Page 10

Kellan chuckles from the driver's seat and glances in the rearview mirror. "Man, if I knew you two were going to put on a show like this, I would’ve brought popcorn. Keep going, Morvane; she's winning."

I shoot him a look that promises violence if he continues undermining my authority. "Second rule: no leaving the estate grounds without escort."

"Not a chance." She bites off the words, sharp and sudden. "I have work to do. Cases to investigate. People depending on me to expose the truth about what these cultists are planning."

"What good is the truth if you're dead?"

"Death threats are occupational hazards. I've been managing them just fine without a babysitter."

"Your apartment full of assassins suggests otherwise."

She leans forward and invades the area between the front and back seats with aggressive intent. "Those assassins are proof I'm getting close to something they want buried. Backing down now means innocent people die while I hide behind estate walls playing princess."

Her proximity sends unwanted awareness racing through my system, a dangerous distraction I can't afford.

"Third rule: all communication goes through approved channels. No phones and no internet. Avoid any magical messaging without security clearance."

"Let me guess—you monitor everything I say and decide what's appropriate?" Her laugh harbors sharp edges. "Call it protection if it helps you sleep, but the word you're looking for is imprisonment."

"That's survival," I insist, while gripping my seat a fraction tighter.

She leans forward, disregarding the tight quarters of the cramped vehicle as she molds against my side. "For who? Me, or your professional reputation?"

Kellan catches my eye in the mirror, one eyebrow raised in amusement. "She's right about the reputation angle. Your track record depends fully on keeping clients breathing."

"Whose side are you on?" I demand.

"The side that appreciates good entertainment." He takes a corner smoothly, the van's engine purring beneath his expert handling. "Plus, she makes valid points about the whole imprisonment angle."

"I make valid points about everything," Serenity adds helpfully. "It's one of my more charming qualities."

"Along with reckless endangerment and authority issues," I add, my patience wearing dangerously thin.

"Don't forget stubborn defiance and inappropriate humor in dangerous situations," she counters smoothly, sounding too proud of her own rap sheet.

Heat builds behind my sternum—irritation mixed with a complicated warmth that I sever before it can take root. She challenges every word from my mouth as if it's a personal insult, turning basic security protocols into philosophical debates over freedom and control.

"Fourth rule⁠—"

"No. I'm done with rules. You want to protect me? Fine, but I dictate my own movements and I rule my own life."

The van crests a hill and displays the Crowe estate, spread across manicured grounds like something from a gothic novel. Wrought-iron gates guard the entrance, protective wards shimmering faintly in the moonlight. I lean closer to the window, studying the perimeter. The main house looms against the stars, a spikey monolith of dark stone and sharp gables; its towering arched windows stare out, cold and heavy with a century of old-blood secrets. Its massive scale commands the horizon, an architectural fortress disguised as a playground for the wealthy. Even from the driveway, the air whirs. Woven directly into the earth's foundations, the active wards thrum heavy and deep—a bottomless power warning my senses to stay back.

"We're here," Kellan announces unnecessarily.

Facing forward again, I clench my fists until my fingernails bite into my palms. Every instinct screams that this woman will be the death of me—either through her impulsive behavior or how easily she tilts every certainty I've built into dangerous instability.

Kellan parks the van, and we exit. The estate's front door opens before we reach it, manifesting a butler whose pressed uniform and practiced invisibility speak to decades of serving old money. He guides us through marble hallways where stern-faced ancestors peer from framed canvases, their painted eyes tracking us like silent sentries.

The parlor he leads us into breathes wealth and witchcraft, the two forces seamlessly intertwined in every corner of the room. Persian rugs cover polished hardwood floors, while bookshelves stretch toward coffered ceilings, crammed with volumes radiating trapped knowledge. Protective sigils are carved into the crown molding, disguised as decorative flourishes but radiating power that makes my defenses spike.

Estella Crowe waits beside a fireplace that could swallow a small car, her silver-blonde hair braided into an intricate crown. Having pulled her file before we arrived, I know she is fifty-six, though time has only sharpened her features rather than aging them, carving an elegant severity into her high cheekbones and jawline. Her piercing blue eyes lock onto us as we enter, exuding an aristocratic confidence that demands absolute submission as she tracks our approach. Her tailored dark dress flows to the floor, heavy fabric intricately carrying slate-threaded symbols I recognize from grimoires—wards against scrying and binding spells, as well as other high-level protections favored by paranormals with a long list of enemies.

"Serenity, you’re hurt." Her tone veils relief wrapped in steel.

Serenity drops into a leather armchair without invitation, her unyielding posture unchanged despite the blood on her jacket. "Just scratches. Nothing that won't heal."

"You should have stayed clear of that apartment." Estella’s voice drops, a frigid weight that deadens the warmth of the roaring fireplace. I lean back against the heavy doorframe, watching the matriarch dominate the room. As cold and severe as a queen addressing a rogue subject, she stands perfectly rigid, locking her sharp gaze onto Serenity.