The scrying bowl rippled one final time before going still, its silver surface reflecting Luna's grim expression like a distorted mirror.
She straightened slowly, her usual graceful composure marred by something that looked suspiciously like exhaustion.
"Well?" Marcus demanded, his patience fraying at the edges like an overused rope. He'd been pacing Luna's office for the better part of two hours, wearing a groove in the Persian rug.
Luna wiped her hands on a silk cloth, the gesture somehow managing to convey both finality and frustration.
"I have them," she said, though her tone suggested the victory was bittersweet. "The Thornwick Coven. Old bloodline, older grudges. They specialize in binding magic—specifically the kind that requires rare supernatural anchors."
Samantha felt her stomach drop. "Anchors?"
