Morgan approached the mansion cautiously and decided she could learn more by using an indirect approach. She swerved off the path to detour around back, planning to scale the wall when a guard emerged from the shadows by the majestic stairs.

“You might as well use the front door. They’re waiting for you.” Harold was tall but lean, his blond hair cut brutally short, so the strands only held a hint of curl. But, tough as he looked, he also was one of the few guards who actually made an effort to be polite to her. His main charge, the lead witch at the mansion, was the same woman who relentlessly pursued her favorite pastime—that of making Morgan’s life a living hell.

Catalina.

Her shoulders slumped at the coming confrontation, but she nodded. “Thanks.”

His blue eyes softened slightly, but the bonding marks on his shoulders tying him to Catalina prevented him from offering any friendship.

If Catalina ordered him to beat the crap out of her, he wouldn’t hesitate to obey, though he wouldn’t enjoy it like the other guards.

Harold was part of the legendary death squad. One of the few elite assassins. Most of the warriors considered Morgan beneath their notice, and trained her with daily beatings to force her to quit. After a few months, she began to fight back, and they no longer found it amusing when they were the ones lying on the ground broken and bleeding at the hands of an eighteen-year-old girl.

It was their job to protect the coven, and they saw her as a liability who would get them killed.

Morgan refused to allow their prejudice to deter her, and relentlessly persisted with her training.

She trudged up the marble stairs, stopping before the large, ornate double doors, admiring the snarling lion-head knocker. The whole mansion was made of stone and so much magic it radiated from the building.

It had been created to withstand a siege against the deadly creatures they hunted. The building was stationed next to the largest rift in the world, and the coven was the first line of defense.

When she touched the knocker, magic shimmered up her arm. Once it confirmed she wasn’t the enemy, the latched clicked and the door opened soundlessly.

She stepped into the opulent mansion, shivering at the way the doors closed on their own and sealed her inside. Everything was a pristine white—the walls, the floors, even the ceiling and the grand staircase. It was supposed to be prestigious, but managed to look sterile instead. She felt more at home in the forest.

The ornate, gilded frames on the twenty-foot wall to the right displayed every MacGregor who’d been in charge of the coven over the past five centuries, leaving the mansion looking pompous, rather than what it was…a functional fortress and last bastion against paranormals.

Morgan strode forward, her feet barely a whisper on the marble floors as she headed for the stairs.

“Morgan, please enter.” The gritty male voice emerged from the large office to the left, and she barely resisted the urge to cringe. She trudged toward the doorway, wondering how MacGregor always knew where she was when he didn’t have even a lick of magic in his blood.

Part of her wondered if the young soldiers had spotted her in the woods despite all her precautions, and tattled on her.

When she surveyed her appearance, she sighed. Her pants were dirty, stained with blood, and ripped in multiple places. Her shirt was in even worse condition. At least most of her wounds had stopped bleeding, though a few of them were so deep that even with her advanced healing abilities they had yet to close completely.

Taking a fortifying breath, Morgan pushed open the door, her heart beating a little faster at the possibility of seeing the young soldiers again, up close and personal, and she grimaced at the betraying thought.

But when she scanned the room, they weren’t there.

Disappointment pinged through her, and she couldn’t help being annoyed with herself. Then she shrugged it off and strode forward to stand in front of the MacGregor’s desk.

She loved this room, the dark oak paneling reminding her of a Scottish hunting lodge. A large fire always burned in welcome, but what she loved more were the two whole walls covered with ancient tomes containing myths and legends from around the world. She’d spent hours in this room, taking refuge in the books, but it was the man behind the desk who drew her gaze.

The MacGregor was a burly warrior well past his prime, who reminded her of a gnarled old grizzly. Though he might have retired from active duty over twenty years ago, he kept himself in great physical shape. A knotted, twisted scar climbed out of the collar of his shirt, wrapping around his neck, where he had nearly been beheaded. His hair was silver and wild, reminding her of a shaggy sheepdog. Wrinkles creased his face, giving him a severe expression, and she couldn’t help wondering if it would crack if he ever smiled.

Sharp, faded blue eyes raked her from head to toe without giving away a hint of what he was thinking, the intelligence in them intimidating, even after all the years she trained with him.

He sat ensconced behind a desk at least eight feet wide and three feet across, the surface covered in equal measure with weapons and paperwork, plus an ancient computer that failed to start half the time.

She came to attention in front of him, holding still under his perusal, ignoring the trickle of blood that ran down her back. Only when he gave her a nod did she relax her stance and study the other occupants of the room.

Five witches were currently in residence, while two more were out on missions with their squads. Each of them exuded the tremendous power that had earned them their prestigious spot in the Maine coven.

