Chapter 2

I arrived at my apartment completely unaware of the steps that had taken me there, or where I’d dumped the flowers en route. The city streets, the pedestrians — even my building’s doorman, who must have let me in because I couldn’t remember using my fob — were all a blur.

I’d been unconsciously propelled by an ingrained instinct to keep moving. Keep pushing forward. Until I found myself standing just inside my front door, staring down at the two packages sitting on my entrance table. A padded envelope and a large box wrapped in white paper.

The concierge never knew whether or not I was in town, so after someone calling up to see if I was home, any packages not needing signatures that arrived for me were unobtrusively placed just inside my apartment. Conveniently, the recently installed wards coating the apartment’s walls and front door didn’t repel or block nonmagicals from entering.

A small bowl — a pretty piece of indigo-dyed pottery — sat on the other side of the glassed-topped, metal-legged entrance table. A matching metal-framed mirror hung on the wall above.

I caught sight of my reflection. I looked … empty.

The bowl was for my keys, but I never used it. Jasmine did. Whenever she was in town, she would toss her own keys in the bowl. Usually she’d be laden with groceries and laughing about something as she came through the door —

Debilitating pain shot through my chest, but I fought to breathe against it. I forced my gaze away from the mirror. I forced myself to close and lock the door behind me, to remove my coat and scarf and carefully hang both up in the hall closet. I forced myself to deal with the packages, pushing aside the envelope as I tore open the wrapped box.

Allowing the white packing paper to fall carelessly to the floor, I opened the equally white cardboard box within, then unearthed a large, black, crocodile-skin briefcase from the reams of white tissue paper.

A notecard tucked within the paper shook loose, coming to a rest facedown on the blond-oak hardwood by my feet.

I stared dumbly at the briefcase. It was my bag. Or, rather, it was an exact replica of the bag that had been torn apart by zombies three months ago — zombies called forth and controlled by a necromancer trying to save her son’s life. The signature chain and logo had been carefully removed, exactly as I’d done when I’d purchased the briefcase from the 2010 Dior spring collection.

I retrieved the notecard from the floor. It read:

I apologize that it took me so long

to find a replacement.

— K

K for Kettil.

His handwriting was neat and precise, though heavy-handed enough to dent the thick linen card.

The briefcase was the third gift I’d received from the vampire since the incident in the graveyard. Since he’d presented me with the contract. As with the other two, my address had been carefully handwritten on the wrapping, with no sign of a return address or postage. Presumably, the vampire had the packages delivered by local courier, magical or otherwise. Kett had replaced my midlength, dark-navy Burberry heritage trench coat first. Then he’d replaced my teal pashmina stole — both of which had been shredded by zombie birds, then bloodied and grass-stained in a tussle with a fledgling vampire. And now he’d replaced my bag.

I’d had no other contact with him. I believed he was just trying to be considerate, rather than actively wooing me into an eternity by his side. But I still wasn’t certain how I felt about accepting the gifts.

Except I desperately wanted the bag. I desperately needed the normalcy it represented.

Scooping the second package off the table along with the bag and my purse, I moved into the kitchen to deposit all three on the island. Dumping the contents of my purse on the white-streaked gray quartz counter, I set about packing the Dior briefcase. Then I crossed over to my pantry, retrieving my four pillar candles and the six three-inch oyster-shell reconstruction cubes I happened to have already made.

I owed Kett a thank-you note, though I had no idea where to mail it. Perhaps care of Jade Godfrey at her bakery in Vancouver.

Because I wasn’t looking, I grabbed the second package that had been waiting for me at the door instead of the sunglasses case I’d been reaching for. I almost tossed the thick bubble-wrap envelope back on the island counter. But then I felt something inside it.

Something small. Sharp cornered, even through the padding. A cube.

I glanced at the label adhered to what appeared to be a prepaid FedEx envelope, not recognizing the handwriting. The package was small enough that it could have gone through the mail. And it wasn’t addressed to me.

It was addressed to The Conclave. With my address.

My stomach soured. I ran my hand across the package, now feeling a full collection of tiny cubed shapes in the bottom right corner.

