The bastard took his sweet time ringing up the items. “It’ll be nine-forty,” the cashier said, swiping the cash from my hand and chucking the items and my change on the counter.
“Thanks for the outstanding customer service,” I muttered, ripping open the pack of smokes with my teeth. I didn’t even wait until I stepped outside to light the damn thing. Smoke filled my lungs, and I welcomed the familiar burn. After a few drags, the itch under my skin dulled.
I walked back toward the car, stubbing out the cigarette bud with my boot. The hum of the overhead lights was intensified by the buzzing wings of insects, and I swatted at a few who dive-bombed my face. I opened the car door but stopped at the tingling in my fingertips. I yanked my hand back, but the sensation continued to spread up my arm. Magic thrummed through my veins, stealing the air from my lungs. I collapsed into the passenger seat, tearing at the fabric of my hoodie, desperate to find the source of the magic.
You’ve got to be shitting me.
Devin must have finally found the parting gift—the wraith—we’d left in the basement because he was trying to fucking summon me. And was using my blood to do it. I’d left plenty of it behind…on the door, down the hallway, on the front porch…a trail down the driveway. This type of summoning was weak, and so was Devin. Pathetic piece of shit. My blood alone wouldn’tsuffice. He needed to know a specific ritual to truly summon a demon with my powers.
Seconds ticked by, and the pull finally stopped. The scent of his magic—smoky and rich—was replaced by the pungent odor of gasoline.
Red blurred my vision, like a bull ready to charge at those stupid enough to get into the arena with them. When would humans learn that controlling a demon had fucking consequences? If Devin Whitethorn wanted to play with fire, I’d reduce his entire legacy to a pile of ash.
The warning from the collar came a split second before the shock shook my entire body, slamming my head back against the headrest.
A reminder I was still at a witch’s mercy.
I’d spent the past century dealing with the consequences of my mistakes, and I’d never let anyone have that kind of power over me again.
I stared into the darkness, debating my next move.
Whiskey. Always whiskey. The answer to everything, no matter the question.
I slammed my foot on the gas, peeling out of the parking lot. I knew exactly where I was headed—and nothing was going to stop me.
CHAPTER 9
LYRA
My damp, matted hair fell from the messy bun I’d worn all day. There was little hope of resuscitating it, so I made quick work of braiding two long Dutch braids down my back. I caked on concealer, hoping to mask the sunken circles under my eyes.
A ghost of myself stared back from the bathroom mirror, but after applying a generous amount of bronzer and rose-colored blush, my pale, drained face regained a hint of life. I looked, once again, like someone who could walk among the living.
The wonders of makeup…
A clinking sound came from the direction of my closet. I stepped out of the bathroom to investigate, to find Emory rifling through my clothes.
“Can I help you find whatever you’re attempting to steal?” An edge of annoyance laced my tone.
She didn’t seem worried about being caught red-handed.
“I’m looking for my leopard sweater,” she said, giving up on the closet and moving on to the heaps of clothing strewn across my floor.
“You mean my sweater?” I asked, tugging the garment in question off my desk chair and throwing it in her direction.
“Nope, I mean mine.” She scurried past me, and I knew I’d never see it again.
I picked up my favorite long-sleeved bodysuit off the floor and tugged on a pair of ripped high-waisted jeans, jumping up and down to get them over my thighs. Once they were up, I sucked in a deep breath to get them to button. Breathing was nearly impossible, but my butt looked good.
The sight of my heels in my closet made me flinch, the memory of the pain they’d inflicted on my feet last night still too fresh. Actually, they had nearly killed me. I flung them to the back and pulled out an old pair of sneakers.
“Are you ready? Cal and Eli are already there,” Emory yelled from downstairs.
I snagged my phone off the bed and threw it into my bag and beelined for the door.
The Dutchman was a short walk down the street, a dive bar that claimed to be the oldest in American history. The claim could be true. No one questioned its legitimacy, and the tourists always flocked to it anytime they visited Twisted Spires. It was a tourist trap, but was also one of the only places open after ten at night.
Stale smoke and fried food assaulted my nostrils the second we walked in. A song I didn’t recognize blared from the jukebox, its heavy beat rattling the worn walls. In the center of the bar, a couple danced to the melody between the high-top tables like no one else was watching.
