The girl—her name was Kira, Azrael learned later—survived the night. Barely.

She lay in the compound's makeshift infirmary, fever-hot and trembling, while the priestess worked to stabilize the transformation burning through her mortal frame. The oath-mark had spread up her arm to her shoulder, black spirals shot through with veins of gold. Each pulse matched her erratic heartbeat.

"Will she live?" Azrael asked.

The priestess didn't look up from her work. "Ask me in three days. ...