Without thinking through the ramifications of opening a package addressed to the vampire Conclave, I tore at the plastic flap. Ripping it open just enough, I dumped the contents on the counter.

I’d already known what it was. I’d already felt the magic through the paper and plastic. But my mind refused to believe, refused to accept what I was feeling. Not until I was confronted by the sight of Jasmine’s gold necklace and its collection of twelve tiny oyster-shell cube charms.

My oyster-shell cubes. Shimmering with my magic. The tiny reconstructions that I’d collected for Jasmine’s birthdays, one for each of the years since we’d made a bid for our freedom and lost our family in the process. Since I’d lost Declan. All the time that Jasmine had quietly and desperately tried to keep the three of us together, to keep us from completely unraveling.

I moaned, pressing my hand over my mouth as if I could contain the sobs of fear threatening to overwhelm me.

Jasmine never took the necklace off.

So what the hell was it doing in a package addressed to the Conclave and shipped to me?

I was shaking as I forced my hands and arms to obey me, digging into my new bag for my phone and texting Declan.

Where did you get Jasmine’s phone?

I took a picture of the necklace and the envelope. Then I took another closer shot of the return address. A post office box in Connecticut.

Litchfield, Connecticut. The seat of the Fairchild coven.

I texted both pictures to Declan. To Jasmine’s phone, which he had used to call me. Her phone, like her necklace, was something Jasmine would never be without.

My phone pinged with a text message.

>Don’t text me here. The phone might be cloned.

I had no idea what that meant. But before I could ask for clarification, another text message appeared on my screen, this one from a number I didn’t recognize.

>It was mailed to me. Same return address. That’s what brought me to Connecticut.

Addressed to the Conclave?

>Yes. Do you know why?

Two things came to mind. The first was my direct connection to Kett by way of the Conclave contract. The second was the investigation Jasmine and I had conducted into the fledgling vampires. But how either of those things could have led to Jasmine being missing, I had no idea.

Except Jasmine wasn’t simply missing. She’d been kidnapped, and the return of the cellphone and necklace were the kidnappers’ first attempts at contact. Two obvious attempts to draw the Conclave to Connecticut, if not specifically targeting Declan and me.

There was a more obvious connection, though — one that pointed directly to my Uncle Jasper.

Obviously, Jasper knew that Declan and I were connected to the vampire Conclave, because he’d forged that connection himself when he put our names on his contract.

And the last time Jasmine had gone ‘missing,’ she’d been taken by our uncle.

It was an irrational and entirely circumstantial conclusion. But anger flooded through my system nonetheless, washing away the fear that had been threatening to immobilize me since I’d first heard Declan’s voice. I applied my fingers to my phone.

I’m on my way.

I clipped Jasmine’s chain around my neck, carefully tucking it underneath the front of my dress. Then I shoved everything else into my bag. Practically running, I crossed through the living room to my bedroom, then threw together a carry-on suitcase packed with the warmest items I owned.

Those included a matching set of royal-blue cashmere knitwear — a lace scarf, hat, and wrist warmers that had been a series of gifts from Pearl Godfrey, the head of the witches Convocation and Jade’s grandmother. I rarely wore those treasured hand-knit items in order to keep them in pristine condition. But I had a feeling I would need all the comfort I could collect to face the next couple of days.

A text message pinged through on my phone.

> Collingwood airfield. ETA 10:30 AM PST.

Declan must have had the plane en route to me already, or it had already been somewhere on the West Coast. I consulted my map app. Collingwood was apparently a private airport just outside the city. Trust the Fairchilds to never mix with mundanes if they could help it.

I texted the concierge, requesting a taxi. Then I added toiletries to my suitcase before grabbing a three-quarter-length black wool coat that I only rarely wore, leaving my trench coat in the closet. I locked the door behind me and ran for the elevator.

In the cab on the way to the airfield, I finally calmed down enough to think through the possible implications of receiving — and opening — a package addressed to the Conclave.

