Ever been shot in the head? No? Good. I wouldn’t recommend it. Zero out of five stars. Avoid if possible.

  Time had melted into a meaningless blur. I felt dead—or at least, what I imagined death might feel like. Floating, untethered, in a black, silent void... yeah, as cliché as I could imagine.

  But the crack of the weapon? The blood—my blood?

  That, I was sure, wasn’t imagined.

  Shit.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  What the hell had gone wrong?

  Normal people didn’t just shrug off a bullet to the brain and pop back up like a bloody Whac-A-Mole.

  So why me? Why this?

  I woke with a gasp, a strangled sound ripped from my throat. My skull felt like it had been used for batting practice by a particularly enthusiastic gorilla wielding a sledgehammer—then run through an industrial cheese grater for good measure.

  And the damn cold—freezing me to the bone.

  I felt it before I even looked at myself.

  Naked. Sprawled on a hard, unforgiving floor that leeched the warmth from my skin

  I blinked, vision swimming, the world a blurry mess. Bare walls pressed in, seamless and oppressive.

  No windows.

  No furniture.

  No goddamn escape.

  Just me, my throbbing head, and a chilling, profound emptiness that had nothing to do with the minimalist decor.

  Slowly, painfully, I pushed myself into a sitting position.

  My body screamed in protest, a symphony of agony reverberating through every muscle. A deep, thrumming ache pulsed through me, vibrating in my bones, in my skin—like an aftershock of something catastrophic.

  What the hell happened?

  Fragments. Shards of memory, sharp and cruel as broken glass, pierced through the thick fog in my brain.

  Lilia. That woman… damn her.

  Her face… No, her lips, surprisingly soft against mine, for a single, stolen heartbeat.

  Wait.

  What the hell am I thinking?

  She shot me.

  Again. And again.

  Until she didn’t miss her target. Me.

  This time, there was no Marco to stop her.

  No last-second save.

  Just her.

  The gun.

  And the inevitable.

  And then… A different kind of explosion, a sickening wet thud this one, centered right between my eyes.

  White-hot agony. And absolute, velvet black, suffocating nothing.

  Until now. Until this cold, empty room and a headache that could probably fell a rhinoceros.

  How long had I been here?

  The silence was a physical weight, pressing down on me, broken only by the rasp of my own ragged breathing.

  I staggered upright, my limbs sluggish, my body aching with something deeper than pain. My hands scrabbled at the door—a heavy slab of metal, set flush with the wall. No handle. No way out.

  Locked.

  Of course.

  I yelled.

  I hammered on it with my fists until my knuckles were raw and bleeding, the impacts echoing dully in the confined space, achieving nothing but sore hands and a drier throat.

  No response. Just the maddening, indifferent silence.

  Thirst clawed at my throat like a wild animal. Hunger gnawed at my belly, a hollow, aching void.

  The initial terror, sharp and electrifying, began to curdle into a grim, exhausted despair. Was this it? Was I going to die here, naked and alone, in some nameless concrete box, after already being killed once? The universe clearly had a sick, twisted sense of humor.

  Was I even really dead before? Or had I just finally, completely, lost my mind?

  Damn it.

  Why me? What the hell was happening to me?

  Just when I was about to give up, to curl into a fetal position and let the inevitable wash over me, a sound. A heavy clunk, a jarring screech of metal grinding on metal.

  The door swung inward.

  Two figures filled the doorway, hulking silhouettes against a dimly lit corridor beyond. They were huge, built like brick shithouses stuffed into ill-fitting dark suits that strained at the seams.

  Gorillas. Basically.

  One looked Japanese, the other—a mix of Asian ancestry, though hard to place.

  Without a word, one of them tossed a bundle of fabric at my feet.

  Rough, dark pants. A plain, collarless shirt. Soft-soled canvas shoes—practical, unremarkable.

  Clothes.

  I stared at the rags. Then at them.

  The Japanese-looking guy let his gaze flick to my junk. Smirked.

  Fuck.

  I did what any guy my age would do—I covered myself with my hands, feeling both embarrassed and stupid.

  “Who are you?” I growled.

  The Japanese-looking guy barely reacted.

  “Get dressed,” he grunted, his voice like gravel tumbling down a mountainside.

  Not a request.

  A command.

  My mind raced. This was it. My only chance, maybe.

