THE SILENCE following Lucson's grim directive felt like the skin of a drum, stretched thin and vibrating with an incoming storm. Grayson's hand remained anchored at the small of Mailah's back, his touch no longer the gentle, reassuring warmth of a fiancé, but the heavy, territorial claim of something ancient.
"We can't stay here," Lucson said, his voice cutting through the thick tension. "Seryn is a creature of the Third Circle; she'll have the ley lines screaming our location within hours. The Ashford retreat is a fortress, but it's a known one. We move to the secondary site—the 'Cold Cell' in the Grisons."
Carson groaned, leaning his head against the mantelpiece. "The Cold Cell? Seriously, Luc? That place has the charm of an abandoned morgue and smells like wet slate. I haven't been there since the Great Depression, and I still haven't gotten the damp out of my favorite leather boots."
