In turn, I filled him in on my own brief entanglement with the Hell’s Gate pack: the dragon scale sourced from Death on Dark Wings that let me overhear Billy’s magically muffled conversation, and the small, inconvenient detail that the only warlock in our coven, Jake Cole—entirely oblivious—was actually her fated mate.
I told him about my childhood with Jen and Lex. About growing up together, inseparable. And then I told him about Priscilla—about the bullying, the way she’d driven me here with Creep in the first place.
To my surprise, Ambrose went quiet at the mention of her name. He chewed on his bottom lip, gaze distant, as if weighing something he wasn’t ready to share. It irked me, just a little, but before I could press, the conversation shifted naturally, drifting instead to his years with Blaise.
And just like that, Priscilla slipped to the back of my mind.
I loved hearing about the life my mates had built together. The jobs, the close calls, the shared routines. It eased the last lingering flickers of guilt I’d carried for not summoning them sooner. They’d been happy. Fulfilled in every way but one—denying the bond they’d been too afraid to name.
As Ambrose spoke, I could see it happening: the final remnants of his guilt loosening its grip too. The quiet relief of a demon who no longer had to pretend that being in love with his best friend had been wrong.
Just as the conversation settled into the more specific questions of getting to know one another—favorite color, favorite music, favorite show (we had anotherNooneron our hands)—my phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out and was momentarily confused to see Jake’s name on the screen, before remembering the message I’d senthim last night about Priscilla. I accepted the call, and Jake’s face filled the screen, flushed bright red as if he’d just finished a run. From the snippets of background I could see, he was sitting in Lex’s new house.
“Hi, Jake,” I said.
Instead of his usual cheerful greeting, he blurted out, “How did you find out about Pris?”
“Youknewshe was part siren?” I asked, disbelief slipping straight into my voice.
“OfcourseI knew. I mean, it’s pretty obvious,” he said. “She just didn’t want the whole coven to know.”
“Does your grandmother know?” I asked. Surely Lily Cole wouldn’t allow someone with Priscilla’s personality and the ability to compel others to have free rein in the coven.
Jake scoffed, his voice edging on defensive. “Ofcourseour head of coven knows.” Then he paused and added more carefully, “Sorry. I didn’t mean that to come out like that. I’ve known about Priscilla since before we started hanging out. And when Grandma found out we’d gotten close, she told me about Priscilla’s mom. She’d always known Isadora was half siren, but she gave her the benefit of the doubt. For Priscilla’s sake.”
I resisted the urge to drag my hand down my face. Seriously—why was everyone suddenly lining up to get on the Priscilla-fucking-Raisin bandwagon?
“And you’resurePriscilla hasn’t just... compelled you all into believing she’s not dangerous?” I asked.
Beside me, Ambrose shifted uncomfortably. And maybe I was being paranoid, but I could’ve sworn my mate was debating getting onto that damn bandwagon too.
Jake huffed a laugh, his russet brows lifting as if the idea itself was ridiculous. “Look, I know none of you like Priscilla. And I know she’s been a bully. But it’s not my place to excuse ordefend her.” His expression softened. “I just... know a different side to her. And I know she would never do that.”
I resisted the urge to puke. From everything I’d seen, Priscilla had been just as nasty to Jake as she’d been to the rest of us, so unless thisother sideonly surfaced when no one else was around, I wasn’t buying it.
“Anyway,” Jake continued, smoothly changing tack, “why do you want to know about sirens and how their magic works?” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pair of glasses, and slid them on—his tell that he’d slipped into academic mode.
“It’s a long story,” I said, flicking a glance at Ambrose. “But we found out that Priscilla’s mom is planning to steal Creep from me. And apparently, she’s going to do it using a conch.” My voice lifted at the end, because I still couldn’t quite wrap my head around how a seashell could possibly pose a threat.
Jake hooked a finger under his chin and nodded slowly. “It would depend on a number of factors. But—essentially—yes. She probablycouldcompel your house with a conch. At least temporarily.”
My stomach sank.
“First, and most importantly,” he continued, “it depends on how strong Isadora’s song is. Being half siren doesn’t automatically mean the magic is diluted. Siren magic works a lot like witch magic—we can all cast spells and hexes, but we’re strongest within our own branch. All sirens can compel to some extent, but only certain lineages arebornfor it.”
He paused, clearly checking that I was following, then carried on. “If Isadora isn’t from a compulsion-focused lineage—and I’m inclined to think she isn’t, otherwise she probably wouldn't need a conch just to compel a sentient house—then her control would be weaker. Sirens often use objects as vessels for their songs, usually seashells because they’re prized and symbolically important. They sing into them, storing the magic for later use.”
Jake’s eyes lit up. “Actually, I read an article once about a branch of Atlantic sirens who imbued their siren shells withanti-compulsion magic and traded them with supernaturals crossing the sea centuries ago to protect them against other choruses of sirens—”
I coughed pointedly.
He blinked, pulled back from what was clearly about to become a full lecture on sixteenth-century siren trade routes, and cleared his throat. “Sorry. Right. Point is—yes, it’s possible. But it wouldn’t be absolute. And it wouldn’t last forever.”
He continued, more measured now. “If Isadorawerefrom a lineage of sirens that specialized in compulsion, and she used a shell that held deep personal meaning, then—yeah—I’d be worried. That combination is dangerous.”
My stomach tightened.
