"I knew the sins of my past would call to collect what was left of my soul. If I'd known the price I'd pay, I would've sacrificed more to stay hidden from the magic."

“’You want to want to conquer Thalyria. That includes Fisa. What do you expect me to do while you’re at it? Ignore my Dragon’s Breath? My ability to turn invisible? To detect lies? To steal magic? Sit on my knowledge of creatures and royals and Oracles? Play with my knives instead of using them? Just wait for you?”’

Bryn untangled herself from Valmont’s arms and legs and went first to her room to smack off the alarm and then to Valmont’s. By the time she made it back to the living room, he was sitting up rubbing his eyes.

“I don’t even know what day it is,” he muttered.

“You’re asking the wrong girl,” Bryn said. “I slept through several.”

Valmont yawned. “Friday…I think it’s Friday.”

“Thank God I don’t have to go to class.” She rejoined him on the couch. “I say we sleep as long as possible.”

“No argument there.” He settled back onto the couch, and she curled up against him, using his chest as a pillow. For the moment, everything felt right in her world. She didn’t expect it to stay that way for long, but she was learning to appreciate the little things while they lasted.

Too soon, Valmont was rubbing her shoulder. “Bryn, we should probably wake up. I think we missed lunch.”

Fuzzy headed, Bryn sat up and tried to process that information. “I slept through lunch?”

“I think the pizza you had before bed last night counted as breakfast, but you probably need to be fed.” Valmont stood. “I’m going to shower and then we’ll talk about food.”

“Okay.” Her stomach growled. How had she slept through two meals? That evil herbal potion had kicked her butt.

After a quick shower, Bryn threw on jeans and a T-shirt. As far as she was concerned, if she was excused from classes, there was no reason to observe the stupid dress code.

Valmont pointed at her outfit. “Did you know your shirt is on inside out?”

Bryn looked down. Sure enough, he was right. “Crap. Hold on.” She went into the bedroom and pulled her shirt off, flipped it right side out, and put it back on. Back in the living room, she said, “If anyone asks why we’re not observing the dress code, we can say we thought it was Saturday.”

“Works for me.” He checked his watch. “The cafe downstairs should be empty since everyone will still be in class for two more hours.”

“Good. Then no one will see how much I eat.” Now that she was fully awake, her stomach was protesting the lack of regular meals.

The waiter in the restaurant seemed surprised when Bryn ordered three entrees, but he didn’t comment.

Valmont sat back and watched her finish off her third helping of Chicken Cordon Bleu while he drank his second cup of coffee. “I’m hoping if I caffeinate myself I can stay awake and go to bed at a reasonable time.”

Bryn yawned. “I know exactly what you mean. I swear I could go right back up to the room and fall asleep, but I don’t want to. It feels like I’ve missed too much already.”

“Clint and Ivy will make sure you’re awake and don’t miss out on dinner.”

“I probably should have called them last night.” Bryn took one last bite of food and then pushed her plate away. She wasn’t hungry anymore, but she wasn’t full of energy, either. “Would it be wrong if I went back to sleep?”

“You can go to bed,” Valmont said. “I think I’m going to call my family. The restaurant should be slow right now.”

“Okay.”

Bryn lay in bed, listening to Valmont’s end of the conversation. It’s not like she was eavesdropping on purpose. Not really. But he was sitting on the couch, which backed up to her bedroom wall. While she couldn’t decipher all his words, he laughed often, which made her feel better about taking over his life.

Still she couldn’t drift off to sleep. Lillith’s words from a few days before wriggled around in her brain. Bryn never would have guessed Lillith would be the one to try and call them out on their relationship. And the fact that she’d suggested he start seeing Megan irritated the living hell out of her. Lillith put up with a loveless marriage to Ferrin. How could she want the same thing for her son? At this point, Bryn respected Jaxon and appreciated his intelligence and fierce determination, but that didn’t mean she wanted to kiss him.

“Megan? Oh, hello, how are you?”

Bryn sat up. Why was Valmont talking to Megan on the phone? Weird.
And now he was laughing. Why would Valmont’s family put Megan on the phone when he called? She’d bet her grandparent’s fortune that his grandmother was the one who suggested it. Evil, scheming, terrible-licorice- flavored-cookie-baking woman.

Fire stirred in Bryn’s gut. There was no reason to be upset. Megan was just a cute girl with a crush on Valmont. One of many, Bryn assumed. The waitress wasn’t anyone special to him. Not yet, at least.

The type of bond Bryn shared with Valmont, no other female could ever share with him. She was his dragon. Human females couldn’t compete with their connection. Right?

“You know you’ll have to break the bond when we’re married,” Jaxon said.

Bryn blinked. When had Jaxon come into her room? And why in the hell was he standing there wearing nothing but navy boxer shorts decorated with glittery silver W’s that twinkled like a disco ball?

This could not be real. Nope. She had to be dreaming.

She slammed her eyelids closed and rubbed her eyes. Not real. Had to be a dream. She opened her eyes and Jaxon stood in front of her dresser staring into the mirror and flexing his biceps. “I’ve been thinking about growing my hair longer, so I could wear one of those man-buns. Do you think that would be a good look for me?”

Okay. She really needed to wake up now.

A knock on the door had her sitting upright with her heart beating like crazy. “Hello?”

The door opened and Ivy popped her head in. “Sorry to wake you, but it’s time for dinner.”

“I’ve never been so glad to be awake in my life. I just had the weirdest dream.”

Ivy laughed and entered the room. Bryn did a double take. Ivy was wearing black pants and a white shirt with a W embroidered on the front pocket. And she was pushing a cart full of food.

“Women in your condition do have the strangest dreams, Mrs. Westgate.”

“My condition?” Bryn threw off the covers and looked down at her legs, what she could see of them, the part that wasn’t obscured by her very large, very pregnant belly which sported its own sparkling silver W. “Oh, hell no.”

“Sorry,” Ivy said. “I didn’t mean to offend you, Ma’am.”

“What? No, you aren’t the problem. It’s this stupid dream.” She really needed to wake up. Closing her eyes, she focused on feeling the pillow underneath her head or the sensation of the sheet draped over her body. She was in bed, in her dorm room. And she was going to wake up. Now. Slowly, she opened her eyes.

Valmont stood next to her bed, concern etched on his forehead. “Bryn, are you all right?”

“That depends, am I awake?”

“I hope so. You were tossing and turning when I came in. I had to shake you to wake you up.”

“I was having the most bizarre dreams,” Bryn sat up and touched her stomach, which was in its normal, not-possibly- knocked-up-with-Jaxon’s-child state, thank goodness.

“Ivy called. They wanted to make sure you were coming down to dinner. I told them we’d meet them in half an hour.”

“Good.”

“What were you dreaming about?” Valmont asked.

No way would she tell him about Jaxon in his twinkling disco ball boxer briefs. “It was a bunch of weird stuff thrown together. I knew it was a dream, but I couldn’t wake up. Jaxon asked me if he should grow his hair out and wear a man bun.”

Valmont’s eyes went wide and then he said, “Bizarre is an understatement.”

It was just pure dumb luck that I found her at all.

The…well, I can’t say it was a house, but it had been her home. But she’d left it weeks ago, maybe longer. It was dying, too.

Granted, when I’d been sent out to look for her, I’d thought maybe it was another wild goose chase—the first job had been a pain in the ass, too.

But this one…

Hell.

I was staring at a dryad.

A real dryad.

She turned her head and stared at me with eyes the color of good, strong oak. In her hand, she held a branch that she used to draw circles in the earth.

After a few seconds of us studying each other, she went back to looking out over the river, her gaze sad.

“What is it you want?” she asked, her voice reedy and thin.

Like she was fading, dying as swiftly as the tree she’d left behind.

As I fumbled for an answer, she lifted the branch and plucked off one of the leaves. They were still green. But the moment she plucked that single leaf away, it withered, shriveled and then it was dust, even before it hit the ground.

“I…” Uneasy, I licked my lips. “Your tree is dying.”

“No.” Those dark brown eyes came back to mine. “It is already dead. It died when I left it. It just hasn’t figured that out yet. It will. But that isn’t what you want.”

“Why did you leave it?”

“Because the wind whispered it was time.” She lifted a shoulder and the wispy strips of cloth that made up her garments drifted with the movement before settling back into black. She was more naked than clothed, covered at her breasts and hips and her skin was a mottled mix of brown and tan. She could stand in the trees and scarcely be seen, but standing out her on the side of the road and gazing into the river, she stood out.

That was how I’d found her.

I’d been heading back to East Orlando, carefully think through the call I’d have to make when I saw her.

I’d been hired by somebody I’d recently decided was a self-important pompous prick but I’d accepted the contract and for another three weeks, I was giving him twenty hours a week for work of a sensitive nature. The first job, I’d been asked to find out if there was any truth to the rumors of a Green Man who might be living in Alabama—he had a locale and a few names and he wanted my thoughts on it. I’d also been asked to talk to the families of a couple missing NHs. That was why I’d agreed to work with him anyway. Missing people. He had connections.

There weren’t many people who had more connections than the President of the United States of America, after all.

When I’d told him I didn’t see the connection between a possible Green Man and the disappearances, he’d pointed out that a Green Man would have ways of seeing things happening in nature that I could never see.

Well…true enough.

But if there was something weirder than a shifter in those woods, then I hadn’t felt it.

My boss hadn’t seem bothered when I’d been unsuccessful. But I hadn’t wanted to tell him I’d found a dryad’s tree…and no dryad.

Right now, though, I wanted even less to tell him I’d found the dryad.

“The wind told you it was time?” Raking her up and down with a look, I shook my head. “What else is the wind telling you to do?”

“The wind tells me to do nothing.” A serene smile curled her lips as she plucked off another leave. This time, when it shriveled and faded, she seemed to fade a little more, too.

Oh, shit.

“Is that from your tree?” I asked softly.

“Yes. All that is left, all that is living.” She plucked another leave. “Once it is gone…”

“So why are you killing it?”

“Because unlike Albus, I am not strong. I cannot stand up to pain and torture. Even cutting down a single tree would break me and he has much more in mind than cutting down trees.”

Abruptly, she wrenched a handful of leaves, four, five, six…dust blew around me and I rushed to her as she swayed, then staggered. She felt lighter than air as I eased her down. Her skin felt like the smooth bark on a young tree. “What are you talking about?”

She just shook her head. “It’s been a long time coming. This…this is best. I’ll see Albus soon.”

She tried to fumble a few more leaves off but her hands shook too much.

“Please.” She looked at me.

My phone rang.

She continued to watch me with those calm, patient eyes. Patient, solid. Like an oak.

I took the branch and stripped the remaining leaves off as the phone rang again.

By the third ring, she was withering away, turning to nothing but dust and ash that blew away in the soft, chilly fall breeze.

I answered the fourth ring.

“Ms. Colbana, I was calling for an update.”

“I found her.” Dragging a finger through the dust, I rose to my feet and stared down. Even the branch was gone. “She’s dead, sir.”

Stacey was in his bed, waiting for him. She had the sheet over her but it was evident that she was naked. Her disgusting clothes were all over his floor. Alex started to heave.
“Go” said Ben. “I’ll stay here.”
Alex ran to the master bathroom and vomited. He could hear Ben shouting at Stacey.
“Get out of his bed, you f*****g crazy whore!” he shouted.
“I’m waiting for Alex.” She said with venom in her tone.
“What the f***?! So you thought you would break into his house and get in his bed?”
“Now he can see how much I want him.” She said, as if that made it all ok.
“No” said Alex from the doorway, his stomach now empty.
“I hate you. I despise everything about you. I can’t even look at you without feeling sick.”
“You don’t mean that, baby.” She said, trying to soothe him.
“Then why have I just puked my guts up, seeing you there. I’m only standing here now because there’s nothing left inside. Now. Get. Out. Of. My. Bed.” Alex was so angry he could feel his blood boiling in his veins. His jaw hurt from gritting this teeth and his heart was pounding. And, for the first time since meeting Holly, it wasn’t a good thing.
“Let’s just talk about it baby.” She said, batting her eyes and holding out a hand.
“Don’t you call me that! Don’t you ever call me that! I’m not your f*****g baby!” he almost screamed. He quickly glanced around his room. She’d been through his stuff. His clothes, his drawers.
Oh no, no, no! Please no!
“Get. Out. Now. And put your skanky clothes back on!” he growled.
“But, Alex, I love you!” she pleaded.
Alex dry heaved and took a deep breath.

The rest of the school week flew by without any traumatizing events. Friday after their last class, Bryn, Valmont, Clint, and Ivy sat on the grass in the quad next to one of the few trees which had survived the Rebel attacks last semester.

Bryn inhaled and sighed in satisfaction. The fresh green new-growth smell was like a soothing balm. “I don’t care what we do tonight as long as it’s outside.”

Valmont leaned back on his elbows and looked up at the leaves in the tree. “I think we should build a tree house.”

“I’m game,” Clint said. “But I’m not sure the Directorate will approve.”

“And I’m not sure where the nearest hardware store is,” Bryn said.

“I didn’t say it was a practical idea.” Valmont pointed up into the tree. “See where the branches fork right there? That’s the perfect spot for a tree house.”

“I had a tree house when I was little,” Ivy said. “Until someone set it on fire.” She looked pointedly at Clint.

Bryn laughed. “I sense there’s a story that goes along with this disaster.”

“A tale of love gone wrong,” Clint said. “I was seven, and even back then I was trying to win Ivy’s heart. So, I set up a candlelit lunch for two, complete with Little Debbie snack cakes and fruit roll ups. And I lit the candle before I went to knock on her door because I wanted everything to be perfect. Only she wasn’t home, so I decided to go ride my bike, forgetting about the candle.”

“By the time I came home from the zoo,” Ivy said, “The firemen were at my house. You should have seen Clint being brave and confessing what he’d done.”

“Honesty is always the best policy,” Valmont said. “So did you forgive him?”

“I was mad for about a week, but I got over it.” Ivy reached over and ruffled Clint’s Mohawk.

“I never had a tree house,” Bryn said. “Because we never had a yard.” She eyed the branches above her. “We could build a platform of ice up there and pretend it’s a tree house.”

“That might hurt the tree,” Ivy said. “Tell you what. After Clint and I are married, you and Valmont can come help us build a tree house in our backyard.”

And there it was again, the easy certainty of Clint and Ivy’s future. They’d marry and live in a three bedroom house near their families. After awhile, they’d have children who’d grow up and attend the Institute and the cycle would continue. Nothing about her own future seemed certain or easy.

If her grandparents had their way, she’d marry Jaxon. It wouldn’t be a real marriage. Any children they might have would be created through artificial means, no nakedness involved. Still…she had always assumed that one day she’d fall in love with a guy like Valmont, move into a middle class subdivision and have a typical life. Instead, she’d live a lie in a ginormous mansion where she probably wouldn’t be allowed to build a tree house, even if she wanted one.

“Do you think Blues build mini-mansions in trees for their kids?” Bryn asked.

“Probably not,” Ivy said. “But you can come play in ours.”

Bryn lay back in the grass. “I’m having one of those, who-kidnapped-my-life? moments. So excuse me, while I have a small pity party.”

“I’ll be there for you,” Valmont said. “No matter what. Remember that.”

What would she do without Valmont? He was her link to a normal life. “You’re the best knight ever.”

“Why are you laying in the grass?” Jaxon’s voice preceded him as he walked toward her.

Bryn sat up. “We’re making plans for a tree house. What’s up?”

“Why would anyone want a tiny house in a tree?” Jaxon asked. “It makes no sense.”

“Then you aren’t invited to play in mine when I finally have the chance to build one.”

“Imagine my devastation,” Jaxon shot back.

She stuck her tongue out at him because it seemed like the thing to do. Surprisingly, he laughed which made her smile. “I know you didn’t drop by to make small talk, so what’s going on?”

“I have it on good authority that we’ll be called to my father’s office at six thirty tomorrow morning unless we go speak with him now.”

Bryn turned to Valmont. “You choose. Do it now or get up early and go tomorrow.”

“Is there a third choice?” Valmont asked. “Because I don’t like either of those options.”

Bryn pushed to her feet and held her hand out to him. “Come on. If we get this over with now, we can have the rest of the weekend to do what we want.”

Valmont let Bryn pull him to his feet.

Clint and Ivy stood, dusting off their clothes. “We’re coming with you,” Clint said.

“Are you sure?” Bryn asked. “Have you forgotten how delightful Ferrin is?”

“Nope,” Clint said. “But they’re liable to say you can’t share whatever information they tell you but if I’m there and hear it firsthand then I’ll already know.”

Jaxon opened his mouth like he was going to comment on Clint’s convoluted logic, but then he shook his head, turned, and walked toward the library.

“I think you rendered a Westgate speechless,” Valmont said. “Nicely done.”

Chapter One
I pluck at my crimson tunic, tenting the lightweight linen away from my sticky skin. The southern Sintan climate isn’t my worst nightmare, but it sometimes ranks pretty high, right along with the stifling layers of cosmetics masking my face, my leather pants, and my knee-high boots.

Heat and leather and heels don’t mix, but at least looking like a brigand means blending into the circus. Here, discreet only gets you noticed.

Craning my neck for a breath of fresh air, I navigate my way through the beehive of tables already set up for the circus fair. The performers on the center stage are the main attraction. The rest of us surround them, carving out places for ourselves amid the crowd. Tonight, hemmed in on all sides in an amphitheater lit by hundreds of torches and filled to capacity, I feel like a Cyclops is sitting on my chest—suffocated.

Damp curls cling to my neck. I peel them off and tuck them back into my braid, scanning the crowd as I walk. I recognize some of the regulars. Others I don’t know. My eyes trip over a man and get stuck. He’s looking at me, and it’s hard not to look back. He’s striking in a dark, magnetic way, his size, weapons, and bearing all telling me he’s a tribal warlord. His build is strong and masculine, his gait perfectly balanced and fluid. He walks with predatory confidence, unhurried, and yet there’s no mistaking his potential for swift, explosive violence. It’s not latent or hidden, just leashed.

Watchful, alert, he’s aware of everything in his vicinity. Especially me.

Our gazes collide, and something in me freezes. His eyes remind me of Poseidon’s wrath—stormy, gray, intense—the kind of eyes that draw you in, hold you there, and might not let you go.

Adrenaline surges through me, ratcheting up my pulse. My heart thumping, I blink and take in the rest of him. Intelligent brow. Strong jaw. Wide mouth. Hawkish nose. Black hair brushes a corded neck atop broad shoulders that have no doubt been swinging a sword since before he could walk. Body toned to perfection, skin darkened by a lifetime in the sun, he’s battle-chiseled and hard, the type of man who can cleave an enemy in two with little effort and even less consequence to his conscience.

He keeps staring at me, and a shiver prickles my spine. Is this man my enemy?

There’s no reason to think so, but I didn’t stay alive this long without the help of a healthy dose of paranoia.

Wary, I sit at my table, keeping an eye on him as he weaves a bold path through an array of potions, trinkets, and charms. He’s flanked by four similar men. Their coloring varies, but they all have the same sure look about them, although they pale in comparison to the warlord in both authority and allure. The man with the gray eyes is a born leader, and only an idiot would mistake him for anything else.

He stares for so long that I start to wonder if he can somehow bore through my layers of face paint and unmask me, but I’ve never seen him before, and he can’t possibly know the person underneath. I’m from the north of Fisa, where magic is might. He’s from the south of Sinta, where muscle and cunning decide who lives or dies. Our paths would never have crossed in the past, and warlords don’t usually frequent the circus.

I look away, hoping he’ll do the same. There are plenty of reasons a man stares at a woman. An exotic face and generous figure attract as much attention as a good mystery, if not more, and the warlord’s intense scrutiny feels more appreciative than alarming.

Ignoring the flush now creeping into my cheeks, I smooth the wrinkles from the coarse wool blanket covering my table and arrange my paraphernalia like usual. My glittering, gold-lettered sign advertises Cat the Magnificent—Soothsayer Extraordinaire, even though flashes of the future only come here and there, usually in dreams. Luckily, it only takes a few questions for truths to reveal themselves like flowers opening for the sun. I read people’s body language and glean who they are, what they want, and maybe even what they’re capable of. It’s about knowledge and illusion. I get a copper for it, which is more than a fair deal for me. I won’t peddle futures. I have an idea of my own, and that’s more than enough.

My leg starts a nervous bounce. Prophecies can be interpreted loosely, right?

The audience gasps, and I turn to see what’s happening on the stage. Vasili is throwing knives at his wife. She’s strapped to the flat side of a vertical, rotating wheel, and he’s blindfolded. He’s never hit her, but my heart still comes to a complete standstill every time they perform. Tonight is no exception, and I hold my breath, both riveted and terrified, until he runs out of knives.

The crowd is too caught up in the circus to take advantage of the fair, so I get up again and head to the performers’ gate to watch the end of the show and put some distance between the warlord and me. He’s still looking when he shouldn’t be.

The air coming through the gate is fresher, bringing with it the sound of Cerberus’s chuffing breaths and the scent of sweaty dog. He’s Hades’s pet, so I doubt the heat bothers him. I toss him a wave, and two of his three upper lips curl in a snarl of acknowledgment. One of these days, I’ll get all three, although in eight years I never have. I think his middle head just doesn’t like me.

Finished with his performance, Vasili unstraps his wife while Aetos launches himself onto the stage with a triple flip and lands in a fighter’s crouch that shakes the platform. The solid wood creaks under his colossal weight, and the rapt crowd murmurs in awe. Aetos straightens, pounds his chest, tears the horse pelt off his giant back, and catches fire. His roar shakes the amphitheater. No one can roar like Aetos. I’ve seen him perform hundreds of times, and I still get chills.

Seven and a half feet tall, muscle-bound, and tattooed blue from head to toe with Tarvan tribal swirls, he moves his hands in an impossibly fast dance, weaving fire until he’s encased in a sphere of living flame. He bursts through the crackling barrier with another roar. The explosion blasts the hair away from my face and dries out the inside of my nose. I’m forty feet away but feel like I’m in the furnaces of the Underworld. Fanning myself is useless. I’ll never get used to the southern heat, and with Aetos performing, it’s even worse.

The Sintan Hoi Polloi can barely contain themselves. It’s like doing tricks for children—everything enchants. For them, the circus is a whirlwind of power and impossible magical delights. Everywhere from the hard-packed dirt floor surrounding the fair tables and stage to the high, far reaches of the circular stone seating, people jump up and down, hooting and stomping their feet.

My feet tap along with the crowd’s, my eyes following Aetos around the stage. What a relief to be back in Sinta, even with all the dust and heat. I do whatever I can to stay on the west side of Thalyria. Our recent sojourn in the middle realm of Tarva made my lungs tight and my fingers itch for a knife. I’d probably start jumping at shadows if the circus ever went all the way east to Fisa. Just the thought of my home realm makes my sweat turn cold.

Sinta. Tarva. Fisa. West to east. Here to… Nothing I’m going to think about.

The audience whoops in approval of Aetos’s fiery moves. Hoi Polloi in the amphitheater are ecstatic—and not only with the show. They’ve been celebrating ever since a warlord from the tribal south hacked his way north to Castle Sinta to put his own sister on the throne. You’d think Dionysus had dumped a three-month supply of wine over the entire realm. Temples are overflowing with Sintans offering prayers of gratitude, their holy men overcome with gifts to help clothe and feed the poor. Statues of Athena, who is apparently well loved by the conquering warlord, have been spontaneously erected in towns and villages from here to the Ice Plains in Sinta’s north. Happiness and generosity abound, and I don’t even want to think about how many sheep have been slaughtered for celebratory feasts.

For the first time ever, the magicless majority is in charge, and Hoi Polloi are literally dancing in the streets—but only when they’re not throwing themselves in abject loyalty at the feet of the new royal family. Or so I’ve heard. I haven’t actually seen the new royals, but news spreads fast when there’s something to say. After the warlord and his southern army secured the Sintan throne last spring, his family took weeks just to move north. Not because they’re slow, but because of the sheer number of adoring people in their way.

It’s no secret the northern-born Magoi royals here in Sinta were despots, just like everywhere else in Thalyria. Hoi Polloi know they’re better off with one of their own in charge.

But royals without magic? My cynical snort is lost in the boisterousness of the crowd. It’ll never last.

Sweeping the horsehide back over his shoulders, Aetos takes a mighty leap into the air and doesn’t come back down. He hovers well above the open-air seating and shoots flames into the darkening sky. They drizzle down in a shower of sparks that char the raised wooden stage and add to the oppressive heat. He lands with the last of them, tramples a budding fire under his huge boot, roars of course, and then takes a solemn bow.

I cover my ears, grinning. I might go deaf from the applause.

Aetos stomps to the exit in a swirl of black cape and red flame, nodding to me as Desma takes the stage for her Dance of a Thousand Colors.

She moves to the melody of a kithara, starting out slowly and building speed until she’s whirling around the stage in a kaleidoscope of color. Her feet barely touch the ground. A rainbow shines from every pore, from every strand of hair and eyelash, illuminating summer’s twilight with an impossibly complex brightness. Her eyes glow with more shades of color than even the Gods have names for. Inconceivably beautiful, Desma is the grand finale, and the crowd worships her.

I’m as spellbound by Desma’s dance as everyone else, and Vasili startles a squeak out of me when he nudges me in the ribs with the blunt end of a knife.

“You should be out there with her, Cat. Make a new act and call it the Fantastical Fisan Twins.”

I whip the knife out of his hand, flip it, and nudge him back. “Twins look alike.”

He looks back and forth between Desma and me. “Short. Long, dark hair. Bright-green eyes. Fisan.”

Okay. He has a point. We’re even the same age—twenty-three.

I sweep a hand down, indicating my curvaceous figure, and then point to Desma’s much straighter frame.

Vasili grins, and his mustache spreads out, nearly meeting his bushy eyebrows on either side. “There is that. Desma should eat more.”

I snort. “Or I should eat less.”

“You’re a woman, Cat. That’s how you’re supposed to look.”

I make a face at him. Vasili has treated me like family since the day I showed up—fifteen years old, emaciated and dirty, with blisters all over my feet. “There’s nothing like starving to make a person appreciate food,” I say, my eyes roaming the place where I first saw Selena’s traveling circus in action. Eight years have passed, but this southern Sintan dust heap is still my favorite venue.

Vasili grabs his knife back and twirls the base of the hilt on his palm, spinning it on an imaginary axis.

I watch the whirling blade. “You know I wish I could do that.”

Smiling, he increases the speed until the knife is nothing but a blur.

“Show-off,” I grumble.

He chuckles, backing up so that Desma can make her way through the gate. She keeps moving, swaying rhythmically, and I turn to follow. We all know from experience that she can’t just stop, or the colors will build up inside her, the pressure unbearable. She takes my hands and spins me into her dance, our feet stirring dust into the shimmering air. We pass Cerberus on our way out, and one head pops up, ears twitching.

Desma’s colors skitter over me with tiny teeth, nipping at my skin. Her rainbows jump to me, eager, and I absorb them so fast the magic leaves me breathless and floating.

“You soothe me, Cat.” She guides us along the rough stone wall as we travel down the back side of the amphitheater. “You’re a balm to my soul.”

“I’m a bucket of water to your torch.”

She laughs at my tart response, colors pouring from her throat and sinking into me.

It doesn’t take long for Desma to stop glowing, and her power leaves me energized enough to forget the stifling heat. Rainbows fly from my fingertips, painting the evening shadows with splashes of color. I draw a picture of the Minotaur on the wall and then aim harmless ribbons of magic at friends who pass. Tadd and Alyssa launch into tumbling runs over the burned-out grass to avoid the beams. Zosimo and Yannis take my colorful volley head-on before staggering to the ground with imaginary wounds.

“Cat! You’re a menace!” Aetos booms from behind me.

Laughing, I whirl and hit him with everything I’ve got left. The magic can’t do more than tickle, but he acts like he’s on the glaciers again, pitting himself against the man-eating Mare of Thrace.

His face contorts, turning more menacing with every step. I eye his hulking form and the giant horsehide flapping behind him like dark wings and wish I’d braved the Ice Plains, defeated a monster, and made an offering like that mare’s head to the Gods.

What did I do to deserve my magic, apart from survive?

Aetos wades through the color-thick air and grabs me, crushing me in a bear hug. “Who’s laughing now?” he rumbles somewhere above my head.

“Too tight.” I gasp, the magic fizzling as my bones shift.

“Sorry.” He lets go, and I breathe again. His eyes, glacial blue like the Ice Plains, narrow when he gets a good look at me. “Zeus! You look like you’re forty.” He taps a finger against my cosmetic-layered nose. “Your face paints are so thick I can hardly see what’s under there.”

“That’s the idea,” I say with a cagey grin.

His expression sobers. “Who are you hiding from, Cat? Who are you?”