  Naked, weak, head throbbing like a drum, but if I was going to die, it wouldn’t be by inches in this damned box. Adrenaline, cold and sharp, flooded my system, momentarily overriding the aches.

  As I reached for the clothes, feigning compliance, I eyed the gap between them. It was narrow, but maybe, just maybe…

  I snatched the clothes, then, instead of putting them on, I lunged. Not at them—I wasn’t that stupid. I aimed for the sliver of dimly lit hallway visible between their massive frames. A desperate, wild bolt for freedom.

  It was like running into a pair of sentient brick walls.

  The one on the left, the one who’d grunted, didn't even seem to flinch. He moved with a speed that was utterly terrifying for a man his size. A meaty hand, easily as big as my head, shot out and clamped onto my shoulder.

  It wasn’t a grab; it was an anchor. My momentum, pathetic as it was, met an immovable object. Pain, sharp and brutal, lanced through my collarbone.

  He didn’t even grunt this time, just hauled me back with effortless strength, like I weighed nothing more than the bundle of clothes I’d dropped.

  My feet skidded on the smooth concrete. The other gorilla hadn't moved an inch, just watched with the bored indifference of someone swatting a particularly persistent fly.

  I was slammed back against the cold wall, the air forced from my lungs in a painful whoosh. Stars exploded behind my eyes, not from a blow, but from the sheer jarring impact.

  “Don’t be stupid,” the first gorilla rumbled, his voice flat, almost bored. His grip tightened, fingers digging into my flesh like steel clamps. “Just causes more trouble. For you.”

  Defeated, gasping for breath, the fight drained out of me as quickly as it had flared. They weren't just big; they were strong, fast, and clearly used to dealing with… uncooperative prisoners. My brilliant escape plan had lasted all of three seconds and resulted in a new constellation of bruises.

  Shit.

  I fumbled into the clothes, my movements now not just stiff, but shaky, my earlier defiance crushed. They felt alien against my skin, rough and unfamiliar. Humiliation burned hotter than the pain.

  The gorillas watched, impassive, their expressions unreadable. Once I was decent—or as decent as one can be after a spectacularly failed escape attempt under the silent, judging gaze of two human-shaped refrigerators—one of them jerked his head towards the corridor. "Move."

  The hallway was long, and surprisingly ornate. Polished dark wood floors gleamed under soft, recessed lighting. Intricate silk tapestries depicting serene, mist-shrouded landscapes hung on walls paneled with a strange, beautiful dark wood I didn’t recognize.

  Shoji screens, their paper translucent, hinted at rooms beyond, yet the heavy, arched doorways and occasional stained-glass window depicting stylized animals felt distinctly European. It was like a traditional Japanese Ryokan had a passionate, incredibly expensive affair with a gloomy Victorian mansion.

  Weird.

  My escorts weren’t exactly chatty tour guides. They prodded me along with subtle nudges, their heavy silence more unnerving than any overt threat. My shoulder throbbed where the gorilla had grabbed me, a painful reminder of my futile resistance.

  Finally, they stopped before a pair of massive, ornately carved wooden doors.

  One of the gorillas shoved a door open and unceremoniously propelled me inside. I stumbled, catching myself just before face-planting on a plush, crimson rug that probably cost more than my entire apartment.

  The room was a stark, almost violent contrast to my recent concrete prison.

  It was an office, clearly, but one that screamed old money, power, and maybe a touch of questionable taste.

  A massive mahogany desk, so polished I could see my own haggard, pale reflection staring back at me, dominated one side. Bookshelves crammed with leather-bound volumes, their spines embossed with faded gold lettering, lined two walls from floor to ceiling, interspersed with antique, hand-drawn maps yellowed with age. A genuine suit of samurai armor loomed menacingly from a stand in one corner, as if silently judging whoever dared to enter.

  Yet, despite its imposing presence, the room had a deliberate warmth to it—an invitation rather than an intimidation.

  Near the center, a set of deep, plush sofas formed a loose circle around a sleek, glass coffee table, the kind designed for casual yet significant conversations. The arrangement softened the office’s severity, making it feel more like a private retreat than a battlefield of negotiations.

  It was a place where decisions were made, yes—but also where people lingered, talked, and, occasionally, schemed.

  A cavernous fireplace, currently unlit, boasted an elaborately carved stone mantelpiece depicting snarling dragons.

  Through a large bay window, I could glimpse a meticulously manicured Japanese garden, rocks and raked sand and sculpted pines, even in the dim, artificial light filtering from somewhere above.

