“Her soul is not mine to take,” the black-eyed man says, still staring at me with a dark intensity. I feel the bite of a blade at my throat, and from the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a lock of white-blond hair. “You’re right,” the familiar voice at my back says. “It’s mine.” All at once the realization slams into me. Des. It’s Des’s voice at my back. “Enjoy each small death you have left,” he whispers into my ear. “I’m coming for you.” And then he slits my throat.
