I was burned at the stake when I was fourteen years old.

At nineteen, I was dissected by a zealot “physician” who knew less than a pile of cow shit about medicine. 

I was drowned in a lake when I was twenty-four. 

At twenty-seven, I was stoned in a public square. 

When I was thirty—long after I quit aging—I finally got smart. If I stopped helping people, if I stopped trying to save the humans who were so ungrateful for my assistance, no one would know what I could do. I wouldn’t hear the word “witch” from the lips of men who didn’t know the first thing about me.

Sure, it meant more people would die, but with as many times as I’d been “killed” for my gift, they deserved it.

I made rules—ways of hiding in plain sight. 

One: never, ever, on literal pain of death, live in a small town. There is no hiding there, no way to keep nosy people out of your business. Also, when the town magistrate happens to go “missing,” they are going to look at the strange girl who keeps to herself. 

Yes, I killed him, and no, I’m not sorry. 

He deserved it.

Two: no matter how much I may want to, don’t cast in public. It doesn’t matter if some asshole parent is beating their kid, mistreating their dog, or driving like a blind monkey on uppers. Don’t do it. 

Memory spells are slippery and difficult to execute.

Three: Don’t talk about history or politics with people. You run the risk of talking about the French Revolution as if you were actually there—I was. Then some jerkoff history buff—who swears by the books he so ardently clings to—will start to get nosy. 

It’s bad news all around.

I remind myself of my rules—especially rule two—as I walk the dark and rather dirty streets of Denver’s warehouse district. While I suppose I could get scolded for being a beautiful woman walking alone at night in a big city in a decidedly seedy part of town, I just don’t give a shit. I wasn’t leaving my cherry-red Chevelle anywhere but in a highly secure parking garage, even with the three-block walk on five-inch spiked heels. 

And I’d break rule two in a heartbeat if a man—or woman, I’m equal opportunity—came at me in this part of town. Like the shady-looking fellow giving me the “V” sign as he adjusts his crotch, his tongue waggling through his fingers like some sort of deranged animal.

I contemplate just what I could turn him into. A trash barrel, or maybe a port-a-john, or even a mailbox. Transmogrification spells aren’t too hard if you’re working with something of equal mass. All it would take is a snap of my fingers and the right words in Latin. 

My plans are derailed by my phone ringing in my clutch. Lucky prick.

Someone just saved your life, pal.

I fish the slim, yet annoying device from the creamy pink satin of my bag and answer it. 

“You just saved someone’s life and ruined my fun. I hope you know I’m going to make the next tattoo I do on you hurt,” I grouse, stomping my way down the cracked sidewalk toward my destination.

“No, you won’t,” Aurelia says, “and sweetheart, if you could make me feel pain, I’d lick your freaking pumps. Why are you planning murder?” 

Aurelia Constantine has been one of my best friends for the better part of a century. We bonded over being cast out of our respective families and our mutual love of tattoos—me giving them, and Ari receiving them. Aurelia is a phoenix—like, no shit, flaming-wings-and-everything phoenix. I, on the other hand, am something altogether different. 

“Like you don’t already know. Some jackoff is making a rude gesture at me. Speaking of, what would be a worse fate? Life as a port-a-john or trashcan? I can see significant downsides to both,” I muse, my fingertips itching to snap.

“Stop plotting the silly human’s demise for a minute. Are you coming to my wedding or not, woman? You keep flip-flopping and I can’t see what you’re going to do.” Aurelia is a rare and powerful psychic, and newly crowned leader, along with her twin, Mena of the American Phoenix Legion, and if she can’t see what I’m going to decide, it really must be up in the air. 

In all honesty, I can’t see myself—a Rogue witch—hobnobbing with all of the powerful Ethereal leaders that will deign to be there. It sounds like a sure-fire way to get myself thrown in a teensy pocket dimension to never be heard from again. 

Yeah, I don’t think so.

