speaks and shit. It’s utterly exhausting. Personally, I think she’s overexaggerating. I go out. Occasionally. To get tattoos and groceries—but so what? That counts as out, dammit. 

Why she’s my friend, I’ll never know.

I say that, but I know why. She’s my friend, because when I was at my lowest, when I thought I couldn’t go on another day, she crashed into my life and gave me someone to look after. She is the yin to my yang, the Disco to my Heavy Metal.

In reality, she’s a wraith princess, the only child of John Black, the Wraith King. Phoenixes and wraiths are supposed to hate each other, but I couldn’t hate that girl if someone paid me. Other wraiths are a bit sketchy, but Evan, she is the light in the darkness.

I just wish she’d let me stay home and avoid this whole mess.

So far, I’ve managed to maintain my anonymity. That’s what Evan is for—because she can be in the spotlight when I can’t. She has the freedom to move from city to city, selling, curating, being an all-around wonderkid where I cannot.

All because of my stupid Legion.

So tonight, I’ll be hiding in plain sight, eating finger food and drinking cheap wine like any other art-consuming hipster, pretending I’m not the one who painted the pretty pictures.

Suddenly, “Shake Your Groove Thing” blasts from the speakers of my phone. Why Evan thought Peaches & Herb was an appropriate ringtone, I’ll never know.

“What?” I answer, knowing she is T-minus three seconds from an Opening Day meltdown of Chernobyl proportions.

“Where in the blue fuck are you? You were supposed to be down the mountain already and driving into Denver, and your ass is probably still sitting in bed! You do this to me every single time. Dammit, Ari, get your ass in gear.”

“I’m getting a very bad feeling about tonight,” I whisper, but I say this each and every time.

This time, though, it’s the whisper that catches her attention.

“You see anything?” she breathes.

Evan knows too much. Well, Evan knows pretty much everything. I know she feeds most of the information to Rhys, but I can’t muster up the courage to tell her to stop. Evan is like a dog with a bone.

“Nothing but a murder this morning. You know the Ness family?”

“Yeah, I do,” is all that comes through the line on a broken gasp. “They’re huge patrons. They’re supposed to be here tonight.”

A bone-deep chill races down the length of my spine. 

Houston, we have a problem.

“Well, they’re not coming. I don’t think I am, either.”

“We’ve been through this.” She sighs heavily. “You have to be here, Ari. You have to see how your work affects people, how it moves them. If anything, I’m begging you to be here for me. Victoria was a friend.”

I feel horrible. I’m sad for that family, but only on the periphery. Evan actually knew her.

“I don’t have to do anything. Especially since you’ve been ditching our sparring sessions and avoiding me for the last month.”

“But—”

“But, I will…for you. Give me ten and I’ll be heading down the mountain.”

“Thank you.” The relief in her voice hits me square in the chest.

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t make me regret it,” I say with a roll of my eyes she can’t see. “There better be yummy snacks.”

“Of course there’ll be yummy snacks. What kind of operation do you think I’m running here? I have to give the patrons something since the artist is conspicuously missing. Again,” Evan huffs. “The things I do for you.”

“Snacks.”

“Yeah, yeah. I got your snacks.”

“Thanks. See you in forty-five.”

Ending the call, I rush through the disguise prep, but instead of the dowdy outfit I was planning on, I opt to dress in attire that will be easier to fight in. In lieu of the brown suit, whose added fabric will hinder my movement and ease of weapon retrieval, I pick a nice pair of fitted black straight-legged slacks with a good, thick heft to them. I pair it with the matching jacket that helps conceal my tattoos and spine holster.

I choose a blousy, sapphire peplum top to go under the jacket (because I’m a freaking girl and I need the pretty). In the same vein, I pick my black leather, four-inch wedge-heeled booties with the weapon loops sewn into the inner lining. One would think I couldn’t run, fight, or walk in these beauties, but they’d be wrong. These are the most comfortable pair of shoes I own, and likely, they’re the most functional.

Shakily, I still put in the emerald-green contacts, put my hair in a bun at the back of my head, and throw in a few stainless-steel spikes as hair sticks. I love them because they are as thin as knitting needles, sharp as knives, and hide in plain sight.

Just in case the shiver of fear I feel is the real thing, I slide three thin throwing knives in the holder in my right bootie, and load and stow a Glock 19 in the specialty-made left-handed spine holster.

And Evan wonders why I don’t go outside. Wearing enough weapons to satisfy me is a production and a half.

As I head out to the garage, a cool finger of dread prickles at the base of my neck. Just in case, I step back inside and carefully open the gun cabinet disguised as a full-length mirror. Picking up a few extra mags, I stow them in the ammo loops of my left bootie.

Ready as I’ll ever be.

Let’s just hope I don’t die again.