Page 224 of Commanding Blood And Bonds

“Every life you’ve touched, you’ve ruined. Reyna’s next, isn’t she? And that boy of hers—what’s his name again? Blimpy?”

I clenched my teeth but didn’t respond, keeping our pace steady through the tunnel of bones.

“Guess it doesn’t matter. You’ll spill his blood before he can do anything significant anyway, won’t you? And then his cousin will be next? Cousin—hah!” She threw her head back, hood falling to reveal hair soaked in red, like she’d bathed in blood. “That’s rich. Do you want to kill Reagan or fuck her? Because this is some kinky ass shit if that’s the case.” She gestured between Cyrus and me.

Cyrus, who was rapidly losing color.

“Hey,” I repeated. “Eyes on me.”

He nodded, then muttered, “You weren’t fucking kidding.”

“Best not to kid about the underworld, darling. They don’t like it.”

His snort did monkey shit for my nerves. “So. Back at camp, you played guitar. You still do that?”

“Uh…seriously?”

“Yeah,” I chirped as the flames flickered around us. Dark spirits despised few things more than being ignored. There’s no power in invisibility. “You were good.”

“Fuck, I haven’t played in years.”

“You should make time. I mean…assuming things go our way. Music holds people together through the darkness. My brother plays.”

Another maniacal cackle. Dark Freya got right in my face, breath thick with the tang of sweet iron. “Ahhh, August Porter. The Great Commander. He’s damned too, you know? He’ll never make it. Too good. Too pure. He’ll crush like a flower petal when the fighting gets real.” She balled a bloody fist, opened it to a palm full of ashes, and blew them in my face.

I closed my eyes rather than flinch.

“That guy?” Cyrus asked skeptically, hitching a thumb over his shoulder toward Jax.

“Another brother.”

“Got a few of those?”

“You could say that.”

The Wraith scoffed. “And none of them will remember a damn thing you’ve worked so hard to do, will they? Too busy cleaning up your mess, as always.”

“Blood or Soul?”

“Both.” My torch flickered, a gust of wind carrying the low, resonant rumble of things better left unnamed.

“Ugh, I hate this part.”

“You don’t say,” Cyrus said, straightening his spine.

“Lesson number one, Prince of Night. I oversell nothing.”

“I’m picking up on that.”

We stepped into the second tomb—this one all black marble, vines consuming every inch. Why couldn’t they have buried this woman with her damn crown on? Knocking out two birds with one hellscape would’ve been too easy, apparently.

A high-pitched ringing filled my ears and I jammed my eyes shut like that might keep the sound out.

“You never win, you know?” That husky Southern lilt hit like a fist. Cyrus stiffened beside me. Never in my life would I have predicted the son of Reagan Stuart serving as my anchor point. But there he was—the rhythm of his breath, the steady beat of his heart—suddenly the only thing I could trust.

I glanced sideways and found Reagan.

Exactly as I remembered her from my last life—long blonde curls falling to her waist, bright swathes of fabric braided through. She held a curved blade in one palm and grinned before slashing it across The Wraith’s throat, cackling as she fell.