“I feel horrible, but I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it, babe. It seems too risky. All it takes is one coven leader to be there, and then I’ll be carted off to some dank hole in the ground praying to die. I really want to be there, but…” I trail off, unwilling to disappoint one of the few people who has made this long, lonely life somewhat bearable.

“I get it, sweetie. Don’t beat yourself up. You still planning on coming to the bachelorette party? Evan is cooking up something weird and probably hilarious as hell.”

Evangeline Carmichael, Queen Wraith and all-around pixie badass, is an odd duck but a hilarious one. Whatever she’s planning for a bachelorette party is sure to be a smashing success.

“This, I can do. You swear you’re not upset?” It isn’t every day that one of your besties gets married—even though technically this is her second wedding, and she has been bound to her husband Rhys for the better part of two centuries. 

“Darling girl, if there was anyone in this world who understood hiding out, it would be me. No worries. I’ll see you in a few days.”

“You’re bringing the twins into the shop, right? I need to squeeze those little balls of baby goodness.”

Aurelia’s twins, Henry and Olivia, are a solid bright spot in my life. I can’t wait to see them grow up. There isn’t anything in the world I wouldn’t do to keep them safe. 

“Yes, if I can get Rhys to tone down the bodyguard detail. Oh, shit! I need to go, babe. Henry is hungry, and if Rhys picks him up, well…” She trails off. Her son Henry inherited some of the Constantine family traits. Namely the Aegis ability—one which shields and electrocutes anything within a ten-foot radius. I foresee his toddler years to be pure hell.

“Okay, babe. Have fun with that,” I say as I disconnect, picking up the pace on my black suede peep-toes on the uneven sidewalk. If I wreck these shoes, I will murder Striker on principle. 

Striker Voss is my business partner and other best friend. And his ignorant ass convinced me to get dressed up and meet him out here in the ass end of nowhere to get into an exclusive club. How Strike managed to get a plus-one, I’m not sure, and with his abilities, I probably don’t want to know. 

But here I am in what I think is the perfect club number—a royal-blue velvet, off-the-shoulder wiggle dress from the ’50s. The gathered bust and tulip-style pencil skirt make it classy and racy. Plus, the three-quarter sleeves show off a hint of my tattoos—just enough to keep people guessing—and the blue of the dress compliments the freshly dyed indigo of my hair. 

The nearly silent purr of the motor pulling up next to me yanks my eyes from my feet and my awareness from the man across the street. The whir of a window lowering is followed closely by Striker’s low whistle. He pulls into a parking lot a hundred feet down the road, and exits his Tesla Roadster like he’s a model strutting down a runway. 

Striker is beautiful in a way that is almost unearthly. Wavy blond, shoulder-length hair, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, a jaw dreams were made of, and a pair of lips I know for a fact are just as soft and yet just as firm as one would hope them to be. Eyelashes that would make a model weep brush his cheekbones as he blinks, and I swear, if I didn’t already know we weren’t compatible in bed, I would hold him hostage and drain him dry. 

But I do know how incompatible we are. 

Margaritas plus an unfortunate anniversary, equaled a solid degeneration to straight tequila and a rather fumbling night together in the 1940s. Striker is a giver—given his species, it’s understandable—but in bed, I need a taker. He couldn’t be a taker if I held a gun to his head, thus, no more naughty times with Striker. 

It was awkward for about two seconds until we both laughed about it and moved on with our lives. Living as long as we do, little things like sleeping with your best friend tend to get swept under the rug. What doesn’t get swept away is the dick move of dragging me out into the middle of Stab Central in a club dress.

“Yeah, I know I look good. Could you pretty please tell me why you dragged me out here? I almost turned a thug into a port-a-john for Fate’s sake.”

Typically, Striker is the one bitching about something, but tonight my back is sore from hunching over one body part or another, inking fresh designs on smooth skin. I love my shop, love my job, but nights like tonight, I’d rather soak in my garden tub and drink a big old glass of wine than go out to this club Strike’s been raving about for the last five years.

