I stay close to him. Not because I need protection. No. Absolutely not. But because my magic stirs uncomfortably when people brush too close.
“Don’t wander,” he murmurs, eyeing the patrons with obvious distrust.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
He leads me to the bar, where a woman with iridescent eyes and pale silver braids stops wiping a glass mid-motion. “Slade,” she says, voice low, almost melodic. “Didn’t expect you for another decade.”
“I work irregular hours.” He gestures toward me. “We’re looking for Bellamy records.”
Her gaze slides to me. A spark of recognition flares. “You’re one of them,” she says with certainty.
“One of who?” I ask.
But she ignores me, leaning in further. “What kind of Bellamy are you seeking, demon?”
“Old ones,” Slade replies. “Origins. Curse work.”
The woman stills. No—shefreezes. Her fingers curl around the bar, knuckles whitening. When she speaks again, her voice has dropped to a hush. “That’s dangerous history.”
Slade tilts his head. “Not that dangerous.”
She gives a dry laugh. “Everything connected to that lineage is dangerous. But you already knew that.” She studies me for a long, suffocating moment—eyes flicking over my face, my aura, the faint shimmer of magic that’s probably still reacting to Slade’s earlier proximity.
Finally, she exhales.
“There’s not much left,” she says quietly. “Most of the older Bellamy records were either hidden toowell… or destroyed before anyone could get to them.”
My stomach twists. “Destroyed by who?”
She lifts one shoulder in a grim half-shrug. “Witches. Hunters. Time. No one really knows anymore. People are good at erasing the things that scare them.” Her gaze drifts to Slade. “Or the things they can’t control.”
Slade’s jaw tightens, just enough for me to notice.
“But,” she continues, leaning closer, “one fragment survived. Just one. Old enough that itpredates most living bloodlines.” Those iridescent eyes lock on mine. “Rare enough that even speaking of it tends to attract attention.”
I swallow. “What fragment?”
Something flickers behind her expression—hesitation… or fear. “The first name,” she whispers. “The first Bellamy touched by the curse. Five centuries ago.”
My pulse stutters. Slade goes very still beside me. “Who?” I ask, breath catching before the word even forms.
“Veda Bellamy,” the woman answers. “The origin point. Or the closest thing anyone’s been able to confirm.”
A shiver rolls down my spine. “What happened to her?” I ask, even though I’m terrified of the answer.
“No one knows.” She shakes her head slowly. “Some say she disappeared. Others say she broke under whatever the curse demanded. Some say she survived it.”
Her eyes grow distant—haunted. “But all that’s left now is a name—a whisper, really—and a warning.”
Before I can ask anything else, the front door of the bar swings open with a sharp crack. A wave of energy ripples through the room—subtle but unmistakable. My skin prickles. The air thickens. Conversation dies instantly.
The bartender’s eyes widen. “She shouldn’t be here,” she murmurs, gaze flicking toward me. “Not with the curse waking. Not now.”
Slade moves before I can breathe. One step, then another—smooth, controlled, predatory—until he’s a wall of heat at my back, eclipsing the room behind him. His voice is soft but final. “We’re leaving.”
I nod, throat tight.
Outside, the cold hits like a warning. Snowflakes tumble under the glow of the neon sign, the wind whispering through the narrow alley beside thebar. Slade guides me to a waiting car with a hand at the small of my back—light, steady, grounding.
