lia's

nd centuries of accumulated secrets. I'd always loved

eight of supernatural history, I felt like an

t explained, pulling down a leather-bound to

ares, then physical

eath's distant cousin," I finished, running my finger al

this is curse-related rather than, say,

the door like a disapproving gargoyle, step

attention. "

efore. The man in the painting bore a striking resemblance to Lysander – same ar

desperate, with that same greyish pal

the age of thirty-two from what the family records descri

ething about the man's eyes, a wildness that remin

had episodes of violen

he ancient tome, revealing pages of crampe

e as the curse progressed. Attacked pack members, couldn'

, though I had a sinking

l and had to be put d

of an antique clock that had apparently been

just a long-dead Ashworth but a possi

ally. "And you think t

. "The timeline, the progression, even the way

d it – this is the same c

essary. "Right. So we know what it is and what

rom the doorway, "is where

her felt familiar. She was small, bird-like, with silver hair pulled back

Ravencrest," Rupert said.

I muttered. "How del

entirely reassuring. "I prefer Cordy

who had to be pushing ninety, heading straight for a sec

es with the confidence of someone who

me bound in what looked suspiciously like huma

nt cold. "B

e precise." Cordy's eyes twinkled w

l Roderick Ashworth rejected her as his mate

own heartbeat. Or possibly that was the sound of my entir

at my ancestor cursed the Ashworth bloo

ght say," Margaret obser

have curdled milk. "And you

"But we weren't certain until C

behind my eyes. "So you brought me here, knowing that my family

es can be broken, dear. But they re

that made my wolf instincts recoil. The text was written in what

an only be broken by a Blackthorne descendant wh

d. "Not coerced, not forced

cise

ed desperation. Rupert's careful neutrality. Cordy's knowing smile. And underlying i

y," I said. "My ancestor cursed your bloodli

oosing to help the man who was an arse to me. A

nd for the first time, her composu

esentment and the cosmic irony of the situ

as still the boy who'd taught me to howl at th

ly. "Let's go fix your impossible son