“All in good time. I swore I would take you to the hottest club in town, but before we go in, there are rules.”

Rules, my fabulous ass. What am I, nine?

“I’m nearly four hundred years old, Strike. Not, in fact, the teenager you are treating me as.”

Striker gives me the raised eyebrow of impatience and carries on. “As I was saying. Let me open the door for you. Only members can access the building. Don’t pay the bartender. Drinks are free and they work for tips only. Do not hand him money, put it in the tip jar. If he touches you, he’ll know you’re not a member and that is bad news all around. Try and stick to my booth when we get in, and for Fate’s sake, do not go on the dance floor. It’s like a Roman fucking orgy in there. I plan on sticking to you like glue, but if we get separated, be careful. I swear this place is pure shenanigans. It’s like the witches took a look at Fae clubs and decided to go one bigger. Ugh. Like they can compete with Fae clubs.”

This rigmarole tells me something hinky is going on. 

Wait a minute…

“You don’t have a plus-one at all, do you? You’re sneaking me in? Have you lost your damn mind?”

I may not have ever been to a witch club, but I know enough about them to know only accepted coven members are allowed admittance for one, and two, they have a rule about no Rogues. Striker assured me he could get me into the local club since he had an in.

“You know me, it’s better to ask for forgiveness, blah, blah, blah. Just come on. Have I ever steered you wrong?” he asks as he pulls me by the elbow.

“Yes. Several times in the last century, you asshole.”

“Okay, but”—He pauses, opening the creaky warehouse door which seems to have appeared out of nowhere—“look at this place.”

Striker is about to get me in a world of trouble, I just know it.

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.

My life would be a lot easier if the dead in this town would just cooperate. Maybe it was the living. They never seemed to cooperate, either.

I hefted one eyelid by sheer force of will and spied the time on my alarm clock. That alarm clock was just for show. No one—not even me—used them much anymore. Lately, it was there so I didn’t have to look at the time on my phone. Said alarm clock was blinking 12:00 at me.

The power had gone out sometime since I’d fallen into bed. Figures. It didn’t matter that I lived in a nice neighborhood. Mother Nature was a testy woman on the best of days, but in the spring in this part of the country? She was downright spiteful.

The knock—well, more like pounding—on my front door rattled through my house again, which was what had woken me up from a very deep, much-needed sleep in the first damn place. I knew that insistent cop-knock. Jay was pounding on my door like the badge-wielding tool he was. Granted, I, too, had a badge, but I wasn’t the jerk accosting his door at oh-butt-thirty in the morning.

Groaning, I peeled myself from my oh-so-soft mattress and stomped to my door, yanking it open before Jay could splinter the wood.

“What?” Yeah, it came out more like a bark, but it wasn’t even dawn, and I was in no mood.

Instead of saying anything at all, Jay waved a to-go cup of coffee in my face as a peace offering. I fell on the caffeine-laden cup like a junkie, sucking down the brew like my life—or more accurately, Jay’s life—depended on it.

Only after the cup was half-drained did I let him pass the threshold into my living room. Shuffling past me, he plopped onto my overstuffed sofa like he owned it. He didn’t, but Jeremiah Cooper, AKA, Jay, was my best friend—hell, my only friend—and he’d spent many a morning, evening, and afternoon on that couch.

Jay wasn’t the only person sitting there, but he paid exactly zero attention to the slightly see-through dead man perched right next to him, lounging on the cushions like the Queen of Sheba. Jay—and everyone else in my life—couldn’t see him.

No one could.

No one but me.

Dead guy was Hildenbrand O’Shea, and he’d died sometime in the 1840s. Hildy couldn’t tell me the exact year he’d passed, and records were scant, so it was anyone’s guess when he’d actually kicked the bucket. Hildy was adamant about the decade at least, even if the story of his demise changed every time he told it. 