Three of the witches were sprawled in chairs, their magic tightly contained, sparing her only a glance, then proceeding to ignore her. Each had black hair, dark eyes and skin so deathly pale they reminded her of corpses—and showed as much emotion as one. Morgan dubbed them The Triplets, since she never spotted one without the others.

Of the remaining two witches, one had flaming red hair and pale skin, her dainty form surprisingly voluptuous—the quintessential image of a witch. When her green eyes latched onto Morgan, she scrunched up her nose, disdain oozing from her pores, before lazily going back to paging through the book in her lap.

The last witch was Catalina. The woman could be considered gorgeous, with light brown hair cut in a wavy bob, a dainty figure, and refined features normally reserved for supermodels…until you looked into her eyes and saw only insatiable ambition staring back.

She made no bones about wanting to be the next—and youngest—MacGregor, and she was ruthless enough to do whatever it took to make it happen.

She stood to the right of the desk, her hands on her hips, and glared at Morgan with hatred burning in her eyes. To Catalina, Morgan was nothing more than a mongrel who should have been drowned at birth. Because Morgan wasn’t a witch, she was considered subhuman, and a nuisance.

A sneer curled Catalina’s lips, and she snorted in derision at Morgan’s disheveled appearance. The Maine coven was very old, and many considered it an honor to be appointed to serve. She clearly though Morgan wasn’t good enough to even lick the floors. “Look at what the cat finally dragged in. I don’t know why you indulge her like you do. She’s nothing but trouble, pretending to be something she’s not.”

MacGregor waved his hand, and Catalina subsided with a scowl.

Morgan forced herself to remain relaxed and not react to the taunt.

Only males were eligible to become warriors—the ultimate assassins.

Despite knowing Morgan had to work twice as hard to earn her spot in the coven, Catalina saw her as a distraction and roadblock to achieving everything she wanted. When Morgan first arrived, the witch had decided to experiment on her, and received a rude surprise when Morgan managed to break every curse and spell she cast.

Which only pissed Catalina off more, and Morgan shivered, remembering the pain when the witch tried to rip Morgan’s useless magic out of her body, only to fail when her unknown magic sank deeper and deeper into her bones, hiding until it became untouchable…even to her.

When MacGregor discovered what Catalina had been doing, he took Morgan under his wing, making her untouchable. While she doubted MacGregor had any great affection for her, his gruff kindness cemented her loyalty to him. His brutal training didn’t matter. He was helping her achieve what she wanted, and she was determined to prove to everyone that she wouldn’t break.

She would become a warrior, even if it killed her.

MacGregor’s protection and favoritism only served to infuriate the witches more.

It galled Catalina to be forced to obey an old warrior, but she dutifully followed his orders.

For now.

Each coven was tied to an area, but it was the building itself that selected the most eligible and capable person to rule it…the MacGregor. Morgan suspected the house and the MacGregor were tied together somehow, but she didn’t understand the mechanics.

If the witch ever took over control of the Maine coven, Morgan didn’t doubt for a second that Catalina would hunt her down like a criminal and imprison her so they could resume their testing.

“Come here, lass.”

Morgan broke her stance, carefully easing closer to the MacGregor while taking care not to leave her back exposed to the others.

When she neared the desk, he held out a gilded envelope of heavy cream vellum with her name embossed grandly in gold foil across the front. “Do you know what this is?”

“No.” She shook her head, reluctant to take the envelope, her gut churning, warning her that accepting it would irrevocably change her life forever.

Catalina snorted, only subsiding when MacGregor cast her a warning glare. Then she crossed her arms defiantly, unable to hold her tongue. “There must be some mistake. There is no way the Academy of Assassins would allow a mutt like her in their ranks.”

A vein began to throb on MacGregor’s forehead as his anger spilled over. “Then it’s a good thing it’s not your decision to make.”

His disdain for her opinion was obvious. Before anyone else could protest, he waved a hand at them. “Your objections have been noted. You’re dismissed.”

The old man was unpredictable, which made him dangerous. It was one of the reasons Catalina didn’t challenge him for his position. She wouldn’t win, and she knew it.

Morgan was conscious of the witch’s hate-filled eyes on her, but didn’t give the witch the satisfaction of acknowledging her. As they filed out the door, Catalina flung a spell at Morgan, her magic a living, breathing thing as it battered at Morgan’s already-abused body.

Pain nearly buckled her knees as liquid fire poured into her many wounds. She breathed through the agony, the runes on her back heating as they quickly countered the magic before dispelling it completely.

The witches’ laughter reached her seconds before the door clicked shut, and the wards on the room slammed back into place, granting them privacy, and protecting her from further retaliation. Ignoring their spiteful antics, Morgan never once took her gaze from MacGregor or reached for the card he held.

“You’re kicking me out.”

It wasn’t a question.

She kept her face blank, but acid burned the back of her throat at the betrayal.

First Ascher disappeared, and now her safe, somewhat predictable life was being torn from her.

