The Blood of Sorcery

The night bled crimson behind Maya Martin as she ran.

Six months of fleeing, hiding, spell-casting, and lying had hollowed her out. Her boots were worn through at the soles. Her magic pulsed erratically in her veins-wild, overused, and unraveling. Every shadow was a whisper. Every silence, a threat.

And the demon never tired.

She'd tried everything-binding spells, cloaking charms, fire runes etched into motel floorboards. Nothing held it back. Nothing lasted. She could feel it closing in again now, that chill at the back of her neck, that slither of dread threading through her bones. It was always close, always watching.
There was only one place left to run.

Home.