The Buried and the Bound


 Contents
 
 Title Page
 Copyright Notice
 Dedication
 Chapter 1. Tristan
 Chapter 2. Aziza
 Chapter 3. Leo
 Chapter 4. Tristan
 Chapter 5. Aziza
 Chapter 6. Leo
 Chapter 7. Tristan
 Chapter 8. Aziza
 Chapter 9. Leo
 Chapter 10. Tristan
 Chapter 11. Aziza
 Chapter 12. Tristan
 Chapter 13. Leo
 Chapter 14. Tristan
 Chapter 15. Aziza
 Chapter 16. Leo
 Chapter 17. Tristan
 Chapter 18. Leo
 Chapter 19. Aziza
 Chapter 20. Tristan
 Chapter 21. Aziza
 Chapter 22. Leo
 Chapter 23. Tristan
 Chapter 24. Aziza
 Chapter 25. Leo
 Chapter 26. Tristan
 Chapter 27. Aziza
 Chapter 28. Leo
 Chapter 29. Tristan
 Chapter 30. Aziza
 Chapter 31. Leo
 Chapter 32. Tristan
 Chapter 33. Aziza
 Chapter 34. Leo
 Chapter 35. Tristan
 Chapter 36. Aziza
 Chapter 37. Leo
 Chapter 38. Tristan
 Chapter 39. Aziza
 Chapter 40. Leo
 Chapter 41. Tristan
 Chapter 42. Aziza
 Acknowledgments
 About the Author
 Newsletter Sign-up
 Copyright
 
 
 
 Guide
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 CHAPTER 1. TRISTAN
 Acknowledgments
 Contents
 Copyright
 
 
 
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 Table of Contents
 About the Author
 Copyright Page
 
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 For those of you fighting battles and facing monsters of your own.
 May you be victorious.
 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER 1
 TRISTAN
 
 
 WHEN THE LIGHTS in the house went out, Tristan pushed through the gate with a nudge and left it swaying open behind him.
 A homemade bird feeder hung in the corner of the tiny yard; a set of wooden wind chimes knocked together softly, as if they, too, had secrets to keep. His footsteps landed soundlessly on the grass. Back door, kitchen window, living room with curtains drawn—these he flinched past, half expecting an accusing face would loom out of the darkness and stop him.
 Half hoping.
 But no one did. Before long, he found a bedroom. Huddling in the shadows with his back against the wall, he drew his master’s silver knife in a line down his palm. Blood welled up, and he pressed it into the window frame. His hands were littered with cuts—some fresh, others scarred over—from a year of this work. The blood of a bondservant was a signal. It would guide his master to this home, this window, and to the person inside.
 The first time had been the hardest.
 “Please don’t make me do this,” Tristan had begged, voice choked with humiliating tears, after their contract was sealed and his master had described the errand he was meant to complete for her. “Not yet, not tonight—”
 A pitiful attempt to stall, and it did him no good.
 “Yes.” Her voice seeped, sludge-like, through the woods. “Tonight.”
 Tristan had never been a brave person, and he didn’t want to die. So he’d obeyed.
 There were no tears anymore. Now there was nothing but the task at hand.
 He slept uneasily on a park bench with his backpack for a pillow and his worn-out coat for warmth. As he dropped off, she woke. From her prison in the woods, she sent her magic after the call of Tristan’s blood. Without