  The air carried the scent of old paper, lemon polish, and something faintly, sweetly floral—like night-blooming jasmine.

  Yeah, I had a feeling that last one was coming from her.

  The predatory energy, the almost palpable sense of being watched. The elephant in the room—the one I was purposely avoiding eye contact with, not out of shyness, but from a primal, instinctual warning bell clanging in the back of my skull.

  She perched on the edge of the massive desk, one slender leg swinging idly—a picture of effortless grace, careless yet composed.

  A girl, perhaps a year or two older than me, with a cascade of fiery red hair spilling down to her waist like molten lava.

  She wore a stylish, modern outfit—a dark, form-fitting tailored blouse and sleek, fitted pants—that somehow didn't look out of place amidst the heavy antiques.

  Her eyes, dark and almond-shaped, sharpened with a predatory amusement as they raked over me from head to toe. A small, knowing, almost cruel smile played on her perfectly shaped lips.

  She was beautiful—undeniably so—but in a sharp, dangerous way, all fangs and claws beneath the elegance.

  If Clara’s beauty was like a delicate rose, and Lilia’s a perfectly maintained dagger, then this girl was something else entirely.

  She was a tiger—exotic, mesmerizing, but never truly tame.

  “Well, well, well,” she purred, her voice a silken, smoky drawl that sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. “Look what the cat dragged in. Or, in this case… who my silly sister got tangled up with.”

  “What—”

  She didn’t wait for me to finish.

  “Leave us.”

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  The command was lazy, casual, but absolute.

  The gorilla-escorts exchanged a glance before silently stepping out, closing the door behind them.

  Her eyes flicked to my clothes.

  “How stylish,” she mused, amusement curling at the edges of her voice.

  With effortless grace, she hopped off the desk, landing softly—almost soundlessly—like a cat surveying its territory.

  “Setsuna Arakawa,” she said, extending a hand.

  Her nails were long, perfectly shaped, painted a deep, glossy crimson—the color of freshly spilled blood.

  “And you, my recently… resurrected package, must be Ezra Graves.”

  I stared at her offered hand, then at her face, my brain feeling like it was still trying to defragment itself after a catastrophic system crash.

  “Resurrected?” I managed, my voice hoarse, raspy.

  Setsuna chuckled, a low, throaty sound that was both alluring and deeply unsettling. “Oh, you have no idea, little Ezra.” She sauntered closer, circling me slowly, deliberately, like a sleek panther assessing a particularly interesting piece of potential prey.

  “You clean up… passably. For a human. Though you still look like something that crawled out from under a particularly damp rock after a very, very bad night.”

  Her gaze lingered, bold and appraising, making me feel like I was pinned under a microscope. “Tell me, Ezra Graves,” she said, stopping directly in front of me, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial, almost intimate whisper, her eyes glinting, “What are you?”

  I flinched.

  What? What kind of question was that?

  Her smile widened—sharp, white teeth gleaming.

  “Or perhaps… you don’t know either?”

  She leaned in, her scent—something exotic, spicy, like cinnamon and wild orchids, impossible to ignore—filling my senses, making my head spin.

  “Well, there’s always a way to find out… I could just… taste you.”

  Before I could process the implications—before I could even flinch—she was already there. Close.

  Her face—too damn close—then her lips crashed against me.

  It wasn’t gentle.

  It was demanding, exploring, her tongue weaving with mine, sending a jolt of sensation through every nerve. Her taste—intoxicating. Sweet and strange, like some potent, forbidden drug. No. An aphrodisiac.

  It was nothing like the kiss with Lilia. But something inside me whispered that it carried the same price tag.

  My life.

  I tried to break free—failed. And that only made her more eager, more enthusiastic.

  She dragged me to the sofas, pushing me down, settling onto my legs without ever letting go of my lips.

  My mind went blank. Then her hands were on me, cool and questing, sliding under the rough fabric of my new shirt, tracing the lines of my ribs, then lower, her fingers brushing against the waistband of my pants.

  Shit.

  My body reacted before my brain could, a purely physical response, an impossible, undeniable hardness pressing against her.

  But before anything further could happen, before I could attempt to form a coherent, non-terrified, and thoroughly confused response, the office doors swung open again.

  This time, two more girls entered, followed by a young man who looked barely older than me but carried himself with a weary, stoic resignation that spoke of years, not youth.

