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Chapter One

All the guidance from the High Priestess, all the sacrifices she’d made throughout her life, and all the raw talent Cairenn Pendragon possessed had led her to this very moment—and she was unequivocally failing. My chakras are blocked, my energy is trash, and my patience is at an all-time low.

Hand shaking from pure goddamn frustration, she ran a fingertip along the front of the rock she was kneeling in front of—a pathetic, mundane rock mortals believed to be the headstone—the final resting place—of the prodigious and legendary Merlin.

Newsflash motherfuckers, it’s not.

Even though he wasn’t buried here, immortal word around town was that there was a clue on his mortal headstone as to where his actual burial site was located.

And if there wasn’t a clue on this rock directing her to where Merlin was actually buried, she had nowhere else to look, nowhere else to go, and she was completely out of time.

As if on cue, she heard him.

Twigs snapping, heavy combat boots pounding the uneven forest ground to reach her, the sounds were as familiar to her as the erratic beat of her heart. She’d grown so accustomed to the new normal when it came to her heart rate, she’d probably think she were dying if her heart slowed down to a normal rhythm. A pre-Raith rhythm.

Still kneeling in front of the moss-covered stone, she turned to look over her shoulder. Her long, matted red hair brushed against the bare skin of her collarbone. Her white T-shirt had ripped in so many places she was surprised there were enough threads left to keep it on her body. All because of him.

Though she couldn’t see him through the darkness of the forest, she could feel his energy. Piece of demonic trash. I’m going to make you swallow your own black heart. Eat your colon. Lick your dirty asshole.

If she had any power left in her body she’d do all the above and more. Unfortunately, she was completely tapped out. And an elemental witch without energy was about as effective as a straw filled with concrete. Because of him and the other Alliance assassins that had caught her trail—who’d been so much easier to dispatch—her energy level was running on fumes. Three weeks of dodging assassins, eating bugs to survive, and praying for a break she’d yet to receive—she was over it. No full moon, no crystals, no coffee. She was surprised she was still upright.

She turned back to the faux headstone, hatred for all things Alliance showing on her face. There was no way in hell she wasn’t going to get that amulet. No way she’d let the demon—or any Alliance junkie—get in her way.

She had less than sixty seconds to figure out the missing puzzle piece that would set her on the right path before Raith reached her.

The stone itself was in two pieces, nothing out of the ordinary piquing her interest. No runes or the remnants of a long-dead immortal language carved into its surface. Only sprigs of dead flowers littered the ground around the rock. Memorials from mortals to a long-dead, immensely powerful mage.

A mage she had to awaken from the dead and wrestle an amulet from before she could go home.

The rock itself was set inside a stone circle—the only witchy thing about the place. But the stone circle wasn’t ancient. Wasn’t something that was used by witches in any way—it was obviously put there half-hazzardly to encircle the stones as decoration. Nothing more.

Desperation climbed up her spine. Started mixing with the doubt that had found a home in her chest weeks ago—just another thing that would incapacitate a witch. Pair doubt with a lack of energy and she might as well call herself a defenseless, ordinary mortal.

Fuck. That.

She glanced down at her wrist to the tatt she’d gotten when she was sixteen. She’d done it to piss her parents off, but how appropriate was it now? Adapt and overcome.

And she’d adapted. Chosen a lifestyle that was absolutely toxic—at the tender age of sixteen—because she didn’t like coming in second place. Didn’t like feeling weak.

Had ached for attention.

It was quickly becoming clear that she had to look somewhere else for the clue to Merlin’s final resting place. To the portal that would catapult her to the magickal flip-side of these woods. A portal she had no doubt would take her to the hidden realm of Brocéliande Forest. If Merlin was buried anywhere, he’d be buried in a place that was as magickal and legendary to immortals as he had been.

And deadly. According to tradition, the fae had created Brocéliande millennia ago. The Fae Kingdom was located there. The rightful throne of their King who’d been imprisoned until a few short weeks ago.

You’re welcome, Your Majesty. Now, if you don’t mind, imma need that second amulet.

Though she’d never been in the flesh, she’d read that Brocéliande was as picturesque as it was lethal. Because magickal folk lived there, and elemental witches could control the elements themselves. Witches were by far the most numerous of all the factions of magickal immortals in the forest. They’d kept the forest free from foe while the fae had been locked up for the last two hundred years—something the warrior fae had done for millennia before their imprisonment. They also ensured no one could materialize in or out of the realm. You had to use a portal, and they were usually guarded.

Many of the witches had cast the forest in a perpetual autumn. Rarely did it snow. Rarely could you tan in the sand. Colorful leaves were always falling. Temperatures usually ranged between forty and seventy degrees. Mist and fog clung to the ground in the early morning hours as magick intertwined with all that existed there. Because that’s what basic witches loved. That kind of weather set the mood. Throw in a hot cup of coffee, Hocus Pocus in the background, a black cat and an ancient spell book… That kind of shit made girls like her content and ready to weave up a spell or two.

