The tea leaves didn’t proffer any decent omens. Actually, they didn’t tell Isobel a darned thing. They clumped on the bottom of her cup in a soggy pile and refused to divulge any secrets.

It caused a frown to form—and she could almost hear her mother snap, “Don’t scowl. It causes wrinkles.” But Isobel couldn’t help it. The leaves always spoke to her. While weak in magic, Isobel usually had some skill with discerning the near future.

Will I pass my algebra test? Will Cook make brownies? Will the hot dude with the abs win Survivor? It had never failed her before.

Perhaps she’d done part of the ritual wrong. She shook the cup, but the clump remained. She set the cup back down, carefully—unlike her sister, who liked to throw things—and sighed.

What is happening?

At every turn, she found herself foiled. Since her encounter with the dead—and that man who insisted on bombarding her thoughts and dreams—she couldn’t help but feel something was coming. Something big. A life-changing, and perhaps even world-changing, event.

Yet, she couldn’t prove it.

All of her usual methods of scrying failed. Tasseography, her tea-leaf method refused to work. Her tarot cards kept showing death and love, and nothing else. Death for whom? And where was this love coming from? She didn’t have any suitors on her radar—or at least none that her grandfather had mentioned.

A pair of strangely intense eyes kept coming to mind.

Nope. Not him. Never him. Her family would never consent to it. She had to stop allowing herself to be distracted.

I need answers. She hated not knowing. How could Isobel prepare if she couldn’t predict? Eva would have a simple plan—kill it until it could bother no more.

However, Isobel didn’t always want to melt her problems into a puddle or turn them into frogs—mostly because her magic couldn’t even manage to give someone a mustache. In some cases, extreme punishments didn’t have to apply.

For example, if a man bothered her sister, Eva did something vile to him that made her laugh—quite evilly. Whereas Isobel wanted to understand why the man bothered her. How could she understand and repel him if she didn’t know why she couldn’t empty her thoughts of him? A confrontation was obviously called for, which meant she went over and over different speeches and plans she could use for when she ran into him again.

“Oh, hey there, I found this ear and thought you might want to bury it with its body.” But that required finding a rotted ear. Mother was sure to quiz her if she asked for one. And, no, Isobel never asked where Mother got her body parts. For all she knew, they came from a catalogue. A person could buy just about anything online these days.

What about just showing up at his cemetery without any ruse, and saying, “Let’s go to dinner.” Ask him out on a date, let him insult her and proposition her enough that she…would probably succumb. The man had her seriously twisted.

How could she hate and yet lust after a man?

Had he cast a spell on her? The saltwater bath and chugging a potion—made in secret by her mother—would have cleansed her of any lingering enchantment. But to be extra sure, she visited her Uncle Yosef, a shapeshifter who, by his very nature, could negate any magic covering her. It took only skin-to-skin contact with a shifter to break any link.

It didn’t work. She still thought of the man.

And, sometimes, he didn’t wear anything at all.

What is wrong with me? She sat down at the breakfast table in her home, a smaller room than the formal dining area but large by normal standards, given the table could seat up to twenty people.

A plate was immediately set in front of her. It held her preference: two slices of bacon, one egg white—cooked and folded over a slice of cheddar—a piece of toast—the crust removed, perfectly buttered and crispy—and a ramekin of ketchup for dipping. Grandfather hated the stuff, said Isobel shouldn’t sully a perfectly fine meal.

In one of her few acts of defiance, Isobel had drenched her egg in it and asked for roasted potatoes with even more of the yummy, red stuff.

How sad. Evangeline ran around doing wicked things for attention. Isobel ate ketchup.

Go, me. Rebellion at its most pathetic.

What else could she do, though? What actions could she take so she wouldn’t feel…trapped?

Caged by expectation, and not in control of her destiny.

At times, she couldn’t help but think how unfair it was that her family wanted to choose a future for her. What about what I want and need?

A pitcher tilted and refilled the glass she’d drained, the orange juice freshly squeezed. The number of servants caring for the family’s every need was a touch insane. Father used to joke that they employed the better part of the city. He wasn’t far from wrong. Grandfather expected his house to be maintained at a certain level. Mother made sure it happened.

