Ritual of the Broken (Haunted Hearts)

Chapter 33

Chapter

Thirty-Three

A drian’s muscles tensed as he stood in the Tribune Tower lobby, his senses on high alert. He’d expected a fight. He expected there would be mages guarding the ground-floor lobby, ready to hurl spells at anything that moved wrong.

But instead, he found himself surrounded by ordinary people going about their evenings. A man led a dog on a leash past a woman stopping in a small hallway, presumably to get her mail. A couple in business attire chatted quietly nearby, while a well-dressed woman pushed a stroller containing a sleepy-eyed toddler. This building was a mix of retail, office, and residential spaces, so it made sense. But, for a building presumably built by mages, it was all just so… normal.

They stood at the bank of elevators, waiting for one to arrive. Next to them was a woman and her kid. Preston made silly faces at the little girl sitting in the stroller, eliciting a giggle. Adrian’s jaw tightened as he gripped the bag he carried even tighter. What fresh hell was this?

Moments ago, they’d slipped in through the side door, emerging into an expansive lobby adorned with grotesque sculptures made up of medieval gargoyles and mythical creatures dancing together with human figures. As they’d passed through the hall of inscriptions, quotations of all types carved into the ceiling above the lobby’s front desk, Adrian had noticed the underlying scent of old magic beneath the more obvious smell of polished granite. That was the only clue they were in some sort of mage haven.

Now, as the elevator dinged its arrival, Adrian found himself cramped inside with the others. The mother turned to them, asking, “What floor?”

Preston smiled warmly. “Thirty-four, please.”

The woman’s eyebrows rose. “You need a key for that one,” she said, hesitating.

“Oh, right,” Preston replied smoothly. He reached past her to the panel, touching it with two fingers. Adrian caught the faint whiff of magic, and the button for the thirty-fourth floor lit up.

The woman’s confusion was evident as she pressed herself against the elevator wall, clutching her child’s stroller more tightly.

When the woman stepped off the elevator on the sixteenth floor, only Adrian and Preston were left.

Now that the mortals were gone, Adrian’s jaw clenched as the elevator continued its ascent. “Okay, so what’s the plan?” he asked, his voice tight .

Preston remained frustratingly calm. “I suspect the door is going to open, and we’re going to emerge into a lobby, most likely tastefully decorated in a chic gothic motif.”

“Have you been here before?”

Preston shook his head. “No. I would never have risked it. I’m only going by what we observed in the downstairs lobby.”

Finally, Adrian had enough. He turned on Preston. He was taller than him, and he used that to his advantage. “We’re walking blind into what is most likely a ritual where people—where Ollie!—is going to be killed! We have no idea who is going to be there, how many are there, or any tactical information of use.”

Preston’s face remained unnervingly—annoyingly—placid. “Oh, I have my suspicions about who is going to be there. Emmerich Goulding, for one.”

Adrian’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Emmerich? The librarian? Ollie’s ex? He helped us track down the meaning of the runes,” he said.

“Of course he did. What better way to get Ollie and you exactly where he wanted you?”

Adrian shook his head, still perplexed. “But he’s the one who helped me after I was attacked by the creature.”

Preston glanced over at Adrian. “And how do you think they harvested your blood?”

The realization hit Adrian. He knew. Of course, he knew. Where else would they have gotten his blood but in a hospital run by mages? The answers had been right there all along. He’d been in a mage-owned hospital, unconscious and helpless at keeping anyone from taking his blood. Ollie wouldn’t have let them. Adrian believed that much. But he’d been out for hours. Chances are Ollie wasn’t there to watch over him the entire time. Surely he slept some of those hours. Anyone could have slipped into the room and taken what they needed. And what they needed, clearly, was his blood.

