The first intruder to arrive was the last to depart. It had been less than two minutes since he’d arrived. He spared a cold glance over the carnage, as if counting the bodies, and Wynter instinctively closed her eyes. She played dead, letting him think he’d completed his task, and only opened her eyes when the silver light flashed one last time.
There was only the light of the moon then and the corpses of the werewolves she called both family and friend. They were all she knew and loved, and they were dead. Wynter checked, twice.
She was the last werewolf alive in the Alaska pack and that meant the honorable burial of her pack was her responsibility.
So was vengeance for their deaths.
The women who had been mates turned to her, the same lust for vengeance in their eyes, and Wynter knew she’d just become a leader of a different kind. The wound in her shoulder burned and she knew that no normal treatment would heal it.
When the burials were done, they would all to go to New York.
In her apartment, Sylvia woke up abruptly. She had a bad feeling and halfway wished she’d allowed the vampire Sebastian to stay, despite how irritating and enigmatic he could be. She sat up and looked around, wondering what had disturbed her sleep. The part of Maeve’s book under her pillow glowed faintly red, as if it would protest its innocence.
Sylvia wasn’t convinced.
She jumped when Sebastian suddenly appeared outside the windows on her terrace, his hands on the glass as if he’d force his way in. Had she summoned him with her thoughts? Then he stepped back. His eyes were bright and he glittered, a sign that he hadn’t fed. His gaze fixed upon her and she retreated to the other side of the room, pressing her back against the wall.
His expression turned disparaging. “I won’t feed on you,” he muttered and she heard his words clearly despite the glass barrier. “I’ll never feed on you.” Sylvia wondered at his vehemence, but he flicked a lethal glance behind himself, then at the faint red glow by her pillow. The torn book seemed to be advertising its location. “Fucking magick.”
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Can’t you tell?”
“I know something’s wrong.”
“The Fae have attacked. Reliquary is a blood bath, so to speak. It won’t be the only one.”
The antique shop in Soho, Reliquary, was the haven of the vampires who followed Micah, including Sebastian whose alliance she often doubted. Sylvia guessed that Sebastian had left there in a hurry.
His lips tightened. “It’s brutal.” He shook his head. “There was no point in trying to help.” She wondered whether he was trying to justify his choice then he glared at her again. “Yes. I chose to defend you over them. Don’t shoot.”
Sylvia couldn’t deny that his decision pleased her. He glared at the door knob, a lock she knew he could pick or break, and she stepped across the room to open it and let him in. He swept into her apartment on a breath of cold air, moving with his usual grace and speed, then circled the apartment like a whirlwind. She wondered what he was looking for, but before she could ask, he stopped beside her pillow. He removed Maeve’s book with his fingertips and studied it with obvious distaste.
There was a faint tinkle, like bells, and Sylvia saw more red light emanate from the volume. She only had half of the book, since it had been torn in their escape from Fae, but in Sebastian’s grip, its remaining pages fluttered as if in a wind. There was no air moving in the apartment and Sylvia moved closer with suspicion. She could feel his agitation and distrust. Why did he hate magick so much? For all she knew, he’d told her before then made her forget his confession.
He was so annoying like that.
Pages separated themselves from the binding and took flight, twisting and turning as they rose in the air. Before they touched the ceiling, they disappeared, one at a time.
The book closed itself as one last page fluttered to the floor.
Even at a distance, Sylvia could see that it was the page documenting the Coven of Mercy, the thirteen vampires who had gathered in Manhattan. They had pledged to Micah’s scheme to choose victims only from the sick and the infirm.
As Sylvia watched, lines appeared through the names of Adrian, Petronella, Oliver, Aloysius and Ignatius. It was as if an invisible hand with an invisible