Kett was the executioner and an elder of the Conclave. Whoever had mailed the package must have known that I had some connection with the governing body of the vampires — as did Declan. But they must not have known that we were in contact with Kett specifically. Otherwise, the parcel most likely would have been addressed to the vampire directly.

So was Jasmine’s kidnapping more about her connection to the Conclave, rather than my connection to Kett? I normally would have assumed that the ongoing case she’d been working on over the holidays was an investigation for the witches Convocation, but Jasmine was open to freelancing. And last October we’d both worked for Kett — or, more specifically, for the vampire Conclave itself.

So if Jasmine had been working for the vampires — maybe even all these past months since we’d worked with Kett — I had no idea how many Adepts she might have come into contact with. Or how many might consider kidnapping her in order to get the Conclave’s attention. Or simply as a response to the Conclave’s investigation. Because it would be so much easier to hunt and capture a witch than to face the executioner himself.

Jasper being involved was an easy conclusion to jump to. And it was one that needed to be at the forefront of any investigation I attempted to mount. But I reminded myself that I had no evidence of his involvement other than my belief that at some nebulous point in the future, it would come down to me against him — again — in a confrontation that would most likely cost me my life. And I wasn’t keen on sacrificing myself without cause.

My name on the Conclave contract, and Kett’s unconfirmed preference for me, might force that confrontation sooner rather than later. But for now, I needed to approach the situation as rationally as I could.

The obvious thing to do would have been to contact Kett for clarification. Except I didn’t have his phone number. I contemplated texting Pearl Godfrey for the vampire’s contact information, which she could get from Jade. But I wasn’t certain who I wanted to involve before I had more information. For all I knew, Declan was overreacting. Perhaps some idiot had stolen Jasmine’s phone and necklace, then had decided to play a terrible prank on us.

But I knew that Jasmine had Kett’s cellphone number. She’d been texting with him back and forth during the case we’d investigated with the executioner.

On a hunch, I opened the contacts on my phone, scrolling through the list of work-related acquaintances I’d been accumulating since I was eighteen. When I came to the Ks, I found a Photoshopped picture of Chuck Norris and a tub of peanut butter.

I snorted. Only Jasmine could have accessed my contacts and inserted the photo — referencing a conversation about the vampire’s confusion over the phrase ‘gargling peanut butter’ — along with Kett’s cellular number.

Even possibly kidnapped and in danger, my best friend could still make me laugh.

I texted Kett the picture I’d taken of the envelope, along with the closer shot of the return address.

I waited for a few moments, phone in hand, just in case the vampire replied quickly. Then, as the cab pulled into the parking area of the private airfield, I double-checked that the volume was up as high as it could go and tucked the phone away in my bag. I didn’t need to risk compromising the electronics with my currently volatile magic.

Whether or not vampires were involved in Jasmine’s disappearance — Kett or anyone else — didn’t matter. Declan had called.

Even after twelve years, even after leaving him alone and severely wounded in a hospital bed without a word of farewell, he would have known that all he had to do was call. He knew that I’d do anything within my power to help him or Jasmine.

And though my family’s reaction to my return with Declan at my side might be fierce and bloody, he was no longer a practically orphaned sixteen-year-old boy at their mercy.

I had to trust that together, we would find Jasmine.

And God help whoever had her, or whoever had hurt her.

Twelve years ago, we three had broken the most powerful witch in the western hemisphere. Literally. We broke Jasper’s back because he had threatened more than simply our safety or our lives. He’d tried to take Jasmine away from us.

And there was no rule or moral code we wouldn’t break for each other.

Because we three were more than family.

We three were bound by blood, forged by terror, and united by magic.

I knew that sitting while not being able to do anything useful through a five-and-a-half-hour flight was going to be excruciating. Thankfully, the jet was waiting for me at the airfield, departing just moments after I was on board.

Equally thankfully, I didn’t recognize a single member of the crew, and I was relieved to not be bombarded with questions about my extended absence from the coven. After settling on a chicken salad and the timing of my dinner, the stewards were politely solicitous, leaving me alone in the eight-seat passenger cabin.

