Chapter eleven The morning sunlight felt wrong. Not soft, warm, human sunlight, but sharp, almost accusing. I woke to the hum of the city below, and the faint scent of cedar and smoke—Malik’s scent—still heavy in the apartment. My mark throbbed along my ribs, black smoke curling faintly into the air, as if it were breathing on its own. I didn’t move immediately. Something in the pit of my stomach was tightening, warning me. The same feeling I’d felt the first time the charred-wood creature appeared. That sense of being watched, measured, and found wanting. A knock at the door made me jump. “Who—?” I started. Before I could finish, the door swung open. Aunt Dee, her face pale, hair pulled back tight, eyes wide with something between fear and anger, barged in. Behind her was my uncle—his face drawn, older than I remembered, hands shaking slightly. “What—what are you doing here?” I whispered, my heart racing. Aunt Dee didn’t answer immediately. She just stared at me.
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