Lost Angeles:
Author: Lisa Mantchev; Amanda Purol
Date: 2015-06-12 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Paranormal; Vampires; Fantasy; Adult; Romance
Description: “Full-throttle urban paranormal sexy romance/thriller with a manly, alpha-male ensemble cast of vampires, angels, soul-stealers, and paramilitary men!” The Sexiest Man Alive. Xaine Capello lives a life of fast cars, loose women, and hard rock. For him, falling in love is a weekend gig, so when Lourdes Chase arrives on the scene with her big, blue eyes and clever mouth, it’s all this hot rock star can do to keep his lips-- and fangs!-- to himself. The girl with a dark past, and the voice of an angel. Lourdes Chase just wants answers, and she follows the trail all the way to the one place she kn
Publisher: Capriquarius Press

LOST ANGELES

Lisa Mantchev and A.L. Purol

Copyright © 2015 Lisa Mantchev and A.L. Purol

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 9781495158810

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written consent from the publisher and author, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be uploaded without the permission of the publisher and author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is originally published.

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, actual events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and names are products of the authors imagination and used fictitiously.

The publisher and author acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book.

For Charles Dickens and Anne Rice, neither of whom got it exactly right

CHAPTER ONE
Lore

Golden eyes. Silver teeth. And blood.

Golden eyes. Silver teeth. So much—

A strong slap to the face interrupts the looping nightmare. “Get up, kid.”

It’s pretty crap in the introduction department, but I can’t help the overwhelming relief that accompanies waking up. Breathing hard, heart pounding in my chest, it takes me a few blinks to bring everything into focus.

His eyes are blue; that’s the first thing I notice. Blue, clear like a cloudless sky, and so bright that it hurts to look at them. Beyond that, the stranger’s got dark hair and a square jaw with enough stubble on it to contradict the gel-shell on top of his head. Everything is classic: lips, jawline, nose. Hell, the guy’s probably packing a fig leaf in the expensive jeans belted neatly around his classically narrow hips.

Belted with a diamond-studded, shield-shaped buckle… that’s got a silver cross on it.

“What the fuck?” I can only mumble. “Where am I?”

Because I don’t know, and when I do a mental backtrack, there’s nothing in my sketchy recollections but hazy snippets and blurred lines.

Yeah, those kind.

“You’re in Vegas,” the stranger says. “You smoked crack and married Noah Carmichael.”

“Bullshit,” I tell him, rubbing at the grit in my eyes. “Noah Carmichael will never get married.”

“But you’d smoke crack, huh?”

I frown as I look this guy up and down, trying to place him in the gaping hole that’s last night. A second later, the sudden rumbling vibration of the air conditioner kicks on, and I swear the temperature drops twenty degrees in two seconds flat. It’s the nipple-scrunching chill that knocks my brain into gear, and then my current situation slams home.

“Oh, my god.” Jackknifing upward, I prop an arm behind me on the bed and wince at the sudden head rush. There’s a haze over my thoughts, a thin veneer of slime coating every sensation currently coursing through my veins. My body aches in a haven’t-worked-those-muscles-in-a-while way that tells me that, for at least a portion of my evening, I wasn’t alone in this bed. I curl my hands in a set of crunchy sheets and clutch them against my chest. “I’m naked.”

“What tipped you off?” the stranger grunts over his shoulder. “Was it the cool breeze shooting up your ass, or the fact that your underwear are hanging from the ceiling fan?”

I glance up, heat rushing to my cheeks when I catch sight of the scrap of pink fabric slowly spinning around and around with each revolution of the fan blades.

At least it looks like I had fun.

I think.

As my wake-up call digs underneath the bed, fishes out a shoe, and collects my jeans, I let my eyes wander, desperately trying to recall last night. My gaze flickers outward, upward, all around, taking in the shiny off-white walls, the paint-by-number pictures tacked to them, and the old-as-hell television perched atop a cheap dresser that looks like a relic from 1974. On the periphery are ice-block glass windows and yellow-brown shag carpet with several unsavory stains that I don’t even want to consider.

“Come on, kid,” the stranger says, chucking a pile of clothes at my head. “We need to get the hell outta here.”

The legs of my jeans end up wrapped unceremoniously around my skull, threads of ripped-up denim catching on my nose ring. After I disentangle myself, I’m right back to staring my newest friend right in his impatient ass as he forages for lost articles of clothing. Face-slapping aside, I don’t feel especially threatened by Fig Leaf. Quite the opposite, I almost feel relieved that he’s here. Like I woke up and, boom, there’s my dad, glaring down at me with equal parts disappointment and concern. It’s the same expression I got the day I left home, so similar it’s eerie, which would make it really awkward if me and this stranger—

Gross.

“Did I… um, did we…?”

Fig Leaf stops moving around the room, his dark brows pulling together and his face scrunching up in confusion. I lift one hand and make a gesture that encompasses the both of us. Me and him.

Him and me.

Abruptly, his features twist into an indecipherable expression. “No, we didn’t.” He fishes my other shoe from behind the television set. “You’re not really my type. I tend to prefer them a little…” He thinks about it for a second before finishing with, “sluttier?”

I can’t help but gape at him. Waking up in some cheap motel with a complete stranger isn’t exactly my usual MO, but according to Fig Leaf, naked on a strange bed, with a strange man, in a very strange situation, somehow equates to not slutty enough.

“Do you remember anything from last night?” he asks, sounding as if he already knows the answer and wholeheartedly disapproves.

“Not so much,” I hear myself saying, “but maybe if I sit here and stare at your stupid butt-chin for a while, it’ll come back to me—”

“Heya, blondie.” His voice is low and pleasing, tinged with the arrogance of someone who thinks they’ve stumbled upon a sure thing. “Come here often?”

“Often enough.” I take a sip of my free post-show beer without shifting my eyes away from the act that’s currently playing O’Reilly’s pitted stage. “Also, worst pickup line in the history of ever, dude.”

“Not the worst,” he says, laughing when I snort a little. “I could have asked if you fell from heaven.”

“I did. It hurt.” I lift the bottle to my lips for another swig before the heavy glass base hits the bar again. “A lot.”

“Aren’t you exhausted?” he asks. “Because you’ve been running through my mind all day.”

“Nope.” I slide my finger around and around the ring of condensation on the bar. “I don’t run. If I ran, I’d knock myself out with my own boobies.”

“I dunno,” he says. “The Baywatch babes managed it, somehow.”

“Thanks for the mid-nineties newsflash, Hasselhoff.” I roll the bottle between my palms. “What do you want?”

“I want to have a good time,” he tells me, and I feel the soft brush of fingers across my shoulder, my neck, hot breath in my ear that raises goosebumps all over me. “I want to strip you naked and take all your nightmares away.” His voice seems distant, like it’s echoing down an empty hallway in my head.

“You've got it all wrong, buddy.” When I pull myself out of his grasp, everything tilts a little, sliding sideways, and the next words are slurred. “I’m not that kind of girl.”

When I try to get up, I nearly fall off the stool. The bartender, a face without a name, reaches over the bar and grasps my arm so I don’t fall down. I grip the wood, trying desperately to steady myself, but all I can manage is a white-knuckled cling.

From far away, the stranger says, “Looks like you’ve had a little too much to drink, Lo. We should probably get you home.”

His hands are on me again, holding me up, and all I can see of his face are a pair of silvery eyes. The rest is a blur, and a second later, it all just slips away.

“Home…”

“Earth to Lourdes.”

The hotel comes back in a flash. Fig Leaf is standing at the foot of the bed, hands on his hips.

“Want to get a move-on? I mean, unless you want me to pack you out of here naked.”

One hand to my forehead, I stare at the wad of clothes in my lap, straining to remember the rest. I had a little bit, for a moment, but then it all went blank, and when I try to reach for it—

“Could you wait a minute?” I say, and hold up one finger. “I just need like… two seconds.”

“We don’t have a minute. Or two seconds, for that matter.” He hucks the other shoe into my lap with all the rest. “Up and at ’em.”

“Well, what about them?” I say.

“Who?”

Jabbing one finger upward, I watch those blue eyes tilt toward the ceiling, taking in the pink flag of my panties as they whirl around at top speed. The distraction buys me the precious seconds that I need to slow my heart rate, to take a breath, to swallow, to mentally regurgitate a few of the mantras they used at the institution. I don’t pray, because I’m pretty sure there is no God, but the doctors taught me a thing or two about managing my reality.

After a second of consideration, Fig Leaf looks back at me, his face etched with irritation. “You don’t need them.”

“Am I being kidnapped?”

“If I say yes, will you move faster?”

My gaze flicks toward the hotel door as I assess my odds of escape. “Probably not.”

“Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, Lourdes,” he counters. I raise my brow at that, because it’s like every curse word and none of them all rolled into one. “Get the fuck up and put on your clothes.”

“Cheese ’n’ rice, Fig Leaf, take it easy.” Climbing from the bed, I shake out my jeans. “What’s the damn hurry anyway?”

“You’re late, and I’m your ride. Or do you want to miss your audition at Scion?”

My heart jumps into my throat as my head swivels, eyes seeking out the standard issue digital clock on the hotel nightstand. I am late, or I will be if I don’t get the hell out of here right now. Underwear be damned, I start pulling on clothes as fast as I can, bra inside-out, shirt backwards, but none of it matters because the girly bits are covered.

“Shit, my laptop!” Panic on top of more panic. I had it with me when I went to O’Reilly’s yesterday evening. Needed it for the gig. I try to retrace the steps, following everything backwards to the last place I saw the laptop alive.

At the pub. After my set. Before… before what?

Fuck. Fuck. What the crap happened last night?

“I could have asked if you fell from heaven…”

When I spin around, Fig Leaf is there, the strap of my computer case already slung over his shoulder, and I don’t even have the grace to wonder where he found it. Behind the TV probably, or in the bathtub. It hardly matters, considering I’m not even sure where I am or how I got here or who I was with. Or who the hell he is, slapping me awake and throwing clothes at me like he’s my fucking dad.

It’s happening again.

Fig Leaf stares at me with no little bit of concern. “You okay, kid?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Except, I’m not; I’m one hyperventilation bag away from a complete freak-out, and he seems to realize it a second later. Strong hands come up, smooth palms meeting the bare skin of my jaw. He starts nodding and keeps at it until I follow suit. The words tumble out of him, chased by thoughts that are clear as those damn eyes of his.

“It’s all right, kid.” Take a breath. “I’ve got you now.” I can’t change the past. “It’s going to be fine.” But we’ll see about the future. “Okay?” Together.

“Okay,” I find myself repeating. A shiver runs down my spine, but it seems to take all the angst and trepidation with it. I don’t know what kind of motivational mojo Fig Leaf is packing, but whatever it is, it’s powerful stuff.

“Okay. Great. Awesome. Fabulous. Now, we need to get the fuck outta here.” One of those capable hands curls around my bicep and hauls me toward the door before I’ve even managed to put my shoes on. Apparently I’m out of time, because the next second he slips a smooth gold disk into the palm of my hand with a curt, “Hold onto this for me, will ya, kid?”

I stare down at the coin settled in the dip of my hand. It’s like some sort of magic trick prop, the smooth surface manifesting the image of a bird: a dove maybe, or something similar. No time to study it, because Fig Leaf drags me toward the exit like so much baggage. He pauses only long enough to close his other hand around the knob before he wrenches it open—

And draws up short because another man’s standing there.

“Jackson,” the newcomer murmurs, betraying not a speck of surprise.

Fig Leaf tightens down on everything until I can practically feel his butthole pucker. Bachelor Number Two behind Door Number One has eyes so dark that I can’t even distinguish between the pupils and irises. Black hair falls in gentle waves to his shoulders, so that even the ultra-clean lines of his suit feel the tiniest bit Old World. The leather gloves, though, they’re the same bright red as Dorothy’s ruby slippers and twice as out of place in the Los Angeles heat. The whole effect weirds me out a little, raising the hairs on my arms and sending a tiny chill racing down my spine.

“Dickhead,” my chaperon fires back at him. “Perfect timing, as usual.”

“Still the epitome of class, I see. It’s been a long time, old friend.”

“I’m not your friend. Now, move.”

I glance between the two of them, feeling like the filling in some kind of hangover sandwich. “Of course you know each other. Of course you do. Am I being punked?”

Both men ignore me in favor of glaring holes into one another.

“How long has it been, Jackson?” Red Gloves arches one black brow. “Couple of decades, at least. You must be feeling a bit old these days.”

My blue-eyed companion—the man named Jackson—shoots a glance my way, like he's checking to see if I’m paying attention. He doesn’t look old to me. There isn’t a stray white hair on his head, not a single wrinkle on his face beyond a few laugh lines at the corners of his mouth. Forty, tops.

He tightens his grasp on my arm, tugging me to his side “You’re too late.”

Those dark eyes are deadly calm when Red Gloves says, “She’s mine.”

“Not anymore.” Jackson’s grasp slides down to my wrist, and he raises my hand to eye level to display my fingers still clamped down on the gold coin.

I don’t know what it means, but my eyes are drawn to the little tic of a muscle in the other man’s jaw. He stares impassively at my fist, but the tension is palpable.

“I could take her alive,” Red Gloves says.

“Yes, but then you’d have to take her,” Jackson shoots back. “And no fight between us has ever ended well for you.”

“Whoa, whoa!” I blurt out. “Nobody’s fighting anyone!”

“Shut up,” Jackson barks.

Panic bubbles up in my chest. I don’t know either of these men. My blue-eyed kidnapper seems to know a few things about me, but whatever squishy feelings I was entertaining back on the bed fly right out the window in the face of the strange, electric intensity crackling between the two of them.

Jackson returns his attention to the other man. “Unless you want to wipe the slate clean?”

He uses my hand to offer the coin to Red Gloves, peeling back my curled fingers to expose the golden disk. I swallow a little thickly, because I get the feeling that I’m witnessing something huge here. Something epic. Something earth-shattering.

Something biblical.

Red Gloves’s stoic expression betrays nothing in the way of emotion. It’s not until I see him swallow, until I actually witness the slow bobbing motion of his Adam’s apple that I realize something.

He’s afraid.

“Yeah,” Jackson says with a smug smile as he closes my fingers again. “That’s what I thought.”

Coward.

He doesn’t speak the word out loud, but I can hear it all the same, a tiny unspoken thing that pings between them.

Challenge not accepted.

Red Gloves draws himself up and fixes Jackson with a stony stare, pride ruffling all his feathers. “Your time is coming, sooner rather than later. And when you’re gone—”

“Whatever, asshole.” Jackson cuts him off, hauling me around the other man as if hell is on his heels. “Better luck next time. Call me when you find your balls.”

Then I have two options: I can either follow him or get dragged like a recalcitrant cat on a leash. It takes a few steps on sharp pebbles to register the fact that I’m still barefoot. Hopping along behind Jackson, I manage to get one ballet flat on, and good thing too, because the entire parking lot is nothing but gravel and broken glass. I shove my other foot into the second shoe, but the exercise was enough to leave me slightly winded when I demand, “Who are you?”

“Consider me your guardian angel, kid.”

“What does that make him?” I jerk a thumb at the man standing in the hotel room doorway.

“The goddamn devil,” Jackson answers bitterly, leading me toward a gunmetal-grey Audi parked next to the glittering swimming pool.

It’s a joke, but a really bad one. Vampires might be mainstream now—amazing what a couple hundred years and scientific proof that they’re simply one rung up the evolutionary ladder can do—but that doesn’t mean that people aren’t looking over their collective, fragile, human shoulders and wondering what’s next?

“Yeah, right,” I scoff as I give him the once-over. “He was way more polite than you, and you swear too much for an angel.”

“You talk too much for a woman.”

“Oh, my bad, are the slutty ones usually quieter?” I can’t help the small, vengeful grin that hits my face.

Jackson doesn’t answer, just opens the door of the Audi and shoves me inside so abruptly that I almost bang my head on the roof. He drops the computer case into my lap, and I hug it to my chest. Slamming the door closed behind me, he marches around to the driver’s side and plops into the seat next to mine. The moment he’s in, he leans back against the dark leather, taking a moment to breathe.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to talk to strangers?” Jackson asks on the exhale as he starts the engine, shifts into reverse, and backs out of the parking space.

“Well, yeah,” I say, tightening my arms around the laptop case, “but they left out the part where a strange man breaks into my hotel room, demands that I put on my clothes, then offers to drive me to my preferred destination. You’re doing this whole kidnapping thing a little ass-backwards, you know, but I guess I’m glad you sorta super-suck at it?”

“He sorta super-sucks at everything,” pipes a cheerful voice from the backseat. A second later, a hand appears in front of my face holding a colorfully packaged sucker. “Blow Pop?”

I reach for the candy, but Jackson slaps it out of my hand before I even have the chance to get the wrapper off.

I shoot him a slightly boggled glare. “Sonovabiscuit, Fig Leaf, and what the hell?”

“Candy from strangers,” is all he says, concentrating on the road.

“Fig Leaf?!” The voice manifests between us as a lot of neon-orange hair and clear, silver eyes. The girl hanging over my seat looks like a twelve-year-old Japanese anime character come to life, from the Union Jack tank dress to her six-inch platform boots. “Well, that’s a new one,” she giggles, leaning in until I catch whiffs of cherry from her sucker. “This boy’s about as far from Adam as it gets. Jax here wouldn’t be caught dead wearing a leaf unless it had a designer label on it. And if there was some post-apocalyptic deep-woods action happening, he’d be the fucktard folding poison sumac over his balls—”

Jackson lifts his hand from the gearshift long enough to put one big palm on her face and shove her rather unceremoniously back into her seat. Classic big brother maneuver, except they don’t look related. He flicks a quick glance at me, then refocuses his eyes on the road.

“Why don’t you take a nap or something?” Then he tacks on, “Give your mouth a rest.”

All I can really say at this point is, “Worst. Guardian Angel. Ever.”

It’s probably a good thing we’re all talking theoretical theology anyway, because if he really was my guardian angel, I would have earned myself a lightning strike from the heavens for that one. Spinning around in my seat, I disregard his annoyed glare, holding a hand out to the girl whose chunky boots are rapping a sharp staccato against my chair. “Hi, I’m Lo—”

But just like with the Blow Pop, Jackson’s hand swats mine away, grabbing me by the wrist and tossing my own limb back at me like my fist is a damn baseball. “Turn around and sit down.”

“Better listen to Figgy, Lo,” says the girl in the backseat. “He’s using his serious voice.”

“Shut your head, Tam,” Jackson tells her. “And no hanky-panky in the Audi. I just had it detailed.”

“My whole head?” she asks.

“The whole Audi?” I add.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” He rakes a hand through his hair, breaking the gel shell in his frustration. “God save me from smart-assed women.”

Tam snorts. “Pffft. Keep dreaming.”

“If only this were a dream,” he mutters under his breath, “then maybe we could all wake up.”

The moment those words fall out of his mouth, I can’t help but feel a little something for Jackson, even if I don’t know him at all. That sympathy, empathy, whatever carries over to Tam, because we both go completely silent at the exact same moment, the smiles wiped from our faces.

“Sorry,” I mutter, turning around in my seat, facing forward and staring out the windshield.

“Don’t mind him,” Tam chirps over my shoulder, her chin digging into the seat back. “He hasn’t gotten laid in a really long time.”

“Seriously?!” Jackson snaps at her, but she only leans forward a little more, inhaling deeply and breathing out a little expletive.

“Phew, you reek of Benny, Lo.”

I frown at the name, then I get a flash of—Hi, I’m Benicio—but she’s still yapping away.

“Gross, Lo, it smells like he rolled all over you.”

“He did.” The words rumble out of Jackson. “Then he left her there for you know who to find.”

“Voldemort?” Not what I’d planned to say, but it’s like I can’t help myself right now. Like being a smartass is my last defense against all the things that I don’t really want to think about. Against all the weird that’s happening at this very moment.

“The Dark Lord?” Tam sputters out. “Close enough!”

Jackson darts a glance in the rearview, conveying some silent message to his friend that kills the conversation and leaves another trailing silence in its wake. When he shifts his attention to the front window again, the tension slowly eases its way out of his shoulders.

“Thank you,” I say, and he turns those crazy-blue eyes toward me for a second. “I think.” Then I pause, frowning a little. “Unless this really is a kidnapping…”

Jackson heaves a beleaguered sigh and rolls his eyes. “Nobody’s kidnapping you, kid.”

“Well, then. I guess the ‘thank you’ still stands.” I offer up a reconciliatory smile and offer my hand to him in truce. He stares at it grimly for a moment before transferring his scrutiny to my face. “C’mon, Fig Leaf, I can wait you out. I could do this all day.”

He snorts through his nose, but he takes his hand off the wheel long enough to grasp mine. Warm and solid and reassuring, on the scale of handshakes, it’s at least a nine-point-five. When he finally lets go, that hand ends up on his knee instead of the steering wheel.

“All day and then some,” he agrees, casting me a few short sidelong glances. “And you can quit calling me ‘Fig Leaf.’ My name’s Jackson Trace. Call me Jax.” After that, he pokes a thumb in the direction of my backseat BFF. “That’s Tamsyn.”

“Tamsyn what?”

The look he gives me then is a little sour. “Just ‘Tamsyn.’”

“Okay, then.”

After that, the ride gets quieter, but probably not quiet enough for Jax. Tamsyn chatters jovially from the backseat, asking a million and one questions and generally yapping my ear off all the way back from the Valley. Whatever and whoever happened last night, I managed to end up in a fleabag motel out in Van Nuys, so I guess I’m lucky I didn’t wake up face-down on a porn set.

Or in a gutter.

Within minutes, I know a little too much about my elfin friend, her shiny new shoes, her choice in smokes, her love of pancakes, and the pretty waitress at The Diner on the West End. It’s calming, in a weird way, and that calm sticks with me until Jax pulls over next to the towering blue water feature in front of Scion. The second the car comes to a full stop, my anxiety returns, bubbling up from my stomach and lodging in my chest. Suddenly, I don’t want to leave the car. I’m plagued by a dark sort of dread that has me dragging my feet. I get that feeling again, the one I had back at the motel. That epic, earth-shattery one.

It’s not safe out there. Not anymore.

“Look, kid,” Jax says, interrupting my inner meltdown. “You don’t have to go in. I’ll take you home if you want.” He throws a casual arm over the headrest on my chair, but his tone is dead serious. “Fame’s not all it’s cracked up to be, you know. There’s something to be said for being… anonymous.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.” I peer at the trademark glass structure that forms the front of the building. “I’ve been begging Mireille Reece for an audition for months.” Absolutely no need to tell him that speaking with her is infinitely more important than a chance on the Scion stage. “Up until a few weeks ago, she wouldn’t even give me the time of day.” I shake my head, adamant. “No, I need to do this.”

“Suit yourself,” he says, then adds, “but do me a favor and try not to get in the habit of following strange men to seedy motels, huh?”

I frown, because really, that’s never been a habit of mine. I am not that girl. “I won’t.” Then, I tack on, “’Cause if I got any sluttier, Fig Leaf, we might have a problem.”

At his skeptical grunt, I grin, climb out of the car, and sling my laptop case over my shoulder. Trading the Audi’s air-conditioned interior for fry-an-egg-on-the-sidewalk afternoon heat is like stepping into an oven. I slam the door shut and head toward the building, but a moment later, there’s the sound of a power window rolling down.

“Hey, Lo!”

When I spin around, Tamsyn’s orange head is hanging out the opening, her outstretched hand flapping a business card at me.

“Fig Leaf’s digits,” she chirps as I take it. “Just in case. Oh, and steer clear of—”

Without waiting for her to finish, Jax puts the car in gear and pulls away from the curb. I watch until the Audi’s gone, procrastinating mostly, then I turn toward Scion, staring ever-upward at that gargantuan water feature. The club is the Emerald City of hot spots in Los Angeles, the be-all end-all of vampire playrooms. I’ve never been inside. Hell, I would guess that only one percent of the one percent actually makes it past the velvet ropes, but two days ago I got a call from Mireille Reece, representative of one particular rock star, looking for one particular opening act.

You get the call. You take it.

“Here goes nothing.”

CHAPTER TWO
Xaine

They pulled a corpse out of the dumpster behind the club this morning and everyone immediately suspected me. “Blame the Vampire” is a game that I have more than a passing familiarity with. I’ve seen enough pitchforks and torches in my four hundred years to know that it’s usually stake first, ask questions later, so I guess it's progress that I’ve spent the last two hours under police investigation.

Still, so much for social equality.

You’d think the world would be used to us by now, seeing as how vampires have been out of the proverbial closet since the Industrial Revolution. It’s doubtful America would have sent England packing if we hadn’t eyed this country and decided we liked what we saw. My kind won wars, stole land, and sculpted this place to suit our needs. Technology evolved because we wanted it to. Needed it to.

Doesn’t seem to matter in the long run, since we’re suspect numero uno when a corpse turns up. The cops are still having trouble explaining why I’m being questioned, given that the girl’s body doesn’t have a single fang mark on it. Easy enough to point the finger, I guess, but slightly harder to prove. I think I’m just supposed to be grateful that they did me the courtesy of conducting the “interview” in an upstairs office rather than dragging me downtown in handcuffs.

All of it put me in a really shitty mood. I’m never at my best when I’m tired or hungry, and right now, I’m both. Prowling down the hallway, I wince at the horrible noises coming from the auditorium.

Auditions.

Apocalypse is mine, from the six-story water feature in the front atrium of the Scion nightclub to the bank of offices that shuffle contracts for the record label, but I pay people to deal with this kind of crap. The trouble is that one of the people I’m paying snags me by the elbow as I’m passing the VIP balconies and fixes me with That Look. Reille must have put out the major PR fires already, but she’s running on pure adrenaline, taurine, ginseng, caffeine.

“Damn it, Xaine, you aren’t ducking out now,” she tells me. “I prescreened hundreds of acts. The least you can do is sit through ten.”

“No can do, sweetheart. I’m going home to do all the things. Eating, sleeping, fucking, and not necessarily in that order.”

“Don’t be a dick.” Reille looks up at me with eyes that shift colors when she’s pissed or scared or happy or coming. Yeah, Orgasm Green might not be on a paint chip anywhere, but I know exactly what shade it is. Right now, those eyes are dark and hard. She has to be here, but she wants to leave. She wants to quit, but she needs this job. She wants to tell me to go fuck myself, but she hasn’t had time to put an exit plan together. “This isn’t even my job. If you hadn’t fired Matty—”

“Don’t talk to me about him right now,” I mutter.

Matty, short for Matthias, a kinda sorta little brother. Young for a vamp, too stupid to live if he thought he could get away with funneling dirty money through my nightclubs. And not just domestically, but internationally. I hadn’t even wanted to give him the job in the first place, but Scipio progeny look after their own.

Speaking of Scipios, I am going to have to pay Roman a visit tonight. Tell him what his youngest has been up to.

But apparently not before I sit through a bunch of wet-behind-the-ears wannabe musical auditions. One word to the negative, I could be miles away from here, cruising Sunset, heading for Pacific Palisades and peace and quiet. One look at Reille shoots that idea right to hell. Even if I leave, she’ll haunt me, follow me home like the ghost of try-outs past, blowing up my cell and making my life hell until I come back.

“Fine.” With a dramatic sigh, I follow her into the balcony area and fling myself into a chair. “Be a pal and order me a drink, would you?”

“I already did.” She points at the four-pack of Starbucks cups sitting on the ledge, all of them Venti, extra hot.

I reach for the closest one and let my head fall back on the chair. “I didn’t kill that woman, Reille.”

“Do tell.” Her glare cuts right to my blackened heart. “You were the last one seen with her. Half a dozen strung-out college kids swear you brought her into this very VIP suite.”

The Type O tastes stale, and “extra hot” isn’t nearly hot enough for me. Never is really, unless it comes straight from the tap. “Fucking and killing are two different things—”

I stop myself, but not before I’ve crammed half my foot down my own throat. There’s a fine line between love and hate, and I’ve walked both edges of that line with the svelte redhead to my left. Fucking and killing, in that order, except she managed to survive the whole ordeal despite my best, blood-drunk effort. So really, given my track record for severely maiming the ones I love, I guess I’m not all that surprised that the police hunted me down for questioning this morning.

“What do I need an opening act for, anyway?” I lean back in the chair, kicking my foot up the ledge. “Never needed one before.”

“Because you are going to start giving back, Xaine. Paying it forward. Supporting local music, supporting new musicians, supporting something that doesn’t have to suck you off first.” Reille crosses one leg over the other and starts swinging her foot the way she does when she’s feeling fidgety. She’s wearing a pair of those red-soled designer heels the Beverly Hills housewives cream themselves over, beige and shiny, adding four or five inches to her petite frame.

They look like stripper shoes.

Really, really expensive stripper shoes.

The music starts up, if you can even call it that. Reille’s fingers twitch around her pen and the clipboard in her lap, but not just because she's irritated. See, the real problem with letting a vamp feed off you isn’t the chance of dying, it’s the feeling that lingers after. An itch you can’t scratch with your fingernails. A creeping, crawling need to give it up again, and again, and again. The sensation that things only make sense when fangs sink through your skin. Reille was addicted to that feeling, addicted to me, for the better part of six months. She’s in some bullshit recovery program right now, with the Tiffany bracelet and “30 Days Sober” charm to prove it.

“What did you think about that one?” she asks when there’s a lull in the noise, pen poised over the paper.

I slide another inch down in my chair just to piss her off. “Fucking horrible.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then,” she fires back.

“Take it however you want, sweetheart.” The second group fires up, and I swear I want to stick my fingers in my ears. “I am trapped in hell. Musical fucking hell.”

At least musical fucking hell is posh. The private balcony’s appointments are luxe; once we get a group of VIPs in here, we like them to open a tab and settle in for the night. Everything is leather and glass and cold-lit with blue LEDs to match the glass panels composing the main dance floor below. Under that is water. Thousands upon thousands of gallons of it, all filtered and purified and moving like blood through veins. It was the only thing I really cared about when we built this place, and the only thing I bother noticing when I’m onstage.

Well, that… and her.

Reille and I had been nothing short of tempestuous. We went from madly in lust to just plain mad before I realized what was happening. It was like one of those TV show relationships where people scream and throw stuff, then go at it like cats in heat because that’s how good the sex is. I wanted her, sure enough, still want her, because I flooded her veins with so much of me that I can smell it on her skin, even now. My brain is over the relationship, but the rest is biologically bound to her, like it or not, despite the fact that everything we had ended the night Caspian Declan pulled the purple Dior veil from my eyes.

Leave it to him to use clothes to ruin everything. I wouldn’t know a designer label if it punched me in the nuts, but Reille did. It was one of the first things I noticed, along with her affinity for tequila and one-night stands. So I did what any guy trying to get a piece would do: I chucked her into the Apocalypse jet and took her to Paris. She found some insanely-priced piece of couture in a back alley vintage shop, then refused to let me pay for it. Got all ruffled-up offended and insisted she could afford it, even though she had to put it on three separate credit cards. Never wore it for me… but apparently she wore it for Cas. He took great pleasure in telling me all about it at a stupid museum gala, how it happened the first night of my international tour. The second I was out of sight, she beelined straight to him. And dinner between friends is never just dinner between friends, not with Reille.

