When Stars Come Out (When Stars Come Out 1)

“It’s impossible to tell if Lily’s grave was disturbed. It’s...fresh.” Nat’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?”

She hesitates for a moment. “I just...well, there’s one name that comes to mind when I see cardigans, especially this one because I’m pretty sure I’ve seen it before...on Lennon Ryder.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE – ANORA & ROUNDTABLE

My sleep is restless, plagued with nightmares that feel more like memories.

I’m afraid.

My whole body feels alive, hyper-sensitive, like a live wire. Everything that should provide a cloak to keep me hidden encroaches like a maze. The wind, the night, the stars, feel like a weight, and I’m moving through it, following a path they created.

But I’m not afraid of them.

I’m afraid of what they left for me.

A warehouse with an ugly yellow light spilling down the front appears before me. A weapon materializes in my right hand. The feeling is familiar, comforting. The blade is a part of me, like my flesh, blood, and bones and I think—If anything has happened to him, I will kill.

Inside, I find him. A pile of bones and skin and hair crumpled on the floor.

My chest squeezes so tight, I think it might explode.

He’s dead. His soul has already fled his body.

That happens when a death has been particularly traumatic.

That’s the last logical thought I have before I start to hyperventilate and before a horrible, searing pain spreads through me. A blade explodes through my front—a curved scythe I recognize. I twist and shove my own blade through my attacker, but even as he falls, another enemy takes his place, cutting me down the front. I fall to my knees when I’m struck in the head.

Struck everywhere.

Over and over again.

Until there’s nothing.