Waking up at the foot of your own grave is no picnic… especially when you can’t remember how you got there.
Cursed with powers she can’t name, Sloane Cabot has vowed to catch the Rogue who turned her into a monster and killed her family. Too bad a broodingly hot mage is bound to keep her on the straight and narrow.
Whether she likes it or not…
a bucket list at twenty-two—but if I had one at all, hanging out in a graveyard wasn’t ever
going to be on it.
Of all the things that woke me up, it was the grainy yet damp sensation of dirt on my
hands.
Not the rain pelting me. Not the lash of wind chilling me to the bone. Not the fact that I
was outside when I should be warm in my bed. No, those kernels of awareness came
later. It was those simple granules of earth on my fingertips.
Aching and groggy, it took a full minute to understand that I was, A—outside, and B—in
the middle of a cemetery. At night. In a damp, nearly see-through nightgown that had
never once graced my wardrobe.
Seemed legit.
Honestly, if I weren’t in so much pain—if my gut wasn’t roiling with hunger and my head
wasn’t feeling like someone had taken a pickax to it, I could’ve sworn I was dreaming.
Well, not dreaming exactly. Having a nightmare would be more like it. I mean, why else
would I be covered in dirt, sitting on the freshly dug mound of a grave?
It took a hell of a lot of concentration to read the headstone, but I wasn’t at all surprised
to read my own name: Sloane Emerson Cabot, with my birth and death date right
underneath it.
As nightmares went, this was pretty solid. Too bad I had the sneaking suspicion I was in
no way dreaming.
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