I clam up, humor draining from me like someone else’s magic. Aetos hasn’t looked at me like this in years. Not since he stopped asking where I ran from and why I scream at night.

I force a cocky smile. “I’m Cat the Magnificent. Soothsayer Extraordinaire.”

He doesn’t smile back, only letting me off the hook once he gives me a look that says he’s not done fishing. “Time to dazzle some Sintans, Cat the Magnificent. Soothsayer Extraordinaire.”

The tension I hate so much breaks when Desma pats my rump. “Either those pants shrank or you’re eating too many spice cakes again.”

I make a sound of disgust. “Why is everyone ganging up on me?”

She grins. “Because you’re weird, and nobody knows who you are.”

“My pants are fine.” Actually, they’re verging on truly uncomfortable, but I’m not about to admit it now.

Aetos crosses his arms, frowning. “They are too tight. If I see anyone looking at you for more than five seconds, I’ll tear his bloody head off his bloody body.”

My right eyebrow creeps up. “Then everything will be very bloody.”

“Laugh all you want,” he growls. “Just don’t get splashed.”

I make a sign to the Gods on Olympus. “Grant me patience.”

“Seriously, Cat.” Desma grabs my arm, unexpected urgency in her grip. “Those face paints and that outfit make you look a lot older and more experienced than you are. Tread carefully in the crowd tonight.”

I roll my eyes. “I have done this before.”

“I know.” She releases me as abruptly as she grabbed me. “But things are different in Sinta now, especially in the south. These people have realized that muscle can overcome magic. Hoi Polloi have been feeling feisty all spring and summer, and you wouldn’t want to kill anyone by accident.”

Everything in me stills. “What makes you think I can do that?”

Desma shrugs. Aetos looks way too interested, so I shift the focus to him.

“You can kill with fire.”

“I can kill with one finger,” he scoffs, snapping for good measure. “Fast, too.”

Desma’s small hands land on her narrow hips. “We’re talking about magic, not obscenely overmuscled Giants.”

“Who are you calling obscene, rainbow woman?” Aetos’s barrel chest heaves with indignation, thunderclouds gathering in his eyes.

“Stop!” I cut off their bickering before they have a chance to warm up. The Fates got everything backwards with these two—a huge, tattooed southerner with fire and flight and a tiny Demigoddess with nothing to show for her Olympian heritage except rare beauty and a colorful glow. What a pair. I wish they would finally sleep together and get all the repressed emotion out in the open. “I have to go. My table’s up.”

Aetos winks. “Careful out there.”

I shove him. It’s like ramming my hand into a marble statue. “Why does everyone suddenly think I need protection? Didn’t you just decide I’m the menace who can kill by accident?”

“So you can?” Desma asks.

I shake my head. “Of course not.” I hate lying to my friends.

***

A boy with a berry ice in his hand and red dripping down his chin passes me three times before he finally stops.

I point to the chair across from me. “Sit.”

Looking skittish, he lands on the edge of the seat. “Can you see my future?” he asks.

“Maybe.” Never commit to something you probably can’t do. I can try to have tea with Zeus. That doesn’t mean I’ll succeed.

His expression turns belligerent. “Does that mean you can’t?”

“Let’s make a deal.” I lean forward, lowering my voice. “If you don’t think I do a good job, you don’t have to pay me.”

Hazel eyes sharpen, and he nods.

“Say it,” I prompt.

“It’s a deal.”

I sit back, satisfied. “What do you want to know?”

He shifts uncomfortably. His face, boyish and awkward now, but promising to break hearts in a few years, scrunches up. I wait, trying to look patient until his question finally pops out.

“Will I ever have magic?”

I stifle a sigh. You’re either born with magic or you aren’t. Magoi or Hoi Polloi. It seems cruel to dash his hopes too fast, though. “Give me your hand.”

Trusting, he holds out his right hand.

I wipe my slippery palm on my leather pants, which does nothing, and then take his hand in mine. His is sticky with berry ice juice, and our hot skin fuses.

Palm reading is an ancient ritual, one that holds no bearing on anything whatsoever. You can’t read a damn thing from the lines on someone’s hand, but if the boy has even a tiny, glacial shard of the Ice Plains inside him, I’ll feel it. His power will want to come to me the same way mortals reach for the Gods.

There’s nothing. He’s warm, sticky, and smells like kalaberries. His hand holds no power, although that doesn’t mean magic is forever out of his reach. I hesitate before sending him on a dangerous path. “Why do you want magic?”

His cheeks color. “I’ll never be as smart and strong as the tribal warlords. If I don’t have magic, I won’t have anything.”

That’s not true. He has a brain. He seems healthy. He can do anything he wants. The boy believes what he’s saying, though, or else my magic would react to the lie.

“Are you brave?” I ask.

He looks surprised. “I-I try to be.”

“Do you love your mother?”

He nods, his brow creasing at my question.

“Say it out loud,” I insist.

“I love my mother.”

“Is your family good to you?”

He starts to nod, and I raise a warning finger with my free hand. I have to hear it. There’s magic in spoken language. It’s binding. There’s a reason people ask for someone else’s word. Every sentence a person utters can be a promise—or a betrayal.

“They’re good to me,” he answers.

A loving family. How novel.

“If you saw a child being beaten, would you walk away or would you intervene?”

His eyes widen. “But what could I do?”

“That doesn’t answer the question.” A hard edge creeps into my voice, and he pales.

Note to self: Don’t scare children.

His shoulders straighten. “I would intervene.”

I brace for a ripping in my soul. Surprisingly, none comes. He’s told me the truth, which makes him worthy of my advice. He’s also courageous and has a family that will support him, which means he might actually survive it.

“The Gods favor kindness and selflessness.” Some do at least, and despicable people like Cousin Aarken get chomped. Ha! “Under the right circumstances, goodness and honesty can be rewarded.”

The boy looks confused. “I have to be good and ask the Gods for magic?”

I sit back, releasing his hand. “Yes, but you can’t just go to the temples, pray, and say ‘please, please.’ It doesn’t work that way. You have to prove yourself. When you’re older, wiser, and much stronger, choose either the Ice Plains or the Lake Oracles.”

“You mean go north.” His freckled nose wrinkles in distaste.

“That’s where the magic is. Here, we’re so far from Olympus that it’s weak and diluted in the people who possess any at all. Even Magoi have trouble this far south. It’s harder for most of us to wield our power.”

“Most?”

I wink conspiratorially. “Most.”

The boy chews on his berry-stained lip with teeth that are white and straight. “Which should I choose?”

He’s so earnest that something in my chest tightens. I’m pointing him toward vicious magical creatures or Oracle fish the size of Dragons. What if I’m sending him to his death?

“You have to be very strong to survive the Ice Plains. The Oracles are capricious but usually the safer bet.”

He nods, storing the information away. I should charge two coppers for this kind of thing, especially in southern Sinta. There’s more ignorance of magic and history here than anywhere else in Thalyria.

“Which lake?” he asks.

Make that three coppers. Maybe even four…

“That’s your choice, and it depends on which God you want protecting you.” I pitch forward and then say in a low voice, “But if you’re anywhere near Fisa and you see Poseidon’s three-tentacled trout, tell it Catalia says hello.”

I draw back, alarmed. What in the Underworld? I don’t blurt things out. I don’t just hand over information about myself that I’ve never told my friends, including my full name.

The boy’s eyes go as round as clay pots. “You’ve been to an Oracle?” he says far too loudly.

My stomach lurches while I wonder when I stopped being in control of my own mouth.

Damn meddling Gods. What do they want with this kid? Or worse—with me?

I reluctantly nod. “And came out the right end. Not the back,” I clarify. I don’t even want to think about being digested by a giant fish. “Oracles will look you in the eye, poke around in your head, and then taste you. If you’re lucky, they’ll help you. If you’re not worthy, they’ll swallow you whole.”

He pales. “Eat…people?”

“Even Oracles need to eat. I have a cousin who found that out the hard way.”

The boy’s jaw practically hits my table.

“Oh, he deserved it,” I assure him. Mother knew Aarken and I were rivals and informed me with her usual cruelty and disappointment that I should have taken care of him before the Oracle did. Kill or be killed—the family motto.

“You’re amazing.” The boy sounds breathless.

I laugh. Sort of. “Everyone thinks so.”

He grins at my obvious humility and starts digging around in his pocket for a copper.

“Keep it,” I tell him. “Buy yourself another berry ice and bring one back for me.” It’s so hot I’m tempted to let one melt down the back of my neck, but I’m sticky enough as it is.

“Thanks!” He grins even wider.

I hope the information I’ve revealed about myself remains between us. His smile is charming, and I don’t want another enemy. “How old are you?”

“Thirteen,” he answers proudly.

It’s only a small deception. Pain still rips my soul. Flames sear me from the inside, igniting in my core and lashing out to char my bones. I lock my body down, holding still until the burning passes.

“You’re eleven,” I say coolly. “Why would you lie?”

His face falls, and he stares at his feet. “I wanted to impress you.”

“Lies never impress.” I try not to grit my teeth and scare him. “Remember that when you see the Oracle, or you might come out the wrong end.”

He nods without looking up.

Sweat breaks out on my upper lip. A bead of moisture slips down my spine. Between the southern climate and the boy’s lie, someone’s going to have to peel me out of my pants. I hope Desma’s up for the job.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Jason.” He’s still hanging his head.

“Go get me that berry ice, Jason of Sinta. I’m melting in this heat.”

He flashes me a relieved smile and dashes off.

I lean back in my chair, fanning myself and longing for the cool north, a view of the Ice Plains, and a way to take back certain parts of what I just said. At least the kid doesn’t realize it’s important. Poseidon and Fisa are worlds away to a southern Sintan boy. Catalia doesn’t mean anything to him.

I’m just starting to convince myself that my unprecedented slipup wasn’t so colossal when a deep voice rumbles behind me, making me start.

“The Gods don’t favor kindness and selflessness. They favor strength and courage.”

Waking up from a deep, healing sleep reminds me of rushing toward the surface of a lake, brightness beckoning from above and bubbles fizzing all around me.

Consciousness threads through me in a delicate weave. It’s afternoon. The air smells of bright sun, hot stone, and endless days of summer drought. Insects chirp, their droning song a parched melody, the heat so thick I could cut it with a knife. I don’t question the time of day, just which day, and I’m guessing it’s not the same day I fell asleep. And almost died. Again.

Under the sheet, I brush my fingers over the tender skin on my stomach, finding the raised bump of a fresh scar there. Just one more mark to join the others, inside and out.

I look toward Griffin’s side of the bed, not surprised to find it empty and the sheets cold. He has things to do, a realm to run.

I sigh, which is absurd. I never sighed until I met Griffin.

The indent of his head still creases the pillow, and I slide my hand into the hollow, thinking about how far we’ve come since he abducted me for my Kingmaker Magic and I fought him at every turn.

But Griffin got more than he bargained for with me, and I still can’t bring myself to tell him the worst.

Harbinger of the end. Destroyer of realms.

I squeeze my eyes shut, craving the blissful avoidance of heavy sleep again. But I’m not tired anymore, and half-truths and glaring omissions fester in my belly, cold blocks of dread sitting right there under the heat of my new scar. Who I am. The dreadful prophecy. I wasn’t even truthful about Daphne’s lurking and threats, and hiding things from Griffin is exactly what landed me in this bed, injured and aching. Griffin’s former lover knew what she was doing when she hid in the shadows and threw a knife into my gut. What she didn’t know was that I would pull it out and throw it back.

The door opens, and I turn my head, my heart thudding at the sight of Griffin. Tall, broad, muscular but sleek, he stalks into the room like a predator, his gait balanced and sure, his glittering, gray eyes focused entirely on me. Inky hair, a hawkish nose, that stubborn jaw, and thick, black stubble make him look hard and intimidating. With his sword strapped on and his dark brows lowered, he’s a warlord on the prowl.

I shiver. I couldn’t want him more.

A lightning storm sizzles to life in my magic-charged veins. I look at Griffin, feel him near, and I can ignore all the terrifying things that make me want to crawl inside of myself and disappear. He stops next to the bed, and my blood simmers with heat and need. I wonder what he’ll do to me. What I’ll do to him.

I reach for him, but Griffin crosses his arms and stares down at me from above.

My hand hangs awkwardly in the air, and my heart hovers along with it. An awful tightness clamps around my throat, turning my voice to gravel. “I can still feel you inside me.”

His stony expression doesn’t change, but his iron gaze dips to my bare breasts. When his eyes flick back up, they’re like frosted granite. “Have you enjoyed making a fool out of me?”

The bottom of my stomach drops out with sickening force. I pull the sheet up to cover myself, clutching it hard to keep my hands from trembling. It doesn’t work. Adrenaline roars through me, making me shake.

“What do you mean?” My eyes are wide, my words reedy. Guilty. It’s a good thing I’m not a gambler if this is my game face. But I’ve never had so much to lose.

Griffin reaches out and rips the sheet from my hands and right off the bed. He holds on to it. “I think you know. Or are there too many lies to choose from?”

I sit up, shame and anxiety splashing red-hot color all over my naked skin. At the realm dinner, Griffin vowed to uncover my secrets. I didn’t think he’d do it this fast.

Azrael smiled, flashing perfect white teeth that sported incisors slightly longer than the norm. Some people naturally looked like that, he knew, but on him it looked different enough that he didn’t smile often. On him, it seemed to fit too perfectly and only served to reinforce the otherworldly impressions people often had when looking at him.
He was a starkly charismatic individual. He was taller than anyone he knew, save perhaps Samael. His voice could literally mesmerize. He was also uncommonly, almost painfully handsome. He wasn’t certain why the Old Man had seen fit to bother with such a thing while simultaneously making him a vampire. It was like the curse of Beethoven, who created the most beautiful music in the world and couldn’t hear it. What good was a beautiful face when placed on a monster?

But Sophie didn’t seem to mind the hint of fang he exposed. In fact, as he brushed her mind, unable to help himself from drawing nearer to her in any way possible, he was surprised to find that she found it attractive. My God, she thought. He really does look like a vampire.

This was the second time she had thought such a thing. If he’d been capable of choking, he would have done so the first time her mind had muttered the impression. Hearing it now had nearly as strong an effect on Azrael. Sophie wasn’t repulsed by vampires. And the idea that he resembled one was appealing to her.

Of course, Azrael was no fool. A lot of girls believed they would enjoy the company of a vampire – if vampires existed. In reality, he knew they would cower or scream or run, or most likely all three. Still… he found himself hoping.

“Sophie Bryce, right? The maid of honor?” he asked, his smile utterly disarming. He’d had millennia to practice.

Sophie blinked and he read her thoughts. She was desperately trying to find her head in the wake of his sudden presence. She’d been torturing herself over the last few days, and he knew it. He’d watched her every night. Listened to her. He knew damn well that she was drawn to him – and that she hated herself for it.

He sensed it when a slight pain twinged up her arm and Sophie realized that her friend was holding her tight. Taylor’s fingers curled into Sophie’s forearm in utter distraction, her hazel eyes glued to Azrael. He knew she couldn’t help it and wasn’t aware of what she was doing, but the fact that she’d brought his archess even the slightest discomfort was difficult for Az to ignore. It upset him.

And with practiced control, he tamped down the anger.

Sophie, on the other hand, appeared to be glad for the pain. It shot through the dazed fog that Az’s appearance had caused. It also cleared her senses enough to allow her to pull her arm out of Taylor’s grip, clear her throat, and say, “Yes.” He tried not to smile when her voice cracked halfway through the single syllable. She cleared her throat some more and forced a smile to her lips. “That’s me.” She was so fucking cute with half of her glorious golden locks tucked up underneath that Penguins cap. Wisps of it fell about her face, framing it and caressing it the way he wanted to.

He chuckled softly, watching her carefully to gauge the effect his laugh had on her. Sophie’s gold eyes brightened, her lips parted, and her cheeks flushed ever so slightly. Az’s monster reared its head and he felt his vision begin to heat up. If he wasn’t careful, his eyes would begin to glow. “We never got the chance to actually meet the other night,” he told her, forcing himself to continue with the charade.

“No,” she agreed, relieved that she was finally finding her voice. “We didn’t.”

He cocked his head to one side and slid his gaze from hers to regard her friends. He needed to look away – just for a moment. Long enough to get himself under control once more. His gold eyes slowly scanned the faces of her companions – and then stopped on the pair of men who sat behind them.

A quick scan of their minds told him they were recent graduates from Carnegie Mellon University. The one on the right was the son of a wealthy factory owner here in the city. His name was Richard. And he’d been thinking all sorts of biblical things about Sophie that night.

Azrael grew very still and something dark flickered across his face. He knew it was there; he knew he was failing to hide his sudden fury. But he barely cared.

Richard fell back into the curve of his seat and swallowed hard as the blood drained from his face. Below him, Sophie cleared her throat, at once drawing Azrael’s attention. Sophie slowly stood and turned to face him. “Az, these are my friends, Taylor and Emily.” She gestured toward them and they smiled nervously, but politely, nodding in his direction.

Emily and Taylor’s eyes were still a little glazed over at his presence, so, Az allowed some of his vampiric influence to snake around and through the girls, easing them into a more comfortable state of relaxation.

It worked like a charm. Within seconds, Taylor was smiling easily and standing to greet him properly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, extending her hand.

“Likewise,” Az agreed, and with a slight bow, accepted the offered hands of both Taylor and then Emily, who quickly followed suit.

While he shook hands, Sophie’s thoughts echoed through Az’s mind.

She couldn’t believe that her friends weren’t guessing he was the Masked One. It seemed so obvious to her now that she knew his secret. Everything about him screamed of the kind of rock star charisma that it took to hold millions of fans in sway.

Meanwhile, Sophie’s gaze traveled over Azrael’s form, and he tried not to visibly crow with the triumph he felt when she shamelessly took in the way the black button-up shirt under his sports coat stretched taut across the muscles of his chest. She was particularly fond of the curve of his neck where it met his shoulder.

Azrael released Emily’s hand, straightened again, and heard Sophie’s heart rate speed up.

He looked up to see that her sunshine eyes were glassy with unabashed desire. And, as if it would hide the way her mouth watered for him, she had pressed her bottom lip between two perfect, white teeth. Azrael’s gaze locked on the plump lip. He quickly slipped his hands into the pockets of his trench coat as they tightened into fists at his sides, and his nails began to cut into his palms. He imagined her pressing hard enough with her teeth to draw blood.

If she did… it would all be over.

“Juliette mentioned you live in Pittsburgh,” he said, trying to break through not only his tension, but hers. “I’d forgotten.” His tone was gentle, personal. He knew that to her, it was as if they were the only two in the arena.

“For now,” she told him flat-out. She didn’t want to bore him with the fact that she would only be there for two more days, but he was well aware.

“But what are you doing here?” she asked, honestly curious. It was quite a coincidence to her that she had never seen him before in her life – and then, suddenly, she’d seen him twice in the space of a week. She wasn’t stupid; she was wary.

That was okay with him. He had a story and he would use it, but even this lie was too much of a secret for him to share with her friends. Az glanced at Taylor and Emily and smiled an easy, even somewhat shy smile. “It’s a personal matter actually,” he said. “However…” he paused, turned, and glanced up toward the private booths up above them. His band awaited him in one of them; they had a bird’s eye view of the entire arena from their vantage point. He knew because he’d been watching Sophie from it all night.

He also knew that Sophie had never been in one of those suites herself, and he was hoping she’d be tempted enough by what he was about to offer that he could pull her away from her companions at least for a little while. “Second period will begin in a few minutes,” he said, looking back down at her and scorching her once more with stark eyes. “And there is plenty of room in our suite for another guest.” He chanced another glance at the men seated behind Sophie – especially Richard – and was smugly satisfied when the young man looked as though he wanted to piss himself. “Perhaps you would care to join me?” he asked, turning his gaze back on his archess.

He could hear her blood rushing through her veins. He was scaring her and thrilling her at the same time. She was finding it hard to think.

He wasn’t opposed to working with that; he had no desire to stand here and play the good guy much longer anyway.

A gentle push of his power, and it surrounded Sophie. In a few moments, she not only found it difficult to think, she found it impossible. Seconds ago, she’d had a thousand reasons why she should keep away from Azrael. And the fact that he belonged to – was destined to be with – another, was the most powerful.

But just then, every reason she’d had, and in fact, reason itself, fled from her consciousness and she found herself saying, “Yes.” She’d barely whispered it, but it was enough.

Azrael’s smile broadened.

Juliette sidled back on the massive four-poster bed, a remotely hesitant part of her still wanting to get away. But the angel smiled a rakish smile and moved over her like a massive cat, graceful and deadly, and she didn’t get far. He skillfully caught her wrists in firm grips and had her pinned before she could blink.

Juliette lay there, her breathing quick and sharp, and stared up at the taut muscles of his arms, chest, and torso. Her gaze boldly trailed across the tanned expanse of toned flesh . . . to where the rest of his body was hidden beyond the unbuttoned waistband of his blue jeans.

Her mouth felt both wet and dry; her heart hammered; her hands flexed beneath the viselike grips he had on her delicate wrists. The castle around them loomed in her periphery, empty yet protective. It felt both ancient and brand-new; its walls were crumbling, enshrouded by the echoes of the tapestries and torch sconces they once held.

The master’s chamber was warmed by the crackling of the flames in the giant stone hearth. And it was chilled by the North Sea wind that ripped through the timeworn windows and raced through the empty, ruined room.

The castle was a skeleton and a ghost, broken down to its barest bones and draped in the memory of what it once was.

The angel, though—he was warm. He was not a ghost. His body was hard and insistent and very, very real above her. He lowered his head to slide his gaze down the length of her slim body, and as he shifted, she once more caught sight of the massive black and silver wings at his back. Their feathers shimmered, iridescent in the shafts of moonlight that speared the empty windows and lit the stage of their clandestine play.

So beautiful, she thought absently.

He looked up and met her gaze, and she found herself at once lost in the strange glowing silver of his eyes.

They’re glowing, she thought in awe.

He pinned her to the bed beneath him with that look; it claimed her, possessed her, and she was certain that no man in the world had ever looked at her—not really—until the angel had.

Juliette knew she was blushing. Her cheeks were hot, and her chest was flushed. Her breasts felt warm and heavy, even as her nipples hardened to painful nubs that scraped the inside of her shirt. Breathing was hard. She wanted to arch beneath him, close the gap he held above her. She wanted to touch him as she’d never wanted anything before.

He stared down at her forever, watching her, taking her in. He was eating her with his eyes and her chest felt tight. She couldn’t take it. His control over her body was absolute. It was as if he willed it and wetness gathered between her legs. As if he knew it was there, he chuckled. The sound rushed over her skin like a caress, deep and deliciously wicked. She shuddered and closed her eyes, fighting the urge to writhe beneath him. She almost broke then. She almost begged him to take her.

What’s wrong with me? she thought. This wasn’t like her. She never gave in easily. She was stubborn to the core. What was happening? How had she let this angel get her into bed? Hadn’t she just met him?

I don’t even know his name. . . .

Her eyes flew open when she felt the butterfly softness of his lips brushing against hers. Teasingly, he pulled back and once more locked her in his inhuman gaze. He said not a word, but smiled that faintly cruel smile of his, flashing teeth both straight and white. In the frame of his too-handsome face, it was nothing short of predatory. And then he put both of her slender wrists in one of his strong hands and used the other to grab the front of her button-up shirt.

The material pulled taut in his grip, scraping her tender nipples and ripping a gasp from her lips. Slowly, almost menacingly, he popped the buttons on the shirt, one after another. And then he let the material slide across her rib cage, opening her body to his stark, hungry gaze.

Now she did moan. The wind rushed across her exposed skin, licking at it hungrily, tightening her nipples beneath him to a painful degree.

He’s going to devour me, she thought. And she didn’t care.

His wings lowered gracefully over the edges of the bed, their silver and raven feathers blocking her from the wind. Then he lowered his head and she felt his hot breath, in stark contrast to the cold, across the hypersensitive flesh of her right breast. She tensed in his grasp, pulling hard against the hold he had on her arms. He held her easily, though, and his tongue flicked out to brush across the tip of her nipple. She jumped in his grasp, crying out at the sensation, but again he held her tight, and again his chuckle rumbled across her skin like silken thunder.

“Please,” she gasped. She didn’t even know what she was begging for. This was just too much. Too strange and perfect. Too much. Angels weren’t supposed to torture people, were they?

With that, the angel lowered himself closer. She felt the tips of her erect nipples brush the hardness of his chest and nearly jumped again. But he distracted her when he used his free hand to shove her tiered miniskirt up her slender thigh. She groaned once more in longing as his hand then roamed across the taut cheeks of her bottom. No underwear . . .

She felt his breath at her ear, cascading goose bumps over her skin. “My pleasure,” he whispered. His hand sank lower.

“. . . tray tables stowed and seat backs in an upright position . . .”

Juliette jolted awake in her seat as the pilot made the announcement that they were coming in for a landing.

The man seated beside her gave her a knowing sideways glance. Juliette blushed, swallowing a groan of embarrassment, and turned to steadfastly stare out the window. Her reflection stared back at her: long, rich brown waves, big hazel eyes that were mostly green at the moment, and flushed cheeks and lips—remnants of her dream.

It wasn’t the first time she’d dreamed of crumbling castles and ghostlike figures. Some nights, she was walking through a Scottish kirkyard, ancient, worn, and collapsing, yet filled with fresh graves and newly chiseled headstones. Other nights she made her way through castles, as she had in this dream. They were ruins and yet they weren’t—she saw the images of what they had once been draped over them like the cloying memories of glory days.

She’d always had dreams like this. Dreams of the past and the present, intermingling and poignant. It was one of the reasons she’d decided to become an anthropologist. The past and its stories intrigued her. It was more than that, even. . . . They called to her.

But this was the first time her dream had included a man. Or an angel.

Her reflection blinked, long lashes brushing against the tops of her cheeks.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, this is your pilot speaking,” the intercom sliced through the air, back to life once more, the static cutting through the dialogue and musical scores of every movie playing in the plane. Juliette glanced around and watched as people’s heads jerked under the volume before they quickly yanked the headsets off their ears. “We’re about six hours and thirty-eight minutes into our flying time now and twenty-three minutes outside of Edinburgh. It’s a brisk March day, forty-one degrees Fahrenheit or four degrees Celsius; wind coming out of the northwest at fifteen miles per hour. . . .”

Juliette let the pilot’s voice drift to the back of her consciousness and continued to gaze out the window at the green and black landscape below. She’d been traveling a lot lately. In the last year, she’d studied in Australia through an overseas program, visited New Zealand, and flown to both coasts of the US, and now she was about to land in Scotland and would be there for several weeks. She was a PhD student in anthropology and was working on her thesis; the travel was mostly for research, and it was her fellowship at Carnegie Mellon that paid for it all.

But Scotland was different for two reasons. For one thing, Juliette had wanted to visit Scotland since she was a little girl. Her parents were Scottish; her mother was a MacDonald and her father was an Anderson. It was in her blood.

The other reason Scotland was different was due to a fairly new development. Juliette had planned on going anyway in order to do ethnological research on the Outer Hebrides islands, where her father’s side of the family originated. And then Juliette’s adviser had contacted her with news: Samuel Lambent, the wealthy and prominent media mogul, had offered Juliette a deal. He would pay her a hefty royalty and foot the bill for the remainder of her research if he could use the information she gleaned for a television miniseries about the legend and lore of Scotland’s more remote areas.

Juliette was so mind-blown by the offer, she hadn’t even thought to ask why Lambent had chosen her, specifically, when there were other students in the world who either were currently studying Scotland or were already well versed in its history. She, of course, jumped on the opportunity.

Obviously there were stipulations. She had to make certain to thoroughly research the kinds of material that would “sell” to a television audience. She also had to meet with one of Lambent’s representatives in person once a week to assure him that enough progress was being made.

Part of Juliette felt like this was a dream. It was too good to be true. She’d never had much money. Though both of her parents were professors, as she would be one day, their fields fell on the poorer side of the financial spectrum of academia. Plus Juliette had what an accountant would no doubt call a “nasty habit” of giving away most of her money. She was just too sensitive. She hated to see people suffer, and whenever she could possibly give something to someone that could alleviate even a little bit of that suffering, she did so.

As a result, she lived modestly.

However, now Juliette could afford just about anything she wanted. Of course, she couldn’t buy a mansion in Beverly Hills, but she didn’t want a mansion in Beverly Hills. And if the miniseries took off, even that mansion might find a place on her list of possibilities if she decided she ever wanted it.

It really was like a dream. The offer had come at a time when Jules was beginning to doubt herself and her sanity. She’d been nearly destitute for so long and grossly overworked between her thesis and her volunteer jobs. She thought she might be reaching a breaking point, because something strange happened during her stay in Australia.