Speaking of whom, her mother swept into the room, looking lovely in a riding habit, the pants ballooning from her hips and tucked into knee-high, black boots. Her blouse had a grand ruffle down the front, and the royal-blue velvet jacket was trimmed in gold braid. Every inch a Russian tsarina.

Not a real one, of course. Grandfather didn’t like to admit that they came from peasant roots. However, the family’s immigration to the United States meant rewriting the family history, and that included adding royal titles.

As a result, Mother’s stance always held a hint of arrogance. You could see it in the tilt of her head, the cool regard of her gaze. She deferred to no one and expected all eyes to turn to her when she entered a room. A grand dame expecting an audience.

All she got was Isobel. “Morning, my мышка,” which was pronounced myshka. Mother’s little mouse. As for Eva, she got the prestigious солнышко, spoken as solnyshko, Russian for small sun. Mother loved them both, but she beamed whenever Evangeline wielded her magic.

Mother checked the room before asking, “Where is your sister?”

“Probably at her place. She moved out. Remember?”

“I would have thought she’d have abandoned that foolish idea by now. She belongs here, with us.”

Not according to Evangeline. She refused to let her family control her life. Now if only Isobel had the same kind of courage. But then again, living at home meant no cooking or cleaning so…kind of a good slash bad thing. However, she couldn’t remain like this forever.

Isobel grabbed a piece of bacon and took a bite, and then, because she knew it would bother, she spoke and chewed at the same time. Mother took a seat across from her. The heads of the table were for the males of the family. In this case, Grandfather. Her father had disappeared some time ago. Most presumed him dead, even if a body hadn’t been found, and they also looked to her mother, wondering if she’d hidden it.

Isobel knew better. She doubted Father blamed Mother, given Isobel could see his spirit hovering close by, watching over Mother, reaching out to touch even if his hands passed through.

Despite the pressure from Isobel’s grandfather, Mother never did remarry. She claimed she couldn’t be sure if she were a widow. Yet, Isobel suspected it was more that she couldn’t bear to have another man in her life.

Who said true love didn’t exist? Her parents were an example of an arranged marriage that had worked. But they weren’t all that way. More than a few relatives eschewed divorce and went straight to murder. It was more cost-effective.

Isobel finished her bacon and took a sip of juice while her mother smeared jam on her bublik. Must be a stressful day if she resorted to a sugar boost.

“Why are you looking for Eva?” Isobel asked.

“I’m worried about her.”

“Worried why?” As far as Isobel could tell, Eva seemed more than fine.

“I get the feeling she’s not planning to go through with the arrangement.”

“You can say the words, Mother…betrothal to a stranger. And can you blame her?”

“It’s not my choice either that they not meet before the day, and yet, what else can we do? Your grandfather is being most secretive. I can find out nothing about your sister’s fiancé other than that the time is fast approaching for Evangeline to do her duty.”

“I wouldn’t have expected you, of all people, to want to whore my sister because of some archaic promise Grandfather made.”

“Actually, it was a lost bet.” Mother calmly imparted the news before taking a bite of her bublik, the yummiest Russian bagel you’ve ever tasted, and unlike anything else. Buttered and smothered in jam, it could soothe anything.

Eggs, on the other hand, sprayed when Isobel shouted, “What?”

Now, she should note, that if they had eaten in the dining room, where the table was about eight feet wide to accommodate feasts and elaborate centerpieces, this wouldn’t have caused issue. However, the dining table they used for breakfast was much narrower. So slim, in fact, that the eggs—smothered in ketchup—sprayed from Isobel’s shocked exclamation and coated her mother in a patina of grossness.

The expression on her face didn’t change. Mother didn’t burn Isobel to a crisp. Nor did she toss her through the window with a wave of her hand. Her mother was much too cultured for that.

She pushed the bublik away, and as a set of hands on either side wiped her down and replaced her food, she answered Isobel in a tone most calm.

Kind of scary.

“Your sister’s virtue and future were lost in a gambling wager placed over a hand in poker.”

“But Grandfather sucks at cards,” Isobel blurted.

“Indeed.”

And it was then that Isobel saw it. The very tiny vein under her mother’s eye that throbbed.

She was pissed, and yet, not saying anything about it.