He recovered quickly, his mind racing. “But we still shouldn’t be treating this whole thing like we’re about to walk into a tea party,” he growled. “Look, with a quick phone call to an IT buddy of mine down at the district, I can have plans for this building on my phone in probably fifteen…”

Just then, the elevator dinged, and the scent of magic hit Adrian as the doors slid open. They stepped out into another lobby, and Preston’s prediction proved correct: This one was similar to the lobby below, tastefully decorated in a modern gothic style. The room was filled with people who milled about, dressed for a formal affair.

Doormen in black tuxedos and wearing silver masks that covered the top half of their faces greeted them at the elevator, carrying tufted velvet pillows. On each pillow rested a mask. Adrian watched, suspicion rising, as Preston took a mask and put it on.

Preston leaned close and whispered, “Just play the part and put on the mask. We’ll know when the time is right.”

Still stunned and confused, Adrian took the offered mask—an intricate piece of metalwork resembling a cat’s face, all sharp angles and gleaming silver which made him roll his eyes—and slipped it on. That’s when he noticed he was dressed in formal wear, a tailored black suit that fit him perfectly. Preston’s doing, no doubt.

As they started into what appeared to be a party, Adrian leaned in. “Seems you know quite a bit about this party,” Adrian said in a low voice. But he couldn’t keep the suspicion out of his tone.

Preston sighed at Adrian’s side. “There are no surprises here. These things always turn out as if they’re a fundraising event for the top one-percent.”

“Do you go to a lot of rituals that involve human sacrifices?” Adrian asked as they moved deeper into the lobby toward a flight of stairs.

“Not many,” Preston said as he lifted a flute of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray. He handed one to Adrian who promptly sat it down on a pedestal holding the bust of some woman. “But the sacrifices are the ones where we get to wear these lovely masks.” Preston smiled as he took a sip.

Adrian hoped Preston was just making light of the situation again, but he couldn’t be sure. He moved through the party, his muscles tense beneath the tailored suit. The other guests paid them little attention, sipping champagne and chattering as if this were a mundane social event. It set Adrian’s teeth on edge. He felt like a coiled spring, ready to snap at any moment.

A trace of something touched his nose, and he turned toward it, toward a woman in a long green dress with delicate ruching on one side and a high slit on one side to reveal a leg. The aroma coming from her was familiar—he’d smelled it before.

Then it hit him. In Ellie Barnes’s apartment. It was her scent near where they found the rune.

The woman regarded him a long, assessing moment, then she gave him a nod and a slight smile. It was everything Adrian could do to keep from clawing her face off. He turned from her and followed Preston.

As they approached the stairwell, the crowd began to drift in that direction. Adrian and Preston moved with them, ascending the grand bifurcated staircase. At the top, Adrian’s senses were assaulted by an even stronger stench of magic—this time, more acrid and electric, like after a lightning strike. Mixed in was that now-pungent odor like resinous citrus. But underneath that sickening, familiar scent was something else, something that made his hackles rise.

A shadowy bulk dominated the center of the room. To Adrian’s heightened senses, it reeked of decay and despair, like a charnel house left exposed to the sun. He could smell the terror and anguish of the trapped souls, their essences twisting within the dark latticework.

“Easy,” Preston murmured. “We can’t act yet.”

Adrian growled low in his throat. “How can you be so calm? This is?—”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice rang out, silencing the room. “Our guest of honor has arrived. ”

Adrian’s head snapped around. His heart clenched as he saw Ollie being led in, blood seeping from a wound on his chest. The scent of Ollie’s blood hit Adrian like a physical blow, rich and coppery and terrifyingly familiar.

And there was Emmerich. He never liked the man. He was going to enjoy showing him what his own heart looked like on the outside.

Adrian once again started forward, his body tingling with a want to change, to become the beast that would rip and shred. Every instinct screamed at him to protect, to save. And to kill. But Preston’s hand clamped down on his arm, holding him back with surprising strength.

“Not yet,” Preston hissed. “We’ll only get one chance.”

