Chapter Ten
Later that day, the air in the tattoo parlor still carried the scorched tang of Adrian Veynar’s visit.
No one said it aloud, but the coven felt the pressure of time pressing hard against them.
They needed to move. Scrying bowls, candles, and herbs crowded the worktable, the flicker of flame painting everyone’s faces in restless light.
The map Willow had found had been printed out and was spread wide across the counter, a water glass anchoring each corner.
A bowl of dark water reflected shifting shadows, the rippling surface shimmering as the spell completed.
“There,” Saffron murmured, leaning forward, her mismatched eyes locked on the image swimming across the water. A faint shimmer highlighted a hidden doorway in the basement—the entry point to the catacombs. “That’s where it begins.”
A hush fell. The only sounds were the faint hiss of candle flames and the low creak of floorboards as someone shifted their weight.
Even the wolves went still, instincts prickling, their ears tilting as if catching vibrations humans could not.
The room seemed smaller, the air pressing down, as though the shadows themselves were waiting.
Ursula blew out a long breath, her lips quirking despite the tension. “Well. Guess field trips aren’t just for schoolkids.”
Isaac’s mouth twisted, his hand brushing Saffron’s back in a subtle reassurance. The warmth grounded her even as her stomach rolled. “And let me guess—it won’t be as simple as opening a door.”
Saffron smirked faintly, though her insides churned.
She let her fingers skim the edge of the scrying bowl, feeling the chill that clung to the water.
“Druidic rites never are. Catacomb doors were warded with blood magic—layered protections. Expect traps. Expect sigils that trigger when stepped on, or wards that infect if touched.”
“Infect?” Nolan arched a brow, his grin feral but edged, though tension rode beneath his humor. “As in, catching some medieval supernatural flu?”
“Exactly that,” she deadpanned. “Nasty little spells that rot the soul before the flesh. Or the other way around. Take your pick.”
“Wonderful.” Isaac gave Nolan a pointed look, the flicker of candlelight catching the sharp angles of his face. “And you were worried about your tattoo getting infected.”
“I like my skin intact,” Nolan shot back, tugging at the collar of his shirt with mock seriousness. His eyes darted to the shadows as he added, “Warlock germs sound worse than tetanus.”
Brielle rolled her eyes, swinging her legs idly from her perch on the counter, the muffin in her hand forgotten. “You two are impossible.” But her smile faltered quickly, her gaze flicking toward the basement door. “Still—better impossible than dying of the plague.”
The basement air was colder than above, heavy with damp and mildew. Old stone lined the walls, scarred and pitted with age, and the single lightbulb overhead swung lazily, shadows sliding like oil. The coven crowded close, their voices hushed despite the magic pulsing faintly from the far wall.
“There.” Saffron pointed to the outline of a door etched faintly in the stone. The wards shimmered just enough to catch the eye, carved spirals that thrummed with power. “The entrance.”
“Looks like something out of a bad horror movie,” Jacob muttered, unease plain in his stance.
“Not far off,” Saffron admitted. She pressed her palm close without touching. The wards hummed against her skin, sharp and unfriendly. “There are layers. A lock woven in blood. A trap on the threshold. And something older—I can feel it, like bones waiting under the soil.”
Ursula stepped closer, flames sparking along her fingers. “So how do we open it without getting fried?”
Saffron inhaled deeply, steadying herself. “We unravel it, piece by piece. The lock can be coaxed open with the right words. The trap ... we’ll need to mark a safe path. The old power,” her voice dropped, eyes narrowing, “that we’ll have to face when we’re inside.”
Nolan gave a low whistle. “And here I thought date night was supposed to be dinner and a movie.”
“Where’s the excitement in that,” Saffron said, but her lips twitched.
They stepped into the catacombs as a group, the air instantly colder, thick with the weight of centuries.
Narrow passages stretched away, walls damp and carved with spirals that whispered when touched by light.
Bones lay piled in alcoves, skulls grinning blindly.
Candles flickered in their wake, the flames bending as if the very air resented their presence.
“Cozy,” Nolan muttered, ducking beneath a low arch.
Isaac’s jaw tightened. “Keep sharp. These places were designed to keep intruders out. Every step could be a test.”
He was right. The first trap revealed itself within yards. Saffron stopped short, holding up a hand. A series of runes glowed faintly on the floor, arranged in a spiral.
“Step wrong and the whole chamber fills with fire,” she said, tracing the air above the runes. Her voice was dry. “Efficient, if a little dramatic.”
