The abandoned mining facility twenty miles north of the territorial border looked like the kind of place where bad decisions went to die.
Elena Blackwood pulled her Mercedes into what used to be a parking lot, gravel crunching under expensive tires as she navigated around potholes that could swallow small cars. The headlights swept across rusted equipment and broken windows, industrial decay that had been reclaiming this place for the better part of two decades.
Perfect neutral territory for a meeting that couldn't happen.
She checked her watch: 11:47 PM. Marcus would be here soon, if he came at all. The coded message she'd sent through their mutual contact—a rogue witch who specialized in untraceable communications—had been carefully worded but unmistakably urgent.
The children are in more danger than they know. We need to talk. Alone.