  One girl was tiny, almost childlike, with vibrant, bubblegum-pink hair tied in high pigtails that bounced erratically as she walked, her eyes wide and curious. The other was taller, more reserved, with short, sleek black hair cut in a severe bob and cool, analytical eyes that seemed to see right through me, assessing every flaw.

  “Setsuna-nee!” the pink-haired one chirped, her voice surprisingly high-pitched and energetic. “Mother said to stop teasing the new toy!”

  Setsuna pulled back from me with a dramatic, put-upon sigh, though her eyes still glittered with amusement.

  “Akiko, Byakko, Terumi-kun,” she huffed, a theatrical pout on her lips. “You’re ruining all my fun.” She shot me a wink that was anything but reassuring, a silent promise of future… interactions. “Don’t worry, Ezra Graves. We’ll have plenty of time to get… acquainted.”

  With a final, lingering, almost possessive look, Setsuna swept past them and out of the room, her annoyance a palpable, crackling wave in her wake.

  The three newcomers stared at me. I stared back, acutely aware of my body’s lingering, embarrassing reaction to Setsuna’s… welcome.

  My head still throbbed. My gut still remembered the phantom agony of dying, now overlaid with the much more recent, and far more confusing, pleasure of being thoroughly… tasted.

  Shit. My hard-on. This was awkward.

  Mortifyingly awkward.

  I chose not to stand.

  “Nice to meet you, Ezra-kun!” The pink-haired girl—Akiko—chirped, either oblivious to my discomfort or deliberately ignoring it. She bounced on the balls of her feet, overflowing with energy.

  “My name is Akiko Arakawa!” She gestured to her companions.

  “This is my sister, Byakko Arakawa.” The severe-looking one gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod. Her gaze never wavered—sharp, assessing, unnervingly intense.

  “And this is Terumi.”

  The young man offered a tired, polite bow, his expression carefully neutral—calculated, even.

  Akiko threw herself at my side without hesitation, sinking into the cushions with effortless grace.

  Byakko followed—measured, composed—taking the opposite seat without a word.

  Terumi, with a sigh that hinted at exhaustion, settled beside her.

  Akiko leaned forward, eyes bright.

  “Mother—Ageha Arakawa-sama—and Tamamo-no-Mae-sama will be here in a second.”

  I didn’t know what to say, but fortunately—or not—I didn’t have to. Akiko Arakawa seemed perfectly comfortable speaking her heart’s content, never expecting nor wanting a response.

  And so, time dragged on.

  A “second” stretched into nearly an hour of excruciating, uncomfortable monologue—Akiko’s questions somehow morphing into personal stories, her words filling the silence with effortless momentum.

  Occasionally, she attempted small talk—mostly aimed at Byakko, who responded in clipped monosyllables, and Terumi, who simply stared into the middle distance.

  I sat stiffly, trying to discreetly adjust myself, willing my body to relax, pretending I wasn’t about to spontaneously combust from sheer awkwardness and the creeping weight of dread.

  My shoulder pulsed with a dull, persistent ache.

  Then—

  A flash.

  An unwelcome intrusion that made me jerk.

  A giggling baby with bright pink tufts of hair. Akiko?

  But… smaller. Much smaller.

  Then another image—

  A girl in a cheap witch costume, scowling, dark hair framing a pale face. Byakko.

  And a boy, lean and serious.

  He was showing me something—a precise, disciplined movement. A karate stance.

  I was watching. Learning.

  No.

  Wait.

  My hands flew to my temples, a gasp tearing free from my throat.

  Not me.

  Kiriko.

  The name slammed into my brain like a physical blow.

  Kiriko?

  Who the hell was Kiriko?

  Somehow, I knew—some rich, petulant girl. No. Not a girl. Something else. A prickle of unease, of alien sensation, ran down my spine.

  A kind of mystic animal.

  A fox. My head swam.

  A Kitsune.

  Shit.

  These weren’t my memories at all.

  The hell…

  Maybe when they blew my brain apart, some pieces got left behind. Or worse, something new got shoved in.

  Shit.

  Then, the ornate doors swung open once more.

  Two women stepped inside, and the very air shifted—thick with energy, crackling with an almost tangible power.

  The first was tall, regal, her black hair piled high in an intricate style that seemed to defy gravity. Sharp, aristocratic features. A presence impossible to ignore.

