Cover

The Legendborn Cycle

Bloodmarked

New York Times Bestselling Author

Tracy Deonn

"This story gave me everything I wanted: incredible characters, ancient lore and secret societies." Leigh Bardugo on Legendborn

Title Page

Dedication

For every Black girl who was “the first”

THE ORDER OF THE ROUND TABLE

PROLOGUE

MY VEINS BURN with the spirits of my ancestors.

Twenty-four hours ago, I pulled Excalibur from its stone. Now, I am paying the price.

The ancient blade shattered me. Who I was. Who I could be. Who I’d never be again.

I became shards of myself.

The Briana Matthews who held Excalibur had been broken apart—and forged into something new.

Something new. Something powerful. That’s how William described me.

Last night, as I’d raised Excalibur high, two spirits were pounding inside me like dual drums: Vera, my ancestral foremother, and Arthur Pendragon himself. Even though they’d lived centuries apart, they’d each used magic to lock power to their bloodlines, and to me. Vera, with a plea to her ancestors. Arthur, with a spell for his knights. When the battle was done and I’d finally fallen into bed I thought they’d both faded. Gone wherever spirits go when they are done possessing their Medium descendants.

Arthur fell silent. Vera seemed to say goodbye: ‘There is a cost to being a legend, daughter. But fear not, you will not bear it alone.’

But her words were not a personal farewell; they were an ancestral welcome.

Now, in the wee hours, I lie in bed at the Lodge, the historic home of the Legendborn. But I am not resting. I am painfully awake. Covers shoved off the bed, skin and spirit stretched tight. My curls lay damp against my neck.

I twist to my side, gasping, and squeeze both eyes shut. Crawl to the ground. Feel and hear my nails scrape the floor, a desperate sound in the night.

When my eyes open, the room around me is gone, and I am no longer Bree. Instead…

I am Selah: Vera’s daughter, now grown and pregnant with her own child.

It is night. Long ago. I am being ushered into a home by a Black woman with sharp brown eyes that dart over my head the way I have come. Her warm, strong fingers grip my shoulder. “Hurry, girl. Hurry!” she whispers. I do not know this woman, but “girl” is uttered with urgency and sisterhood both.

She leads me to a door set into the floor at the back of the house. Lifts it to reveal a hidden cubby of earth and rotting wood.

I will pause here for a moment, but tomorrow I will run again.

I blink—and the Lodge bedroom returns. Dark and familiar. Shiny, wide planks of oak stretch out beneath me.

Inhale. Exhale.

Close my eyes. Open them.

I am in a diner. My name is Jessie. I am twenty years old.