Because she doesn’t really have friends so much as she has lovers, ex-lovers, and people she hasn’t fucked yet.

That’s what Cas had said, and it’s pretty much the last thing I remember clearly from that night. At some point, Reille had come back from the Ladies’ Room and I dragged her out to the limo. I downed tequila shots with her, because it was easier to swallow the liquor than all the lies. Then I drank her blood and poured my venom into her until both of us teetered on the edge of blacking out. In spite of all that, Cas’s words still rang in my head. The second we staggered in the front door of the Palisades mansion, her cell phone rang. Convinced it was him, I plucked it from her hand and threw it to the floor.

And that’s when absolutely everything shattered.

By the time I woke up with the world’s most epic hangover, Reille was gone. All my messages went unanswered and my apology gifts got returned. She haunted me the entire time, because there were traces of her everywhere: her clothes in the closet upstairs, her lacy panties tucked in the drawers in the master bedroom, her laptop in my study. Catching an unexpected whiff of her perfume wafting off the towels was like breathing in a ghost. Housekeeping mopped up the blood in the front hall, but in my mind’s eye I could still see the gorgeous, glossy spray of her on the black and white marble.

To this day, I still can’t explain what happened. All I knew was that I wanted her so badly, lusted after her so much, was addicted to her to a point where reality stopped making sense. I might be a lot of things: an asshole, a narcissist, a shameless glutton, and giant douchebag, but I’ve never been as out-of-my-head as I was that night, and after that night, Reille wouldn’t touch me with a twenty-foot pole.

“Earth to Xaine,” she snaps at me, and I realize I missed the second act unplugging their equipment.

“Also horrible. I think you might have gone tone deaf in the last month.” My gaze flickers over the girl heading center stage, if only because she’s blonde and busty and looks enough like the dead body they pulled out of the garbage to make me do a double take. Same build. Same heart-shaped face. It’s a little uncanny and a lot unsettling. “How’s your brother, by the way?”

“Fuck you, Xaine.”

“Language, sweetheart.”

It wasn’t necessarily an idle question. Asher Reece, Vampire Hunter, was the one ringing in when Reille’s phone hit the floor. Idling his stupid-huge Humvee at my gate, he’d been cruising by to check on her; apparently one missed call was all in the invitation he needed to ram through the wrought iron fence, kick open my door, heft Reille out of the puddle of her own blood, and point a gun loaded with UV bullets directly at my head. Not that I can blame him, really. I did almost kill his baby sister. Even if the idea of her dating me left him cold, he was still her knight in shining armor in a way I could never be.

I’m also expecting him to pick me off with a sniper rifle any day now.

Finishing off the first cup, I crumple it and toss it over my shoulder as Contestant Number Three plugs in her equipment. Got to give her credit; a lot of them get intimidated by the setting and rush things. This one checks everything, making certain it’s all just so before she heads for the microphone.

“Hi there,” she says, holding a hand up to her eyes to cut the glare of the stage lighting. “My name is Lourdes Chase?”

Plain as day, I hear the question mark and smirk into my second cup of Type O. She’s green. Farm-fresh. You can tell by the way that her voice trembles the tiniest bit, the way that even her own name is something that she’s not quite sure of.

The opening strains of whatever banal piece of crap she’s going to throw at me filter through her laptop and out the speakers. Giving an exaggerated snore, I roll my head toward Reille and hit her with a quick once-over. She looks like crap, skinny as hell, pale as anything. If she went Ophelia tomorrow, she’d sink like a stone if she had so much as a Skittle in her back pocket. But in Los Angeles, that’s considered a good thing. She could be skin and bones, and everyone would assume it’s Pilates and ask her about her secret diet.

Liquor and late nights.

“All the mouthwash in the world doesn’t cover up the smell of tequila,” I say, goading, always goading. “Spend another morning chugging Alka Seltzer and worshipping the porcelain god?”

“Eat a dick.” Reille doesn’t peel her eyes from the stage, but she knows I know I’m right…

Angel on high,

I pulled you from the heavens,

And dragged you down, down, down

Into my special brand of hell.

It takes a moment for the lyrics to filter through, maybe because the girl’s clear soprano is nothing like my tenor. Then I have to stop talking, stop taunting, stop doing anything that detracts from the concentration it takes to pick the words out of everything else the Fuzzy Bunny onstage has done to this song. That’s not to say it sounds bad, just different.

But nothing could have been more jarring to me than hearing her sing this.

I don’t write about love. Sex, yes. Life, yes. Wealth and fame, all of that is fodder for my music. But love? In four hundred years, I only wrote one song about love, and I only sang it once before I put it away and never touched it again. It was a single impromptu lyrical whim that caught me on one of those nights, when the shadows are a little too dark, the hours a little too long, and the memories a little too vivid to be shoved down inside. Humans would call it a moment of weakness, but it’s worse than that for an immortal; it’s a moment when we let the ennui fall away and all our actual feelings slip through.

Angel girl, the stars weep to see

What you’ve become since falling,

But I just can’t seem to let you go,

And maybe that’s just as well.

The world has heard this song exactly one time, at a live acoustic session twenty years ago. Back in the days before YouTube and Vine, before Twitter, and long before social media could tell you that an earthquake was coming your way a full thirty seconds before it hit. There are no video captures of that concert on the internet, no still frames, but every single word is burned into my consciousness as if I played it yesterday. If I close my eyes, I can still see the crowd, hear my voice echoing back through the mic, feel my broken heart poured into every single word.

It’s the forgotten song, but I remember every single note.

She’s too young to have heard it live, which means someone, somewhere, put the lyrics on paper. And this Fluffy Bunny built a dinosaur out of the bones, all conjecture and educated guessing, a one-off reduced to a poem and then reborn. She’s made it a full track, too, with violins and keyboard and percussion, so the whole thing builds into an actual song. It fills the room with everything it could have been, instead of everything it never was, and suddenly, all I can hear is her voice.

Not the voice onstage, but Elizabeth’s voice, because it was Elizabeth’s song. Eyes open wide, I watch without blinking, but I’m not looking at the girl singing, not looking at the club. I’m two hundred years in the past, drowning in all the things I wish I’d done differently.

It’s damn unsettling, and when my initial shock wears away, it’s replaced by anger. I teeter on two chair legs, cardboard cup clutched in my hand, because I love the song and hate it. Want to hear it again and can’t bear to listen. Need to get out of here, but can’t walk away.

Here beside me,

Tucked beneath me,

Surrounded by me,

Oh, baby can’t you see?

I rock idly, the sole of my shoe pushing against the railing. My head bobs vaguely in time with the music, but I swear I’m barely holding it together, and only because I don’t want Reille to see anything but indifference. I’m not in the habit of putting weapons in the hands of people who may or may not be in the market for a little revenge.

You burn ever-bright,

My every wrong set right,

You show me there’s still light,

You are the light,

And I want to walk with you…

In your light.

“Well, at least you’ve stopped snoring,” Reille snarks. “So either you like her, or you’ve finally fallen asleep.”

Her voice jars me from my thoughts, sending a tiny jolt of surprise through me. My foot slips, smooth sole skidding off the ledge, and there’s a moment of reaching, flailing, trying to catch hold of anything I possibly can before I lose my balance and topple back. My head hits the floor in the space between one note and the next.

“Shit,” I mutter, though that doesn't begin to cover it.

Reille’s horrified, of course, and a little disgusted when she asks, “Are you all right?”

Not really. I think I might have a concussion, insofar as it’s possible for a vampire to bruise his brain.

“I’m fine.” Except I’m not. Finding my feet and my equilibrium takes several seconds longer that I would like, and by then, Miss What’s-Her-Face Something-Or-Other is well into the next torturous verse. She has her eyes closed, like she doesn’t care who’s watching her. A rainbow riot of hair tumbles over her shoulders, pale strands intertwined with pink and purple and blue and green and yellow, like she’s a kid who finally discovered Manic Panic. Ripped-up jeans, fluffy sweater, boring as fuck shoes, but that voice… that voice… echoes my own words back at me from another time, another place—

“Of course, now you’re paying attention,” Reille mutters. “Blonde. Stacked like a porn star. I should have guessed she’d be your type.”

“Then how’s about you scoot your ass down there and sign the Fuzzy Bunny, huh? Just think of it, today you get to play Fairy Godmother to her Cinderella and make all her dreams come true!”

I hit the smartass inflections, pushing Reille’s buttons, trying to set off that spitfire temper of hers. It works, too, because she turns pink, the way only a real redhead can. I can hear the rush of her blood in her veins, the surge as her heartbeat kicks up. Except she doesn’t look quite as pissed as expected. Clutching that clipboard of hers against her chest—probably to keep me from looking at her tits—she looks to the stage, her forehead scrunching up like she’s thinking really hard about something.

When she speaks again, there’s a halting quality to the words. “She’s not even the best of the bunch, Xaine. There’s a trio coming up—”

“If she’s not the best, then why did you waste my time with her?” By inches, I crowd Reille against the railing, stepping into her bubble of nonexistent personal space. “You screened a hundred acts, but she’s the shitty one you made me listen to?”

“No. I mean…” Reille glares at me for all she’s worth. “You know what I mean.”

“No, I know that I told you to hire someone and you immediately started arguing with me that there’s someone better. Which means you made me sit through a crap act. Which means you didn’t do your job.” Instead of raising my voice, I lower it until I’m certain she’s giving me every last speck of her attention. “Is that what happened? Did you drop the ball on this?”

Ass against the ledge, she pinches her mouth into a thin line. “No, I didn’t drop the ball.”

“So the Fuzzy Bunny is a perfect choice, isn’t she? Because I have impeccable fucking taste, don’t I, and it’s time I start giving back, right? So I’ll start with that little slice of farm-grown, completely organic, all-American apple pie.”

“If I sign her, you keep your distance,” Reille says, tilting her chin up like she’s allowed to make demands.

“How about we play the game where I’m the boss, and you’re the employee? The game where you do as I say, because I pay you to. The game where you get down there and sign her, or you pack your shit?” She flinches at that, a muscle twitching in her jaw as she averts her face, but I duck down, staring her right in her goddamn lies so I can say, “It’s all right, sweetheart. You’re allowed to be jealous.”

Her head shoots up, and I get all the indignant anger. “As if.”

“Then prove it.” I flash a smile that’s more fangs than teeth and add, “Contract signed and in my dressing room tout suite, or it’s time to polish up that résumé of yours.”

As I back up, she throws her clipboard at my head, but I manage to get out the door without her doing any damage. My ears are still ringing as I head down the hall, not with Reille’s voice, but the Fuzzy Bunny’s.

My every wrong set right,

You show me there’s still light—

Except it’s all bullshit. There’s no setting my wrongs right, and the only light in this life is sold by the kilowatt hour. Stalking down the hall, I feel like I’ve entered into the world’s most risky game of Truth or Dare, and I wonder which one of us is going to break first. I’d like to put my money on Fuzzy Bunny, but with the way my hands are shaking and Reille’s temper is flaring, there’s no telling how this hand is going to pan out.

My phone buzzes with an incoming text; this time, it’s my lawyers, giving me the rundown on the ongoing police investigation and what I need to do in order to appear cooperative.

And innocent.

Trouble is, I’m not exactly a solid bet when it comes to either of those things.

Good thing we’re not in Vegas.

CHAPTER THREE
Lore

It’s a little hard to breathe, following Reille Reece up to her office and sliding into the chair opposite her massive desk. The entire room is crammed with little personal effects, travel souvenirs, vintage knickknacks; god help the poor cleaning staff that actually has to dust this space. Reille doesn’t look like the kind of woman who spends weekends digging through rusty bits at the Pasadena Flea Market, but if this last year has taught me anything, looks can be very, very deceiving.

For the first few minutes, she mutters under her breath, pulling out boilerplate contracts and Perrier waters. Her whole body is at an anxious fidget when she stops, spins toward me, and asks yet again, “Are you certain you don’t want to retain a lawyer before signing anything? A deal on the table… you could get an agent like that.” And she snaps her immaculately French-manicured nails.

“I’m not worried about the legalities.” It’s the truth, edging closer to my real reason for being here. As much as I love it, the music has been a means to an end, so I pull the papers toward me and start signing on the dotted lines. All the dotted lines, everywhere she points with that one, perfect fingertip. In between scrawls, I flick curious glances at the woman seated across from me.

For a while, the doctors had me convinced I’d imagined her. Imagined everything. Then one afternoon, I’d been sitting in the psych ward common room, flicking through the channels without really watching. Then… boom. There she was. The redhead who supposedly didn’t exist, on the arm of the world’s most infamous rock star. It was a red carpet clip of Xaine headed into the Grammy awards.

That was the day I started to “recover.” That was the day I started lying to the doctors, to the shrinks, telling them I understood, that I really had hallucinated the whole thing. That my mind had played tricks on me, bending fantasy over memory until I’d pieced together an entire alternate reality from snippets of life and TV. They say that admitting to the problem is half the battle, and my battle couldn’t even begin until I was out of that hospital. That became my new goal: to tell them whatever they wanted to hear for as long as it took to convince them.

But no matter what I said to those people, I knew I had to come here, find her.

Find answers.

My hand is shaking by the time my last John Hancock is in place, but Reille just sighs heavily and drags the papers out of my grasp.

“Well, I suppose that is that,” she says.

“Yeah, it really is.” I lick my lips and finally muster the gumption to ask, “Look, this is going to sound really strange, but… do you remember me?”

There’s a flicker of something—the kind of panic I’ve seen in my own eyes when staring at my reflection—before she tamps it all down and goes Hollywood Hills cool on me. “Most people generally have to be memorable for me to remember them.”

“Right,” I say slowly, because what did I expect, really? “The thing is, I remember you.” A pause. “You were on the table next to mine. You know. At that… lab… or whatever.”

I know she knows what I mean, because the color drains from her face lickety-split. Well, what color there is to begin with. Reille Reece is rather tragically wan, the sort of pale-and-pretty you’d find in a campy vampire novel, but that doesn’t stop her from turning a little green around the edges as well.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Leaning back in her chair, she offers up a brittle smile when she adds, “I’ve never seen you before in my life.” Opening a Perrier bottle, she takes a tiny sip and swallows harder than necessary.

I’d feel more sympathy, if she wasn’t bald-faced lying to me right now. “I get it. I really do. Learned the hard way not to say anything if I didn’t want to end up in a strait jacket, bouncing off the walls of a padded room—”

“Look, Miss Chase, I appreciate that you think you know me from somewhere—”

“Who’s Cas?” Grasping at straws, I’m gratified to catch a tremor in her hand, so I push her with, “You kept screaming that he would come for you. That he would make them sorry.”

Reille sucks in a breath and holds it, like she’s trying to decide something, but before she can answer, the intercom beeps twice and a voice cuts between us.

“The car for Miss Chase is here.”

Reille reaches out to press the button; her hand is shaking harder now. “Thank you. She’ll be right down.” Then she lets go and heads for the door without another glance in my direction. “We’ll be in touch about rehearsals. Please have the receptionist take your measurements so they can be forwarded to the wardrobe department.”

It’s less than I wanted but more than I expected out of the ambush, and I have to content myself with the knowledge that the Scion gig will put me on Reille’s radar long enough that she might break down and trust me.

I need her to trust me.

A two-hour hellish drive through traffic gives me plenty of time to reflect on the day, and not just about my first encounter with Reille Reece. However weird he is, Jackson Trace is right. It’s not safe to go home with strange men, or get in the car with them, or wake up naked and alone in places I don’t recognize. I don’t know what I was thinking, and the longer I dwell on it, the more anxious I get. Whole chunks of my memory are still missing, and I know I wasn’t that drunk.

I need to be more careful. Put my guard back up. I’m closer to answers than I’ve been in this entire year, and I can’t mess it up for the sake of a few drinks and the vague recollection of a boy blond bombshell who put his hands up my shirt.

Punching in the code to the front door of my apartment building, I step inside and slam the rusted iron and glass barrier closed behind me. When I turn around and glance up the stairs, nothing’s ever looked better than my ugly, avocado-green hallway with its peeling paint and old wooden steps coated in several lumpy layers of red high-gloss. Not even the loud blast of mariachi music coming from 2C derails my relief at heading three stories up and worlds away from everywhere I’ve been today. When the thin soles of my flats hit my doormat, I sigh with relief and fish around in my bag for my keys. I’m home, which means I can kick off my shoes, my clothes, climb into a hot shower, and scald my skin until everything goes away for a while. It means I can drop into bed and process everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four—

The door jerks open, interrupting my daydream. “Puta, where the hell have you been?”

I’m standing there with the key in my hand, staring at a pair of shoes that I’d break my ankles in. Up go the eyeballs, over her tight, red sheath dress, golden bling, and thick, black hair before I land on warm brown skin and perfectly-placed cat-eyes. Doesn’t take long, because Jessamin Rivera is short compared to me, gorgeously effortless, and it’s ridiculous that she looks this good at nine o’clock on a Friday night when I know she’s not going out.

“Well?” she snaps. “I was just about to come looking for you.”

I grin at that, waving a hand at her less-than-sensible gear. “Yeah? You and what army, G.I. Barbie? I think there’s some camo face paint in the medicine cabinet.”

“That’s not funny, pendeja.” She steps back to let me in, but keeps one hand on the door so that she can slam it the second I’m inside. “I haven’t seen you since yesterday morning. I was going to call the police.”

“It hasn’t been forty-eight hours yet, so they wouldn’t have done anything.” I drop my bag on the floor and turn to face the irate Latina.

“Seriously, Lourdes.” Jess says my name like my mom used to, with the subtle hint of unspoken middle and last name that signaled I was in trouble. “What the hell is going on?”

“I went to a gig, then I went to an audition, then I came home.”

“A two day gig? A two day audition?” Jess crosses her arms over her chest and sticks one foot out, tapping her toe. “Then how do you explain the twenty apple pies in my kitchen, Lolo?”

I’m already headed down the dimly-lit hallway, but that gives me pause. “What are you talking about?”

With a huff of frustration, Jess shoves me down the narrow corridor until we hit the living room, which is full of stuff. Random stuff. Stuff that has no reason, rhyme, or consistent theme. There are paperweights, balloons, flower arrangements, fruit arrangements, cards, toys, novelty toys, sausage baskets, cheese baskets, and other things that I can’t even begin identify at a glance.

“What the fucking butts.” I shoot a look back at her like she can explain the insanity that’s become my life. “What is all this?”

“You tell me,” she fires back.

“I, um…” I don’t know. “I, uh…” Is this really happening? “Er… did it come with a card?”

Jess waves an impatient hand in the direction of everything that’s gathered in our apartment. “Yeah, about three hundred of them.”

I locate the nearest arrangement of something. Cookies, by the looks of it. Cookies shaped like shoes. Plucking the card from the plastic holder, I read the front. A smiling cartoon character with casts on both legs encourages me to “Get back on your feet soon!”

Flipping it open, I find that there’s an actual typed message inside.

Ms. Chase,

Didn’t know what you liked, so I got you one of each.

Welcome to Apocalypse.

X.

I put that card down and pick up another. It’s got an identical message inside. So does the one after that. I keep checking them, like it’s all going to make sense eventually. Like I’m going to find that one card in the midst of all this that says, “April Fools!” or something equally explanatory.

“Ringin’ any bells, hermana?” asks Jess, apparently tired of my gape-mouthed, wide-eyed staring. “What about the pies?”

“What pies?” The question comes out a little absently, because I’m spinning in slow circles, letting my eyes sweep over the floor-to-ceiling “one of each” cluttering up my home.

“The ones in the kitchen,” Jess says before adding, “Apple. Twenty of them.”

Eyes narrowed, I stare at her. “Are there really twenty apple pies in the kitchen?”

She points a finger at the couch. “Are there really five dildos in the corner?”

With a squint, I read the labels on the five bright-pink boxes next to the sofa and offer up a tentative, “Yes?”

“Then you better believe there are twenty fucking pies in the kitchen.”

It’s like I’ve landed in some weird universe where dicks and pies are the perfect welcome-to-the-big-time gifts. Worst part is, I know exactly who “X” is, and as I think about it, my hands start to sweat a little. I didn’t spot him there today, but stage lights aren’t conducive to seeing the audience. I didn’t expect him, either, and I’m glad I didn’t know.

Probably would’ve choked if you had.

“Where was this gig?” Jess demands.

“Scion,” I say, clutching a fistful of paper in each hand, rubbing the pleasantly-ribbed vellum between my fingertips. “I got the job.”

“Congratulations. I’ll pop open that bottle of Cristal and we can toast the gig you landed with the mentally-unhinged vampire.” Except Jess makes no move toward the champagne. That and the dripping sarcasm tip me off that she’s less than pleased by this turn of events.

“You’re supposed to be happy for me,” I say slowly. “You know how hard I’ve worked for this.”

No lie. I’ve taken every DJ gig I could get my hands on, spent nights at bars with my acoustic guitar, handed my business card out to every suit and sleazebag who offered me his hand. Plenty had offered more than a hand, but not that kind of girl carried over to sleeping my way up the record exec ladder, so it’s taken a long time to land a break, and now Jess is raining on my parade for all it’s worth.

“Xaine is dangerous. He blows through women like tissues. He breaks them.” Jess folds her arms across her chest.

“I’m not there for him,” I tell her. “You know that.”

“You’re still walking into a viper’s nest,” she says. “Any one of those vamps in that place has enough money and power to kill you and make it look like an accident. And Xaine…” Jess huffs out a derisive sound. “He’s a Scipio. Which makes it all a hundred times worse.”

“Like I said, I’m not there for Xaine.” Jess doesn’t look the least bit appeased by my reiteration of fact, which sparks my irritation. “And how do you know so much about him anyway?”

“Oh, I know plenty about him, and none of it good. So we’re gonna call a courier service and have this dumped on Scion’s front stairs.” She heads off to find her cell phone, normally glued to her hand.

She must really be upset if she put it down, even for a second.

I follow her into the kitchen, where she’s shifting apple pies around and muttering like a crazy person. “Jess.”

“I’ll dildo him, that shirtless capullo.”

I take a stack of five pastry boxes out of her hands before she can toss them to one side. “Jess.”

“What kind of sick freak sends sex toys to a stranger?” Her elbow nudges a vase sitting precariously on the edge of the counter.

No, not a vase. A fish bowl. A fish bowl with flowers in it, or maybe a vase with fish in it. Either way, it’s the weird cherry on a spectacularly-weird sundae, and I’m standing there with my arms full of pie and my options are laugh, or cry.

Leaning against the wall, I tip my head back. The first tiny giggle catches hold of me and then it’s on. Sliding to the floor, I’m helpless, caught in the throes of something more than the ridiculous sight of the fishy floral arrangement or the shoe cookies or the fact that I haven’t had anything to eat in god knows how long. Reaching a hand up, I get the nearest drawer open and scrabble around until my fingers close down on a fork. The other hand is already untying the string on the top pink cardboard box and flipping the lid open. And by golly, there’s pie, oozing cinnamon juice around pastry so buttery that it’s yellow.

“Do we have any ice cream?” I ask.

“What?” Jess barks. “No, we don’t have any damn ice cream, and don’t eat that, it’s probably poisoned!”

Too late. I’ve already shoveled a mouthful of it in, and if it is poisoned, this is how I want to go. Shifting it to one cheek so I don’t choke, I peer up at her. “Do we have any milk?”

“This is not funny, Lolo.” Much like Jackson Trace, Jess Rivera also has a serious voice. It’s the one I’m supposed to heed whenever it comes out of the closet, but right now, the ridiculous and tired and hungry all outweigh the serious of the situation.

“No, it’s not,” I agree, then reach over and pull a foot-long Hillshire Farm beef stick out of a nearby basket. “It’s hilarious. Can you hand me a knife and a cutting board?”

Jess opens her mouth, but the sudden, muffled sound of music chimes from under one of those giant circular tins that hold cheese and caramel popcorn. This one has the Hollywood sign etched into the side of it and a ring of palm trees around the bottom.

Because every tourist wants to wrangle a can of popcorn home in their suitcase, right?

She drops the tin into my lap and picks up her phone, leaving me to peel off the cellophane and pop the lid. It’s not nitrate-processed mystery meat, but it will do for the moment.

Jess puts the cell to her ear and picks her way toward the bathroom on spindly heels, slamming the door shut between us for a smidge of privacy. A muffled “yes, sir” tells me she’s on the line with her boss, some East Coast power broker who keeps Jess on a tight schedule and a short leash.

A few handfuls of popcorn in, I’m in desperate need of something to drink and maybe some protein. Setting aside all the junk food, I manage to make my way to the fridge. Chilly air hits me in the face when I open the door, just like—

The room. The one with the metal tables, concrete floors, dim lights.

The room.

“Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on here?” His voice is commanding, his body swathed in a perfectly-tailored suit. Amber eyes flash at everyone gathered, but they ignore him. Clothed like doctors, like surgeons, they go about their business as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

“Cas is going to kill you!” another woman screams. That’s when I notice her, strapped to the table and struggling, her red hair fanned out across the metal, pale arms straining against the wrist straps. “He’s going to rip you apart, destroy everything you ever—”

A man reaches out, backhanding her with one blue latex-gloved hand. Blood splashes across my face, cast-off splatter from the damage done to her nose, her lip. I can taste it in my mouth, and I try hard not to swallow it, but there’s no other option, so it trails down my throat, metallic and thick, lingering on my tongue long after it’s gone. Drying on my face long after she is gone.

After that, I’m alone. Alone with the doctors because the man with the amber eyes is gone, too. It’s just me, and them, and I can’t even move as they methodically stick me with needle after needle, running an intricate web of tubes from each and every artery.

“Destroy us, will he?” one man intones, flipping a switch on the machine. Searing, burning pain spreads through the entirety of my body, and I bite my lip, holding back a scream, back arching off the table. He smiles behind his mask and says, “Not if we destroy him first.”

Pushing away from the refrigerator, I brush at my arms, frantic, like I’m covered in spiders. Adrenaline surges so hard that I swear I can feel it pumping through each individual artery. A cool sheen of sweat breaks out on my skin, and it’s not until my ass hits the opposite counter that I realize I’m no longer…

Dreaming?

Remembering?

Mid-flail, my elbow knocks against the fishbowl. It wobbles, and I scramble at it in vain before it detonates against the floor. For a second, I stand there, shell-shocked, feet wet, with glass between my toes. It’s the tiny goldfish flopping across my foot that finally has me shuffling between broken bits of vase, sodden pie and approximately four hundred yellow calla lilies in order to grab cups out of the sink strainer. I fill them with a few inches of water before lining them up on the tiled counter. It’s harder than advertised to scoop flopping ornamental fish off a linoleum floor, so I end up using my bare hands. There’s five of them, and by the time I get to the last one, he’s acting like a goner.

“Shit, shit, shit. Sorry! So sorry!”

“Who—” Jess starts to say behind me, and then there’s the kind of strangled noise that people make when they’re robbed of speech. “What did you… I was gone for a minute, maybe!”

“I’m a murderer,” I mutter, avoiding the worst of the glass as I tiptoe toward the sink with the last flopping goldfish in my cupped hands. I think you’re supposed to put some kind of chemical drops in their water, but tap is going to have to suffice for now. Better than a trip down the toilet bowl, I guess.

“You’re something,” she says, grabbing a broom from the crack between the fridge and the wall. Pretty soon there’s a pile of broken crystal in the corner, and we’ve tossed dishcloths over the worst of the water. Once the chaos is reined in, Jess takes a slow look around. Her head shakes in disapproval, her usual fire traded in for a weary expression. Eventually, those warm, brown eyes come to rest on my face again, and she heaves a sigh. “Only you.”

“Yup,” I say, because it’s true. Only I would hallucinate something with my head stuck in the refrigerator and then smash a vase of fish on the kitchen floor. “When it rains, it pours, I guess.”

“Tell me you didn’t sign anything,” she says in a flat tone that I’ve never heard before. It’s not the joking voice or the serious voice or the diva voice; it’s worried, and it draws my attention back from whatever happened in that damn medical lab. “Please.”

I avert my gaze to the relocated goldfish. “I signed.”

She shakes her head, sending those dark waves of hair flying. “You have no idea what you’ve done.”

“I’m just an opening act,” I say, trying to reassure her. “Not even the only one. There’s a trio, too. I’m not even a blip on Xaine’s radar, anyway.”

“Do you think that trio ended up with all this?” Jess gestures to everything gathered around us, gifts from a man I never even met. From my new boss. From a rock-and-roll superstar. “Trust me, hermana, you’re on his radar.”

“I’ll keep away.”

“Not away enough.”

“I don’t know what else to say. It’s already done.”

At that, Jess turns her head until she’s staring at something or nothing or just the space inside her head. “You’re right. It’s already done.”

Then she walks away. Skirt and heels and nails and jet-black curls, all of it disappears from the kitchen, leaving me alone with my folly.

I’m not a kid anymore, but somehow Jax and Jess have both made me feel like the most naive little girl on the planet today. A perfect match to the pink stuffed rabbit sitting atop another stack of apple pies. Staring hard at that stupid fuzzy lump of faux fur and synthetic fabric brings a scowl to my face.

“First things first,” I tell the fish. “I need to get rid of all this crap.”

Mariachi trumpets blare from one floor down. I’m not the biggest fan of 2C, but he can have the blue glass sculpture in the living room, a sausage basket, and pie. The dark-haired girl down the hall gets the shoe cookies and all the dildos. She lives alone with her cat, so she probably needs them.

Oh, and pie.

“You get a pie, and you get a pie,” I mutter under my breath. “And you get a pie.”

Ho, ho, ho, neighbors. Merry Pie-mas.

I start gathering armfuls of stuff, my mind in that place where I’m half-petrified and half-laughing. Because it’s crazy, right? These last few days have been stranger than fiction. Not sure I could sleep now if I tried. I’d likely spend the entire night dwelling on the missing time, the yawning blank spot in my memory.

And all of the girls asleep in their beds, while visions of blood and teeth dance in their heads.

Yeah, hard pass on the nightmares.

Playing Dildo Santa sounds way more fun, anyway.

CHAPTER FOUR
Xaine

I’ve been meaning to drop in on my sire, though it sounds formal to call him that. The Scipio family patriarch hit stateside almost a month ago, right about the time that my entire life detonated. I can’t put it off any longer, and I’m sure Matty’s already filled Roman’s ear with a thousand excuses.

The drive to Los Feliz takes less than twenty minutes in a supercar that purrs like the million-dollar machine she is. By the time I ease the Zenvo onto the 5, I’ve relaxed into the leather seat. Rolling the window down, I let the warm air cut across the elbow I have propped up on the door.

Better. This is better than bodies pulled out of dumpsters and blonde girls singing my own memories back to me.

Hope the Fuzzy Bunny doesn’t mind getting buried under the FTD welcome wagon.

Smirking, I cut through Griffith Park and head up the hill toward the Observatory. The houses here are old Hollywood-style residences with lists of previous owners that read like a Who’s Who of Tinseltown, and the mansion I’m headed for is the jewel in the proverbial crown. Graceful lines, pristine white stone, slate roof, trailing vines. The central fountain offers a few notes of music. Under that, the sound of distant traffic drifts up from the city at the bottom of the hill.