  She wore a modern kimono, deep indigo silk that shimmered with every movement, commanding attention without effort.

  knew—

  No, more than that—

  I felt it.

  This was Ageha Arakawa, the Matriarch.

  Her eyes—piercing, intelligent gold—swept over me, their intensity like an x-ray. There was no warmth in them, only cool, calculating assessment.

  Beside her, moving with an almost supernatural grace, was another woman—older, perhaps, though ageless in her beauty.

  The air around her seemed to hum.

  Nine magnificent, fox-like tails, the color of spun moonlight, swayed behind her—hypnotic in their motion.

  Tamamo-no-Mae-sama.

  The name echoed in my mind, not as my own thought, but as a deeply ingrained recognition, carrying a primal fear even through the haze clouding my thoughts. Her smile was enigmatic, her eyes held ancient secrets, and yet…

  I wasn’t reacting with the shock I should have.

  A woman with nine bloody tails should have stunned me, should have sent me reeling, scrambling for the nearest exit. But somehow, the sight felt… natural.

  Like I’d seen it before.

  Like I’d lived it before, through someone else’s eyes.

  I knew about the mages—those rich, arrogant bastards who thought they owned the world. And monsters… ones like werewolves.

  Marco. Lilia’s brother. A werewolf. The knowledge surfaced, unbidden, undeniable.

  But fox people…

  Kitsunes…

  Shit.

  My head was killing me, too much shit flooding in at once, too much to process.

  There was something here. A connection. Not just between these people—no. Between this entire Kitsune clan and Lilia’s… her little band of rebels.

  I was certain I had never seen or heard of these Arakawa people before my very recent, very violent reintroduction to the land of the living.

  And yet, somehow, they lingered in these borrowed memories—vague as mist around the edges, but undeniably there.

  Akiko and company stood, silently freeing space.

  Without hesitation, they moved behind me, forming a quiet, deferential line.

  I stiffened.

  It was subtle, but the realization crept in nonetheless.

  I was surrounded.

  Ageha Arakawa settled into the cushions with effortless command, her presence unmistakably dominant, her spine ramrod straight.

  Beside her, Tamamo-no-Mae-sama perched lightly, a subtle counterpoint of fluid grace to Ageha’s unyielding strength.

  The weight of their gazes—cool, assessing—pressed down on me, suffocating in its quiet expectation.

  Ageha cast a glance at Akiko, Byakko, and Terumi, something unreadable flickering in her golden eyes—a quiet assertion of control, unspoken yet undeniably potent. Then, she spoke, her gaze pinning me to the spot.

  "Ezra Graves," Ageha Arakawa began, her voice cool and clipped, each word deliberate, sharp, like a blade.

  She let the name settle in the air for a moment, calculating.

  Then—

  "You find yourself in a... unique situation.”

  She paused, her golden eyes narrowing slightly, as if measuring my worth, or lack thereof.

  “One that, frankly, you have brought upon yourself—however inadvertently.”

  Tamamo-no-Mae-sama offered a softer smile, a hint of warmth that didn't quite reach her ancient eyes. “Indeed, Ezra-kun. It seems fate has a peculiar way of weaving its tapestries, often with threads we neither choose nor comprehend.”

  “Let’s dispense with the poetry, Tamamo,” Ageha cut in, a hint of impatience in her tone, though her expression remained impassive. She fixed me with that penetrating gaze again. “You are, or rather were, dead. Shot. By Lilia Takahashi, a traitor to our clan.”

  My breath hitched. They knew. Of course, they knew everything.

  “What you may not know,” Ageha continued, steepling her long, elegant fingers, “is that you possess a significant latent magical affinity. Untrained, raw, but potent.”

  Akiko leaned forward, her pink pigtails bouncing with excitement.

  “Like, super-duper potent, Ezra-kun! Off the charts! That’s why you’re not… well, still dead and decomposing somewhere!”

  What?

  Me? Magic?

  What the hell were they talking about?

  Magic was for the rich, and I had wasted all my money on a freaking yellow Chevette—broken, useless—now who knows where. Probably totaled.

  No. I wasn’t delusional.

  Maybe weird for a guy who just felt like he’d come back from the dead. If next she said I was the chosen one, I’d know for sure—I was having a particularly shitty dream.

  “This latent power,” Tamamo-no-Mae-sama explained, her voice like smooth silk, a soothing balm after Ageha’s chill, “allowed you to instinctively form a Soulbinder pact. A desperate, unconscious act to cling to life, anchoring your soul to another.”

