Page 223 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

“No matter what you hear, you do not move from this spot. If the gate closes, we’re all trapped. Got it?”

“What kind of psychological-warfare psycho are we playing right now?”

“The master himself,” she said, jerking her chin at the sarcophagus. “Do not move once I open that door—not unless I come to get you, you have to defend yourself, or—” she held up a mechanical kitchen timer set for an hour, “—this goes off. If it rings and we’re not back, assume we’re dead. Make a break for it.”

“I’m not leaving you here.”

“And if you come in alone, we’re all toast. This is a trial of fortitude. You will not break. For the next hour, nothing beyond this gate is real. It’ll try to convince you otherwise. The only reason you move is if that door starts to close. In which case—” she pointed, “—I beg you to use every one of those ridiculous muscles to keep it open until we’re back.”

The tick in Jax’s jaw said he hated every second of this plan. But he nodded.

Then—without a word—he drew his blade, set it over his heart, kissed the back of his hand, and held it out to us in a silent salute.

And something in me shifted.

My heart kicked hard in my chest as a realization surged through my blood.

Grayshellian.

The Wraith was Grayshellian.

No wonder she was such a tactical pain in the ass. No wonder she moved like a machine. She’d been trained in that school of brutal loyalty and death-before-failure precision.

I looked at her. Eyes cold as steel. She returned the salute—then flipped her blade into a ready stance and kicked open the wooden door.

Torchlight illuminated a stone tunnel, the floor sparking with a ripple of flame that danced along the carved edges, stretching endlessly into black. A rush of freezing air and hissing voices slammed into me like a semi-truck.

I blinked⁠—

And opened my eyes to the bloodied, sneering face of my baby brother.

FORTY-TWO

YOU FUCKING DRAGON

FREYA

A chill ghosted over my spine as I came face to face with the usual demonic bullshit—the walls rumbling, a bone chime competing for dominance—as I looked back at…me.

Me. Covered in blood, crimson dripping from the blades at my side, eyes glowing red. Nice touch. I had to hand it to them. This illusion had deep rings beneath her eyes, lips stained a red too specific to be anything but blood. Harsh shadows amplified The Wraith’s skeletal cheekbones as a sneer curled her lip.

“Well. Look who the cat dragged in. If you aren’t just as pathetic as I remember.”

Clearing my throat, I stepped into hell, hesitating only when I noticed Cyrus was frozen just outside the threshold.

“Oh, pretty boy doesn’t stand a chance, does he?” the demon-me drawled, satisfaction dripping from her voice. It was mine, but not mine. Too breathy. Too seductive. But she was right—Cyrus was frozen, the color draining from his face.

“Hey!” I barked, jerking my head toward the infinite decline.

“Not real,” he breathed, eyes flicking from me to the empty space ahead. I shook my head and waved him forward.

“They get worse. If you can’t separate the illusion from reality now, swap with Jax. I say that with more respect than you’ve earned. This shit isn’t for the faint of heart, Cyrus.”

A witch’s cackle tore from The Wraith, her head canting in a serpentine motion as she mocked, “Poor wil’ prince. So much guilt in his black heart. And you—did you bring him here to die? Couldn’t bear to do it yourself? For someone lacking a killer instinct, people sure fall like dominoes in your wake.”

I pulled my eyes from the curse and focused on Cyrus. He was staring blankly forward, Adam’s apple bobbing, but then he nodded. “‘M good.”

“Alright.” We began a steady march down the hallway. All the while, the bitch with my face wouldn’t shut up.