THE SUN IS setting over Astera, and I am dying.

“It’s about your ­brother . . .” My voice is garbled by all the blood pooling in my mouth. ­Deacon—all hulking, demonic, six foot six inches of ­him—drags me through grime and snow to hurl me inside his club. I land hard and my body shrieks in pain. Another bout of hacking results in a gory splatter of red on Fever Dream’s polished concrete floors.

Baz follows Deacon inside, as silent and looming as a shadow, his dark hair hanging mournfully in front of his face. He looks wary of me—violet eyes flitting back and forth between my crumpled, shivering body and his menacing boss. A ­baby‑faced bartender leans over the bar with interest, fangs jutting from his mouth at the sight of my blood. An elegant, ­bronze‑skinned acrobat peers up from her stretches on the raised dais where the DJ equipment stands.

“Speak,” Deacon commands. His pale eyes fixate on the sizzled flesh of my ­back—the place where I carry the deadliest spell known to man.

“The ­Brood . . .” My lungs crackle with each word. “When Reid—”

“What’s all that noise?” When I turn toward the voice I find Ward, the handsome werewolf bartender I met a week ago, coming out from a swinging door behind the bar. He’s holding a dishrag and a bottle of gin. His earthy green eyes widen at the sight of me. “Snow White?”

Deacon ignores him. “What happened to my brother, Vivienne?”

At that Ward straightens, leaves the bottle and rag on the bar top, and stalks over to Deacon’s side.

“He’s at the docks,” I wheeze. “Finn, the High Thane’s son, has him. Please, they’re going ­to—­” I cough again. Dim lights and Grecian columns and the lofted ceiling swirl around me. “They’re going to kill him.”