Why? Since when did her mother keep silent? While Grandfather might expect them to abide by certain old rules, he did respect Mother, a powerful witch and esteemed daughter. Since when did Mother hold her tongue?

Mysterious. Enough that Isobel made a note to speak to Eva about it later. Perhaps it was time they dug deeper into this wager Grandfather had made.

Rather than poke, she veered the topic. “Have you heard anything about bodies coming back to life? Zombie sightings?” she asked, pushing her plate away, but only because she really had an urge for a bagel with cream cheese, not a bublik, because again, she thrived on the whole passive-aggressive, poking-at-her-mother thing.

“There has been absolutely nothing reported. Are you sure you didn’t imagine it? Are you doing drugs?” Her mother leaned forward and fixed her with a glare. “You know, if you’re going to get high, you are supposed to come to me for the good stuff.”

Mother didn’t forbid illegal substance use. She just wanted to ensure the quality of it.

“I did not imagine it. You saw my clothes.”

“Perhaps your delusion felt a need to create proof.”

Isobel leaned back and decided to do something she’d seen Evangeline do. She put her feet on the table, crossed at the ankles. Her fuzzy bunny slippers grinned cheerfully. The great big teeth and crazy red eyes giving them an adorable demonic likeness.

“Are you calling me crazy?” No longer hungry, Isobel tossed the remnants of her toast and wasn’t surprised to see a gloved hand snag it in mid-air. It used to be a game when she and Eva were children to see how many pieces they could toss before one hit the floor. A game that lost its appeal when Mother made them scrub the floor, with toothbrushes, their toothbrushes, which they then had to keep for the next week.

Mother took a sip of coffee before answering. “If you’re trying to make some kind of point, you’re failing. There have been no more undead rising.”

“What about weird stuff?”

“No more than usual.”

“Something is coming, Mother. Something big.”

“I know. It’s called the showdown between your sister and grandfather over this wedding thing. It won’t be pretty.” At least Mother could admit it.

“Then stop it.”

“I can’t.” Those two simple words, rife with regret, hung in the air as her mother stood from the table. “If you’ll excuse me. My laboratory calls.”

More like an apothecary, but times changed. Some processes became more precise and less esoteric. Was magic really more of a physical science-based thing than a true inner power?

She asked her tutor once, “Do you think science will one day explain magic like it explained to the natives that thunder wasn’t god-created?” Her tutor had a red-faced hissy fit at the query. A mighty sorcerer hired at great expense, he’d forced her to write a dissertation on the special nature of magic. Questioning wasn’t something encouraged, not by girls at any rate.

Why do men get to decide our fate?

And why did no one take her warnings seriously? The planet hung on the brink of grave danger. The time to take notice and do something was now.

Isobel needed to find proof. Find a way to make it clear that the entire axis the world rested on had tilted. She could feel it inside. Her entire being was shaken. Things will never be the same.

But where should she start looking? There had been no other strange occurrences, no clue other than the one she’d seen firsthand.

Perhaps she should return to the cemetery and look for evidence—not alone, of course. She needed a witness, and someone to keep her from being an idiot around that man. She’d take Eva with her.

Heading out of the eating area, Isobel entered the hall before she pulled her cell phone from her pocket. She dialed her sister’s number as she wandered into the parlor, choosing to stop by the curtains pulled back from wide windows.

Staring at the immaculate green lawn, and the massive fountain within it, spraying water in the air, she got Eva’s voicemail. “I’m on a job. Or I don’t want to talk to you. Either way, I would still prefer you not leave a message.”

Beep. Click. Dial tone.

No surprise. Eva could be ornery.

Next, Isobel tried her grandfather, cornering him in his library. She should add that the room took up three floors and could have hosted a large ball if you removed all the shelves and books. The amount of paper in this room would have heated a good-sized town for a while.

But burn those books at your own peril. Grandfather would not hesitate to kill anyone who dared destroy important pieces of history. In his mind, books meant more than people.

Nestled on those shelves, some more than thirty feet high, were tomes of knowledge. Words imparted and passed down that the generations might partake of the wisdom of those dead and gone.