I’d labored under the delusion that the next time I came here, it would be to introduce Reille to Roman. He’s been out of the country for nearly a year, so I guess I figured she and I had plenty of time. That we’d work out our shit before he came back from Italy. That I would slide her into a slinky green bit of something and pile on the diamonds and…

What? Show her a good time at one of the orgies he likes to throw belowstairs?

Actually, that’s exactly the kind of thing she would have liked. Reille was insatiable in the best kind of way, always up for a quick shag or a slow burn. In bed, she didn’t know the meaning of the word “no,” and she had a few tricks up her sleeve that were new, even to me. Wish I could get her out of my head, but with my mark still on her, she’s there, ever-present, the one fucking itch that I just can’t scratch. And it’s going to stay that way unless some other shithead vampire comes along and shoots his venom into her veins. Until then, Reille Reece is going to be the white noise at the back of my skull, a little voice that’s constantly telling me just how good it would be if I could have her one more time.

Problem is, it was never really good at all, was it?

With a scowl, I climb out of the car, crushed shell crunching softly underfoot. Walking with my hands jammed in my pockets and my shoulders hunched up to my ears, I stare at the ground right up to the point when my feet hit the glossy marble steps and the front door swings open. I’m expecting Magnus, who’s exactly the kind of manservant you’d expect to find presiding over Roman’s house. He’s there, all right, but he’s not opening the door to let me in.

He’s opening the door to let Caspian Declan out.

Not just Cas, but Patrick St. John. The lily-white aristocrat and the down-and-dirty street rat are, as usual, a pair of Prada-clad bookends. Surprising to see them here at all, given that they don’t pay a shit-ton of fealty to our sire on any given day, but right now, the two of them stand between me and the bottle of hundred-year-old Scotch that Roman has stashed in his study.

“Swing by to get a business loan?” I fire off.

One corner of Cas’s mouth curls slightly. You can bait him all day, and every so often he’ll rise to the occasion, but only if he’s spoiling for a fight. A long moment passes as he weighs his options, mind flicking through all the possible outcomes before responding.

“I should ask you the same,” he says, then adds, “I heard you had a bit of trouble with your… man of business. It really is a tragedy, the way you don’t run your company, Xaine.”

“It’s tragic that you give a shit.” Yeah, catching Matty running millions through the clubs came as something of an unpleasant surprise, but I still prefer the hands-off method of management. It no doubt irks Cas on some primal level that Apocalypse does as well as it does without me micromanaging every damn thing. It probably also irks Cas that I never tried to take over the world. There’s dominance and domination, and he has both acts down pat so well that it probably never occurs to him that not all of us want to feed that need.

“Well, someone has to look after you,” he tells me, expression as deadpan as ever, the ultimate poker face. “Otherwise you’d be blissfully poor, living in a hovel somewhere.”

I give him a smile then. The fangy one. “Reille’s looking after everything, thanks for asking.”

“Yes, well, she did always know how to handle a man’s assets.”

Trick’s ice-blue gaze jumps between the two of us, and I can tell that the Cockney Shadow is going to make me eat my own shoes, given half the chance. He remembers that evening two hundred years ago, in Scotland. Gretna Green, to be precise, which was the Las Vegas drive-through marriage capital of the United Kingdom at the time.

Ten days after Elizabeth and I had stolen away in the dead of night.

Three days after she and I had gotten married.

One night after she’d begged me to send for Cas, because she was dying.

Because I’d killed her.

And he wasn’t there because I’d gotten a letter to him; he had to have pieced it together and set out after us riding hell-for-leather to arrive at the inn when he did, with Trick in tow. Unfortunately—for everyone—it was approximately ten minutes too late. When they stormed in, I was still clutching her, both of us covered in blood. She’d died in my arms, reassuring me to the end that she loved me, that it wasn’t my fault. But her last blood-choked gasp cried out to God and her brother, in that order.

Cas likes to think that he could have saved her if he’d only turned up sooner, but I doubt it. Women have a much harder time with the turn. Precious few of them survive. But I’d been so certain that my blood was old enough to help her through it. So certain that we could walk together, forever, in a darkness that wouldn’t ever grow bleak because we had each other.

I was a fool.

Probably still am, because people don’t ever grow out of that shit. Just like Cas will hate me forever, and our rivalry can have no end, not when both of us have an eternity to feed the flames. Not even Roman has been able to broker a truce between two friends, two blood-brothers turned into enemies over the course of one moonrise.

Cas’s fingers move toward his neck, long digits curling around a tie that needs no fixing, but he straightens it anyway, clearing his throat and drawing my attention to the silken fabric laid out across the pristine light gray of his shirt. Instant recognition flashes through my memory; I couldn’t forget that particular shade of purple if I had a thousand years to try, because it’s the lavender of the dress Reille bought when she was with me in Paris. The dress she wore the night she rode Enemy Number One like a carousel horse.

The dress Cas apparently had made into a motherfucking tie, twisted in a perfect double-Windsor knot, because I hear his voice, clear as anything, back at the museum the night he ended it all for me:

I have it hanging in my closet.

Before I can stop myself, my fist plows into his mouth. There’s the give of skin as it compresses between my hand and his teeth, a split-second of surprise and resignation on both our parts, then everything’s smeared in red. Blood trickles over his lower lip, out between the cuts on my knuckles, then Cas’s eyes close and he rocks back in his shiny goddamn shoes.

There’s no time to stop and appreciate anything, because any second now, St. John is going to close his gaping maw and tackle me. I dip down, slam into Cas’s chest with my shoulder, and send us both flying past Magnus and into Roman’s foyer. For a long second, I entertain serious notions of sitting on Cas and beating the ever-loving shit out of him until someone stops me. The thing that catches me up, though, is the vivid mental image of blood spattered across marble.

Except I’m picturing Reille’s blood, not Cas’s. The pale-veined black marble of the Palisades house, not the shining, gold-threaded floor I’m looking at now. On this floor, the blood would be rubies and garnets, faceted and glinting. On my floor on that night, the flecks and droplets and tiny puddles were like onyx, impossibly dark in contrast to the diamond-twinkle of scattered Swarovski crystals and the fragmented glass pieces of her iPhone screen. It was only when I touched the blood later, after the smears had gone cold, that I could see the red—

Trick catches me around the middle, clamps down, and hauls me off Cas. I don’t go easily, throwing an arm back to land a lucky elbow to his nose, and I’m gratified by the instant spurt of blood trailing down St. John’s face when he lets go.

“Oy,” he yells, the gutter accent bleeding through as it always does when he’s pissed. “Give over arsehole, before I beat your fuckin’ face in!”

I spare one more look at Cas as he gets up from the floor like it’s no big deal that I tackled him, then I shift my ire to the man at my back. “You level up to full-fledged pimp yet, Trick? Or are you still working your way up the whore ladder?”

“Need a few more bitches in my stable, X,” Trick grunts, dabbing at his busted nose with his previously immaculate and likely designer pocket square. “You should swing by sometime for an interview.”

“No thanks,” I mutter. “I’m pretty sure even a vamp could pick up syphilis from one of your sofas.”

Trick opens his mouth to retort, but shuts it just as quickly. Roman’s headed down the hall, his expression thoughtful, and suddenly we’re three kids in the schoolyard, old enough to know better but mad enough to act up anyway. I take a step away from Cas and Trick in an unspoken denial of guilt. Looking unperturbed for all that his mouth is seeping blood at a slow trickle, Cas runs a hand over his vest and combs his fingers through his hair. He makes a big deal of accepting his coat and scarf from Magnus, shrugging his shoulders into the tailored trench, and handing the same items plus a crisp fedora over to Trick before he finally glances my way.

“Men are more easily governed by their vices than their virtues,” he tells me, “And no virtue in this world is going to make you a better man, Xaine. Understand that, if you understand anything at all.”

Slightly ironic that two hundred years later, the guy who lost friends at Waterloo would toss Napoleon Bonaparte quotes around like it’s nothing. At least when Cas straightens his motherfucking, girlfriend-fucking tie this time, he has a reason for doing it. Still wish I could choke him with it. Tighten it down until his face turns purple to match. That, or make him eat it, inch by impeccably-sewn inch.

“Good evening, Xaine.” Roman extends his hand to me. What follows is not a simple clasping of palms, but the full-formal hand to forearm. More than a greeting, it serves as a reminder of respect and loyalty owed as his fingers curl around the spot on my skin where the family sigil is branded. I have it, Cas and Trick have it. Margot and that little shit, Matty, too.

By the time the shake is quite finished, Roman’s maneuvered me to the opposite side, positioning himself between me and Cas, Trick, and the door. He walks out with them, leaving Magnus to guard the threshold, and that guy gives me a look that says if I so much as twitch, I’ll regret it. Hell, I’ve regretted a lot of things, but the way he can clamp a hand down around a windpipe would remind even the undead of what it might be like to die.

“No worries, Magnus,” I tell him, leaving Roman to his goodbyes and my good-riddances. “I’m just here for the Scotch.”

It only makes sense to put more distance between me and Cas right now. Taking the hall at a prowl, I look for an excuse to give someone a hard time. I catch the scent of human female and follow it to the library, expecting dolls here to party, people dressed and ready for what’s surely already in full swing downstairs.

What I get is a slim brunette wearing a heavy green sweater and tailored pants. Her hair’s pulled back in that sloppy sort of mess that most women fuss over for an hour, but you can tell this one managed it in less than thirty seconds. Very little makeup, no jewelry, no perfume, and no scent.

Bingo.

Unmarked, and yet she’s running a hand over the priceless books on Roman’s shelves like she belongs here. There’s also a giant, hairy animal the size of a small pony curled up on one of the extremely expensive and eons-old Persian rugs. Neapolitan Mastiff, by the looks of it; I had a set back in the day. Impressive guard dogs, as a general rule, but this one only cracks an eye at me, snorts softly, and goes back to sleep. It weighs at least a hundred pounds and change, and the damn thing is drooling in its sleep like spit’s its job.

What the hell?

“Sure you’re in the right place, sweetheart?” I lean against the doorjamb and cock an eyebrow at the visitor.

Startled, she turns around. Then she’s still, frozen like a bug under my magnifying glass. I get the huge brown eyes, the tentative smile, the tiniest burgeoning excitement, then she bursts out with, “Xaine! Mi sei mancato così tanto, fratello maggiore.”

I’ve missed you very much, big brother.

Only one person has ever called me that. “Lumen?” I peel myself off the wall and take a step toward her. Twenty years ago—

Jesus, twenty years.

—she was a child following Roman’s latest conquest, Elin, around this mansion like a shadow. Same dark hair, same big eyes, completely fearless of the predators who surrounded her, not that any of us would have dared touch Roman’s human ward. Then, when the paramour died, Roman went into deep mourning. The pain cut into him in ways I could all too easily understand, and Lumen’s very presence in the house was sandpaper rubbed over the wound. The day after the funeral, he carted her off to Europe, presumably dumping her into a convent or a boarding school and leaving her there to turn into…

Well, this.

This is why he was gone. He went to fetch her.

“Your Italian’s gotten better.” I meet her halfway across the room and fold her into a hug. Now I catch the scent-memory of the child under the fragrance of the adult. “Your accent’s still shit.”

She pulls back far enough to shove at me with both hands. “Don’t be a jerk. You know it’s not.”

“Oh, I’m a professional jerk. Don’t you have the internet in Italy? Not keeping up with the gossip rags because you’re too busy riding Vespas and pretty boys?”

I swear she flushes bright pink. “No Vespas. And no boys. No time for anything, really, other than studying.”

“Getting double doctorates?” I realize I’m fishing for information, which is disconcerting in and of itself, but there hasn’t been a single minute of this day that hasn’t been weird, so why stop now? “Did Roman have you tracking down the Ark of the Covenant or something?”

She doesn’t answer, making me wonder if he actually did have her on an Indiana Jones-style crusade over there. Except that’s not Lumen. This girl is about as far from action-adventure movie as it gets.

“Hardly,” she finally says, hitting me with a Mona Lisa smile that tells me that’s all the answer I’m getting out of her. “You just missed Cas and Trick.”

“Actually, I didn’t miss them. Well, not Cas, anyway.” I bring my hand up to show her my knuckles, already healing over but still bloodied up.

Her eyes widen a bit more, if that’s possible, and then she goes into Florence Nightengale-mode, pulling out an old-school linen handkerchief and wiping the worst of the gore away. “You hit him?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he deserve it?”

“What do you think?”

“I think,” she says slowly, “that the two of you have a lot to sort out, and that it probably won’t happen in group therapy.”

I bark out a laugh, one that startles the sleeping monstrosity on the rug. I don’t want to talk about Cas anymore, so I switch the subject. “Is that thing housebroken? Because as guard animals go, it’s a little useless.”

Lumen glares at me and drops onto the carpet next to her pet. “This is Arcati, and she thinks you’re useless.”

Bending down, I scratch her damn dog behind its ears before chucking Lumen under the chin like she’s still the kid who used to climb into my lap when no one was looking. “You’ve turned into a tiny harpy, haven’t you? I miss when you wore your heart on your sleeve and I could read you like a book.”

Lumen leans against Arcati, arm looped over the giant animal, and she goes quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that tells me I’ve hit some unintended nail on the head again. It’s weird as hell to get flickers of the little girl she used to be, sitting in that same spot on the same rug. She’s changed so much, but I guess we all have, even if some of us don’t look it…

“Stop teasing her, Xaine,” Roman says from the doorway. “The two of you will have time to catch up later.”

When he gestures, I fall in step behind him, leaving Lumen to her books and her dog and her secrets with a half-wave. Roman heads toward his office, moving like the warrior he’s always been; it’s only the battlefields that have changed. He must have been at least thirty when he was turned, which is impressive considering that was when the apostles walked the earth. Tall enough that I have to look up at him, broad enough through the shoulders that I know he can handle himself in a brawl. Dark, close-cropped hair makes no effort to conceal the spear scar that runs across the left side of his skull. Private beyond measure; you’d have a better chance of digging secrets out of the Sphinx. All in all, Roman’s the kind of guy you wouldn’t bet against in a game of cards and the one you sure as hell wouldn’t want to go up against in a fight.

That was the thought I’d had when I’d first laid eyes on him, anyway, with the lamplight flickering over those eyes and that scar and the crisp white of his collar against the liquid black velvet of his dress coat. I wasn’t looking for trouble, just chasing a pretty piece of ass. Dressed head to toe in blue silk, she’d led me on a merry chase through the kaleidoscope of color that was carnivale. I was young, stupid, horny, invincible, and human. She’d brushed a hand over mine, smiled, and ducked down an alley…

Roman was at the end of that alley. He didn’t ask and I didn’t give permission. Mortality traded for hedonism and infamy, and I still think, for the most part, that I got the better end of that particular bargain.

“So,” he says, opening the door to his office. “I hear you’ve been busy while I was gone.”

One simple sentence and I know I don’t have to say shit about what happened with Reille. With Cas. With Matthias and the money and everything else. Roman knows, and he probably got all the stories from someone paid to be impartial. I’m annoyed, but at least it saves me the hassle of having to fill him in.

I put the brakes on the second I catch an eyeload of Matty’s raggedy ass parked on Roman’s expensive leather couch. The surprise is mutual, because I can practically see his nuts shrivel up from here. And with good reason: I fired the little fucker, and I would have been well within my rights not only to have him arrested but also to kick his fangs in.

He bounces up, every muscle in his body clenching. “Oh, shit.”

I take one step in his direction, but Roman catches me by the elbow. “Let me get you a drink. We have matters to discuss.”

“I don’t have any matters that I’m willing to discuss with him,” I fire back.

But Roman is already pouring out the expensive Scotch. “Those matters involve him, Xaine.”

“Oh yeah? So you wanna discuss how he ran Euro-trash euros through every international piece of commercial real estate I own?” I spit the words, eyes fixed on Matty’s face. He’s backed up against a wall of bookshelves now, gaze hopping from my face to Roman’s. “Or how he cooked my books so hard they left scorch marks on the damn desk?”

“Well, yes,” Roman says, handing me a glass. “We could discuss that. Or we could discuss why he did it.”

If anything, Matthias dials up the nervous-twitchy when we both cast eyes toward him.

“Ah,” I say, taking a sip of Scotch. It burns, but at least I’m not the one with my nuts to the fire. “So you think he had a motive beyond lining his own pockets?” I pause a moment, realizing there might have been another reason that I bumped into the GQ twins outside. “Wait, did Cas put you up to it?”

“Fuck no,” Matty says, vehement all of a sudden. “It was my own idea.” Then, as if realizing what he just admitted, he clamps his lips and clears his throat. “Nobody gives me any credit.”

“Because you’re a halfwit with a get-rich-quick scheme for every occasion.”

“It was working this time!”

“Yeah, at my expense,” I snap. “You let strange people funnel strange money through my asset pool. Now, I’m no angel, but I’m no Trick St. John either. I generally like to keep my nose out of politics and my business on the up-and-up. Keeps the feds off my ass, y’know?”

“It wasn’t hurting anything,” he insists. “It was just a bunch of rich old vamps trying to make a break for the US border.”

“Yeah, you were just breaking the law, no big deal.”

“What do you care?” Matty says. “You break the law all the damn time.”

“I care, because if they’d caught you smuggling cash into the country then it would have been my ass on the line. Do you think the IRS would have slapped me on the wrist and let me off with a warning? Not for billions of dollars. Not to mention the fact that you’d be in prison.”

“It was perfect,” he insists. “Nobody would have ever figured it out.”

“Newsflash, asshole, someone did figure it out,” I say. “You’re just lucky it was my guys or you’d really be in the shit.”

He swaps out defiant for petulant. “I just wanted my own money.”

“Then go make your own money.”

“I want what you all have.” Matty pulls himself up and puffs out his chest. “Respect. Power. All of that.”

One step, two steps. Menacing, but not menacing enough for Roman to stay my hand as I get right up in Matty’s face, chest to chest with his stupid crew neck tee and leather jacket. I can see the fear, in his eyes, in the way his jaw twitches, and how he tries to avoid my gaze.

“You want respect and power, Matty?” I ask. “You have to quit trying to take every damn shortcut under the sun and earn it. I earned it. Cas earned it. Hell, even St. John earned it.” The eerie green of his irises finally fix on my face, but at least he has the sense to keep quiet. “These men demand respect. They don’t ask permission, but they also don’t walk someone else’s corner either. You want to know who built America? We did.”

“Yeah, well, America’s already built, isn’t it?” Matty frowns. “What the fuck is left for me to do?”

“Figure it out.”

“Easy for you to say,” he tells me. “You motherfuckers have all the money in the world to ‘figure it out.’”

“We watch your back, don’t we?” I ask. “We keep you out of the gutter, off the street, and generally flush. I gave you a job, Matty, and despite the fact that you almost royally screwed me, I’ve got no plans to toss you out into the sunlight. Trick takes care of you, although god knows why. Hell, even Cas would help you out if you asked.”

“Jesus, whatever,” he mutters, indignant. “Save your bullshit solidarity speech. You assholes hate each other.”

“You can hate a guy and still respect him,” I say. “Just like you can like a guy and still think he’s a child hell-bent on trying to run before he can even walk.”

“Fuck you,” Matty tells me. “One day I’m going to be bigger than all of you, and you will all get to eat my shit.”

“Yeah, well, good luck with that.” Turning, I glance at our maker and add, “Roman, you wasted a pint of perfectly good blood turning this bottom-feeding brat.”

It’s a dare. A challenge. Apparently, planting one on Cas only whetted my appetite.

A few seconds pass. Matty even goes so far as to ball up a fist, but that’s all. It’s not even worth rubbing in, frankly, so I take my drink and throw myself onto the couch. Tired of him. Tired of the nonstop crap, first at the club, now here.

“So now that we have a really clear picture as to the why, maybe we can address the who,” Roman says. For a long moment, the only noise comes from the fire that he keeps burning, winter and summer. Not gas, but wood that hisses and pops, with sap bubbling on the surface. The flames are soothing. Hypnotic. I should be relaxing into the chair, but all the tension in my neck and shoulders released during the car drive is back again full-force.

I exhale hard through my nose. “Please do not tell me that he was running mafia money through Scion.” And then… then it’s like being clobbered in the back of the head with realization. “Except that would explain why a dead body turned up behind Scion last night.”

“It wasn’t the mafia!” Matty yelps. “Jesus, how stupid do you think I am?”

“Pretty stupid, obviously!” I counter. “So if it wasn’t the mafia, who was it?”

But I aim the question at Roman, who obviously already knows the answer. That’s why Matty is here, called to the carpet. Probably why Cas and Trick were here, come to think about it. Whatever is going on, it’s big.

“First,” Roman says, in that way he has of shutting things down, “let us discuss this body they’ve found.”

Rules of the house say I answer his questions before he answers mine. “Some asshole pulled her out of the dumpster behind Scion, but the police keep questioning me like I’m the prime suspect.”

“They should know better.” He sits down opposite me on the couch. “You’re smarter than that.”

I hope?

I hear the unspoken question in his voice and glare at him. “Yeah, I am.” And we both know the last person I killed didn’t end up in a dumpster. “The body smelled weird, Roman.”

“Most bodies do,” Matty says, choosing that moment to toss his last two cents on the table. “Man, I’m glad I’m not the one having to deal with that shitstorm. I bet Reille is pissed.” He flops into a chair near the fire, taking up a cup full of red and sipping at it like it’s a fine wine. He’s too young to stomach anything but blood, and I’m too old to stomach his post-post-adolescent rebel-neophyte bullshit.

“Yeah, thanks for that, douchebag.” I shoot him a dirty look before returning my attention to Roman, who’s watching me thoughtfully. “It was like… more than death, I mean. Not human. Not vampire, but still something Dark.”

Roman leans forward an inch. “What makes you think that?”

“There wasn’t a mark on her, but I know that girl had been tortured. Brutalized. But not… physically.” The frustration mounts, because there's no way to explain the hunches and gut feelings that run my life. Everything I’ve ever done was because of some little voice inside my head. Angel or devil or both, that voice guides me in the right direction. Right now, there are things bouncing around in my brain, circumstances and reasons, none of which I actually understand. “I don’t know, but my instincts are telling me that something’s wrong here.”

Roman’s gaze scours my face, giving me that warrior once-over that probably made grown men piss themselves back in the olden days. “Describe the smell.”

“Sweet, like syrup, but with a little bit of decay.”

Matty pipes up again. “Bodies—”

“Smell, I know,” I say, cutting him off, which earns me a grim expression of reproof from Roman. “But that wasn’t it, you know? Everything was too fresh for that.” It’s like I’m being punched in the instincts now. Blows I can’t see coming, the foe invisible but probably not unknown. There’s too much confluence: Cas and Trick here tonight; Lumen back from Italy. “What are we dealing with? Because I think you have some idea.”

Roman rubs his thumb alongside his nose before answering. “It recently came to my attention that certain people have taken strides toward, shall we say, revolution?”

“Certain people?” I ask, to clarify. “Or certain vampires?”

“The latter.” He leans back, as if unconcerned by the prospect of a possible rebellion. “Pockets of restless vampires making waves, frothing at the mouth for social change, rioting, breaking things. The usual, really.”

“What does that have to do with my dead body?”

Roman takes another sip of Scotch and turns his eyes toward the fire. The silence extends outward, blanketing the room with an oppressive weight that I can actually feel. Those are the sorts of emotions Roman has, the kind that permeate and transcend, and right now I’m getting a whole lot of listless ennui coming off The Sire.

“Everything and nothing,” he says eventually, cutting his attention back to me. “I’m not entirely sure how large the movement is. What I do know is, eventually, someone will rise to the top. The cream, so to speak. Things will progress, idealistic men will wrest control over this so-called revolution. Those leading the charge will need prominent and powerful allies, and they will not stop until they procure them. They will approach me. They will approach you. They will approach Caspian and Patrick and anyone who holds the reins of money, society, and fame.”

“And by ‘approach’ I assume you mean bribe, cheat, extort, maim, and blackmail?”

Roman gives a slow nod. “Small men with big ideas need bigger men with larger fortunes, both literal and figurative, and we are those men.” He goes silent for another moment before he adds, “We have always been those men, Xaine. Proceed with caution. It might be wise to have an alibi in case of similar incidents.”

“You could ring up Trick and get one of his girls to follow you around,” Matty suggests cheerfully. “Maybe put her on a pretty leash, Hilton-style.”

I glare at him, because the last thing I want right now is someone trailing after me, making noise, making demands. I don’t have any kind of 24-hour personal assistant for that precise reason.

For the first time this evening, there’s a twinkle of amusement from Roman. “Well now, that would be something to see. Alas, I fear Xaine might actually catch a murder charge if left to that end.”

It’s true that I don’t have an abundance of patience on a good day, and having someone perched on my nuts all day, every day sounds like a nightmare. Nope, believe it or not, I’m all about the chemistry and less about the biology. Trick St. John, though, he’s a completely different animal, one that’ll piss on any tree that’s green enough. And his girls? Not a single brain in the bunch. But speaking of girls… “What about Lumen?”

Roman turns the crystal glass in his hand, fingertips walking across the smooth surface. “What about her?”

“I know you didn’t bring her back from Italy so she could tell me she missed me.” I don’t like the idea of her caught in the crossfire, and that tends to happen to the women in my life. “What’s she got to do with all this?”

His expression shifts then. Vampires don’t age, but he suddenly looks older, weary, with an undercurrent of sadness that I haven’t seen since Elin died.

Finally he answers, “Everything and nothing.”

And fuck me for asking.

I sigh and hold my cup out, because apparently all I’m getting out of Roman right now is a refill.

CHAPTER FIVE
Lore

It’s funny, the things you notice when people think you aren’t looking. Reille Reece flits past the main stage, taking up a seat at one of the tables on the ground floor, just past the light where it’s harder to be seen. She spreads out there, neat stacks of papers on the table, laptop open. Phone to her ear, she works there for the better part of two hours, ignoring the music from the stage, disregarding all interruptions.

At the soonest possible opportunity, I’m marching my ass down there for a little tête-à-tête. Since arriving at Scion, ostensibly for rehearsal, I’ve been shoved in and out of various outfits, most of which would do a streetwalker proud. I don’t even get a dressing room, just three pairs of Spanx and a perfect view of all the things on the other side of the curtain. For the most part, I can ignore the jabs and pokes and admonitions to stand up straight, keeping my eyes on the redhead in the shadows.

So close. And yet so far…

But I figure she’ll be there when I’m done, at least until a lackey hits the dance floor. The woman is wearing a nude dress so tight that it hampers her walk, her too-tall heels creating a metronome beat, a pretty prestissimo that doesn’t faze the trio onstage. She skids to a halt at the corner of the table, drawing Reille’s attention as her hip bangs against the edge. There’s a moment of confusion, then a simple, two-word warning.

“He’s coming.”

After that, it’s a mad scramble to tuck away papers and files and folders, and then both women are gone, exiting stage left even as His Royal Majesty enters stage right. He strides into the space, his nose to the air like a bloodhound. It would almost be funny, except Xaine looks far from entertained. He’s in a pair of his signature leather pants and a silk button-down, except there are no actual buttons on the dang thing. Bare-chested and scowling…

Dark Prince Apocalypse.

Xaine pulls to a halt below the stage, unperturbed by my state of undress. “Hey there, Fuzzy Bunny. They treating you right?”

It takes a second, but then I realize Xaine means me. I am the Fuzzy Bunny. “Sure. Bottled water. Catered lunch. Et cetera.” I wave a hand at the nearby table, which is set up with a coffee service, sodas, blood packs, pre-made salads, sushi, and fruit. He gives me the briefest of nods, gaze already drifting out over the darkened auditorium when I tack on, “Thanks for all the… um… welcome gifts?”

Not sure what I’m expecting by way of a reaction, but it’s certainly not the tiny crinkle of amusement at the corner of those famously-blue eyes. “So did you eat all the things?”

“Yeah,” I say, wincing a little when the stylist stabs my hip with a pin. “Twenty pies, five dicks, and a sausage basket… I made a night of it.”

There it is, then: the smirk. The one he wears onstage, in videos, in photoshoots. It’s his trademark half-fang grin, one I’ve seen on TV hundreds of times and in thousands of pictures. Seeing it in person is a little surreal.

“Sounds like my kind of party,” he says, the whole of his attention now on me, on the outfit, on the stylists. “What have they got you dressed in?”

“Given the amount of leather and the number of times I’ve been stuck by a pin,” I say, offering him a slightly sardonic smile, “I’m going to go with fetwear?”

“Also sounds like my kind of party, except for the fact that you’re more covered up than a nun.”

“I’m not sure what nuns you’ve met that wear leather pants…” I let that trail off, just to see what he’s going to say.

Right on cue, he hits me with, “The ones in my kind of church.”

I can’t help but roll my eyes. “And this is why I shouldn’t talk to strangers.”

Xaine reaches out a hand and starts flicking through the rack of clothes like a little kid stuck in a department store. “Says who?”

Affecting boredom is harder than it looks. “Everyone, and with good reason, probably.”

“Newsflash, Bunny, I’m hardly a stranger. You’ve known me your whole life.”

A smooth gambit, I’ll give him that. “Almost everyone has. You’re famously immortal. In any case, it was nice meeting you.”

That recaptures his attention, but good. Xaine’s head cocks to the side, one brow arching in surprise. Abandoning the clothes, he moves toward me. The sound of his shoes on the stage is hollow, loud, and steady.

Allargando.

“Did you just dismiss me?” Before I have a chance to answer, he narrows his eyes and leans in a little to ask, “Who says fuzzy bunnies shouldn’t talk to strangers, anyway? Enquiring minds want to know.”

I make a show of plucking at the fabric of my shirt. “My parents, my roommate, Jax Trace, every PSA ever.”

Whatever remains of Xaine’s humor fizzles away. “Jax… Trace. As in Genesis Records’ Jax Trace?” He holds out a hand. “About yay-high, ass for a chin, enough hair gel to function as a motorcycle helmet Jax Trace?” When I nod, he adds, “How do you know him?”

A half-shrug. “I do my research.”

“Meaning you hit up Google.” Sounds like a joke, but Xaine’s still eying me like I might have spygear hidden under my Spanx.

“Yup.” Then I slant him a sidelong glance. “A wealth of information there, but even the internet can’t tell me why you and Ms. Reece called it quits.”

His expression goes black at that. “You’re right, you shouldn’t talk.”

No qualification there, and he stares me down, waiting for me to flinch or balk, but like I told Jax Trace, I can do this all day.

“The slutty ones are quieter,” I only offer up. “Or so I hear.”

He snorts. “Not in my experience.”

“So what exactly was your experience?” I drill him a little, then add, “Enquiring minds want to know.”

His eyes narrow. “I don’t give a shit if you work for the tabloids, but at least pretend like you don’t, all right?”

I grin at that. “First I’m a spy, then I’m a reporter. Which is it, Sherlock?”

“So you’re telling me you’re just nosy?”

