Page 108 of Ashes and Lilies
Damen’s forehead wrinkled. “A sacrifice?”
“It’s a spell that requires the essence of a certain type of girl.” She looked away. “They’ve set up various items over the years that will lock on to a victim when triggered. When that happens, they know it’s time to perform the ritual.”
“This has been happening for years?” Damen stroked his chin. “Why have you never reached out with this information before?”
“Because no one listens,” Mrs. Cole replied. “Evidence and reports go missing, and investigators vanish. I’ve protected Gloria, but she certainly suspects. There is glamour involved, and my family has connections throughout multiple industries.”
Damen rested his wrist on his knee. “Why come forward now?”
“Because—” She looked away, and a weariness came over her expression. “I’ll soon be free, and then it won’t matter anymore.”
“What do you mean?” Damen asked.
But she no longer responded. Her eyes had faded back into the same glassy sheen she’d had when we arrived, and her features drooped into impassivity once more.
“Mrs. Cole?” Damen still tried to recapture her attention. “What exactly does this ritual entail?”
She didn’t answer, but she also didn’t need to—I’d seen it already.
“Damen.” I grabbed his hand before he could pester the old woman again. The chill in my bones warmed as he looked at me. “Let’s go.”
It was a memory, and the spell had been broken.
I had no reason to be worried.
“We have to stop them,” I told him after we stepped into the hallway.
“Of course,” he said, his eyes burning. There was a determined desire in his posture that didn’t exist before—it was clear that Damen was passionate about his work. “We’re so close. But…”
His words had trailed off, and his hand was tense over my own.
Obviously, he wanted nothing more than to immediately pursue those in the Cole family. But we also couldn’t.
“I hate this,” he told me, looking away. “We have nothing tangible against Alexander or Garrett Cole, and Daniel Cole—Garrett’s son—is out of town. They’re the only ones; they must have been involved somehow!”
“You’ll figure it out,” I told him, squeezing his hand. He’d been working so hard and cared so much about this case.
I owed him so much.
“I believe in you,” I said, my face flushing. Why were my fingers tingling?
Damen stared at me, and the stress seemed to melt from his posture. “Thanks,” he murmured, and it was his turn to become red. “Just give me a little bit longer.”
I nodded, and when he turned his wrist to entwine our fingers, I didn’t feel nervous at all.
21
Damen tookme to the university library coffee shop, where he ushered me to the counter and we placed our orders. There was a reflective silence as we stood, waiting, and it wasn’t until the male barista hovered near the edge of the counter that Damen’s wandering attention returned to the present.
“She’s fine,” Damen said before I could understand what the other man asked. The employee scowled and turned away.
“What’s wrong?” I asked Damen. What could be the matter now? This was a joyous moment, for we were about to begin our daily caffeine consumption.
“Nothing,” Damen replied, reaching between us. He’d brushed the back of his hand against mine as the barista returned and slid a paper cup across the counter.
However, I hardly noticed him. He was talking to me, but since I’d missed my chance to study his face—as I was enamored by Damen’s presence instead—I didn’t understand.
I hated it when this happened.
