Page 120 of Ashen Souls

Ethan’s fingers slipped beneath the hem of the gown. He pushed the silk higher, sliding his hand up my thigh. He leaned in, his mouth hovering just a breath from my lips, his gaze locking with mine.

I tipped my head back, waiting for his mouth.

But the warmth of his body disappeared. The air in the room snapped, shifting into a dry heat that clung to the red silk of my gown.

Ethan was gone.

Daeren stood in his place.

He didn't touch me. He only watched, a faint smirk curving his lips. His eyes held the perfect knowledge of exactly what I had wanted Ethan to do.

I bolted upright, the sheets forming a tight snare around my calves. The inn’s white ceiling resolved above me in the pre-dawn gloom.

I pressed the heel of my hand over my sternum, waiting for the thudding to stop. I rubbed my thumb over my wrist, waiting for the sigil to sear my flesh.

It sat dormant.

If this was just a nightmare, it was a morbid projection of an exhausted brain. But if it was a real intrusion, it meant I had absolutely nowhere to hide. Not even in my own head.

Dawn stretched across the oak floor. Sleep was ruined. I threw back the covers, dressed in the quiet chill of the room, and zipped my suitcase shut.

By the time the sun fully breached the horizon, I had handed in my key and loaded the trunk. I didn't bother offering the ocean a final glance before putting the car in drive.

As the coastal highways gave way to the dense woods, the reality of the calendar set in. In less than two months, I would graduate. But while my classmates agonized over final exams, my entire existence had narrowed down to the cold piece of metal buried in my luggage.

I needed answers before the academic bubble burst. Whatever Caldwell had discovered about the ring was the only real ammunition I possessed.

And I was done waiting to be hunted.

The gold-leaf lettering on the dusty storefront window remained exactly as I remembered: Blackmere Antiquities & Curiosities.

I pushed the massive door open.

Mr. Caldwell stood behind the polished counter, wire-rimmed glasses resting low on his nose as he scrutinized a stack of invoices. At the chime, he lifted his head.

“Ms. Hart,” he said, setting the papers aside. “I was hoping you would arrive sooner rather than later.”

I closed the door behind me, shutting out the street. “You said there were developments.”

“There are. Please. Come through.”

He gestured toward an opening at the end of the counter. The floorboards groaned under our weight as we passed from the curated showroom into a cramped storage graveyard: cardboard boxes stacked precariously against brick walls, shelves bowing under unsorted volumes, and loose papers tied into brittle bundles.

“I must confess,” he began. “When you first purchased the ring from me, I underestimated it. I assumed it was a relic from a localized, forgotten tradition.”

“And now?” I asked.

“Now, I believe it is something far older. And far more intentional.”

I pressed my palms flat against a small wooden table near the wall, needing something solid beneath my hands.

“The first thing I did after you left was take my notes to my grandfather. The shop was his long before it was mine. If anyone in our family had encountered a similar artifact, it would have been him.”

“Did he recognize the ring?”

Mr. Caldwell’s mouth formed a grim line. “My grandfather’s mind is unreliable these days. Dementia is a cruel thief. But when I showed him the sketch of your ring... he reacted.”

“How?”