We drove out of the commercial district, climbing into the hills where the wealthy lived.

The houses here were hidden behind tall stone walls and wrought-iron gates.

Eventually, the car slowed down.

A massive stone archway loomed ahead, illuminated by floodlights.

Two armed guards in dark raincoats stood at the gate.

They recognized the car and waved us through.

We wound up a long, gravel driveway lined with weeping willow trees.

At the top of the hill stood the Draven estate.

It was a sprawling, gothic mansion built of dark stone.

The windows were dark, except for a few glowing amber lights on the ground floor.

The driver parked under a stone portico.

“We are here,” Lucian said.

He opened his door and stepped out into the dry shelter of the porch.

Bishop scrambled out after him, but he stopped and waited for me.

I stepped out of the car, my legs feeling weak.

The air up here was cleaner, smelling of wet earth and pine needle trees.

Lucian led the way to the massive double doors of the house.