Since I’d last used the Fairchild jet, it had been upgraded from a Learjet to a Challenger 350, custom decorated in beige leather, glossy woodgrain paneling, and metal trim throughout. Of course, the high-end technology — touch screens, HD monitors, and so forth — that was now literally at my fingertips meant little to me, though I plugged my phone in to maintain its charge.

I had randomly selected a seat near the middle of the cabin, knowing that even on a flight across the country, my magic wasn’t powerful enough to affect the engines. The wide seat was fully reclinable and came with a footrest, but I remained upright, staring fixedly out the window as if watching the world roll by could somehow force the plane to go faster.

My phone pinged with a text message after we’d been in the air for about thirty minutes. I’d been about to resort to requesting a magazine to keep myself distracted.

I expected the text was from Declan, who I’d sent my estimated time of arrival once I’d confirmed it with the steward. I was due to land in Connecticut shortly after 7:00 p.m. EST.

But it was Kett, requesting more information about the picture I’d sent him while in the cab.

>When did you receive this?

I immediately texted back.

About an hour ago.

>I’m six hours away.

I’m not home. I’m on the jet, heading to Connecticut.

>Litchfield?

Yes. Was Jasmine working on a case for you? Tracking Nigel’s maker?

It was nothing more than a guess that Jasmine’s apparent kidnapping might be related to the events that had accumulated in the deal I’d clumsily brokered between Teresa Garrick and Kett last October, with Nigel’s immortal existence and Ben’s life in the balance. Nigel’s one and only stipulation had been for Kett to avenge his death — the first one, when he’d been remade against his will. Then Nigel had given up his immortality to spare Teresa’s son, Ben. If Jasmine was working for the Conclave, she might well have been helping to track down Nigel’s maker.

>You opened the envelope. Do you have it and its contents with you?

I stared down at the series of text messages on the screen of my phone. The vampire never answered questions straight up. I hadn’t yet figured out whether he was just constantly playing games, or if he simply deemed some responses beneath him. However, I had no patience for either option with Jasmine potentially in jeopardy. So I ignored him in turn and went on the offensive.

When was the last time you saw or heard from Jasmine?

He took long enough to answer that I thought he might have dropped the conversation. I was tempted to text back something along the lines of two can play the ‘ask another question instead of answering’ game, but I was pretty sure I’d made my point. Something about interacting with the vampire made me snitty and childish. Which was disturbing, since he was interested in possibly making me his child. Or remaking me.

>New York. Twenty-three days ago.

New York? Jasmine hadn’t mentioned being in New York to me. Her text messages had been sporadic the last few weeks, but I’d assumed that had been because of the holidays.

>What was in the package, Wisteria?

Jasmine’s necklace.

>The one that held the reconstructions?

Yes. No message.

>The message was clearly articulated.

My stomach squelched with fear. I didn’t need Kett confirming my concerns. Not until I’d gathered some sort of actionable information.

>Why are you heading home?

The return address.

That was a lie of omission. I’d been heading home before I’d received the package, but I didn’t want to mention Declan yet. I didn’t want to open up any discussion with the vampire that included Jasmine’s brother.

>I will find you.

Now why did that sound like a threat?

I had the immediate urge to text back and tell Kett to not track me down, but the Conclave’s name on the envelope completely voided that option.

>Text me if your investigation leads you elsewhere.

>Please.

I wondered briefly how difficult it had been for Kett to type out that last word. Then I chided myself for being uncharitable as I texted back.

I will.

Kett dropped the conversation after that, and I returned to staring out the window at the miles and miles of cloud shielding the earth from my view.

I brushed my fingers across one of the two tiny reconstructions attached to the platinum bracelet I wore perpetually on my right wrist. Magic hummed underneath my fingertips. My magic, in the reconstructions — along with what I assumed was some sort of combination of Kett’s power, Jade’s alchemy, and my magic embedded in the bracelet’s tiny house, fence, and tree charms.

I hadn’t removed the bracelet since Jade had altered it in the kitchen of her bakery, arming me against vampires — or fledgling vampires at a minimum, along with Kett specifically — for my peace of mind. But I wasn’t interested in contemplating the magical artifact at the moment. Instead, I reached for the magic contained in one of the tiny reconstructions, effortlessly pulling a glimpse of a nine-year-old Jasmine from it.