  “To Lilia Takahashi,” Ageha stated flatly, her tone devoid of emotion. “The very woman who attempted to murder you. The irony is not lost on us.”

  I just stared, dumbfounded. Soulbinders? This was insane. This had to be some kind of elaborate, fucked-up, post-death hallucination.

  “Wait a sec. How do you know about Lilia shooting me?” I frowned, the question settling in my mind like a thorn.

  “I don’t remember any of you being there…”

  Ageha didn’t acknowledge my words.

  Instead, she pressed forward, her voice hardening, a dangerous edge creeping in like the chill of winter.

  “Lilia, along with her equally treacherous brother, has stolen an artifact of immense importance to the Arakawa clan.”

  A pause—just long enough to make the weight of her words settle.

  “The Jewel of Twilight.”

  She spat the name like a curse, her eyes flashing with restrained fury.

  “And you, Mr. Graves, are now our most… direct means of locating her and recovering what is ours.”

  “No, no—hold on.” I exhaled sharply, frustration bubbling up. “How in the fucking hell do you know about Lilia shooting me?” I repeated myself, though I wasn’t sure why.

  Maybe I just needed to hear an answer. Even if I already knew it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference.

  Tamamo-no-Mae-sama nodded slowly, her nine tails giving a synchronized, subtle ripple.

  “Your connection to her, this Soulbinder link, acts as a beacon across the astral plane.” She exhaled, the weight of her words settling, deliberate. “However, it was… insufficient to fully restore you from such a grievous injury, especially with the considerable distance involved.”

  “Therefore,” Ageha said, a predatory glint in her golden eyes, a ghost of a smile touching her lips that held no humor, only grim satisfaction, “we intervened. We… augmented the connection.”

  “We used the Soulbinder principle,” Tamamo-no-Mae-sama elaborated gently, her gaze holding a strange mix of sympathy and academic interest, “to establish a second anchor for your soul. A closer, more controlled link. To my granddaughter, Kiriko Arakawa.”

  Kiriko. That name again. The source of these alien memories.

  “The ritual was intended to stabilize you, to bring you fully back, and in doing so, give Kiriko access to your senses, your connection to Lilia,” Ageha explained, her tone purely businesslike. “A way to track the thief through you. A living conduit.”

  A flicker of something—genuine concern, perhaps?—crossed Tamamo-no-Mae-sama’s usually serene features. She sighed, a sound like wind through ancient trees. “However… there has been an unforeseen complication.”

  Ageha’s lips thinned into a hard line.

  “My daughter, Kiriko, has not awakened since the ritual was performed three days ago. She lies trapped in a feverish, unresponsive dream.”

  Her gaze was sharp—accusatory—like I had personally willed this outcome.

  “And the only thing she repeats, over and over, is how that bitch Lilia shot her.”

  A pause. Heavy.

  “As the ritual went on, she kept reliving your whole pathetic life—like she was you.” She leaned forward, deliberate, her gaze cold and unyielding. “And now she’s trapped in it. Of course, we expect you to help with that too.”

  Maybe they thought that answered my damn question.

  It didn’t.

  And help her? The girl whose memories are currently scrambling my brain and who's part of the psycho family that did this to me?

  Fuck them.

  “So, you violated my mind, imprisoned me in a freezing cold cell, and now—” I let out a sharp exhale, shaking my head. “Now you ask? No. Of course, you don’t ask. You demand. That I do something about it.”

  “Yes,” Ageha said, utterly unbothered. “After all, we brought you to life… more or less.”

  Akiko piped up, her earlier cheerfulness replaced by genuine worry in her voice. “Kiriko-neechan is really strong! But she’s really, really sick now, Ezra-kun! We’re all worried!” She wrung her small hands.

  Byakko remained silent, but her dark eyes studied me with an unnerving intensity, as if she were dissecting me layer by layer, calculating odds, searching for the flaw in their intricate, now-broken, equation that was Ezra Graves.

  So, I was a magical battery. A human tracking device. And apparently, I’d broken one of their own in the process of not staying properly dead.

  My headache, which had momentarily receded into a dull throb, came roaring back with a vengeance, threatening to split my skull in two.

  This was not how I’d pictured my afterlife. Or my resurrected life. Or whatever the hell this fresh new nightmare was.