She had been on the beach alone, enjoying a few rare minutes to herself. She’d been staring out over the waves when she saw a surfer go down and not come back up. Somehow, despite her diminutive size, she’d managed to drag his unconscious body out of the water and onto the beach. She could see the head injury and knew he was in bad shape, and then—and then, she did something she could not explain. She put her hand to his chest and imagined that she’d healed him.

In retrospect, Juliette thought she understood what had happened. She must have been hallucinating. It was the logical explanation. The jet lag, the pressure of her studies, and the responsibilities she’d taken on as a volunteer at the local children’s home—it all must have come to a head. Most likely, the man survived only because Juliette got up after her imagined “healing” and ran to the nearest lifeguard station to alert the authorities to the surfer’s accident.

For days and nights, Juliette had thought on those strange, surrealistic minutes and wondered what the hell was happening to her. What kind of a breakdown was it that made a person imagine she was healing someone? She’d thought of dropping out of the program and quitting her volunteer positions. She’d considered telling her parents that she just couldn’t handle it all anymore.

And then Samuel Lambent came along, a saving grace and guardian angel, and he’d offered her this deal. When the contract arrived via FedEx, she’d opened it, grabbed her pen, and signed it after barely reading it. Almost immediately after scrawling her name on the black line, she’d felt her stress levels drop. It was as if a massive weight had been lifted from her shoulders and chest—a dark veil pulled from her mind.

She could kiss Lambent.

Juliette couldn’t wait to get started. Her best friend, Sophie Bryce, was watering her garden for her and had agreed to stay at her rental home, as it was preferable to Sophie’s tiny apartment anyway. Jules was well aware of how lucky she was to have a friend like Soph. The girl had a hard life of her own, yet she had never even blinked before agreeing to help Jules out while she flew around the world to do this research. If Soph was jealous, she didn’t show it.

Juliette smiled and made a promise to herself to buy something special for Sophie in Edinburgh. Or maybe Glasgow. She wasn’t exactly looking forward to renting a car and learning to drive on the wrong side of the road, but everything else about her life in that moment sounded just about perfect.





Och, not again. “Bloody hell,” Gabriel muttered under his breath. He couldn’t believe it was already happening again. He’d only been in Rodel, Scotland, for a few months!

“Get the nuts!” someone in the pub yelled. A few of his mates laughed. “Stoke the bloody fire!” another shouted.

Gabriel ran his hand over his face and tried to look properly embarrassed. It was hard, though. He was more frustrated and angry than embarrassed. He really hadn’t meant for things to go so far this time. Whereas he’d always been admittedly a touch proud in the past when this happened, now it seemed a weary practice, both pointless and painful.

“Ye’ve gone tae far on this one, Black.” Stuart leaned over and spoke softly across the table. “Dougal’s got it in for yae. I dinnae like tae think what will happen if those fecking nuts don’ meet this time.” His accent was thick, as was normal for one who had lived on the islands all his life.

“They won’ meet, Stuart. They never do,” Gabriel replied just as quietly.

Stuart Burns was in his seventies and built hard as nails. He’d never done anything but fish in his life, and fishing on the Outer Hebrides of Scotland didn’t make for an easy existence. It either killed you or made you stronger, and in Stuart’s case, it had done a little of both. In fact, that was how he and Gabriel had met. Gabriel had pulled him out of the icy waters of the North Sea during a fishing accident in Stuart’s youth.

The soft part of Stuart had died in that water. What was left was rigid and right and strong to an absolute fault. But he was a good man, deep down, and a dependable friend. Stuart was the only human alive who knew Gabriel’s secret. He was the only one in Scotland who was aware that Gabriel Black was not in fact the son of Duncan Black, as everyone else believed, but was actually Duncan Black himself, because every member of that particular Black family was actually the same man. Stuart was the only soul privy to the knowledge that there was really no such thing as Duncan Black or even Gabriel Black—there was only Gabriel, the eminent Messenger Archangel and one of the four most celebrated archangels in existence.

Over the centuries, Gabriel had spent a lot of time in Scotland. Some of those times were less pleasant than others. Europe had gone through an Inquisition, a plague, and countless wars, and the tapestry of Scotland’s history was woven from thorny thread. Nonetheless, when she was a fair land, she was a beautiful land, and Gabriel fell in love with his bonnie Caledonia.

However, he could never stay for too long, as he didn’t age, and people would begin to wonder why a fifty- or sixty-year-old man still looked to be in his thirties. Gabriel always left before this could happen. And then, twenty or thirty years later, he would return and pass himself off as the son of the man whose name he had claimed the last time he was in Scotland.

Gabriel’s explanations were always generally the same. His “father” had eloped with a woman from another village or town or city—and Gabriel was the result. Again and again he did this, because not much could keep him away from Scotland. Not for long, anyway.

Gabriel had especially wanted to return this time around. Life had become surreal at the mansion he shared with his three brothers, and in the States, of late. Uriel, one of his brothers, had recently found his archess, and in her a taste of the true happiness so long desired by the archangels. For two thousand years, the former Angel of Vengeance had searched for the female archangel made solely for him by the Old Man. And a few months ago, he had finally come across her. Uriel was the first of his brothers to find his archess. The archesses were treasured, not only by their mates, the archangels—but by the Adarians, a separate and frighteningly powerful race of archangels. The Adarians wanted the archesses for their unique ability to heal. When Uriel located Eleanore, so did the Adarian leader. A series of battles ensued, both physical and mental, and the archangels won, more or less. Now Uriel and Eleanore were happily married in the US.

Gabriel was elated for his brother. Knowing that the feat was possible and that the treasured women they had all sought out for twenty centuries were in fact real filled Gabriel with a sense of promise after having nearly given up hope that he would ever find his own archess.

But at the same time, it was hard to see Uriel and Eleanore together and not wonder . . . would he have to wait a week for his own archess to come out of the woodwork? Or would it be another two thousand years? He wondered whether his brothers Michael, the Warrior Archangel, and Azrael, the Angel of Death, felt the same way.

The thought was too heavy to bear. So, he’d come back to Scotland, and he’d been welcomed by his homeland with open arms. Some arms more open than others.

Across the pub, the fire had been stoked and a metal grid tray had been placed across it as a makeshift grill. Gabriel stifled an inner groan when two large hazelnuts were extracted from the kitchen in the back and brought into the fray of Scotsmen out front.

“Christ,” he muttered. It was a long-standing tradition in the Western Isles of Scotland, though it was supposed to happen only during Samhain, otherwise known as Halloween. However, the people of the Isle of Harris had changed their custom for this particular occasion, on account of one Duncan Black, a treacherously handsome silver-eyed, black-haired man whose existence had called for quite a few hazelnuts in his time.

Tradition stated that two hazelnuts were to be thrown onto the fire, one for each member of a couple. When the nuts heated up, they would pop and “jump.” If they jumped together, the couple was deemed destined for a happy life together, and usually married shortly afterward. If, however, the nuts jumped apart, the couple had better break up. And soon.

Much to Gabriel’s regret now, the late Duncan Black had been popular with the lasses, to say the least. Gabriel knew for a fact that none of Duncan’s “nuts” had ever jumped together. Hell, if they’d even tried, he would have used telekinesis to keep them apart. He was a man with a man’s needs, but none of the women he’d been with were meant to become his bride.

He knew this better than nearly any other man alive. And he’d never been more certain of the truth than he was now that Uriel had found his archess. There was hope where there frankly hadn’t been for far too many years.

And so it was with very real chagrin that Gabriel realized he was right back in “Duncan” Black’s shoes after a mere few months of residing once more in his hometown. It seemed the Black family line was doomed to drive women crazy and men insane with jealousy no matter what.

Gabe felt a little less at fault this time, however. He had had no idea that Edeen was Angus’s sister and he’d heard well enough about Angus Dougal’s reputation. Edeen had come on to Gabriel the first night he’d been back in Harris, when he was signing up for part-time work on Stuart’s boat. She’d told him she had “family” here, but was unattached. Gabriel, of course, was interested. After all, Edeen was a beauty with that shoulder-length flaxen hair and those green eyes. He’d done what any red-blooded man would do! He was innocent enough in that, wasn’t he?

Edeen Dougal was laughing. Gabriel could hear the light sound from across the room. She was seated with her friends at a round table near the window. When Gabe looked up and met her gaze, she offered him a teasing smile and a wink. It was a reassuring gesture to him, because it meant she thought this was funny. She wasn’t taking it seriously.

Gabriel nodded.

At least there was that. Now the only one who would be truly disappointed would be her brother, Angus. Gabriel lifted his head and turned slightly until he had Angus in his sights.

Angus gazed back. It was a cold, hard, green-eyed gaze in a face that many women found nearly as handsome as Gabriel’s. Gabe suspected that probably had something to do with the man’s ire. Of course, the rest of the ire came from the fact that Gabriel had bedded Angus’s sister. This was a very religious and superstitious community. People didn’t generally go sleeping around—especially with the sister of one of the most dangerous men in town.

Angus was tall and solid and as hard in his musculature as Stuart Burns was in the bones. And he had a chip on his shoulder; that much was easy for Gabriel to decipher. If the hazelnuts didn’t meet, he was going to try to prove something with Gabe.

And that wouldn’t end well. Because there wasn’t a human on earth who could best Gabriel in a fight—and at the same time, the last thing Gabe wanted to do was make real trouble by harming a clansman four months into his stay in Harris. Especially when that clansman also happened to be a cop.

“Get me out o’ this,” he whispered to Stuart, his own accent barely discernible when compared with the accent of the man beside him.

When Stuart laughed, it sounded like autumn leaves scratching across the ground in a gust of wind. “Yae got yerself into this, Black. Ye’ll get yerself out.”

Gabriel shot him a look and took a deep breath. He was about to stand up and make some sort of case for not using the hazelnuts as his father and grandfather—and great-grandfather—had done, when Edeen, herself, stood up and waved for everyone’s silence.

“Listen up!” She got on her chair and then, with the help of a few men around her, stood on the table next to her. “Ye’ve all had yer fun!” she said, putting her hands on her hips and eyeing the men dead on. “Now enough’s enough! This is tae be a Samhain tradition, not a March tradition, and I fer one don’t take kindly to yae suggestin’ I marry a man based on what a fecking nut decides tae do!”

There was laughter throughout the pub then, some of it nervous, as women didn’t generally swear a lot on the Outer Hebrides. But Edeen Dougal was a force unto herself and they knew enough to accept it when she did.

Angus Dougal pushed through the crowd and came to stand before her. On the table, Edeen stood a half foot above her brother’s mass of brown hair. She glared down at him, daring him to say something. He dared. “Edeen, get yerself down from there an’ don’t interfere—”

“Och, shut up, Angus. Ye’re no’ me da’.” She made a dismissive gesture toward her older brother and rolled her eyes. “Awa’ with ye an’ bile yer heid.” She jumped down from the table and sauntered toward the front door, tossing a lock of her blond hair over her shoulder as she did so. “I’ll no’ take part in this; I’ll have nothin’ of it.” She turned and addressed the patrons of the pub, in general. “Ye’re all a wee bit childish, don’t ye think?”

Her friends joined her at the front door a moment later, one pulling her jacket on over her sweater, the other adjusting the strap of her purse. Both looked highly amused and a touch embarrassed. But they were obviously used to Edeen’s shenanigans.

With one more farewell nod to the pub owner and bartender, who nodded back with a knowing smile, Edeen Dougal and her companions left the pub.

Gabriel could have wept with relief.

“Ye’re saved, Black.” Stuart grinned, shaking his head admonishingly. “And by a girl, no less.”

“Aye.” Gabriel raised his glass, a lopsided smile on his handsome face. “God bless the womenfolk.”

Chapter One

2,000 years BCE

The archangel Michael gripped the rock in his right hand so hard that his fingers left imprints in the stone. His jaw was clenched, his eyes shut fast against the pain coursing through his veins. The woods were sparse this far north, and the ground beneath him grew colder and harder as the strength was sapped from his inhuman body.

His brother, the archangel Azreal, transformed as he was to a predatory creature, had his fangs embedded deep in the side of his throat, and with each pull and swallow, Michael experienced a new and deeper agony.

“Az…that’s enough,” he ground out, hissing the words through gritted teeth.

I’m sorry, came Azrael’s hesitant reply. He didn’t speak the words, but Michael could hear the genuine regret skating through his brother’s mind. Azrael had yet to pull out—to stop drinking him down.

Not for the first time, Michael knew he would have to use force. He picked up the rock that his fingers grasped, and after another grimace and wince of pain, he slammed the stone into the side of Azrael’s head. His brother’s teeth were ripped from his neck, tearing long gashes in his flesh as Azrael toppled to the side, catching himself on strong but shaking arms.

“Az,” Michael gasped, dropping the rock to cup his hand to the side of his neck. “Az, I’m sorry.” He slowly rolled over, propping himself on one elbow as he attempted to heal the damage. Light and warmth grew beneath his palm, sending curative energy into his wound. But Azrael’s head was still down, his long sable hair concealing his features from Michael’s sight.

“Az?”

“Stop, Michael. I can’t bear it.”

Michael felt the healing complete itself, heard his heart beat steady within his body and closed his eyes. His brother had an incredibly beautiful voice. And yet now, it resonated with despair.

Michael let his hand drop and sat up the rest of the way. He opened his eyes again and looked upon his brother’s bent form. “This pain you’re going through can’t last much longer,” he said, softly.

“A single moment longer is too long,” Azrael whispered. Slowly, and with what appeared to be great effort, his tall, dark figure straightened. He raised his head to meet his brother’s gaze and Michael found himself, once more, staring into eyes of glowing gold, eerie and mesmerizing, in the handsome frame of Azrael’s face.

“Kill me,” Azrael said.

Michael steeled himself and shook his head. “Never.”

If any one of the four archangel brothers could have summoned the will to kill the other, it would not have been Michael, or even Azrael, but rather Uriel. He was the Angel of Vengeance. Only Uriel would be capable of comprehending what it would take to smother empathy and reason and love long enough to deal the final blow Azrael begged for.

But Uriel was not with them. He and their other brother, the archangel Gabriel, had been lost in their plummet to the Earth two weeks ago. The four archangels had been separated and scattered, like dried and dead leaves on a hurricane wind. Michael had no idea where the others were, much less what they might be going through.

He only knew that he had gone through a transformation as he’d taken on this human form. Michael was not as powerful as he’d been before their descent. The nature of his powers was the same, more or less. But the scope of those powers had diminished greatly. He was only able to affect what was immediately around him, and only for a relatively short period of time. His body grew weary. He knew hunger. He often felt weak. He had changed drastically.

But not as much as Azrael.

As the former Angel of Death, Azrael’s change was different from Michael’s. It was darker. It was much more painful. It was as if this new form were steeped in the negative energy he had collected during his seemingly endless prior existence. As the reaper in the field of mortal spirits, Azrael had taken so very many lives. There was a weight to that many souls, and they carried him down with them now. His altered form bore the fangs of a monster, a sensitivity to sunlight that forced him to hide in the shadows of night. Worst of all, it demanded blood.

Always blood.

“Please, Michael.” Azrael’s broad shoulders shook slightly as he curled his hands into fists, and the powerful muscles in his upper body drew taut and pronounced. His skin was pale, his hair the color of night, his eyes like the sun. He looked like a study in contradiction as he gritted his teeth, baring his blood-soaked fangs. “Don’t make me beg.”

Michael got his legs beneath him and stood. He backed up against one of the few trees in the area and opened his mouth to once more refuse his brother’s request when Azrael was suddenly blurring into motion.

Michael’s body slammed hard against the tree’s trunk and the living wood splintered behind him. He was weaker than he’d been several minutes before; blood loss drained precious momentum from his reflexes. Though he was able to heal his wound, he was not able to replace the blood that Azrael took from him.

He’d been here before. He and Azrael had been here every night for two weeks.

Michael didn’t know how long he would be able to engage in this nightly battle with his brother. Azrael was very strong. Even half-crazed with pain, he was most likely the strongest of the four of them. The monster that he had become was eating him up inside. It was devouring the core of his being, leaving him an empty shell.

Life was different on Earth. There had been no discomfort before this. No hunger. No thirst. These sensations were novel to Michael, but whatever discomfort he was experiencing because of his new, more human form, Azrael was obviously suffering a thousandfold. His transformation was brutal, and it was killing him.

But Michael wouldn’t give up on him. Not now—not ever. With great effort, he shoved Azrael off of him and prepared himself for another senseless battle with his brother and best friend.

Somewhere, Uriel and Gabriel were most likely struggling as well—either with themselves, or with each other. Or both. Michael had to find them. He had to find them, and bring the four of them back together. They were on Earth for a reason. They had come in order to find the women, the soul mates that the Old Man had created for them. They’d come to Earth to find their archesses. And they didn’t stand a chance at finding their archesses until they found one another first.

Worse, Michael knew that they hadn’t made it to Earth alone. He knew the four of them had been followed. Samael was the one archangel they had reason to fear. He had always been stronger than Michael, and at one point, he had been the Old Man’s favorite himself. But that was a long time ago, and now, due to his jealousy over the archesses, he had come to Earth to find the women for himself.

Over the years, Samael had proven himself to be a charismatic, cold, calculated, and wholly dangerous rival.

Michael didn’t know what would happen if Samael got to the archesses first. He had no idea, in fact, what would happen if he and his brothers found them, as they were meant to. All he knew for certain was that he wasn’t willing to leave this to chance. Each archess was too important. Michael and the others had experienced loneliness for too long. These women would be the end to that. They meant everything.

Time meant everything. Michael gritted his teeth, narrowed his gaze, and rolled up his sleeves. Azrael came at him like lightning, and like thunder, Michael met him halfway.





Chapter Two

He’d been warned, hadn’t he? Again and again and again. . .

The archangel Uriel blew out a sigh and ran his hand over his face. Then he clenched his jaw and looked back out the limousine window. He watched, distractedly, as the car passed several shop windows decorated in larger-than-life movie posters of the blockbuster, Comeuppance. It was late afternoon on Saturday and the town was small; the shops were closed. But the posters were still larger-than-life. He flinched when his own ice-green eyes stared back out at him from a backdrop of crumbling castle walls and lightning-marred skies and beautiful co-stars that hung on his well-muscled arm.

“Christ.” He looked away and sank further down into the leather seat.

“You’d better not let on to Gabriel that you’re regretting this in any way, because he sure as shit won’t let you live it down.” Across from him, Max Gillihan, Uriel’s agent, sat with crossed legs and a knowing smirk, his own dark brown eyes glittering from behind his wire-rimmed glasses. As usual, he wore a three-piece business suit in muted colors, and his brown hair was cut short and styled neat. He smiled, flashing white teeth. “Ever.”

“Tell me about it,” Uriel mumbled under his breath.

He was more than aware of what his brother would think of his newfound sense of regret. Especially since Gabriel had repeatedly warned him against taking on the world of fame and fortune, shaking his damned raven-haired head and touting his counsel in his deep Scottish brogue. He’d warned against becoming too well known and having his face plastered to the sides of buildings. The archangels were immortal; they didn’t age. What kind of fake disaster was Uriel going to have to fabricate in order to keep the world from noticing that he hadn’t grown any older in decades? Gabriel was right, as much as Uriel hated to admit it. Forget that he was drunk when he had doled out his unwanted advice. Whether he was sober or not, Gabriel was never wrong.

And that irked Uriel to no end.

“You shouldn’t be regretting it anyway, Uriel. Hell, you’re Christopher Daniels and he’s a big movie star now,” Max told him, using Uriel’s stage name.

Uriel’s right brow arched in that irritated way that drove women crazy on the big screen. “And I care about that why?” he mumbled.

Max threw back his head and laughed. “You cared plenty enough a year ago, when you signed the Comeuppance contract.”

Uriel crossed his arms over his chest and looked away. It was as good as admitting defeat.

Again, the man across from him chuckled, this time adding a head shake. “Two thousand years and you never get any credit. Give yourself some now, Uriel. You’re an archangel, for Christ’s sake. You’re supposed to be in the limelight.” He paused for effect. “Right?”

“You sound like Samael when you argue like that,” Uriel muttered.

“I bet I do. He may be a royal pain in the ass, but you have to admit he’s got great business sense.” Gillihan’s smile never wavered. The man was multi-talented. He was Uriel’s agent, and he was also their guardian. As a guardian, he was a very old, very wise man, despite his wrinkle-free face and the youthful glint in his chocolate brown eyes.

Uriel shook his head. He felt strange in that moment; displaced. He was an archangel—or he had been many years ago. Give or take a century, two thousand years ago, he and his brothers had given up their positions with the Old Man and elected to come to the mortal realm in order to find the one thing they lacked in their own realm—a mate.

Being an archangel was a gift and a curse. They were the favored ones, closest to the Old Man, and together, they had all of the power in the universe. The Old Man had created his archangels as perfect male specimens. But a male naturally desired a female. And because there were no female archangels, they each felt a gaping loneliness that nothing seemed to fill.

So, two thousand years ago, the four favored archangels, Michael, Gabriel, Uriel and Azrael had been gathered to speak with the Old Man. He’d told them that as a reward for their continued loyalty, he had created for each of them the most precious gift of all: a female mate.

These, he called archesses. Uriel closed his eyes as his memories turned dark. He and his three brothers had never had a chance to claim their archesses. Before they could accept them, disaster struck and the women were lost; scattered on the winds of Earth.

The archangels decided to go after them.

They’d thought it would be easy. They were archangels, after all. Nothing had ever been difficult for them. But decades passed and centuries crawled by and the four brothers found no trace of their archesses. Instead, they found themselves trapped in bodies that were more human than archangel. They experienced human emotions and felt human agony. After a while, they found that just the struggle to survive the human condition was a constant distraction from their search for their archesses.

Michael was the first to make his stand in the human world. He was the warrior among them and joined every army, fought in every war, and volunteered for every dangerous job humanity required: spy, fighter pilot, rebel. He moved from village to village, town to town, and city to city, leaving friends behind as time passed and it became clear he wasn’t aging. Life was hard, but as the years went on he assimilated, along with his brothers. Michael was now a police officer in New York City.

Gabriel, the former Messenger Archangel, lived in Scotland off and on since his arrival on earth. He possessed an affinity for the land and its people, but he, too, needed to be exceedingly careful with the passage of time. Every twenty years or so, he regrettably departed the land of the Thistle and was away for some time. He was on one of those breaks now and working as a firefighter in New York City, not too far away from Michael.

Azrael, the former Angel of Death, didn’t keep to any particular place on Earth. His existence was even more difficult than that of the other three brothers. At first, they hadn’t understood what happened to Azrael when they all came to Earth and were transformed. His form had been altered in a cruel and painful manner. But now the archangels now knew what to call his transformation. They knew what he was. He’d been the first, in fact—the first vampire.

As such, he visited a different city every night. He stayed in the shadows, he fed, and he moved on. He never killed when he fed. He drank from abusive drunks and addicts, evening out the score for the humans they would have harmed, and he was never hurt by the taint in their blood.

For centuries, Azrael had kept to this pattern of constant movement. However, in the last few years, he’d changed his behavior somewhat. Now when he wasn’t or sleeping or drinking from some unsuspecting mortal, Azrael was onstage, dressed in black leather and a single black mask. That was the costume he used when he performed his music, hiding half of his face from the prying eyes of his millions upon millions of screaming fans.

Azrael was the Masked One, lead singer of Valley of Shadow, an immensely popular rock band that had taken the world by storm ten years ago. He had always had an amazing voice. It was mesmerizing, literally, and it had propelled him to the top of the charts in no time flat.

Occasionally, Az was approached by someone who recognized him for what he was. A rare individual would sometimes come forth, knowing that Azrael was a vampire, and desperately wanting that vampirism for themselves. Seldom did Azrael oblige. However, once in a while, he felt the choice to turn a mortal was the right decision. He would feed from that individual a certain number of times—and the change would take place. Over the course of thousands of years, even a seldom-granted request will add up. Whether he approved or not, vampires now roamed the Earth, claiming Azrael as their father.

Uriel, for his part, had never really felt that there was a niche in the mortal realm he could comfortably fill. He’d once been the Angel of Vengeance. He had once punished the plethora of evil-doers that the Old Man had created and unleashed upon the world. Along with the conception of humans had been the making of various animals and creatures. Some of these creatures had come to be known in the mortal realm as demons, devils, ghouls, and goblins.

When he’d resided in the archangel realm, it had been Uriel’s task to seek out these creatures and the humans who joined them. But now that he was on Earth. . . . It wasn’t as easy to tell the monster from the human. And punishing them was no longer his task anyway.

He still knew right from wrong. He still hated evil and felt the need to protect innocence. But finding a way to do so on the mortal plane was not easy. It hadn’t taken Uriel long to tire of his role as human assassin for the troublemakers in human history, as sharpshooter in war after war, as a sniper, as a double agent, as a killer. In the end, he’d realized that he was tired of being Uriel. He wanted to be someone else for a while. And so he’d answered a casting call pinned to the wall of a coffee shop in California. After all, acting was all about pretending to be someone you weren’t.

And now here he was, in a limousine on his way to a signing because he’d suddenly become as popular as the Masked One. The movie, Comeuppance, had been so overwhelmingly successful, they’d turned it into a book and now the cast members were signing copies of it all over the country.

Outside the car window, the blur of buildings passing by slowed down and the car pulled to the right, gently rounding a corner into a drive. Overhead, a built-in speaker came to life.

“We’re here, Mr. Gillihan.”

Max sat up a little straighter and nodded at Uriel. “All right, here’s the deal. The bookstore said there would be a pull of two to five hundred people today—”

“Here?” Uriel was certain his expression matched his emotions. He was an actor, after all, and expression was everything. “In this podunk little town?”

“There are teenyboppers everywhere, Uriel,” Max explained calmly. “When it comes to you and your fake set of fangs, they’ll come out of the woodwork if they have to eat their way out.”

“Nice visual.”

“I know, isn’t it?” Gillihan laughed again.

The limousine slowed to a stop and thunder rolled over the top of the car. Uriel frowned. A storm was coming? He hadn’t sensed it, and usually he could. He must have been incredibly distracted not to notice.

“I told Nathan to pull to the back of the store to give us a little time to prepare before we head in,” Gillihan continued, suddenly all business again.

“Did you hear that?” Uriel asked, interrupting him.

Max frowned and then blinked. “What? The thunder?”

“Yeah,” Uriel replied, peering out the window at the gathering darkness as he pulled on his leather jacket. “Did you notice it coming before?”

Max seemed to consider this for a moment. He glanced out the window and his brow furrowed a little more. “Actually, no. But this is the Southwest. These things come up out of nowhere and all of a sudden.” He shrugged as he pulled a few new pens and a file folder filled with photographs out of his briefcase. “I grew up down here.”

Uriel rolled his eyes. Max Gillihan hadn’t “grown up” anywhere. He’d simply existed for two thousand years. But, for some strange reason, he always waxed nostalgic when they visited a new location, and insisted that he’d been raised there.

“In a place not too far from here, actually. Called Lovington. It was a crap-smudge on the map thirty years ago, and it’s even less than that now,” Gillihan continued, shaking his head as he effortlessly doled out the lie. “But I remember the storms. Blew the roof off of our house one summer.” He handed the pens to Uriel and turned in his seat to signal to the driver.

“Wait.” Uriel held up his hand. Gillihan paused, his brow arched.

Uriel felt uneasy. Something was off. This was supposed to be just another signing. . . . And yet something told him that it wouldn’t be. “I’m not ready yet.”

Max’s gaze narrowed and he sat back in the leather of the opposite seat. “You’d best get ready, my friend. Because it’s going to be a long night.”

Uriel blew out a sigh and ran a hand through his thick brown hair. “That’s what I’m not ready for.”





Eleanore Granger glanced up when she heard the thunder. She’d known the storm was coming. She smiled to herself. She always knew.

She glanced back down at the gathering crowd beyond the front doors of the store and couldn’t help the out-and-out grin that lit up her face. “They couldn’t have picked a worse day, could they?” Within minutes, the rain would be falling. Everyone outside would get soaked.

It was probably wrong that the thought gave her a thrill of satisfaction. But she was tired and she was frustrated and she was sort of sick to death of seeingComeuppance posters in every store window from here to Timbuktu, interviews with all the cast members on the news, and new fashion designs in department stores that mysteriously resembled what the characters wore throughout the film.

And all because the main characters were attractive.

A jet plane carrying 236 passengers had gone down over the Pacific last week and the news slot that covered the horrific story was composed of a single live hour, and a revisit that night and the next morning. Meanwhile, the handsome visage of Christopher Daniels, the actor who played Jonathan Brakes inComeuppance, seemed to be plastered nonstop on the 50-inch plasma TV screen above the fireplace in the café of the bookstore. Whether in movie trailers, on interview shows, or in news clips, he had been there for two weeks straight.

