Chapter 1

They brought me to the Garden District mansion on a Tuesday. The air was thick and wet, a New Orleans kind of heavy that sticks to your skin. My supposed sister, Gabrielle, met me at the door. Her smile didn't reach her eyes.

"Welcome home, Ryan," she said.

The word "home" felt wrong. Home was the sharp scent of pine in the Appalachians, the cool dirt under my fingernails, the quiet wisdom of my mentor. This place, with its towering white columns and perfectly manicured lawns, felt like a cage.

"We're so glad we found you," my mother, Sylvia Clark, said, stepping out from behind Gabrielle. She was cold, elegant, and looked at me like I was a piece of furniture she was still deciding on.

They led me inside. The place was huge, all marble floors and chandeliers that dripped light. It smelled of money and something else, something stale and rotten underneath the perfume.

Gabrielle came forward, holding a basket. Inside, a hairless cat with wrinkled skin and huge ears blinked slowly. A Sphynx.

"A welcome gift," Gabrielle said. "So you won't be lonely."

I reached out, not to pet it, but to feel. My mentor taught me how to sense things, the energy people and places leave behind. He called it dowsing, but it was more than finding water. It was about feeling the shape of a person's soul, the residue of their intentions.

The moment my fingers got close to the cat, I felt it. A wave of pure, concentrated malice. It was sharp and spoiled, like a child's tantrum turned into a weapon. This wasn't just a cat. There was a person in there, a consciousness trapped and seething with hate.

Then Sylvia stepped up, a silver locket dangling from her fingers. It was old, tarnished in the crevices of its intricate design.

"And this," she said, her voice smooth as silk, "belonged to your grandmother. I want you to have it. Wear it always. It will protect you."

She placed it in my hand. The cold metal was a lie. A hot, draining energy pulsed from it, a hungry void designed to suck the life out of whatever it touched. It felt like a leech, slow and patient.

I looked from the cat to the locket. The picture became instantly clear. The cat was the "fake son," Caleb, the one they'd raised by mistake. The locket was the tool. They weren't welcoming me home; they were preparing a sacrifice.

My mind went back to my mentor's small cabin, to the plans for the new well, the community center we could never afford. I saw the worn-out faces of my friends, my real family.

I looked at the immense wealth surrounding me. This wasn't just a cage. It was a gold mine.

I smiled, a slow, easy smile I learned back in the mountains.

"Thank you," I said, my voice genuine. "It' s beautiful. I' ll never take it off."

I decided right then. I would play their game. And I would take everything.