Believing that I would never return — that I would never see Jasmine or Declan again — I had collected two reconstructions before leaving Litchfield for the last time. One was of Declan by the lake. And the other was of Jasmine in the orchard, the day the three of us became a family. The day we’d learned that no one would ever protect us, unless we protected each other.

I spun the reconstruction magic underneath my fingers, watching Jasmine throw her head back and laugh at something either Declan or I had said. Her blond curls danced around her head, her vibrant blue eyes flashing with humor.

Then I let the reconstruction wink out. Staring at it too long wasn’t emotionally healthy, and all I really needed was a glimpse to buoy me. Reconstructionists could easily get obsessed with watching their recreations — as addicted to that magic as a witch could get to black magic or blood magic.

I’d spent every moment of the past twelve years of my life striving to live in the light. To be useful. To contribute to the greater good. Content to be a cog in the operations of the Convocation.

And now I was flying into the darkness I’d barely escaped the first time. Literally and metaphorically. It would be after sunset when we landed, and Declan’s obscure statement of ‘They won’t talk to me’ could mean only one thing.

Even if Jasper wasn’t involved in Jasmine’s kidnapping, I was going to have to confront at least some of the members of my family.

But first, I’d have to face my childhood sweetheart, who had every reason to hate me.

He was waiting for me as promised, standing near a beat-up black Jeep with Connecticut license plates. He’d parked a few feet away from the hangar at the Fairchild’s private airfield in the middle of Litchfield, Connecticut. I stumbled upon seeing him while exiting the jet, grabbing for the railing at the top of the metal stairs as subtly as I could without betraying my reaction — or tumbling all the way down.

From that breath onward, I saw nothing in those moments of my arrival that wasn’t him. I didn’t know if it was snowing or if the moon had risen. I didn’t hear the polite goodbye the steward offered. I didn’t feel the cold, though I probably should have put on my cashmere hat instead of leaving it in my suitcase. I had changed into a royal-blue merino sweater and navy-blue herringbone slacks on the jet.

Declan.

Age twenty-eight.

His dark-brown hair was cropped short, but it was still wild. Untamed. His bronzed skin was darker than it usually would have been this time of year — twelve years ago, at least. Perhaps he’d been in Mexico for longer than just Christmas with Jasmine. Brushed-metal sunglasses hid his eyes, even though it was after seven in the evening. He was wearing a long, custom-made black leather jacket that had taken a beating, probably on many occasions. The jacket came down to the top of his heavy work boots, but I could see the dark jeans he wore through slits in the side seams. Even from a distance, I could sense that the jacket was layered with a multitude of spells, but only because I couldn’t resist taking a peek at his magic through my personal shields.

He looked nothing like the boy he’d been. Yet my heart knew him in an instant.

I took a step down, then another, carefully descending the stairs. As I drew ever closer to Declan, I visualized my magic building up all around me, enforcing the personal shields I usually held in place effortlessly. Nothing about this day, or this meeting, or about finding Jasmine was going to be effortless. So just as I created reconstruction cubes, pulling them layer by layer out of crushed oyster shells, I gathered my magic tightly around me.

Declan and I were no longer friends. Technically, we weren’t even blood related. And, leaning against the front grille of the Jeep with his arms crossed and a deep glower etched across his face, the discontent he radiated made that even clearer.

This wasn’t a reunion of long-lost lovers.

Another member of the flight crew had already brought my suitcase to the bottom of the steps, standing beside it politely while I finished descending.

“Thank you,” I murmured, taking the handle he’d extended for me.

Then I crossed the tarmac, intending to greet Declan politely, then climb into the Jeep. I’d be poised and professional, as always.

Except as I drew near and Declan unfolded his arms, straightening to his full height, I didn’t pause and offer him a cool smile.

Drawn almost against my will, I closed the space between us. Abandoning my suitcase, I reached forward and up, touching the arms of his sunglasses, then lifting them up and away from his golden-hazel eyes.