“How do we pass?” Ursula asked, eyes narrowed.
“Like this.” Saffron whispered the counter-curse, her voice weaving through the stale air. The runes dulled, shadows swallowing the glow until the spiral vanished. She wiped sweat from her brow. “One down.”
The next was worse. A corridor thick with mist that clawed at their throats, whispering with voices not their own. Jacob staggered, eyes glazing. Liam caught him, snarling.
“Illusions,” Saffron barked. She dug nails into her palm, grounding herself in the pain before speaking the words of dismissal. The mist screamed before vanishing, leaving only damp stone and shaken breaths.
They pressed on. At last, they reached the burial chamber.
The room was round, carved with symbols so old they made Saffron’s blood vibrate. In the center rested a stone coffin, massive and sealed with iron bands. A cold light pulsed faintly from within, leaking through the cracks.
Saffron’s knees threatened to buckle. “The Stone.”
Her mates flanked her instantly. Isaac’s arm brushed hers, Nolan’s hand closing around her shoulder. Ursula whispered a curse under her breath. “Well, this isn’t ominous at all.”
“Council hid it here,” Saffron said, voice barely steady. “And left it guarded.”
The coffin groaned as they approached, the iron bands shuddering. Cold spilled across the floor, coating the stones in frost. Saffron’s breath fogged. She laid her hand on the lid. Power burned against her palm, rejecting her.
“It doesn’t want us touching it,” Isaac growled.
“It doesn’t want you,” Saffron whispered. Her heart hammered, the truth rising cold in her chest. She could feel the Stone’s essence, its hunger, its demand. Only one thing could unlock it. Blood. Not just any blood—hers. The blood of a High Priestess.
She swallowed hard, forcing calm. Out loud, she said only, “It needs more. A promise. A curse spoken true.”
The words came unbidden, curling in her throat, spilling into the air like smoke. “By my blood, by my breath, by the circle unbroken, I bind thee to truth and to ending,” she whispered. Her voice was soft, the syllables old and rough on her tongue, too low for the others to catch the full meaning.
The Stone thrummed, vibrating like a drumbeat in her bones. With a groan, the coffin cracked open. A rush of frigid air swept the chamber, nearly knocking them from their feet.
Inside, nestled among dust and bone, lay the Druid Stone—black, jagged, veined with silver light that pulsed like a heartbeat.
Nolan swore low. “Pretty, in a nightmare, could contain a deadly virus or the spirit of a demon kind of way.”
Saffron’s hand hovered over it, every instinct screaming both yes and no. The Stone’s power coiled tight, resisting her even as it beckoned. It was bound to her, but it would not give itself freely.
Her vision shimmered, and suddenly the chamber dimmed, the air flooding with silver light. She knew that light—it was the Moon Goddess, manifest in the quiet of her mind. The others remained frozen, unaware.
“You know what it asks of you,” the Goddess’s voice whispered, gentle as moonlight yet heavy as the tide.
Saffron’s throat closed, but she forced the words out in thought. “Blood of a High Priestess.” Her chest ached as she added, “My blood.”
“Yes,” the Goddess breathed. “Given at the right time, under the right sky, and only then will the Stone awaken. Only then will the curse be broken.”
Her eyes burned. “If I give it what it needs ... will it kill me?” Her silent question was raw, torn from the depths of her heart.
The silver light pulsed, sorrow threading the Goddess’s tone. “Yes, child. The Stone demands sacrifice. It was forged in blood and it will be fed by blood. Yours will end the chains that bind your people. Yours will silence the Council forever.”
Tears blurred her vision. Her fingers curled above the jagged surface, her heart rebelling. “They just found me again. Isaac and Nolan ... my family. Must I lose them?”
“You must weigh your love against the fate of all shifters,” the Goddess murmured. “It is not fair, but destiny never is. Yet even in endings, there can be rebirth. The circle unbroken.”
Saffron’s chest constricted, but she nodded within herself, silently making the vow. Once again, she would pay the ultimate price to protect shifters everywhere. Blood of a High Priestess, given at the right time. Only then would it answer. Only then would it end the curse for good.
Her vision cleared, the silver light fading. She straightened, voice steady though her insides shook. “We’ve found it. But it’s not ready to be used. Not yet.”
Her mates frowned, questions sparking in their eyes, but she pressed her hand to the coffin’s cold edge, feeling the weight of destiny coil around her like chains.
The Stone was theirs. But it demanded a price.
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