A couple of the nearby mages glanced over their shoulders in his direction. Preston was right. Now wasn’t the time. They were two in a sea of about thirty to forty people. There might not be a perfect, opportune time. Still, they needed to wait.

Adrian clenched his fists at his sides, fury and helplessness warring within him as he watched Ollie being led toward the center of the room and the dark lattice of swirling shadow. He was being taken to a place in the center of the large circle, his back to where Adrian and Preston stood, mixed in the crowd.

When Ollie spoke and called all the gathered people sick, Preston laid a hand on Adrian’s arm. Normally, that was enough to set him off, but this time, he let the firm touch do what it was supposed to do and calm him down. He watched as a man entered the circle and removed his mask.

“Who is that man?” Adrian whispered.

“That would be Isabell’s husband, Oliver’s grandfather—Enoch Roscorla. Better known today as Darius Vale, the Archmagus Sovereign of the Synod.”

Enoch Roscorla. “He forced you to create this ritual.” By this point, Adrian had come to accept Preston at his word.

Preston gave him a look, the first that wasn’t the nonchalance he’d exuded since they first met. But it was earned. They were standing in a room full of the enemy, and here he was talking about something that could give away his identity. “Watch the ritual,” he said, his voice tight and barely above a whisper. “We’ll need to time when we can act.”

Adrian tilted his head to the side. His wolf ached to be free, and it would be soon. But he wasn’t stupid. “I hope you have something good planned, because by my assessment we’re outgunned.”

Preston said nothing else.

Adrian’s nose wrinkled as the stench of magic intensified, signaling the ritual’s true beginning. The acrid scent burned his nostrils, making him want to sneeze. Then, a new odor interlaced with the magical miasma—fresh blood. Rich, coppery, and from the man now known as Enoch Roscorla.

His eyes darted to the center of the room, where a demonic entity was taking shape. It bore an unsettling resemblance to the creature they’d faced at Mary Ann’s apartment. Adrian felt a flicker of hesitation, memories of that encounter flashing through his mind. But he steeled himself, refusing to give in to fear.

Finally, Preston spoke the words Adrian had been waiting to hear: “Time for a bit of our own dramatic flair.” He glanced at Adrian with that infuriating hint of amusement. “As I believe they say these days, ‘this shit’s about to get real.’”

Adrian watched as Preston removed a dark vial, its contents swirling ominously. As he plucked off the top, Preston said, “I believe you’ve already met my sister.”

A tendril of... something... slid out of the vial. It wasn’t liquid, Adrian realized. It was a different substance entirely. At that moment, Isabell’s spirit materialized beside them. Her face was contorted with fury as she glared at Preston.

But, as soon as the swirling ribbon of vaporous material touched her, Adrian watched as Isabell’s spirit underwent a transformation. The contents of the vial that Preston had opened wrapped around her arm like a living tendril, settling into her center and taking on a light. Though still clearly a spirit, Isabell’s form became more substantial, less ethereal. The change was subtle but undeniable.

Isabell turned to Preston, her expression changed from formless anger to one that Adrian could only interpret as a mix of gratitude and determination.

“Preston,” she whispered. “How…? ”

“I wasn’t able to retrieve it all, dear sister, but I hope you will find use for this small part,” Preston said, his voice low and tinged with regret.

A small smile spread across Isabell’s face, and Adrian felt a surge of understanding. The vial had contained a piece of Isabell’s soul, somehow preserved by Preston. The implications of such magic made Adrian’s head spin, but he forced himself to focus on the present danger.

Preston’s smiled at her. “Now, what do you say to offering a greeting to my brother-in-law Enoch?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Isabell replied, her voice carrying a weight of centuries-old anger, now properly placed. “Be ready, brother.”

“Of course,” Preston said.

“Ready?” Adrian looked between them. “Ready for what, exactly?”

Ignoring him and without hesitation, Isabell turned toward the circle where the demonic entity was still forming.