And where magick was used, there were always those who practiced black magick. The crones in Brocéliande were rumored to kill immortals for their blood so they could use that blood in their spells. Any spell could be deadly, but when paired with the blood of an immortal, the spell was much more powerful. Rumor had it even the warrior fae were frightened of the crones, so she’d be stupid not to keep an eye out for them once she found the damn portal.

Good thing I hone my skills. Even better that I’m a toxic witch. Otherwise that forest—if I ever find it—would eat me up and spit me ou—

“Caireeeeeenn!”

Muttering a curse, she turned in time to see the blond haired demon round a line of trees, the light from the moon illuminating him. Pebbles and dirt flew across the path from his boots as he leaned sideways, skidding across the ground like a fucking Olympic speed skater turning the corner of an ice track. Looked like he hadn’t even slowed down for that turn. His thick arms were pumping, lips pulled back from bared teeth as he shot toward her. His camouflaged, dirty cargo pants and black military boots encased pure pistons that propelled him in her direction.

Like a robot that never tired. Never slept. Just endlessly pursued the poor asshole it was after.

Fucking hate you!

She’d eradicated his teleporting capabilities the day he’d captured her, which was the only reason she was still breathing. That intelligent, necessary offensive move on her part had drained the ever loving fuck out of her energy—and had been draining her since. But right now he didn’t need that power to reach her. The freak was closing in fast, and he didn’t look to be slowing down.

That demon’s gonna rip your head off with his bare hands.

Think. Where could it be? Where? She’d been all over the mortal forest and found nothing. If the portal wasn’t at Merlin’s faux resting place, then where else could it be?

Cursing the demon’s existence to Hell and back, she sprung to her feet and sprinted in the opposite direction of the blond barnacle, surprised her muscles were working at all. Must be pure adrenaline, because she hadn’t eaten in several days, and her energy was zapped from trying to escape the demon at every turn. He was a relentless piece of shit who was going to regret ever fucking with Cairenn Morgan Pendragon, direct descendent of Morgan Le Fay. Witches influenced fate and fortune by bending the very fabric of reality, and she was going to bend his ass in ways he’d never dreamed.

The twigs snapping under his massive body seemed closer with every harsh breath she took. As though he were directly behind her.

Just keep running. Don’t look back. Don’t. Look. Back. Dontlookback.

She turned to look back, to see if she could spot him, even through the darkness of the forest. Before her gaze fell on him, she violently pitched forward, only to come to an abrupt stop against the rough trunk of a tree. Her head smacked against the bark, creating bright lights in her vision. For a hot second all she could do was hold her head and drool. From the warm, wet sensation dripping over her hand she quickly surmised she’d earned a good gouge from sharp ends of the bark.

It took precious seconds for her to scramble to her feet.

Confused, she glanced back. She’d run straight into a wood walking path that was half a foot above the forest floor. That cute little path made for cute little tourists was going to get her shanked.

Cursing the demon’s existence to Hell and back again—can’t wait to send him to the Pit!—she pumped her arms and took off again, the throbbing of her head and sharp pain in her ankle screaming at her to give up.

Think, bitch! There’s no time left. You’re going to die a failure.

She’d been dodging this persistent asswad for a month—maybe more. From the moment he’d dematerialized them from Alliance Headquarters to the Caves of Isis—where she’d missed the Cold Moon and all the energy it would have given her—to this place…

She couldn’t shake him. Nothing she did seemed to throw him off her scent. When she’d caught a teleport from another demon back in Wales, she hadn’t expected Raith to find her again so quickly. An assassin in the Alliance, he was trying to exterminate her. Eradicate her from existence. And because she was a witch, and not an immortal created, all he’d have to do was snap her neck like a twig. She couldn’t heal herself from that. Even with a healing spell.

Because she’d be dead.

Raven—Cairenn’s newest coven sister—had released the fae: A terrifying faction of immortals that had been imprisoned for over two centuries—with a little help from Cairenn. Together they’d started an immortal war by removing one of four amulets that had been magickly infused by gods and goddesses. According to Freja, it was up to Cairenn to secure the second amulet.

And when the goddess asked something of you, you just did it. And you didn’t fail. There was no room for doubt. Magick didn’t tolerate uncertainty. Magick was all about intention. Energy. Unshakable belief in the outcome a witch desired.

And she’d believed in her abilities for most of her life.

So why am I second-guessing myself now of all times?

Having been told she was too much all her life was finally taking its toll. Too much fill-in-the-blank—that had been her family’s mantra to her from birth.

She was too loud. Too aggressive. Too foul-mouthed. Too tacky—when all she was supposed to be was what her family expected. What the witch society expected from someone of her caliber. The Pendragons were not only old money, they were old magick. Cairenn was a direct descendent of Morgan Le Fay, a powerful witch who Cairenn purportedly resembled both physically and magickly. At any rate, the Pendragon’s catered to the rich, famous, and politically motivated individuals of the world while sipping wine and calling on their butlers whenever they needed to lift a finger.

