Chapter 1

H enry Gray’s house was a three-story gray stone in the better part of New Town. It had its own drive but wasn’t gated, although there was a signpost that said Graystone Manor on the track leading up to the house.

It was a beautiful house with tall windows and a wraparound porch, and for a moment, as we drove up, I imagined Agatha sitting in a rocker on that porch, a mug of coffee in her hand as she looked out at the view.

But Agatha would never live here.

She’d never sit on that porch or walk the halls of the home so carefully chosen by her and her fiancé, because sweet, hopeful, trusting Agatha was dead. And it was all my fault.

My hubris killed her. I’d believed I had Ezekiel under control, and he’d allowed my delusion, shattering it at the Midnight Ball with a massacre that took forty lives. Forty young women with their lives ahead of them, forty including my friend Agatha.

I’d promised to keep her safe. To watch out for her, and I’d failed.

Ordell brought Betsy, his house on wheels, to a halt a little way from the house. “You don’t have to do this. Hemlock or I can?—”

“No.” I closed my eyes for a beat but snapped them open when an image of a terrified Agatha screaming soundlessly for me to save her bloomed against my eyelids. “I need to do this. I owe her that much.”

Hemlock met my eyes in the rearview mirror, his expression unreadable as usual. “We’re coming with you,” he said.

I didn’t have the energy to argue with him, just wanting to get this done. “Fine. But let me do the talking.”

I popped the door and hopped out, sucking in a lungful of crisp morning air before trudging toward the house. The guys followed, their boots crunching on gravel a few steps behind me.

I’d barely reached the porch when the door opened and Henry stepped out. He was in his PJs, a robe hastily thrown on. His dark hair was mussed, like he’d just rolled out of bed, and his eyes were bloodshot. His gaze skipped from me to the guys behind me then back again, and his mouth trembled before he pressed it into a straight line and inhaled through his nose.

“Where is she?”

The lump that had taken residence in my throat swelled, and for a moment the words refused to come, but when they did, every line I’d rehearsed went out the window. “I’m…I’m sorry.”

His chest rose and fell faster. “No…”

“It happened fast. I didn’t know, I…I didn’t, and I couldn’t…I couldn’t stop him.” My vision blurred. I blinked back tears and lifted my chin. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“No!” He took a step back and grabbed at the doorframe. “You’re lying. You’re…This is a joke.”

I shook my head, unable to speak past the constriction in my throat.

“We’ve taken Agatha to Penrith Mortuary,” Ordell said because I was unable to. “They’re expecting you.”

His eyes welled, and his mouth wobbled. “She can’t be…no. She can’t be gone.” Rage lit up his dark eyes. “You promised to watch out for her.” He drew a deep breath. “You…You promised her she’d be safe.”

“I know. I didn’t realize what he’d planned. I?—”

“You’re his fucking watcher! You should have known!” He took a menacing step toward me, and Ordell moved to meet him.

“You’re angry,” he said. “I understand that. But what happened is not Orina’s fault.”

Henry’s throat bobbed, his mouth working as if he was gathering his wits, his words, his sense, and then his expression smoothed out like glass. “Was it quick?” A single tear tracked down his cheek.

Was having your throat torn out quick? How long had she taken to bleed out? Had he drained her? The moment was a mess in my mind.

“Yes,” Hemlock answered for me. “It was quick.”

“Thank you for coming to tell me in person,” Henry said, his voice cracking on the words. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get dressed.”

He stepped back into his house and closed the door.

I released a whimper, my knees going weak, but Ordell’s arm was around me in a blink, supporting me as I bit back a sob.

“We should go,” Hemlock said. “We have things to discuss.”

I shook my head then pulled myself away from Ordell. “Take me back to the chapter house.”

“What?” Hemlock crowded me, forcing me back against Ordell. “I thought we talked about this. We need to go back to the castle.”

My pulse raced, lungs tightening so it was difficult to breathe. “I told you I needed time to think about this.”

“What is there to think about?” Hemlock demanded. “You’re his watcher.”

“For now.”

His eyes darkened. “You want to run away?”

“Hem, back off,” Ordell growled.

“Fucksake. Ordell, the softly, softly approach won’t work here. We’re running out of time. We need her to?—”

“Enough!” Ordell snapped. “We’re not the ones who’ve lost our humanity, remember that.”

Hemlock turned away with a sound of exasperation. “Fine. Two days, Orina. Make up your mind. Are you with us, or are you out, but remember, if you walk away, that massacre you witnessed will look like child’s play compared to what Loviator will do once she’s free.”

Rage burned a path through my veins, toward them and toward the Order for putting me in this position. The position of protecting a monster, of having to witness his atrocities, and now, of the responsibility of nurturing his humanity.

“I need to speak to the Order about this.”

“You can’t,” Hemlock said. “Only the highest levels know the truth. No one else can know, do you understand?”

Yeah, they’d explained that. Along with the fact that they’d been working with the Order for centuries. Everything they’d told me explained why the Order would want to be involved and work to protect Ezekiel because the vampire king wasn’t the big problem, the goddess Loviator was, but I couldn’t just take the Singers’ word for it. I didn’t work for them. I worked for the Order. “You best get me a meeting with someone who can confirm everything you’ve told me.”

Hemlock let out a bark of laughter. “And I thought I was distrustful. Look, you’re here to be a watcher. So be a fucking watcher and do your job.”

I glared up at him. “Not until I speak to the Order.” And even then, I wasn’t sure that I could.

Ordell exhaled. “Fine. But it might take time to organize the meeting, so while we wait, please…work with us.”

That tone. The plea. The softness. How dare he try and manipulate me.

A wave of anger prickled over my skin, and I gritted my teeth. I broke off toward the van. “Take me back. Now.”

I needed time alone, away from the Singers, away from Ezekiel. I needed to wrangle my emotions into the neat boxes that would allow me to serve the Order.

They believed I was their only hope of helping Ezekiel find his humanity and stopping the evil goddess Loviator from breaking free of some supernatural prison, but the fury coursing through me warned that if I was going to be any use to their cause, then I needed to remind myself of my own.