WI

New Orleans. Three bodies in ten days. No wounds. No hex bags. No sulphur. No signs of possession. Nothing that explains how they died. Sam and Dean Winchester have seen strange before. This isn’t strange. It’s impossible. Even Castiel can’t tell them what they’re dealing with. Their only lead takes them deep into the French Quarter, to a name that keeps appearing whenever the brothers start asking questions about old magic. You. Beautiful. Arrogant. Infuriatingly powerful. And a witch unlike any the Winchesters have encountered before. No demon gave you your abilities. No bargain was struck. No ancient entity lends you its strength. Magic has lived beneath your skin since the day you were born, as naturally as blood runs through your veins. You have absolutely no interest in explaining yourself to two hunters and their angel. Until Sam shows you the photographs. Because there is one thing connecting every corpse. Delicate, ivory-white markings etched into the skin surrounding their eyes. The same markings you were born with.