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An unexpected rush of tears flooded my vision. “You gave him a role to play.”

Yves nodded. “I’m trying.”

I blinked away the tears and fitted the key into the lock, and the mechanism gave way with a heavy click. I pushed open the gate just far enough for us to slip through, then locked it behind us. Once we were safely on the other side, Della flew ahead while Yves fell into step beside me.

I made it three paces before a terror I couldn’t shake sank its claws into my chest. The world around me grew cold and dull. Suddenly, I was back at the Kemp Cemetery.

The crushed shells beneath my boots became bloody snow, and bodies appeared in the spaces between the gravestones. My cousins lay where they had fallen, their dead familiars beside them. Cauldrons once simmering with apple whiskey lay on their sides.

I caught a fistful of his cloak to steady myself.

“Cora?”

“It’s nothing.”

He put an arm around my waist, holding me against him. I felt foolish for reacting this way, which only made me want to scream. Instead, I forced air into my lungs and waited until my body belonged to me again.

Gradually, the dead receded into shadows, and the screams became nothing more than wind moving through the trees.

“If it’s too much, we can wait,” Yves said.

“No.” The word scraped from my throat. There was no time to waste. I needed to know what Hartley knew. I loosened my grip on his cloak one finger at a time. “We follow the plan.”

The cemetery remained quiet as we followed the path. Tree roots had pushed some markers sideways, and centuries of salt wind had worn the names from others. Finally, we found the mausoleum we’d been looking for hidden beneath two live oaks that had grown together, sheltering it beneath a dense canopy of moss. Six generations of witches had been interred inside, judging by the names carved into the arch above its entrance, but it was the small mark beside the oldest name that had brought me here.

To an ordinary person, it would have looked like a chip in the stone, but I recognized it as the municipal symbol Adrien had shown me on the map: one of Valemer’s public charging houses for traveling witches.

I drew the ritual blade from my satchel, pricked my thumb, then pressed it against the center of the mausoleum door, smearing the blood. We waited for it to open, but nothing happened.

“That should have worked,” I said. “The door was designed to admit any Witch of the Darkness.”

“Perhaps it no longer recognizes you as one.”

I gave him a withering look. “I may be temporarily out of magick, but I’m still a witch.”

As my blood began to drip down the stone, it curved into a shape as if an invisible hand was using it as ink. I let out a gasp when I saw what it was drawing: a crescent moon trapped inside the coils of a serpent.

Della beat her wings from atop the mausoleum.

“The Devouring,” I whispered. “They must’ve corrupted the old ward.”

Yves caught my hand and pulled me away from the door. “Then we are not going inside.” I glared at him. “We came here because this was supposed to be a public charging house protected by the city. We have no idea what this ward means.”

I wasn’t going to leave that easily. I pulled my hand from his and inspected the magick. “This feels like a members-only ward. If you aren’t part of their club, you can’t come in.” I shook my head. “Typical.”

Yves took his own turn inspecting the old mausoleum, examining the seams around the door. Then he set his hand against the stone wall and lowered his head, listening. “I hear no heartbeats or movement inside,” he said. “But I still think this is a bad idea.”

Panic rose when I imagined walking away. Without a coven or a family cemetery to ground the amount of magick I needed to draw into me to completely recharge my power, this was the next best option. “I think it’s a bad idea to leave.” I drew in a breath. “Yves, we need to find Hartley, and I need my magick back. But without a medallion, I don’t know how to get past their ward.”

Reluctantly, Yves reached inside his coat and produced a blackened silver medallion.

“Let’s find out if it opens the door,” I suggested.

Yves looked from me to the symbol on the door before reluctantly placing the medallion in my palm, then he drew the sword at his hip. “Just in case.”

I took the medallion and pressed it against the door, hoping to unlock it, but nothing happened. Then an idea sparked. “It needs a spell.” I took the folded paper out of my pocket and searched the page but came up short.

Yves muttered, “Death is an illusion, just like peace. It’s their motto. Try it.”