Chapter 1

I found Julian Thorne dying behind a dumpster in a rain-soaked alley.

The city smelled like wet garbage and defeat. His face, once plastered all over the news, was pale and waxy. An empty syringe lay near his hand. This was the end of a political dynasty, a career-ending scandal bleeding out on the pavement.

My brother, Leo, stood beside me, his hand tight in mine. He made a soft, distressed sound. He didn't understand the man, but he understood death was close.

I knelt down. My family' s magic is a quiet thing, born of swamp water and whispers. It deals with the line between life and death. To give life, you have to give a piece of your own. My grandmother warned me never to use the revival ritual. It was forbidden, a debt that could never be truly repaid.

But looking at Julian, I saw a wasted potential, a life that could be mended. I thought I could fix him. I thought I loved the man he could be.

I pulled a small, leather gris-gris bag from my pocket. It was empty, waiting. I took out a small, sharp blade made of alligator bone. I sliced my palm open, the blood welling up dark in the dim light.

I let my blood drip onto his lips.

Then I pressed my bleeding palm to his chest, right over his heart. I closed my eyes and whispered the old words, the ones that taste like mud and cypress roots. I felt a pull, a cold drain deep inside my bones. It was a piece of my life force, my years, my warmth, flowing out of me and into him.

His heart stuttered, then beat.

Color flooded his face. His eyes flickered open, confused.

I quickly stitched the bag closed, sealing a lock of his hair and a drop of my blood inside. His life was now tied to mine, held in this small bag I kept hidden.

He looked at me, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Who are you?"

"I'm Elara," I said. "I saved you."

He didn't know then, and neither did I, that I had just damned us both.