Hildy had a lot of fun messing with the living. At present, he was making grotesquely funny faces about two inches from Jay’s nose which was at odds with his posh knee-length jacket, waistcoat, and slacks—the markings of high society in the decade he’d passed. I wasn’t positive on the coloring of his clothes because Hildy wasn’t exactly solid, but I could tell he had light hair and eyes, wore a cravat with a paisley pattern, and sometimes held a walking stick and a top hat, even though he didn’t have either right now. He appeared to be in his late thirties, with a sharp knife blade of a nose and square jaw.

Typically, I’d be trying not to laugh, but half a cup of coffee was a losing battle against my tired body. I was in no mood. I was all in favor of crawling right back into my bed and waking up at the super-reasonable hour of seven. 

Maybe even eight.

I’d spent the last three weeks solving a trio of homicides and was just about done with the people in this town killing each other for a good long while. Those three weeks should have been one, but like I’d said, the dead never wanted to cooperate.

“We’ve got a case, D. You’re going to have to get dressed.”

My gaze reluctantly moved from Hildy to Jay. Jay was dressed in a suit like every other time we’d been called in at the ass crack of dawn. He, too, was sipping coffee, but he didn’t look happy about it. No. Jay’s gray face said that coffee would be coming back up sometime in the near future.

Dammit. If people could stop killing each other for about three days, that would be gravy.

Heaving a sigh, I shuffled back to my bedroom and called over my shoulder for him to make me some more coffee. It was a fifty-fifty shot whether or not he’d do it. Jay could be a contrary bitch sometimes.

It didn’t take me too long to handle my business, brush my teeth, and put on my suit pants and tank. The only real trouble was what to do with my hair. Thick, wavy, and a middle-of-the-road blonde, it defied the laws of physics, gravity, and nature. Doing the best I could, I shoved it into a haphazard bun and called it good.

I didn’t bother with makeup, even though I probably needed it. I knew without looking in the mirror that I had bags under my eyes big enough to drive a truck through. But I also knew without a doubt at some point in the day I was going to start crying, almost vomit, actually vomit, or all of the above.

Makeup was a waste of time.

By rote, I strapped on my vest, slid my service weapon into the Kydex spine holster, and slipped a blessed rosary around my neck. My rosary wasn’t there for religious purposes—at least not on my part. I wasn’t particularly religious, to be honest. 

Did I think there was an afterlife? Yes. 

Did I subscribe to any one way to get there? Not so much, no. 

But the prayer beads had been blessed by a priest and had stopped particularly nasty specters from causing bodily harm on more than one occasion. Pissed-off ghosts were not my favorite, and poltergeists were the freaking worst.

Tucking the rosary under my vest, I shrugged on my blouse and jacket, stuffed my feet into low-heeled leather boots, and hit the road. And by road, I meant my living room, following the smell of freshly brewed coffee.

Jay was the bestest friend a girl could have. If I were even a little interested—or if his preference swung anywhere near my gender—we’d have been the perfect couple. Sadly, neither of those things were ever going to happen, much to his mother’s dismay.

I slugged down a healthy gulp of steaming coffee and sighed with blissful glee as the caffeine hit my system. Only then did I really focus on Jay. He was pale-faced and pinched. Neither of those were his norm. Jeremiah Cooper was a golden boy of Haunted Peak, Tennessee ever had one. Dark-haired and tan-skinned, with the palest of blue eyes, Jay was a football star and straight-A student in high school. Graduated with honors right next to me at the University of Tennessee and was a well-respected member of the community—even if he was BFFs with the town weirdo.

Jay hadn’t been pale-faced and pinched a day in his life.

“I’ve consumed enough caffeine to not rip your head off. Spill it.” My delivery could have used a little work, but I’d checked the time on my phone. It was barely after three in the morning on a Tuesday. I had a good reason to be cranky—especially since I’d done the lion’s share of the legwork on our last case.