None of the books in the room were original, of course. Everything was a copy while the true tomes were kept in a secure location where they wouldn’t decay any further. But even the word copies seemed a misnomer in some cases as many were old, so old they needed replacing, an arduous endeavor given Grandfather insisted they be hand-copied, and then the scribe killed after so they couldn’t talk. Needless to say, they had a hard time hiring certain types of people.

The musty smell of ancient text and the more pungent one of oiled leather filled the air. It was an odor she well knew that brought back her youth when her grandfather would tuck her and Eva under an arm and carry them out of the place, admonishing them for playing hide-and-seek. Eva would giggle and say, “I touched a book,” to which Grandfather’s brows would beetle together, and he’d threaten to, “Cover my memoirs in your skin the next time you disrespect this place.”

Ah, the good ol’ days. Grandfather never actually did strip them of their skin or cut off their hands for touching. He truly loved his granddaughters. Other people, though? Yeah. Good thing Daddy knew the right people to bribe so folks wouldn’t come looking when certain individuals went missing. Now, Mother had taken on that role for not only her father but Evangeline, too. Only Isobel never did anything that required rebuking or bail money.

The good daughter.

Ugh.

Isobel found the patriarch of her family hunched over a massive wooden table in the center of the room. The lamps shone in bright relief despite the fact that no daylight could reach this far inside.

The surface of the table, strewn with paper, also sported a glass with a clear liquid and a decanter beside it. Not vodka, but something stronger. Mother brewed it only once every five years when the moon entered a certain phase. It was considered more precious than gold, and the only alcohol Grandfather would drink.

At her arrival, Grandfather didn’t stop writing his notes, the paper he used nothing so modern as the striped kind with holes meant for binders. Grandfather preferred parchment paper, the type created by hand and extremely expensive to buy.

An inkpot sat on the table, and the feathered quill—the dark plume from a creature she was pretty sure no longer existed—poked up, ready for some mad scribblings.

What did he research today? Grandfather wouldn’t tell even if asked. He was a man who constantly studied, looking to decipher secrets.

He’s looking for something. But what?

As soon as Isobel approached, he waved his hand, and a blanket of shadows draped his work.

“внучка, why do you visit, and still in your night garments?” A bushy brow quirked upward, which appeared odd given the top of his head didn’t have a single hair.

“Are you busy?”

“What kind of stupid question is that?”

In other words, “How dare you disturb me.” Isobel smiled. “So, you’re not too busy for me. Thank you, because I need your help.” For good measure, she batted her lashes.

Her elder relative recoiled and eyed her suspiciously. “What do you want?”

“I haven’t been able to find the necromancer from the other night. You know, when those zombies attacked me. On our land.”

“There is no necromancer.” He waved a hand.

“But the dead rose. Lots of them.”

“Perhaps a momentary spillover of power from a ley line. There are so many crossing the area.” The reason why her grandfather chose to settle in this area—once he’d removed those previously in power. The vampires never did forgive him.

“What if you’re wrong? What if there is a necromancer around? Shouldn’t you be hunting them down? I’ll help.” She smiled.

He didn’t fall for it. “I would know if a new necromancer or sorcerer had come to town. Now, if that is your only nonsense, I must get back to my work. Without interruption.”

“What work? If you ask me, you’re just in here reading books and scribbling. What are you actually doing that’s so important?” And where did this rebellious streak of hers come from this morning?

“Do not be impertinent.”

“Or what? What will you do?”

His bushy white brows rose so high on his forehead, she feared they’d become permanent bangs. His nostrils flared. She might have gone too far.

“I don’t need to answer to you. I am ensuring this family’s future and honor.” Then grandfather went on a rant.

She rolled her eyes as he went on and on for a while about the ungrateful youth and their strident need to constantly question instead of obeying.

“Does this mean you won’t help me find the necromancer I encountered?” she finally managed to squeeze in when he took a breath.

“Are you still going on about that?”

“Yes. Because despite what you and Mother think, I saw dead people.”

“And I’m saying there must be another reason because there are no unknown necromancers in my city.”

Yes, mine, because Grandfather styled himself as a ruler from the old country. Never mind that America didn’t recognize royalty. Grandfather still believed and acted as if this city belonged to him.

