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Eira’s eyes sharpen. She does not know Rowan, but she understands this is not a clean bargain.

I weigh pride against time. Time wins.

‘Done,’ I say. ‘She hides beneath a village in Transylvania. I trust you can take care of the ward-lines and the false grave markers?’

‘I didn’t tumble out of the bog this morning, brother.’

‘Then I will send the coordinates.’

Ciaran’s satisfaction hums through the line. ‘Good. Then take your three.’

He gives the names. Each one resonates like old bone and sharpened iron.

Tavish Drennan. Marek Volkov. Elian Sorell.

Rafael’s lost sireds. I know of the one who fled to Ireland, but Volkov successfully disappeared within old warlock routes in Eastern Europe while Sorell was presumed burned in a Sicilian purge eighty years ago.

None should be in New York, involved in Tezra’s death or carry enough audacity to strike inside my territory without someone more powerful behind them.

My hand tightens on the handset, and Eira, as Ciaran adds softly, ‘Listen well, brother. The curse is no longer waiting. It’s hunting its own completion.’ I hear the unease beneath his words. My claws emerge but I control myself before they pierce Eira’s soft skin as she goes pale. I feel nothing for a beat. Then the mark pulses, slow and deliberate, as if pleased to be acknowledged.

‘Meaning?’ I ask.

Ciaran exhales. ‘It means you have less time than you think.’

The line goes dead. For several seconds, I do not move. Then I lower the receiver.

Less time than you think.

His words should provoke violence, a list of names and punishments. Instead, my first instinct is to look at Eira.

She is watching me. Her face is guarded, but fear lives behind her eyes now. Fear for herself, yes. For what she knows, what Tezra’s and the private investigator’s death mean, and perhaps most dangerous of all, for the old blood closing in around us.

And maybe, though she would rather swallow glass than admit it, fear for me.

I make the second call. The raspy voice answers as if I’ve interrupted a curse.

‘What?’ she says, Irish accent still thick despite decades of hiding far from her homeland, voice unimpressed. ‘And how the fuck do you know this num⁠—’

‘It is me, Rowan,’ I say.

Silence. Then a soft, incredulous laugh. ‘Valentin Moretti.’

‘I am calling to tell you you are in danger,’ I reply. ‘And to offer you relocation.’

Her amusement sharpens. ‘Relocation,’ she echoes, as if it’s a joke. ‘From my mountain and my peace. Why the fuck would I want to do that?’

‘I have just made a necessary deal with Ciaran, traded your location for vital information,’ I say without apology. ‘The protections you believe you have are now compromised.’

She mutters a thick curse I would be offended by if I cared. ‘You always did have a talent for dragging ruin behind you like a cloak.’

‘I offer sanctuary. Will you come,’ I ask, ‘or will you wait until he finds you?’

Another pause. Then, grudgingly: ‘Seeing as you’ve not given me a fucking choice, I accept.’

‘Aaron will come,’ I say.

‘Fine,’ she replies, as if that should offend him. ‘Send him. And send me something warm. New York isn’t kind to old bones.’