“That’s for me to know and you to wonder about,” I tell him. “But I’m willing to trade secrets if you are.”

“Oh, yeah? And what do you know that I’d give two shits about, exactly?”

“I’m sure you’ve got at least one question you’d like answered.” I probably shouldn’t goad him. Scratch that, I definitely shouldn’t goad him, but as long as Reille continues to play possum with me, Xaine’s my only option.

Not that he would appreciate me phrasing it like that.

He snaps his fingers at the wardrobe people, and they skitter off the stage like cockroaches when the lights go on. In a three-count, we’re alone, and only then does Xaine fire off with, “Ok, I’ll bite. Answer for an answer, until someone chickens out, and I get to start. How do you know Jax Trace?”

“He gave me a ride to my audition,” I answer.

“Because he moonlights as a cabbie?”

“Because he’s my guardian angel.” Over the top of Xaine’s impossibly rude noise, I say, “That was a two-fer.”

“Two-fer, my ass,” he sputters. “You didn’t answer the question.”

“Yes, I did. My turn. How long has Reille worked at Scion?”

That seems to flummox him for a moment, and he has to visibly count back to answer. “Six months. Why do you give a shit?”

“Is that an official question?” My palms sweat, but I keep the lighthearted tone firmly in place.

He smiles a little; it’s not the smirk from earlier, but the look of a predator sighting his prey. “It sure as fuck is.”

“She reminds me of someone I met a while back,” I say, controlling my breath the way I do when I sing, letting it out in carefully measured increments. “Trying to see if our timelines overlap.”

“Look, Apple Pie—”

“The name is Lourdes,” I interrupt. “Not ‘Apple Pie’ and not “Fuzzy Bunny.’”

“Whatever,” he says. “You still smell like the farm, and Reille is a SoCal girl, born and bred. There is less than a one tenth of one percent of a chance that you met up with her before.”

Shows what you know.

But I only say, “I grew up in a record store that my family owned, not on a farm.”

“Color me impressed,” he says, but with no little bit of grinning sarcasm. “That where you learned to sing covers?”

“Not your turn.” I hold up a finger, forestalling any more questions. “Why is Reille still working here? It’s obvious it’s over and just as obvious that she has zero interest in interacting with you. So it’s not like she’s trying to get you back by hanging around.”

“We’ve all got bills to pay, Lore, and Reille has really expensive taste in shoes.” Xaine folds his arms over his chest. “And she might hate my guts, but my mark’s still on her. We only broke it off because she couldn’t keep a cork in it.”

“And by ‘it,’ you mean—”

“Jeezus, Lore,” he says, the smirk back in full effect. “Do I really have to explain the birds and bees here?”

“Who was she cheating on you with?”

“None of your damn business.” Xaine gives me the side-eye. “Besides which, it’s my turn. Where, exactly, do you think you know her from?”

Choosing my words carefully, I say, “We were in the hospital together.”

He flinches at that, like I dinged his armor. “Last month? She didn’t mention you.” The corner of his lip twitches as he corrects, “Not that she’s mentioned much.”

“It wasn’t last month,” I tell him. “It was last year. She… got out before I did. I hadn’t seen her since. I’m not even sure it’s her.”

Neither of us say anything for a moment, bringing a natural end to our little game of Twenty Questions. The stylists have dispersed, so I’m technically standing there of my own volition. With a half-hitching shrug, I give Xaine one last smile and turn away, ducking toward my own clothes. I hear him make a noise behind me, the hollow sound of his boots following me.

“Look,” he says, “if you’re here to do Trace’s dirt-digging, I don’t care, so long as you show up to work and sing your ass off.” Whatever patience he possesses visibly wanes.

“I’m not Jax’s spy.” I wave him off, tucking my hands behind me and unfastening the leather top they pinned me into. “You don’t have to worry.”

His baby blues catch on my face. “I’m not worried.”

“Good,” I say, ducking to the side, fishing around for the invisible zipper holding the skintight pants in place. “Then I guess I’ll see you ’round.”

Before I know it, he’s right beside me, hands hitched into the waist of the pants. The sound of the zipper is the next thing I hear.

“Quit trying to get rid of me,” he says cheerfully, so close that his breath moves the tiny hairs at my temple.

Then I really am like a bunny, caught in the clutches of something bigger, stronger, older than I’ll ever be. My heart skips a single beat at the realization, and Xaine hears it; I know he does, because that laser-gaze of his goes straight to my jugular.

“Official question, Lore.”

Frozen in place, I hesitate, Jess’s warnings buzzing around in my head. “Okay, go ahead.”

“On a scale of one to take-me-now, how turned on are you?”

The second the question processes, I laugh, right in the face of the world’s biggest rock star. “Wow, you are…so arrogant.”

That garners me the full smirk and a swift release from his grasp. “So I don’t even rank on the scale? That’s depressing. Or hey, maybe you play for the other team?”

Still grinning, I tell him, “I’m not into girls. I’ve just been told that I shouldn’t take candy from strangers.”

“Trust me, Lore, I hadn’t even gotten to the candy part yet.” Wandering over to the table, he picks up one of the blood packs and contemplates it for half a second before tossing it back on the pile.

He can’t hold still, not for a second. Now that the game is done, he’s off and running, looking for the next thing, which turns out to be one of three acoustic guitars the trio left behind. He sits cross-legged and is already pulling a song out of it as I push the leathers down my legs, tracking the chord progressions. I can’t help but follow along, the notes registering like I’m sight-reading the sheet music.

Over the gentle strains of the melody—one I still don’t recognize—Xaine lifts his eyebrows at me in unspoken invitation. He’s done talking, apparently. Done with the questions and the half-answers from someone he barely knows, someone whose name he’s apparently incapable of using correctly. But he’s not kicking me off the stage. Nope. This is a new game. A new version of “I double-dog dare you.” Even with Jess’s warnings pinballing around my headspace, it’s surreal to see him, to hear him, this guy I’ve listened to on the radio and MTV and YouTube and my iPod, plucking a tune out of that guitar like a busker on a street corner or in a subway station.

Maybe that’s why I dig the quarter out of my discarded pants pocket and toss it at him.

When Xaine shifts the guitar just slightly, the coin lands in the space between his thighs with a tiny plink! And he keeps right on playing, the tempo slow and even. A ballad, for sure, even if he doesn’t sing many of those.

“Cheapskate,” he observes as he moves back into the chorus again.

“Keep going,” I say, abandoning my jeans for the moment and settling next to him, reaching for the second guitar. “I have more quarters, but you have to make it worth trading in my laundry money.”

He slants a look at me. “Tough crowd.”

“Less grumbling, more attention to your fingering, or my change stays where it is.” I lay a harmony over the top of what he’s playing, bracing myself for the inevitable—

“So you are interested in my fingering.” A half-smile comes at me through a fall of hair that’s black as a raven’s wing. “Where you keeping those quarters, anyway? Last I checked, Hanes doesn’t make panties with pockets.”

Rolling my eyes, I deadpan, “I keep them in my coin slot, duh.”

His reply is another grin. After another few bars, he adds, “Congratulations. You’re the world’s oldest teenager.”

“Pot,” I say, plucking out a counter tune until we’re dueling acoustics, “The Devil Went Down To Georgia”-style, “meet kettle.”

But he’s watching my hands, not my face, picking up speed, fingers flying over the frets. I might have given him shit before, but there’s no faulting his playing now. Truth be told, it takes all my concentration to keep up, to match him note for note, but I’m doing just that. And he’s delighted by it; I can see it in his eyes in the half-second I can spare to look him full in the face. It’s all pieces in a kaleidoscope, tumbling over each other as the world turns: the pluck of the strings, the wooden boards of the stage under my ass, the weight of the guitar in my hands, the blue of his eyes, the music—

“Xaine?” comes the startled inquiry from backstage, and we both miss the next note as Reille strides out, her heels clicking a very different cadence.

Adirato.

She takes it all in, from the impromptu jam to the fact that I’m missing my pants, and then frowns. “I’m sorry, am I interrupting something?”

“Yeah,” Xaine tells her, rapping his knuckles against his guitar. “Take a hike and tell the staff to steer clear. This is a closed rehearsal.”

Then I realize I’m in that dream, the one where I’m onstage, in my underwear, and a bunch of people are staring at me. Glancing out over the previously-empty dance floor, I see a small crowd has assembled, including but not limited to The Trio… who are, for all intents and purposes, my friendly rivals. A flush crawls up my face as I turn my eyes toward the floor, tucking a few strands of hair behind my ear.

“Your phone must be off, Xaine, because the lawyers have been trying to reach you.”

“Tell them to fuck off—”

But then he stops himself. When I lift my eyes, I realize he’s looking not only at Reille, but at a small cadre of uniformed officers and suited minions.

One of the men in blue speaks up. “We just have a few more questions for you, sir, but Ms. Reece insisted that your lawyers be present.”

Xaine’s gaze bounces from face to face for a moment, lip curling in irritation. “I’m busy. Come back later.”

The Dark Prince hath spoken.

“They IDed the body. The girl’s father’s a senator.” Reille doesn’t look all that impressed with the display. “You’ll talk to them now, or they’re going to drag you to the precinct, and we both know how you feel about the precinct.”

But Xaine doesn’t budge. “I answered all their questions the last time. And I didn’t kill that girl so they didn’t come packing any evidence. Seems to me this is a matter of politics, and the police and the lawyers and everyone else can go fuck themselves, because I’m not going anywhere.”

Nope, I was wrong. Now the Dark Prince hath spoken.

Obviously well-versed in Xaineology, Reille clucks her tongue and asks, “Are we done showing off for the pretty girl yet, or do you want to strut and posture some more before we leave?”

Then, as if she’d aimed a laser pointer at my face, every eye that wasn’t on me before turns in my direction. The last thing I want to do at this moment is get up practically naked in front of the assembled crowd, but I do, returning the guitar to its stand and grabbing my jeans. One leg and then the other, and Xaine’s watching the whole show.

With a tiny huff of frustration, I wave a hand at him. “Just go.”

Xaine grins and stands there as if he’s not facing down a shitstorm of mass proportions as he quips, “What’d I tell you about dismissing me?”

The second I have the pants zipped, I reach into my pockets, my fingers bumping against a metal surface. Far from a quarter this time, I come up with the heavy metal disk Jax Trace tucked into my hand back at the motel. I’d forgotten I had it, but here it is, glinting in the stage lights.

When I return my attention to Xaine, he’s grinning at me so hard that he might just break his face on it. And while I have zero intention of rewarding his bad behavior with my gold souvenir, some part of me just can’t let it end. Not like this.

I dig out another quarter and flick it at my new friend with a very noir, “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”

He plucks it from midair. “Fresh from the coin slot, and still warm to the touch.” Finding the humor to wink at me in passing, he follows the bevy of suits and uniforms toward the stage door. “Sure you don’t need it for laundry? You have been scooting those granny panties across the floor for the past hour. Two bits would have bought you half a load at the Sip ’n’ Spin.”

“My granny panties are none of your concern,” I say. “And the joke’s on you. I’d have paid far more than fifty cents for a jam session with the Dark Prince Apocalypse.”

As Xaine disappears into the shadows, he shoves the coin deep into his pants’ pocket. “I’m going to tuck this in with the rest of my roll.”

“That’s the scoop I’m giving the tabloids!” I yell after him. “How it’s costing me money to work here!”

“Keep it up, Apple Pie!” he hollers back even as Reille shoots me a disgusted glare and shoves Xaine out into the hallway. “It’ll cost you a dollar next time—”

And the door slams shut, effectively giving him the last word on the matter.

Four centuries on this earth… of course he’s perfected his timing.

People scatter to various jobs around the auditorium, but it takes me a second to realize Reille Reece is still standing there, heel tapping lightly against the stage-hollow flooring, frowning at the exit door.

She doesn’t even look at me when she speaks. “It’s in your best interest to keep your distance.”

“And why’s that?”

“He’s dangerous,” she says, grip tightening down on her forearms. She’s practically hugging herself, but she pries one hand away long enough to trace down the side of her face with a delicate finger. There’s a scar there, the slightest little white line that I wouldn’t have noticed otherwise. “He falls in love at the drop of a hat, but it’s the falling out that hurts like hell.”

“If it’s so imperative that I stay away from him,” I say slowly, “then why did you hire me in the first place?”

“I had my reasons.” The words are brittle; she’s like a piece of glass, with that hairline fracture across her cheekbone.

“Which were?”

It’s a soft prompt, but even that’s too much for her, and Reille switches gears, tipping her chin upward to look down at me. “I haven’t given him the contracts yet. You could leave before things get out of hand. I can make the papers disappear. Tell him you refused to sign them.”

There’s guilt there, and a touch of fear.

“Why would I do that?” I say, and offer up a knowing smile. “I’m closer to where I want to be than I’ve been in over a year.”

Then I get the full force of her glare, and she hits me with a curt, “Fine. It’s your funeral.”

Spinning around, she practically makes a run for the stage door so I can’t ask her anything else. Trouble is, she can’t outrun what happened to us, and if I keep at it a little longer, Reille Reece is going to crack open and tell me everything I need to know.

CHAPTER SIX
Xaine

The impromptu jam session’s still kicking around in my head two days later, right along with the impromptu interruption, and the impromptu senatorial visit that followed shortly thereafter. I’m on one of the VIP room couches, fingers tangled in strands of long, black hair. When the stage manager had asked what I wanted pre-show, I told him to bring me a four-pack of different blood types. The girls had gotten hammered in short order and shot up whatever special sauce Trick St. John is peddling these days; I’d gone through them one by one to find the flavor of the night, but it still wasn’t quite what I was in the mood for. Boredom’s a bitch, I guess, because this is the vampire equivalent of opening the refrigerator door again and again and still finding nothing noteworthy on the other side. Now three of them are curled up in a college-lesbian, sexually-experimental cuddle pile on the floor, and the fourth is leaning back far enough for me to absentmindedly twist strands of her hair around my finger as the holes in her neck slowly clot. I’m already geared up to go onstage, leather pants to guyliner. Normally I’d be parked in my dressing room, but the sound system is better out here, and the Fuzzy Bunny is the opening act.

I have time to sit here and chill for a bit. Just be. Just listen.

Wasting words, and wonder why my heart is on my sleeve,

You kill some faithless part of me, and I can’t even grieve.

I wallow in the taste of you, the scent of sweetest sin,

Swallow down my deepest fear so I can let you in.

The words are hers, and I have to admit that I like the sight of her perched on the bench of Scion’s baby grand. The recorded guitar strains are also hers, if I don’t miss my guess, and I’m thoroughly getting my rocks off on the combination, even if she doesn’t know it.

And I let it go, let it fall away,

’Cause I am bold, and braver than you know.

So let it burn, let the battles rage,

I’ll fight ’em all so the meek can have their turn

Oh, let it burn…

And that’s all the peace I get, because two seconds later, Reille barges in. She ignores mini-orgy on the floor, tossing a thick stack of papers onto the glass table in front of me. The girl I’m petting like a stray cat gets a single pointed glance. Then the resident redhead turns on one perfect Jimmy Choo heel and heads for the door without a word.

Catlike reflexes mean I’m up and off the couch, disentangling limbs in record time. My hand wraps around her wrist—Jesus, she’s skinny—and I can feel every tiny bone under the surface of her skin.

“Where’s the fire?”

“There are about a hundred of them, and I’m putting them out four or five at a time while you fuck-and-fang your way through the Gamma Delta chapter of I Eta Pi.” Reille raises an eyebrow and glares down at my hand, like she’s willing me to either turn her loose or spontaneously combust. “Those papers are from the legal department. They’ve managed to dig the club out of some serious shit, but only because they promised the senator and several people on the planning committee that you would look into a considerable security upgrade.”

“Time to call in Big Brother.” Worst pun ever, because Asher Reece’s company was the one that installed the current system.

“Do it yourself, or have one of your Happy Meals do it for you.” She’s still eying the place where I’m touching her. “Miss Chase’s contract is in there as well, in case you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t.” Except that’s not entirely true, and judging by Reille’s expression, she knows it. “Why are you giving me that look?”

“Because you’ve managed to keep me here, running around, catering to your every whim, talking and negotiating and bribing you out of trouble,” she blurts out, then tacks on an angry, “again.”

“Pretty sure that means you’re good at your job.”

She huffs out an impatient sigh. “I’ve been here for thirty-six hours straight, Xaine. I need a shower. I need to eat something that doesn’t come up from the kitchen or out of a vending machine. I need to get the hell out and get some fresh air.”

“Sure you don’t wanna hang with me for a bit?” Almost enjoying myself, I jerk a thumb at the VIP room.

Reille smiles sweetly, but there’s a whole lot of go to hell and don’t come back under that smile. “I don’t really do group sex.”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. Besides, like you said, they’re just food.”

“I never really developed the palette for Playmates, but thanks for the generous offer.”

There’s buzz at the door, someone accessing the VIP room with a key. “Xaine,” a voice greets me smoothly, then adds, “Miss Reece.”

Reille turns on one pointy heel. “May I help you?”

Uuuuuuuuuugh, Sebastian.

Sebastian Winters pops in and out of the limelight, making mad grabs for whatever he can get before making himself scarce. Hard to take him seriously when he looks like one of those tall, blond, and sturdy guys who pack surfboards around Venice Beach, flexing their muscles. Tonight he’s rocking the European club-casual button-down, with enough of them popped to show off his tribal ink, which he did not get hammered into him on some island by a native, I can almost guarantee. The last time I clapped eyes on him was about a hundred years ago, when he was hellbent on trying to get in on the ground level of Cas’s steel manufacturing venture.

Some vamps are like that. Late to the party, always just missing out on the next big thing, then scrambling to play catch-up. Matty’s a next-gen version of Sebastian, really, though I’m forced to reevaluate that opinion when Sebastian sticks out a hand and a fifty-thousand-dollar watch glints on his wrist.

Must’ve finally found a well to pump.

“Xaine,” he says. “You’ve done well for yourself.”

“Yeah, I get by—”

“The Scipio clan always did have devil’s own luck,” he interrupts, turning to eyeball Reille in a way that makes my hackles rise. “I’m afraid our host has forgotten his manners, Miss Reece. I’m Sebastian Winters. We have certain mutual friends back east.”

Her eyes widen, so whatever “mutual friends” he’s referencing, they’re not anyone Reille actually likes. Her gaze flicks from Sebastian to the railing overlooking auditorium. She licks her lips, but is saved from answering by the assistant who sticks her head in the door a second later.

“St. John’s in the banquet room. I don’t have him on the reservations list, but he’s setting up for something. There were torches involved… and paraphernalia.”

Without excusing herself, Reille takes off at a half-run, her flame-colored hair tumbling down her back as she heads for the party spaces. She’ll have the resident shithead intercepted by security, unless I miss my guess. My ears catch the flat of her palm slapping against metal and the distant beep of her keycard. Hell, I even scent the last wisp of her perfume on the soft exhalation of the door closing behind her.

Sorry, sweetheart, that fresh air is going to have to wait.

“I thought she’d never leave.” Sebastian glances pointedly around the lounge, gaze skipping over the girls on the floor. A soft nudge from me gets the first one moving, then she hustles the other three up and out the door. In the meantime, Sebastian contents himself with ambling through the room, taking in all the sights with barely-disguised avarice. Once we’re alone, he stops strolling to add, “With the ginger and the bastard in residence, I assume Declan will be along shortly.”

“Don’t hold your breath, Winters.” I pause to think it over before amending, “Actually, go right on ahead and hold it.”

A quick flash of humor crosses his face. “You’d still be waiting an eternity for me to die, I’m afraid, and we both know you’re not a patient man.”

He’s trying like hell to play it cool, but when you’ve spent a couple centuries around someone like Cas, you learn a thing or two about keeping your composure. Right now, Sebastian might be running his hands idly over every piece of furniture in the place, but he’s fairly vibrating with energy underneath the dapper duds and slick side-part.

“There something I can do for you, Winters?” I ask. “Or did you pop by for a little witty repartee?”

“Oh, there is most definitely something you can do for me.” He pauses to curl his fingers over the back of a chair. “And I believe you know exactly what it is.”

“No, actually, I do not know exactly what it is.” Stonefaced, I stare him down. There’s the briefest flicker of annoyance on his face, but Sebastian schools it by the time I add, “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

A muscle tics in his jaw, and his fingers clamp down. He’s holding onto that chair like some sort of lifeline, like he’s one second from falling off the edge of something, but he pulls himself together long enough to say, “I’m interested in resuming our relationship.”

“Sorry, Bastian, I don’t do dudes.”

“Ah, Xaine, you’re not really my type,” he says. “Your business, however, was quite perfect for our needs.”

“Whose needs?”

“If the money is good enough, does it really matter?” he asks.

“It absolutely does.”

“That’s disappointing.” And he actually makes a sound like a tsk. “You used to be an ask-no-questions sort of man, and I can’t see as your broken moral compass has ever led you astray.” He gestures around to the posh digs, the luxe backdrop to our little tableau. “I’ve never known you to turn down an opportunity to wallow in filthy lucre.”

“Moral compass aside,” I say, “exactly how filthy is this lucre?”

“Not so much filthy as foreign,” he says, taking a breath now that he’s got my attention. “The go-to banks are starting to turn on people. Switzerland, Luxembourg, Monaco are all bowing to international politics, blowing the whistle on age-old accounts, closing people out, handing them checks, turning those who do not comply over to the fiscal authorities.”

“So the secret banks aren’t so secret anymore.”

“Exactly, and there are a lot of people that would pay a lot of money to not pay a lot of money,” Sebastian tells me. “All they have to do is get their hands on their stash before the local government shuts down their account.”

“So they take the cash to the nearest bar and what? Invest?”

“You have an intercontinental business that shuffles billions into the United States economy. On top of that, you deal mostly in cash covers, yearly dues, and steep membership fees. You receive every possible tax break, including but not limited to foreign tax credits.” Sebastian pauses, leaning one elbow on the gleaming bar. “You are the new Swiss bank account. The money goes in dirty and comes out clean the other end. All it involves is falsifying a few records.”

This is pushing too many buttons to be a coincidence. “So now that Matty’s gone, you’re actually going to take me out to dinner before you bend me over and screw me?” I don’t wait for him to answer; his expression is all the answer I need. “Fuck off, Winters, and take your business proposition with you.”

“I don’t think you actually understand the proposition, Xaine,” he tells me. “Either you lift the embargo, so to speak, or we hit you in every soft spot you’ve got.”

“What’re you going to do? Break my thumbs? Kill Matty?” A rude noise escapes me before I tack on, “Go right ahead. That shithead needs to learn a lesson or two. Also, I don’t have any soft spots, asshole, so you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“You might no longer be… seeing Miss Reece, but she still wears your mark, does she not?”

No lie, the threat pisses me off, but one phone call will put more security on her than the Pope enjoys. “Yeah, and her brother is the kind of person who would blow up your version of civilization like it was a scene out of Die Hard.” I tilt my head back to eye the ceiling and fake a snore. “Next?”

Except Sebastian knows he’s got nothing that could entice me to cooperate. My moral compass might be as broken as Reille’s vibrator, but there’s still not a force on this earth that can make me do something I don’t want to do, and he knows it. Glancing down at the stage, he takes in the sight of Lore still singing her heart out, and there’s a flicker of something that I really do not care for on his face before he turns and smiles at me.

“Everyone has a weakness, Xaine, even you,” Sebastian says. “It might take us some time to find it, but find it we will.”

“I know you’re not into kitty, but if you’re going go all Bond villain, you really need a pussy to stroke when you say shit like that,” I tell him. “Why don’t you try St. John? His moral compass points pretty much due south all the time, and he has to be proficient at money laundering by now.”

The answering look of frustration on Sebastian’s face is pretty satisfying, and it tells me one more thing about this whole cocked-up scenario.

“You’ve already asked him,” I say. “Well, now that I know I was your second choice, I’m really not doing it.”

“Mr. St. John is none of your concern.”

“Damn straight,” I tell him, “but that’s just one more person you’re not planning to kill. Pretty sure he doesn’t have any soft spots either, so good luck sucking your own dick, Winters, because you won’t be getting any head from the Scipio corner.”

The door opens again, and one of the stage jockeys pokes his head in.

“Xaine, you’re on in fifteen.”

I swear I’ve been hearing those same words on repeat for the last four hundred years. Well, the last hundred anyway. Things were a little more Old World before that. Exhaling hard through my nose, I give the headphoned techie a nod before turning back toward Sebastian. “As fun as this has been, I’ve got work to do.”

“Think about what I said,” he tells me. “One way or another, we’ll find our way in.”

“Yeah, well, how about you find your way out first?”

And I leave him in my proverbial dust, making my way backstage to amp myself up for another show. Normally, this is my favorite part: just before I go onstage, standing behind the curtains, adrenaline pumping through my veins, heart beating in my chest. These are the few and far between moments when I almost remember what it’s like to be alive.

Almost.

Sebastian fucked it up for me, because all I can think about is his shitty foreign smuggling operation and the way Matty got me tangled up in it. Not that I think anyone’s going to actually be able to hurt me without hurting the operation itself, but it’s one more thing in a long list of shit I have to worry about. I guess it could be worse. At least I’m stationed at the home base for the moment, between records and between tours. It’ll be another six months before anything new drops, but in this business you’ve got to keep yourself fresh in people’s minds, got to keep yourself around even if you’re not playing to sold-out, thirty-thousand-head crowds in Leeds and Sydney and Rio.

I’m still ticking through the cities when I spot Lore headed toward me. It’s dark, but I can see her Lite Brite strands of hair bouncing off the guy who’s got his arm flung over her shoulder. Dude’s leaning in close, whispering in her ear, but then I catch the wet glint of his tongue in the low light. My lip curls in disgust, but it’s none of my business, right? Hell, I’ve done worse. Lots worse.

Lore hunches her shoulders when the muscled-up mannequin licks her jawline like it’s an ice cream cone. Her laugh is low and sultry, and she smiles brightly at the walking pair of pectorals at her side. Muscles McGee doesn’t waste a second, sliding a hand into the low-cut neck of her shirt and shoving his tongue down her pretty, white throat.

Hard to say what possesses me really. Harder to say why it does, but as the two of them stumble and laugh their way down the hall, I cut close enough to the Fuzzy Bunny’s burly friend to catch his shoulder with mine. Hard. He stumbles back and comes up pissed, hands curled into fists, face contorted with the sort of unreasonable rage you see on madmen. My attention goes immediately to Lore, who’s staring at me wide-eyed and a little confused. Like she’s drunk, except I know for a fact the styling team’s kept her busy enough today that she hasn’t had time to piss, much less booze it up.

“Sorry, sweets,” I say, offering her a smirk.

“S’okay.” She hits me with an adorable half-smile that’s all at once shy and sly. “No harm, no foul, but next time it’ll cost you a dollar.”

Her companion is a lot less gracious about the whole thing. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going, asshole?”

“Likewise,” I tell him. “Maybe if you weren’t so busy trying to tongue-fuck the girl’s tonsils, you could walk without dragging those knuckles of yours.”

“Whatever man,” he shoots back. “C’mon, Lo, let’s get outta here.”

Lore hesitates then, teetering a little on her heels, wavering between the command and some other idea. She’s got those big blue eyes fixed on my face, her lip clamped between two rows of blunt, human teeth. After a moment she turns toward the jockstrap and says, “I want to watch the show.”

“You can see him later.” He throws his arm over her shoulder again, guiding her casually away from me.

Peering backwards, trying to get one more glimpse of me before he drags her away, Lore gives a little wave. “Bye, Xaine. Break a leg!”

“Yeah, break both of them,” Muscles mutters.

That’s when I catch it, that whiff of something that I was trying like hell to describe to Roman. It’s light but unmistakable, even under the metric shit-ton of cologne that this guy is wearing. Sweet, syrupy, with a hint of decay—

Sonuvabitch.

I launch myself forward, reaching out to snag the date rapist murderer before he has the chance to get away. “Hey!”

That’s all I get out, because the second my hand clamps down on his arm, his fist plows into my face, cutting off anything else I might have said. The guy hits with the strength of ten men, or one immortal man, just not a vamp. I’d smell a vamp a million miles away. Nope, this guy is most definitely something else, and I keep that in mind when I grasp hold of his douchebag Abercrombie sweater-jacket and slam him into the nearest wall. His head ricochets off the cinder block, but it might as well be the side of a bouncy house for all the attention he pays it.

Shit.

His eyes glint silver from corner to corner, iris and pupil completely gone.

Lore’s hands close over my bicep, delicate fingers curling over bare skin. “Xaine, wait!”

“Get back,” I growl at her. “He’s a fucking murderer.”

“Please let him go,” she pleads with me, her voice sweet and echoing with honest sentiment. “Don’t touch him. He’ll hurt you.”

“Your lack of faith in me is disappointing,” I mutter, “but I think I can handle one juiced-up gym rat.”

She shakes her head and blinks, dabbing tentative fingertips to her temple as the high color drains from her cheeks. Her beefed-up friend reaches past me to lay a hand on her, but I grasp hold of his collar and slam him against the wall again to emphasize the stupidity of that attempt.

“Hands off, asshole.” It’s a warning, but when I speak again, the low rumble is gone and I’m addressing the Fuzzy Bunny instead. “Lore, you got a phone?”

She coughs up a very small, “Yeah.”

“Do me a favor and call 9-1-1,” I say, my eyes on the piece of scum I’ve got clamped between my fists. “Tell them I’ve got the guy who killed the girl at Scion.”

“While you’re at it, Lo,” he tosses in, “tell them I’ve got the guy who killed Elizabeth Declan.”

The words kick me right in the gut. No splitting my attention between him and her, not now, not with that name tumbling from his asshole mouth.

“The fuck did you say?” I lift him up until his chest is against his chin. Instead of backing down, Muscles reaches out and catches hold of my elbow. The second his skin meets mine, everything goes sideways, my entire world tilting a little to the left.

“That’s right, Xaine,” he says, sliding that hand down the taut muscle of my forearm, his voice fading to a soft monotone by the time he reaches my wrist. “I’m not the only murderer here, am I? But it doesn’t count if you don’t mean to do it, right? Because sometimes they just slip away, and there’s nothing you can do to bring ’em back.”

Don’t touch him. He’ll hurt you.

Lore’s warning echoes in my head, but I register it far too late. The next breath, and I’m two hundred years in the past, reliving that fucking love song one more time. Gas lamps and horses’ hooves and the smell of fetid flesh. Everything is dark, streaked with soot stains, the air tinged with coal dust. Dickens knew this world. He wrote about it, did his best to capture it. So did Anne Rice, but neither of them got it quite right. There were only a few of us in those days, and we weren’t exactly giving interviews. We roamed wild, the absolute top of the food chain, and everything was ours for the taking.

Everything.

Of course, whenever there’s a band of brothers, the sisters are always off-limits, but unspoken rules were never really my forte, and I never could take orders worth a damn. Elizabeth Declan was fourteen when I met her, and at the time, her brother was still playing at being a viscount. Caspian was a brilliant, ambitious, political cannonball, even after he had to start phoning it in—so to speak—because he couldn’t formally sit the Lords. He and Trick and I, though, we were dynamite, a big, red cartoony stick of it, destined to explode sooner or later. It’s all fun and games, as they say, until someone loses an eye.