Cairenn was an outcast when it came to her family. She tended to like it rough, both in and out of bed.

But to her coven and her goddess she was an asset, and she wasn’t about to let a demon get in the way of that.

She recalled what the goddess had asked of her while she tried not to hyperventilate as she ran the thousandth mile that week alone.

“There are four amulets. Each are infused with the power of the factions. There is one amulet for each of the four cardinal directions, and yes, one is located at the Alliance’s Headquarters where their biggest contingent of assassins reside—though it is the easiest amulet to acquire. They use that amulet to open the realm when they apprehend more fae.”

“Where are the others?” Cairenn asked.

“The other three are located in equally impenetrable places. One lies with Merlin, and upon touching it, he awakens—to fight to the death for it.”

“But Merlin… He’s a fictional character…” Raven whispered.

“Fictional to mortals,” Freja emphasized. “He’s quite real. Dead now, but real.”

“That would be impossible to get,” Cairenn said breathlessly.

“Is that your belief?” the goddess asked quietly.

“I could retrieve that amulet.”

“I know you could—and you will. Directly after we acquire the first amulet, it will be your job to remove the amulet from Merlin’s clutch.”

“Isn’t he buried in Paimpont?”

“Paimpont is quaint, overrated, and dull. It’s located in Brittany, France. They’ve turned it into a tourist trap. You’ll have to ask yourself… Would a mortal have the means to find Merlin’s final resting place?”

That was why Cairenn was in Brittany. Merlin had to be buried on the immortal side of Brocéliande—a realm that wasn’t accessible to mortals. A realm of magick.

The realm of her ancestors.

There had to be a portal here, though, because Freja rarely talked out of her ass, so that quip about mortals being unable to find Merlin’s final resting place wasn’t just a clue to where he was buried. Freya had made it goddamn obvious that Merlin was buried on the immortal side of Brocéliande Forest, and you couldn’t get there without a portal, which would be highly guarded now that the immortal war had kicked off.

One thing was for damn sure—Merlin sure as fuck wasn’t buried here in this forest manicured for tourists.

You’ll know the portal when you see it. Portals were usually very blatant to an immortal who was looking for a specific entrance. It was seldom that you could pass by a portal without doing a double take. Nine times out of ten they were guarded by an immortal, and, more often than not, portals moved with time to keep their locations secret. The energy of the portal was also hidden from immortal and mortal alike, to make it even harder to find for those not specifically looking for it.

The sudden bellow of the demon’s guttural roar filled the dark path she ran on, raising the hair on her filthy arms.

Just coming off her first loss as a witch, she didn’t have the temperament for this. The pixie that had guarded the first amulet had really handed Cairenn’s ass to her.

But Raven had saved the day.

Raven. A girl who’d just found out she was a witch. A girl who’d been afraid to go down into her empty basement not even a year ago. A young girl who’d just found out she was an immortal, wasn’t trained, and still she’d kicked ass and taken names when it was her time up to bat.

And here Cairenn was—trained and toxic—running like a little bitch.

Cairenn, you’re a Pendragon. A descendent of Morgan who was taught magick by Merlin. You got this.

The waxing moon gave her just enough light so she could see the next twenty feet on the path, so she wasn’t prepared to come to a skidding stop in front of…

The soft light of the partial moon peeked through the clouds to touch on an object that took her breath. The bare tree looked…golden.

My goddess, that’s it! This is the portal! Intuition screamed that this was what she was looking for. This was the portal she needed to catapult her fat ass through to find the final resting place of Merlin.

She’d read about it. She could even recall the name the mortals had given this tree—Arbre d’Or, located on the mortal side of Brocéliande Forest. Some sculptor or painter had placed the memorial here when a fire had leveled much of the forest decades before. It was located in the Valley of No Return.

Name was a little doomsdayish but she wasn’t going to back down. And given the realm she was about to infiltrate was the old stomping grounds of Morgan Le Fay, her ancestor?

This was the portal. She was certain of it.

Time to get out of dodge. All she had to do was take a swan dive through that golden arch and she was good as gone—and Raith had no way of following her unless he ran into another magickal being out here in the middle of nowhere. Just as immortals needed a demon to teleport, immortals needed magick to get through most realm portals.

And that was one thing Raith didn’t have.

Energy spent and no more fucks left to give, she took a few paces back and shot out at a dead run—and promptly face-planted three feet from the arch, scraping the skin of her left leg on the way down and smacking her already-abused forehead against the hard ground.

She hissed, cradling that leg to her body while her head began pounding to a harsher rhythm.

Before she could recover, the demon was suddenly towering over her. He grabbed a fistful of her filthy shirt, roughly hauled her off the ground, and brought her face inches from his own. “This ends now, witch.”