Isabell appeared, and Ollie wanted to drop to his knees in relief.

Two thoughts entered his head:

Thank the gods!

And,

It’s about time.

The cavalry finally showed up. Just one, and if she was it, he hoped it was enough. But at least he wasn’t facing all this on his own. Someone was here who was on his side, and that was enough to make him take a second look at the shadowy horned demon thing materializing and staring him down like he was the tray of food brought to its table.

Isabell looked different than he remembered her, even when charged up from the demon. There was more substance to her than before.

“Enoch, my dear husband!” Isabell’s voice rang out, clear and powerful.

Ollie’s gaze snapped to the ritual leader, who flinched visibly at the words. Enoch Roscorla? Ollie’s mind reeled. The man from the journal? The man who helped Preston Hartley create this very ritual.

And, husband? That meant the ritual leader was most likely… It was a lot to process, and he didn’t want to right at that moment.

The other mages at the edge of the circle shuffled like they were afraid to break the ritual space. There was a murmur of voices. Magic touched Ollie’s skin as someone among the crowd began a spell. He wanted to help her, to counteract whatever was about to come at her, but his magic was still frustratingly out of reach.

But Isabell raised her ghostly arms, and a shimmering barrier sprang into existence at the edge of the ritual circle. The other mages found themselves trapped outside, their shocked faces visible through the translucent wall of energy. The magic that tickled over his skin ceased, even as power slammed against the barrier from all sides. It said something that Isabell had the strength to fend off all those attacks and still face off against Enoch Roscorla.

She turned her attention back to Enoch, her eyes blazing with centuries of pent-up anger. “We have much to discuss, you and I,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she closed the space between them in an instant of spirit blur. “But I’m afraid I have no interest in hearing what you have to say.”

Enoch backed away from her and began to utter words of power, but Isabell reached forward, a blast of her own magic hitting him in the chest and knocking him backward to slide across the floor and come to a stop against the edge of the barrier.

For a moment, Ollie thought it was over. Maybe it would be that simple. But Enoch moved. He lifted himself to his knees, head bowed. A flash of uncertainty crossed his face. Shock, even. He looked like a man facing his worst nightmare, the ghost of his dead wife returning for—Ollie hoped—retribution. And Ollie was living for it.

“Your power has grown, Isabell,” Enoch said, a slight wheeze in his voice as he struggled to take in air again.

“I have the strength of the living and the dead, husband,” she said, moving toward him again, this time in slow steps. “I also have a piece of my soul back.”

That caused Enoch to shoot a stare at her. Now Ollie understood why she appeared different.

“Yes, that’s right, husband,” Isabell continued. “With it comes clarity, the memory of what really happened that night.” Her face changed, grew dark, more sinister. “You betrayed me. And you betrayed my brother.”

With her last words, Isabell threw her hands forward, and another blast of power unlike anything Ollie had seen before shot out toward Enoch. The magic slammed into where Enoch stood, engulfing him in an otherworldly flame. Of course, Ollie had seen archmages at work before, but this was different. This was power made up of something beyond what he’d ever experienced.

The flame lasted for seconds, a cocoon of pure energy blocking any view of Enoch Roscorla. When it finally guttered out…

Enoch stood just as he was, unharmed.

Now, it was Isabell’s turn to appear surprised.

“It has been a long time, my wife. Like you, I have grown in power.” Enoch moved forward. “The Nephilim is summoned.” He referred to the creature, the dark entity still gaining power and forming—still watching Ollie with hunger. “The Boundary has been weakened, and I too, draw power from what lies beyond. A gift from She Who Comes.”

Enoch lifted a hand, and a sigil appeared in front of him in a language that Ollie had never seen before. As quickly as he summoned it, he pushed it forward, sending the magic to work.

Isabell screamed. Her ghost form twisted and bent in ways not possible for a human body. Her cries of pain filled the room, even heard by those still locked outside the circle. The barrier began to waver .

