He was the only person who had the answers she needed, and she would wrench them out of him if her life depended on it. Which it does, come to think of it.

Her entire world had just shattered, and she wasn’t giving up on the remaining fragments without a fight.

She turned to the cleric. “I’m not coming in. I have more questions for Caine.”

“You will come with me, Miss,” he hissed, grabbing her arm.

A swift elbow to the jaw sent him sprawling in the chapel doorway, and she launched into a sprint over the grass, thundering up a grassy hill.

She wove through weeping stone angels and crooked obelisks, the gravestones jutting from the ground at odd angles like broken bones.

She tore past a row of stone crypts, and down a gently sloping hill. But she was running blindly, and had lost all trace of Caine. He’d slipped somewhere deep into the cemetery’s shadows. She ground to a halt near a gently rippling pond, trying to attune her senses to the delicious tingling of Caine’s magic.

A chilly wind rustled the leaves, and the moonlight shone on a tombstone’s etching. The Lord of Terror. Even for someone used to hunting demons, she was getting the creeps.

The breeze brought with it the scent of thunderstorms and wet grass, and the hair rising on the back of her arms told her that a powerful aura lurked nearby.

She followed a winding path that led to the water, catching the smell of burnt air—Caine’s magic. She just needed to home in on it.

She crept closer to the pond, drawn by his powerful aura. Anyone could sense magic, if they knew how to tune in to the right vibrations, but Rosalind could actually see it too. As far as she knew, no other Hunter had that ability. It was the reason she was born for the Brotherhood.

Goose bumps prickled on her skin as she drew closer to a row of mausoleums overlooking the water. Caine’s sensual magic lingered around one of the crypts, nestled among the oak and beeches, pulling her closer.

As she rubbed her arms in the chilly spring air, she approached the arched crypt. Its door hung slightly open, and the crypt walls glowed, faintly silver. This was the one. Caine lurked inside; gods knew why. Probably the entrance to a personal dungeon.

The magic rippled off the stony walls in waves, skimming over her skin. It called to her, sucking her in like the gravitational pull of a black hole.

As she pushed open the metal door, it let out a loud creaking noise that echoed off a high, peaked ceiling. Empty. What the hell? He’d definitely come in here. She could still smell his magic and see the lingering glow.

Faint moonlight reached the interior of the crypt, highlighting marble walls and glinting off a deep pool of dark water in the center of the crypt. What is a giant puddle doing in a mausoleum?