Or, in this case, a sibling.

Elizabeth was pretty, with big blue eyes and dark hair. She followed me around like a puppy, looking at me with adoration and a certain measure of resolve. For the first five years or so, she was the gangly little sister I never had and never wanted. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment that I thought of her as more than a nuisance, but I more than remember every single millisecond of that last moment when she lay in my arms, soaked with our mingled blood, dying as it oozed from her pores.

It’s what happens when humans turn vamp. It isn’t pretty, and it isn’t nice, but I’d been convinced she was strong enough to make it through. Cas had survived, right? And he’d been on the very brink of death, knocking on the proverbial door when Roman had changed him. It couldn’t be any worse than that. It couldn’t be any harder.

How fucking wrong I was.

Every time I close my eyes, I see hers. I see blue. It’s why I don’t sleep any more than I have to. It’s why I spend days on end in the studio, working through the songs until I’m hungry and red-eyed, until pink-tinged sweat bleeds out my pores, stains my shirt, and leaves me aching but exorcised. When I hit the sheets, I want to be so exhausted that I don’t just fall asleep, I pass out. And it works, for the most part. Or it did, until I crack my eyes open, trying to get away from the memories, and I’m welcomed back to the real world by yet more blue. Everything beyond her is a haze of color and light, but all I need is that blue and her in my arms again. My hands find her face. My fingers slide into the riot of colored silk tumbling over her shoulders, and all I manage to choke out is, “I’m sorry,” before my mouth finds hers.

I fall into her completely. Without holding anything of myself back the way I have since she died. All the barriers down. Raw and exposed. She’s here, maybe only to show me a shortcut to hell, but I take this moment to hold her, to touch her, to taste her one more time—

Not the same.

It’s not the same. This is Los Angeles, two hundred years later. Elizabeth is dead, but a girl with her eyes is straddling my lap and kissing me back like I’m the sun in her fucking sky. Every inch of her is pressed against most of me. Her mouth is open under the assault I’m waging, so that our tongues are tangled together even as I start to get bits and pieces of everything else that’s going to shit around us.

“Xaine!” The summons is as insistent as it is muffled by the roaring in my ears. “Xaine, you’re supposed to be onstage!”

I pull away from her, ready to rip someone’s head off, and reality punches me in the face as hard as I’d hit… that guy. That motherfucking guy who’d had his paws all over—

Lourdes.

And there she is when I blink my eyes, staring at me and looking for all the world like she just fell down the rabbit hole. Her pupils swallow up the blue, she’s breathing heavily, her cheeks are pink, and her heart is racing. As she rakes a hand through the Technicolor strands of her hair, she blows out a soft sigh through the slightly parted “O” of her pursed lips.

“Are you all right?” I ignore everyone and everything else for a second, and it takes way more effort than it should. She’s still trying to ride me like a pony, so I guess it’s good that the styling team let her wear pants tonight. I catch the telltale red sole of some epically stupid fuck-me shoes, the glitter-sheen of her top. Her lipstick is slightly smudged, like she’s the blood-drinker, and under all the perfume and product, she smells like him. She smells like the dead girl they pulled out of the trash. “Come on, sweetheart, I need you to talk to me.”

“I’m fine,” she murmurs, giving me that lopsided smile that I’m starting to think of as the Fuzzy Bunny’s trademark. “I told you not to touch him.”

“Who the hell is he?” Doesn’t really matter, because whoever he is, he’s long gone, taking his muscles and his stench of death with him. “Do you know him?”

“Benny?” She frowns and corrects herself. “No. Benicio.” She rolls through the name with full accent, so I know that’s probably how the dipshit introduced himself.

Sitting up hurts, but I do it anyway, cradling Lore against my chest. My head’s still buzzing, speaker buzz caged inside my cranium. I feel as foggy as she looks right now, blinking as rapidly, because we both got hit with whatever drug her muscled friend is pimping. “Yeah, him. I mean, did you know him before he rammed his tongue down your throat?”

“Yeah. Well, sorta. I met him in the hallway after my set.” The words are little halting, more than a little hesitant.

“So you ‘knew’ him for approximately three minutes before you took off with him.” I’m not judging, just looking for a confirmation I don’t actually need. I’m pretty sure I know what we’re dealing with now, and if my hunch is right, we’re fucked even if we kept our clothes on.

This is what Roman was hinting at but not saying.

There are other forces at work here.

Forces that can reach inside you and eat your bad dreams for breakfast. Forces that can spin you in a circle until you’re sick and dizzy, caught in a vertigo so fierce that everything you know narrows to a hazy tunnel of guilt and regret.

Sin-eater.

Fantastic. Exactly what I needed right now. I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure of running up against one of them before, not that meeting one right now was all that pleasurable. They’re shadow-dwellers, mostly keeping to themselves. Like hyenas or coyotes, they hang around the periphery, scavenging for their “food.” When they start venturing out into the open like this, stalking and killing without care for their meticulously concealed existence… something is seriously wrong. Like rabid animal, needs-to-be-put-down wrong. And the fact that one is running around Los Angeles and getting suck-happy in my nightclub doesn’t bode well for me.

Or for Lore. Because this guy obviously has a type: blonde and leggy, with great tits and all the other interesting bits she has mashed against me. Can’t fault his taste, especially given that she’s gloriously tousled, her rainbow spill of hair falling in loose, beachy waves over nearly-bare shoulders. Her chest rises and falls a little too quickly, and she’s got her delicate hands pressed to my bare shoulders. They burn like fire, I swear, and she doesn’t seem to realize one of her fingers is brushing in a little back-and-forth glide across the cool surface of my skin. Her lips are parted, full and glistening, and I can’t help but reach up to thumb away a little bit of ruby red that’s staining the perfect peach beneath.

Her eyes go half-lidded, and I know she’s thinking exactly what I’m thinking, which is not much beyond wanting the hot press of her mouth on mine again. I lean forward, and her chest stops rising and falling, breath held, waiting, anticipating the moment when—

“Xaine!”

The strident voice of the stage manager cuts through the buzz in my head, zapping me back to the present. When I turn my face toward him, he gets the full effect of my temper, and everything from my hunched-up shoulders to my scowl is his for the keeping.

“Shut up, asshole. I heard you.”

Then I struggle to a standing position, because either I get up and move along, or I strip Fuzzy Bunny naked right here in the hallway and finish everything that good ol’ Benicio started. Lore finds her feet too, teetering a little on those crazy heels, and I reach a hand out to steady her. It starts out as the honorable thing to do, you know, just a guy helping a sister out.

No, definitely not a sister.

And not off-limits, either. Not this time. When my arm slides around her waist, she gives a little meep, but it’s not a protest. I can feel the muscles at her side twitch as my fingertips pass by, involuntary spasms that tell me in no uncertain terms exactly where she’s ticklish, and I file that information away for later. The taste of her is still on my tongue, hot and sweet, red lipstick and candy. The deep-ocean color of her eyes is burned so far into my brain that I know I’ll dream of it when I sleep tomorrow morning.

I don’t even begin to consider the way her soft, perfectly curved body feels pressed against mine.

Later.

Because right now, I’m in a dark hallway, caught between Scion’s stage manager and the damn exit. I look one direction and then the other, ticking through the options. I can’t ditch Lore here because then I run the risk of her friend returning. I can’t bail with her because I was supposed to be onstage five minutes ago according to the headset monkey shooting me worried looks from six feet away. And then there’s Roman’s advice knocking around my head.

It might be wise that you have an alibi against similar incidents.

Before I say a word, Lore blinks twice and asks, “So what’s the plan?”

“I can’t leave you alone, and I can’t leave.” I cast a quick look around us. “You’re a witness, an alibi, and a target. You’re staying right next to me until this shit’s sorted.”

Lore nods. When I grasp her hand and maneuver her toward the stage door, she adds, “I think I met him before. Benicio, I mean.”

That draws me up short so quickly that she runs right into me. “What do you mean, you met him before?”

“I think…” Again with the hesitation. “I think I spent the night with him a few days ago. He seems… familiar?”

There it is, that infernal question that is not a question. That way Lore has of making statements that don’t sound like statements, like she’s not sure of anything. “You asking or telling, sweetheart?”

“I don’t really know,” she admits, pressing the fingers of her free hand to her temple and staring at a place near my right nipple. She looks confused and frustrated, flushed and forlorn. “It’s all mixed up in my head.”

She blinks up at me then, like she’s willing me to understand, and I almost do. I’ve got my mind back, but I’m a damn vampire. We metabolize everything a lot quicker. For all I know, she’ll be in a hazy daze for, well, days.

“Let’s just get this over with,” I tell her. “After my set, I can take you home. Get some food into you or something.”

Admittedly, not my first instinct. What’s left of the sin-eater juice in my system has me wanting me to strip her naked and crawl all over her body. Sink my teeth into the pretty white column of her neck and drink just to see how she tastes. But maybe whatever our friend Benicio pumped into her can be diluted by greasy food and gallons of water. It’s worth a shot, but first, one last hurdle.

Wending my way through the darkened backstage area, I’m still not exactly sure I know what the plan is. I figured that my own goddamn club was a safe enough space, but apparently I do need to have a discussion with Asher Reece about upgrading our security. And I can’t just park Lore on a stool, not when she’s chock-full of sin-eater roofies. “How do you feel about duets?”

She gives me a slightly saucy smile and quips, “You telling me you wanna make sweet music together?”

Can’t help but grin at that. “You game?”

“Well, I’ve already been onstage in my underwear. Doesn’t really get more worst nightmare than that.” Lore starts forward, but when she realizes I haven’t budged, she turns back to ask, “You coming, or what?”

Can’t help but stare at her for a second, because she’s the oddest mix of shy and audacious. The pretty half-grin and sarcastic wit are entertaining, but I get the feeling that it’s just a mask for all the scared she’s trying not to show right now. Hell, she almost got carted off to god-knows-where by a rabid hyena a few minutes ago. If I were mortal, I’d be changing my shorts right about now.

“Yeah, I’m coming.”

And I head for the flare of spotlights and the sound of a thousand people chanting my name. Lore matches me, step for step, squinting up at the glare a little but not balking, even when there’s an uptick in noise as the audience erupts into cheers and random spurts of applause. Taking hold of the mic posted on a stand at the front of the stage, I raise my free arm in the air, hushing them until they’re silent, rapt, waiting to see what comes next.

“My good friend Lourdes has agreed to sing again tonight, this time a duet.” Another bout of screaming, another couple of moments until they settle. I turn toward Fuzzy Bunny and offer up a smile that’s gotten me shot on more than one occasion. She’s wide-eyed, pupils still eating up her irises, skin flushed and glistening, cheeks a high pink. When one of the stagehands drops a guitar over my head, she looks at it with no little envy, and I make a mental note to send her two, or three, or maybe just one of each. “It’s called ‘Blue-Eyed Girl.’ Want you all to sing along with the hook. My girl Lore will show you how it’s done.”

The speakers crackle to life, notes ricocheting off the walls as the crowd explodes. She holds the mic between us, and I pluck out the first set of chords before letting them have it with everything in my lungs.

Storms slam into glass and scatter it across your floor,

Back away, but every curve is asking for a little more.

The words rip along the edges as I lean into them with everything I’ve got. There’s no half-assing this song: it’s all or nothing every time I sing it, and that goes double now that I am singing it at her. To her.

You’re the one who cuts me down,

Blue-eyed girl, your eyes are knives,

Run your blades across this town,

We’ll make them bleed, beg for their lives.

Lore keeps her eyes locked on me through the entire verse. Coming up on the chorus, there’s no time for her to dither, no space for her to falter because the music just doesn’t allow for it. She hits me with a tiny smile, like we’re conspiring. Sharing a secret. Well, fuck, maybe we are. Maybe we’re sharing all the secrets. She certainly seems to have every single word I’ve ever written memorized when she opens up with that glorious voice and blows me away.

You want to be the one in control, control… baby,

You want to be the one to tear… it… down.

You want to be the one, be the one with the pieces, baby,

And I’ll be the one to bleed.

The sound system catches her lyrical sparks, and just like that, the fire’s lit. It chases us through the rest of song. She knows it, has it memorized, is able to add flourishes like spurts of gasoline tossed onto the flames. I catch her gaze on me for the half-seconds between words, noting the exact moments when she takes over the melody, when she loses herself in the music, when she’s the kind of fearless that she desperately wants to be. I give her those moments, and then I throttle her words with my own, screeching down on her harmonies like a semi with the brakes cut, willing and able to run her over if she doesn’t speed up, move over, get out of my way. Sometimes she does, and sometimes she deliberately taps on the brakes, forcing me to back off.

Those are the moments I grin at her. Those are the moments I show her my teeth.

Before I’ve had a chance to process it all, we come to a crashing finish, and we’re left there in the spotlight to stare each other down. Suddenly, there’s a sense of need, a feeling of desperate wanting that bubbles up from some buried place. When the music fades away, I make a slashing motion with my hand, silencing the next song, cutting through it until some asshole in the booth turns it off. The whole place goes deathly still, like a blanket thrown over a fire.

Exorcise the demons.

Slowly, I step back, lift the guitar from my shoulders, and hand it off to some skinny kid who stares at it like it’s the Holy Grail. When I reach a hand out, someone else puts a microphone into it. Lore shoots me a puzzled look, because she probably knows my set like the back of her pretty hand.

And she knows this too, even if she’s the only person in the universe who remembers it.

I raise the mic to my mouth and give Lore the only thing that can properly convey all the emotions that her eyes and her lips and her music have ripped out of me.

Angel on high,

I pulled you from the heavens,

And dragged you down, down, down,

Into my special brand of hell…

My voice cuts through the reverence, echoes through the silence, reverberates from the floors and ceilings and balconies. Three notes in, Lore stiffens, already knowing the lyrics but needing another second to recognize the melody as the one I’d played her on this very stage, both of us with guitars in hand. We’re standing here in front of LA’s elite, piecing together my past… and hers.

And the audience gets it. They realize they’re witnessing something, even if they don’t know exactly what it is. Especially when I close my eyes and let it out, let it go.

Angel girl, the stars weep to see,

What you’ve become since falling,

But I just can’t seem to let you go,

And maybe that’s just as well…

It’s softer, sadder, more gentle. It’s my song, the way that I sang it. No better or worse. Not right or wrong. Just different.

Here beside me,

Tucked beneath me,

Surrounded by me,

Oh, baby can’t you see?

Lore’s sweet soprano picks up the refrain, and she sings my pain the way I sang it, the way I felt it twenty years ago, on a night just like this.

You burn ever-bright,

My every wrong set right,

You show me there’s still light,

You are the light,

And I want to walk with you…

In your light.

Not a single whisper from any of the hundreds of club-goers standing perfectly still in the darkness. I can’t see them anymore, because it’s just me and her and both our voices in perfect harmony. It hurts. It burns in a way I can’t describe except maybe like being stabbed in the gut and having my innards ripped out of me.

Bleeding out.

The way Elizabeth did. The way I should have, too, the night when Roman intervened and gave me eternity.

This song, Lore’s voice, the memories that Benicio—fucking Benicio—pulled out of me.

Let ’em go.

Eventually the song ends, the last few strains hanging in mid-air, a grand a due amoroso, a perfect a prima vista, an absolutely impeccable improvisato.

My mic hits the ground with a heavy thud that sends a sharp screech through the common. The world comes back, but nobody moves. Nobody so much as blinks, and I find myself stepping toward Lourdes with the sort of intent that I have no explanation for. She holds her ground, even when my hand wraps around her microphone, tugging it from her fingers and hurling it into the darkness. Then my hand seeks out hers, my fingers sliding into the spaces between her own.

“Come home with me.”

Her eyes search my face, looking for answers, but in the end she gives me the only thing I’m really looking for: a nod.

And a second chance.

CHAPTER SEVEN
Lore

It’s exactly the way I remember it and so familiar it makes my heart ache. Afternoon sunlight slants through the windows. Dust motes dance through that radiance. I breathe in old paper and vinyl, cork grease, plastic and the softly-lingering presence of hundreds of other scents: perfume, cologne, cigarettes, shampoo, hair spray, and people.

Not just any people, but family. This place is my home away from home, and it has been since I was sixteen years old. I cut my teeth in the working world behind that pitted, wooden counter. Today, there’s a new cashier, younger than I was then, and only employed here to keep him from getting in trouble at home. He’s a good kid from a crap family.

I give him a cheerful wave as I pass by. “Hey, Joe.”

“Hey, Lo.” He smiles, blushes a bit, and ducks his head to take care of a customer.

There’s the jingle of the old-timey cash register. When I peek over my shoulder, Joe’s eyes follow me, his face drawn with concern because we’re play-acting at normal right now. We’re pretending that everything is okay. That he’s fine, that I’m fine, that everything is going to be all right.

We’re trying to get past the fact that I’ve been locked up in a psychiatric hospital for six months.

I turn away, because I can’t stand to see that look on his face. The look that wonders if I’m actually better or if he should hide the box-cutters. It’s an expression I’ve gotten pretty familiar with. Hell, I wasn’t even allowed to wear a bra until yesterday; a precaution, they said. Just in case.

I’m pretty sure all the precautions were for their peace of mind, not mine.

My feet eat up the space between the front door and the back rooms. The office door is open, and as I lean against the faded paint in the squared-off archway, I take a second to look at him. Really look at him. Like this place, he never changes. Brown hair, warm eyes, and a tall body that’s so lean, he still looks like a gangly teenager for all that his head is bowed, fingers working over an adding machine. I’ve known him forever, since we were kids together. The record store brought us closer; it was the thing that saved us both.

“Hey, Daniel.”

At the sound of my voice, he looks up, mouth ajar. Teeth click together a second later as he stands. With a pencil still gripped in one hand, he makes his way around the desk and toward me. “They let you out.”

“Yeah.” I give a slight nod and shove my hands in my pockets. “Apparently it was all about finding the right meds.”

And saying the right things.

“So, you’re better?” There’s doubt in his eyes, and tentative hope. “You can come home?”

Such a loaded question, and the shoe is on the other foot now. He’s looking at me the way he should have six months ago, when I was in the hospital on suicide watch, not eating or sleeping or even taking my medication. He’s staring at me with sweet longing, praying that he doesn’t have to fear for me anymore. He wants it all to go back to the way it was before. Before I disappeared. Before I came back. Before I would wake up in the middle of the night screaming, remembering in dreams the things I couldn’t recall while awake. He wants to pretend, and I could let him, I suppose. But the pretending only goes so far.

I will always love Daniel in some little way.

Love him, yes. Stay with him…

“No,” I tell him, reaching out to touch his face. “I’m not coming home.”

I had a lawyer deal with the paperwork for my half of the record store, turning my share over to Daniel so that I could walk away. I can’t do this, no matter how familiar the dust motes are. I can’t be with him, no matter how comforting his smile is. This place still rings with the sound of my screams, still echoes with the desperation in my soul. Worst of all is the wind chimes.

He seems to know without knowing. May have known all along. “Where are you going?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him. “I just came to say goodbye.”

Then he shakes his head. “What about the wedding? What about everything?”

It hurts, having him bring it up like that. “You would always wonder, Daniel. You would always look at me and see crazy. Always wonder when the other shoe would drop—”

“I wouldn’t—”

“You won’t have to,” I say. He goes quiet then, eyes averted. “The whole town looks at me like I’m nuts. I can’t stay here.”

“Who cares what they think?” he whispers.

“I do.” Those words finally silence the arguments, and in the crackling wake, I reach for his hand, open it, and press the tiny engagement ring into his palm. “I can’t go my whole life knowing that everyone knows.”

Because home or no home, it’s not the same as it was. Turning, I take a step, but a hand wraps around my elbow and tugs me back.

“You’re not walking away from this.”

The hand tightens on my arm, spinning me around until I’m facing him again. My breath hitches in my throat. A scream gathers in my chest. There is no Daniel, and everything around me goes dark.

There’s nothing left but teeth.

I startle awake mid-scream, one hand pressed flat to a cool car window, the other reaching out toward the dash. Vertigo spins my world on its axis, and my heart leaps into my chest, but a moment later, everything settles back into place, the car racing evenly between the lines.

“Christ,” Xaine blurts out. He shoots me a sidelong glance but returns his eyes to the road almost immediately. “Think you could not do that again?”

“Sorry,” I mutter, turning my face toward the passenger window. There’s a feeling of heavy dread sitting on my chest and a heavier lethargy weighing down my limbs. My body’s still reeling from whatever Benicio did to me, but the adrenaline’s long gone, leaving me with an impotent feeling of anticipation in my gut. Something’s happened, happening, about to happen; whatever it is, it’s got me curling in on myself until my arms are wrapped tightly across my breasts and my shoulders are hunched to my ears. A quick look at Xaine tells me he’s not unaware, and judging by the flashes of blue I keep catching in return, he’s watching me like I’m the unpredictable predator here.

Now that is funny.

“Either sleep or don’t,” he mutters. “You’ve nodded off like three times, and it startles the shit out of me every time you jolt awake.”

“Trust me, if I could sleep, I would,” I snap back. “I’m tired as hell.”

“Then go ahead,” he says, like it’s the most logical thing in the world. “I’m not going to eat you.”

“It’s not you.” I give a little shake of my head. “I don’t ever sleep well.”

“They have pills for that.”

I deliberately change the subject. “Who’s Elizabeth? You said her name, back at the club when you… um…”

Kissed me.

“Who’s Daniel?” he counters swiftly. “You said his name right before you screamed me off the road.”

“He’s ancient history,” I shoot back. “And Elizabeth?”

“Also ancient history,” he says. “Except actually ancient. Didn’t your mother teach you not to ask people private questions?”

“Saying someone else’s name while shoving your tongue down my throat wasn’t exactly a private moment,” I offer up wryly. “And who are you to lecture me about what my mother taught? Aren’t you the harbinger of sin or something?”

He almost laughs at that. “Hardly. I keep my sin to myself, thanks.”

Sighing lightly, I let my head fall back against the leather seat. Everything’s still hazy around the edges, and I feel more tired than I can ever remember feeling in my whole life. Everything is so heavy—

Limbs like lead, too weighty to lift. Can’t move the fingers. Can’t turn the head. Struggling to breathe. Feels like the world is sitting on my chest as fire burns through my veins. Can’t scream, can barely open my eyes, and then I only want to shut them again.

Tubes. Tubes and blood.

Pale faces stare at me, blank and lifeless, no sign of empathy or kindness. My mouth is dry, but everything else feels like it’s underwater. I’m floating, sinking, struggling to find enough air. Paralyzed; not even my throat works, so I settle for moving my lips.

The worst part is…

… I’m alone now.

“Please…”

“Please, what?”

My eyes pop open, and I roll my head to the side to look at Xaine. “What?”

“You said…” He waves me off, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

“I’m really sorry.” And I am. I’ve only known Xaine a few days, yet somehow I’ve ended up here, in his car, on the way to his house after all the things ever. “About Benicio and your show and everything.”

“It’s fine. It’s all going to be fine.” He pauses for a second and then asks, “Where did you get the lyrics to my song? It’s not like they’re on the internet. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”

I manage a bleary kind of smile. “My mom was there that night.”

“What, she’s got the didactic memory? She couldn’t share the wealth a little?”

“I’m adopted.” The irony hits me right about the time another yawn does. “My dad won the tickets off a radio station. It was one of those invite-only things, a few hundred people, well, I’m sure you remember. My mom’s a bit of a fangirl, wrote the lyrics on a bar napkin and brought that home as a souvenir because they couldn’t afford anything else in those days. There was a meet-and-greet after the show; you signed the damn thing for her.”

“I did, huh?”

“Yeah, ‘To Laura, nice tits.’ With a big ol’ X right across the bottom in black permanent marker.”

“That was nice of me.”

“Her name’s not Laura.” The memory tickles in the best kind of way, and seeing Xaine’s expression is the frosting on the cake. “I got that napkin on my sweet sixteen, along with a ticket to see your show in Buffalo. ‘Passing the torch,’ or something like that.”

“You still have it?” Xaine’s voice sounds odd, like he’s trying to wrap his brain around something. “The napkin, I mean.”

“Oh, no. Sold it on eBay ages ago.” Total lie. It’s back at my apartment, framed and hanging on the wall next to the ticket stub. “Used the cash to buy a pair of Noah Carmichael’s underwear.”

That gets a chuckle. “Now I know you’re lying, because I have it on good authority that Noah goes commando under those jeans.”

“Pics, or it didn’t happen,” I say, smiling faintly, my head lolling on the seatback. “I can put those on eBay, too.”

Xaine smirks, but after that, the conversation lapses. It gives the tired an opportunity to catch up with me, to cocoon me in a lulling blanket of near-silence until a hand reaches out to chuck me under the chin.

“Hey, we’ll be at the house in a few minutes. I need you to stay awake so I can stuff some food into you.”

But my eyelids are already closing, sliding unerringly downward despite my struggle to keep them open. “You’re not the asshole people say you are. I don’t know what…”

…to say. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to offer that will make them stop.

The pain gets worse every time they come back. A new bed and new blood. The sheets are soaked with it, painted red and brown. It weeps out my pores, oozing through my skin, absorbed by the cuffs that hold my wrists and ankles, drying and cracking, making me sticky and itchy by turns. The acidic, sanguine stains eat through my flesh, leaving raw patches that burn when they finally come to wash it away.

Like a looping nightmare, he returns, with his amber eyes and pristine suit, storming into the room like he did before. “Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on here?”

“She’s alive.”

“Trust me,” Xaine’s voice interrupts, “I’m shittier than even they realize.”

“Hm?” I draw in a deep breath, sitting up straighter as his voice pulls me back again. When I finally manage to process what he said, I frown. “No, you’re not. You’re kinda nice, actually.”

“Yeah, well, don’t tell anyone.” A hand grasps my chin again, lifting my head. Blue eyes come into view—Xaine’s eyes—and I’m suddenly aware of the galloping pace of my heart. His dark brows pull together until there’s a crease in the space between those vivid aquamarine irises. He actually manages a pretty good imitation of concern. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say with a nod, but I’m not entirely sure that’s the truth. “Just sleepy.”

“So what about your friend back at the club?” Xaine lets go of me, but I keep my head tilted in his direction. “Do you follow strange men into the night very often?”

“That seems to be a recent development.” I shoot him a wry smile, but he actually looks a little horrified. “Well, it’s not like I had a choice, he’s kinda convincing, you know?”

Too convincing.

Benny and his magic hands.

Xaine nods, giving me that small concession. Whatever Benicio’s gig is, it’s based on his ability to dope someone out of their gourd and drag them into a dark alley for a little one-on-one. I don’t know what would have happened if Xaine hadn’t intervened, but I’m glad he did, and although I barely know the guy, I feel safer in this car with him than I’ve felt anywhere in nearly a year.

“So,” I venture, “I get the feeling like you know something about it?”

“I might,” Xaine tells me. “But even knowing what I know…”

“…it doesn’t make sense.” The voice is harsh, angry, a jagged knife slicing through my lacerated mind. “Is there any sign of change?”

“None at all,” a second voice intones; softer than the first. The doctor, I think. “We’ve drained her and replaced it thrice from varying donors. If we do it again, she’ll most likely die.”

It hurts to breathe, but I keep dragging the metallic air into my lungs, gasping every few seconds like a fish out of water. I’m weak. So weak that I can’t move a single muscle in the entirety of my body. So weak that I can’t drum up enough saliva to swallow. My mouth is parched, my lips are cracked, my throat is raw from the screaming I did at the beginning. I want to die, but I can’t. Bodies don’t give up like minds do, like hearts do. As much as I want it all to end, I keep taking breaths, one after the other, because out of Pandora’s Box came Hope.

And I have to hope that this will come to an end.

“Find another donor. A stronger one. An older one.” The sentence is handed down without a sliver of compassion. “Do it again.”

“Please, not again…”

“Again?” There’s no humor in the voice this time, no low chuckle of amusement. “How many times has this happened?”

I keep getting snippets of memory dropped back into place, shaken loose at random, so I don’t answer him for a few minutes, don’t even acknowledge that he spoke. I have the idea that maybe if I stay still enough, quiet enough, that the flashes of memory will meld together into something cohesive.

No such luck. Everything taunts me, just out of my reach, and Xaine is not a patient man.

“Lore.” He jiggles me a bit. “How many times?”

“Only once, I think, right before Jax pulled me out of the motel room.” I pause before adding, “You called me Lore. Everyone else calls me Lo.”

Xaine ignores that completely. He has his hand behind my neck, holding it in place with the strong curve of his thumb and forefingers, and he turns me so that my eyes have no other option but to meet his gaze. He wants all the answers to all the questions, and I have exactly none to give him. On top of that, I’m listless, fussy like a little kid, and all I want to do is fall into a bed somewhere and sleep for about twelve hours. I don’t want to think anymore, don’t want to talk, hell, I don’t even want sit upright at this juncture.

“You shouldn’t have let him catch you alone,” Xaine scolds.

“I wasn’t alone.” Mumbling nearly incoherently, it’s a struggle to keep my eyes open. “I was in a bar. He kinda… snuck up on me.”

“Cocksucker…”

Next thing I know, the car door opens and there’s a feeling of weightlessness, the lulling sway of steady footsteps. Vaguely aware of being carried, I’m more than okay with it. I doubt I’d have the wherewithal to walk, and with his vampire strength, Xaine could pack me to Tijuana and not break a sweat.

I only notice snippets after that: the pause at a doorway, the beep of a deactivated alarm, the rumble of Xaine’s voice as he speaks to someone outside my narrow scope of vision. Admittedly, that’s limited to the front of his shirt right about now, but some part of my brain is still functioning well enough to be thankful he’s even wearing a shirt. Then there’s walking and stairs and more walking until we hit a room that’s as cold as the polar bear enclosure at the Griffith Park Zoo.

I assume, having never been in the polar bear enclosure.

He puts me down, and almost before the back of my legs hit the soft expanse of a bed, Xaine’s deft fingers seek out my waistband. Within a second, he gets my pants unbuttoned, and he lifts me against his body so he can work them down over my hips.

“Hey!” It’s a faint protest, but I have to at least try. “I have zero interest in having sex with you.”

“I guess that wasn’t you straddling my lap an hour ago, then.” He tosses my pants aside. “No worries, I have only about fifteen per cent interest in having sex with you right now. Barely an agent’s cut of interest, if you had an agent, which you don’t.”

Winding up one arm, I make a fist and nearly break it against the hard muscle of his bicep. Xaine swats me off so he can hook two fingers into my underwear and shred them right down the front.

“I could take them off, you know,” I say, giving him a wry look, “if you’re that determined that I be naked.”

“More fun this way.” He digs into the sheer fabric of my shirt, rending it from collar to hem, then slips his fingers under the little bridge between my bra cups and flicks the clasp open. “Besides, I never miss an opportunity to rip a woman’s clothes off.”

”Oh, right, I almost forgot who I was talking to.” I let him finish, wiggling a bit when he goes to pull the bra off my shoulders. “And why, exactly, do I have to be naked?”

