It’s the smell that gives the ritual location away—a mix of wax and sage and blood. Thin black candles identify the barrier of the spell, a place for the magic to gather over the body. Whoever conducted the spell hadn’t had time to remove any of the evidence.

I stand outside the circle, studying the impressions in the ground: where Lily’s body lay, where she rose and dragged her feet, awakening from an eternal sleep that should have never been disturbed. Somehow, she managed not to bother the circle of candles. I stoop to study them. They hum with a faint vibration—energy, what humans call magic. I shiver involuntarily.

It’s just another reason Anora—the Eurydice—is so important to us. The more dead on earth means more energy—power—for death-speakers in the occult to work with. We have a name for it, death essence: the energy of the dead.

As I step into the center of the circle, my whole body shakes, and I feel cold. Something latches on to my arm, and it goes numb. It’s a phantom, residue left over from the spell cast hours earlier. It takes a moment, but soon I’m free of its icy grip, though my arm is still numb, and my chest feels like ice. I look up and find a clear view to the starry sky above. There’s a full moon tonight, and I’d bet anything it shone right through that opening hours ago.

“It’s impossible to tell if Lily’s grave was disturbed. It’s…fresh.” Natalie’s voice comes from behind me. I glance at her. She’s looking at the ritual site. “I swear to Charon…I hate the feel of the occult.” She shivers involuntarily. “It’s…”

“Creepy,” I provide.

“Wrong.”

I nod in agreement. It is wrong—contrary to the rules of life, death, and rebirth.

Natalie’s looking around in the trees outside the circle. “What’s that?” she asks and shifts, reappearing in front of me with something black.

“Where did you see that?” I ask.

“It was tangled in the branches.”

I wonder if our culprit hid in the trees to escape the hellhounds.

“Whoever this belongs to, they’re walking around with a pretty bad injury. There’s blood all over it. Plus…” She holds up the sweater. There are four gashes across the back where a hound’s claws bit into the fabric and the body wearing it.

I inhale sharply. Being bitten by a hellhound is pretty painful, but these gashes? They have to be excruciating.

“At least we have something to connect whoever did this to the scene,” I say.

“Yeah, but unless they’re shirtless, we won’t be able to tell,” Natalie says, frowning at the sweater.

“What’s wrong?”