Caelira was dying.

The pale silver of her skin had dulled to an ashen gray. Her once-lustrous hair, that shimmered like moonlight, was darkening strand by strand, withering into lifeless threads as if the curse devouring her blood crept through every inch of her being. Her lips were blue. The black veins had spread, curling like vines across her throat, her wrists, her temples.

She lay motionless in the center of Therion’s massive bed, framed in silk sheets soaked with the scent of fading ...