PROLOGUE (HEIRLOOM RING)
THIRTEEN DAYS AGO
A sinister chill wraps around me as I sign the scroll. My blood stains the gritty surface, curling into the familiar script of my name. The cloaked figure snatches the scroll the moment I finish, extending his hand like a vulture waiting for its prey. I watch, feigning ignorance, though I know what he craves. He clears his throat—"The ring."
I steal a glance at Sullivan, barely an arm's length away; he nods. Slowly, I slide the ring from my finger, noting the pale ghost of its absence. "Is there something else I can offer? Anything at all?" His hand remains steadfast, shrouded in the stoic shadows of his demeanor. I hesitate, but finally place the ring into his expecting palm. His fingers curl around it, disappearing beneath the dark fabric of his cloak. A glimpse of a black symbol on his wrist momentarily catches my eye.
Just as I try to make it out_ The candles snuff out with a wicked cackle—or so I imagine. Then, he vanishes like smoke swirling into the night. All that remains is a piece of parchment with dark coordinates, deceptively alluring. Just as I'd hoped.
Sullivan approaches the seat and snatches it, examining the coordinates as puzzled as I am. That's it? Where we buried my parents?
"Will they be okay?" I ask, a sick knot tightening in my stomach. He exhales slowly, weighing his next words. "I need to hear you say it." The paper curls around his hand before he withdraws it, tightly rolled in his other palm.
"Yes, we had no choice. Your parents would understand." Sullivan helps me up, the paper tucked away safely in his coat. "The Guardians will come tomorrow for your parents' remains. Let me handle the details."
I nod, hugging my arms around myself. I search my mind for any memories of where we might have hidden them. Nothing surfaces. This abjurer is more formidable than I imagined; he steals pieces of my memory like a thief in the night, hiding my parents beneath layers of magic. The oppressive darkness lingers, tugging at my senses. I glance back into the void—Still gone. Only days have passed since my parents' mysterious demise. Murdered, clearly. Forcefully subjected to death, defying the natural order. Death was a myth to them, or so they taught me. You can't be subjected to a myth.
Sullivan leads me through the dim-lit corridors of the abandoned brothel. Broken chairs and rotting remains litter our path as we slip past. This is a no man's land, untouched by human or creature alike. A curse is said to roam here, starved and fiercely angry, making no bargains, its prices all too final. A fate I desperately hoped to avoid.
The corridor twists into a labyrinth, but Sullivan moves with purpose, announcing he has been here before, clearly for personal reasons. I trust him; I believe there's no reason for his deceit. Our footsteps sink into the litter and thick lichen that carpet the ground, while the ceiling droops in places, spilling into yawning chasms of silence. Nothing scurries within the darkness—it simply smells. Dusty fabric, rusty pipes, and hints of kerosene linger in the air. Dark streaks on the walls whisper of loss—something boxed, rectangular—a vanished history.
"There used to be magnificent paintings," Sullivan muses, catching my gaze. "Rumor has it, this sinister aura scared them away. They just packed up and left." He chuckles lightly.
"They were stolen," I respond, a serious note slipping in. He finds humor in it; I find none.
Our footsteps get louder, crunchier_ The ground is littered with cigarette butts, condom wrappers, and empty spray paint cans—remnants of fear and truth. I scoff in contempt. Unprofessional art fades across the peeling walls, indicating the nearness of the exit. The red entrance door creaks open, and we step into the fresh air.
I inhale deeply, brow furrowing. The Honda remains parked next to the electric pole, and for such a haughty place, it's surprisingly serene. The wind rushes past, ruffling my hair, and I sigh as Sullivan opens the back door. I brace myself for his remark. "See? I told you it would be here when we returned."
Rolling my eyes, I slide into the car. "Or maybe we just got lucky." His laughter fills the air as he moves to the driver's seat. I catch the glow of my phone nestled in my jacket beside me. I pull it out—yet another seasonal text from one of the Creed children, announcing their arrival at my house. Just like every other effortless text that slipped through my DMs.
We're at yr h'se.