“Because you smell like sweat and sex and some other guy, sweetheart.” Xaine leans in close, closer, so close that I can feel his breath on my face. “The first two I can live with, but the third is a deal-breaker.”

The stupid flush hits my face again, so I feel my cheeks turning hot right along with the tips of my ears. “All those nice things I said in the car? I totally take them back. You’re sort of an asshole.”

“I might be an asshole, but you smell like that douchebag’s cheap cologne, and some of us have standards.”

Before I can utter a single squeak of protest, Xaine swings me up onto a shoulder, packing me toward the ridiculously vast shower and dumping me inside. Flicking the water on, The Dark Prince lets the full frigid force of it hit me square in the face, laughing over the sound of my sharply-indrawn gasp. My whole body shudders at the onslaught. I immediately turn toward the tiled wall, fold my arms close to my chest, and press my front against the cool ceramic squares. I stay like that, goosebumped and freezing, until the water finally goes from icy to scalding. Then and only then do I open my eyes long enough to glance over my shoulder.

Xaine’s in the process of stripping. The shirt’s already gone, flung across the cavernous room. The leather pants get caught up on his shoes, and there’s a moment of irritated tugging before he’s finally naked. It’s not like I haven’t seen it before. I mean, the guy loves to be nude in stuff: album artwork, Hustler magazine, women. Mostly women. Even so, it’s one thing to ogle the perfect, narrow waist and washboard abs via a full-page spread in a magazine, and it’s quite another to witness the genuine article in person.

My mouth goes dry despite the wet environs. “So, why do you have to be naked?” My teeth chatter between words; despite the warmth of the water, my body’s still in shock from the initial chill.

“People keep telling me I should ‘give back.’”

“And we’re doing that how?”

“Water conservation.” Stepping into the shower, he closes the glass doors behind him. “Consider yourself lucky. Most people would kill to conserve water with me.”

“So I should shut up and make the sacrifice, huh?”

“Pretty much.” He moves in, fingers wrapping around my upper arms so that he can pry me off the wall and station me beneath the scalding spray. “No one else is here to hold you up if you pass out again.”

“I think I’ll be fine.” Except the water’s already turning my skin bright pink, and I wonder if Xaine’s trying to scorch the smell of Benicio right off it. Reaching out, I adjust the knob, dialing it back to a bearable setting.

The change in temperature doesn’t even seem to register on Xaine’s internal thermometer, because he only picks up a loofah and suds it thoroughly before dropping it over my shoulder and into my hands. “Thinking and knowing are two different things, sweetheart, so until I know you’re not going to fall down and bust your skull open on my soap dish, I’ll stay right here.”

I can’t really argue with that, because my head’s still a little swimmy. I don’t mean to, but my hand clamps down on the forearm he has hooked around my waist. When my thumb traces over Xaine’s skin, I catch tiny ridges in the flesh, a pattern that’s a series of raised lines and circles. Nothing that’s ever turned up in pictures. Hell, I didn’t even see it six inches away from him in the shower. “What’s—”

“Family brand,” is the soft answer in my ear. “A little something my sire put on me before the turning.”

A cold glop of something hits my hair and runs down my forehead. The unholy burn when it reaches my eyes tells me it’s shampoo, except this stings more than normal, so it’s probably really expensive shampoo. Xaine’s fingers tangle in my hair, and I swear to god I think he’s actively trying to blind me.

“You know,” I say, scraping a handful of suds off my face, “you’re sorta terrible at this.”

“Not a lady’s maid, sweetheart, doing the best I can,” he mutters over the crown of my head, then pushes me forward. “Now shut up and soap up, or I’ll be forced to be ‘sorta terrible’ at the rest of you, too. And you don’t even want to know the torture I could bring to your more delicate bits.”

“No Woolite in your spin cycle, huh?”

This time, when the thick dollop of conditioner hits my head, I have the wherewithal to close my eyes. The way he cards his fingers through the water-slick strands is soothing, comforting, and I could go to sleep right here, just like this.

And bust my head open on his soap dish.

“So you’re cool with me crashing on your couch?”

Xaine shoves my head under the water again. “You can sleep on the couch if you want, but there are plenty of beds in this house. You can even have one of your very own.”

There’s a momentary pause wherein I consider my next words carefully. “Is there one close to you?”

“What, a bed?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a lull that lasts enough to that I begin to wonder if he heard me. When I peer over my shoulder, he’s staring down at me with a wrinkled brow. I get self-conscious then, because I know that it sounds like I’m blatantly propositioning him right here in the shower. I mean, we’re both here, and we’re both naked, and—

“Sweetheart, I have no idea if you’re offering to sleep with me or offering to sleep with me.”

He emphasizes the last three words enough that it brings the heat back to my cheeks, but the idea of being alone right now sets up familiar flutters of panic in my midsection.

“I don’t want to sleep by myself in a strange place. Hell, I’ll sleep on the floor next to your bed if you’ll let me.”

“The floor?” he repeats, his expression comical. “You’re not sleeping on the fucking floor.”

“Well then, can I sleep with you without sleeping with you?” I twist around and cross my arms over my chest, staring up at his face in earnest. It’s weird to ask a stranger for this kind of favor, but stuff has been surfacing ever since Benicio put his hands on me, things I didn’t remember, or maybe a few things I never forgot. Whatever they are, Xaine charged in like my own knight in pitch-black armor, the Dark Prince Apocalypse himself. I feel safe around him, like maybe he’s strong enough to keep nightmares away. Like maybe his demons are powerful enough to battle mine. And now that I’m caught up in his orbit, I find that I’m rather loath to leave it.

“Fantastic,” he mutters, reaching out to snag the towels and slinging one at me. “I found the only woman on the planet who wants to sleep-but-not-sleep with me. I should buy a lottery ticket or something, since I’m winning at long-odds today.” He heads out of the shower, rubbing haphazardly at bits of himself, leaving wet footprints on the floor as he ambles into other room.

“Yeah, like you need a lottery ticket.” I wrap the towel around my chest and follow him. “And it’s nothing against you, I just really like sleep.”

“Bully for me, then,” he tells me. “Fine. You can play human hot water bottle, and I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

A T-shirt hits me in the face before I get all the way through the door, but I can still see my vampire babysitter through little pits and holes in the fabric. Xaine made it into the closet and back out in the time it took me to cross his stupid-huge bathroom. He pulled on a pair of sleeping pants, the black and silky kind that he probably lifted off the set of a photoshoot or a music video. They sure as heck don’t look like anything anyone would really wear to bed.

Anyone except him, anyway.

He gives me a sly half-grin. “Put on the shirt. It’ll help me quell all my animalistic urges, threadbare cotton being my sexual Kryptonite and all. Plus vamps can’t tread on holey ground.”

“That was the worst pun ever.” I unravel the twisted fabric, drag it over my head, and let the towel hit the cool marble floor. “And I’m really not that worried. I figure you’ve had a lot of time to exercise a little erectile control.”

Xaine’s in the process of turning back the sheets, but he stops to give me an inscrutable look. “It’s not the dick you need to be afraid of, sweets.”

“I’ll take my chances.” I circle the massive bed, pulling back the blankets and staring at him over the vast expanse of mattress. “Besides, this thing has two different zip codes.”

“Got to have enough room for entertaining,” is the not entirely unexpected retort.

“Shoulda got a water bed, then it could be like a pool party and slumber party all in one.” I slip beneath the sheets, turn my back on Xaine, and pull the slick, black silk up to my ears. It’s a second before I hear the rustling of covers, feel the slight vibration that tells me I’m no longer alone in the ridiculously large bed. The room is dark. Everything goes still and silent.

Oddly enough, I feel better for the knowing Xaine’s nearby. I turn over so that I’m facing him, staring across a scant strip of mattress to the place where he’s reclined, hands behind his head. His eyes are closed, but now that I’m here in this bed with him, I’m not quite ready to sleep.

“How did it happen?”

He knows what I mean. “Yet another personal question.”

“I guess I’m no good at following rules, either.” With my arms curled between us, my face resting on a palm, I stare through the mostly-dark. “So, where do baby vampires come from?”

“Depends on who you ask. Some get dropped off by vultures, the kind that eat storks for breakfast. Or they turn up in the garden at midnight. Full moon helps.” Ridiculous, except his voice shifts until he doesn’t sound like he’s joking anymore. “Or maybe, just fucking maybe, when the angels fell, their wings burned off and their teeth sharpened to razor points and they hit the earth with a thirst that could only be quenched with human blood.”

The words spark a memory, some little thing clinging to the edges of my awareness, and the words spill out of me before I even realize it. “‘I watched him fall from heaven like lightning.’”

Luke 10:18.

Xaine stares at the ceiling. “You know, Lucifer wasn’t the only one. A third of God’s angels rebelled. A few more, and they might not have lost.”

“And then what? A world ruled by vampires?”

“No, they were still angels,” he says. “We are the vampires.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a nice story, but science tells a completely different tale.”

He snorts in disgust. “Science is a bunch of wet-behind-the-ears asswipes who can’t decide if red wine is good or bad for you. Same goes for chocolate, coconuts, fish oil, red meat, and artificial sweetener. We are well beyond their comprehension.”

“Science says you have a parasite,” I remind him. “Or, in this case, lots of tiny parasites creating a symbiotic life-cycle in each and every cell of your body. That’s why it’s impossible to cure, because it’s not only a virus, it’s quintillions of microscopic animals who are aces at waste recycling and cell regeneration.” A slight pause, before I repeat, “Quintillion. That’s ten zeros, in case you were wondering.”

He snorts. “Thanks for the pro-tip.” There’s a rustle as he moves enough to twitch the sheets.

“It also explains why your junk still works.” I grin against the pillowcase. “Even if it doesn’t work work, I mean.”

Xaine gives me a strange look, like he can’t quite believe I said that out loud. “Science might explain why vamps are faster, stronger, more powerful than everyone else, but it doesn’t explain why I can hear the screams of the fallen in my sleep. It doesn’t explain what the turn did for my music. And it sure as shit doesn’t explain why living burns like such a motherfucker now.”

“Does it?” I ask tentatively. “Burn, that is. Is it really so bad?”

“Not all kinds of burning are bad. You should know that by now. Unless you don’t know that. In which case, shame on your boyfriends.”

“Boyfriend.” I tell him. “And it wasn’t exactly a burning sort of relationship.”

“Well, shame on him, then.” One hand finds me in the dark, somehow avoiding my skin entirely while hooking a finger under one long, slightly damp tendril of hair. “Sometimes the burn is so good that you’re okay with the idea of falling into the fire. You welcome it. Would upend a can of gasoline to keep it going.” A pause. “It always goes out. That’s just the shitty way of all things.”

“A candle burned at both ends.” I quietly contemplate the way he wraps one color-tipped gold strand around his finger again and again, brushing his thumb across the shining coil he’s created. “You’re right. One end or both, the fire always goes out.”

“Well, when my fire goes out, it’s going to be with a big goddamn bang, I guarantee it.” Xaine’s mumbling now, like rubbing my hair was the big, scary vampire version of handing a toddler his blankie. Sure enough, a second later his eyes drift shut and his breath evens out.

It takes a few minutes of silence, patiently waiting for the rise and fall of his chest to become a slow and deep cadence, but I know the very second he slips into sleep because his fingers stop moving, still twisted in my hair, the backs of his knuckles pressing the heavy locks into the pillow. Tentatively, I reach out and lay a hand on the bare expanse of his chest. The skin is cool to the touch, but not the sort of cool that comes from the chill air or a brisk fall night. Nope, this is the kind of from-the-inside cool that can only be attributed to a vampiric metabolism. It’s why everyone thinks they’re undead.

Everyone except Xaine, apparently. Nope, oddly enough the shallow vampire rock star has deep thoughts, and as I lie next to him in the darkness, I can’t help the smile that tilts my lips. Angels and demons and fires that burn too bright to go out; it’s the stuff of song lyrics, and it suits him perfectly.

“Well, cowboy,” I speak softly into the night, “one thing’s for sure. You’ll still be burning long after I’m gone.”

Relaxing into sleep is an exercise in torture. I haven’t been afraid of the dark for a long while, because my monsters have been on hiatus, but if the car ride here is anything to go by, then the demons have returned with a vengeance.

Perfect.

I’m glad I’m next to Xaine, curled up against his cool body. Maybe I won’t dream of silver shark teeth and golden tiger eyes. Maybe there won’t be any blood in tubes or burning pain. Maybe I won’t wake up in a sweat, face buried in the pillows, screaming until my throat is raw.

Maybe my unreasonable fear of the dark is completely unfounded.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

CHAPTER EIGHT
Xaine

The bedroom’s dark. It isn’t ever anything else, actually, between the smoked glass windows and the heavy curtains. Vampires don’t exactly experience sensory deprivation, so I can still make out the nuances in the shadows. I can tell it’s early evening without glancing at the clock on the bedside table. Normally, it takes me the better part of an hour to wake up, but not this time. Not this evening, with Lore snuggled up against me like I’m not a human-shaped chunk of ice against the sheets. She’s warm, her own little furnace now that she’s cocooned in the blankets. Completely limp, out cold, breathing nice and even, heart rate—

Mmmmph.

Yeah, lying here, listening to the steady, subtle rhythm of her pulse isn’t doing my dick any favors.

It’s almost surprising to see how soft her features are when she’s asleep. No more smart-ass half-smiles or sardonic twitches of the lip. It’s just her and me right now, and waking up with an armful of soft-and-sweet really is my idea of heaven. I’ve said on television interviews, in print interviews, during radio banter, that this is how I want to go, but that’s not the truth. Because when I’m here, in this moment, with the soft weight of a head resting on my shoulder, an arm thrown over my chest, a long leg hooked over my knee, and a fan of hair decorating the pillows, I don’t want to go anywhere.

Lore does that thing where her breath catches as she shifts, rearranging herself against me like I’m her own personal body pillow. I hitch my free arm under my neck and stretch out, making more skin available for her comfort and my own general amusement. As far as I’m concerned, she can sleep in my armpit for as long as she needs to, working whatever’s left of the sin-eater juice out of her system. When she wakes up, I can cram some food into her…

Shit.

With the passing thought of food, my fangs start tingling. It’s been ten, eleven, twelve, too-many-to-count hours since I fed, which means I’m going to have to ease myself out of paradise and get something to eat. The exact second that I start to move, Lore jerks awake. Her hand spasms reflexively, nails digging into my bare chest. Her arm clamps down on my middle, her leg tightens around mine like she’s the red stripe on my candy cane, and then she hits me with the full force of a startled pair of baby blues. She looks a little frantic, heartbeat kicking into overdrive as she blinks once, twice, then relaxes, burying her face against my skin with an exhale.

When she looks up again, she mutters, “You okay?”

“Am I okay?” I say, keeping tabs on her double-time metronome heart. “Are you okay? You just jumped so hard you almost fell off the damn bed.”

Lore runs a hand through her sleep-rumpled rainbow locks, smoothing down the fly-aways and tucking bits behind her ears. She stares at me, bleary-eyed, and I can tell that she’s thinking hard about something.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m good. You caught me dreaming.” She offers up a small smile and a half-shoulder shrug. “No sweat.”

Plenty she’s not saying right now, but none of it’s my business. Not that we didn’t hit ninety-miles-an-hour kind of intimate on the stage at Scion, or hell, even on the floor in the hallway when I returned to reality to find her straddling my lap. Still, the awkward morning-after is still the morning-after, even with vampire rock stars and Fuzzy Bunny bedmates who are clutching a ticket to ride the pony but have yet to cash it in.

As it is, I let the arm she’s currently occupying tighten, a reassuring squeeze from the guy trying to beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen. “Well, if you’re fine, I’m fine.”

Just hungry. And you smell like breakfast.

Well, not exactly true. Lore smells like shampoo and clean skin and the subtle perfume that’s wholly and unmistakably female. It doesn’t help that she isn’t wearing anything under the hole-riddled T-shirt I put on her.

I don’t have very many rules, but one tried-and-true is that I don’t fuck when I’m hungry. I know vampires who do. Hell, I used to do it myself, but over time, the risks started to outweigh the thrill. Even if I never killed anyone doing it, there are a couple of women who had really close calls at my hands and dick, so whatever else is going to happen with Lore, it’s not going to happen this second.

“I need to get something to eat,” I finally mutter, realizing she’s not filling the silence with a bunch of meaningless chatter. Waiting. Just waiting. Waiting for me to answer. Waiting me out, like a spooning blonde cipher. It takes me another couple of minutes to realize she still hasn’t said anything, and I haven’t so much as twitched toward the door. “A hungry vamp is a dangerous vamp.”

Pathetic. It sounds like something you’d get out of a fortune cookie, which means two seconds later, my brain tacks on—

In bed.

Lore’s head comes up until her chin digs into my chest. Approximately two feet of rainbow-threaded hair tumbles around her heart-shaped face and across my shoulder and over my stomach. One set of fingernails trace a tiny pattern across my chest. I don’t think she even realizes she’s doing it, but hell if I’m going to be the one to clue her in.

“You didn’t eat anything last night?”

“Yeah, I did.” Back at Scion, but as far as those girls were concerned, it was basically hors d’oeuvres. “But not enough.”

Not enough, because performing takes as much out of me as it does anyone else. I ride that stellar high for a few hours before crashing hard. Normally when I crash, it’s face- and fangs-first into a willing neck. Two, on a concert night. Then there’s fucking and more feeding and then crashing for a few hours. Lather, rinse, repeat.

“Look, I don’t actually want to get up,” I mutter. “I think you and I could use about twenty-four hours of downtime before facing the real world, and I’d like nothing better than to stay put.”

“So, breakfast in bed?” Lore hits me with a wry grin. “I don’t mind. At least… I don’t think I’ll mind?”

The way she says it gives me pause, mostly because I’m not sure she really understands what’s she’s offering. Those curves and that innocent face make me want to devour her whole, but it’s that now-familiar question that is not a question that makes me pull back.

“Have you ever been bitten, sweetheart?” It’s pretty much the same as asking if someone’s still a virgin. People lie about it, and a lot of them stretch the truth, if they’re addicts.

But Lore’s not a liar or an addict, and her expression more than confirms my suspicions before she ever says, “No?”

There it is again.

It’s like the hallway back at the club, with big blue eyes and importuning looks. Elizabeth all over again. Except Lore is her own woman, with her own agenda and her own dreams, and she can make immortality happen without me. Her music will echo longer than anything else. Her particular brand of magic is still reverberating through me, hours later, leaving me hungry for the next hit.

Huh. Who’s the addict now?

I tease a brilliant blue strand of hair away from her face, gauging her reaction when my fingers slide along her neck and over her shoulder. I don’t know I’m waiting for… a flinch, maybe, or that sudden intake of breath that would indicate she’s changed her mind. But Lore keeps those eyes of hers trained on me, unblinking, waiting for what comes next.

Just like a virgin on prom night.

I slide my arms around her waist and pull her against me. A slow roll, and she’s on her back with me atop her. Then I see it: a tiny measure of fear, the slight widening of the eyes, that moment of are we really going to do this?

Wedged between Lore’s mile-long legs, I breathe her in. My lips find hers, and I know I probably taste like metal, the iron sting of the blood doll offerings I downed a few hours back. It’s still in my mouth, on my teeth, flavoring the tongue that slides past her lips. There’s a moment of hesitation, then her tentative tongue flicks out, like she’s on a quest to get to know me one millimeter at a time. It’s sensory overload, between the way she smells and how soft she feels and that steady tick-tick-tick of her pulse. I move down to nuzzle under her jaw where I can hear it best. Listening to the heavy double-thud of each ventricle makes my mouth water, makes my teeth ache, makes my cock twitch until there’s no other sound in my world but the racing drumbeat of her heart.

“You sure about this, sweetheart?” I murmur against her skin, the question just another kiss.

For an answer, Lore arches her entire body against me, and I sure as shit take that as a “yes.” Sinking my fangs into the side of her neck, I break the skin. Crack her seal. As the razor points of my canines sink into her flesh, she hisses. It’s a sharp noise of surprise, of pain, that reflexive action that says it hurts, but so good. She tenses, braced for the crashing impact of her world falling down around her, but a moment later I get the tickling flutter of her lashes as her eyes drift shut.

Mouth still latched on, I gently extract my fangs from her flesh, and the hot spill of her warmth across the back of my throat is intoxicating.

Sonuva—

I wasn’t lying when I told Reille those girls in my dressing room were “just food.” Truth is, every girl but Reille was just food. Her blood was like taking a case of Red Bull, a gallon of espresso, and a kilo of really high-grade cocaine, shaking it in a paint-mixer, cutting it with napalm, and shooting it straight into my bloodstream. One of a kind.

Or so I’d thought, because Lore isn’t “just food,” either. But not liquid fire; no, it’s like I’m dying in a desert, and she’s the last drink of water on earth…

I should pull back, pull away, but then she makes a sound that’s sweet and simple, the slow exhalation of breath with the tiniest whimper in the bargain. Her body trembles, goosebumps prickling her arms as I brush my fingers across the softness of her skin. Another shiver as she feels the pull of my mouth, drawing the blood from her carotid, which gives it up without a fight. All those lush curves melt into me, her chest pressed to mine, her wrists clamped between my unforgiving hands. Tight. I hold her so tight, fingers digging into her pale skin. I have the vague thought that later she’ll have bruises. Marks that I gave her.

And I like the idea way more than I should.

Her fingers curl, trying to gain purchase on anything they can, but all she finds is the bare plane of my belly and the waistband of my sleeping pants. She tucks her fingers into the elastic, hooking them inside, anchoring herself to a world that’s swiftly spilling out of her veins. “Xaine…”

It’s the only word she can manage, because I’ve stolen all the rest. She’s tumbling already, but still afraid of the fall, so I force myself to stop, to disengage, to move back an inch. Her fingers slip away from me, one hand reaching upward. They search and find, tracing over the small wounds at her neck. She can still feel the sting of these teeth, the drawing suck of my lips. It burns, that spot, that place where I bit her. The sort of burn they all get used to. The sting they all start to crave.

Gaze focused, words paused, Lore’s eyes fix on my mouth, wondering what she tastes like. Then she smiles, a loopy, lopsided thing. It’s a little dizzy, that smile, because it’s her first time and I probably took a bit too much. My other hand slides up into the riot of colored hair, up, up, so I can press my thumb against the puncture marks to staunch the trickle still working it’s way down her neck and toward the shirt she’s wearing. My shirt.

“You all right?” I finally ask, echoing her earlier question to me.

“I think,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “I think I might need to sleep now…”

And just like that, she clocks out. Dead faint. Her shallow inhale of breath tells me she’s fine. Going to wake up starving. Sore, too, with a supremely stiff neck, the kind you’d get if you went to sleep on your stomach with your head twisted to the side and pressed against a fork. I go to pull my thumb off the puncture wounds that I gave her, and my finger sticks for a second, like we’re glued together. If I did it right—and I always do it right—the marks on her neck will ripple down to mostly-nothing. Just raised bumps, like spider bites.

I don’t pull away, because I’m a little punch-drunk, a little full-up on her. Not the sex-crazed fuck-me-now vibe Reille’s blood dumped into my system, but a mellow buzz that sets up camp in the back of my noggin and starts toasting marshmallows. Calm. The kind of tranquil it would take a yoga asshole four hours of meditation to achieve, and it feels so good that I let myself drift on the high. Everything else floats on the periphery: Matty, Sebastian, Roman, Reille, Cas… they’re all dangling off the edge of zero-fucks-given, hovering far away in a place where I can worry about them later. Much later.

So fucking later.

I don’t think I sleep, but it’s a while before I’m cognizant again. Rosa’s been in the room; not only can I smell the faint grandmotherly traces of cleaning fluid, starch, and cooking oil, but she opened the curtains. Full night now. Moonlight pours in, silver fingers tracing over the bare expanse of Lore’s thigh and knee and calf. She’s still dead to the world, and my phone is vibrating across the nightstand. Reaching out to snag the cell, I’m ready to take someone’s head off, but a second later, Caller ID has me frowning.

“Yeah?”

“What the hell, Xaine?” Reille’s voice reaches through the line to grab me by the throat.

“You’ll have to be more specific—” Sweetheart. That’s how I’d usually finish that sentence, but not right now. Not with an armful of Lore. Not with her blood humming through me… “Babe.”

Even to my ears it sounds odd, and it does a number on Reille, because she sputters for a full ten seconds before launching into a counterattack. “What was all that bullshit last night? Did you do it on purpose? Wait for me to leave and then pull a new fucking song out of your ass?”

New fucking song. I file that one away for later. “I don’t usually keep new music in my ass—” Sweetheart. Shit, this is all getting really weird, really quickly. “What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is that I have every major entertainment news outlet on the planet crawling up my ass, trying to get decent footage of the ‘new song.’ There are snippets of it all over YouTube, pictures on Instagram, people blogging the lyrics. ‘In Your Light’ is a trending topic on Twitter, you asshole, and I didn’t know anything about it until I woke up buried in a thousand emails and voicemails—”

“Jesus Christ, Reille, take a breath.”

A pause. A long one.

“Something’s wrong,” she says at last. “Something’s different.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I tell her. “Except that you’re shitting on a perfectly good afterglow.”

“You’re far too calm right now.” There’s suspicion in her voice, another pause before she asks, “She’s there with you, isn’t she?”

In reply, I hold the phone up next to Lore’s mouth so that Reille catches the next softly inhaled snore. I get it back up to my ear in time to catch three seconds of irate silence and then a terse, “You both need to get down here.”

“I am not going anywhere anytime soon. I don’t any have plans that involve Scion, or whatever lectures you’re working up right now… or pants, for that matter.” I smile at the ceiling. “Definitely no plans involving pants.”

“You could have had that plan twenty-four hours ago. Now you get to come in and deal with being Mister Big Shot. I have interviews scheduled. Press loading in. The two of you are due onstage in a couple of hours. There’s a line around the block outside.”

“That’s not my problem, is it? You should have asked first.”

“I can’t ask if you don’t pick up.”

“And you still haven’t given me a single reason to give a shit.”

Reille huffs out a laugh. “You don’t give a shit, but your new muse might. Timing is everything in this industry, Xaine, you know that. You bail on this gig, and those people out there could blacklist her. How much apple pie are you going to get if she thinks you ruined her big break?”

“You’re forgetting that I am her big break.”

“Sure. As long as you don’t break her first.” And there it is. The other thing I will never live down. It hisses and crackles in the static between us while I heave a weighty sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. Reille, when she speaks again, isn’t necessarily sorry she said it, but there’s regret there nonetheless, along with a hint of anxiety. She covers it up with business, like usual. “The styling team will deal with hair and makeup and wardrobe. I’ve ordered food for Ms. Chase. It will be in her dressing room by the time you get here. Now just get here.” Then she hangs up, probably wishing she had an old-school receiver she could slam on me.

I hate when she’s right. Right about the timing, which is like trying to catch a wave in the ocean. Right about the industry people slobbering over the next big thing until the next big thing comes along.

Which means I need to wake up the Fuzzy Bunny so I can toss her to the lions.

CHAPTER NINE
Xaine

It takes less effort than expected to get Lore back to Scion. I guess part of my brain is still hot-wired into Reille. Her reactions. Her moods. Her way of murdering anyone who wakes her up before the alarm goes off twice, then murdering them again if they get between her and that first cup of coffee.

Once Lore is actually upright, she lets me stuff her in a pair of boxer shorts, only offering a faint protest when I take her by the hands and haul her butt off the bed. I shove a pair of sunglasses on her face, because this is LA and that’s what girls do when they don’t have any makeup on and there’s a chance a paparazzo might stick his camera up against the car window between here and downtown.

Sure enough, there’s a cluster of them at the gate. Reille wasn’t shitting me. Something big has gone down, inadvertently sparked by that song, and I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t enjoy the idea.

Lore’s half-dozing against the glass, hair tangled over her shoulders in a way the styling team would need three hours to replicate. The holes on her neck have sealed over. Her color is decent, but she’s still clutching the thermal mug of tea that Rosa made her, and she hasn’t reached for the bag of food the housekeeper packed, either. Honestly, that bit surprises and worries me. Lore should be starving right about now. My feeding on her will have kicked up her metabolism and immune responses, and I can’t toss her onstage only to have her keel over.

“You need to eat something, sweetheart.”

“Not really hungry,” she says after a long moment. “Just tired.”

“Yeah, I’d guessed that by the way your eyeballs are rolling into the back of your head. We’ve got about half an hour between here and the club.” I only let go of her knee for as long as it takes to shift gears. “Go ahead and—”

She cuts me off with another one of those tiny snores, leaving me to laugh at myself and concentrate on the road. Traffic is kind, and it only takes me twenty minutes to pull into the underground structure. Lore’s still dead to the world, so I pack her inside like a sack of potatoes and head for the dressing rooms. Reille wisely put Lore in the one next to mine. A swipe of my watch gets it open, and I’m gratified to see another passkey sitting on the makeup table, complete with glittery lanyard.

Not just the key, either. Flowers and food sit next to a rack of designer duds that’s all black leather, studded leather, sheer fabric, glittering gems, and yet more leather. Right about now, though, I’m more concerned with the contents of the mini-fridge.

Depositing Lore facedown on the couch, I can’t help but stand back and enjoy the view for a second: those long limbs and smooth skin, all that bare leg capped off by two ass cheeks that could grace the covers of Playboy magazine. She hasn’t been in LA for very long, that much is obvious. A few months more and she’d have all those curves toned down, whittled away, and crunched out. Another year, and she’d be another overtanned Barbie with collagen lips, a Botox addiction, and a bottomless bottle of Xanax. It’s nice, actually, refreshing the way my hand cracks against the soft skin of her rear-end. The sound it makes is pretty satisfying, too. It’s that loud, full-palm slap, one you just don’t get spanking supermodels.

Her answering groan sparks another grin.

“Come on, sweetheart,” I tell her, leaning my own butt against the makeup counter. “You can sleep when you’re dead.”

Lore mutters into the cushions and rubs one hand against her assaulted backside. Has to be hot to the touch, because I can see a partial print peeking out from beneath my boxers. “Where are my pants?” She lifts her head to look at me for the first time. “And why does this keep happening?”

“Lose your pants often?”

“Not as often as you seem to lose your shirt.” She sits up, bleary-eyed and blinking like an owlet, fingers creeping up to touch the spots on her neck.

Opening the mini-fridge, I rattle my way past bottles of cane-syrup sodas and hyper-caffeinated energy drinks to find her a bottle of vitamin water. Passing that over my shoulder, I go for the plastic-wrapped kit that’s complete with vial and hypodermic. “You need to eat, drink, dress, and be in that chair in fifteen minutes so hair and makeup can work on you.”

“What’s happening, exactly?” Lore peers around, probably trying to figure out where the hell we are.

“Command performance, apparently. Don’t ask me, I just own the place.” I’ve already got the needle out and filled. Those blue irises follow my every movement, and the closer I get, the more mistrust creeps into them. Lore pushes back into the cushions, watching me with suspicion, and I can see every muscle in her body go tense as I flick the bubbles out.

“No needles, no drugs,” she says with a note of panic I haven’t heard from her yet. “I don’t want any drugs.”