“We know her, Darby. And…” He didn’t finish his sentence, but Hildy did.

“It’s another weird one,” Hildy chirped from Jay’s shoulder, busy poking his spectral finger into Jay’s ear.

This was Hildy’s way of trying to cheer me up, and like every other time he’d done it, it not only did not work, it creeped me out. If I’d told him once, I’d told him a thousand times: Don’t mess with the living, and they won’t mess with the dead. Like always, Hildy didn’t listen to my warnings. And as was the norm, Hildy kept right on talking.

“Ya went to school with her, lass. Brenda, Barbara, Blanca, somebody. Cut up like a Thanksgiving turkey, too.” The burr of Hildy’s Irish accent raked against my nerves. Hildy was up on all the gossip, and he knew when just about anyone died in this town. Even though he was an excellent source to have in my hip pocket, no one wanted guessing games at the ass crack of dawn—especially with his flair for the dramatic.

“Blair?” I blurted, too tired and too irritated to bite my tongue. Shit.

Rule number one was never converse with the dead in front of living people. That said, I broke rule one so often, it was a miracle I was still a cop—even with a damn near perfect close rate.

As expected, Jay’s eyes went round, his face paling like I’d tapped his jugular and cranked it wide. I’d guessed right.  

“I swear to god, it freaks me the fuck out when you do that.”

Playing it cool, I asked, “Do what? Extrapolate data based on your mood and make a hypothesis? It’s literally my job.”

Jay smacked his mug down on the counter so hard I was surprised it didn’t break, crossing his arms as he sized me up. “You know damn well that’s not what you were doing. You were talking to a ghost just now, weren’t you?”

He was way too with it this early in the morning.

Jay was the only person in my life that knew I saw the dead long after they’d gone off to their final rest. He wasn’t cool with it by any stretch of the imagination, but he still hadn’t carted me off to a psychiatric hospital to have me committed, so at least there was that. Granted, it had taken me talking to his deceased grandma Marcy to get the goods on him, but it was nice not to worry that my best friend thought I was crazy.

Well, Jay thought I was crazy, he just didn’t think I needed medication.

“It’s too early to hide it, man. Cut me some slack. Do you know how hard it is to try and keep a straight face every minute of every day while the dead just chatter on like I’m in their freaking knitting circle?” I stopped my rant to slug back more nectar of the gods, drained the cup dry, and smacked it back down onto the counter. “It’s fucking exhausting, and I’m tapped out. So quit being a bitch about it.”

Jay’s face got that irritated, squinty quality I hated before it fell away. I got the “big sigh” that said he would forgive my weirdness, and he pulled me into a huge bear hug. “I’m sorry I was a dick, D. But do me a favor, don’t talk to any ghosts while we’re out there.”

His warning gave me a niggle of unease. He knew I never planned to, but that didn’t stop me from slipping up on occasion.

“You got a reason?” Did I accidentally use my cop voice on my BFF? Maybe. But even though Jay was my partner and had heard that tone about a zillion times in the last fifteen years, he still answered me like a perp.

He sighed, pouted at his empty mug, and answered, “We aren’t the only ones investigating this one. Word is there’s a Fed there.”

A Fed was stomping all over my crime scene? I cursed loud enough and inventive enough that both Jay and Hildy were threatening to wash my mouth out with soap. I ignored them both, snagging my badge and clipping it to my belt before I tossed my messenger bag over my shoulder and tagged my keys.

“What the hell are you doing just standing there?” I growled, my hand already on the doorknob, my key in the lock.

It took three ages and half a millennium for Jay to get his ass in gear, but when I made for my Jeep, Jay snagged my sleeve and redirected me.

“We don’t need to drive,” he muttered, nodding toward the end of our block that was just past the apex of a hill. 

Only then did I see the faint flash of lights from a black-and-white at the end of my street.