From her left, a man approached her. “Isabelle,” he said gently. “He’s the scum of the earth, but he didn’t kill your sister.”

Her face contorted, her eyes filling with tears. “He did. He’s the head of the Duskoff. Without the Duskoff, the demon wouldn’t exist.”

“I’m asking you for the last time. Stop.”

This revenge, once a red-hot, pulsing, living thing in her heart and mind, now tasted bitter and cold.

Still…Angela.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t stop.”

The man threw himself at her, breaking her hold on Stefan. Pain cut up her spine and down her legs, making her cry out, but she still fought the heavy weight on top of her. He pinned her down, struggling to gain control of her limbs. Exhaustion and her back injury forced her to go passive. Her magick sparked and died in her chest, spent like a candle burned too long. She made a choking sound of grief.

He stared down at her, his face shadowed by a long fall of blue black hair. Thomas Monahan, head of the Coven. The hair branded him. She didn’t even need to see his face.

She winced and let out a small sob. “It’s because of him, because of the Duskoff, that my sister is dead.”

“He won’t get away with what he’s done, Isabelle,” came his low voice. “But his punishment can’t be like this.”

“How do you know my name?”

Behind them she could hear witches subduing Stefan. The limo rocked with the motion. “You said you’re Angela’s sister. I can only assume you mean Angela Novak, the water witch who was killed by a demon a couple of months ago. That makes you Isabelle. We’re on the same side. If I let you up, will you be good?”

Her mouth snapped shut and she nodded.