Mornings were always a bitch.

They were even worse after a time jump, and the one from the day prior had been a doozy. One of her legs stretched out straight, knocking something off of the couch’s arm with a bouncing thud. The sound echoed through the small apartment, leaving Alana to shroud her ears with a lift of her hands.

It took a moment for her to recognize where she was when first she dared crack an eye open.

The apartment was still a mess, and when she’d stumbled in late in the night, she’d barely managed to clear off the couch before falling onto it. It was easy to tell now, given the ache in her back. Rolling away with an uncomfortable, backward curl of her arm, she snatched up the remote control and a deck of cards and chucked them unceremoniously to the floor.

Through her aggravated groan, Taylor’s voice lifted from the opposite end of the kitchen. “Hungover, again?”

Alana’s closed eyes rolled. “I guess you could say that.” It seemed a safer bet to be seen an alcoholic than to spill the truth.

Unfortunately, that also came with the disappointed sigh that was forced from her sister’s lips. It was unavoidable, but it still stung.

With a swing of her legs off the couch, Alana cradled her head in her hands and willed the swaying motion to subside. It felt like she was on a cruise ship, without the endless buffets and tropical weather. In an essence, it sucked.

Across the room, the telltale sound of Taylor’s coffee lid being snapped into place drew Alana’s attention upward. Even in the midst of chaos, Taylor looked put together as ever. “At least make an effort to clean up a little,” Taylor urged her before striding out the door without a goodbye.

At least they were on speaking terms.

With another groan, Alana pushed herself to her feet, intent on taking a long, relaxing shower when her damnable cell phone rang. Around she spun, her eyes narrowing toward the sound, but there was too much of a mess. Rather than cleaning anything up, she made things worse as she flung plastic cups and books from the coffee table on her short-lived hunt.

“Alana,” she answered with a slide of the phone up to her ear.

“It’s Mason.” Obviously, since she still hadn’t shared the number with anyone else. “I need you to go to the Order of Magique.”

He couldn’t have picked a worse destination if he’d tried.

“Now?”

“Yes, now,” he demanded with a heavy sigh. “These rifts are dangerously powerful, and completely unsanctioned. They need to be informed of what’s going on, and we may need to be calling on them for aid.”

“Sure, I’m on it.” It wasn’t as if she had a choice.

The line went dead, and with a stark frown, she shoved the phone deep into her pocket.

The Order of Magique was the last place on the planet that Alana wanted to go. It was where the most powerful magic holders of all the races gathered together, to form some semblance of control over the sometimes uncontrollable.

Like pissy warlocks.

That was all reason enough, but her history as a Reaver, and the fact that her ex was spearhead of the mages and would certainly be there really put the icing on the cake. Unfortunately, orders were orders.

* * *

Pomp and circumstance never had been one of Alana’s favorite things. It was all too common within the Order of Magique, where modernity seemed to be forgotten in favor of the old ways. Or, maybe it was just their smug attitudes that convinced them they could solve everything with a bit of magic.

It was maybe true that they could, but it didn’t make her hate their arrogance any less.

“Alana Creed.” She’d know the deep, rumbling voice from miles away, but in this case, he’d somehow snuck up on her back. In an instant, she spun around and found herself staring straight up into the eyes of a man she’d dated— if one could call fooling around on the regular dating.

“Miss me, Nolan?” She questioned with a smug slip of her arms across her chest.

“Always,” he answered with a motion that set the pair of the heading down the nearest corridor, “but mostly at night. So, I assume this is a business call and not a personal one.”

Her lips pulled into a devilish smirk, “sorry. It’s business.” Even if it hadn’t been, it probably wouldn’t have been quite what he’d wanted. Handsome to a fault, and terribly charming, it was a wonder she’d never been able to get past just a bit of fun with him. Her heart never had followed her more carnal desires, and at the time, she’d been fine with that.

He hadn’t really complained much, either.

Not that she wouldn’t have given him an outright no to another night. After all, a glance at him from the corner of her eye reminded her quickly of the rigid cut of his jaw and perfection of his muscles.

To the side his own eyes drifted, catching her in the act.

“Are you reminiscing?” He asked while pushing open a set of double doors behind which she swiftly followed.

“No, of course not,” she scoffed before the room’s grandeur had her slowing to a halt. “Okay, maybe.”

It was their grand chamber, where all of the delegates met, once a month and upon the call of any special need. Within a horseshoe shape their engraved seats were situated, and along their backs placards listed their names. It didn’t take her long at all to find Nolan’s among them.

“Isn’t it… some kind of honor to be invited in here?” She asked him, leaving her voice to echo across the empty chamber.

“Sure, but since when have you cared about anything like that?”

“Well, I don’t, but I’m not blind to it.” Nor was she blind to his towering figure that stepped near enough she could smell the mint on his breath. “Are you trying to impress me, Nolan?”

His smile pulled a breathy laugh free of his lungs. “If I was going to do that, I’d push you against that wall over there and remind you of just how much fun we used to have.”

“Ahh,” she nodded with a quirk to her own lips she was unable to subdue. “Rather than talking about the unsanctioned rifts with me?”

“I mean, or we could do that.”

She had to admit, his smile was charming, and had she not had death knocking on her and Taylor’s doorstep, she may well have given in to his challenge.

Instead, she shared with him everything she knew about the rifts. Well, almost everything.

By the time she’d finished, Nolan looked anything but happy. “The frequency and power of the rifts had already increased far too much for the Order’s liking. They won’t be pleased to hear it’s getting worse.” Shoving some fallen hair back from his face, he swiftly added, “whatever assistance you’re in need of, let me know.”

It’s not much, and it won’t help her true problems, but Alana still offered him a genuine smile. “Thanks.” With the true business out of the way and her curiosity in overdrive, her finger jut across the room, toward a chair without a name. It was the only one of the bunch. “Why is that one unmarked?”

His drifting gaze squared in on the single chair with a rigid tightening of his jaw. “That’s the warlock’s seat. It’s been empty for years.” It may have been merely a chunk of wood, but Alana shared at the empty spot with great unease, and Nolan didn’t make it any better. “They aren’t to be trusted, at all.”