He was up there again, in fact. It was late Saturday afternoon and Denna’s Daywas airing their interview with the star. Yes, he was gorgeous. Ellie had to admit as much, though she did so only to herself. The actor was quite tall and trim and broad-shouldered, and his thick, dark hair was slightly wavy where it hit the collar of his shirts and jackets. His nose was Roman, his chin strong but not too strong, and whether clean-shaven or darkened by a shadow of stubble, his face forced a double-take.

It’s his eyes, Ellie thought distractedly.

Those eyes. Christopher Daniels had eyes of the lightest green she had ever seen. She had thought they were contact lenses when she’d first seen them on the big screen. But interview after interview later, it was clear that the eye color was his own. Ellie had dreamt about those eyes a few times. Not that she would willingly share this information.

He was most certainly a stunning man. His voice was smooth, and he moved with a nearly unnatural grace. Ellie had to force herself not to gaze at his pictures when she passed them – everywhere. On store windows, the sides of buses, in Wal-Mart.

Were the women of the world truly that desperate for a pretty face? Including herself? Since when did a handsome man trump a tragedy in the news? It was crazy.

Ellie refused to play into that craziness. At least when she was awake.

The walkie-talkie on the customer service desk a few aisles away came to static life, and someone in the stockroom asked her if she was there. Eleanore finished shelving the books she had with her and strode to the desk to pick up the walkie-talkie. “I’m here, Shaun. What’s going on?”

“The bigwigs are here. But they pulled up to the back door instead of the front door. You want me to tell Dianne or Mark? What should I do?”

“Um. . . ” Eleanore thought for a minute. Why would they have pulled up to the back? Were they hiding for some reason? Did they need to talk to a manager? “Give them a minute, I guess. Maybe they just need some time to get ready. If they’re still back there in five, we’ll tell Dianne.”

“Oh my God!”

Eleanore jumped and turned to face a group of three girls who were standing at the entrance to the science fiction aisle behind her. One of the girls was pointing at Eleanore.

“I heard you! Christopher Daniels is here, isn’t he?”

“What? No, I—”

“I heard that guy on the other end, Shaun! He said that they were pulled up by the back door!” The girl’s voice dropped to a very loud, conspiratorial whisper and she turned frantically to her two companions. “Oh my God, guys, we can head to the back of the store and see him before anyone else does!”

“Wait!” But before Eleanore could even contemplate stopping the trio, the girls were off like Abercrombie-armored rockets, weaving through the store to the front door while trying not to draw too much attention to themselves.

“Crap.” Eleanore pressed the talk button on the walkie-talkie and put her hand on her hip. “Shaun, do me a favor?”

“Sure, babe.”

“We’ve got a threesome of Brake’s Flakes racing toward Christopher Daniels’s limo. Can you head them off for me, please?”

Shaun managed to click the talk button on his handset in time for Eleanore to catch his laugh. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks.” She put the radio back on the desk and ran a rough hand through her hair. “Shit.” She squeezed her eyes shut tight. Then she picked up the phone at the desk and addressed her boss. “Dianne, I’m afraid I need to head back to help Daniels. There’s a group of fans racing through the store.”

It was clear from her heavy sigh that Dianne wasn’t pleased. “No kidding. The kids in front just noticed, and there are more heading back there now. I’ll get someone to cover for you temporarily. Hurry and help Shaun,” she replied and hung up.

Eleanore whirled around and left the customer service desk to head toward the exit beyond the bathrooms, but just as she was passing the women’s restroom, the distinct sound of someone retching stopped her in her tracks.

Oh no, she thought. Someone’s sick.

The sound came again, this time followed by the low whine and sniffling sounds obviously made by a child. Eleanore’s heart broke. Not only was the person sick—she was just a kid.

“Crap,” she whispered. Double crap.

She glanced once toward the locked back door and then down at the key that hung on a lanyard around her neck. She had a choice to make. She could go and save Christopher Daniels from his fans, and in turn, save the bookstore from any resulting reprimands, and hence, save herself from losing her job.

Or she could go and save the child instead.

As Eleanore pushed on the swinging door to the women’s restroom, she realized that there had really been no choice to make after all.





Uriel stared out the window at the falling rain. He sighed. One of his given powers was that he could forecast the weather; he could accurately determine what the sky was going to do a good while before it actually did it. However, today, the storm had come without warning.

Which left Uriel a bit befuddled. Perhaps he was more distracted than he’d realized. He had to admit that he’d been busy. Filming for the second movie had been nonstop and trying. Promotional interviews for the first movie took up the majority of whatever time was left. Add to that signing autographs and answering fan mail and finding dates for red carpet events. . . .

“Shit,” he suddenly swore under his breath.

“And here I was hoping that you were just about to tell me that you were finally ready to go in and lay down in the bed you’ve made for yourself.” Gillihan sighed. “What is it now?” He still sat back against the opposite seat, his legs crossed, his hands resting casually on his perfectly creased trousers. He arched one brow and waited for Uriel to answer.

“I have to find a date for Thursday night.” He had a gala in Dallas to attend that night.

“Ask one of the multitude of women who come to your signings.”

“I’d rather not.” Uriel shook his head. “It feels wrong—like I’m pitting my fans against each other or something.”

“Oh, listen to yourself.” Gillihan rolled his eyes.

Uriel cocked his head to one side, his green eyes sparking with warning.

Gillihan sighed again. “You and your brothers are more trouble than you’re worth. You wanted this, remember? You swore you had to have it.” Max leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “I bet you don’t even remember why you were sent down here in the first place.” He shook his head and gazed at Uriel over the tops of his glasses.

Uriel frowned. “To Texas?”

Max shook his head. “Earth, genius. A few piddly thousand years go by and you all get so mired in what it means to be human that you take your very existences for granted.” Here, he paused and considered something. “Except, perhaps, for Michael. He rides the other end of the spectrum and takes himself too seriously.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Uriel told him, firmly. And it was true. He hadn’t forgotten why he and his brothers had been given human-like forms and allowed to reside on Earth two thousand years ago. It was just that they had been looking so long without finding any sign of even one archess that they’d gotten to the point where they just didn’t think about it most days.

That was all.

“The least you can do is quit your whining and get on with your increasingly meaningless existence without giving me any more trouble,” Gillihan told him flatly.

Gillihan’s words were abrasive, and were meant to be. But Uriel knew that, deep down, it wasn’t the guardian’s fault. He’d been down here for as long as Uriel and his brothers had, and it was simply too long for anyone to go without accomplishing something and gaining a sense of fulfillment—no matter how immortal he may be.

“I’m sorry, Max,” Uriel said, softly.

Gillihan blinked. He sat up straight, and then blinked again. “You are?”

“You’re right.” Uriel shrugged and slapped his hands on his jeans in a gesture of defeat. “What have I got to complain about? Chicks dig me. I should be happier than a pig in shit.” He smiled that smile that had women swooning in the aisles. “That is what they say down here, right?”

Max laughed. “It’s what they used to say, mostly. But close enough.” He shook his head and turned in his seat to reach his arm through the opening between their cabin and the driver’s seat. Just as he was signaling for Nathan to head back around to the storefront, a shrieking sound drew his attention to the windows.

Uriel looked too. And then his eyes grew very wide. “Is that what I think it is?”

“I’m afraid so,” Gillihan replied.

“They’re blocking the exit,” Uriel said, his tone laced with shock.

There was no time to formulate a plan. He could either stay inside the car indefinitely and wait for the cops, or escape from the car and run. Fast.

Uriel threw open the door of the limousine and bolted out of the back seat. Behind him, he heard Max calling, but he ignored the guardian and headed directly for the bookstore.

Later, and in retrospect, he would realize that heading toward the bookstore instead of away from it was, at the very least, a bizarre decision. Especially considering that the throng of teenage girls now racing toward him like a medieval village mob was coming from said store.

However, there was little thought involved. The girls were coming around the corner from the front of the store, which gave him a clear shot at the back door. It was mostly instinct that propelled Uriel across the lot to the locked back exit of the establishment. And it was superhuman strength that then allowed him to wrench the door open against the lock and rush inside.

He sensed that the alarm wanted to go off. He used his powers to silence it and pulled the door shut behind him, making sure to yank it in tight enough that it warped a little and held.

The girls outside reached it just as it shut and their fists pounded furiously on the metal of the barred exit. They were getting soaked out there. He was more than a little damp himself.

He wondered if they were also hurting each other as they shoved toward the door. He sincerely hoped not. But whatever was happening, the sheer number of them suggested that the door wouldn’t hold for long. All they had to do was work together and it would come open.

Uriel passed the restrooms on his left and strode toward the science fiction section of the store just beyond the exit foyer. There, he stopped and grimaced. Another mass of girls, nearly as large as the first, was grouped around the front of the store. There must have been a hundred of them. . . . Maybe more.

The door behind him creaked and then scraped.

Uriel thought fast and ducked into the women’s restroom. Once inside, he closed his eyes, pressed his back to the wall beside the door, and listened. The exit door of the bookstore gave way beyond, and he could hear the group of girls rush into the hallway. They raced by, their Converses squeaking with rain water on the linoleum tile.

“You have to memorize a script to act, and the movie you starred in was also turned into a book, so I assumed that you could read.”

Uriel’s eyes flew open to find a woman and a little girl standing a few feet away beside the door of the first stall.

“I was obviously wrong,” she continued. “Because you’ve mistaken the women’s restroom for the ridiculously famous sex symbol restroom—which is next door.”

Uriel’s heart stopped beating. His jaw dropped open.

He couldn’t be seeing what he was seeing in that moment. He couldn’t be feeling what he was feeling. Not now. Not here, in a bathroom—after two thousand years. Maybe he’d slipped in the rain outside and hit his head.

No, that was impossible. He was relatively invincible. Being hit on the head would do nothing to him but make him a little cranky.

She was really standing there before him. She was real; he could see her, hear her—he could even smell her. She smelled like shampoo and soap and lavender.

Jesus, he thought, unable to refrain from letting his gaze drop down her body and back up again. She was everything that he had ever imagined she would be, from her tall, slim body to her long, jet-black hair, and those indigo blue eyes the color of a Milky Way night. Her skin was like porcelain. Her lips were plump and pink and framed perfect, white teeth. She was an angel.

She was his archess. And she was . . . scowling at him?

He frowned.





The door to the bathroom had shut firmly behind Christopher Daniels., and he clearly had heard what she’d said, but he still just stood there like he was frozen, and Eleanore could not figure out why. “Mr. Daniels, is there something I can help you with?” Eleanore asked.

She had to admit to herself that when Daniels had first entered the women’s restroom, she’d been taken completely and utterly by surprise. First of all, he was even more handsome in real life than he was in his plethora of press photos. And that wasn’t supposed to be the case at all. Wasn’t there supposed to be loads and loads of makeup involved? Tricks of the light? In real life, didn’t actors have acne and scars and wrinkles and undyed roots for miles?

In real life, an actor’s eyes didn’t seem to glow the way they did in the movies. But Christopher Daniels’s eyes did. It was nearly eerie, they were so intense. They instantly called to mind the dreams she’d had of him. It was always his eyes she saw just before she woke up. All of the pictures he had plastered across the nation didn’t do them justice. His eyes were the color of arctic icebergs, so very, very light green that they seemed . . . more than human. They were incredibly beautiful.

She was standing in a restroom, face-to-face with a famous actor who was, quite literally, the most attractive man she had ever seen. And yet he was looking at her as if she were the gorgeous movie star instead.

And, so, she was more than a little surprised at herself when, instead of feeling faint and falling all over him like all of the other girls in the world seemed to do, her first instinct had been to stand up to him. For what, exactly, she had no idea. For coming into the girl’s restroom, she guessed. Of all things! What kind of crime was that, exactly?

Eleanore’s subconscious mind knew the truth. She wasn’t mad at him for coming into the wrong restroom, of course. She was mad at him for being who and what he was. Gorgeous—and famous. It was an old brain kind of thing.

He was obviously hiding. That was clear. And from the sound of the giggling school girls beyond the door, she would wager a guess that it was his fans he was hiding from. The nerve! First, these guys fight tooth and nail to climb their way into fandom and then they balk at being loved by the masses.

What was up with that?

Meanwhile she’d forgotten Jennifer, the little girl she’d come into the bathroom to help in the first place. But Jennifer had clearly noticed Daniels as well. Her hand slipped out of Eleanore’s own as she spoke up. “Miss Ellie made my stomach feel better!” she chimed in, completely out of the blue. “I was throwing up, but she touched my tummy and made it stop.”

Eleanore paled. Oh no, she thought. Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet—don’t say any more!

“Which is a good thing,” Jennifer went on, nodding emphatically, “because the throw up made me want to throw up some more.” Jennifer was only about five, but she wasn’t shy. She grimaced and seemed to want to push the memory away with her little hands. “It was so gross.”

Eleanore felt herself blanching further. She pulled her gaze off of the famous actor and looked at the wall. She needed to compose herself. She needed to get a handle on the situation—take control.

Finally, she rolled her shoulders and looked back up at him.

She blinked. He was still staring at her in abject fascination. That wasfascination, wasn’t it? Not amusement? Maybe he just thought she was mental. . . .

“Mr. Daniels, I’m going to find Jennifer’s parents, and then I would be happy to announce your arrival over the intercom, if you’d like—”

Daniels pushed himself off of the wall and stepped toward her. His motorcycle boots made a heavy sound on the linoleum floor. It sounded dangerous. A warm, erotic warning thrummed through Eleanore’s body.

“You’re the reason it’s storming,” he said. “Now it makes perfect sense.”

Eleanore’s world tipped on its axis, and fear gripped her. Her vision began to tunnel. “P-pardon me?” she asked. Her voice sounded hollow to her own ears.

What is he talking about? He can’t know.

She almost shook her head against the possibility. She thought about taking a step back, suddenly needing space. But there was a tiny hand in hers, squeezing tight, and she couldn’t escape.

“You’re a man and this is a girl’s bathroom,” little Jennifer said.

Christopher Daniels glanced down at the child. Jennifer’s nose was scrunched up and her gaze was reprimanding. The actor seemed to be considering the girl for a moment, and then he looked back up at Eleanore.

“Ellie,” he said softly.

Eleanore swallowed hard. Her mouth and throat had gone dry. “It’s—it’s Eleanore,” she stammered. And then, realizing that she’d just given out her name and that, perhaps, she shouldn’t have, she looked away from him and shook her head. “Mr. Daniels,” she tried again. “Excuse me. I really do need to find Jennifer’s parents. She’s just been pretty sick.”

She brushed past him to push open the door, and as she did, the air seemed to thicken around her; it suddenly felt cloying and confusing. It took forever to get by the actor; she could feel him watching her as she came near, and he made virtually no move to get out of the way. His nearness was electrifying and disarming, his body tall and hard and very real. Time seemed to slow down as she opened the door and stepped out into the store.

But once she was past him, she walked as quickly as she could with a five-year-old tethered to her arm, which wasn’t very fast at all. She heard footsteps behind her and glanced back to see that Daniels was following her. He kept pace easily, a small, determined smile playing about his lips.

Christopher Daniels is behind me, Eleanore thought. The famous actor, Christopher Daniels is behind me! He’s probably looking at my ass. She tried not to groan out loud at that thought. As if it mattered!

She wasn’t sure what her bottom looked like from his vantage point; she never bothered with the mirror that much in the morning. And she was nearly as horrified by the fact that she cared what she looked like to him as she was by the fact that he seemed to be looking at her. Was he looking at her butt?

Of course he’s looking at my butt, she thought. He’s a guy! That’s what they do!

She berated herself for the internal monologue of Clueless-worthy concerns and once more wondered what he’d meant by his storm comment. Did he know that she’d caused the storm? If he did—how?

There’s no way, she thought. He must have meant something else.

Eleanore stopped beside the customer service desk and bent to whisper into Jennifer’s little ear.

“This is our secret, okay?” she said, hoping against hope that the child would catch the urgency with which she made the request.

Jennifer looked up at her and then glanced over at Daniels, who was leaning against a bookshelf a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression both bewildered and amused. Then she nodded and smiled up at Eleanore, and Ellie’s fear dropped down a notch.

Eleanore straightened and picked up the phone at the customer service desk. She saw Daniels peek over the racks at the crowd by the front doors. A woman dressed in a suit with a name tag glanced nervously at her watch and then stood on her toes as if to look for someone. They were wondering where their star was.

There was a tall man in a suit with them. He was pushing his way through the women—and a few men—to the front of the store. Eleanore wondered vaguely who he was, but let it go as she made a “lost child” announcement over the intercom to get the attention of Jennifer’s parents.

When she’d finished, she put the phone back in its cradle and turned to face a harried-looking couple who instantly knelt before Jennifer to console her. Jennifer’s mother scooped her up into her arms, and with a quick “thank you” to Ellie, they were on their way out of the store.

Now Ellie turned to face Daniels, who was still leaning against the bookshelf, watching her. In the next split second, he straightened from the shelf, closed the distance between them with two purposeful strides, and pinned her to the customer service desk, one strong arm braced against the counter on either side of her.

Eleanore inhaled sharply and her heart did a somersault in her chest.

“I have to go to a big party on Thursday night. Come with me,” he said. He was so close, his breath whispered across her lips; licorice and mint.

“Wha…” she stammered. Then she dry swallowed and tried again. “What?”

She heard a faint cracking sound and glanced down to see that his grip on the desk behind her had tightened. She turned back to face him and watched as his gaze flicked to her mouth and back.

“Ellie,” he said, as if testing her name out on his tongue. “Here’s the thing,” he continued softly. “I need a date to a big promotional party in Dallas. A gala. I don’t know anyone in Texas. You were kind enough to let me hide in the women’s restroom.” He smiled an incredibly charming smile. “And I appreciate it,” he added. “So, I would be honored if you would consider being my date next week on Thursday.”

Eleanore took a few seconds to digest this. There was a part of her that simply couldn’t believe her position at that moment. She was being cornered by Christopher Daniels, against her own customer service desk, and asked out on a date. But despite the impossibility of it all, she knew she wasn’t dreaming. This felt too real.

He was so big. So tall and . . . he looked hard—everywhere. And his nearness was doing strange things to her. He smelled good. The leather of his jacket and whatever aftershave or shower gel he’d used were a heady, highly tantalizing combination. There wasn’t an ounce of him that wasn’t pure masculinity, from the set of his jaw to the smooth, determined sound of his voice.

“You’re not answering,” he said, once more glancing at her lips as he’d done before. He seemed to be leaning in closer now, and Eleanore was finding it more difficult to breathe. “Does this mean you’re considering it?”

Christ, I’m falling for this jerk. I’ve barely met him and I’ve already got it bad.

She tried to swallow past a spot in her throat that had gone dry. She wondered, then, as she gazed up into those impossibly colored eyes, how many women he’d done this to lately. He was good at it.

He’s an actor, she told herself. Of course he’s good at it.

That was a sobering thought. She blinked and felt her own gaze harden. He seemed to notice, because something flashed in his eyes and his gaze narrowed in response.

“You’re serious,” she said in a low voice. “You don’t know anything about me and you want me to just agree to go out on a date—in another city—with you.”

“I know enough,” he told her plainly. “And yes. I want you to go out on a date with me.” He paused, and then added meaningfully, “Very much so.”

She stared back at him for several more hard beats, and then, before she realized what she was doing, she had the customer service desk phone to her ear and was pressing a button behind her on the carriage.

Daniels seemed as surprised as she was and only watched as she put the speaker to her mouth.

“Attention guests! It is my pleasure to announce to you all that the star of the evening, Mr. Christopher Daniels, is here with us now and is making his way to the front of the store to begin signing autographs for all of his much appreciated fans.”

The sound of cheering rose from the front of the store and spread through the aisles. Daniels glanced up, not moving from where he had her ensnared between his arms.

Eleanore glanced behind her to catch frantic movement at the front of the store.

When she turned back to face him, it was to find Christopher’s jaw tensed and his teeth clenched in obvious irritation. But his ice-green eyes returned to Eleanore’s face and once more trapped her gaze in his. He took a deep, calming breath and seemed to ponder the situation.

Then he smiled and straightened, stepping away from the desk. Eleanore stayed where she was and watched him warily. For a moment, his eyes flicked to her neck, her shoulders, and back up again. She could have sworn she saw a troubling indecision cross his handsome features. He looked as if he were tempted to grab her, throw her over his shoulder, and abscond with her.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Ellie,” he said instead, locking gazes with her a final time. “I’ll be seeing you again soon.”

With that, he turned and strode down the aisle toward the front of the store.

Eleanore was too stunned to move. She watched him go, and as he disappeared, she listened. The ecstatic greetings started up almost immediately. They were crazy about him.

And now she could see why.

He asked me on a date, she thought. The gorgeous, famous movie star fromComeuppance asked me on a date.

A part of her wanted to be thrilled at the thought. But there was another part of her that knew better. It was that other part that had forced her to cut their exchange short by announcing his arrival. Because that part of her had a feeling that Christopher Daniels was not who he pretended to be. Not just on the screen—but in real life.

He knows something, she thought.

She didn’t know how it was possible; even the very idea was unfathomably weird. But somehow, Christopher Daniels seemed to know that Eleanore had caused the storm. He’d told her as much. You’re the reason it’s storming, he’d said. She was willing to bet a dollar that he even suspected her healing powers after Jennifer’s untimely exclamation in the bathroom.

And now he also knew her name and where she worked.

Several more long, tense seconds passed, and Eleanore’s body finally relaxed a little and slumped against the desk. She closed her eyes and ran a somewhat shaky hand through her long hair.

Life had just gotten a little too interesting for her taste. Maybe it was time to move again.

t¢iHadPF ¢G me.” He paused, and then added meaningfully, “Very much so.”
She stared back at him for several more hard beats, and then, before she realized what she was doing, she had the customer service desk phone to her ear and was pressing a button behind her on the carriage.

Daniels seemed as surprised as she was and only watched as she put the speaker to her mouth.

“Attention guests! It is my pleasure to announce to you all that the star of the evening, Mr. Christopher Daniels, is here with us now and is making his way to the front of the store to begin signing autographs for all of his much appreciated fans.”

The sound of cheering rose from the front of the store and spread through the aisles. Daniels glanced up, not moving from where he had her ensnared between his arms.

Eleanore glanced behind her to catch frantic movement at the front of the store.

When she turned back to face him, it was to find Christopher’s jaw tensed and his teeth clenched in obvious irritation. But his ice-green eyes returned to Eleanore’s face and once more trapped her gaze in his. He took a deep, calming breath and seemed to ponder the situation.

Then he smiled and straightened, stepping away from the desk. Eleanore stayed where she was and watched him warily. For a moment, his eyes flicked to her neck, her shoulders, and back up again. She could have sworn she saw a troubling indecision cross his handsome features. He looked as if he were tempted to grab her, throw her over his shoulder, and abscond with her.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Ellie,” he said instead, locking gazes with her a final time. “I’ll be seeing you again soon.”

With that, he turned and strode down the aisle toward the front of the store.

Eleanore was too stunned to move. She watched him go, and as he disappeared, she listened. The ecstatic greetings started up almost immediately. They were crazy about him.

And now she could see why.

He asked me on a date, she thought. The gorgeous, famous movie star fromComeuppance asked me on a date.

A part of her wanted to be thrilled at the thought. But there was another part of her that knew better. It was that other part that had forced her to cut their exchange short by announcing his arrival. Because that part of her had a feeling that Christopher Daniels was not who he pretended to be. Not just on the screen—but in real life.

He knows something, she thought.

She didn’t know how it was possible; even the very idea was unfathomably weird. But somehow, Christopher Daniels seemed to know that Eleanore had caused the storm. He’d told her as much. You’re the reason it’s storming, he’d said. She was willing to bet a dollar that he even suspected her healing powers after Jennifer’s untimely exclamation in the bathroom.

And now he also knew her name and where she worked.

Several more long, tense seconds passed, and Eleanore’s body finally relaxed a little and slumped against the desk. She closed her eyes and ran a somewhat shaky hand through her long hair.

Life had just gotten a little too interesting for her taste. Maybe it was time to move again.