I just wanted to look at him for a moment. I just wanted to see him as he was, not as he had been. I knew every curve of his sixteen-year-old face. That boy was forever captured in the reconstruction I wore on my wrist, hidden among the charms of my platinum white-picket fence.

But the Declan before me was a man. Taller — well over six feet — and broader through the shoulders. His face was constructed out of sharp edges. A long-healed scar twisted from his right ear down the side of his neck.

“Wisteria,” he said, growling his irritation. But not touching me or batting my hands away.

“I’ve missed you,” I said, knowing it was absolutely the wrong thing to say.

Declan frowned, then turned his head, pulling his sunglasses away from my loose grip.

I stepped back, but only because I was worried he’d push me away. I was certain that I would completely shatter if he ever touched me in anger.

“You hold your magic oddly.” His accent was thicker, as if he’d spent time in his native Louisiana since I’d seen him. His tone was blunt, just on the edge of nasty. “Confined. To your eyes and the palms of your hands.”

I turned away without answering, reaching for my suitcase. He grabbed it before I could, then opened the passenger-side door for me as he carried it around the Jeep. I climbed in as he stowed it.

By the time he slid into the driver’s seat, I had my shields fully in place — magically and emotionally.

“Where are we going?” I asked, trying again for my well-rehearsed professional tone.

“Christ, Wisteria. You show up —”

I interrupted him before he could get heated, deliberately enunciating the question a second time. “Where are we going?”

Declan swore under his breath. Something in French, or his Creole version of it.

I didn’t understand the words, but I got the tone. I folded my hands in my lap as if supremely patient. Then I looked out the window.

It wasn’t snowing. The ground was bare, in fact, which was at complete odds with my childhood memories. Or at least the ones I hadn’t locked away and hoped to forget.

Declan started the Jeep. “Grey’s,” he said. “Fairchild House.”

Grey Fairchild, Declan and Jasmine’s father, was a distant cousin of mine in addition to being my uncle. When he’d married Dahlia, the least powerful of the Fairchild siblings, he’d brought money and business sense to the union, rather than powerful or unique magic. Though he hadn’t needed to adopt the family surname, as my father had.

“I tracked Jasmine there based off the last text messages on her phone, but I can’t get through the wards without blowing the entire place up. And yes, I did ring the bell.”

“Dahlia was in residence?”

Declan snorted. “What do you think?”

Dahlia, Jasmine’s mother, had adamantly refused to set eyes on Declan after Jasper revealed his existence, having gone to New Orleans and returned with the nine-year-old boy. Apparently, even nineteen years after discovering she had a stepson only two months older than her own daughter, she still blamed Declan for Grey’s indiscretion.

It had never been made clear to me if Grey had known of Declan’s existence, choosing to ignore his son even after his magic had proven a disappointment to his mother. Jules Benoit had been seeking a daughter — a female descendent who carried the ancestral power of the dark arts and necromancy, not a son who wielded witch magic. Declan had been left to the care of his elderly maternal grandfather as a result, who then died. Leaving Declan abandoned without home or money, and with no way to contact his mother or any other family members.

“Who knows you called me?” I asked.

“No one.”

“Who knows you have Jasmine’s phone?”

“Whoever answered the front-gate intercom at Grey’s but didn’t bother to let me in, and whoever they’ve told.”

“So they know Jasmine is missing.”

“They know I think she’s missing. But you know how much value the Fairchilds place on my opinions.”

“Did you keep the envelope the phone was sent in?”

“The box. Yes.” Declan’s tone was still tense. “From FedEx, like yours. No residual magic, and a tracing spell didn’t lead anywhere.”

I glanced over to him. Tracing spells were delicate magic, requiring precise and finely tuned casting. Declan’s magic was not attuned in any of those ways. At least it hadn’t been twelve years ago.

He twisted his hands on the steering wheel under my gaze, spitting out extra information. “A friend cast it before I left New Orleans.”

The word ‘friend,’ begrudgingly uttered as if it were necessary to shield the other caster’s identity from me, knifed through my belly. I knew Declan wasn’t a monk. In fact, based on the bits of information I picked up among Jasmine’s general but constant chatter, I was fairly certain he tore through sexual partners, leaving a wake of broken hearts across the years that separated us.

