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RUBY JUNE. The witch’s chamber was cold, the incense smoke curling through the air like ghostly whispers. I stood there, my bare feet pressed against the damp, earthy floor, irritation flaring inside me. I’d risked everything to sneak out of the pack house in the dead of night, and yet here I was, with no answers and no patience. The witch, as usual, was as indifferent as ever, her back turned to me as she hummed some eerie tune, waving the incense through the air. “What brings you here at this time of night?” she finally asked, her voice a low, bored drawl. She didn’t even glance my way, too absorbed in whatever strange ritual she was performing. I took a deep breath, trying to keep my voice steady. “It didn’t work. The spell you told me to use—on Charles—it didn’t work,” I said, fru