In a sense, it did. Nothing happened that he wasn’t aware of, which made his insistence that nothing was wrong feel false. Why did he not take this more seriously? Never before had someone dared to come into his territory and make what amounted to a threat to his power. Why did he ignore it?

“You say no unknown necromancers. What about a known one then?”

He rolled his eyes, a modern mannerism Eva might have taught him. “Because there are so many necromancers wandering this planet.”

Those who could raise the dead tended to be few in number. Still… “Something made those zombies rise.”

“Perhaps only a one-time occurrence given none have risen since. You need to stop harping on about it. I have more important things to worry about.”

“Like? Care to share what’s sooooo important?” And yes, she added a good amount of sass to that query.

It didn’t pass unnoticed. “You know, it occurs to me that perhaps we should discuss the fact that you left the house unguarded. And this after I told you the portents for the family were dire. You are a tsarina, an important heir of the family, who put herself in danger. And for what?” For a rather shrunken old man, his voice could boom when needed.

“I was paying my respects to a friend.” And then had to chop off her head. Perhaps Grandfather had a point.

“Proving my argument. If you were attacked, then it is not safe for you to be out alone.”

“I was perfectly safe. I had Priscilla with me.” She patted her hip where her otherworldly sword hung invisible until she needed it.

Daddy had gifted Priscilla to Isobel when she was ten and managed to beat her fencing instructor. Since she couldn’t fling spells like her sister, Father thought it best if she had a more hands-on ability.

How she missed her daddy. He always knew what to say. Such as the time he found Isobel at a young age, crying in a corner because her magic had failed her again. He’d scooped her into his arms and whispered, “Don’t cry, my драгоценный.” He pronounced it as dragotsennyy, his precious.

“But, Papa, I can’t do it. I am not special like you and Eva.”

“You are always special. So what if your magic is not the same? Remember that, sometimes, it is better to know how to fight with our hands and our head, not this.” He cupped his hands and held out a ball of magic. “This might seem all-powerful, but it doesn’t take much to extinguish it.” He clapped his hands together, and the light disappeared. “Work on the skills you have. Don’t lament those you don’t.” He’d taught her many of her fighting skills. His pride in her always made her feel important.

Even now, with him gone, she held on to those lessons from him. She needed to in this family.

Grandfather still harangued her. “A sword is no match for the magic of the dead. And you should know better than to sneak off, young lady. Do you want me to restrict you to your room again?”

“You can’t keep me prisoner. I am allowed to have a life outside this house.”

“I will decide what’s allowed.”

She arched a brow. “I am your granddaughter, not your prisoner. I won’t be caged.”

“Then don’t be stupid. If you must go out, then take a guard.”

“You don’t make Eva have a guard.”

“Eva’s magic is powerful.”

The reminder acted like a slap, but she didn’t let it show. Only her father ever truly believed in Isobel’s ability to defend herself. “So, in other words, I’m useless.” Not only was Grandfather misogynistic, he was magic-ogynistic. Only those with the true power, as he called it, had any worth in his eyes.

“I’m sure you’ll come in handy someday. If you remain pure.” His brows lowered and formed a slash across his eyes.

“Good to know that I’m only useful to make babies for someone,” she grumbled.

“And an alliance. I’m sure we can find someone who will overlook your lack of magical skills. Perhaps it will appear in any progeny you birth.”

So cold. For all her grandfather loved her, he kept talking as if he’d give her away to the highest bidder.

Hell no. “How about we forget about making alliances and let me fall in love, like a normal girl.”

At that, her grandfather stared at her a moment. Then he laughed. “Ever the comical child. Now, run along. I have important matters to attend.”

“You should attend what’s happening under your very nose. The world is changing. I can feel it.”

“Feeling is not proof. Run along and play.”

Arguing further with her grandfather was useless. He’d already bent his head to his papers, the shadow cloak moving to accommodate him and hide any words she might try to discern.

Dismissed, Isobel turned on her heel and left. No one wanted to help her look. She had no one else to really turn to except…

Surely, she wouldn’t dare. Her family would forbid it.

Her family forbade many things.

And besides, hadn’t she already thought of going back to the place where it had all happened?

What if the dead tried to rise again?

Then she’d deal with them.

What if he tried to get fresh with her again?

Would she let him?

Let’s go find out.