CHAPTER ONE
It was the perfect night to kill someone.
Thick, heavy clouds obscured the moon and stars, deepening the shadows of the cold December evening. It wasn’t snowing, but an icy drizzle spattered down from the sky, slowly covering everything in a slick, glossy, treacherous sheen. Icicles had already formed on many of the trees that lined the street, looking like gnarled, glittering fingers that were crawling all over the bare, skeletal branches. No animals moved or stirred, not so much as an owl sailing into one of the treetops searching for shelter.
Down the block, red, green, and white holiday lights flashed on the doors and windows of one of the sprawling mansions set back from the street, and the faint trill of Christmas carols filled the air. A steady stream of people hurried from the holly-festooned front door, down the snowmen-lined driveway, and out to their cars, scrambling into the vehicles and cranking the engines as fast as they could. Someone’s dinner party was rapidly winding down, despite the fact that it was only nine o’clock. Everyone wanted to get home and be all safe, warm, and snug in their own beds before the weather got any worse. In ten minutes, they’d all be gone, and the street would be quiet and deserted again.
Yes, it was the perfect night to kill someone.
Too bad my mission was recon only.
I slouched down in my seat, staying as much out of view of the passing headlights as possible. But none of the drivers gave my battered old white van a second look, and I doubted that any of them even bothered to glance at the blue lettering on the side that read Cloudburst Falls Catering. Caterers, florists, musicians. Such service vehicles were all too common in Northtown, the part of Ashland where the rich, social, and magical elite lived. If not for the lousy weather, I imagined that this entire street would have been lit up with holiday cheer as people hosted various parties, each one trying to outdo their neighbors with garish light displays.
Once the last of the cars cruised by and the final pair of headlights faded away, I straightened up in my seat, picked up my binoculars from my lap, and peered through them at another nearby mansion.
A stone wall cordoned this mansion off from the street, featuring a wide iron gate that was closed and locked for the night. Unlike its neighbor, no holiday lights decorated this house, and only a single room on the front was illuminated—an office with glass doors that led out to a stone patio. Thin white curtains covered the doors, and every few seconds, the murky shape of a man would appear, moving back and forth, as though he were continually pacing from one side of his office to the other.
I just bet he was pacing. From all the reports I’d heard, he’d been holed up in his mansion for months now, preparing for his murder trial, which was set to begin after the first of the year. That would be enough to drive anyone stir crazy.
Beside me, a soft creak rang out, followed by a long, loud sigh. Two sounds that I’d heard over and over again in the last hour I’d been parked here.
The man in the mansion wasn’t the only one going nuts.
“Tell me again. How did I get stuck hanging out with you tonight?” a low voice muttered.
I lowered my binoculars and looked over at Phillip Kincaid, who had his arms crossed over his muscled chest and a mulish expression on his handsome face. A long black trench coat covered his body, while a black toboggan was pulled down low on his forehead, hiding his golden hair from sight, except for the low ponytail that stuck out the back. I was dressed in all-black as well, from my boots to my jeans to my silverstone vest, turtleneck, and fleece jacket. A black toboggan also topped my head, although I’d stuffed all my hair up underneath the knit hat.
“What’s wrong, Philly?” I drawled. “Don’t like being my babysitter tonight?”
He shrugged, not even bothering to deny it. “You’re Gin Blanco, the famed assassin turned underworld queen. You don’t need babysitting.” He shifted in his seat, making it creak again, then shook his head. “But Owen insisted on it . . . The things I do for that man.”
Phillip was right. As the Spider, I could handle myself in just about any situation. I certainly didn’t need him here, but Owen Grayson, Phillip’s best friend and my significant other, had insisted on it. But I hadn’t protested too much when Phillip had shown up at the Pork Pit, my barbecue restaurant, at closing time and told me that he wanted to tag along tonight.
With the mysterious members of the Circle out there, a little backup might come in handy. Even if said backup was whinier than one would hope.
“Why couldn’t Lane sit out here with you?” Phillip asked. “Or Jo-Jo or even Sophia for that matter? Why did I get elected to freeze my balls off tonight?”
Finnegan Lane, my foster brother, was often my partner in crime in all things Spider-related, while Jo-Jo and Sophia Deveraux healed me and cleaned up the blood and bodies I left in my wake.
“Because Finn is still dealing with the mess that Deirdre Shaw left behind at First Trust bank, and Jo-Jo and Sophia had tickets to The Nutcracker tonight,” I said, ticking our friends off on my hand. “And of course, you know that Owen promised Eva that he’d help out with that holiday toy drive she’s leading over at the community college.”
“I would have been happy to help Eva with her toy drive,” Phillip grumbled again. “Thrilled. Ecstatic even.”
Despite their roughly ten-year age difference, Phillip was crazy about Eva Grayson, Owen’s younger sister, although he was waiting for her to finish college and grow up a bit before pursuing a real relationship with her.
“Anything would have been better—warmer—than this.” He popped up the collar of his trench coat so that it would cover more of his neck, then slouched down even farther in his seat.
“Aw, poor baby. Stuck out here in the cold and dark with me tonight.” I clucked my tongue. “And to think that I was just about to offer you some hot chocolate.”
His blue eyes narrowed with interest. “You have hot chocolate? Homemade hot chocolate?”
I reached down and pulled a large metal thermos out of the black duffel bag sitting between our seats on the van floor. “Of course I have homemade hot chocolate. You can’t have a stakeout on a cold winter’s night without it.”
I grabbed a couple of plastic cups out of the duffel bag and handed them over to Phillip, who held them steady while I poured. The rich, heady aroma of the hot chocolate filled the van, cutting through the icy chill that had crept inside the vehicle. I breathed in the fumes as I capped the thermos and put it away. Phillip passed over my cup, and I drew in a couple more steamy breaths before taking a sip. The dark chocolate coated my tongue with its bittersweet flavor, softened by the vanilla extract and raspberry puree that I’d added to the mixture.
Phillip cradled his hot chocolate like a bum huddled over a trashcan fire. He took a long slurp and sighed again, this time with happiness. “Now that’s more like it.”
We both settled back in our seats, watching the mansion and sipping our hot chocolate.
The folks who’d been hosting the dinner party must have decided to go to bed, since the recorded carols abruptly cut off, and the holiday lights winked out one door, window, and plastic snowman at a time, further blackening the landscape. The drizzle picked up as well, turning into more of a steady rain, each drop tinking against the van windshield. It truly was a night fit for neither man nor beast, but these had been my favorite kinds of environments as an assassin. The cold, the rain, the darkness always made it that much easier to get close to your target and then get away after you’d put him down. If I wanted someone dead, I would have waited for a night just like this one to strike.
And I was willing to bet that someone might have the same idea about the man in the mansion.
Phillip tipped his cup at the shadow still pacing back and forth behind the patio doors. “You really think that he knows something about the Circle?”
I shrugged. “He’s the best lead I have right now—and the only person still alive who might know anything about them.”
Two weeks ago, I’d been kidnapped and held hostage by Hugh Tucker, a vampire who claimed that he was part of “the Circle,” a secret group that supposedly pulled the strings on the underworld and everything else in Ashland. That had certainly come as news to me, since I was supposedly the head of the underworld these days. But Tucker had claimed that the Circle was a group of criminals so high and mighty that no one could touch them, especially not a lowly assassin like me. The vamp had also said that the Circle monitored everything from behind the scenes—and that they could kill me and my friends anytime they wanted to.
But the most shocking thing he’d told me was that my mother, Eira Snow, had supposedly been one of them.
My mother had been murdered when I was thirteen, and it was a deep loss that I still felt to this day. But I’d viewed my mother like any other kid. She was my mom—nothing more, nothing less. I’d never really thought about who she was, much less what kind of person. The good things she did, the bad ones, how she felt about all of them. I didn’t know any of that. But Tucker had turned my world upside down with his accusations, and I wanted to know how true they were: I had to know if my mother had been the good person I’d always assumed she was, or just as rotten, dirty, and depraved as the rest of this shadowy Circle.
“You know, we could just go knock on his door and ask him about all this,” Phillip said.
I snorted. “He wouldn’t tell me anything. Nothing I could trust anyway. He hates me too much for that.”
Phillip shifted in his seat again. “Well, at least we could get this over with and go home for the night. That would certainly keep my balls from turning into ice cubes—”
A pair of headlights popped up in the rearview van mirror. I gestured at Phillip, and we both slouched back down in our seats.
A black SUV cruised down the street, passing the van. The vehicle went down to the end of the block and made a right, disappearing from sight. Phillip started to sit back up, but I held out my hand, stopping him.
“Wait,” I said. “Let’s see if they come back.”
He rolled his eyes, but he stayed still. “Why would they come back? It’s probably just somebody who lives in the neighborhood—”
Headlights popped up in the rearview van mirror again and that same SUV cruised by our position. This time the vehicle turned left at the end of the block.
“Maybe they’re lost,” he said. “All these cookie-cutter Northtown streets and mansions look like, especially in the dark.”
I shook my head. “They’re not lost. They’re seeing how quiet and deserted the area is for whatever they have in mind. They’ll be back. You’ll see.”
We sat in the van, watching our mirrors. Sure enough, a minute later, that same SUV cruised by us again. Only this time, the vehicle didn’t have its headlights, or even its parking lights, on. It pulled over to the curb and stopped—right in front of the mansion we were watching.
“Hello,” I murmured. “What do we have here?”
The doors opened, and two people got out of the front of the SUV, both wearing long black trench coats akin to Phillip’s. They were giants, each one roughly seven feet tall with thick shoulders and broad chests, most likely they were the muscle and bodyguards for whoever was in the back of the vehicle.
Sure enough, one of the giants opened a rear door, and a shorter, thinner figure emerged, also sporting a black trench coat. This person also wore a black fedora and had a matching scarf wrapped around their neck. I peered through my binoculars, but the person’s back was to me, so I couldn’t see their face, although from the size and gait, I did get the impression that it was a woman.
“Some late-night visitors here for a hush-hush meeting with our old friend?” Phillip drawled.
“Maybe.”
One of the giants squatted down. At first, I wondered what he was doing, but then the woman in the fedora and scarf ran over to the giant, who hoisted her up into the air. Ms. Fedora grabbed hold of the top of the iron gate and swung her legs up and over it with all the grace of an Olympic gymnast. Landing deftly on her feet in the yard on the other side, she started striding toward the mansion with graceful purpose.
I cursed, realizing that I was about to lose my one and only lead on the Circle. I’d considered the possibility that someone might come here looking for him, but part of me hadn’t thought that it would actually happen since everything else I’d tried to track down the members of the Circle had been a dead end so far. This was shaping up to be the rare stakeout that ended in action.
“Not a meeting,” I growled. “They’re here to kill him.”
Since Fedora was already past the gate, I didn’t have time to ease out of the van, sneak through the shadows, and stab the giants in the back the way I normally would have.
Thus I kicked my door open, barreled out of the vehicle, and started running down the street toward the SUV.
“Gin! Wait!” Phillip shouted, scrambling to get out and follow me.
But I needed to get to the man in the mansion before Fedora did, so I tuned him out. The giants whirled around at the sound of Phillip’s voice and spotted me racing toward them. They cursed, pulled guns out from underneath their trench coats, and snapped up the weapons.
Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!
I zigzagged, and the first round of bullets went wide. But when the giants paused to take more careful aim, I reached for my Stone magic and hardened my skin into an impenetrable shell.
Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!
The second round of bullets also went wide. The giants had come prepared, and the silencers on the ends of their weapons muffled the sounds of the shots. No lights snapped on inside the neighboring mansions. They wanted to keep this quiet, well, so did I.
Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!
Two of the bullets went wide, but the third punched into my right shoulder, spinning me around. Still, thanks to my magic, it didn’t blast through me the way it would have otherwise. I skidded on the ice coating the street, but I managed to regain my balance and charge forward again.
But instead of heading toward the giants, I ran straight at the SUV. When I was in range, I leaped up onto the hood, then scrambled up onto the roof. Before the giants realized what I was doing, I raced forward and leaped off the vehicle’s roof, pushing off hard and trying to get as high in the air as possible. Lucky for me, they’d parked close to the curb and the narrow sidewalk. A second later, my hands hit the top of the wall that fronted the mansion, and I dug my boots into the slick stones so that I could pull myself up onto the top of the wall. Fedora wasn’t the only one who could do gymnastics.
I rolled off the top of the wall and dropped ten feet down to the other side. I paused a moment to palm one of the silverstone knives tucked up my sleeves, then darted forward across the lawn. The ice-crusted grass crunched like brittle bones under my boots.
The light spilling out from the office perfectly illuminated Fedora, who was fifty feet ahead of me and moving fast, her breath streaming out behind her in a trail of frosty vapor. She must have heard the disturbance out on the street because she picked up her pace, pulled a gun out of her trench coat, and shot through the lock on the patio doors with one smooth motion. A second later, she was inside the mansion.
“Hey!” a man’s voice shouted from inside the office. “Who are you? What do you think you’re doing?”
I didn’t hear her reply, if there even was one.
Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!
Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!
More and more shots sounded behind me, but the giants weren’t aiming at me anymore. Phillip must have gotten into the fight. He could take care of himself, so I focused all my energy on sprinting across the lawn, trying to get to the mansion, even though it was already too late.
Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!
Sure enough, gunfire flashed inside the office, as bright as the holiday lights had been earlier. Someone had just been shot.
A second later, Fedora stepped through the doors and out onto the stone patio. I squinted, but the office lights were behind her, and all I could really see in the darkness was the pale glitter of her eyes. She gave me a mocking salute with her gun before ducking back inside the mansion. Now that her mission was accomplished, no doubt she’d leave through one of the back doors and disappear into the woods. All without my even getting a look at her face.
I cursed. Even though I wanted to rush inside the mansion, I forced myself to slow down and approach the patio doors with caution, just in case she might be lying in wait to try to kill me too. I also grabbed hold of even more of my Stone power, hardening my skin as much as possible on the off chance that she decided to blast me with elemental magic and bullets. As a final touch, I reached out with my magic, listening to all the emotional vibrations that had sunk into the stone walls of the mansion.
Harsh, shocked mutters rippled through back to me, from the shots the woman had just fired. Alongside that was a high, whiny chorus of worry, fear, and paranoia. But there were no sly whispers or dark murmurs of evil intent that would have signaled that she was hiding in the office, ready to put a bullet in my head the second I stepped inside. Whoever the woman was, she was long gone.
Still, I was careful as I eased into the office, my knife still in my hand, my other hand up and lightly glowing with Ice magic, ready to blast whoever might challenge me.
But only one person was in the office: the man I’d been watching.
Jonah McAllister, my old nemesis lay sprawled across the floor.

CHAPTER ONE PREVIEW
“You’ve barely touched your barbecue.”
I looked up to find Gin Blanco, my foster sister, eyeing me over the top of the cup of lemonade she was sipping. More than half a dozen open take-out containers littered my desk, piled high with everything from coleslaw to baked beans to barbecue chicken sandwiches on homemade sourdough buns, all courtesy of the Pork Pit, the restaurant Gin had inherited from my father, Fletcher Lane.
All of the food looked and smelled delicious, especially the rich, spicy scent of the baked beans that perfumed the air. Gin was a truly excellent cook, even better than my dad had been. Any meal from her was always a treat. When she’d first arrived with the food fifteen minutes ago, she’d insisted on scooping generous portions of everything onto two large paper plates, both of which she’d pushed across the desk to me, before fixing a plate for herself. On a normal day, I would have already been scraping both plates clean and helping myself to seconds and thirds.
But things hadn’t been normal for a while now, and my appetite was the least of them.
Gin kept eyeing me, so I plastered a smile on my face and picked up my plastic fork, pretending that I was getting ready to dig back into my food.
“Sorry,” I said. “Bria cooked us a huge breakfast this morning.”
Gin snorted. “The only things Bria cooks for breakfast are toaster waffles and instant oatmeal. Try again, Finn.”
Busted.
Detective Bria Coolidge might be my lady love, but she was also Gin’s sister, and Gin knew her just as well as I did. Not to mention the fact that Gin was a little obsessive when it came to cooking. She probably knew exactly what Bria had stocked in her kitchen, down to the last bottle of spice, and could calculate all the meals Bria could potentially make with the ingredients. Gin’s attention to detail was one of the things that made her such a great assassin as the Spider.
“Well, I also stopped and got some doughnuts from the Cake Walk on my way into work this morning,” I said, still trying to steer the conversation away from my obvious lack of appetite. “You know how much I love, love, love doughnuts. All that warm, sweet, sugary glaze and soft bread that melts in your mouth bite after bite. It’s one of nature’s perfect foods.”
“So you’ve told me many times,” Gin drawled. “Funny thing, though. I saw three boxes of doughnuts sitting behind the tellers’ counter upstairs, and yet there are no doughnuts actually down here in your office.”
Busted again. Sometimes Gin was far too observant for my own good.
“Well, I had my own doughnuts at the Cake Walk before I bought those other boxes. You know how I hate to share.” I let out a loud, hearty laugh. At least, I tried to make it loud and hearty. It sounded more like an owl screeching.
“Mmm-hmm.” Gin arched her eyebrows, not the least bit fooled by my lies, false cheer, and forced chuckles. But I was thankful when she stopped the food interrogation, set down her lemonade, picked up her own sandwich, and took another bite.
It was just after one o’clock, and we were sitting in my office in the basement of First Trust of Ashland. I’d moved into the space several years ago, after proving my mettle time and time again as one of the top investment bankers. I’d been absolutely, positively thrilled when I’d finally risen high enough in the ranks to score a large corner (if underground) office, and I’d spent weeks picking out the perfect furniture, rugs, and artwork for my new workspace, along with the attached bathroom.
My antique mahogany desk gleamed like polished bronze under the lights, as did the two matching wingback chairs in front of it, including the one that Gin was perched in. The wet bar that ran along one wall was also made of the same rich mahogany, and a green leather sofa that folded out into a comfortable bed sat opposite it. Thick rugs in dark greens and cool grays stretched across the floor, while framed prints covered the gray marble walls, showcasing some of my favorite landscapes and vacation spots. The nighttime city skyline of Bigtime, New York. An aerial shot of the Midway amusement circle in Cloudburst Falls, West Virginia. The snow-covered streets and shops of Cypress Mountain, North Carolina. Since I didn’t have a window, the prints were my version of a view.
I used to love coming into my office, settling into my executive’s desk chair, firing up my computer, and getting to work, figuring out the best investments for my clients and how I could protect and grow their money for them and their families.
Not anymore. Not for weeks now.
The door was open, and a giant wearing a gray security guard’s uniform stopped in the hallway outside and peered into my office, his face pinched with suspicion.
“What’s going on in here?” he muttered.
He might be doing his usual hourly check of the basement offices, but the guard’s flat, surly tone revealed what he really thought of me: nothing good.

1. He Found Me

In class we say That’s too on the nose when someone has written a story or a scene where exactly what you think should happen does happen. Or when the events are too perfect or precise. But in real life we have a hard time recognizing serendipitous moments because we’re not making the story up as we go along. It’s not a lie—it’s really happening to us, and we have no idea how it will end. Some of us will look back on our lives and recall events that were a bit too perfect, but until you know the whole story, it’s impossible to see the universe at work, or even admit that there is something bigger than us, making sure everything that should happen does happen. If you can surrender to the idea that there might be a plan, instead of reducing every magical moment to a coincidence, then love will find you. He found me.

“WOW, THE SEAGULLS are going crazy. I think there’s a tsunami headed this way,” I said, staring out the window of my second-story apartment as I watched the marine layer thicken over La Jolla Cove. The fog was moving fast toward my building as the storm clouds swirled in the distance.

Trevor laughed. “Such a San Diegan, overreacting to the weather.” He was sitting on the floor with his back against the overpriced leather couch that my aunts Cyndi and Sharon had bought for me when I first moved in.

“Do you think we need sandbags?”

“No, you’re being crazy,” he said.

“Crazy or cautious?”

“More like neurotic. It’s drizzling. California is still technically in a drought.”

I noticed that Trevor had put down the short story I had written so he could continue playing Angry Birds on his phone.

“Trevor . . .” I warned.

“Emiline . . .” he teased back without looking up.

I plopped onto his lap and threw my arms around his neck. “I really want you to read it.”

“I did. I read it fast.”

“What’s it about, then?”

“It’s about a girl who discovers an ancient formula for cold fusion.”

“So you got the gist. But did you actually like it?”

“Emi . . .” He paused. His eyes darted around the room. When he focused on me again, I saw pity in his face. “I liked it a lot,” he said.

“But . . . ?”

“I think you should write what you know. You’re a good writer, but this”—he held up the paper—“seems a little silly.”

“Silly? Why?” I could feel anger boiling over inside of me. Trevor was honest—it was one of the reasons I liked him—but sometimes he was blunt to the point of belittling.

“For one, it’s unrealistic.”

“It’s science fiction,” I shot back.

“It needs more character development.” He shrugged as if his statement were obvious.

“Trevor, please don’t start spewing that Writing 101 crap at me. I get enough of that in the program. I want to practice what I preach. I’m constantly telling the undergrads to forget the rules and write intuitively. Now I’m asking you for realistic feedback, from a reader’s point of view, not an instructor’s.”

“I’m trying to. I thought that’s what I was doing. You know how hard it is for me to critique your work. You can’t handle it. I didn’t connect with the characters, so I wasn’t interested in reading the rest of the story. So there. I’m just being honest.”

“There’s a nice way to be honest,” I muttered.

“I still finished the story, and now I’m trying to help you, but you’re not being receptive to it. Just tell me what you want me to say.”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Are you serious right now?”

“Yes.” He got up abruptly and I toppled over onto the floor.

“You’re not a reader. I shouldn’t have asked you to read it. Are we actually fighting over this?”

“We’re always fighting over this,” he said. “And I resent you for saying that I’m not a reader, as if I’m some kind of illiterate Neanderthal.”

I had been dating Trevor since our senior year at Berkeley, so I knew exactly where this insecurity was coming from. Seven years—that’s a long time in anyone’s book. When we met, he was a superstar quarterback destined for the NFL, and I was a bookworm trying to be a wordsmith. He was Tom Brady handsome, and for so long I wondered why he was into me at all. Yet for some reason, in the beginning, it just felt right. We got along beautifully, and our relationship went on like a fairy tale—until he injured his throwing arm in the last game of the season. His professional football career was over before it even began.

He graduated unglamorously and then took an assistant offensive coaching job at San Diego State so he could be closer to me while I worked on my MFA at UC San Diego. It was a major show of dedication, but I couldn’t help but feel like a little light had gone off inside of him. He was there in San Diego with me, but sometimes I felt like he wanted to be somewhere else.

The dynamics of any long-term relationship tend to shift in subtle ways, but for us, the change was more abrupt: the moment he got injured, I wasn’t the nerdy bookworm infatuated with the star quarterback anymore. And while that never bothered me, it definitely bothered him. Even after he followed me to San Diego, we continued to live separately, and neither one of us pressed the issue, even after I finished my MFA. I told myself I was waiting for him to make the move, to own the decision, but honestly I didn’t know if I wanted to move in with him either.

So I kept living with my roommate, Cara, a fellow graduate from the UCSD writing program. She was saving money and teaching a couple of writing courses while she worked on her first novel, and I was trying to do the same. Her longtime boyfriend, Henry, was a surgical resident in New York, and she planned to move at the end of the school year to be with him. I knew I had to figure something out by then, but arguments like this made me think Trevor and I still weren’t ready to take the next step.

“I’m going for a run,” I said to Trevor as I hurried toward my bedroom to get dressed.

“What? One minute you’re worried about a tsunami and the next you want to go for a run? What the hell?” He followed behind me. “Emi, you’re going to have to deal with your shit at some point.”

“My shit? What about your shit?” I said flatly as I sat on the floor, tying my shoes. I wasn’t even looking at him. I got up and tried to move past him to leave the room. I might have been carrying around some baggage, but so was Trevor.

“You have to stop running every time I want to have a bigger conversation with you.”

“Later,” I said.

“No, now,” he said firmly.

I shimmied between his body and my bedroom door and headed toward the kitchen. I busied myself filling up a water bottle.

“We’ve been together since we were twenty, Emi.”

“Jesus, I just asked you to read a fucking story.”

“It’s not about the story.”

“What is it about, then?” I asked sharply.

He looked frustrated and defeated, which was rare for him. I felt a twinge of guilt and softened.

“Trevor, I don’t know if you can tell, but I’m having a hard time with my writing right now. I don’t want to be an adjunct creative writing professor forever. Do you get that?”

“You’re already a writer, Emi.” He seemed sincere, but it wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear.

“All of the other adjuncts have been published in some right, except for me.”

“Cara’s been published?”

“Twice,” I said under my breath.

He hesitated before continuing. “You want to know what I think? It’s not a lack of talent, Emi. I just don’t think you’re writing what you know. Why don’t you try writing about yourself? Explore everything you went through when you were a kid?”

I felt myself getting mad again. He knew my childhood was off-limits. “I don’t want to talk about it, and besides, you’re totally missing the point.”

Pulling my hoodie up over my hair, I pushed the door open and jogged down the stairs toward the walkway as the rain pelted my face. I heard Trevor slam the door and jog down the steps behind me. I stopped on the sidewalk, turned, and looked up at him. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going home,” he said.

“Great.”

“We still need to talk.”

I nodded. “Later.” He turned on his heel and walked away. I stood for a moment before turning in the opposite direction . . . and then I was running.

I was convinced that the years of therapy my aunt Cyndi and her partner, Sharon, had paid for guaranteed my past would always be just that. Still, I knew in the back of my mind that I hadn’t quite dealt with what happened on that long dirt road in Ohio, all those years before I came to live with Cyndi and Sharon. I was guarded and withdrawn, hiding in my relationship with Trevor, in my job as an adjunct professor, in my writing. I knew all of this, but I wasn’t sure how to get out of the rut.

After a few miles, I found myself jogging through the parking lot at UCSD, getting thoroughly soaked by massive raindrops.

“Emi!” I heard Cara call from behind me. “Wait up!”

I turned and tightened the strings on my hoodie. “Hurry, I’m getting drenched!”

Cara’s straight blonde hair clung to her cheeks, making her look even thinner than she was, as she jogged toward me. She was the opposite of me—tall, lanky, with light hair and light eyes. I had frizzy, dark hair that flew everywhere, all the time.

We took cover beneath the overhang of the building that housed the creative writing department. “Jeez, Emi, your hair.” Cara tried unsuccessfully to pat it down as we walked into the building and shook the water off our clothes. Before I could retort, we caught sight of Professor James as he was locking up his office.

“Professor!” Cara called.

He fit every possible stereotype of a college professor. He was plump, had a thick beard, and always dressed in herringbone or argyle. It was easy to imagine a pipe dangling from the side of his mouth as he talked.

“Do you have those notes on my story for me?” Cara asked.

“As a matter of fact, I do.” He shuffled through his distressed leather briefcase and handed Cara a stack of papers. “I’ve written them in the margins.”

Cara craved constructive criticism, but I never found the professor’s notes all that helpful, even when I was in the program. After I graduated, I stopped letting him read my work.

As she scanned his marginalia, Professor James looked me over. “What are you working on, Emiline?”

“Just doing scene exercises.” I looked away, avoiding his stare.

“I didn’t mean with your students. I meant with your personal projects.”

I thought idly that the only personal project I wanted to work on was plucking my eyebrows and shaving my legs. “Oh, just some short stories.”

“If you ever want some feedback, feel free to drop your work off in my office.”

I shifted uncomfortably. “Thanks, I’ll consider it.”

I glanced at Cara’s story and noticed, in bold red writing, at the top of the page, the note BRILLIANT!!

Professor James nodded good-bye and walked away. I turned to Cara. “Two exclamation points? He’s never said anything that nice about my work.”

Cara frowned. “You know what I think about that, Emi.”

“Oh man, here we go.”

“I know you don’t like to hear it, but it’s true. Maybe you’re writing about the wrong stuff.”

First Trevor, now Cara? “I’m really good at baking—does that mean I should be a baker?”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” she said.

“I know.” I looked down at my thrashed Nikes. “I’m just tired of missing the mark on these short stories. Trevor basically panned my last one.” I looked up and nodded toward the end of the hall. “Come on, let’s walk.”

We headed toward the staff room to check our mailboxes in silence.

“Maybe you could work on a memoir? Even if you don’t finish it, you might figure out what you want to explore in your short fiction. Something that’s more personal to you?”

“No, thanks,” I said, hoping that my tone conveyed how much I wanted her to drop it. She seemed to have gotten the hint and abruptly changed the subject.

“So, have you heard of this new writer that everyone’s talking about? J. Colby?”

I shuffled through papers from my staff mailbox, tossing the junk mail in the trash. “No, who’s that?”

“Columbia grad. He’s around our age. I can’t believe he’s already published. Everyone’s raving about his novel.”

“Good for him,” I said bitterly.

“Well, I’m going to read it, see what it’s all about,” she said as she jammed a sheaf of mail into her tote bag. “It’s called All the Roads Between. Don’t you love that title?”

“It’s all right, I guess. Kind of reminds me of The Bridges of Madison County or something.” I turned to her. “Okay, well, I’m done here. I’m gonna head home. You coming with?”

“I’ll see you back there—just have to run a few errands. But, hey, you know what we should do since it’s so rainy out? We should stay in, get takeout, watch trash TV, and drink until we pass out. That’ll cheer you up, right?”

“I guess. Yeah . . . that sounds good. Great, actually. Let’s do it.” Never mind that I’d told Trevor I’d watch football with him and talk. What I needed was a night in with my best friend. “I’ll pick up the wine, you get the Chinese?”

“Deal. See you at home.”

THE SUN WAS going down behind the storm clouds as I sat on the window ledge and watched the waves crash against the rocks of the cove. I thought about the story I could write. I knew I had more than pages’ worth of material. I had books’ worth. I just didn’t know if I could ever put the words to paper.

Cara came barreling through the door with a Barnes and Noble bag.

“They have Chinese food at Barnes and Noble now?” I joked.

“Our date is off! I went and got that book we were talking about, read twenty pages in the store, and could not put it down. I have to know what happens. Emiline, I’m in love with this author. I’m going to find him and make him marry me.”

“How will Henry feel about that?” I teased.

She threw the bag on the counter and poured herself a glass of wine as I watched her from the window ledge. “He’ll understand,” she said, giggling.

“So you’re bailing on me to read in your room?”

“You know how I am when I get into a book. I can’t be stopped.”

I understood exactly how she felt—I was the same way. “Fine, you’re off the hook. But you owe me.”

“Maybe Trevor can swing by with Chinese?”

I laughed. “You’re ditching me but you want my boyfriend to bring us food?”

She leaned over the couch and smiled. “Are you mad?”

“No, I’m kidding. Go, read, enjoy!”

An hour later, when Trevor showed up with Chinese, Cara came out, got a plate, and darted back into her room.

“What’s her deal?” he asked.

“She’s really into her new book.”

“Well, I guess it gives us time to talk.” We sat down side by side at the breakfast bar, opening cartons silently, waiting for someone to go first.

After a few bites, I put my chopsticks down. “You want to talk? Fine? Why don’t you ever tell me you love me?”

“I’ve told you I love you before,” he said, astonished. “And this isn’t what I wanted to talk about.”

“Well, I do. You have said it but you don’t say it often. Don’t you feel like you can say it to me?”

“You never say it to me either.”

Fair point. “I don’t think we even know what it means,” I said through a mouthful of sesame chicken.

“Whatever it is you’re going through has nothing to do with me,” he said. Trevor had this way of shifting responsibility away from himself in every argument. It drove me crazy.

“People are in relationships so they can share things with each other.”

“This, coming from you? Emi, after seven years, I still barely know you. I only know what you share with me, which doesn’t include anything from your past.”

I could feel myself getting defensive. “Since we’re playing the blame game, you haven’t made much of an effort to get to know me, or to commit to me in any real way.”

Trevor’s face fell, and I could tell I’d struck a nerve.

“Are you serious? You keep saying you don’t know where you’ll end up a year from now. What does that even mean? How do you think that makes me feel?”

“Then why are you here?” I asked, simply. I didn’t want to sound callous, but I could tell that I’d gone too far. That I was cutting him too deep.

“I moved down here for you, Emi. I built my life around our relationship.” He got up from his stool. “We’re not kids anymore. I can’t deal with your fickle shit and listen to you say I won’t make a commitment to you. You’re the one who won’t commit to me.”

I felt all kinds of retorts bubbling inside of me. The only job offer you got was at San Diego State. You didn’t move here for me. I’m just the girl you’re passing time with. We both know it. Why else would you have a hard time saying I love you? Why else can’t I see our future?

I got up and headed toward my room, and Trevor followed right behind me. I turned around to face him and rested my hand on the door for a moment as he waited silently in the doorway. And then I pulled him toward me and kissed him, pressing my body against his. I didn’t want to talk anymore.

THE NEXT MORNING, as I drank coffee at the breakfast bar, Cara came skipping by. “What’s eating you?” she asked. I didn’t know how she could tell these things just by looking at the back of my head, but she could intuit moods like no one else. She poured herself a mug of coffee and leaned against the counter, facing me, waiting for my response.

“Trevor.”

“Trevor eating you?” She smirked.

“Not in a good way, pervert.” I rolled my eyes.

“Are you guys fighting again? Sounds like you made up last night.”

“We’re always fighting. Even when we’re making up.”

She straightened, as if something had just occurred to her, and then rushed off. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

When she came back into the kitchen, she set a book down in front of me. I glanced at the jacket. All the Roads Between. “You’re finished already?” I asked.

