Page 108 of Cursed

“Have you secured your mission?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Without issue?”

Irritation prickled at the back of my neck. “As instructed. We’re on our way back now.”

What the fuck kind of question was that? When had we ever failed before?

“You have new instructions—” the voice said shortly. I couldn’t identify the speaker, but that was probably the point. He knew the Elder was in the car with me.

“New instructions?” Bastian’s voice broke in. “What now?”

I gritted my teeth and willed him to shut his mouth and stay quiet. But Bastian wouldn’t obey even if hecouldhear my ire through the comm link.

“You will bring Elder Craster before the Black Council,” the voice replied tersely. “Now.”

A chill danced down my spine, but I straightened my shoulders.

“Titus?” The command in the voice was unmistakable, and I knew my father was standing close by, listening to the exchange. “Is that understood?”

I gripped the steering wheel tight.

“Understood,” I replied, and then clicked the comm link off. I counted to five and then flicked it on again.

“Did you assholes hear that?” I asked.

Valen and Bastian responded with affirmative grunts.

The road blurred beneath us, a dark ribbon winding through the dense trees lining the highway toward Messana. I shot a glance at the rearview mirror to look at the prisoner in my back seat. Elder Craster, bound and gagged, looked back at me with eyes wide with dread. He shook his head violently, the gag pressing against his lips, begging for mercy that would never come.

“Next exit’s ours,” Valen said. I clicked off the comm and focused on the road. In unison, the motorcycles veered away from the highway, tires screeching against asphalt.

The highway turned toward the harbor, and then another exit led us through the city to the elevated terrace that marked out the cemetery precinct.

The dead get the best views.

A grand wrought-iron gate, augmented with dark serpents and creeping ivy, stood open, and I peered up at the carved stone gargoyles that kept watch over those who entered.

Generations of Sages were buried here and scattered among them were the secret tombs of those loyal to the Necromi.

The foundations of the city, some might say.

The motorcade halted in front of the black structure that served as the funeral home, and engines growled their final breaths before sputtering off.

Valen dismounted from his sleek bike and walked toward the SUV. Bastian followed suit, and his boots echoed in the strange silence of the early morning.

As I stepped out of the SUV, I paused to frown down at the harbor, where the pale light of dawn was only just beginning to intrude on the darkness.

Valen wrenched open the back door and yanked at Craster’s bindings, pulling him out roughly onto the cold concrete.

The Elder let out a muffled groan as he fell, and Bastian grabbed hold of his arm and pulled him to his feet.

“Your nightgown is… stunning,” he said. “Did I mention it before?”

“Shut up,” I growled.

“I’m serious,” Bastian continued, without looking at me. “Expensive material—and the embroidery…” He shook his head ruefully. “I guess we should be grateful the old bastard didn’t sleep naked.”

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