“It’s not drugs, it’s FeedFade.” I reach out to grasp her by the wrist, but she snatches her arm out of my grasp, tucking it close to her body and prompting me to frown. “It’s something to perk you up and help replace the blood I took. Over-the-counter stuff, standard issue, nothing that’ll mess you up. I know the guy who makes it, actually, he’s—” A colossal douchebag. “…not so bad.”

She still looks skeptical, but she doesn’t fight me as I roll her arm over and jab her with the hypodermic, jacking it into her bloodstream with about as much drama as a flu shot. Lore’s face doesn’t even register the pinch from the needle, but she still manages to look wounded.

“It hurts that you don’t trust me.” It doesn’t, not really, but it’s disconcerting how she doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence. I’m so used to that never-ending stream of female blather that not getting it from Lore is actually a little unsettling, so much so that I find myself babbling in its absence. “Seriously, I took you in, put a roof over your head—”

“Shredded my clothes, stole my pants.” She’s joking, smarting off at me like it’s her god-given right to yank my chain. Sometime between the shower and my bed, Lore came to the conclusion that we were partners in crime, and I suppose that once you’ve been inside someone’s veins, things do get a little more intimate than a handshake.

“Cleaned you up, Goldilocks, and let you sleep in my bed.” I turn and drop the needle into the sharps container. The clothing rack next to it is full of swag and sparkle. Flicking through the hangers, I pluck off a gem-studded bra, a short leather skirt, and a pair of stockings that are patterned to look like she’s got two holstered guns tattooed on her thighs. It’ll be hot, no doubt. Maybe too hot for Ms. Apple Pie.

Sure enough, when the clothes hit the leather cushions next to Lore, her brows draw together. “Where’s the rest of it?”

“That is the rest of it.”

“I’m not wearing that,” she says. “It’s not even a shirt. It’s a sparkly bra.” For an answer, I grin the kind of grin that lets her know in no uncertain terms that I’m highly aware of the skimpy nature of the uniform. With an impatient huff, she adds, “At least give me something to wear over it.”

“Nope.”

“Xaine, come on, I can’t wear that. I’ll be mostly naked.” She rubs an incredulous thumb over the hand-sewn crystal gems. The bra is something a Victoria’s Secret model would wear with a chain mail underbust corset and a pair of giant angel wings. She’ll be perfection in it, as long as she doesn’t go all coy on me.

“What’s the problem? You were entirely naked in my shower last night. Didn’t even bat an eyelash.” Without waiting for an answer, I head for the door. “You wanted to run with the big dogs. Now the biggest damn dog in the pack is telling you to put that on. Unless you want an outfit that matches mine, and yes, that does mean what you’re thinking.”

Slamming the door shut behind me, I entertain the spectacular mental image of us both onstage topless as I duck into my own dressing room. An hour later, I’m down a shirt and up four pre-show packs of blood. Headed backstage, I catch Lore at the pass door, and I’m almost disappointed to see she caved and put on the bra. She added a sheer black tunic, the kind that will accentuate every inch of her skin the second the lights actually hit it. The skirt ends at her high upper-thigh, and the embroidery on the stockings ratchets the whole ensemble to nearly-lethal levels. Then the stilettos pull the trigger on the gun.

Her chin tilts up a few degrees as my eyes scour her from head to toe. “Two hours in your studio,” she says like we’re dealing. “With unrestricted access to software, mixing, and instrumentals.”

“I don’t negotiate with terrorists,” I say, deadpanning it.

“Fine, four hours,” Lore says, upping the ante.

“You signed the papers,” I tell her. “I own you now.”

“Nope, you own seventy-five percent of my music, since you decided not to fork over an advance, and this—” She gestures to the sexy gunslinger outfit, “is at least ninety percent of me. I could be wrong, but it feels like there’s some wiggle room here.”

“I specifically told them not to include ‘wiggle room’ in the contract.” I reach out, lacing my fingers through hers and towing her past the techies and dressers and into the tiny corner behind the main curtain. “But litigious mumbo-jumbo aside, sweetheart, if you keep coming home to my place, I’ll show you all my equipment. Hell, you can play with it for as long as you want.”

She looks skeptical. “Really?”

“Sure. I’ll even let you finger my baby grand, pluck my guitar strings, tickle my ivories, and bang my bongos.” Euphemisms or not, I’ll give her as much studio time as her little heart desires. We just have to get through tonight. “You want to peek at the front of the house?”

She shakes her head, rearranging perfect curls, and I suddenly realize that they’re a whole lot less Technicolor than before. Reaching out, I catch a platinum ringlet around my finger.

It’s not the same, it’s not the fucking same at all.

I can’t say why it kindles a spark of vague annoyance in my gut, but it does. Stylists, they do their thing, but I liked the way her hair was before.

Didn’t even get a chance to find the gold at the end of the rainbow.

I realize, then, that Fuzzy Bunny’s staring at my face, waiting for me to judge her. She doesn’t look exactly nervous, but she’s chewing the inside of her lip, the way she does when she’s thinking hard about something. It’s an old habit, that much is obvious, because there’s a tiny crease in her chin, permanent, like crow’s feet or laugh lines.

“Still enough time to ditch your shirt,” I stage-whisper at her, enjoying the glare I get in return.

The sound guys hand each of us a mic and an earpiece; at my signal, the lights cut out and the crowd falls into the darkness. A hush spreads across the huge room crammed wall-to-wall with mouth-breathers. In the pitch dark, I tow Lore center stage, keeping a firm grip on her wrist until a single brilliant white spot flares to life behind us, slicing through the auditorium while leaving our faces in complete shadow. Squeezing her hand, I lift the mic to my mouth. No introductions. No bullshit pandering to the crowd. Just the song they all crowded in to hear.

Angel on high,

I pulled you from the heavens,

And dragged you down, down, down,

Into my special brand of hell…

Completely a capella. No soundtrack, no accompaniment of any kind. We didn’t talk about arrangements because, frankly, I wanted to see what Lore would do.

She joins in on the second verse, layering her voice atop mine the way the silk sheets slither against each other in my bed.

Angel boy, the stars weep to see,

What you’ve become since falling

But I just can’t seem to let you go,

And maybe that’s just as well…

I get the burn almost immediately, lava snaking through veins that went stone-cold so long ago. Then the piano and violins join in with the sort of swell that’s like a slow arrow shot through my chest, flinging me into a melody that’s as strange as it is familiar.

Here beside me,

Tucked beneath me,

Surrounded by me,

Oh, baby can’t you see?

I swear I only take my eyes off Lore for a second, but it’s long enough to catch the only other lights on in the entire room. A low amber wash paints the VIP balcony, catching hold of midnight sequins, tossing out the suggestion of a slinky dress and a pair of chandelier earrings and a flaming red updo that I would recognize a mile away. Reille is up there, doing what she does best when the other big dogs come out to play. I’m sure her most charming smile is in full effect by now. I can’t see them from here, but the fuck-me shoes have to be epic tonight.

You burn ever-bright,

My every wrong set right,

You show me there’s still light,

You are the light,

And I want to walk with you…

In your light.

I’m concentrating on the music, because we are tits-deep in the second verse. Concentrating on Lore, who’s putting everything that she is and that she has into my lyrics, my song. Frankly, I don’t have bandwidth to spare for Reille until I see who’s standing next to her, and I nearly miss the next line.

That cocksucker.

What in the holy hell Cas is doing here tonight is a mystery to me, unless it’s not why he’s here, but for whom. Reille is giving him ten kinds of cold shoulder up until the point that Cas reaches out and calmly snags her by the wrist, then everything coalesces into a single shard of fury that I want to ram into his eye socket.

I don’t want her, she doesn’t want me, but Reille is under my protection. No longer my girlfriend or lover, merely my—

Property? Territory?

All of the above, along with a bunch of responsibility and no sex, to boot. I choke on the idea, but it’s the truth, because my venom is running through her veins and my scent is all over her flesh.

She looks pissed, frankly, which is good. The challenge in her expression is the same as when I dragged her off to the Palisades. It’s a look I grew to love and then grew to hate and somehow didn’t miss when it disappeared. I’ve seen its ghost since she returned to Scion after getting out of rehab.

But the real thing is back, and she’s giving it all to Cas.

You burn ever-bright,

My every wrong set right,

You show me there’s still light,

You are the light,

And I want to walk with you…

In your light.

And Cas… Cas is staring down at me. Because he knows. He knows who this song was written for. The song I just handed to the universe wrapped up in another woman’s voice. His hand twists until the metal links of Reille’s bracelet dig into her wrist. She has a full head of fuck-you steam going, and whatever she says to him—

It’s the wrong thing.

Because the next instant, that stupid chain is broken, and Cas turns toward the stage with it dangling in his hand. Then I get the furious glitter to his eyes, the way his jaw is clenched tight. It looks like he’s going to issue some sort of challenge. Instead, one arm pulls back and a little to the side, then he lets loose, like he’s skipping a stone. My eyes fix on the bracelet as it twists and spins, glinting as it arcs over the audience and hits the stage with an audible crack. The perfect Tiffany links skid across wood and between wires, coming to rest around the too-tall column of Lore’s heel, winning the luckiest game of horseshoe in the universe.

The words “30 Days” shine up at me from the single, silver charm.

When I lift my eyes back to the balcony, I catch Cas turning on his heel and towing Reille toward the door. He disappears into the shadows beyond my line of vision; the moment her red head follows, adrenaline surges through my system. I’m already moving, reaching out to grasp Lore’s bicep and pull her backstage with me. Thankfully, she rolls with it, but in those heels, her only real choices were walk or fall.

“Come on, sweetheart, I need you to keep up.” Dangerous to drag her along with me, but I can’t leave her alone and vulnerable to another Benicio-flavored assault. I lead Lore into the hallway and head for the stairs that lead to the private balconies.

“Xaine, slow down!” she gasps. “What the hell is going on?”

“I’ll explain—”

When? In a minute? When you tackle Cas in the back hallway and finish what you started at Roman’s house?

The building alarms kick on, the security systems activating with a loud whine. Reille must have pressed the panic button on her watch, because reinforced glass sheets slide into place over doors and windows as they lock down. A calm voice explains that help is on the way, please don’t be alarmed, drinks are complimentary until everything gets sorted out. Up ahead, there’s the VIP portal, offering a near-panoramic view of street. Reille’s scent lingers in the air here: her perfume, her shampoo, her pheromones, her fear. Letting go of Lore, I hurl myself against the barrier, but I already know that I’m not getting out.

When I pull back my arm and slam my fist into the glass, it doesn’t break. Doesn’t budge. Doesn’t even rattle. On the other side, Caspian and Reille are standing before a long, black limo, the shiny paint glimmering in the refracted light from Scion’s water feature. They’re also caged in by a considerable goon squad. The sound of my banging draws Reille’s attention, but her green eyes barely flicker in my direction, in Lore’s direction, before she pointedly averts her gaze. There’s a smile on Cas’s lips, the sort of smile I’ve seen him wear on the dueling fields, the battlefields, and in the board rooms. For a moment, he looks like he’s about to say something to the men in black, but then Reille leans in close and whispers something in his ear that changes the entirety of his demeanor.

Get in the car.

Puzzled at first, he gives her a strange look before she repeats that single phrase and gestures to the open limo door and the pit of shadows within.

Get in the car.

Those golden tiger eyes of Cas’s skip over everything, seeking, searching, finding the reason for Reille’s sudden dissent. There’s a flicker of something, the slightest pause. If I didn’t already think I was imagining things, I’d say that he flinches, recoils even, his gaze fixed on something over my shoulder. Slowly, I turn my head, a golden halo catching on my periphery. I can feel Lore’s warmth, her humanity, next to me at the window. She puts her palms to the glass, standing there still as a statue. Another glance at Cas shows me that he’s still caught, wrapped up in the same thrall.

When he finally looks away, our glares connect, and I can’t help the snarl that curls my lip. There’s another second of hesitation from Cas, those eyes of his skipping from my face to Lore’s face to Reille’s. Then his jaw hardens, his chin tilts upward, and those tiger eyes of his glass over. The next second, he ducks down into the limo and slides Reille across his lap as their escorts squeeze in after them.

“No!” I ball up my fists and pound my hands against the thick, unbreakable surface until a delicate set of fingers slide over mine. Lore’s touch is feather-light, but it’s enough to punch a hole in my blind curtain of temporary insanity.

“You have to stop,” she tells me.

“I have to go after her.” The words tear through me, costing both of us something. “She’s mine. I need to—”

Nothing. It all goes blank. Cas must have finished his game of Fuck You, Xaine in the privacy of the car, because I can’t feel any part of Reille anymore. He’s bitten her. Hit the manual override on my claim. His name is on her now, stamped across her body and filtering through her blood:

Property of Caspian Declan.

My rabid fury drains away until I’m left empty, hollow, echoing, and all the while, a very calm voice on the loudspeaker seeks to reassure me.

“Please do not be alarmed. There’s no reason to panic.”

Maybe the voice is right, too. Watching the black sedan pull away from the curb, I’m a little cold-cocked by the way this played out. Ten minutes ago, my world was full of sound and movement, action and people, everything frenetic and insane, and now…there’s nothing. Everything has gone perfectly, deathly still. Like the residual hum of amped bass, emptiness whirrs inside my head in a silence that’s so loud that the rest of the world feels muted.

For the first time in months, Reille’s presence is gone. I’m not sure whether to be pissed or relieved, so I settle on a little of both. I could sit here and worry that Cas is going to hurt her, but he won’t. Pain for the sake of pain isn’t his game. I’m slightly more concerned about the limo and the thugs, and I have this vague itch at the back of my brain that’s starting to connect certain specific dots.

Whatever.

Not my fucking circus.

Then I’m standing there, staring out the glass, a little at a loss. This must be what the genie feels like, when someone uses their last wish to set him free. The cuffs are off, the obligations are gone, and everything inside my head is only me now. Well, me and…

Lore.

She watches the car pull away too, her expression a shifting landscape of confusion, concern, and fear. “I know him.”

I frown, because that makes about as much sense as everything else that’s happened tonight. “Everyone knows him.”

“Do they?”

“Yeah, he’s kind of famous.” More like notorious.

“No,” Lore says, shaking her head. “I’ve seen him before. I know his face. Those eyes.”

“That’s how being famous works, last time I checked,” I mutter.

Lore opens her mouth to speak, but another voice cuts her off.

“Don’t tell me you’re still trying to chase down that brass tart, mate,” drawls a familiar bastardized cockney accent. “There’s no woman on earth worth that kind of effort. You should have learned that by now.”

Of course.

Before he even comes into view, I know exactly what I’ll see. Sure as shit, there’s Trick St. John, dressed to the nines, with a matched set of harlots hanging off his elbows. He’s mastered the fine art of serial fucking like no other person currently walking the planet. It truly boggles the mind, because with zero verbal filter, a penchant for gutter talk, and mommy issues for days, it’s not like he treats a single one of his girls to anything more than a body shot and a slap to the ass.

“Yeah, because you’re the end-all be-all of relationship advice.” In no mood to take his shit, I start to brush past the lot of them. “Fuck off.”

“Don’t be a dick, X. It’s my birthday.” Trick’s gaze roving over Lore like she’s the cherry on his sundae. “Who’s my new friend?”

“Miss None-Of-Your-Goddamn-Business, that’s who,” I snap out. “And it’s not your fucking birthday.”

“Never really is, izzit?” He grins before turning to Lore. “I’m Patrick St. John by the way. Most people call me Trick.”

“I’d like to call you ‘gone,’” I tell him. “Preferably before I’m tempted to knock a few of your teeth out.”

Lore shoots me a look that would do any mother proud before offering a hand to him. Before he can touch her, I intercept, clamping my fingers down on her wrist and drawing her closer to my side.

“I’m Lourdes.” She’s giving me an even stranger look now, one asking me if I’ve gone off my damn rocker. “Nice to meet you.”

“Right.” Trick nods, his eyes scouring every mostly-bare inch of her body. Instantly I regret the tiny skirt and bra combo. “The little piece onstage earlier. Gotta nice set of… pipes.”

“Shut your mouth,” I interject before he can say anything worse. “Bloodlines might not matter as much as they used to, but she’s still way out of your league.”

Trick guffaws. “Chill, mate, you don’t have to get all territorial. It’s not like I’m gonna steal her or somethin’.” He winks and adds, “Yet.”

I can’t help the full-fang snarl I give him, some part of me flexing in a way that it hasn’t in a very long time. Without Reille here to jam the frequency, instincts are kicking in and telling me to lay claim to the ten miles of Lore’s legs, right along with the rest of her.

Giving a disbelieving snort, Trick shakes his head at me in a way that makes me want to kick him in the ballsack. Apparently all that intent was written across my face, clear as day, obvious enough that even the town fool copped to it.

“Un-fucking-believable,” he barks out. “You just got rid of one demirep and you’re already wound up with the next one. Bloody fucking ’ell, Xaine, you’re such a twat.”

“Lore’s not a ‘demirep,’” I snap back, then endeavor to shut my yap. He’s baiting me on purpose, like he does, and I just fed him a tasty little morsel. By dropping a few choice phrases, a few choice words, he successfully ferreted out all he’d ever want to know about me and Lore. “Eat a fat one, St. John.”

“Fat ones, skinny ones, I’ll eat ’em all. I am an equal opportunity opportunist, as long as they don’t get too clingy.” He hits me with that boyish grin that he’s famous for, then turns his head toward the woman on his left. She squeals when he reaches down to pinch her ass, and both girls start laughing in a way that makes me want to knock their heads together until the noise stops. “Tell Mister Rock Star what Rule Number One is.”

“Don’t get attached,” they chorus before falling into another round of giggles. For his own general amusement, Trick encourages them to start kissing each other, and pretty soon red lipstick smears against baby-pink, with the master puppeteer smirking at me over their tousled heads. Lore watches with something akin to fascination, head tilted, one eyebrow arched in unspoken question.

“Come on.” I tug on her hand then, jerking her away from the tableau. We step past Trick and his tittering ladybirds, heading down the hall as the blaring voice stops, the doors unlock, and the barriers slide open.

“So, yeah,” Trick yells at my back, “party at my place. You should swing by, X, when you get tired of having crazy bitches trample your nuts. I mean, it’s gotta be rough, right? All those pointy heels.”

I swing Lore around, pausing for a second so I can get another shot in. “Trick St. John, everyone. Two hundred years, and he still hasn’t achieved even a modicum of class. Be careful ladies, you never know what’ll happen in his bed. Drugs, booze, date rape…”

“Bite your tongue! Not one fucking thing happens in that bed, arsehole.” He feigns offense, holding up two fingers. “Rule Number Two: Don’t fuck where you sleep. That’s what the guest rooms are for.”

“Nice, Trick.” I have more important things to do than stand here bandying words with Hugh Hefner’s heir apparent. Reille’s gone, which means I need to ring up her brother, and that’s the sort of phone call nobody wants to make, especially not once you’ve faced down the business end of his UV pistols.

Sunlight in a bullet, and me without a parasol, go figure.

“Don’t be like that,” Trick yells at my back. Taking a deep breath, he adds, “I love you, Xaine!”

“Well, there’s a first.” We both know there’s no love lost in any part of this equation, and his laughter still rings in my ears as I round the corner. “Looks like you already forgot rule number one.”

Don’t get attached.

It’s funny. I told Sebastian he could take his best shot, that I didn’t have anyone he could hurt. No friends he was willing to kill. No lovers he could use against me. No family left to speak of, except the Scipio clan and Lumen, all of whom are under Roman’s capable protection. Getting attached to things, to people, has suddenly reached a whole new level of dangerous, which means that Trick’s stupid rule really is the best advice known to man.

Too bad nobody listens to the village idiot.

As an afterthought, I turn back long enough to say, “By the way, I sent some business in your direction.”

“What?” Trick pauses, frowning until two deep lines appear between his eyebrows. “Not that dickshit, Winters?”

“Yeah, him,” I confirm. “You can thank me later.”

“Fuck off, mate,” he snaps back, sliding one hand behind his neck to run his fingers through the shorn-short spikes at the base of his skull. A moment later he raises his voice to shout at my back, “Hey, do me a favor, X… and don’t do me anymore favors, awright?”

“Rule number three, jackass,” I toss out over my shoulder, glancing back long enough to see him nod.

Grudgingly, because he knows I’ve got him there, he repeats, “Yeah, rule number three,” then waves me off with a military salute that turns into a middle finger.

I tighten down on Lore’s hand and turn us both back toward the commons.

“Well, he’s super classy.” Lore’s voice is full of humor, and when I glance down at her face, she’s smiling that lopsided smile. “I like him.”

“He’s a douchebag.”

“You’re a douchebag,” she says, laughing a little.

“Must run in the family.” I brace myself for another question, but thankfully a uniformed officer turns up; it’s to be expected, given the lockdown.

One of my security guys is with him, and he stutters out, “Hey, Xaine, we have a little problem.”

“Define ‘little.’”

“Another dead body,” the cop says. “I need both of you to come with me.”

CHAPTER TEN
Lore

They take Xaine away the moment we set foot inside the precinct, splitting the two of us up to see if our stories corroborate. Hours later, I’m sitting in the world’s most uncomfortable chair, my head tilted to the side so a police medic can take snapshots of the fang marks on my neck.

“This is bullshit,” I tell the one with the camera, pinning him with a vaguely annoyed stare. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Xaine’s in our system.” He wields a little tube with a cotton swab in it, the vampire equivalent of a rape kit. “We’ve got him on file from a previous incident. If everything checks out, then we’ll be able to match dental records and DNA.”

“Then he’ll be free, right?”

“Unless he’s not.” There’s another guy here, like the ones you see on TV programs. He’s well into middle-age, fat, balding, angry at life, and looking at me like I’m the full-page spread in Playboy: pretty, but dumb as a box of rocks. “If the DNA is a match to the dead girls, then he goes down on two counts of first degree murder and one count of attempted murder.”

“Attempted murder?” I sit upright, working the kink out of my neck with one hand. “Someone survived?”

“Yeah,” the fat one says with a snort. “You.”

“Xaine didn’t try to kill me,” I shoot back, turning suspicious eyes toward the medic as he swabs the bite marks and bottles the sample.

He pulls out one of those clickable razors, the kind they use to prick your finger to test your iron before giving blood. “Hold still.”

“Ow!” My whole body jumps when he sticks me. Such a tiny pain, but it still managed to catch me by surprise. I glare at the medic as he leans in, squeezes the microscopic wound he made over one of the bites, and sops up the blood on some sort of test strip. “Why the hell do you even need that?”

“Vamps have venom,” he explains. “Even feeder bites leave trace amounts. Did you shower after he bit you?”

“No,” I tell him, disgruntled. “I showered before.”

“That’s good. We should be able to pull a match here.” The medic drops labeled tubes into a plastic baggie, zipping everything up before he takes off for some forensics lab. That leaves me and Mr. Middle Age to stare one another down. There’s silence while he gives me that famous stink eye, the one that tries to guilt me into a confession. I give it right back, arms folded over my chest, shoulders digging into the plastic chair back.

He waits me out for all of a minute before heaving a sweaty sigh. “Fact of the matter is, Ms. Chase, your boyfriend has a violent history.”

“Xaine’s not my boyfriend.”

“Your companion?”

“I’m not a hooker.”

“Whatever.” He waves me off with a flippant gesture. “A month ago, he was brought in for brutally savaging a woman named Mireille Reece. A few days ago, he was the last person seen with the first murder vic. Tonight? A body turns up in his swimming pool.” Fatty rocks forward in his chair, elbows on knees, palms spread like he’s trying to reason with me. “Seems a little suspicious to me.”

“Suspect him all you want, but I’ve been with him for the last twenty-four hours,” I say. “I haven’t left his side for longer than it took for hair and makeup to slap us into some new threads and toss us onstage together. I know for a fact that there are at least three people who can vouch for his whereabouts when I wasn’t with him.”

“You’re safe from him here, Ms. Chase,” the cop says. “You don’t have to lie. He can’t hurt you.”

My eyes narrow as I lean forward in my chair, elbows on my own knees, imitating his pose. “I want to talk to your supervisor, or at least someone smarter than you. I mean, there has to be a trained monkey in this place somewhere right? Maybe a dolphin?”

A soft laugh catches my attention, and my head snaps around. The newcomer leans in the doorway, flexing in the way that men with muscles can’t seem to help doing. The gray T-shirt he’s wearing does nothing to camouflage all that bulge, and to be honest, neither do the ass-hugging blue jeans. His face is a bit harsh, kind of angular, but not unappealing when paired with screw-it o’clock shadow and the short bristle of dark hair on his head. He looks…

Capable.

“Are you the monkey?” The words are out of my mouth before I have the chance to stop them.

He pushes away from the door jamb, stepping toward me with one hand outstretched. “No, I’m the dolphin. The name’s Asher.”

I reach out and his big, calloused fingers close around mine. It’s a strong handshake, but not a suave one, at least not in the Tinseltown sense. The rough sandpaper of his palms leaves a little friction burn in its wake, and my eyes wander down his torso to the gun holstered at his waist. All in all, I feel like I’ve taken a pretty good measure of Asher before he finally lets me go.

“You’re late,” Fatty grumbles. “Did Timmy fall down a well again?”

“Bulb burnt out in the Bat Signal, took a while to fix,” Asher says, then adds, “Can I get a minute with the girl?”

Fatty hesitates, wheezing a moment as if loath to leave, but eventually he heads toward the coffee machine in the other room, toting a white mug and a frown. Asher plunks himself down in the vacated chair, leaning back and propping his elbows on the arm rests. He sits like a dude, legs spread and feet sprawled out in front, total power pose. I read an article on those once; apparently, the lazier you look, the more confidence you have. Confident enough to not give a shit about what people think of the way you sit, anyway. His expression is authoritative and a little hard, but when he smiles at me, it tears a decade off his age.

“So what’s your deal?” I ask wryly. “Here to play good cop?”

“Nah,” he says, waving a hand at that. “I’m not a cop.”

“You just play one on TV?” I give him a very ballsy once-over. “I gotta say, you wouldn’t even have to act. Hell, you could paint walls shirtless for two hours, and I’d buy a ticket.”

He flushes at that, clearing his throat and glancing away. “I’m here to talk about the murders. I assume they’ve run you through the usual questions?”

“Yeah, and the meat grinder too.” I gesture to the dot of blood on my neck. “I just want to go home.”

“Well, I don’t know how likely that’s going to be,” Asher tells me. “Do you have any family you can stay with? Back east, maybe?”

I go a little cold at that, because whoever this guy is, he’s done his homework. “Nope,” I say, suddenly wary. “There’s nobody. Just me and my roommate.”

But you knew that.

“Truth is, Ms. Chase,” he says, lifting one hand to scrape at the thick shadow on his chin, “whether Xaine did this or not, there’s a serial killer on the loose, and as much as I hate to be the bearer of bad news—”

“I know,” I cut him off. “I look like them. The murdered girls.”

Eerily, creepily like them. The woman they found at Scion could have been my sister, and the girl they found in Xaine’s pool could have been my twin. Their California Driver’s License pictures hang not five feet away from me, clipped to a white board next to crime scene snapshots of their naked, lifeless bodies. Hell, I might suspect Xaine, too, if I hadn’t spent the last twenty-four hours practically in his pocket.

“You certainly bear more than a passing resemblance to the deceased,” Asher agrees, leaning forward. “Which is why it would be safer for you to leave town, at least for a while.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I say, definite and sure. “And if you’re not a cop, then who are you and why the hell are you here?”

“I’m a consultant,” he tells me. “An expert on the paranormal.” My eyebrows climb my forehead as he goes on to say, “I don’t have a badge, but I help keep the city safe.”

“From vampires?”

“From supernaturals.”

That throws me, because it implies something different. Something more. “As in, other than vampires?”

“As in,” Asher says, “including, but not limited to, vampires.”

“So there are different things out there?” To that, he gives a slow nod and my curiosity gets the better of me. “Like what?”

“Like your friend Benicio,” he says, leading me back to the matter at hand. “Does he have a last name?”

“If he does, I don’t know it.”

Asher leans sideways, pulling a small notepad from his back pocket. Obviously a pen didn’t go with the outfit because he reaches over and plucks a writing utensil from the cup on Fatty’s desk. When he returns his attention to me, his dark eyes scour my scanty outfit from head to foot. There’s no lust in it; in fact, he flushes and turns his eyes downward to scribble something on the first piece of paper.

So Batman is shy. Interesting.

“Where did you meet Benicio?” he asks.

“I have a Thirsty Thursday gig at O’Reilly’s. I met him there.”

“You hadn’t seen him before that?”

“No?” The question that is not a question reappears, and I feel its presence acutely. I seem to do that a lot these days, looking to other people to fill in the blanks for all the questions that I can’t seem to answer myself. Like Asher might know how I ended up in the Valley on a Thursday night. “I may have seen him before, but I can’t say for sure. All I have are very hazy memories of blond hair, blue eyes, very broad shoulders. He’s tall, really tall, and…”

“And?”

“And nothing.” I shrug, because I can’t do anything else. “You could ask Xaine for a better physical description. He might be able to tell you more. He seemed to… recover more quickly?”

“Recover from what?”

I try to get the wording exactly right, because I have so little else to give this guy. “It was like I was drugged. My head felt swimmy. And, I kept having…”

When I pause, I glance at his face. Asher’s sitting there as impassive as any statue, a veritable David, all hard lines and chiseled-stone angles. He waits for an entire minute, but I bite the inside of my lip and shut my trap. I almost said too much.

But he’s not about to let me get away with silence, not when I might have case-relevant information to impart. “Kept having?” he prompts.

“Hallucinations, I guess?” I tell him, tiptoeing around the truth.

“Hallucinations.” Asher’s leg’s bounces a bit, the thick, rubber heel of one boot tapping against the floor. “Or something else?”

I know what he’s getting at now: I can’t be trusted because I’m the nutball who had a psychotic break and simply lost two months of time. “I’m not crazy. I know what I remember.”

“I believe you.”

“You do.” Now that sounds like a statement, go figure.

“Yeah, I do.” Asher leans forward in his chair again, holding the pad loosely in one hand, tapping the pen against it with the other. “There are… people… like Benicio. They have a certain affinity for reading minds. Reading memories. They can actually feed off of your recollections, like emotional vampires. Most of the time, they’re completely harmless. Beneficial, in fact. But sometimes, like vampires, they go a little rogue.”

“So you think one of these rogue memory-readers is stalking girls?”

“Yes, but the question is, why?” Asher leans back, his quiet gaze returning to the notepad. “Walk me the through the timeline, starting with the Thursday night gig.”

It takes two shitty cups of coffee, four pages of notes, and a half an hour before he’s verified that the first body dump happened after Motel Night in the Valley, the second after the encounter with Benicio in the hallway at Scion. I’ll give it to Asher, the man is methodical and detail-oriented in a way that teases out vague recollections of Benicio’s heavy cologne, the button-down shirt he was wearing, the fact that he and Xaine tussled hard enough for there to have been DNA transfer.

“Did he ever give you anything?” Asher asks. “Drinks? Pills?”