“Stayed up all night. I loved it. You said I owed you one for bailing on you last night, and this is my repayment. I think you could use the escape.”

“Oh yeah?” I ran my hand over the cover. It was a faint image of two kids holding hands on a road. There was something familiar about the scene, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

“Maybe you can escape your own slightly flawed love story for a bit and get lost in something more satisfying—even if it is fiction.”

I sighed and picked it up. Maybe she was right. I grabbed my mug of coffee with my other hand and headed toward my bedroom. “Thanks, Care Bear,” I called back.

“Anytime.”

Once inside, I plopped down on my bed and cracked open the book to the first page. From the moment I read the second line in the first paragraph, my heart rate tripled. Instantly, I was sweating. By the end of the first page, I was almost hysterical.

CHAPTER ONE

“Trouble at two o’clock.” I tipped my chin toward the big glass window.

Nix glanced up from behind the counter and peered at the two figures crossing the street toward our shop, Ancient Magic. Rain fell on their huge forms as they stalked toward us. Her green eyes assessed them sharply.

My deirfiúr—sister by choice—was a pro at spotting danger. She normally worked the counter at Ancient Magic, a job that was just as much protecting the wares as it was selling them. She was basically the deadliest shopgirl you’d ever meet.

“Ah, hell. They’re trouble.” She pulled her dark hair back into a ponytail.

“Yeah. Gotta be demons.” They were almost seven feet tall and built like moose. Unless a basketball team had had babies with a football team and their charming family was visiting town, these guys were demons.

A month ago, I’d have reached for the obsidian daggers I kept strapped to my thighs. I’d repressed my magic for so long that weapons had become second nature. But ever since I’d started practicing my magic, I’d gained confidence.

And I liked using my magic now. A lot.

The hulking demons stepped onto the curb. Through the glass, I could make out the sawed-off horns peeking through their hair and their strange silver eyes. Weird eyes. Their arms bulged out of sleeveless shirts that were totally stupid for a rainy Oregon afternoon. Besides the massive size and the horns, they looked almost human.

My eyes skated around the shop, landing on the delicate items displayed on the shelves. Each housed a spell, and most of them were worth a lot of money.

Whichever one these demons were coming for, they weren’t going to get it.

“Can’t we make it a month without a robbery?” Nix said.

“Where’s the fun in that?” My brows rose as the demons turned away from our door and walked down the sidewalk. Like they hadn’t even seen us.

“What the hell?” Nix got up from her stool and walked around the counter, peering out the window. “They’re not coming in here?”

“Then it’s not our problem.”

“But it’s not good either,” Nix said.

I sighed. “Yeah. Fair point.”

I didn’t want them to bust up our shop in some dumb attempt at a robbery, but demons shouldn’t be wandering around earth, not even in all magic cities like Magic’s Bend, which was concealed from humans by a massive spell. Most demon species were too violent and reckless to follow the rules that kept supernaturals a secret from humans, so they were banned from earth.

“Too bad Del’s not here,” Nix said. “She’d take care of them.”

“Yeah.”

Del, my other deirfiúr, was a demon hunter paid by the Order of the Magica, the government that ruled magic users like myself. I could kick some demon ass, but I preferred not to unless I was being paid. Del enjoyed it, though. She’d take care of these guys as a way to pass the time.

“Hey, they’re going into P&P!”

“What?” I sprang to my feet. Demons had no right being in Potions & Pastilles, my friends’ coffee shop. “Now it’s our problem.”

“No kidding.”

We hurried out of Ancient Magic. I started down the street, leaving Nix to reignite the enchantments that protected our shop. Couldn’t have our stock walking away while we hunted demons, after all.

I slowed as I reached the huge front window outside Potions & Pastilles, then hovered just out of view and peered through the glass. The large coffee shop was empty of customers, the wooden tables and comfy chairs abandoned. Connor and Claire, my two friends who ran the shop, were behind the counter, tidying up before the evening rush. The demons approached them, stopping in front of the counter.

Did I need to bust in there and not bother to take names? But a bit of recon was worth a lot of fighting.

I called upon my magic, accessing the Shifter powers I’d recently stolen, and used them to enhance my hearing. I let the magic roll over me, filling me with warmth and igniting my power. Joy and pleasure flowed with it, something that had only recently started accompanying my magic. I assumed it was because I was more practiced and less afraid, but I didn’t know.

The birds chirping in the trees became louder, the sound of Nix’s approaching footsteps more prominent.

But it was the bigger demon’s words that made my stomach drop.

“We’ve heard there are FireSouls in the area.” His voice sounded like he spoke through a throat full of gravel. “We can find no trace of them, except for here, in your shop.”

I reached out and grabbed Nix’s arm to keep her from charging in front of the window. She whipped around and glared at me. Nix was more generally cautious than Del or me, but when it came to protecting those she loved, she was a freaking badger.

I shook my head, tapped my ear to indicate I was eavesdropping, and dragged her behind the wall so we weren’t right in front of the window. The demons wouldn’t hurt Connor or Claire, not as long as they wanted information, and I wanted to know who’d sent them to find me and my deirfiúr.

Inside the coffee shop, Claire shook her head, her dark hair swinging. “FireSouls?” Her eyes widened. “Around here? In our shop?”

If I hadn’t been frozen in place from fear, I’d have grinned. Claire was a good actress. My deirfiúr and I had revealed our secret to Connor and Claire a few days ago—that we were FireSouls, the most hated of all supernatural species.

Did that have anything to do with demons now showing up, looking for us?

No way my friends turned us in.

“Aye, can’t you hear right?” the demon barked. “Around here. Deadly pieces of work. So if you don’t want your power stolen by one of those monsters, you’d better share what you know. They’ll kill you in a heartbeat to get your magic.”

Not true. But I’d kill that demon in a heartbeat. And where did he get off calling me a monster?

FireSouls were despised—we could steal other supernatural’s powers by killing them—but we weren’t monsters. My deirfiúr weren’t like that.

But me? Now that I’d started accessing my FireSoul power, I was afraid he might be right. When I’d stolen the Shifter’s power recently, I hadn’t been able to control myself. Maybe I was becoming as bad as they said, but I didn’t like hearing it from a demon.

“No idea what you’re talking about, mate,” Connor said. “There’s no way FireSouls have been in here.”

The big demon surged toward the wooden counter, slamming his hands down. “You calling me a liar? Because a seer prophesied their presence and I tracked them here. Their magic reeks in this place.”

Shit. A Tracker demon. I’d thought their weird eyes looked familiar but couldn’t place them. They were like the bloodhounds of demons, easily able to sense other supernaturals’ magic and follow it. Del, Nix, and I had always been scared of them, though we’d never met any face to face. If we had, our secret might be out by now, and we might be locked up in the Prison for Magical Miscreants.

The other demon drew a wicked-looking knife from the sheath strapped to his massive arm.

Nix tugged against my hold, her face twisted into an exasperated What the hell are we waiting for!?

She was right. It was one thing to listen for info. Another entirely to put my friends in danger.

“Go time,” I whispered.

We raced forward, shoulder to shoulder. By the time we pushed through the glass door, the demon had Connor by the collar, dragging his slim form over the counter. Connor threw a mean right hook, but the demon didn’t even flinch.

Stone demon as well as Tracker? Halfbloods weren’t unheard of.

A flash of silver to his left caught my eye. Claire, a mercenary as well as a part-time coffee shop owner, had dragged a sword from beneath the counter. She leapt over the bar, her dark hair flying, and lunged for the other demon.

The scent of flowers bloomed as Nix called upon her magic and conjured a wicked-looking sword of her own. She raced to join Claire.

Though I wanted to fry the demon who shook Connor with the lightning that was becoming my signature power, I didn’t want it to flow through to Connor and electrocute him too. So I pulled my daggers from the sheaths at my thighs, flinging Lefty and Righty in quick succession.

The black obsidian blades sank into the Tracker demon’s back. He grunted and dropped Connor, but didn’t fall.

Strong bastard.

But now that he wasn’t touching Connor anymore…

I called upon my lightning, letting the power surge through my veins. It crackled and burned beneath my skin as I gathered it up. Joy filled me at my control, at the feeling of finally embracing my magic. Like my soul was coming together.

My breath caught in my throat as I focused my power, attempting not to go overboard. I wanted to wound, not kill, so I could question him.

I released the jet of lightning. Fine and direct, it streaked toward the demon. Thunder boomed as the lightning stuck. The demon’s huge body shook, then collapsed to the floor. A chair crunched beneath him.

Direct hit! And almost no collateral damage. Jackpot. I grinned. I was really starting to like this magic thing.

At the same time, Nix and Claire sank their blades into both sides of the remaining demon. They yanked out their swords, and his huge body crashed to the floor. I raced toward the fallen demons as Connor struggled to his feet.

The demon I’d struck with lightning lay on his front, his body still smoking. I pulled my blades from his back and shoved him over. Sightless eyes stared at the ceiling.

“Definitely dead.” Connor’s voice was hoarse from being strangled.

Damn.

I’d tried not to kill him. Hadn’t worked. But at least I hadn’t killed Connor.

The second demon lay bleeding out onto the floor. I went to him, falling to my knees and straddling him, then thrust Righty against his throat. The black glass glinted in the light.

“Who sent you?” I demanded.

He choked, his features twisting at the pain of approaching death. The blood that welled from his chest felt warm against my legs. Gross.

His powers—those bloodhound Tracker senses and the massive strength that made him into a living stone—called to my own.

Covetousness surged, an aching hunger to steal his magic. He was so strong. I could be that strong. I didn’t need any help finding things, but his strength would come in more than handy. Fire filled my body, a blazing heat that seared my soul. Hunger and need and desire rushed through me, a potent cocktail that stole my control.

I could take his strength, have it for my own. All I had to do was let my FireSoul take his power as he died. The need was so strong it ate me from within.

Shaking, I pressed my hands to his shoulders, my magic reaching out for his. White flame flickered across my skin, extending out to him. I tasted the iron of his magic as it flowed to me.

Joy seethed inside of me as I stole his power, sick and dark.

“Cass!” Nix’s voice pinged in my head. “Cass! What are you doing?”

Nix’s shout tugged at my conscience. I gasped, surfacing from the trance I’d fallen into. The white flame still flicked across my skin, reaching into the body beneath me.

I threw myself away from him, desperate to escape the force compelling me to steal his powers. I had no problem killing him—he’d threatened my friends—and little problem stealing his powers, but I wanted it to be a conscious decision. Not one that I was forced to make. Not one I enjoyed so much.

“Cass! Are you all right?” Nix asked. She fell to her knees beside me, concern in her gaze.

I shook my head, clearing my blurry vision. Shudders racked my body. The desperate hunger was fading now that I was away from him. I glanced at his body.

Dark eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Dead.

No, I wasn’t resisting. The hunger was fading because he was dead. I could no longer take his power, so the temptation was gone. It wasn’t my own willpower or strength.

Damn. What was I turning into?

“Cass?” Nix’s voice shook me from my thoughts.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Nix said.

I hadn’t told Nix or Del about my new fear that my FireSoul compelled me to steal magic when I was in close proximity to a dying body. Or that I enjoyed it so much.

It made me a monster.

Like the one from my past who hunted me and my deirfiúr. It was one thing to take powers, but it was another thing entirely to enjoy it so much. To do it without control. Like an addict.

“No, I’m fine. I wanted to ask him questions, but he’s dead.” I climbed to my feet. “And I hate getting blood on my clothes.”

“Yeah, all right,” Nix said as she rose, but her gaze lingered on my. She was suspicious, but didn’t say anything.

I wasn’t off the hook. Nix was great at biding her time. She’d told me once that when I was stressed, I had the bad habit of shutting down. She usually just waited me out. Nix was the patient one.

I climbed to my feet as Nix and Claire turned to Connor. He was straightening his crumpled band t-shirt—Amy MacDonald, live from Glasgow today­­­—and rubbing his throat. His face was still ruddy from air loss and his dark eyes bright, but he looked all right otherwise.

“That was one nasty piece of work,” Connor said.

Connor was a Hearth Witch with a knack for potions, so hand-to-hand wasn’t his specialty. He was a badass with potion bombs and a sword if he could get his hands on one, but this kind of fighting had never been his thing.

“We better hide these bodies until they disappear,” I said. “Pull them behind the counter or something.”

Connor frowned. “Yeah, that wouldn’t be good for business. Would you like a side of dead demon with your triple boosted latte, madam?”

“Why, that sounds delightful,” Nix said in a singsong voice as she grabbed a demon by the leg and dragged him behind the counter.

Please don’t let the health inspector show up.

It wouldn’t take long for the demons to disappear and return to the hell that they’d come from. You couldn’t really kill a demon, just their earthly form. In a little while, they’d wake up in their hell.

But at least we didn’t have to deal with their bodies, and whoever had hired them wouldn’t be seeing them for a while.

“Thanks for covering for us,” I said after I’d dragged the second demon’s body behind the counter. “I have no idea how they found us. Whoever they were.”

“They mentioned a seer. But didn’t they come from your shop?” Claire asked. “They came from that direction at least.”

“They couldn’t see us,” I said as Connor went behind the counter and started to make coffee. Back to business as usual. “We have concealment charms that hide us from the eyes of anyone seeking us with ill intent. It’s how we’ve managed to stay hidden for so long.”

My sisters and I had lived in Magic’s Bend for five years, but we’d only been able to settle here once we bought the concealment charms. Without them, we’d have to stay on the run or risk the Monster from our past finding us.

“I’m sorry this brought trouble to your door,” I said. “But we really appreciate you having our back.”

“Yeah,” Nix said. “You have no idea. We’ve never had friends like you before.”

“That’s what friends are for,” Claire said. “Do you think those guys were sent by the Monster who hunts you?”

“Maybe.” My skin crawled at the thought. My deirfiúr and I had no memory of the first fifteen years of our lives. Only that we were FireSouls and that we’d fled from someone terrible. I’d met him recently, so he knew we were still alive. “Probably.”

My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I dug my hand in and pulled it out, then glanced at the message displayed on the screen.



FOUND SOMETHING. MEET AT OFFICE.



I glanced up and met three pairs of expectant eyes.

“Dr. Garriso wants to talk to me,” I said. “I’d better run.”

Nix’s eyes flared with interest. She knew I’d given our scholar friend the Chalice of Youth, an artifact linked to the Monster, and that I was waiting for answers. We wanted to know why the Monster hunted the chalice and hoped Dr. Garriso would be able to help us.

“Go, go,” Nix said. “I’ll hang out here and make sure these bodies disappear.”

“I can handle that,” Claire said. “I deal with enough demon bodies in my day job anyway. I’ve got the skill set.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Nix said. “And this is my favorite place to eat. I don’t want you getting shut down by the health inspector.”

Claire laughed. The sound followed me as I headed out of the shop.



I stepped out into the late afternoon drizzle and turned toward my car, immediately bumping into a tall, hard form. I stiffened, muscles on high-alert, then stepped back and looked up.

Aidan.

I relaxed, then smiled. My heart jumped in my chest.

“Hey.” He grinned down, his smile a slash of white in his handsome face.

His dark hair and the blue shirt he wore glittered with raindrops. It made him look even more like a model. The rugged kind, not the pretty kind. Though I appreciated both. I always felt vastly outclassed by him, but I’d learned to ignore it.

His magic surged against mine with the sound of waves crashing and the taste of chocolate. He smelled like the forest, and I had to stop myself from sucking in a deep breath.

A girl had to have some pride.

“Hey.” I smiled up at him. “Long time no see.”

My friend and maybe-boyfriend—honestly, I had no idea what to call him—had been gone on business for the last three days. I’d missed him.

“Sorry I was away longer than expected, but it’s done,” he said. His big hands gripped my shoulders, and heat shivered across my skin.

Aidan Merrick was the Origin, a descendent of the first Shifter and one of the most powerful supernaturals in the world. He was also a Magica with Elemental Mage powers and some healing ability. I’d met him about a month ago when he’d hired me to help him find a dangerous scroll. FireSouls can find just about anything of value, so I made my living finding valuable magic to sell at my shop. It was how Aidan had tracked me down.

After that job, he’d figured out I was a FireSoul—smart bastard—but instead of turning me in to the Order of the Magica, which would’ve resulted in a life sentence for me at the Prison for Magical Miscreants, he’d stuck by my side, helping me with a difficult job. Things had snowballed from there, though we’d never had any time for a real date or other romancey stuff.

Mostly, we’d been running for our lives or someone else’s. At this point, I didn’t even know what romancey stuff was. I’d have liked to figure it out, though.

“Yeah, well I can forgive you,” I said. “You’ve sort of let your business lapse while you’ve been watching my back.”

Aidan owned Origin Enterprises, a security business that made him immeasurably wealthy. At least by my standards.

“I like having your back.” Aidan grinned.

The sight sucker punched me. Damn, he looked good.

When had I become so shallow?

“But you never returned my calls,” he said. “Got anything to say for yourself?”

My stomach dropped. “Noticed that, did you?”

“Might have. Any reason why?”

Yeah, but none that I wanted to share. Ever since I’d stolen a Shifter’s magic a week ago, I’d been so freaked out by my changing powers—and intense desire to steal other supernaturals’ magic—that I’d done my usual. I’d shut down. I didn’t know how to share with anyone besides my deirfiúr, and this felt too dark to share even with them. I hadn’t felt like faking being okay on the phone. That felt like lying.

Though now that I looked at it from his perspective, disappearing hadn’t been great either.

“I’m sorry. That was bad of me. I’ve got a good reason.” I cringed. “Maybe not a good reason, but one that has nothing to do with you. It was all me. Being weird. I’m sorry.”

“I like you weird. But I’d like you better if you talked to me.”

“Fair enough. But later? I’m headed somewhere.”

“Where to?” Aidan asked.

“Dr. Garriso wants to see me about the Chalice of Youth.” My heart pounded at the idea of finally figuring out what it was. “So I’ve got to run. Meet you later tonight?”

“Why don’t I come with?”

“Uhhh.” I’d gotten used to having him at my side, but were we going to make it a regular thing? Would I like that?

There was only one way to find out. “Yeah, all right. Let’s go. But I’m driving.”

“Fine by me.”

I turned to cross the street toward my old junker, but Aidan’s hand caught my arm. I shivered. Gently, he pulled me back.

“Hang on.” His voice sounded rough. “I haven’t had a chance to do this yet.”

My eyes darted up, meeting his dark gaze. Heat flared in its depths, igniting the same within me. He leaned down and pressed his lips to mine, stealing my breath. My head swam as his mouth moved against mine.

He was the best kisser—his lips soft and skilled and his taste divine. My heart threatened to break my ribs. Just as I clenched my fists in his shirt, he pulled away.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go find out about that chalice. You seemed excited.”

What I was excited about was kissing him. Tension had raged between us for almost a month now, but between running for our lives and being called away by work, we hadn’t had a chance to actually act on anything yet.

It was getting to be about damned time, if my heart rate was any indication.

“Yeah, let’s go,” I said. “Were getting rained on anyway.”

“Oh, I could ignore the rain.”

I grinned and punched him in the shoulder, then turned away.

We crossed the street quickly, heading toward the park on the other side. Ancient Magic and P & P were located on Factory Row, the recently revitalized old factory district of Magic’s Bend. Rent was low and the company was weird, but that’s what I liked about it.

We climbed into Cecelia, my old junker with chipped paint and a spotty engine. It sputtered and coughed as I cranked it, but when the engine finally turned over, I wanted to cheer.

“You know, you could afford a new car with your take from your last job,” Aidan said.

I pulled onto the street. “Yeah, but I don’t care about cars. Cecelia here will do me just fine.”

The four million I’d made on my last job—a record haul even for me—was going toward increased concealment charms for myself and my deirfiúr and protection spells for our apartments and shop. Not to mention my trove.

FireSouls were said to share the soul of a dragon, though no one had seen a dragon in centuries. Considering the fact that my deirfiúr and I were as covetous as dragons eyeing a pile of gold, I believed it. We thought it was the dragon’s covetousness that gave us our special sense for finding treasure. The rest of that four million would go towards padding my trove—a collection of leather jackets, boots, and weapons. It might be weird treasure, but it was mine.

It didn’t take long to drive through Magic’s Bend, a medium-sized city of supernaturals. We chatted about Aidan’s trip as the tall buildings of the business district passed by in all their sterile glory, giving way to the quirky structures in the historic district where the good bars were located, and then by Darklane, where everybody knew the dark magic practitioners hung out.

“Here we are,” I said as we pulled into the large parking lot at the Museum of Magical History. The rain had lightened up while we were driving, but I still sprinted towards the back door.

I tapped on Dr. Garriso’s window as I passed, then headed toward the big gray door. Aidan joined me as we waited for Dr. Garriso to unlock it. We were here after hours, but you could always count on Dr. Garriso to be in his office. I wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t live there.

The door swung open, and the small white-haired figure of Dr. Garriso smiled at us. “Welcome, welcome. Come in.”

We stepped out of the rain and followed him down the cold, boring hallway, which was nothing like the rest of the museum. Researchers always got the shaft.

Dr. Garriso was a small man, about seventy, and favored the tweed coats that made him look like an old Sherlock Holmes.

He pushed open the door to his office. As soon as I stepped over the threshold, I couldn’t help but grin. It was like stepping back in time. Bookshelves lined every wall, stuffed to overflowing with ancient leather tomes and newer paperbacks. Old Tiffany lamps gleamed warmly from wooden tables, leather chairs invited, and the air smelled like tea.

How he’d turned the sterile researcher’s office into this wonderland from a past century, I had no idea. But I liked it.

“Could I get you some tea?” Dr. Garriso asked. “I have a lovely new blend from India.”

“Yes, please,” I said.

I could never resist Dr. Garriso’s tea. It wasn’t my beloved Pabst Blue Ribbon—PBR for short, the beer of hipsters and hillbillies—but something about it suited his office so well that I could never say no. And now wasn’t exactly the time for a cold one, anyway.

Aidan and I crossed the narrow space to the small seating area under the window. There were two plush leather chairs, but Aidan picked up a small wooden one in front of the bookshelves and brought it over. He fitted his huge form onto the seat, leaving the two nicer chairs for Dr. Garriso and me.

Not a bad dude.

“Thanks,” I said as I sank into the leather chair.

Dr. Garriso puttered at the small table holding the electric kettle and his collection of tea supplies.

The kettle dinged, and he fussed some more, then carried the tea over on a tiny silver tray and set it on the table between the leather chairs. He turned and retrieved a leather box from a high shelf.

I reached for my tea as he opened the box, sipping and sighing gratefully at the added sweetness. Dr. Garriso knew I had the sweet tooth of a twelve-year-old. Five sugar cubes. It was a little ridiculous, but I didn’t care.

“This is an interesting item,” Dr. Garriso said as he removed the ornate golden chalice from the box.

Shiny.

The yellow metal glinted in the low light, and my fingers itched to touch it. Though I preferred a different type of treasure, the dragon in my soul couldn’t help but covet anything that shiny.

“What is it?” I asked. “I know it can’t just be a beauty charm.”

Right before I’d met Aidan, I’d recovered the Chalice of Youth on a job, specifically for Mr. S, Magic Bend’s favorite weatherman. Del, who consulted ancient records to determine which enchanted artifacts I would go after, had determined that the Chalice of Youth would do for Mr. S’s needs.

But it’d turned out that the chalice was more than just a beauty charm. The Monster from my past had been hunting it as well. There was no way he’d have been hunting it if it weren’t special.

“Well, you see,” Dr. Garriso said. “It’s a difficult object. It is definitely a beauty charm, but that spell was placed on the chalice to hide its true purpose. The chalice possesses a spell that allows whoever drinks from it—”

An enormous crash sounded from one of the floors above, followed by a shout. Magic swelled in the air, a bitter, burning aroma that was hard to identify. But it smelled like dark magic.

I surged to my feet, Aidan alongside me, his massive form graceful despite his size.

“What was that?” Dr. Garriso’s white brows rose to touch his snowy hairline.

“Nothing good,” I said.

“Not a robbery,” Dr. Garriso said. “It can’t be.”

Pounding footsteps sounded on the floor above. A guard running? A thief?

“I don’t know, but we’d better check it out,” I said. I hated the idea of anyone coming in here and messing with the history contained within these walls. This stuff was irreplaceable. “We’ll be right back, Dr. Garriso.”

I raced from the room with Aidan. The sterile lights of the hallway burned my eyes after the dim pleasantness of Dr. Garriso’s office. We sprinted side by side down the wide hallway, following the sound of crashing and yelling, and pushed through the doors at the end of the hall, spilling out into one of the main exhibit rooms.

The ceiling soared high above, the setting sun gleaming orange from behind the enormous glass windows. Marble statues dotted the space, but no people.

Another crash sounded.

“Left,” I said.

We sprinted toward it, crossing through exhibits that held only artifacts. The sound of a fight beckoned, leading us to a moderately-sized room full of ancient vases and amphoras. Glass cases filled the space, gleaming dully in the light.

A purple portal glowed from the corner. Lavender light pulsed from it, illuminating the two figures who stood on either side, their arms outstretched, as if they were manipulating the magic that created the portal. They were Magica of some sort. Maybe demons, though some species looked human. Their power smelled like rot and decay, with a hint of the ocean behind it.

Dark magic covered their own signature.

Whatever they were doing with that portal needed to be stopped.

In the middle of the room, three other thieves fought off three guards who wore the blue museum uniform. Magic flashed from their hands, spikes of ice and flying jets of flame. But they kept the attack tight, contained. Their magic felt strong, like they could have blown the guards away.

But they held back. Did they want to avoid hurting the artifacts?

The guards rebuffed the attacks with circular shields. Magic repellers. When they could get a shot in, they sent blasts of golden light at the thieves.

Stunning spells, if I had to guess.

One crashed into the thief on the left, throwing him back almost to the portal.

“I’ll take the guys on the left,” I said.

“Right for me, then.” Aidan threw a spear of flame, precise and blazing, toward one of the intruders. It engulfed him, and he fell to the floor, screaming.

I called upon Aidan’s power over flame, using my Mirror Mage abilities to borrow his gift. It was safer than using my FireSoul power since Mirror Mages were accepted in magical society.

The evergreen scent of Aidan’s magic filled my nose as I drew it into me and crafted a bolt of fire. Warmth filled me, that now-familiar joy, as I molded the magic to my will. I sent the fire streaking toward the thief who stood to the left of the portal.

Direct hit.

I grinned.

Flame licked up his form and he flailed, tumbling back into the portal and disappearing. A pang of loss hit me. If he hadn’t fallen through the portal, I’d have been able to take his power.

“Oh, dear.” Dr. Garriso’s startled voice pulled me from my dark thoughts.

I flushed. What was I thinking?

I glanced toward Dr. Garriso. He’d entered through another exhibit and stood near the portal, his wide gaze traveling over the scene.

He was too near the last thief for my liking.

“Get back!” I shouted as I called upon Aidan’s Elemental Mage powers and crafted a spear of ice. I’d wound the bad guy with this, then be able to question him.

The ice froze my fingertips as I sent it streaking through the air toward the final thief. It punctured him right through the middle. He flailed, knocking over an artifact case.

Dr. Garriso’s shout echoed in the room. He lunged for the amphora that tumbled toward the floor. As he passed by the portal, it pulsed, a bright purple light illuminating the room. Magic surged, a dry static crackle in the air that made the hair on my arms stand on end.

The purple light expanded, reaching for Dr. Garriso and dragging him toward the heart of the portal. His wide gaze met mine as he was sucked inside. His sensible brown shoes were the last thing to disappear as I reached for him, my hand outstretched and too far away to be any help at all.

"He wants to transfer packs? "

No matter how many times I said those words, I still couldn't quite believe that was why Lucas had come all the way to the Wayfarer, a place that must have felt like ennemy territory to his wolf, the same way he felt foreign to me. Bleeding and bloody, beaten within an inch of his life and unable to shift, he'd limped and stumbled his way over mountains and through the forest and around God knew how many towns where he might have been spotted and shot - and he'd done all of that in the single-minded pursuit of one thing.
Me.

The smell of unwashed wolf closed in on me, fur tickling my skin and fetid breath in my face. I trembled, hot tears burning my eyes. The wolf snarled and I scrambled back as he leapt toward me.

“Autumn. Autumn, wake up.” Zack pulled me off the pillow by my shoulders.

I lifted my head and rubbed my eyes, trying to wipe away the mental fuzz. But I was aware enough to notice my comforter wasn’t anywhere near us, certainly not separating me from him. I must have kicked it off during my nightmare.

“Are you okay?” Zack was sitting directly in front of me, his thighs straddling mine, heat from his bare skin radiating through me.

I nodded.

He exhaled in relief and leaned back to sit on his heels. “Heard you scream and I ran up here. Been calling your name over and over, but you wouldn’t wake up. Scared me for a minute there.”

I’d been having that same dream where I was being chased. “I was running from wolves.”