“Reality bends to my whims, Isabell,” Enoch said as he walked toward her across the large circle.

Just then, the dark, demonic creature lifted its arms in a war of triumph. It stepped forward, fully formed.

“Now, wife, you get to witness the true end of your lineage, the death of our grandson.”

That’s what he didn’t want to face. Grandson. The word echoed in Ollie’s thoughts. But he was too focused on the dark creature now taking steps toward him to parse what it really meant.

As it drew closer, an acrid scent hit him. That sick, sweetness like citrus he knew now was the Boundary’s decay. This was a foul thing, a creature of pure darkness. And it wanted to rip out Ollie’s soul. This was not a banner day.

It reached for him, teeth all too visible and all too solid as it grinned like it was about to win some twisted lottery.

But something in the creature’s expression changed, a look that Ollie could only interpret as surprise as it shot backward, drawn to a stone sitting on the floor, which Ollie recognized as the Astraeus Stone he sold to the odd customer in his shop only days before.

Preston Hartley.

It really was Preston. He now stood next to the stone and the creature being held in place.

“It won’t hold long,” Preston shouted at him. “We don’t have much time.”

Enoch Roscorla stared at Preston, once again surprised. “I should have demanded to see your corpse myself!” he said, his voice seething with anger.

A growl came from behind Ollie, and before he could react to it, the chains binding him to the floor ripped free. Ollie expected to feel something tearing into him from behind, even as the cuffs on his wrists were pulled apart by something far stronger than him.

But the chains dropped to the ground.

“Come on! We have to go!” A man’s voice came from Ollie’s side, a voice he recognized.

Ollie turned and threw himself into Adrian’s arms. And Adrian held him for what seemed like too long a time, all things considered. But, for the first time since this all began, Ollie actually felt safe. He felt rescued—this man’s arms wrapped around him was the only right thing in the world. “You’re here,” Ollie said.

“Of course I am,” Adrian said, his voice close to Ollie’s ear, his warm breath a comfort as it touched Ollie’s neck.

Tears threatened to spill. “I thought you were dead.”

“Can’t put an old wolf like me down that easy,” Adrian said. He pulled back, and Ollie was able to look up into his eyes, blue eyes that were the best, most beautiful thing in the world right then. “We should probably go,” Adrian said.

Adrian was right. They were still in the middle of the ritual room. They weren’t safe yet. A blast of power punctuated that thought. It came from either Enoch Roscorla or…

“That’s Preston Hartley,” Ollie said. “My uncle. ”

“Yeah. It’s a long story,” Adrian said. He took Ollie’s hand. “There are stairs and an exit this way.”

As they fled, Ollie glanced over his shoulder at the magic crackling through the air, Enoch and Preston locked in their battle. Isabell was once more in the fight. Two against one, a small blessing. They clearly had a lot of history to work through, and Ollie was more than happy to leave them to it.

But Enoch prepared a spell that crackled in front of him. He unleashed it, not at Preston or Isabell, but at the Astraeus Stone.

The stone shattered with a deafening crack, fragments scattering across the ritual space.

“Finish it!” Enoch roared, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. “Take his soul and complete the ritual!”

Now freed from its temporary restraint, the Nephilim surged toward Ollie with terrifying speed. Its form seemed to expand, filling Ollie’s vision with an inky, writhing mass of shadows.

Adrian’s strong grip on Ollie’s arm jolted him back to reality. “Run!” Adrian shouted, his voice already going guttural and his hands forming claws as he pulled Ollie toward the exit.

As they turned to flee, Isabell appeared in front of them. Her attention was not on them but on what loomed behind them. Ollie didn’t dare look. She set off power of her own, and the dark creature let out a scream that said she fought it with something. He could only hope it was enough .

Both of them were hit from the side. Adrian stumbled, and Ollie fell to the floor, slamming an elbow into the wood. He rolled onto his back, the cold against his skin a surprise, to find Morwen just getting to her feet.

