Chapter 1

The air in the filthy back room of the underground fight club was thick with the smell of stale beer, sweat, and something metallic I knew was blood.

Ethan' s body lay sprawled on the cracked concrete floor, unnaturally still.

My own body trembled, a deep exhaustion settling into my bones, a cold that had nothing to do with the damp room.

I had just finished.

For the ninth time.

My gaze drifted to my left forearm.

Where the last tiny, star-like birthmark had shimmered faintly, there was now only smooth, pale skin.

Empty.

A shuddering gasp ripped from Ethan' s chest. His eyes flew open.

He sat up slowly, his hand going to his head, then he coughed, a raw, wet sound.

His eyes found me, huddled against the grimy wall.

A sneer twisted his lips, a familiar sight.

"God, Elara," he rasped, his voice already regaining its usual arrogance. "You look like death warmed over."

He pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly.

"Seriously, can't you at least try to, I don't know, not look like a damn corpse when you're doing your little magic trick? It's bad for my image."

My image.

That' s what he worried about, moments after cheating death again.

I had no words, no energy left to form them.

Each revival drained me, took a piece of my life force, extinguished one of the nine stars I was born with.

Now, all nine were gone.

My well was dry.

He always found new ways to test the limits, to dance with death knowing I was his safety net.

I remembered the first time, a blur of flashing lights at some wild music festival, his body limp from a drug overdose. He was barely out of his teens, and I, younger still, had been terrified.

But I did it.

Then there was the street race, his expensive car a twisted sculpture of metal against a highway barrier. I' d pulled him from the wreckage, the smell of gasoline and his blood sharp in my nostrils.

Another star faded.

An extreme sports stunt gone wrong, a fall from a jagged cliff face. Found him broken at the bottom.

Another piece of me vanished.

A violent argument during one of his many illicit affairs, ending with a glint of steel and a spreading crimson stain on his designer shirt.

Each time, I performed the ritual, the ancient words of my people, a legacy passed down through generations of women in my remote West Virginia mountain community.

Each time, the cost was mine to bear, a debilitating weakness that lingered longer with every resurrection.

He never asked how I felt. He never thanked me.

He just took.

And I, bound by a debt I believed I owed, just gave.

Until there was nothing left.

He brushed dust from his expensive, now torn, clothes.

"Well, come on," he snapped, impatient. "Don't just sit there. I need a drink. And a shower. This place stinks."

He strode towards the door, expecting me to follow, as I always had.