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I sander sweeps toward us from the shadows of an oak tree.

His icy, much-paler hands brush against mine as he takes my brother from me and pulls him onto his back, then engulfs my waist with one steely arm.

His silver-speckled midnight eyes and jaw, too chiseled for his own good, are inches from my face, and I expect he has ulterior motives for putting me in the front seat—so to speak—but I say nothing for now.

We need to go.

Our vampire colleague extends his powerful, leathery-black wings and launches us into the air. I grip my brother’s arms, which are secured around Isander’s neck, ensuring his hold stays firm as the ground speeds away from us.

The mages spilling out of the academy quickly become mere dots.

That’s a downside to mainstream magical society persecuting perfectly useful creatures like vampires: they seek refuge with enemies .

We are now above an immense, pitch-black lake, but even that soon becomes obscured as Isander rises higher, into a stretch of clouds. He does well to hide our tracks completely and, as I pull off my face mask, I consider encouraging him.

But then his head lowers. I feel the strands of his dark hair tickle my skin and the cool caress of his lips against my neck.

“Es, just one time,” he whispers against me and I admit it sends a shiver down my spine. His hold around my waist tightens, pulling the contours of my body completely flush against his. “You’ve kept me waiting so long.”

I release one hand from my brother and grip Isander’s jaw with it, raising his head to meet my death glare. He knows not to test my boundaries further and yields, though a smirk plays on his lips.

“Will you ever give in?” he breathes.

I ignore his question, his hooded eyes, and the huskiness of his voice.

Truth be told, I have a penchant for vampires.

They’re my favorite kind of influx into our academy, and Isander—one of our newest recruits—has somehow sensed my weak spot quickly.

Perhaps I’ll consider his proposal later.

But right now, I am concerned for my brother, who hasn’t lifted his head since being placed on Isander’s back.

I still don’t know what caused him to fall to the floor in that entrance hall. He has no additional visible wounds.

“Jax,” I call. “What happened?”

He is breathing but doesn’t respond. My stomach tightens. Who was that bastard back there?

We pierce through the darkness of Darkbirch Coven’s protective shield.

Agonized screams engulf us, each belonging to spirits of clearbloods who preferred to sell their souls to us and live in an eternal purgatory, rather than risk passing on and finding out what death holds.

Now they form our barrier and help keep us safe.

To be honest, death was probably the better deal.

I glance down at the graveyard that sprawls immediately in front of us once we’ve passed the barrier.

“Drop me here, then take Jax home,” I tell Isander. “I’ll see you at the academy later.”

He sets me down among the gravestones, and I keep an eye on the distance between his handsome face and mine.

He wisely tries nothing and takes flight again with my brother.

I sigh as I watch Jax’s severely weakened form disappear with Isander into the trees bordering the graveyard.

The woods hold our coven’s residential quarters, and my mother is the best person to give Jax the immediate attention he needs.

As head apothecary of the coven infirmary, there are few more experienced.

And we urgently need to discuss what I saw in Heathborne… but first I have to do something that cannot wait.

I cast my eyes around the sea of graves, breathing in what has probably been my favorite scent since I was a child: damp earth. Blame it on the countless hours I spent here with my grandmother. It’s basically our community’s vegetable patch.

You see, the common description of us as “darkbloods” is, at best, rudimentary. Just like clearbloods’ conception of death is. The way we see it: Death is a garden and we are its gardeners.

Take this yard, for example. It’s filled with flowers and seeds that keep on giving… if you know where to find them, and how to use them. If you don’t or make a mistake… well, you find out soon enough.

I pick my way toward the headstone where my grandmother lies. Esther Esme Salem. She died before I was born, so my parents gave me her middle name in her honor. And I have come to speak with her almost every day since I learned to talk.

I kneel at her gravestone, draw out the small knife from my belt, and cut my palm. I smear my blood across her name etched into the stone. A small bloodflower, dainty like a deep-crimson hibiscus, blooms in the soil next to me, and I close my eyes.

A skull appears in my mind’s eye, the delicate skull of my grandmother, lying in the soil beneath me. She nods, and her spectral voice, simultaneously distant and intimately close, fills my ears: “Thank you, child.” Hopefully my gift will put her in a good mood for the next time I call her.

Because, naturally, nothing comes for free.

Unless of course you’ve sold your soul to us, like a dumb clearblood. Then you’re basically screwed.

I sheathe my dagger and hurry toward the woods.