Slowly but surely, she was losing everything that meant anything to her.

His eyes flickered with sorrow, not denying it. “They have summoned you regularly for the past five years, but I selfishly fought to keep you here. Unfortunately, what I want no longer matters.”

He pushed back his chair, withdrew a key from his pocket and unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk. He removed a shoebox and pulled off the lid. Nestled inside were at least two dozen envelopes similar to the one he’d placed in the center of his blotter.

Morgan was stunned, uncertain what to feel.

“You’ve been selected to train at the Academy of Assassins. We’ve received an invitation once a year since I took you in my care, but this year we’ve been receiving one a week.” He set the lid aside, and pushed the box forward. “They are no longer accepting no for an answer.”

“I’m not a true witch.” She blurted out the automatic protest. “I don’t belong there.”

She hunched her shoulders, conscious of the runes carved into her back belying her claim, and absently brushed her fingertips across the torque around her neck, comforted when the metal warmed at her touch.

To be truthful, she didn’t belong anywhere.

She only felt at home hunting.

It was what she was born to do.

“While most students are sponsored by previous members who have survived its training, the Academy itself issues invitations to those whom it needs—including warriors. I’ve taught you everything I can. I’m an old man, and I don’t take students on lightly, but there is a fierceness in you, a determination to achieve the impossible that can’t be matched. You don’t relent until you get what you hunt. It’s a rare quality.”

Morgan knew they shared the thrill of the hunt, a sense of kinship and comradery, if not affection.

As if reading her thoughts, he sighed, his shoulders drooping, and she was shocked to see a crack in the wall the old man erected around himself. He rubbed a hand down his tired face, giving her a frank look. “I hate to see you go, but you can’t hide here forever. You’re too good. You’re destined for more.”

Morgan flinched at his gruff words—for no matter how much she didn’t want to hear them, they were true. She was merely biding her time here.

He pushed the invitation closer to her. “Maybe I did you a disservice not sending you to the school sooner, but I couldn’t resist training you myself.”

A rare smile briefly touched his lips, and she felt hollow at the finality of his words.

He picked up the envelope and handed it to her, giving her no choice but accept her new future.

“The Academy is the most prestigious school for our kind. Only the best of the best are ever invited.”

A niggling suspicion danced at the back of her mind, too ridiculous to contemplate, but she couldn’t dismiss it. “The soldiers tonight, the ones who’ve have been here all week—they’re from the school, aren’t they?”

A crafty grin came and went from his face. “They are the elite. Each year, students apply to be trained as warriors, and must pass the trials to be allowed into the program. The training is tough, rigorous even for warriors with our enhanced skills. Only a fraction are mentally and physically equipped to fight, and even fewer graduate.

“For the first time, I allowed them to have their trials here to prove to you that you will fit into the school.” He used one finger to touch the edge of the shoebox still on his desk, straightening it. “You have questions.”

Morgan took his comment as permission to speak. “You said the school invites people. How did they even get my name?”

He gave a deep chuckle, the lines of his face creasing. “While this mansion is full of wards, the school itself is imbued with so much magic it’s become sentient. The building itself does the selection. It knows who needs to be trained.”

Morgan scowled, not liking the idea of being surrounded by a bunch of kids in training, and got down to the one question that mattered. “Do I have a choice?”

“No, you should’ve been sent off long before now. You need to train with people your age, and make contacts who could be invaluable later in life.” He shook his head and chided her. “Hunting isn’t meant to be a solitary occupation. Not only is it dangerous to hunt alone, it will get you killed. You need to find people you trust to fight at your side.”

As if anticipating her protest, he shook his head, scowling when she opened her mouth. “Your hellhound isn’t enough. You’re good enough to be leading a team. We need you.”

She unbent a little at his gruff tone, her thoughts flashing to Ascher, and her heart ached anew.

She doubted she could find anyone better and wondered if she would ever see him again.

Once anyone went through a rift, they needed magic to send them back Earthside—usually a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Though she struggled to accept the truth, she had to face facts. It was doubtful he would ever return.

Maybe it was best to leave. The mansion was steeped with too many memories, very few of them good. Without Ascher, she wasn’t sure it was worth staying any longer.

Her nerve endings tingled with excitement at finally being allowed to hunt with a real team, refusing to believe her anticipation had anything to do with seeing the soldiers again, then immediately hated herself. Her happiness at finally escaping the coven felt too much like a betrayal to Ascher.

A second away from accepting his decree, she stopped when she noticed the slight tension around his eyes, and her suspicions sharpened. “What are you not telling me?”

He leaned back in his chair, wove his fingers together and rested his hands on his chest, his eyes crafty as he gazed at her, reminding her there was a reason they called MacGregor Madman Moran. “What makes you think I’m hiding anything?”

