In the center of the basement, Sloane didn't reach for a weapon. Instead, she reached into a hidden compartment beneath the floorboards and pulled out a heavy, leather-bound volume.
The cover was cracked and dark, looking like it was made of skin rather than paper.
"The wait is over," Sloane whispered, her eyes reflecting the dim light like a cat's. "Now it's time to go get the blood of the innocent, so our lives can finally get better."
Hana, mesmerized by the ancient aura of the book, reached out a trembling hand to touch the golden symbols on the spine.
SLAP.
Sloane tapped her hand away with a sharp, lightning-fast motion.
"Be gentle," Sloane warned, her voice vibrating with a sudden, terrifying authority. "This book is old and sacred. No mistakes. No messy cuts. If the blood isn't pure, the book will take us instead."
She opened the book to a page written in a language that seemed to squirm like insects.
"The Law is simple," Sloane explained to the circle. "We need the Blood of the Guilty and the Blood of the Innocent. We must pour them onto the pages at the exact same moment. Only then can we make our wish. For some of you, it's money. For others, it's power.
Leo quickly ran back into his room immediately. Leo's hands were shaking so hard he could barely hold the fabric. The blood of the innocent. The words echoed in his brain like a death sentence. He wasn't a friend; he was an ingredient.
He scrambled to his bed, ripping the heavy sheets and the spread off. He started tying them together in frantic, messy knots, his breath coming in shallow hitches. He looked at the window—it was his only way out. He moved to throw the makeshift rope out into the night air, his mind screaming Run, run, run!
But then, he heard it.
The heavy, rhythmic creak of the fourth step on the staircase. Then the fifth. They weren't rushing; they thought he was passed out from the "beer" he had "drunk."
"Quiet," he heard Hana whisper from the hallway. "Don't wake the little lion until we're ready for the cut."
Leo realized he didn't have enough time. If they saw the sheets tied to the bedpost, they'd know he knew everything. With a surge of adrenaline, he shoved the tied-up sheets under his bed and dove under the covers.
He kicked off his shoes, pulled the duvet up to his chin, and squeezed his eyes shut. He forced his body to go limp, trying to slow his racing heart so his chest wouldn't heave.
The door handle turned. Click.
The door groaned open, and the light from the hallway cut a sharp line across his bed. He could feel them entering. The air in the room suddenly felt heavy and cold. He smelled the faint scent of Sloane's vanilla perfume, mixed with the metallic, sharp odor of the blood on Jax's clothes.
"Look at him," Sloane whispered. She was standing right over him. He could feel her breath on his forehead. "So peaceful. He has no idea how important he's about to become."
"Let's just get it over with," Damon muttered. "The moon won't stay at the peak forever."