He brushed a finger down my cheek. “It was just a dream.”

“More like a nightmare,” I whispered, my gaze locking onto his. He wore nothing but a pair of boxers. As my ragged breath slowed, I realized the only other thing between us was my threadbare tank top and skimpy panties.

“Autumn.” His breathing quickened and he growled so low it sounded like a purr. Then he tilted my face to meet his and drew closer until I felt his breath on my skin. “You’re too beautiful.”

Skipping two days of classes seemed to have multiple consequences, like extra homework and people staring at her like they had when she’d first come to school. She hadn’t missed that level of scrutiny and wasn’t happy to have it back.

“What is everyone’s problem?” Bryn asked as she walked on the treadmill in Basic Movement.

Valmont ran on the treadmill next to her, not breaking a sweat. “We are a curiosity.”

“I wish we could fly today.” Something inside of her ached to shift and take flight, but Mrs. Anderson refused to let her fly until she had clearance from a medic.

“After classes today, why don’t we find Medic Williams and ask her for a note, so you’ll be able to fly tomorrow.”

“Or we could go flying tonight.” Bryn increased the speed on her treadmill to a jog.

“Sorry, I’m siding with the authorities on this. If you need more time to recover, then that’s what you’ll have.”

She glared at him.

“That look doesn’t work on me.” He grinned. Then the corners of his mouth turned down.

“What?” Bryn checked the area for whatever had made him frown. Jaxon stalked in their direction. Great.

When he reached her, he smacked the button to turn off her treadmill. “You need to joust or do something to show everyone you aren’t weak.”

Valmont turned his treadmill off and moved to stand at Bryn’s side. “You need to work on your manners.”

Jaxon didn’t even acknowledge Valmont. “I’m trying to help you.”

“Why?” It was a serious question.

“Because I don’t like being associated with anyone who is weak.” Jaxon snapped.

Now she understood. “You went from caring and concerned to a self-centered asshat in one sentence.”

“You do realize your opinion of me means nothing.” Jaxon stepped closer. “Go do something to prove you’re not spineless.”

He’d crossed a line. “I could start by blasting you across the room.”

“You could try,” Jaxon said. “But you wouldn’t succeed.”

The desire to shoot a fireball at his head had flames crawling up the back of her throat.

Valmont put his arm around her shoulders. “He’s an idiot, but he knows how his Clan thinks. Let’s go practice with broad swords.”

“Fine.” Bryn let Valmont guide her toward the lockers where the equipment was kept.

Valmont squeezed her shoulders. “You do realize, when you face off with Jaxon, you won’t be doing it alone.”

She wanted to argue, but knew that would hurt his feelings, so she nodded in acknowledgment. Why did it feel like she was lying to him?

Valmont opened several lockers until he found what he wanted. Pulling a set of rapiers from the locker, he frowned. “Are these toothpicks the only blades they have?”

Bryn chuckled. “Jaxon and his friends have trained with those since they were five. I think your broadsword is a much better weapon.”

“Agreed. But for the Bryn-is-still-a-Badass show, I guess we’ll use these.”

“I like the sound of that. It would look good on a t-shirt.”

Valmont pointed toward the ring. “After you, Ms. Badass.”

“Does that make you Mr. Badass?” Bryn asked.

He grinned. “I think it does.”

Once in the ring, Bryn faced off with Valmont, which felt weird. “I’m not sure we can—” He came toward her swinging his sword in a wide arc. She blocked it with her sword. “Hey!”

“Showtime.” Valmont’s eyes darted to the side.

A crowd was gathering. Fan-freaking-tastic. Ignoring the crowd, she shoved Valmont’s sword back, forcing him to retreat. He came at her, and she blocked. She swung at him and he dodged the blow. Faster and faster, they dueled. The sound of wooden sword clacking against wooden sword played out like a song. The fact that she hadn’t been able to touch Valmont with her sword both irritated her and made her proud. Her knight had skills.

His sword whizzed by her shoulder. Too close. She focused on pushing him back. Sweat ran between her shoulder blades. He held his ground, giving little. She raised her sword and brought it down with all her might, he blocked and crack half his sword was gone.

She stopped wide-eyed. Valmont held out his stubby sword. “I think you won.”

The crowd around the ring drifted away. Jaxon caught her eye and gave a nod of approval. She reined in the instinct to roll her eyes or flip him off. Instead, she gave a curt nod back.

When she made eye contact with Valmont, his jaw muscle was clenched. “What’s wrong?”

“I hate that Jaxon was right.”

Bryn laughed. If that didn’t prove they were meant for each other, nothing would.

Jaxon, I swear to God, if you don’t stop bitching, I will set your hair on fire.” Bryn spoke through clenched teeth as she smiled and nodded at the students streaming past her them into the Welcome Back to School Gala. “Aren’t you supposed to have this fake socialite crap down to a science?”

“It’s not the greeting people I mind,” he nodded at a group of students who entered the dining hall. “it’s your proximity.”

That was it. She didn’t care what her grandmother and Lillith wanted. If she had to listen to Jaxon make one more rude comment, she was going to lose it and roast him like a marshmallow.

“Bryn.” Garrett walked toward her with his face wary, and his injured left arm hanging limp in a sling.

And now she remembered why she was doing this. “I’m so glad you came.” Only half of all the students injured during the attacks on campus were willing to return to campus. The other less than perfect dragons allowed the Directorate to talk or more likely bully them into private tutors.

A ghost of a smile crossed Garrett’s face. “I told the Directorate my left arm may not work and I may not be able to fly, but my mind was still functional and they owed me for failing to provide adequate protection. You should’ve seen the looks on their faces.”

“Good for you.” This was why she and Rhianna had engineered the welcome back to school party, courtesy of Lillith and her grandmother. It would be too easy for the Directorate to sweep all the injured students under the rug over Christmas Break.

Garrett headed toward the tables where the Green dragons sat. His friends greeted him like nothing was wrong.

“You think this is a good thing,” Jaxon said. “But you’re wrong.”

“That’s it.” Fire crawled up the back of Bryn’s throat. Smoke drifted from her lips as she spoke. “Get the hell away from me.”

“Gladly.” Jaxon stalked off to join his friends.

Bryn’s best friend Ivy bounded over, with Clint in tow. “I won.”

“You won what?” Bryn asked.

“She bet you’d try to roast Jaxon within the hour.” Clint ran his fingers through his mohawk. “I bet within the first thirty minutes.”

“You made it forty minutes.” Ivy grabbed Bryn’s hand. “I declare your door greeting duties officially over. Time to hit the buffet.”

Once they had food, and were seated at their usual table, Bryn sighed. “Finally, I can relax.”

Ivy’s eyebrows went up. “Maybe not.”

Bryn heard the click of high heels on the marble tile. She cringed. That had to be her grandmother.

“Bryn, why aren’t you greeting people at the door?”

Turning to face her grandmother, Bryn gave a tight smile. “Most of the guests are here, I was hungry, and I was five seconds from setting Jaxon’s hair on fire.” She could pick whichever reason she liked.

Her grandmother frowned. “It’s inappropriate to leave the entrance unless you find someone else to greet your guests.”

“This isn’t my party. It’s a school party.”

“That’s not what we discussed,” her grandmother said.

“I didn’t realize you meant I had to stand at the door all night.”

Her grandmother appeared unswayed.

Bryn pushed to her feet. “If I find someone to greet people, will that make you happy?”

“No.” Her grandmother raised a brow. “But it will do.”

“Fine.” Bryn scanned the room. Who did she want to dump door duty on? Better yet, who could she convince to do it?

Rhianna stood on the outskirts of the Blue Clan, clutching a glass of punch. Coming back to school after her injury was one thing, playing hostess was another. It didn’t hurt to ask.

Bryn approached Rhianna and spoke in a quiet voice. “I have a favor to ask. My grandmother won’t let me sit down unless someone else takes over greeting guests. Do you think you’re up for it?”

“I’m not sure.” She nodded at her classmates. “My reception hasn’t been what I hoped for.”

“Idiots.” Bryn frowned. And where was Jaxon? And then it came to her. “You could ask Jaxon to go with you. He’d be far happier standing up there with you than he was with me.”

“Maybe.” Rhianna caught Jaxon’s gaze and waved.

He said something to the group of people he stood with and came over to take Rhianna’s hand. “What’s wrong?”

“Bryn needs someone to take over greeting at the door. Would you go with me?”

“Of course. We should have done it that way in the first place.”

Okay, he was being nice to Rhianna, but did he have to be such a jerk to her? Not wanting to deal with him, Bryn clamped her lips shut and rejoined her friends at their table.

Clint pointed to her hair. “I see you decided to go native.”

She rolled her eyes. “My grandfather interpreted my red, blond and black streaked hair as lack of pride in my Blue Clan heritage. So I went blond to appease him.” She reached up to touch the red streak by her temple. “He still hates this nod to my father’s clan, but I refuse to change it.”

“I miss the the black stripes.” Ivy said.

“Me too. But my grandparents took me in, so I’m trying to keep the peace.” With her parents gone, it’s not like she had anywhere else to go. If she alienated her grandfather, she’d be homeless. “Let’s talk about something happier.”

“I got my driver’s license.” Clint puffed up with pride.

“That’s great.” And it gave her an idea. “Maybe you could teach me how to drive.”

Ivy choked on her punch. “Not a good plan. He drives like a maniac.”

“I do not.” Clint flicked a cube of cheddar cheese at his girlfriend.

“You took out the bushes at the end of my driveway, on both sides.” Ivy picked up the cheese cube and popped it in her mouth. “I don’t know who gave him his driver’s test, but they must’ve taken bribes.”

“If I could have your attention.” Mr. Stanton, the Elemental Science teacher and head of the Green Clan stood near the buffet holding a microphone. “I’d like to welcome all of you back after the Christmas Holidays. I’m sure the new year will be an exciting time for all of us. The Directorate has taken security measures to insulate the campus from any more disturbances.”

Disturbances seemed like an understatement.

“Please enjoy the food and your friends company. Classes start bright and early tomorrow. Make sure you rest up this evening.”

“Please.” Clint threw his arm around Ivy’s shoulders. “I’ll be a zombie no matter what tomorrow. We might as well stay up tonight and have fun.”

A growl echoed through the room. Bryn whipped around to see Jaxon facing off with a male from his Clan. “Rhianna does not reflect poorly on our kind.”

The other male narrowed his eyes. “Really? Then why did your father void your marriage contract?”

Uh-oh. Jaxon wouldn’t speak against his father or the Directorate, which left only one option. This was about to get ugly.

The air around Jaxon shimmered as he shifted to dragon form. The other male shifted, but backed up a step. Big mistake. Ceding ground showed weakness. Jaxon lunged, blasting frozen flames and striking out with his talons. The coppery scent of blood filled the air.

Jaxon backed the boy up to the wall and pinned him there with his talons digging into the boy’s neck.

“That’s enough.” An all to familiar voice boomed through the room. Her grandfather was here. Great.

Jaxon released the boys neck, but didn’t retreat.

“Shift back.” Her grandfather ordered. “Now.”

Even though he shifted back to human form, Jaxon never took his gaze from his opponent.

“Jaxon Westgate, what do you have to say for yourself?” Her grandfather asked in a voice that rang through out the room.

“What I have to say, sir, is that the members of my clan will treat Rhianna with respect.”

“Not just me.” Rhianna stepped forward. “My injury wasn’t my fault. Neither was Garrett’s or any of the other student’s who suffered the same fate. We have every right to be here. Don’t you agree, Mr. Sinclair?”

After barely surviving another attack on her life, Chloe has only one option left. Magic given to her by the wizard Joseph offers her the chance to save the world from the ancient enemy she faces, but only if she sacrifices her ability to become a mermaid or else leaves the land behind forever. With no control over which side of her heritage she'll become, Chloe may lose everything, including the two guys who both have claimed her heart.

But when a desperate message arrives, the stakes become even higher. Zeke has been captured. The Sylphaen surround him. And if Chloe tries to save him, Zeke's brother promises to make certain she dies.

She's running out of options and she's running out of time. Zeke's life hangs on one side of the balance and the fate of the world is on the other. Chloe has to make a choice.

One that will change her life forever.

Chloe hoped that going home would keep her enemies away from her. She thought she could trust her parents to protect her, no matter how much they feared mermaids and the ocean.

It nearly cost her life to find out she was wrong.

Surviving a mad scientist and Noah’s bloodthirsty relatives was only the beginning, however. An ancient creature is after her, one that’s risen from its sleep to hunt her, and one that almost destroyed the world last time it awoke. To save herself and everyone she loves, Chloe’s only chance lies in traveling to meet Ellie’s mysterious teacher, Olivia, one of the elusive landwalker elders.

But Chloe has trusted people before. She’s tried to escape the madness that’s chasing her before. And nearly everybody who’s learned her secret has ended up wanting to use her or kill her.

Will Olivia’s betrayal be next?

Chapter One


DAY ONE: FIRST DAY OF VACATION

Menace pooled in the air, an icy chill that crawled over her skin. Frost crept down her throat until her lungs crackled with each breathe. Raven woke up gasping and found herself plastered over Durant’s tiger form, using him like the world’s largest pillow. Death’s bitterly cold fingers skimmed along her spine, and she took comfort when her hand settled over her sword.



She remained perfectly still, expecting an attack at any second.



Time stretched, tension mounted … then petered out when nothing happened.



She lifted her head and cursed to find herself piled into the back of a crowded station wagon, leaving her no room to maneuver with a five-hundred-pound tiger taking up most of the space. With great reluctance, she released the sword. In the cramped space, she’d be more apt to stab herself than the bad guys. The metal sent a lick of static up her arm in protest at the separation before gradually falling dormant.



The sword should’ve been safely tucked under the folded-down seat.



So, how did it get into her hand?



Did it sense something or had it reacted to her unease?



Everything around her appeared blessedly normal. Durant remained sleeping as he recovered from his injuries. Crushing relief trickled through her that he’d managed to survive the severity of the wound. He’d come so close to dying that her throat still ached every time she saw him.



Needing a distraction before she got maudlin, she focused on what triggered her unease. She eased backward, her body rebelled at leaving the warm haven, the pain like ripping off her skin.



Before she could make her escape, Durant placed one large paw on her shoulder. The furry mitt pinned her down with ease as if she were a tiny mouse, and a displeased growl rumbled in his chest. Those golden eyes of his cracked open. Unable to stop herself, she stroked her fingers along his shoulder where he’d been speared by a sword in an attempt to save her life and marveled at the warm fur beneath her fingertips.



He’d survived.



Contented by her touch—or maybe that she couldn’t escape the confines of the car—he heaved a sigh and closed his eyes. Raven sat back on her haunches and finally tore her attention away from Durant, determined to discover what had triggered her disquiet.



Energy welled up from her bones at her growing agitation, and she quickly trampled it down. As a rare conduit, she had the ability to control electricity, her very touch deadly if she wasn’t careful. In this tin can of a car, there’d be a good chance she’d end up lighting everyone up if she lost control.



Her powers were both a blessing and a curse, leaving her more than human. To make things more complicated, she’d recently learned that she was a shifter, not to mention a rare female alpha.



She didn’t grow up in that world, spent most of her life avoiding any entanglements and minded her own business.



Now she was paying for it.



She only knew the basics about shifters. Her pack was scrambling to help her fill in the blanks, guiding her through the steps, but it left her at a disadvantage. She didn’t know the rules and ended up stepping on toes, gaining her share of friends and enemies.



Jackson sat in the driver’s seat. As an enforcer, he was granted the privilege of operating a car. Only those with the utmost restraint were permitted to drive—smart when road rage could provoke a shifter to change into his beast and attack. Taggert was more beta, his sandy-blond head bent as he diligently studied a map, but Raven was beginning to suspect that when she used her power to save his life, she’d changed him on an elemental level.



He was more aggressive. Growing possessive and territorial.



Alpha traits.



She frowned in worry, wondering if there was anything she could do to stop the process, but feared it was much too late.



Behind him, the sun was just a hint on the horizon, turning the sky a bright crimson as it began its descent. The sunset should’ve been peaceful, but it looked too much like spilled blood. Towering redwoods lined both sides of the road, sending shadows chasing from tree to tree as the car sped past. The place felt almost primordial, danger thick in the air as if ready to reach out and squash them. A shimmer of fog wound through the trees, only emphasizing the haunted and uninviting feel.

As if warning unwary travelers away.



“You’re awake.” Taggert spotted her first, his splintered green and brown eyes devouring her. He’d always seemed so attuned to her, now more than ever.



Raven ignored the way her heart fluttered pathetically under his perusal. “Where are we?” Her voice emerged as a croak, and she cleared her throat, unable to drop her gaze as she drank in his appearance.



A tiny smile kicked up the corner of his mouth as if he could read her thoughts and liked knowing he had an effect on her. “We’re at the northern end of Oregon.”



Raven blinked in surprise, not expecting that they’d leave California.



“We’ve been careful to go around the larger packs so as not to invade their territories.” Jackson studied her through the rearview mirror, his cool gaze clinical and detached. But beneath, she saw the worry and the hint of uncertainty.



He was one of the strongest shifters she knew. She winced in shame, knowing that by pushing him away to protect him, she’d ended up hurting him instead. Then what he said registered. “Which territories?”



“Bears.”



Bears had a habit of being territorial and would viciously defend what they considered theirs. They were big and mean and capable of getting rid of any bodies before law enforcement had a chance to investigate. They didn’t need a pack or allies, preferring the solitude of their families. “Is that wise?”



Taggert shrugged, unconcerned at the prospect of being mauled to death. “As long as we don’t linger in their territory, we don’t have to present ourselves to the alpha.”



Taggert’s father had moved from one location to the next, keeping them under the radar to provide his son a normal life … as much as one could be considered normal when one was a shifter pretending to be human just to survive. Her heart ached for the lonely boy, but the pang eased to know that his father loved him enough to risk everything to give his son a chance to survive without the stigma of being labeled a rogue.



“Where are we heading?”



Taggert’s eyes glimmered with the thrill of excitement. “We won’t know until we arrive.”



Lone shifters without a pack, those deemed rogue, couldn’t afford to make plans. They roamed from territory to territory, never settling or drawing attention to themselves, making it virtually impossible for anyone to track them.



Clever, but a twinge of sadness echoed in her soul at the nomadic life he’d been forced to live before she stumbled into his life.



No friends.



No family.



No pack.



Beneath Taggert’s calm exterior rested a ruthless determination to protect her at any cost. It frightened the crap out of her. She’d nearly lost him once. Nearly lost everyone in her pack. She had to be more careful, or they might not be so lucky next time.



Her fingers tightened in Durant’s fur, the steady thump of his heart easing the panic clawing up her throat, and she forced herself to release him.



The unease plaguing her continued to press against her chest. As the distance between them and the foreign pack territory yawned wider, she expected the smothering pressure to dissipate.



It didn’t.



She rubbed her chest and scanned the countryside, but there was nothing to see but miles and miles of trees and road. She peeked out the rear window for the third time in the last five minutes, expecting to see someone on their tail, something she could fight.



Only everything appeared ordinary.



They hadn’t had peace for so long, the lack of a direct threat left her reeling half a step off. It could explain her unease. Pretending everything was normal, she forced herself to stop staring out the window and faced Taggert. “Where are we staying for the night?”



Taggert nodded toward the woods, and her eyes widened in alarm. “Camping?”



A shiver worked up her spine at the thought of living outside without the shelter of walls. They were shifters for gosh sakes, part animal, so why did her skin crawl when she peered into the massive trees surrounding them? “But aren’t we too close to the pack borders?”



Jackson’s hands clenched on the wheel. “Do you trust us?”



Raven didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”



“People in town will notice our presence. If we camp, no one will have a record of our passing.”



Everything he said was true, so why did she suspect that both of them were keeping something from her? Then her heart dropped. “You’re afraid I’ll lose control and hurt someone.”



Their silence gutted her, and she recoiled from the truth as the confining space of the car became smothering.



They thought her a monster.



They were right to be afraid, and she swallowed hard at the brutal truth.



“Raven.”



She flinched at the sound of her name.



“It’s the only way we know how to protect you. If one of us is threatened, you’ll do anything to keep us safe.”



There was no denying the truth of Jackson’s words, and her dragon hummed in agreement. Raven lifted her chin, feeling defensive, as if what he’d said was a bad thing. “So would you.”



“Yes, but wolves are common. No one would take note of us. If pushed, can you guarantee that you won’t react? Once people discover your affinity for electricity, word will spread like wildfire.”



Raven wanted to laugh. Her powers were the least of her concern. They didn’t know her creature had wakened, and it was the last thing she wanted them to find out, not until she could find a balance.



“Makes sense.” Raven cringed, hating that she kept something from them.



“Besides—” Taggert turned in his seat to watch her. “Being out in open air will help your beast.”



That was when she knew they both suspected something had happened. Like a coward, she nodded and turned away.



Raven scratched the itch at her side. The small metal symbol imbedded into her flesh felt warm and irritated, but the last thing she could do was peek with the guys watching her every move. But that wasn’t her only concern. In helping the witches find a killer murdering them, she’d becoming infected with tainted magic. She needed to check and gauge how far the infection had spread. She was almost afraid to see how it reacted to the creature that inhabited her body.



The witches feared the taint would make her beast feral.



An unstoppable killing machine.



With her emotions growing more volatile, Raven feared they might be right.



No one could ever discover she harbored an actual dragon. As far as the paranormal world was concerned, dragons were evil creatures that were better off left to myths and legends. If anyone ever suspected the truth, she’d be lucky to survive.



Oh, she trusted the unconventional pack of outsiders she’d somehow collected, but the truth would only put them in more danger. She needed to find a way to harness both her powers and the dragon, or she could lose the fragile pack she’d fought so hard to keep safe.



The dragon stretched under her skin until her body felt cramped and small. Claws thunked into the tender undersides of her ribs, gouging grooves into her flesh in protest of having the pack taken from her.



Knowing they were in agreement, the crippling fear eased.



They would do whatever was necessary to protect the pack.



When she glanced up, she found Jackson staring at her. The instant their eyes met, the car lurched as if someone had plowed into them. The vehicle shuddered then veered wildly toward the ditch. The momentum threw her sideways, and her head smacked the glass with a brutal thud. The tires caught gravel, and the car began to spin and twist.

- See more at: http://www.staceybrutger.com/electric-legend/#sthash.MnaUuafu.dpuf

Chapter One

DAY ONE: LAST NIGHT OF THE FULL MOON – TWO HOURS BEFORE SUNRISE

Raven stood outside of the warehouse called Talons, the club where the fanged, furry, and spell slingers normally gathered to blow off steam. Tonight they were waiting for her to surrender herself. If she didn’t, she’d lose her pack, and everything they’d gone through would have been for nothing.



She was a rare conduit, able to absorb and wield electricity. If the witches thought they were going to study her, then the joke was on them. In a desperate move to save a member of her pack, she’d set free the seething darkness inside her, and ended up breaking her only means of protecting others from her lethal touch.



The beast she’d spent a lifetime repressing now raged below the surface. Whatever power she managed to gather just wasn’t strong enough to rebuild the core needed to contain it.



Though her wounds had healed from the recent fight, it felt like she’d been dropped in a vat of acid, then rubbed with sandpaper for good measure. She felt so brittle even the slightest brush of air made her skin burn.



The moon began its descent. As its rays hit her, she tensed and waited for the moon’s call to trickle through her. Waited for her creature to rise and take over, stealing the last bit of humanity she’d managed to preserve.



Instead, the cool rays felt soothing.



She should be relieved. No rampant desire. No lust demanding to be appeased. Which proved one of two things. Either her power had grown too strong, or, what she feared more, the creature who’d awakened within her was much too strong to be roused by the moon like a common shifter.



She ignored her silent shadow—as much as one could ignore the ParaConsulate’s trained assassin—waiting for Randolph to make his move, but he seemed content to observe. Being watched grated on her nerves, and the beast beneath her skin bared its fangs, stretching as if testing the limits of her body.



Her fingers curled into fists as she struggled to resist doing something stupid, like going over there and demanding he back off. She recognized her creature’s thoughts and impulses, but refused to cede control, not until she’d ensured her pack’s safety. She grabbed the power teeming under her skin and shoved the creature back. After a minute of struggle, the beast snarled but relented.



For now.



Soon one of them would snap, and Raven feared it would be her.



Raven scanned her core…or where her core had once been. Nothing remained but a barren, desolate spot in her chest. She’d unleashed the creature to save Taggert when he nearly died while rescuing her. Now the creature fed off her power, stealing her last hope of eventually wrestling control back. Raven pushed deeper, hoping to find even a hint that her other animals had survived.



A dark crater had swallowed everything, leaving behind a vast emptiness that left her reeling. When the aching loneliness threatened to smother her, she swallowed the lump in her throat and retreated from her core, firmly locking away the pain.



She would survive one more week without imploding.



She took strength in knowing Rylan awaited her beyond the club doors. When the vampire had been on the brink of starving to death, she’d refused to let him take the coward’s way out, refused to let the people in the labs win, and convinced him to take her blood. After one taste, he’d suspected the truth.



That she wasn’t quite human.



He’d seen her creature break from her hold once.



Once had been enough.



Raven remembered only vague snippets, but waking up covered with blood was not an experience she cared to repeat. Everything in their path had lain in ruins. It mattered little that it was the labs she’d decimated, the prison where human scientists had experimented on those with even the smallest hint of anything supernatural. Thank the gods enough of her had remained inside the creature to allow her fellow inmates to escape unharmed.



After the destruction, Rylan had come back for her. Pulled her from the rubble. He should’ve let her die. Instead, he promised if she ever became a problem, he would eliminate the threat.



The reason he was there tonight.



To judge if she was worth saving.



But first she was determined to do this one last job. She needed to secure her pack. The men had barged their way into her life, bound themselves to her and forced her to care, and she was very much afraid she couldn’t live without them. They’d sacrificed everything for her, now it was her turn to do the same for them…by surrendering to the witches.



Any hope she’d harbored that the witches might be able to help her contain the creature lay crushed beneath the brutal truth.



It was much too late for a cure.



She took a shaky step toward the door.



The magnetic locks created to keep out humans opened easily under her touch, revealing just how much things had changed in the past weeks.



A babble of tense voices greeted her when she opened the door. All her rage and pain harden into resolve, and Raven pushed forward.



“You’re late.” The witch rose as she spoke, her voice vibrating with outrage. Whatever else she was going to say evaporated when Raven stepped into the lights. The witch’s latte-colored skin paled, and her mouth snapped shut.



Durant prowled forward from the back of the club, his complete attention riveted on her. The creature quieted a little under his regard, seeming almost pleased by his attention.



“I’d recommend not touching her.” Randolph’s voice came from behind her.



Durant didn’t react to the suggestion in any way. He halted inches from her, scanning her from head to toe, leaving every inch of her tingling under his scorching regard. He didn’t seem shocked at her condition.



Jackson, her overprotective enforcer, must have called to tell him what had happened. She wasn’t surprised.



They’d warned her shifters were sly.



Sneaky.



Willing to do whatever it took to protect the pack.



And since she was one of the rare female alphas, they took those rules to the extreme when she was involved.



Durant lifted his hand to touch her, and Raven flinched. Her cheeks burned at the telling action, but more than anything she didn’t want him to touch the creature.



He was hers.



A little rumble vibrated in her chest, the creature protesting her declaration.



“You have something in your hair.” Durant slowed his movement, refusing to retreat, his eyes shading to a brilliant gold with his emotions.



She felt a tug, then he held up his hand.



It was a chunk of meat.



The piece was all that remained of the Professor who’d sought to destroy the pack and the peace the paranormal world had sacrificed and fought so hard to maintain.



Only then was she aware of how she must appear. Even dressed in black, there was no concealing the fact that every inch of her was covered with bits of human remains. Congealed clumps of rotting blood splattered her face, the stench growing worse the longer it was exposed to air. Her stomach churned, and she feared she might vomit.



“I’m sorry to be late. If you would grant me another hour to prepare, we can leave.”



The witch gave a regal nod. The shock had worn off. What remained was more dangerous.



Curiosity.



* * *



Raven followed Durant toward his office, noting his normally pristine clothes were rumpled. Memories of the last time she had entered his lair swamped her, the way he’d kissed her, demanded that she touch him. Her heart felt bruised at the thought of never touching him or the others in her pack again. Whatever future they might have together could never amount to anything if she didn’t find a way to survive the changes threatening to consume her. If the creature gained control, she would be nothing more than a rampaging beast.



Her eyes locked on the office chair that stood so proudly displayed next to the desk, the one where he’d allowed himself to be cuffed, willing gave up all his precious control to her, just to gain a simple kiss. The sight of it nearly ripped out her heart, and she blindly turned away when her tangled emotions threatened to trip her up. But no matter how much distance she put between them, she couldn’t outrun the haunting leather scent that was uniquely his. She shivered, knowing even if she lived to be a hundred, she would recognize his delicious scent anywhere.