His skill as a hunter was legendary, hundreds of students petitioning every year to train under him. In the beginning, he selected a few pupils, but they always failed his stringent training. After a while, he stopped trying.

Until her.

He was hard on her, but she understood why—he was training her to be the best, and was determined to do whatever it took to achieve it.

Though he was rough around the edges, tough beyond measure in his training methods, he’d softened when he realized she refused to accept defeat.

“I know you, old man. You know something you’re not telling me.”

Humor danced in his eyes before he grew serious. “You’re being called to the Academy now, not only to be trained, but to investigate who has been killing students. Three witches have died so far.”

Morgan shoved away her roiling emotions like the soldier he trained her to be and focused on what would be her first assignment. “What do you know?”

He picked up a file from his desk and handed it over. “Not much. The headmistress sent over everything they’ve discovered, but the file is painfully thin. You will be on your own. I don’t need to emphasize how important it is for you to find the killer quickly.”

“Yes, sir.” Her fingers itched to crack open the folder and get started. As if understanding her need, MacGregor nodded permission, and she flipped it open, then froze.

A graphic picture of a girl lying facedown was splashed across the page. Her shirt had been torn away, leaving her back exposed and looking incredibly vulnerable with the nobs of her spine standing out in stark relief.

That was not what captured her attention.

No, it was the markings brutally carved into her flesh.

Markings so similar to her own it was like looking in a mirror.

She flipped through the rest of the pictures.

Her brain pushed past her stunned shock to finally notice the differences. Half of the runes were incomplete. The girls must have perished before the killer had finished. Runes were a way for a witch to boost her power, but it was taboo to permanently mark themselves with them.

Human bodies weren’t meant to hold so much magic. Eventually, their blood would become infected by the magic, and it would ultimately kill them. Only those with strong ties to the void could contain such power, but only one or two runes at most.

More would be pure suicide.

Magic had burned through the bodies of the girls in the photos, leaving the marks a black, charred mess. Streaks of blood had dried on the bodies, the girl’s faces twisted in screams of terror and pain, evidence that they had suffered through the unbearable, excruciating torture.

She quickly flipped through all the pictures again, avoiding the lifeless eyes staring accusingly at her.

It should’ve been her.

She heard those words as clearly as if they shouted it.

When she lifted her head, it was to see MacGregor studying her with sharp eyes.

“Do we know how they were taken?” Her voice was hoarse as she waited for him to demand answers. Her mind flashed back to the wraith who tried to pull her through the rift, and couldn’t help wondering if the two might be connected somehow.

It was too coincidental.

MacGregor shook his head. “We have no idea. It’s something you need to figure out and stop.”

“What are they trying to achieve?” The question was directed more at herself than him, but he answered anyway.

“That’s what we want you to discover. We believe the attacks will increase. The school is under siege. With your age and training, you’re the perfect agent to find out what’s happening without alerting the kids…or the killer.”

Morgan had two choices—leave and head out on her own or go to the Academy.

Either way, she could no longer stay at the coven.

Life as a rogue hunter was rough, and not for the faint of heart. Most didn’t live past their prime, but everything inside her rebelled at the thought of attending the Academy. One thing kept her from rejecting the invitation out of hand…if she went rogue, she had no doubt more girls would be brutally tortured, and it would be her fault.

“When do I leave?” Bands tightened around her chest as she reluctantly accepted her fate.

“Tomorrow.” Sensing her need to get started, MacGregor waved her away and opened a file on his desk, his head bent as he went back to work. “Pack and be ready to leave by six.”

She studied the clock. She had three hours to wash off the stink of the hunt, pack, and catch an hour of sleep. She studied his burly features one last time, then turned away, wondering if she would ever see him again.

It felt like good-bye.

When she reached the door, MacGregor spoke. “Was your hunt successful tonight?”

She turned to see he had a pair of reading glasses perched at the tip of his nose, peering up at her over the rim with avid curiosity and a hint of envy, since he was rarely able to hunt anymore, being too inundated with running the coven.

Morgan hesitated, not sure how much to share. If he knew a demon had tried to kidnap her instead of kill her, he would assign her a contingent of guards, which was unacceptable. They would just get in her way. “The imp proved to be a challenge, but the mission was successful. He was dispatched back through the rift.”

“Well done.” MacGregor nodded, not expecting any other answer, but his gaze flickered down to her wounds, and his eyes narrowed, clearly not fooled. Her injuries were too vicious to have been inflicted by one small imp. But instead of confronting her, he returned to his task, silently dismissing her.

Morgan relaxed as she headed out the door, not bothered that he hadn’t shown any concern over her injuries.

They were soldiers.

As long as she was standing, not missing a limb or bleeding to death, she was fine.

MacGregor taught her that.

She headed up three flights of stairs, mentally sorting through which weapons she should bring.