Page 58

Delia’s jaw tightened. “Then she won’t catch me.”

“That is not a plan.”

“Neither is dating the cursed vampire your mother hates, but I’ve been admirably supportive.”

“I mean it, Delia. Don’t risk them for me.”

“I’m not risking them. I’m looking for the truth inside a house that has survived by hiding it.” She caught my hand and squeezed. “You are my cousin. You are also the only person with enough power to change what this coven becomes. I’m not letting your mother frighten you into turning into her.”

“And if there’s nothing in the archive?”

“Then I’ll come up with another terrible idea. I have range.”

I wanted to argue, but she was already backing toward the side entrance.

“Be careful,” I said.

“You too.” Her gaze dropped meaningfully toward the phone in my hand. “Try not to tell Logan the good news by accidentally setting his apartment on fire.”

“There is no good news.”

“Then lie until you can say it without shaking.”

Delia slipped back into the coven house, carrying a question dangerous enough to get us both cursed.

I’d done it. I’d stood up to her. I’d chosen Logan over everything she’d built, everything she’d promised me, everything she’d threatened me with.

And I didn’t regret it.

I looked down at my phone and texted him: I’m coming home. And I’m bringing good news.

It was a lie. I didn’t have good news. The curse was still intact, my mother was still furious, and our future was still uncertain.

But I had something better than good news.

My mother could take the coven, my inheritance, and every future she’d planned for me.

She could not take my choice. That would have to be enough.

Chapter Twelve

Before I begged a High Priestess for mercy, I went to the bar.

Not for courage. Packaged blood and cheap beer couldn’t manufacture that kind of stupidity. I went because Paws, Claws & Fangs was where Arrhythmia decided what it believed, usually loudly and with poor impulse control.

The room went quiet when Mack helped me through the door.

“Oh, good,” I said. “My favorite sound. Public judgment.”

Dean came around the bar, took one look at my legs, and pulled out the first-aid kit with my name written across the lid.

“That stopped being funny six months ago,” I told him.

“It was never funny.”

“You drew little fangs on the label.”

“Medical professionalism.”