He crouched in the back of the small closet, amber eyes alight with fire, body hunched and scrawny. His thin hands made grabbing motions before him as he smiled at me, white teeth flashing. The man who had led the Chosen, the powerful sorcerer who had tried to kill me twice and almost succeeded, was as wasted and pathetic as his followers.

"Demetrius." The last time I'd seen him, he'd fled with Batsheva. "Where's your mistress?" If that old (b)witch was in on this, I'd be more ...