Two brothers. One city. A war of shadows.

Surprising no one, Henry Anders has really screwed up—again. His juvenile days of being a ‘bad boy’ landed him with the wrong crowd, and those choices constantly put his family in danger. He never wanted to join a cult full of disturbing hexcasters with an overlord as creepy as he is ancient—and Henry can attest: that man is decrepit—but here he is, an unwilling member of the Blood Moon Brotherhood.

His latest and greatly messed-up task: Gain the trust of a child from a powerful lineage and lead him to slaughter.

Daniel Anders has buried his own dark history beneath the crimson jacket of the Cardinal Sun Guild. Now known as Neil Hunter, he’s a master tracker and spatial mage on a mission: Hunt down Seattle’s most dangerous cult and stop their notorious assassin before the magical community burns.

Two brothers stand on opposite sides, the law and dark secrets between them. When the truth comes to light, blood will spill across the streets.

Henry

When I envisioned my life, I never expected to find myself in a back-alley dumpster after being pushed off a two-story building in downtown Seattle. The impact was hard and jarring, and I was almost certain my kidneys were lodged in my lungs. Or maybe it was the putrid smell of whatever rotten takeout had been stewing among cooking lard, burnt frying oil, and—was that…? I gagged. Yes, that was fermented cat litter, the rank scent of ammonia fumes threatening to burn the hair from my nostrils or my eyes from my skull.

Willing my bruised arms to move, I slapped at the side of the dumpster until I caught the lip of the metal receptacle that Satan himself put here to remind me that my soul was his just as soon as I died. My imminent death, that was surely seconds away if I didn’t. Get. The. Fuck. Up. And run.

Desperate to make it to twenty-three and home to my wife, I gritted my teeth, a growl rumbling from deep in my core as I pulled myself up. My head spun, eyes crossing the moment I was upright. If the fall hadn’t killed me, if the internal bruises or bleeding I likely had hadn’t killed me, then the knife wound to the side of my abdomen would.

I pressed a hand to it, hissing through my teeth as my head jerked back from the searing agony that the single touch brought. The adrenaline of the hunt was wearing off, and if just this was enough to make me want to rip my own heart out and embrace whatever torment awaited me in the Underworld, then what the fuck would running do to me?

Put me in a fucking shock-induced coma—that was what.

Pulling my hand back and seeing the sticky crimson coating my entire palm nearly did just that.

Then my heart skipped its merry ass to Hell when a shout from above had my eyes snapping open in pure terror.

“He’s still moving!” the cultist shouted to his demented friend—the friend I hadn’t counted on when I ambushed the asshole now demanding my death. “Finish him before his cronies come for our heads next!”

My cronies? HA! Let them come. I’d crawl back into the fucking dumpster while the cultists took care of the bastards who blackmailed me into this fucked-up situation to begin with. Fuck Rogue Casters, fuck cults, fuck all the fucking fucks birthed from dickheads and suckled on manipulative, backstabbing, douchelord milk.

My brother joined a guild, and what did I stupidly do? I joined a damn cult. I didn’t know they were a cult, but tomatoes fucking tōmatoes, I guessed, because I was a damn Rogue myself. Even Daniel had been, back when we were dumbass teenagers using magic to steal shit and screw with Norms. But that—that had nothing on murderous dark Casters, who literally dealt in blood magic, hex magic, and sacrificial rituals. Cursing some poor bastard was a regular occurrence back at the home base. Wait, wait; my bad—back at the “dwelling.”

Pretentious asses.

But, oh, yeah—running. Feet. Ground. Do the steppy-step-step. Go fast—GO, GO, GO!

I gave my head a shake, listing sideways as the motion made me sway. Oh, yeah. I was a dead man—not even a walking one, since I was. Still. Sitting. Here. While death approached from above. My only saving grace was that neither of them was an archer—which, thank whatever gods didn’t hate me enough to let me be assassinated by an arrow. My Sarah would’ve already had each of them through the heart, eye, or balls with a single shot—and I wouldn’t be sitting here—thinking about irrelevant shit, Henry—while my assailants closed in.

Where the hell was Dan when a guy needed a spatial mage to save his sorry ass? Not old times—this was far from old times. No one was coming for me when the law was hot on my heels for getting caught snagging a pack of smokes or beer.

We really did tear it up back in the day, didn’t we?