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“The Guard detail will protect your mother,” Ms. Parker said. Her voice softened slightly. “And once you’re trained, you’ll be able to protect her yourself. But right now, your untrained power is drawing them here. The longer we stay—”

A crash from outside. Mom flinched.

“Go,” she whispered, pushing me toward the portal. “Learn what your father couldn’t teach you. Learn to be strong.”

“I’ll send more Guards,” Ms. Parker promised. “A permanent detail. But we have to leave now.”

Tears burned my eyes as Mom gave me one final push toward the portal. “I’ll call,” I choked out. “As soon as I can. Don’t let anyone in—”

“Not even people I know,” Mom finished. “Go. Be safe. Be amazing.”

The last thing I saw before Ms. Parker pulled me through was Mom standing alone in our shabby living room, one hand pressed to her silver ring, the other raised in goodbye. Then reality twisted, and everything changed.

My head wasstill spinning from our portal jump to the Denver airport. Ms. Parker said we couldn’t actually portal directly onto the Wickem campus, but we could get as close as possible, which was apparently here.

We waited in a cafe at the busy airport for dawn.

“Won’t they come here?” I’d asked, nursing my caffeine fix, the only thing keeping me going after a sleepless night.

“No, it will take them time to find you across such distances,” Parker said. She’d indulged in a cup of plain coffee, without the three sugars and cream that I needed, but her eyes scanned the airport, in spite of her reassurances.

“Then can’t we go?” I kept checking my phone, but there were no new messages from Mom. I hoped she was okay.

“Best to wait for dawn,” she said. “They’re not as strong in daylight. Not powerless, but… less bold. We’ll be safer travelling then.”

Once the sun rose, we moved purposely across the airport. My single suitcase looked pathetically small, and my worn sneakers squeaked against the airport tile, while Ms. Parker looked crisp and professional, despite the night’s trials.

“Oh look, the Shadow Heir arrives.” A sharp male voice made me turn.

Two men approached us, both with dark copper hair and broad shoulders, and clothes that radiated old money. The younger one caught my attention immediately—tall and athletic with intense amber eyes. He was undeniably attractive, but he looked at me like something stuck to the bottom of his shoe. I was suddenly even more aware of my rumpled clothes and unwashed hair.

“Lord Raynoff.” Ms. Parker gave a stiff bow to the older one. “We weren’t expecting a welcome party.”

“A vampire attack within the city of Albany?” His voice carried absolute authority. “Of course the Council takes interest. Especially given who their target was.” His gaze swept over me, calculating.

I already felt small enough with the height difference, but I resisted the urge to shrink further.

“Marigold Brook,” Ms. Parker said formally. “This is Lord Raynoff. He’s the current head of the Witches’ Council and general of the Shroud Guard.”

I stared blankly, even my now caffeinated brain struggling to keep up with all the new information. “What does that mean?”

“Kind of like the president of witch society,” she said.

My stomach dropped. From cleaning houses to meeting presidents in less than forty-eight hours. Mom would never believe this.Icould barely believe it.

“Hello, sir,” I managed, my voice smaller than I’d like.

“Marigold,” Raynoff said. “Three hunting parties, drawn by untrained necromancer magic. Quite the display of power for one so… unprepared.”

He offered his hand, and I shook it. A surge of something—power?—ran through me at the contact. I suppressed a shudder, hoping no one noticed.

“And this is my son, Cyrus.”

The son didn’t offer his hand. The temperature seemed to rise slightly as his scowl deepened. His amber eyes traced over my disheveled appearance with obvious disdain, the arrogance of his gaze. I couldn’t help noticing how his broad shoulders filled out his expensive jacket making my pulse quicken traitorously. I gave him a nod, fighting the urge to smooth my wrinkled shirt.

“You very much look like your father,” Raynoff said, studying me like I was a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.

“Oh?” I asked, thinking of how often people told me I was the mirror image of my mom—same petite figure, same medium blonde hair, same brown eyes. Was he seeing something more in me than appearance? “Did you know my father well?”