“Sir, if you'd just let me keep digging, I could?—”
“Brynn Salem.” My name becomes a weapon in his mouth. “Need I remind you of your position within this coven?”
I bite my tongue so hard I practically taste blood. “No, sir.”
“You were told to proceed with your trial training,” he says, then skewers Chad with a look that could curdle milk. “And I picked you as her mentor because I assumed you had the fortitude to keep her in check. Was I wrong, Valgrave?”
“No, sir,” Chad says, spine stiffening. “We were just about to go to?—”
“Excuse me,” I cut in, because apparently I have a death wish. “Sir, I've had it up to here with all the cryptic bull about these trials. What exactly am I being prepped for? Because if my sister's missing and you're making me jump through hoops instead of finding her, I deserve to know why.”
Corvin's knuckles whiten a touch. He takes the kind of deep breath older adults do when they're about to tell you something is “for your own good.”
“You don't have clearance for that disclosure,” he says, like I'm some random intern instead of the person getting my soul ripped apart for his precious trials.
“Pardon me, sir, but I'm about to let you people do gods-know-what to my actual body. I deserve to know what it's all for. And honestly? You'd all be better off letting me find Esme. She's the Salem you really want anyway.”
Corvin's jaw twitches. “We need every Salem and every darkblood with a spiritual connection. Not just Esme. Everyone.”
“Why?”
He gives me this long look, then just jerks his head toward the door. “Follow me.”
Chad and I exchange the universal “what the hell?” glancebefore hustling after Corvin, who moves like someone half his age. I have to skip every few steps just to keep up.
“Sir?” I huff.
“There's no point telling you. I'll show you.”
We wind through a part of Darkbirch I've maybe seen twice in my life. It's the kind of dark where even shadows have shadows. Dust so thick you could write your name in it. Cobwebs everywhere, with spiders that actually scurry away when they see us coming.
The only light comes from sad little candles that barely illuminate our path. We go deeper and deeper until we reach these massive mahogany doors that practically scream “nothing good happens here.” Corvin whispers something that makes my ears pop before grabbing the handles.
A chill slithers down my spine like ice water.
“Only a few members of our coven have ever been here,” he warns, suddenly all dramatic. “Director Reinhardt and Warden Blythe among them. By stepping into this room, you swear a vow of secrecy. Clear?”
Chad gives me this tiny nod that says “we're probably screwed either way.”
“Yes, sir,” we chorus like good little darkbloods about to make terrible decisions.
Corvin goes in. We follow.
25
BRYNN
The second I step inside, my insides turn to ice water. The room's trying to play it cool—just your average creeptastic study with shelves lining the walls. But then you notice the marbles. Hundreds of them. Perfect little glass spheres scattered across every surface, black candles burning between them, throwing these trippy rainbow fragments everywhere. Dust motes dance through the light show and there are no windows. And center stage: a massive tombstone squatting in the middle of a pentagram drawn with blood.
“Holy smokes,” I choke out, my eyes landing on the name carved into the stone.
“That's—”
“Dominic Merlin's tomb,” Corvin cuts Chad off, because heaven forbid Chad finish a sentence. “One of the first darkbloods during the Schism. Darkbirch founder. Etcetera etcetera.”
I jab a finger at the pentagram. “That's not standard-issue blood magic.”
“Because it's not finished,” Corvin says, circling the tomb. “Look, here's the deal: Darkbirch runs on spirit juice from our cemetery. Powers our defenses, important attack spells. But ourgrid's still damaged, and even when it's fixed, it won't cut it for what's coming.”