“Oh, come on!” Ollie yelled as he pushed himself to standing. “Give it up, already!”

Morwen wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She bled from her lip, probably from when she tackled him. It felt good to see her bleeding. He wanted to see more of that. A lot more.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Morwen said. “I don’t give a shit what you brought with you. I’m going to see you an empty shell before this night is through.”

“What did I ever do to you, Morwen?” Ollie asked her. In spite of everything, he was genuinely curious. They used to hang out, used to laugh together over dinner when he was still with Emmerich. But, like Emmerich, he guessed it was all an act to satisfy Enoch Roscorla, the man currently squaring off with his uncle.

His fucking grandfather, of all things. Gods, his family had issues.

Morwen scowled. She drew the knife she had before. “You exist,” she said and started toward him.

The deep growl coming from behind Ollie caused her to stop. Her eyes moved upward, wide with fear. This time, Ollie dared a glance behind him.

A long snout was just above his head, one he’d seen before. Adrian in his wolf-hybrid form .

Ollie turned back to Morwen. “In about two seconds, I think you’re not going to exist anymore.”

Adrian crouched as he moved, and even so, he still loomed over Ollie. He appeared ready to pounce. The growl coming from him threatened to drown out the sounds of the intense magic battle occurring on the other side of the large ritual circle.

Morwen scrambled, reaching into a pocket. “Stop!” she shouted as she gripped something in her hand. To Ollie, it looked like a vial.

Adrian stopped.

Her hand trembled like she was surprised it actually worked. Then she held up the thing in her hand. “His blood,” Morwen said, relief and a sick satisfaction in her voice. “We thought he might prove useful. He has to do everything I say.”

The growl started again from Adrian, deeper this time. He moved forward once more, getting even farther into a pouncing stance.

“You sure about that?” Ollie asked her.

Morwen gripped the vial of blood. “Stop! I said stop, dammit!”

Adrian’s teeth showed, his nose curling as his growl became a snarl that scared even Ollie.

It was finished in seconds. Adrian moved in a blur, one moment crouched in front of Ollie and the next, his muzzle ripping at Morwen’s throat. There was a brief moment where it seemed Morwen tried to cast something, some sort of defensive magic. But it fizzled as quickly as it began. Adrian gave her body a vigorous shake like she was a rope toy from a pet store. Bones cracked, and Morwen fell limp and bloodied to the wood floor.

“The ritual can’t be stopped.” The voice came from behind them, back in the direction where Isabell struggled against the dark entity.

Ollie turned to find Emmerich standing there. Adrian moved beside Ollie, low to the ground, on all fours but still in his werewolf form. His jaws dripped with Morwen’s blood, and the growl coming from him gave Ollie a thrill of fear, even as he reached out a hand to place it on Adrian’s furred shoulder to keep him from attacking—yet.

“What do you mean it can’t be stopped?” Ollie asked Emmerich.

“The Nephilim has been summoned, the one that will use a Hartley soul to unlock the gateway and open the path. Once that’s set in motion, it cannot be stopped. It will not rest until it accomplishes what it was summoned here to do.”

Ollie expected a fight from Emmerich. He reached for his power, and now that he was free from the magic bonds, it responded. He called a magical shield around him.

But Emmerich shook his head. “I never wanted this. I thought I was doing something important. I thought I was living out my destiny. But this is not what I wanted.”

Anger engulfed Ollie. “You killed my mother, kidnapped me.” He pounded his bare chest with a fist. The pain from his wound there flared to life, but it only made Ollie angrier. “You had this thing carved into my chest!”

Ollie glanced at Adrian, still in his wolf form.

“You hurt people I love,” Ollie said.

Yes, that was right. It surged in his heart. Adrian saved him. He came back from wherever he was and risked his life to save him. What he felt for this man, this werewolf, was nothing short of love. But he had Emmerich to deal with still. He took a step toward him. “And now suddenly you decide it’s too much?”

