It rips through the trees like a storm, splitting the sky open. It’s distant, muffled by the thickness of the birches, but I would know that resonance anywhere.
It’s Andrik. And it’s not a cry for help; it’s a raw, guttural warning.
Saevel pounces toward the threshold with a snarl that sounds more like a saw cutting through bone.
Toffee leaps down from the table, scurrying into the deepest shadows beneath the bench.
A streak of iridescent light plunges down the stairwell—Bimby. She’s vibrating so hard her outlines are a blur of color. She orbits my head like a frantic satellite, before finally settling in my hair.
Behind me, the rune on the door finally gives up. It shatters, wood splintering in spiderweb lines like cracked glass.
Saevel snaps his jaws onto my pant leg, his small fox-body tensing as he tries to drag me back into the house, but that feeling in my bones from earlier has reached a deafening pitch.
I don’t think. Thinking is for people who have time. I tear my leg from Saevel’s grip, grab the nearest coat, and shove my feet into my boots.
Bimby darts ahead of me, a tiny, glowing spark leading me straight into the maw of the forest.
“I’m coming!” I scream into the freezing air. The light from her wings reflects off the frost, turning the path into a trail of diamonds.
She’s lighting the way for me, just like she did for him all those years ago.
44
Chapter 45-
The watcher POV-
The blood moon rises.
I’ve been watchingit climb for the last hour, waiting for the light to shift from pale gray to deep, arterial red.
It’s time.
The bone-fire cracklesin the center of the clearing, flames licking at the night air with hungry blue-white tongues. I built it myself, branch by branch, stacking them in the ritualistic pattern the grimoire demanded. The wood is ancient, petrified timber blessed by something older than the beast in these woods.
I arrangedthe ingredients hours ago, following every instruction with the steady hand of a man who has nothing left to lose.
The vampire batfangs are now a fine, chalky powder. The fire-glass glitters like crushed rubies in the heat. The black thorn sap has turned viscous, like syrup, and the spine oil from the drowned moth sits on the surface like a single, iridescent pupil.
The stag’sjawbone cracks in the flames, releasing a bitter, smoky scent that turns my stomach. I reach for the small crystal vial containing the lust-vein nectar. It glows with a twinkle of light, looking far too innocent for what it’s about to do.
I addthe drops of Andrik’s blood I collected from her porch, dried and reconstituted with my own tears.
And lastly,his antler shards—small, jagged pieces that he left behind like breadcrumbs for a scavenger.
His essence.
His name
His form.
The elixir sitsin a copper vessel at the edge of the flames, already beginning to simmer.
The grimoire liesopen beside me, its pages fluttering in a phantom wind that doesn’t touch the trees.
The words glow with a sickly,golden light, shimmering like wet paint on the vellum.
“Exurit ad tempus sigillum animæ,et fit vas vacuum- temporarily burns away the soul’s signature and becomes a hollow vessel.”
