Smiling obsequiously, the red-haired waitress rushed over to the table, her tray laden with two Manhattans.

Caine leaned back in his seat, eyeing the redhead. “How did you get those so fast?”

She glanced away, blushing. “I took them off another waitress’s tray. I thought you were more important.”

“Well done,” Caine said, snatching them from her tray. “Now, we’ll need five margaritas.”

Sambethe chuckled. “Now we’re talking.”

The waitress hurried away, and Rosalind turned back to the sybil. Was she still supposed to pretend to be mute? This was getting old.

Sambethe drained her cocktail. “We’ll need a private space.”

Caine closed his eyes, whispering an incantation. As his aura swirled through Rosalind’s body, a black curtain closed around the booth’s opening.

Sambethe’s milky eyes swerved to Rosalind. “You can stop pretending to be a courtesan. I know what you are.”

Rosalind’s chest tightened. Is that a warning? “But you won’t tell anyone?”

Golden light shimmered over the sybil’s skin. “What do I care? I’m seven thousand years old. Ask your question.”

Rosalind took a long breath. “I have another soul in my body. A mage’s soul. If I take off this ring—” She lifted her hand. “—I plummet into a world of hell. It’s like my mind is fracturing, and my body is on fire. I want to know how to fix it. How do I get the mage out of me?”

Sambethe held Rosalind’s gaze for an uncomfortably long time. “Hold on to your cocktails. This could get messy.” She slid her own empty glass out of the way and climbed onto the table.

After throwing back her head, the Sybil began to sway and jerk. Her arms twitched to the rhythmic pulsing of the club’s music. Then, with a frantic snarl, she hunched down to a crouching position, her head weaving around in the air like a snake’s, her muscles taut. Her eyes locked on Rosalind’s before she reached out to grip Rosalind’s head. A powerful aura coursed through Rosalind like a mountain wind, clean and ancient.

“Blodrial’s child, split in two.” Her deep voice howled like a gale. “The mage, tormented by fire. Nyxobas’s servant made her burn.” Her head lolled, eyelids fluttering. “On a full moon, find the hawthorn grove. The spell belongs to Blodrial. Coat yourself in iron, and the incubus will chant. He will take on the extra soul.”

Relief flooded Rosalind. They had an answer—a solution at last.

Sambethe threw her head back, sighing. She wasn’t done. “The incubus will take on the extra soul. Three souls in one body. Two that don’t belong together, shattered by broken love. Someone must be sacrificed. The incubus’s body will sicken and die.”

Horror slid through Rosalind’s bones. The incubus’s body will sicken and die. If Caine took on the soul, he would die? That was supposed to be the solution?

Sambethe’s muscles relaxed, and she slid back into her seat just as the black curtain disappeared.

Rosalind dropped her head into her hands as panic clenched around her lungs. This had been her one hope.