Emmerich backed away. “I didn’t kill your mother,” Emmerich said. “I’m sorry,” he said. And he threw something up into the air, a runed stone, it seemed. Before Ollie could react, Emmerich was gone. Teleported.

What an asshole! And a liar!

Magic exploded behind them. Preston was covered in dust from the wooden floor which lay in tatters. Enoch was just as bad, but he still prepared a spell.

Ollie glanced at Adrian, still in his wolf form, blood dripping from his muzzle. Part of Ollie wanted to flee with him, to let Adrian tear through anyone who stood in their way. But something else tugged at him, a burning anger that demanded action.

His eyes darted to the ongoing battle. Enoch—his grandfather—moved until his back was to Ollie, locked in magical combat with Preston and Isabell. In that moment, Ollie made a decision.

With Isabell’s protective barrier holding the other mages in the room at bay, he sprinted toward the fight, his feet barely touching the ground. As he passed the ritual table, his hand closed around the hilt of an ornate dagger. Without hesitation, he plunged it deep into Enoch’s back.

It worked! He expected to hit a mage shield, but the knife worked!

Enoch’s scream of pain and surprise echoed through the chamber. Ollie leaned in close, his voice a low growl.

“Nice to finally meet you, Grandpa.”

Enoch lifted a hand, and magic hit Ollie. He flew backward into Adrian’s wolfy arms. It hurt. His face felt numb like he’d been hit with a haymaker, and it would probably hurt a lot more later. But he took a lot of satisfaction in seeing Enoch, his grandpa, struggle to reach the knife still lodged in his back.

Finally, Enoch fell to one knee. The same magic as Emmerich used swirled around him, and before anyone could react, Enoch was gone.

Was that it? Was it over?

A roar shook the ritual room.

No, the battle was not over. Isabell still fought against the dark entity. Her power and strength appeared to wane as the creature took steps toward her.

A hand touched Ollie’s shoulder, and Ollie turned to find the strange customer from his shop, his uncle Preston Hartley, standing next to him.

“This can’t be stopped,” Preston said.

Ollie studied him. “So I hear. This is a really shitty family reunion, by the way. Zero out of ten, would not recommend. ”

A brief smile touched a corner of Preston’s mouth. But just then, the dark creature broke free from Isabell’s hold. It surged toward where Isabell stood, but before it got to her, she disappeared.

Preston looked from Ollie to Adrian, then back to Ollie again. Something hard was pressed into his hand. It was a key.

“You’ll have to put an end to it,” Preston said. “I’ve written down everything I could think of. I’m sorry for everything.”

“Okay,” Ollie said. “But let’s…”

Before Ollie could finish, Preston turned toward the entity. He ripped open his shirt to reveal a rune exactly like the one carved on Ollie’s chest.

“Wait!” Ollie yelled.

But Preston engaged the Nephilim, and a long arm that ended in a clawed hand grabbed Preston by the throat.

Ollie watched in horror as the Nephilim’s clawed hand tightened around Preston’s throat. His uncle’s eyes bulged, his face turning a sickly shade of purple. But it wasn’t just the physical struggle that made Ollie’s stomach churn.

A faint, silvery mist began to seep from Preston’s mouth and nostrils. It swirled and coalesced, taking on an ethereal, human-like shape. Ollie was witnessing Preston’s very soul being torn from his body.

The silvery form writhed and twisted, as if fighting against an invisible current. Preston’s physical body went limp, but his soul continued to struggle. The Nephilim’s black, empty eyes seemed to grow even darker, if that was possible. Its maw opened impossibly wide, revealing row upon row of teeth.

With a sickening slurping sound, the entity began to draw Preston’s soul toward its gaping maw. The silvery essence stretched and distorted, like taffy being pulled. Ollie could almost hear a silent scream as the last vestiges of his uncle’s soul disappeared down the creature’s throat.