Still, his guarded tone spoke volumes about a witch ‘friend’ who’d tried to help him track Jasmine before he’d even thought to call me. That indicated a relationship of some depth. But Declan was free to love whomever he wished.

Just because I was incapable of doing so had no bearing on the situation.

I fiercely held on to my cool facade, turning my gaze back to the road before us. “We should compare the packaging.”

“Already done,” Declan said. “Both were prepaid. No way to tell who dropped them off, at least by any means at my disposal. We could try to track down the PO box, but tracking Jasmine’s movements might be quicker.”

My stomach soured, though I’d already suspected that the post office box wasn’t a lead either of us would be able to take terribly far. I wasn’t a trained investigator. I had no skill in magical or mundane means of tracing or tracking, and if Declan had ever managed to focus his magic enough to take up that line of work, Jasmine never mentioned it. Investigation was her forte.

The sky was dark blue, slowly deepening to black. Neither the stars nor the moon had made an appearance yet. Streets, sidewalks, and front yards slipped by on either side of us. Again, I saw no evidence of snow.

I almost opened my mouth to make some comment about the unusual weather, but then decided that Declan wasn’t likely to lower himself to chatting benignly with me.

From the private airfield, it was a fifteen-minute drive through a mostly residential area to Fairchild House, where Grey and Dahlia had resided for as long as I’d known them. Their estate shared a property line with Fairchild Place, my parents’ residence, with both properties occupying five acres in the center of Litchfield. My Aunt Rose resided fifteen minutes to the south, while Fairchild Manor — Jasper’s residence, assuming he was still there — was fifteen minutes to the north.

The Fairchild coven owned large swaths of land throughout the state, most of it acquired centuries before and now operated through various corporations and different branches of the family. The town of Litchfield had been founded in the early seventeen hundreds and was set in a landscape of rolling New England hills and woodlands across which early American architecture was predominant.

“What did you mean when you said the phone might be cloned?” I asked.

“That they might have copied Jasmine’s phone so they could monitor it,” Declan said. “Send it to me, then track my response through it.”

“But you used it to call me.”

He glanced over at me briefly, quickly returning his gaze to the road. “I didn’t know if you’d answer if you knew it was me.”

I wasn’t certain how to respond, because I had no idea what I would have done if his name had appeared on my phone.

Declan tersely redirected the conversation. “What’s the connection to the Conclave?”

“A case Jasmine and I were working on together in October.”

“With the necromancer and her son?”

I nodded, once more thinking back to that night in the graveyard and the deals that had been cemented there. Jasmine must have filled Declan in on the details of the investigation. “I have no idea how that would come back at us, though. Especially with you involved.”

“We were the only two mailing addresses in Jasmine’s phone.”

I glanced over to Declan, but he kept his gaze glued to the road. He’d taken off his sunglasses at some point, as if wearing them earlier had been an extra layer of protection from me. But they were too dark to be practical while driving.

I thought about mentioning the Conclave contract stuffed into my bag, sitting on the floor now beneath my legs. Except Declan wouldn’t need to ask why the packages containing the phone and Jasmine’s necklace had been addressed to the Conclave if he knew of that tenuous possible connection through Kett and me to Jasmine’s disappearance.

And I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t prepared to tell him that Jasper wanted to be a vampire. That if Kett didn’t select our uncle, either Declan or I were next in line to be turned into an immortal, invulnerable, blood-crazed monster. Sitting barely a foot-and-a-half from him for the first time in over a decade, I just couldn’t admit that a vampire saw something in me. Something that made offering me eternity by his side a possibility.

Of course, Declan could have been hiding all that from me as well. I had no way of knowing whether Kett had presented him with the contract months ago.

“Did you know Jasmine was in New York?” I continued the conversation as if I hadn’t just been sitting silently with too many thoughts whirling around in my head.

He nodded. “On a case.”

“Then she came … here?” I subbed the word ‘here’ for ‘home’ at the last minute. This place wasn’t home to any of us anymore.

