Caine scowled. “I don’t know why I continue to be surprised whenever vampires fail to be empathic.”

Jorge leered at Rosalind, waggling an eyebrow. “I’m perfectly empathic.”

Given the way he was looking at her, she was pretty sure he thought “empathic” meant horny.

Caine knocked back his drink. “Speaking of my new girl—as you mentioned, she’s not trying to kill me. Obviously, I’m quite fond of her for that reason. And there’s that little curse. It’s not a big deal, of course. But it would be nice to take that ring off her so she could use her magic again.”

Jorge flashed a wolfish smile. “You want to get some of those kinky spells going?”

She nearly spat out the pancake. What does that even mean?

Caine nodded. “Exactly. So if we could figure out how to lift the spell…”

Grinning, Jorge leaned on the bar. “You need Sambethe. The sybil.”

Caine swirled his drink. “And where would I find the sybil?”

Jorge let his eyes roam over Rosalind’s body. Whatever “kinky magic” meant, he seemed to like the idea a little too much. “The sybil is allied with Borgerith.”

“Ah,” Caine said. “The goddess of the mountains. So she won’t speak to us.”

Jorge leaned in further, looking around the bar. “You can find her in Elysium. It’s an underground club where demons get together, no matter what the alliances. Fire demons mix with night, rock mixes with sea. It’s chaos. But you can’t tell people. The gods wouldn’t exactly approve.”

Rosalind took a sip of the bourbon. “And where would we find—”

Something halted her sentence. A wave of shadowy magic rippled through the bar, crawling over her skin like spider legs. She glanced around. The magic was a deep red, the color of dried blood, and it smelled of moldering hemlock—a smell of death.

“Caine,” she whispered. “We should go.”

“Why? I haven’t even finished my drink.”

“Because something powerful is headed right here. Something deadly.”

Caine studied her, but before she could get an answer out of him, the bartender’s eyes flicked to the door, and his face went even paler. “Bileth,” he whispered.

Rosalind turned to the entrance. In the doorframe stood a hulk of a night demon, his skin pale as moonlight and cheekbones sharp as razors. He must have been three hundred pounds of pure muscle, and horns grew from his skull. His eyes were empty, ivory pools.

A shiver ran up her spine. She’d seen him before—his portrait hung in Lilinor Castle. Every fiber of her being screamed at her to run. She’d read about high demons before, but she’d never seen one. And hadn’t Caine said something about smelling her blood…

Caine slipped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close to him. He whispered, “I’ll handle this. Get out of here.”

She was terrified, but she wasn’t going to run from a demon. She was a Hunter.

The high demon cocked his head, sniffing, then licked his lips. His gaze slid over Rosalind’s body, and Caine whispered, “Run. You too, Aurora.”