Preston’s now-empty body crumpled to the floor. The Nephilim threw its head back, as if savoring a delicious meal. Its form seemed to grow more solid, more real, with each passing second.

It rushed toward the dark lattice in the center of the circle, slamming into it. The Nephilim was gone. In its place, the fifth soul, the final piece of the ritual puzzle now in place.

A blinding flash lit up the room. Ollie shielded his eyes with a hand, the light so intense it seeped through his fingers. When he dared to look, he saw that the windows were awash with a brilliant, pulsing glow.

It was as if the sky itself had caught fire. Bolts of lightning danced across the heavens, but these were no ordinary electrical discharges. They forked and branched in impossible patterns, painting the night in shades of blue, purple, and an eerie, otherworldly green.

Ollie stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the spot where Preston’s body had fallen—where his soul had vanished into the Nephilim’s maw .

The room fell eerily silent, the dark weave of souls of the Nephilim now gone as if the power that held it together had been spent. All that remained was an empty circle and dozens of masked mages staring at him and Adrian.

A whisper broke the silence, then another. Soon, a low murmur of voices filled the room as the mages began to chatter among themselves. Ollie realized with a start that Isabell’s protective barrier had disappeared along with her. He and Adrian were now exposed, surrounded by about forty mages who had come to witness the ritual.

Suddenly, a searing pain shot through him. He gasped, doubling over as an overwhelming surge of power flooded his body. It felt like his magic was about to burst out of his skin, reminiscent of the uncontrollable power he’d struggled with all his life. But this was different, stronger, more potent.

With a jolt of understanding, Ollie realized what was happening. It had happened when his mother died. And now, when Preston sacrificed himself and died, his power—the power of an archmage—transferred to him. Ollie was the last Hartley, the culmination of generations of magical legacy. The raw energy coursing through him was almost too much to bear.

Adrian grabbed Ollie’s hand, his touch grounding amidst the chaos of sensations. But even as Ollie clung to that connection, he felt the power building to a crescendo. It was too much, too fast.

The magic exploded outward in a violent wave. The windows shattered, raining glass onto the streets below. Furniture splintered and flew across the room. The assembled mages were thrown backward by the force, some crashing into walls while others were hurled out of the broken windows with terrified screams.

In an instant, the room went from crowded to nearly empty. The few mages lucky enough not to be standing in front of a window had been knocked out on the floor.

Ollie stood at the center of the destruction, panting heavily, with Adrian still gripping his hand tightly—the werewolf’s grip likely the only thing that had kept him from being swept away by his power.

“What the fuck just happened?” Adrian asked. He was back in his human form… and naked.

“A gift from Preston,” Ollie said. “And I think my entire bloodline.”

“Well, let’s not do that again any time soon, okay?”

Ollie nodded. “Yeah. I can live with that.”

Ollie’s legs felt weak as he and Adrian made their way to one of the shattered windows. Glass crunched beneath their feet, and a cool breeze rushed in, carrying with it the cacophony of the city below. Ollie gripped the window frame, careful to avoid any jagged shards, and peered down.

The streets of Chicago stretched out before them, a tapestry of lights and movement. Cars honked and swerved, their headlights cutting through the night. People on the sidewalks pointed upward, their faces masks of shock and confusion. In the distance, sirens wailed, growing louder with each passing second.

Ollie’s gaze was drawn to a small crowd gathering around what he knew must be the bodies of the mages thrown from the tower. His stomach churned at the thought, but he couldn’t look away.

“What do you think happened?” Adrian asked, his voice low and rough. It was clear he wasn’t talking about the sirens. Something happened when Preston gave up his soul to the ritual.

Ollie shook his head, still trying to process everything. “I have no idea,” he admitted. “But it won’t be long before we find out.” Ollie’s gaze drifted back to the city below. The world looked the same, and yet everything had changed. He couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning.