“They wanted to make sure the spell worked before they tried anything on their own flesh and blood.”

It was hard to decide the worst thing Rosalind had learned tonight: her exile from the Brotherhood, the mage in her body, or the fact that her birth parents were a couple of assholes. She couldn’t take any more shitty news without completely losing her mind—assuming she still had a mind to lose.

She couldn’t reconcile Caine’s description of her parents with her happy memories of her early childhood, even if they were vague. “I don’t understand. I thought my parents were loving. I remember when they gave me flowers and patched up my knee. And I think I remember you. There was a boy with eyes like yours.”

“I’m sure you were happy. But things aren’t always as perfect as you remember them.”

She hugged herself. “We get out of here soon, right?”

“Yes. Before the sun rises. Aurora can’t travel in the light. Go to sleep, Rosalind.” There was that commanding tone again. “You only have three hours of rest before we move.”

But she knew she wouldn’t be sleeping at all. Not in the serial killer room, and certainly not with the news that a crazed spirit had infected her body.

Chapter 11

Rosalind jolted upright, gasping for breath. After their rapid departure through another portal in Lilinor, they’d arrived in Caine’s Salem apartment, twenty miles north of Boston.

When you hung around with creatures of the night, sunrise signaled bedtime. Now, the sunset streamed through the windows, washing the living room and kitchen in pumpkin light.

Despite its warmth, she shuddered, wrapping Caine’s blanket tighter around her shoulders. She’d been dreaming of Mason. Her nightmares were no different from her memories. In her dream, he’d tied her to a chair, beating the bottoms of her feet with his leather belt, all the while ranting about corruption.

As if staying in a mage’s apartment weren’t bad enough, reminders of Mason had brought her out in a cold sweat.

It was so obvious to her now: Mason had known about the possession all along. It was why he’d always been so repulsed by her. When she’d first arrived, he’d started off reasonably nice—warm mugs of cocoa to warm her in the cold mansion, letting her watch TV as long as she wanted. But then he’d catch her drifting off, losing herself in thought, and something about her dreaminess made him angry. She understood now—it was the mage inside of her. He wanted to beat the magic out of her.

She straightened, pushing the blanket off her to survey the room. For a tattoo-covered mage who lived among corpses, Caine kept a surprisingly tidy apartment. Oak bookshelves, packed with alphabetically arranged poetry and spell books, lined one wall. Midnight-blue sofas stood on the bare wooden floors, and the tall windows overlooked one of the old colonial cemeteries, where the setting sun cast long shadows over the grass.

Four silver-framed mirrors hung on the rough stone walls. Of course he had four mirrors in one room. The guy obviously loved himself.