His hand hovered over a cluster of white flowers before he plucked them from the plant. Wordlessly, he handed them to Rosalind, then stalked into the parking lot.

She twirled the delicate stem in her fingers. Hawthorn blossoms.

Chapter 16

After they returned to the waterfront, Caine parked his bike under an oak. He climbed off, and Rosalind followed him across a patch of grass by Salem Harbor. The briny wind kissed her face, skimming over her tattered dress.

She had no idea what they were doing now. It wasn’t like he’d filled her in or anything. But she had a bad feeling he might change his mind about his promise to help her exorcise the spirit. He seemed to think she was making a terrible mistake, but he wasn’t the one who had to feel the flames when the ring came off.

He paused before a small gray stone in the ground. Chanting, he flicked his wrist. She gasped as a dark, steep-peaked house glimmered into view. She had to catch her breath at the illusion—or maybe it was the other way around. The house’s invisibility was the illusion.

Caine opened a red door into a hall, warmly lit by candles. “My other home. The secret one.” He motioned for her to enter, and she followed him into an ivory-walled hall. “Right now, you’re the only person who knows this exists. Aurora will be only the second person. If you’re still going to insist on rejoining the mage Hunters, I’ll have to steal this particular memory from you before you leave. Or I’ll have to kill you. Your choice.”

Rosalind cocked her hip. “I don’t really like the idea of you rooting around in my brain.”

“What are you afraid I’ll see?”

She toyed with her ring. You’d slaughter me if you knew the terrible thing I did. She pushed the thought away. “It’s more that I don’t particularly want brain damage.”

“I’m an artist of dark magic. I’d leave all your computer science jibber-jabber intact.”

“Mmm. Sounds like you really know what you’re talking about.” She frowned. “When are we going to see the sybil? Where’s this nightclub?”

“We’ll go tonight, once Aurora gets here. Hopefully, none of Elysium’s patrons have heard about your little incident with Bileth.” He motioned for her to follow him into a high-ceilinged living room. “In the meantime, let me introduce you to my parlor.”

Parlor. It was a strangely old-fashioned New England word for a delicately beautiful place. Silvery wallpaper covered the walls, decorated with ethereal spider-web patterns. Midnight-blue curtains hung from bay windows overlooking the water, and candles burned in silver candelabra. The entire place was impeccably tidy. He probably had cleaning spells to do the work for him.

She sat on a deep blue sofa, smoothing out her tangled hair. She looked like a mess. At least the tattoos had faded from her skin, but her dress was hanging off her—probably shredded around the time she threw herself at Caine.