The creature scratched beneath her skin, trying to chisel away the shell Raven was building between it and her pack. She couldn’t allow it freedom, couldn’t risk that it might harm those under her care.



“You can clean up in here.” Durant’s impassive façade cracked, his gruff voice little more than a rumble.



Heat blazed off him when she passed within inches from his tense body, but he held onto his control and maintained his distance. Water trickled behind the closed door. When she followed the sound into the bathroom, she stopped short. She should have expected something a little out of the ordinary, especially since he’d deemed her own bathroom inadequate and demolished it.



The room was twice as large as his office. One entire wall was a waterfall, splashing into a huge pool at least twelve feet across.



Large enough for a full-grown tiger.



The mental image gave her pause.



She tore her gaze away to find Durant opening a set of glass doors to a shower stall that was larger than her king sized bed and turned on the spray. Steam immediately filled the enclosed space. As he stepped out, his eyes met hers, and he marched straight toward her.



Raven leaned to step back, then carefully placed her foot back down. She was not prey. She would not be chased. A stab of anxiety jabbed her, and she was unsure which thoughts were hers and which were the creature’s.



“I can manage from here.”



He halted, his hands clenching and unclenching. “I’ll abide by your wishes and not touch you, but your injuries need to be inspected, then dressed.”



There was an awkward silence, more than space and steam separating them, and she bit her lip against the frantic need to bridge the growing distance. It was better this way. Raven knew if she asked, he’d leave her alone.



So why couldn’t she force the words out?



His indomitable pride would take a hit. He was already balanced on a razor’s edge about not being included in the forest raid. She was afraid if she pushed him any further, he’d never give her another chance, and the fragile feelings building between them would vanish forever.



She gave a tiny nod and turned her back, catching the slight relaxation in his shoulders from the corner of her eye. He drew close enough for his breath to brush the back of her neck. She tensed, uncertain whether she would be able to reject him a second time if he touched her, but he only unlatched the necklace and carefully placed it on the stone countertop. The heat in the room gradually notched up, sinking below her skin, but nothing penetrated the bone-deep chill that had taken root.



She tugged the shirt over her head, wincing when her ribs protested. Very conscious of Durant watching, she quickly shucked her boots. Her jeans were a little more resistant, dried blood gluing the denim to her thigh.



A sharp tug released the pant leg, and the barely-healed wound throbbed in protest. She could still feel the bone sticking out of her thigh, but when she looked, she saw only smooth skin. That was if she discounted the throng of bruises that checkered her body. Ignoring the little growl from behind her, Raven did her best to cover her limp as she entered the shower. Every muscle protested the abuse she’d suffered a few hours earlier, and her legs quivered with the effort to remain upright. She couldn’t afford to show weakness, or her pack would never allow her to leave.



Blood and gore plopped down on the shower floor as she stood under the pounding spray of six showerheads. After a few minutes, the water finally ran clean.



A slight click of the door behind her made all her muscles tense into knots. She looked over her shoulder to see Durant join her in the shower. He had stripped down to just his jeans, leaving the broad expanse of chest on display. Completely oblivious to his impact on her, he lifted the soap.



“Let me.” His voice was gruff, as if the words were hard to get out. “Please.”



She could’ve argued with him, and he might have even listened, but she didn’t have the energy to lift her arms and do it herself. He slowly gathered her hair and soaped the tangled mess, careful not to tug on the snarled strands.



Her head dropped forward while he massaged her scalp, and the last of the tension slowly fizzled away. She was pathetically grateful not to be alone with her thoughts. Nothing existed but his hands on her. Much sooner than she was ready, he withdrew and pushed her under the spray.



Water and suds slid down her body. He nudged her, directing her to turn.



When his fingers brushed the mark on her side, she went rigid. Her eyes cracked open and she glared, a snarl curling her lips at the stolen touch. She wasn’t used to anyone touching her and never in kindness.



Normally, she wouldn’t give a damn, but the last thing she wanted was for him to ask questions about the mark. It was somehow tied to the creature, and until she discovered the connection, she wanted to keep it secret.



He held up his hands in surrender and stilled. It took everything in her to resist shuffling closer and laying hands on him. She wasn’t sure whether she would rip him apart or rub up against him, and she wouldn’t risk his life to find out.



They remained at a stalemate until he finally spoke. “You need to finish rinsing the soap from your hair. Come out when you’re ready.”



Then he was gone.



By the time she emerged, he was in dry clothes, waiting with a ginormous towel held open between his hands. She expected to see his face politely averted the way Taggert would do to preserve her privacy. But no, his eyes swept over her, noticing every detail. He expertly examined her injuries, appearing detached, that was if you didn’t notice the heat lurking in those green-gold eyes of his. His perusal left her feeling exposed, and she couldn’t decide if she wanted to stretch under his attention or cover herself with her hands.



Her creature enjoyed the attention, though, slowing her steps, drawing out the process. Recognition flashed in Durant’s eyes, and his control wavered, revealing an explosive hunger that wouldn’t be appeased with just a kiss. Her insides fluttered with pure desire, then went squishy with panic when she realized the creature was manipulating them both.



Raven reached for her power, ready to shock some sense into both her and her creature, but the energy hardened like armor under her skin. She could only scratch at it, unable to scrounge together even the smallest spark.



Fine. She couldn’t draw on the power, but she could still influence it. She focused on the crackling energy in the links of the armor and clamped down. The power increased its voltage to a hum, and the armor turned into an electric cage around the creature. The beast hissed in rage at being held captive again, then released its hold over her, settling down to sulk. Raven sucked in a sharp breath when every painful volt sank into her bones.



The jolt was a brutal wakeup call.



For the first time, Raven understood the creature was truly a part of her.



The longer it remained free, every second they spent together, only strengthened their bond.



Unless she did something soon, destroying the creature would mean destroying herself.



The sobering thought scared the creature into behaving, and Raven found herself back in charge. But the threat would only hold the creature at bay for so long. Once they were fully merged, she would be at the creature’s mercy.



With a huff of frustration at the impossible tangle her life had become, Raven tried to yank the towel from Durant. Only he refused to relinquish his hold, wrapping it around her until she was trapped in a cocoon of warm, fuzzy cotton that smelled like him. It was all she could do not to bury her nose in it and steal another whiff.



“Durant—”



“Hush. If you don’t let me take care of you, I won’t be responsible for my actions. I’ll snatch you up, take you from here, where I guarantee no one would find us.”



So why did his rumbled threat sound like heaven?



Two things stopped her. The safety of her pack, and the knowledge she might end up killing them all if she stayed.

Chapter One

TEN DAYS UNTIL THE FULL MOON

In ten days, the conclave would decide Raven’s fate and that of her pack. They just needed to survive that long. If that wasn’t bad enough, the full moon would rip through the shifter community at the same time. Already the craziness they’d warned her about during the lunar cycle threatened to sweep over her.



For she must be crazy to even listen to, much less agree to help, the two men who’d broken into her house. They would jeopardize everything she’d been working toward and possibly destroy the fragile pack she’d built. A hum of electricity licked under her skin, aching to be released, but she shook it off.



She was a rare conduit, born with the ability to control pure energy. Maybe the only one of her kind. That meant she couldn’t afford any mistakes, couldn’t draw attention to herself, or others might discover the secrets she’d been concealing for years.



Raw emotions had a way of wreaking havoc on her system, triggering her powers. Being in a room full of shifters demanded complete control. She couldn’t afford to turn everyone furry because she had PMS.



She’d learned the hard way to keep her emotions out of pack decisions when Jackson had been taken from her by the pack that had abandoned him. Her own fault really, because she’d hesitated to claim him when she’d had the chance.



Dominic, the lone wolf who helped hold her small pack together, had the right idea to pack his bags and disappear when the full moon rose. He would’ve already been gone if it weren’t for these two intruders.



No dealing with the conclave.



No slowly going insane with the desperate urge to touch as the moon madness spread from one shifter to the next. That her touch could kill if she didn’t keep on constant guard merely made things a bit trickier. She shook her head, wishing it were that easy to clear her mind.



Dominic and London stood guard behind the two men. London stared at the back of Griffin’s head. One wrong move and she had no doubt the bear would crush his skull like a watermelon.



“You need us.” Griffin stood in the middle of the library like he owned the place.



His words were such a man thing to say, especially when they were the ones asking for help. Their agitation battered at her like war machines of old. Raven stiffened where she stood behind the massive desk, but the distance didn’t help.



The alpha in her said leave them to their fate, but her conscience wouldn’t let her take the easy out and turn them away out of hand. Not this man. Not with their murky past tying them together. They’d both been held prisoner, caged and awaiting death at the hands of a human psycho who thought it was his duty to cleanse the earth of paranormal filth.



Or it was until she killed him.



When she’d demanded help, the rogue had offered it without reservation. She owed it to him to at least listen. “Tell me again.”



“If you want your wolf back, you’ll need help navigating the shifter world without appearing weak.” Griffin’s chest expanded impressively, his hands on his narrow hips, all arrogance despite his exiled status. Ballsy, too, breaking into her home by just walking through the front door and making himself at home.



His brilliant green and yellow eyes drew her gaze, the combination disconcerting. Instead of being ringed by a second color, normal to most rogues, his eyes were completely splintered to show both man and wolf in full command.



The feat of control amazed her since most people would go insane being permanently stuck in such a condition. His all-wolf attitude reminded her of another.



Jackson.



She swallowed hard, remorse and betrayal too close to the surface for her to think rationally when Jackson trotted through her mind. She didn’t question how Griffin had learned about her predicament. No doubt he’d seen the police cart Jackson away in chains, stealing him right from under her watch.



Apparently, she was the only one unaware that when a shifter was taken into custody, their alpha automatically received notification.



It should’ve been a mere formality.



Instead, his pack had purposely retrieved him before she could claim him for her own, and she had no one to blame but herself.



“And you want protection for yourself and Digger in return for your assistance.” The slim, silent man who lingered in the shadows all but disappeared despite the daylight streaming through the windows.



“Just until the conclave ends.” The hardness of Griffin’s voice grated on her ears, a man used to issuing demands, but the brutal white-knuckled grip on his hips gave him away.



So much rested on her answer.



“Why didn’t you disappear when you left the caves?”



Griffin clenched his jaw, refusing to look away or speak. Bruises dotted his face. The matching set London and Dominic sported were already fading. Stubble lined his strong jaw, shaggy dark hair fell into his eyes, both making him appear like a disreputable thug one would encounter after midnight on an abandoned street.



At his continued silence, Raven sighed.



Make that an obstinate thug.



There was something calculating about him that warned her not all was as it seemed. Being a helpless female and all, no doubt he wouldn’t share it either, not until it came and bit her on the ass.



By avoiding her questions, he wasn’t leaving her any choice.



“Because of me.” Digger stepped forward, a painful limp to his leg. The man was dark, part Hispanic if she had to guess, and well past his prime. “I can be of value to you.”



“Quiet.” Griffin barked the one word.



She tensed at the lash of the command. The old man ignored the gruff order and stared at her levelly, a natural calm surrounding him. “I’m a doctor.”



Raven’s heart skipped a beat then dropped somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach to boil in acid. Fear burned over her skin, biting at her flesh. Though innocent enough, his words presented a real threat that said kill him now before it’s too late. “No.”



The expression on his face was that of a kicked puppy, but she refused to relent. No one was experimenting on her again. Images of the cold stone walls of the labs flashed through her mind, the sharp smell of chemicals, the repeatedly painful injections they used to try and alter her DNA until she’d learned to fight back.



She’d survived, a miracle in itself, one that a number of people wanted to reverse if they ever got their hands on her again. She was too dangerous to let live, not with all the secrets her body harbored.



“But—”



“We only need to stay long enough to heal,” Griffin interjected, as if afraid of what his companion would reveal.



“Raven–”



“I’m fine.” She waved away Taggert’s concern, wincing when his chocolate eyes splintered yellow as his wolf rose with the call of her power. Despite her determination to protect him, with every exposure of her gift, the ties that bound him to her wound tighter.



Taggert had been a slave when she’d accidentally bumbled into an auction and claimed him. And until she could officially make him part of her pack, he was vulnerable.



Still only a slave.



He reluctantly did as bided, leaning against the wall, angled so his whole attention was centered on her. His eyes locked on her in a way that felt like a caress.



At the phantom touch, the animals at her core crept closer to the surface, battling to rise. Not willing to release its hold on her, the current thrummed under her skin. Breathing a little too fast, she bit back the pain as energy danced over her body in retaliation.



When her animals surface, her abilities as a conduit went on the fritz. She could have either one or the other, and she’d yet to find a balance to keep each side happy. The battle would only continue to worsen until one side won.



The energy finally relented, settling heavily in her bones in a way that ached, a punishment for daring to defy it. Though she worked hard at control, it remained elusive at times when her gift thought it knew what was best for them.



She was walking blind in the shifter world. She needed help before she got them all killed. If this man could guide her around the many obstacles, could she really turn him away?



Both intruders were malnourished, skinny to the point that their bones poked from beneath their skin. Each needed to gain at least twenty pounds. As she studied the two of them, she had no doubt Griffin passed what little food he could afford to Digger.



Griffin radiated distrust. He was vigilant, half-ready to pounce at the first sign of aggression. He could’ve continued without her aid, but he’d swallowed his pride and came to her for help because of his friend.



He would be trouble.



Danger increased for everyone when her developing powers were exposed to others. If they learned about her true nature and betrayed her secrets to the world, she’d be hunted in earnest.



A whiff of cedar curled around her.



His scent.



She stared hard at Griffin, wishing she could see through to the truth of him.



“Raven. Don’t.” Durant spoke for the first time, a tiger that seemed to take up most of the room even though he didn’t move from his spot lounging behind her. He happened to be the last shifter who’d asked her for help, and she’d ended up claiming him.



She couldn’t afford to add any more people in her pack. She was already too entangled in the shifter world for her comfort.



“They need help.” Exhaustion pulled at her. She needed rest after burning out her power so recently. She needed peace to keep the beasts at bay. She had a sinking feeling she wasn’t going to get either until after the conclave. “You can’t ask me to ignore them. If they leave here, they’re as good as dead.”



Durant leaned forward in the chair, elbows on his knees, that intense stare of his hypnotic if she wasn’t careful. “You have enough troubles with the conclave. If the council discovers you’re harboring rogues, they could deny your petition.”



She shuddered in response to his words. Not only could she lose her petition for pack status, she’d lose her claim of ownership on Taggert. He wouldn’t survive going back on the market.



Everything was within her grasp…if she was careful.



Neither Digger nor Griffin spoke a word of protest, already accepting defeat.



“What information can you give me that none of the others can?” If they knew a way that could garner Jackson’s freedom from his pack, they might be worth the risk. Her pulse leapt at the possibility of getting him back where he belonged.



Griffin lifted his chin. “My father is the leader.”



Stifling silence descended.



Raven slowly blinked, then blew out a breath. “Well, hell.”



“That only makes them more trouble.” Durant glared at Griffin, a hairsbreadth away from physically reaching across the space separating them and ripping out his throat. “Any information you need on the council, I can provide.”



“How?” The last thing she wanted was to pit the men against each other, but she couldn’t let such an opportunity pass and he knew it.



“Talons has been selected to host the conclave.” He clamped his mouth shut after he spoke.



The news surprised her, and she twisted to face him fully. Though it had to be a major coup, Durant didn’t seem pleased to have his club chosen for the honor.



And the bastard hadn’t told her, especially after his lecture to her about keeping secrets. Her fingers tensed as the beasts at her core flexed their claws. She eyed Durant, battling to keep her temper in check. “And when were you going to tell me?”



Her power rose then fell abruptly when the overwhelming smell of so many shifters buffeted her in such a crowded space. Their animals called to hers. The temperature in the room quickly became stifling as her animals clawed their way to the surface.



Fighting for dominance.



Fighting for freedom.



That loss of control scared her the most, and she clamped down harder to hold them at bay.



Durant raised one brow like an imperial lord, but Raven crossed her arms and waited, refusing to be intimidated.



“When the time was right.”



The asinine little…she narrowed her eyes, imagining getting her hands on him, but part of her feared what her beasts’ reaction would be if she dared touch anyone. She pursed her lips as another untenable thought struck her. “You were trying to protect me.”



Durant didn’t look away as he gave a Gallic shrug. “You would’ve found out eventually.”



Raven dropped her arms, repressing a growl of frustration. How was she supposed to protect them when they kept secrets from her? And the sad part, they might not be wrong in their assessment. She was a danger to others until she could learn to bridle both sides of her nature.



They knew pack.



Who was she to argue that they were mistaken?



“As the host for the conclave, he is under contract not to trade secrets.” Griffin’s triumphant smile had her shifting her focus to him. If she didn’t accept his offer, she wondered if the council would somehow learn of her situation just out of spite. Relief trickled through the other man’s shields, the first real sign of emotion, though he quickly slammed them shut when he caught her staring.



She balanced all that she could gain and lose. One thing stood out. If she did nothing, she lost Jackson.



All else was just possibilities.



“You can come in now.”



Dina darted into the office, a sunny smile on her face, no shame in having been caught listening at the door. “I knew you wouldn’t turn them away. I have the rooms all prepared.” The bright little fox practically bounced on her feet at the mention of having company. Raven grimaced as her stomach twisted, imagining the lavish food Dina would create. She just hoped it would be edible enough to choke down this time.



Durant towered over her when he stood. “Then I had best select my room before she gives it away.”



Raven tensed at his declaration. Though his words sounded innocent enough, seduction and threat settled over her skin, wrapping around her as if daring her to refuse him. He wanted to stay and expected her to go back on her word.



His golden eyes fixated on her, the raw emotions exposed in them left her flustered. Speech deserted her, and she knew how mice must feel when caught in a predator’s gaze. One wrong move and she had no doubt he’d pounce. Too bad her body liked the idea so much. His leather scent infused her, luring her nearer, daring her to close the distance between them.



It was easier to fight him than it was to fight herself. The damn moon madness shit was going to be the death of her.



When she made no protest, everyone vanished out the office, Dominic the last to leave. When he got to the door, he shut it with an ominous snick.



“I’m staying.”



Part of her wanted to accept his offer, a large part of her, but Raven couldn’t ask him to make the sacrifice. Dominic was their unspoken leader, shouldering most of the responsibility for them since escaping from the labs. He had always been the strongest of them. It unnerved her that he allowed her to see him so uncertain. “We’ll manage. I can’t ask you to change your plans.”



“You didn’t ask.” He still hadn’t faced her, tension hiking his shoulders up to his ears.



“This is your vacation. The time you use to get away from—”



If possible, his shoulders hunched further. “Do you think I have a harem waiting for me?” His harsh laugh bit at her ears, and he turned toward her. “My vacation consists of me traveling to a remote cabin in the middle of nowhere where I change into my wolf.”



Raven blinked in astonishment. “For the full five days? Isn’t that dangerous?”



His tanned complexion didn’t hide the dark circles under his eyes of too many restless nights. His fists turned white on the door handle, his green eyes brimming with self-loathing.



This man prided himself on his control. It must drive him insane to be so close to the edge during the full moon that he was forced to concede control and escape into his wolf.



No thinking.



No feeling.



No having to trust anyone else.



“Dominic—”



“That man didn’t come here for help, and I’ll be damned if I leave you alone with him.”

Chapter One

DAY ONE: AROUND MIDNIGHT

Talons.



The paranormal hot spot where the fanged, furry, and spell slingers went to blow off steam.



Raven tapped her leather-clad fingertips on the steering wheel, waiting for her friends to emerge from the club’s steel door. They were thirty minutes late and counting.



The prospect of going inside, risk being in public around other paranormals, twisted a small thread of excitement through her. That was if she ignored the dip in her stomach that threatened to bring lunch back up for a revisit. Doing the best to disregard her swinging emotions, she assessed the building.



The non-descript warehouse appeared innocent enough. There were no lines, no bouncers. Nothing overtly threatening that would explain the way her mind screamed that going after her friends to pry out their asses was a very bad idea.



Another minute ticked by, and she blew out a breath, unable to ignore the dangerous lure of curiosity.



She got out of the car and cautiously approached the club. The building was crouched in shadows as if it’d pounce and squish her like a bug the moment she dared to enter. Like it knew she didn’t belong. She eased closer to the entrance and pried open the heavy metal doors with a little shove of electricity from her gift. The industrial sized magnets that sealed the door ensured only the right kind of people were admitted.



As precautions went, it wasn’t bad. No humans or what the shifter community called normals were admitted without someone vouching for them. Prejudiced? Maybe. But it guaranteed that whatever happened inside would be handled by their own laws. The club was neutral territory for paranormals. No one dared pick a fight on the property. It could get you killed.



A long, shadowy hallway greeted her. The air rumbled with music, the pounding rhythm slapping her in the face. Heat blasted along her body, brushing the chill from her skin but did nothing to warm the cold lump in her stomach. There was no décor in the confining space except for one prominent word clawed into the heavy wooden panels.



Talons.



Raven lifted her hand, noting how her fingers sank in the deep grooves. Whoever created it had to be huge. Another frisson of doubt curled about her, but she quickly shoved it away before it could take root. She could hold her own against these people.



But not without a cost, her mind whispered. She ignored that, too.



Her next case was due to begin all too soon. Humans oversimplified the paranormal world, wedging all things supernatural into their too narrow viewpoint. Too bad it didn’t work that way. That’s why they hired her when they needed something done. She lived on the fringes of both cultures, and knew enough to get things done, but not enough to be a threat.



Despite the protest she gave her friends when they first invited her to the club, a little R&R sounded perfect. Too bad this place felt more like work and less like rest and relaxation.



Her friends assured her that she’d find a suitable lover here if she dared to take a chance. Not an easy objective when her very touch could kill if she didn’t keep on constant guard.



And who better to choose from than a pack of paranormals? They weren’t immortal, but they could take a lot of abuse and survive. Although inflicting pain, even accidentally, didn’t spawn any romantic interest for her, she couldn’t turn tail for the seductive reason that all she had to do was choose someone inside to find the key to learn control over her own gift.



During sex, shifters were vulnerable, their beasts close to the surface. They had to exert tremendous control to keep from shifting.



If she could learn how they did it, she knew she could fix her own control issues. Unfortunately, that meant firsthand experience. Physical contact. Her heart thumped hard, imaging what it would be like to finally allow herself to touch someone without fear she’d kill them.



None of this would matter if her damn gift didn’t morph every time she got close to mastering it. If she didn’t get a handle on it soon, it wouldn’t be much longer before her secret became exposed to the paranormal world. Then she would be hunted in earnest. A conduit was too valuable, too dangerous to all sides to be left unclaimed.



If tonight’s plan didn’t work, the very short list of possible cures would grow even shorter. At least in this experiment, the byproduct wasn’t a bad exchange. Rumors said shifters were intense and generous lovers.



She took a deep breath to calm the shimmering power that rose at her initial unease. The energy that hovered over her slowly settled and soaked back into her skin, wrapping her in a warm blanket as if to offer comfort. She lifted her chin to the nondescript door at the end of the hallway, ready to face the beasts in their den.



She cracked open her senses. Smells crested over her in waves. The fresh scent of shifters, the spice of vampires and the sharp, overly sweet stench of an odd magic user were all added to the mix. Every time a practitioner used their craft, a splash of magic skittered along her arms like she brushed against cobwebs.



The knot in her stomach clenched. She called it excitement, refusing to admit she could’ve made a mistake coming inside. The last time she’d been around this many people, it hadn’t gone well. At the slightest threat, her power took control and did whatever it had to in order to protect her.



The harsh reminder soothed her ragged emotions, and she shoved them in the vault they’d escaped. Emotions meant loss of control, meant someone would suffer. Closing her eyes, she searched every nook and cranny of her shields for cracks.



When she found none, the last of the knots holding her muscles hostage faded. No one would attack her here. No one would be able to break her shields and discover the horrible truth.



“In or out?”



“Excuse me?” Raven whirled, her gaze unerringly finding those of a man…no, a wolf in human form who stood a little over six feet. He towered over her by at least half a foot, forcing her to take a step back in order to meet his gaze without cricking her neck.



Damn touchy-feely shifters. They didn’t have any boundaries or understand the concept of personal space, especially between unclaimed men and women.



Fresh air clung to him, relaxing some of her initial surprise at finding him so close. Though handsome, there was something a little too masculine about him, a little too purposeful in his actions that left her unsettled. She resisted the urge to fidget, glad she took care to make herself as forgettable as possible. Dressed in black, her distinctive, silver-tipped hair pinned back like a prim schoolmarm, she little resembled the carefree, underdressed parygoers that frequented the place.



“I said are you going in or out?” Dark brows lowered in annoyance, and those deep brown eyes shone brightly in the hallway, revealing his animal nature. Power wrapped around him, barely leashed, rubbing against her. It didn’t hurt, though it wasn’t quite pleasant either. More of a brusque probe to find out if she was a threat. The taste of his magic revealed he had no interest in her.



She stepped aside to let him pass, refusing to shrink in front of him, taking care to ensure they didn’t touch. He didn’t seem to notice, not even sparing her a glance, just grunted, gliding by on silent feet. The noise of the club rose as he entered the room beyond.



Raven pried open her clenched fingers, finding them reluctant to obey. Though she should be pleased, his dismissive attitude annoyed her. Despite having a very small portion of the shifter genetic make-up, her mind blared a warning that all males inside would react the same. Like was attracted to like, and she most definitely was not one of them. Not really, despite all the tests conducted on her in the labs to find out how much control she had over her animal counterparts locked away at her core. A core that gave a low rumble at his easy dismissal.



“Don’t mind him. He can be an ass.”



Raven jerked at the masculine voice, surprised to find herself not alone. She’d shut herself down so hard she’d inadvertently blocked some of her senses. A costly mistake. Especially since her animals liked to come out to play when she shut out the very electricity she used to keep them at bay.



“My fault.” She pushed the words past her constricted throat. From now on, she would stick to business and shove the personal nonsense the girls always spouted in the garbage where it belonged. She could deal with her gift by herself like she had all her life. Plans were in place if the worst came to pass. “I should go.”



When she went to retreat, the boy, he had to be no more than eighteen, stepped in front of the exit, barring her way. “Don’t. Please.”



The tremble in his voice drew her attention. Instincts sharpened. Then she noticed the slave collar clamped around his throat.



The delicate threads of metal, a combination of silver and gold, marked him as a slave to the shifter community. Welts beaded on his skin where the silver encircled his neck, and she couldn’t prevent her lips from curling in disgust.



She understood the aching need to belong, but she couldn’t condone the process. How could a person permit another to use them just for a place in the pack?



“Why do you do it?” The question slipped out without thinking of the consequences.



No retaliation came. More surprising, he didn’t appear angered at her question. Pack always held their business close to their chest. Unless you were a fur-and-claw-carrying member of the club, you didn’t need to know.



A sad look passed over the boy’s face. “The collar protects me more than if I remained rogue. Without it, I’d be bottom to everyone. If I’m accepted into a pack, they’ll protect me.”



“Unless they kill you first.” Rogues don’t last long past their prime out in the open.



The lean man who stood so proudly before her didn’t look like the threatening monster everyone claimed about rogues, the reason for their unspoken, kill-first law for unregistered rogues.



He shrugged. “Those are the rules. Unless you’re born into the pack or challenge and kill for your place, you have to earn your spot.” An uncertain smile tipped the corner of his lips, an expression that didn’t settle easily on his face. An almost indistinguishable sheen of sweat clung to him.



The people inside were like animals in the way that if they sensed fear or weakness, they singled you out. After years of practice, she made an art out of blending into the background. The boy had no such protection.



“Maybe you’ll find me inside.” Without waiting for her response, he disappeared into the club, leaving the scent of defeat. Anxiety. And more damning, hope.



Raven debated the wisdom of leaving against all that she could gain. If the boy could face the crowd, then so could she.

"He was my darkness and I was his light.
We couldn't exist without each other."

For me, life was simple. I went to school and studied. I spent time with my friends and stayed out of trouble. I didn't drink or swear and I only dated gentlemen. I was the typical good girl with a bright future. My world seemed perfect.

But that was about to change.

Ryder Delaney was the one imperfection in my life. He was the bad boy, the black sheep, the one your mother always warned you about. He had only one hard-and-fast rule - Don't fall in love.

But some rules were meant to be broken.

We were best friends, inseparable since childhood despite our differences. I knew the real man hiding behind the tattoos and bad attitude. He knew all my secrets and dreams. But he didn't know there was one thing I wanted and couldn't have...him.

But sometimes Fate has a way of intervening. Soon our world collapsed. War erupted. Darkness prevailed. Alone and on the run, our only goal was to survive and to ignore the feelings we had for each other. But love is powerful...

and so is the darkness.