“Apparently.”

“She was supposed to come to me this weekend, for a late Christmas.”

“I know.”

Silence fell between us again. I wondered if his ‘friend,’ the witch who had cast the tracking spell, had also spent Christmas with Declan and Jasmine. Then I refocused on our surroundings, not allowing myself to wonder any further. Large hedges and gated driveways slipped by my window. The area was starting to look familiar, which made me realize that Declan was taking the longer route into the neighborhood of Litchfield’s larger estates. Avoiding driving past my parents’ property.

The Fairchild siblings — Violet, Dahlia, Rose, and Jasper — lived in fairly close proximity, but they had never been particularly interested in seeing each other outside of coven business. At least that had always been my impression. But I had no idea how that dynamic had shifted after Jasmine, Declan, and I tore through their carefully projected facade.

My mother, Violet, was the eldest of the siblings, and a potion master. Her salves and draughts — the regulated ones, at least — were exceedingly sought after and commanded a hefty price. Not that the Fairchilds needed the extra income.

Rose, the healer, born second, sat on the Convocation. Dahlia, Jasmine’s mother, was proficient at charms and wards. And Jasper was the youngest and the most powerful. He commanded the coven’s magic, controlling the blood ties that bound us together. As a teenager, I had believed there was no spell he couldn’t cast. No assault he couldn’t withstand.

Until we three had turned on him.

Twelve years later, I had no idea what had become of his magical capacity, except that he apparently retained a talent for true naming, the ability to tie another person to a spell without their knowledge or permission — or to a contract, in the case of Declan, Jasmine, me, and presumably every other member of the Fairchild family.

I toyed with the platinum charm bracelet on my right wrist, finding a touch of comfort there — both in the reconstructions I carried of Declan and Jasmine, and in the protective magic that Jade had imbued within the bracelet. Unfortunately, I had no idea whether the magic I’d successfully wielded against a fledgling vampire was going to be any help against the elder witches I was about to confront.

We pulled up to the front gates of Fairchild House and stopped. The estate was the smallest of the properties in terms of acreage, but it might have been the most richly appointed. The narrow grass frontage and sidewalks were edged by a low stone wall that was topped by a tall wrought-iron fence. The imposing Georgian mansion beyond was symmetrically arranged around its crowned and corniced front entrance. It stood at the far end of a long, perfectly straight drive lined by ornate lampposts whose white globes shone in the evening light.

“They’ve rebricked the driveway,” I said.

“New security since the last time you were here, as well,” Declan said. “Cameras.” He pointed to the top of the gates. “Motion sensors.”

“That’s awfully mundane of them.”

“Jasmine’s work. Trying to prove her worthiness. As always.”

I didn’t answer. I knew that the security system couldn’t stop me from entering the grounds. Even with the electronics warded by Jasmine, I could easily short-circuit all of it with my magic. But I needed a closer look at the wards.

Declan pulled ahead but didn’t bother to turn into the driveway, rolling the Jeep to a stop a few feet away from the gates. Shifting my gaze out the side window to eye the wrought-iron fencing, I laid my right hand on the door handle, gathering my bag in my left.

“I’ve missed you too,” Declan whispered.

I stilled, remaining turned away from him. Though it was a sentiment I’d offered earlier, I wasn’t certain how to respond now that he’d reciprocated. I wasn’t certain how to broach everything that needed to be said with my next breath.

He opened his door and stepped out of the vehicle, breaking the moment. I followed without trying to recapture it.

We needed to find Jasmine. If we were lucky, she’d be in the house and completely unaware that we thought she was missing. Dahlia was more than capable of vindictively withholding that information, especially from her husband’s illegitimate child.

But even as my mind framed that possibility, I knew it wasn’t at all logical. Jasmine wouldn’t have gone this long without checking in with one or both of us, with or without her phone.

Still, it was each tiny glimpse of hope that would keep me moving forward, preventing me from simply crumpling into a heap of despair. So logically or not, I would cling to that hope while searching for other possibilities, other clues. I would do that over and over, and the trail would lead to Jasmine in the end.