“No. He only… touched me.”

Far from surprised, Asher only nods. “We’ve found a trace substance on the skin of the victims. Since your tests are still at the lab, we’ll have to wait for the verdict on a match, but the blood screen for the others was pretty conclusive. Both of them had a high saturation level of an unidentified psychoactive substance that seems to have been transferred via skin-to-skin contact and… um… fluid exchange.” Asher rubs a finger alongside his nose, smudging a blot of ink across the skin as he frowns. “I hate to say it, Ms. Chase, but I think you’re the one that keeps getting away. Benicio’s stalking you, and whenever something—or someone—interrupts him, we get a dead Lore-alike.”

“But why?”

“These types, the ones like Benicio, they get their kicks off people’s thoughts, their secrets, their little dark corners,” Asher says. “Your worst moments are their best ones.”

“So you’re saying that he’s using these girls for sex and memories?”

“Something like that,” is Asher’s confirmation.

“If he’s so ‘harmless,’ then why are two girls dead?”

He gives me an appraising look. “That’s the bit I’m not sure of. Care to tell me a little about what he might be after, Ms. Chase?”

“What?” I hesitate, eying him warily. “Like… my memories?”

He gives a slow nod, and I squirm. My eyes dart toward the elevator at the end of the hallway, and I stare at that silver rectangle with longing, wishing Xaine would reappear like a genie and let me wish myself out of the hot seat.

No dice, so I finally meet Asher’s patient gaze again. Unlike the fat detective, this guy projects an aura of you can trust me that I almost want to heed. But there’s another part of me, the one that keeps asking those not-a-question questions, that’s unsure of everything I ever knew. I used to speak my mind, but then they told me it was broken.

“I’m not crazy,” I repeat. “I’m not.”

“Okay,” he says easily.

“So if I tell you what I’m thinking about telling you,” I say, “I don’t want someone in a white jacket coming in to haul me away. Got it?”

He lifts a hand and draws an X over his heart. “Swear to die.”

Still, I hesitate. I fought my family and friends, railing and screaming, clawing and trying to convince someone, anyone that I wasn’t imagining things. After a while, I began to doubt my own mind. Began to wonder if maybe they were right.

It’s all in your head.

Asher sits in silence, arms crossed over his chest, feet still splayed out. I have to hand it to him, the guy is waiting me out like a pro, and I realize that I’m going to have to cough up something if I want to get Xaine and myself out of here anytime soon.

“Someone picked me up from the record store where I worked with my… well, from the place where I worked.” The words come slowly, haltingly, and I hesitate to tell him anything about Daniel. “It was after-hours, and I was closing up to go home. The last thing I remember is the bell ringing above the door…”

“I’m sorry,” I say, sliding the register back into its place and slowly easing the thing shut. “We’re closed. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

There are two men in the doorway, both of them dressed head-to-toe in black, and sudden panic surges up my spine. The man in front wears a flipped-up hood over his skull, but I can tell it’s shaved short, with the hint of dark stubble along the edge of his forehead. He’s got a septum piercing connected to two separate silver strands, each one strung outward to a hole in the corresponding ear. Both of the delicate chains are hung with little metal tines in the shape of canines, and the entire effect dials the menace up to eleven.

“Lourdes Chase?”

I’m already inching toward the panic button, searching beneath the counter with my fingers, trying to find the little white box that will summon the police. Silver Teeth walks toward me slowly, but his partner deviates, branching off to the side in order to pace down the adjacent aisle. He ducks briefly into the back of the store, banging doors against walls as he checks the practice rooms, the office, the bathroom, then turns back to give a nod in Silver Teeth’s direction.

“Can I help you?” My voice wavers, my hands shake, and I try not to be too obvious about the forays my fingers are making just out of sight.

“Are you Lourdes Chase?”

“Look, I don’t know what—”

Silver Teeth grins, exposing a row of sharp, white incisors, all of them filed into points. It’s like looking into the mouth of a shark, and suddenly I understand.

I will not be home for dinner.

“Ms. Chase?” Asher’s voice cuts into the scene, calling me back. “Are you okay?”

“What?” I say, blinking at his concerned face. “Uh, yeah… there was a guy with shark teeth and chains on his face. That’s all I remember, until I woke up at the local loony bin.”

He thinks it over for a second, then ventures, “You were missing for two months.”

I nod. “Yes, but I don’t know where I was. Flashes used to come to me when I was asleep, in nightmares, but since Benicio, it’s gotten worse.”

“Worse how?”

“It’s like he shook things loose.” Suddenly, it’s hard to swallow. “I’m getting stuff in little clips, even when I’m awake. All the things I convinced myself weren’t real are bubbling up from wherever I stuffed them.”

“Repressed memories?” Asher’s earnest face holds no censure, only curiosity.

“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “Maybe. I see tubes. Blood. Someone telling someone else to ‘do it again.’ There’s another guy, always demanding to know what’s happening. His is the only face I ever remember clearly.”

“Can you describe the face?”

“Xaine knows him,” I tell Asher. “Says he’s famous. He was at Scion tonight, right before the lockdown. Sandy hair, wavy, not quite to his shoulders. Tall, and lean, and he’s got these eyes. Yellow eyes, like a cat.”

Frowning, Asher slowly reaches over toward Fatty’s desk, picking up the latest issue of People magazine half-buried beneath all the other papers. Xaine is on the cover, Sexiest Man Alive again, but Asher flips past that, searching for something. Eventually he licks his thumb, pushes back a sheet of paper, then folds the magazine back on itself so that he can hold up a picture.

“This him?”

Then it’s my turn to look confused as I take the glossy dossier from his hands. I’ve walked past this issue a hundred times in the supermarket and the streetside news stands. Hell, Jess has a copy of it sitting on the kitchen table at home. I never once flipped it open and looked inside.

Apparently, I should have.

“Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on here?”

“She’s alive…”

In the magazine, he’s smiling, wearing an expensive suit, and has one hand tucked into a perfectly tailored pocket. His dark blond hair is artfully mussed; he looks flawless, aristocratic, commanding. And it’s the same man I saw standing on the opposite side of the Scion lockdown glass. A face I believed I’d hallucinated yet again.

“Caspian Declan.” I read the name next to the caption. Billionaire, businessman, philanthropist, and humanitarian. So then why…? “I don’t understand any of this.”

“Mr. Declan owns one of the foremost vampire research facilities in the country, possibly the world. It’s as closed-to-the-public-slash-media as a place could possibly be, so nobody really knows what goes on inside.” Asher’s thinking hard, trying to untangle it all. “You said there were tubes and blood. Do you remember anything else?”

I stare at the picture, memorizing every nuance of Caspian Declan’s I own the world grin. “A lot of blood. I think I was bleeding. They kept changing the sheets because it was seeping out of my skin. They seemed mad about that.”

“Did you recognize anyone else there?”

I can only shake my head, close the magazine, and set it carefully upon Fatty’s desk. “No. It’s like I’m in a dream. All the faces are smudges that I can’t ever seem to remember.”

“Except his?”

“Except his,” I confirm. “He always walks in, demanding to know what’s happening but…”

When I don’t immediately continue, Asher prompts, “But?”

“I don’t know,” I tell him. “It’s all a blur of people’s voices, bright lights, darkness, and—” Pain. “Everything else.”

“And you think that’s what happened in the two months you were missing?” When I nod, Asher shifts so that the chair creaks under his weight. One thumb flicks at the paper edge of the notepad.

Eventually, my curiosity gets the better of me. “So, what are you thinking?”

He exhales slowly through his nose, not sounding at all happy about the interrogation shoe being on the other foot. “I think someone tried to vamp you.”

The snort that escapes me is wholly inelegant. “I’m about as not-a-vampire as they come.”

“Trust me,” Asher says, “it’s blowing my mind, too. But what you described sounds exactly like a forced turn. Involuntary vamping is illegal and very underground, but it’s a growing problem. My question is… why you? The fangers aren’t exactly rocket scientists, but most of them have figured out if they want a baby vamp, they have to pick a male victim.”

“Why?”

“We don’t know the science behind it, exactly,” he tells me, “but women are far less likely to survive the change. One in a thousand, maybe. Most of them die on the table. It’s why you rarely see them, and the ones that make it? They’re like the vampire Holy Grail.”

“Has anyone ever not turned?”

The way he looks at me is enough of an answer, but he adds, “Apparently, yes,” just to seal the deal. “But there’s good news. I don’t think you’re crazy.”

“That’s… somehow, not as vindicating as I thought it would be.” And I shudder. Instead of starting over in LA, I landed myself in a city where a serial killer with a face I can’t remember is trying to eat the memories of Caspian Declan peering at me through the glass of a medcenter window.

“Back to Benicio, though.” Asher taps a finger against his notepad. “Shot in the dark?”

I nod. “Go ahead, lay it on me.”

“You’re the only girl who’s lived through more than one encounter with this guy.” His face is serious, grim even. “I think Benny figured out he could mine your memories hard and deep, something he can’t normally do. He figured out he could—and excuse my French, here—mindfuck you six ways to Sunday and come back for more later. Other humans wouldn’t survive… haven’t survived what he’s been doing to you. It’s like an addiction, and every time he doesn’t get his fix, he throws a temper tantrum and settles for the next best thing. Probably ends up shredding their brains from the inside out… because you’re the anomaly. Survived a vamping and kept on tramping—” Asher cuts himself off and then tries to amend, “Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound—”

“Maybe you shouldn’t try to rhyme things,” I say, smiling at his ten-shades-of-mortified expression.” When he only clears his throat, I draw in a deep breath and say, “Okay, well, hooray for me.” Sardonic and cynical. “As far as superpowers go, this is sorta shitty.”

“Yeah, turbo-healing is totally boring,” Asher scoffs. “We’ll have to get you some adamantium claws or something to make it cooler.”

“Oh, now you’re funny.” But the humor fades quickly. “Why me? Why can I get ‘mindfucked’ by this guy and live to tell the tale?”

But whatever Asher would have said is lost when the elevator at the end of the hallway opens and Xaine emerges, muttering up a storm.

He comes to a dead halt when he gets a good look at me and my new friend. “You saved me a phone call, Reece.” His gaze flicks back and forth, like he’s watching a tennis match. “G.I. Joe, I see you’ve met DJ Lore.”

“Cut the shit,” Asher says, standing as Xaine approaches. “I know about the lockdown at Scion. I was headed there next.”

“Yeah, well, you’ll be interested to hear that your sister triggered it. Cas Declan dragged her out of the club, shoved her into a limo, and bit her in the parking lot. If she hadn’t set off the emergency systems, I’d almost think she was into that sort of thing.”

Asher… Reece. Another puzzle piece drops into place, and no wonder it took so long. There’s absolutely nothing about Asher Reece that reads like Reille. Patient instead of restless, brown hair instead of red, dark eyes instead of green. He’s got at least eight inches on her in height, too, and a hundred pounds of lean muscle.

I’m expecting him to be surprised by the news of the not-quite-a-kidnapping, but all Asher gives Xaine is one cynical eyebrow. “You sure this wasn’t some bullshit roleplaying game?”

“You’re her brother.” Xaine gives Asher the stare-down, but when that elicits precisely nothing from the other man, he affects a disappointed expression. “Maybe you should err on the side of caution here.”

“Yeah, maybe. Or maybe I’d just be chasing my tail again,” Asher says. “Call me callous if you want, but I’ve spent enough years picking Reille up after she’s fallen down to have developed a pretty solid baseline. If it’s not booze, it’s boys.” He thinks about it a moment, then amends. “Well, it used to be boys. Now it’s vampires.”

“Look, asshole, all I know is that they climbed into a limo together and drove off. Reille’s on her own as far as I’m concerned, and right now I’m looking out for Number One. The last thing I need is you showing up on my doorstep a week from now, shooting first and asking questions later.”

“Oh, no worries,” Asher hastens to reassure Xaine. “I’m still counting the days until I can put a UV bullet right in the middle of your rock-hard head. Or maybe I’ll put a couple regular ones through your dick.” There’s an abrupt change in demeanor and tone when he turns toward me. “Listen, Ms. Chase, you need to take extra precautions when going about your daily routine—”

“Fuck her daily routine,” Xaine interjects. “She’s staying with me until further notice.”

“Perfect solution,” Asher fires back. “Shack her up with someone who thinks of her as food until Benicio is off the streets.”

“Hey, you do your job and that’ll happen within the week, right?”

Asher opens his mouth to reply, but there’s a commotion at the front door as a large group gets corralled inside. First in is a girl so tiny that she might well still be in high school and so redheaded that it had to come out of a bottle. She’s wearing a hotel bathrobe that barely covers her bum, and I have more than a little sympathy for her spaced-out expression. Nothing good happened to her tonight. Behind her is Trick St. John, who apparently traded in his skanky bookends for a pair of double-reinforced handcuffs, and judging by the ear-blistering slew of curse words spilling out of him, he’s none too happy to be here right now.

“It’s all right,” I murmur, distracted by the noise. “I’ll be fine with Xaine.”

Asher scowls, digs a card out of his pocket, and slaps it into my palm. “That’s my business line and my cell phone number.”

“Heya, Lo!” calls out a familiar voice, and I hardly spare Asher a second to thank him for the card because behind Blond, Blue-Eyed, Fangy, and Pissed is Tamsyn. And behind her—

“Lourdes already has my card,” Jax Trace says, apparently oblivious to the fact that the entire group he came in with is smeared with blood, like they went to a Blade-style rave and someone forgot to turn off the sprinkler system. “If she needs a ride anywhere, she can call me.”

“Eat a dick, Trace,” Xaine says cheerfully, heaving me out of the plastic chair with very little effort. “By the looks of your fancy silver bracelets, you’re not going to be available to play taxi for anyone for a while.” His gaze flickers to Trick and catches sight of something that prompts the fangiest grin I’ve seen out of him yet. “Hey, St. John, whatever happened to ‘don’t get attached’?”

Trick raises his hand to flip Xaine off, but since he’s handcuffed to the tiny redhead, he about jerks her off her feet in the attempt. “Shut your bloody fucking mouth, X, before I stuff my fist so far down your throat your shit starts speaking sign language.”

“British or American?” Xaine asks, dragging me away from the small chain gang. “I just want to know whether or not I should lube up for the extra ‘u’ in colour, flavour, and go fuck yourself.”

I jab an elbow into Xaine’s ribs, and he grunts before turning his face toward me and raising an eyebrow.

“Quit gloating,” I say. “I really don’t think now’s the time to be antagonizing them.”

Glancing over my shoulder, I spot Jackson Trace watching me from across the room. He smiles at me, an ironic twist to his lips despite the fact that he looks like hell. There’s a long rend in the leg of his expensive pants. His dress shirt is unbuttoned, bloodied, and fluttering around his waist. There’s blood smeared across his skin, too, tracing the edges of wounds that have already healed over. Tiny beads of what have to be glass are tangled in the dark, gelled waves of his hair. A quick jerk on the arm from the officer in charge dislodges a few of the glittering pieces, and they plink to the floor like diamonds.

Tamsyn huddles close to Jax, childish smile now stowed away in favor of a troubled frown. Forgotten in the fray, she shifts from foot to foot, staring off in the distance. The second someone takes hold of her handcuffs, her entire expression comes to life, her signature carefree facade dropped back into place so quickly that I doubt anyone noticed it was ever gone.

Another round of creative swear words tells me and everyone else in a ten mile radius that Trick St. John is about ten seconds from going supernova. He didn’t fare any better than anyone else tonight, and he’s not at all shy about expressing his displeasure. Can’t really blame him, I guess; his dapper suit is stained at the knees with blood, along with the back of his once-pristine jacket. The material is soaked with it, like he was kneeling on a red ink-pad, pressed into the crimson until it seeped into every fiber of elbows, knees, and spine. His entire body shakes with rage, but he seems entirely too aware of the fact that he’s shackled to the redheaded girl. Whatever railing he wants to do, he’s limiting it to the verbal realm, probably because his cuff-companion looks as if she’d like nothing more than to find a hole and hide in it, permanently.

“Now is the perfect time,” Xaine interrupts my assessment. “And I wasn’t gloating.”

“You were totally gloating,” I say, reining in my curiosity.

Asher inserts himself into the conversation with an abrupt, “Before you head back to your murder cabin, I need you to come down to Scion and reset the alarm codes.”

“Do it yourself,” Xaine mutters.

“No problem. Cut off your thumb and courier it over.”

Xaine’s scowl is nothing short of epic. “Damn it, I knew those scanners were going to come back and bite me in the ass.” He fumes a moment, eying the door—and freedom—before adding, “It can wait.”

“Sure,” Asher says, “if you don’t mind the idea of Benicio prowling your hallways in the meantime. Look, I know Phantom Firearms running your security was Reille’s idea—”

“Yeah, back when you guys were having some kind of cash flow issue,” Xaine mutters. “Why do you give a shit, Reece?”

“A better question is why you don’t.” Asher glares down at him. “Look, shithead, I’m not doing this for you, I’m doing it for Ms. Chase. If she wants to let you poke holes in her neck, that’s her business, but I’ll do my damndest to keep everything else away from her, here at the club and at the house, if you’ll let me. Now, your car or mine?”

Escorting me from the precinct at a brisk clip, Xaine tosses words over his shoulder. “I called for a ride. You can tag along, if you forgot where you parked that dickmobile of yours.”

Outside, there isn’t a taxi, there’s a cavalcade: Xaine’s supercar bookended by two police cruisers and surrounded by officers on motorcycles. It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen, and I’m not entirely sure how he even managed to pull it off.

By being himself.

I give him a wry look. “You forgot the tickertape.”

He flashes me a fangy grin. “No, I didn’t.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN
Xaine

I don’t know what Lore and Asher discussed, but the moment the muted roar of the Zenvo’s engine envelops us, she ditches the here-and-now for parts unknown. At some point, she reaches for my hand, closing her fingers over the top of mine until I rotate my wrist and meet her palm to palm. Not sure what I did to earn her trust—or her faith, for that matter—but I’ve got it.

Like it or not, I’m now responsible for another human being.

The idea makes me want to start spitting curses, one after the other until I’ve burned through every one I know. Then, I might make shit up to satisfy the impotent anger fizzling in my gut. Suddenly, I get Trick St. John for the first time in the entirety of our two-century history.

Rule Number One.

He’s not the village idiot or the town fool. He’s a criminal who’s been a criminal for his whole life. He’s not haplessly unaware of the dangers of his chosen profession; he’s on guard every moment of the day because even the most superfluous link is a connected dot that leads right back to him. Dots mean leverage. Dots mean collateral damage. Dots mean…

Don’t get attached.

I’ve already cocked that one up. Cocked it up royally. My own taunt echoes in my head, sounding an awful lot like St. John’s mocking laughter. I hoisted Trick up by his petard back at the station, but I guess it’s like they always say…

In every joke, there’s a little truth.

And this truth paints one hell of a target on Lore, a target that even Sebastian Winters is unlikely to miss. Problem is, I have yet to figure out his angle. All the links are there, but I have to connect the dots.

First dot is…

Lore, who thinks she knows Reille.

… connected to…

Reille, who knows Cas. And I’m willing to bet that limo full of high-end thugs wasn’t a coincidence, either.

… another dot. Connected to…

Scion, and me, and Matty’s money smuggling operation.

… connected to…

Jackson Trace, who keeps showing up to save everyone’s bacon.

… connected to…

Roman’s warning, still rattling around my brainpan like an omen.

Those leading the charge will need prominent and powerful allies, and they will not stop until they achieve them.

And that circles straight back around to Winters and his proposition back in the VIP room. Sebastian isn’t in league with the mafia, and he isn’t just lending a helping hand to rich old Euro-vamps. Whatever he’s gotten himself into, it’s way larger than that.

Which leaves Benicio as the odd-man-out, because I’ll be damned if I can figure out how his dash fits into all these dots.

“Hey,” Lore says softly, completely derailing my train of thought with a single, concerned syllable. “You still with me?”

I glance over at her, fingers flexing when I get a good look at the dark circles under her eyes. She’s got to be running on fumes right now. No one issues us a manual like The Care and Feeding of Humans, but I’m pretty sure the Idiot’s Guide version would say that she needs food and sleep.

Preferably without those nightmares of hers.

“I’m really sorry. It’s been a long goddamn night, and the last thing I want to do is head back to Scion. But it’s this, or have Asher and his goon squad tail us to the Palisades to work on the house.”

Lore’s smile is faint but immediate. “If this buys us a solid twelve hours to crash, I’m more than down.”

Asher cruises into the Scion parking garage right behind me, and I wonder if the concrete beams are going to scrape the roof rack off that stupid-huge Humvee he drives, but it clears with maybe half an inch to spare. We pull into adjacent parking spaces, and he’s running his mouth before I even get the car door open.

“I’ll head up to the control booth if you can get one of the security cards out of Reille’s office.”

“Yeah, whatever gets us out of here the fastest.” Circling the car, I hook an arm around Lore’s waist and heave her to her feet. “Come on, sweetheart. You can’t stay in here alone.”

“You mean you’re uncomfortable leaving me in a parking garage while a serial killer is actively stalking me?” she smarts off at me. “Well, that makes two of us, buddy.”

That rankles, for some odd reason. “I’m not your buddy, I’m your boss.”

“Collaborator,” she corrects as we pass through the first security door and into the back hallway.

I tuck the Zenvo’s keys and my cell phone into the pocket of her leather skirt, cramming my fingers in there unnecessarily hard just to be a shit. “Hold onto those for me, would ya, buddy?”

Lore smacks my hand a good one before I can get it out of the way. “You know, if you didn’t wear girl pants, you’d have pockets of your own.”

“These aren’t girl pants,” I say with a perfunctory glance down at my stage leathers. “Not after I stuff my junk in them, anyway.”

“Jesus, you two,” Asher says, mashing down the button for the elevator harder than necessary. “You going to take that act on the road?”

“Yeah, but we need more practice with the ventriloquist bit,” I say, getting a better grip on Lore’s waist. “We still haven’t decided which one of us is the dummy.”

“Oh, I think we all know the answer to that question,” Asher mutters, getting off on the second floor and disappearing down the hall.

The doors slide shut and Lore goes quiet again, leaning against my shoulder because she’s still wearing the stilettos.

“You can kick those off,” I tell her. “They mop the floors here, pretty sure.”

“‘Pretty sure’?” Lore smiles wryly. “Now there’s a ringing endorsement. I think I’ll keep them on, thanks.”

The second the elevator doors open, I catch the lilt of an unfamiliar voice coming from Reille’s office. Lore goes to take a step, but I hold her back, sticking one hand out and ducking my head far enough around the corner to be able to hear. Whoever it is, she’s trying to be quiet, but even so, I make out “Yes, Mr. Declan, I do understand” clear as anything.

Well, that’s interesting.

It’s been a while since Cas played the corporate sabotage card. Every quarter-century or so, he gets a wild hair up his ass and messes with my business holdings, mostly to show me that he can. And it isn’t like when the tabloids send in a mole to root out some bullshit news story. No, Cas tunnels deep, sets the dynamite, exits the building, and waits one month, two, three before detonating the explosion. Metaphorical dynamite, of course, except for that one time in Miami, but I blame all that on the fucking humidity.

I make it unnecessarily easy on him by not tracking my money or my properties as closely as I should. That’s how Matty managed to pull the shit that he did without my knowing about it. It’s a reminder that I need to hire a new business manager, one I trust implicitly. Shouldn’t be too hard. There’s always some up-and-coming corporate climber with their sights set on a goal they’ll never reach.

And that’s exactly who Cas sent in. A loyal minion, but not my loyal minion. Someone important enough to ring up, even if he and Reille are up to their eyeballs in old-world vampire fuckery. Yet another black mark on Cas’s record, as far as I’m concerned. If his hosts are doling out favors, he’s either joined up or he’s playing them for idiots, and neither idea particularly thrills me. With Lore at my back, I cross the hallway and practically kick the door to the office in. Miss Latina Spitfire is behind the desk, blinged-out iPhone to her ear. Middle of the night, but she’s sporting a short skirt, glitzy gold top, and six-inch stilettos at the ready to stake me.

But before I can say anything, Lore pops off with, “Jess?”

“You know her?” I mutter, eyes narrowing as I try to figure out all the things out at once.

“She’s my roommate.” Lore’s gaze bounces between me and the chica across the room, who is staring at us with equal parts surprise and horror.

Yet another dot in the Big Picture.

“Hey,” this Jess person says, recovering enough to shoot Lore a smile. “I said I’d come looking. I was worried.” Her gaze shifts to my face, pinning me with all the accusations ever when she adds, “You know… when she didn’t come home. Again.”

It’s all the right words, but the way the woman’s eyes keep shifting tells me there’s more at stake here than a missing friend and a healthy dose of concern.

“Who’s on the line, cabrona?”

It’s a rhetorical question. Even with Jess holding the iPhone to her chest, hand cupped over the receiver to mute the sound, I know who’s on the line, and I know he has to be dancing with impatience at the interruption.

The intruder’s eyes shift to Lore as she says, “My boss.”

“Your boss,” I repeat and take a menacing step forward.

For some reason that I can’t begin to fathom, Cas Declan is keeping an eye on Lore, and Roommate Jess is the nanny-cam spying on her from a vantage point that’s far closer to her than is acceptable to me. Much like Jess’s presence in this office is far closer to my shit than will ever be acceptable to me.

I should toss her out the window and save myself a lot of time translating Spanish swear words.

Except we already have more bodies around this building than I’m strictly comfortable with. I swallow hard and tell myself I’m really not in the mood for fast food anyway.

Jess recovers her balance, turning the phone to her ear to mutter, “I’ll have to call you back.”

“Oh, don’t hang up on my account.” Reaching out, I snag the door to the office and slowly close it. Finger the heavy bolt-lock, but don’t flick it shut. Run my tongue over my fangs for a second, because the fuckers won’t stop tingling. “Put your boss on speakerphone, Chiquita Banana.”

“Do it.” Cas issues the order even as Jess winds up to give me the great middle-finger sendoff. Scowling, she sets the phone on the desk and flicks a thumb over the screen to put him on blast.

I cross the room at a stroll, keeping an eye on Cas’s minion in case she’s packing a UV gun, but all Jess says is, “He’s on, Mr. Declan.”

There’s a tiny gasp from behind me. Glancing back at Lore, I see her standing there, staring at me, at Jess, at that phone with equal parts horror and hope. She said she remembers Cas from somewhere, that she knew him somehow. The way she’s practically humming with impatience tells me she’s got a lot of questions for him, but when I put a finger to my lips and signal her to be silent, she nods and hangs back.

There’s that trust again.

I return my attention to the bedazzled brick sitting on Reille’s desk. “Enjoying your vacay, Declan? Accommodations nice and cushy?”

“They are, as ever, to my specifications.” The cool, clipped words filter through the crackling silence hanging in the wake of my opening volley.

“How about the company you’re keeping right about now?”

“Our hosts have been rather… domineering,” Cas admits. “And you know how I feel about that.”

“And Reille?” I glance at Jess, who’s standing as far from me as she can get, arms crossed over her gold shirt and wearing a look that’s half panic, half go-to-hell. “She realized yet what kind of bullshit you’ve signed her up for?”

Again the pause, a tense hesitation before Cas speaks again. “Reille’s decisions are her own.”

“Yeah, well, enjoy riding that roller coaster right off a cliff.” That’s my kiss-off to Reille and Cas both, washing my hands of the two of them and whatever damage they are going to inflict on each other. “I wondered why you were back in town. We all know you like New York the way all pretentious holier-than-thou yupsters like the East Coast better than the West.” I cock one hip in order to lean against the desk. “I thought it was just Reille that made you condescend to trade Manhattan for Hollywood, but it wasn’t just Reille, was it?”

Lore sucks in another sharp breath, biting down on her lip to keep any other sound from coming out. As for Jess, she goes perfectly still, not a single muscle or nerve twitching, and that’s where the lie of omission begins. Her dark eyes bore into my face, a seething hatred bubbling beneath the surface. She’s nervous, too, but trying to hide it, like a card shark snuffing a tell, except she doesn’t realize that her lack of motion, her lack of emotion, well, that’s the tic she should be trying to hide.

“It’s Lore.” The second I speak the name, Jess flinches like I slapped her. And Lore… well… there are a thousand questions in her eyes, but I’ll ask the first one for her. “Why is it Lore, Cas?”

There’s a long pause, hisses and pops of static between here and wherever. The silence stretches out, as wide and impassable as the physical distance between us. I wait, and wait, and wait some more until I’m sure that any second I’ll hear the line go dead.

“You don’t see it, do you?” Cas’s voice filters through the phone at long last. “You haven’t even spared the time to really look, have you, Xaine?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“It’s right there,” he says, “in the shape of her face, the color of her skin, and that way she has of looking straight through you with those eyes of hers.”

I’m already thinking of Lore’s eyes, hell, I’m looking at them right now. They’re the sort of eyes that can take the measure of a man in the span of a second. Fuel for my fire, the catalyst for every single new fantasy that’s filtered through my brain in the last few days. Astute and clever, wicked and innocent by turns, I realize they’re the sort of eyes I’ve only encountered once before in my unnaturally extended life.

And now you’ve seen them twice.

They’re the same as the eyes that haunt my dreams and nightmares. Wide and blue, trying so hard to hide the hurt and confusion behind a mild expression, an ironic grin. And I knew it… I knew it without knowing it, because I looked into those eyes and called her—

Elizabeth.

“Bullshit.” I give my head a shake, unwilling to entertain Cas’s shoddy allusions, not wanting to follow where he is headed with this line of reasoning. He’s loading his gun, and I’m fairly sure at least one of his bullets has my name on it. “You’re fucking lying.”

His voice is cold, the shiny copper shell encapsulating a small measure of gunpowder. “I don’t have to lie, Xaine.”

Click.

“If you look close enough, it’s all there, stamped across her face with bits of each and every ancestor that came before. Including, but not limited to, my very own sister, who, like me, very much resembles our mother.” A pause, presumably to reload. “Except, she has my father’s eyes.”

She. Elizabeth.

Click…

She. Lore.

Click. Click…

She—

Boom.

There’s no breathing after that, no thinking. There’s nothing but the hard rush of white noise as memories battle to the forefront. Elizabeth is there, a ghost staring back at me, smiling at me from beneath a tangle of dark curls.

Cas is still talking, but his voice has faded into the background, his words a steady monotone at the far end of my nostalgia tunnel.

Blood relations. Cas and Lore… are blood relations.

Another line drawn between another pair of dots.

Somehow, he managed to track her, find her, hunt her down, and now he’s trying to lay some sort of claim to her. As family.

As his family.

“…you’re not going to be able to look her in the eyes and tell her you love her, Xaine. Not now. Not knowing what you know. Not when every time you look at her, all you’ll see is Elizabeth’s corpse staring back.” Cas is still talking, spitting vitriol and bitterness in a slow recitation of all my faults. “And even someone, something like you surely realizes that Lourdes deserves far, far better than your ruined memories.”

The space inside my head explodes, even if blood and bone and gray matter remain where they should. Absolutely everything shifts. He’s had two centuries to dig into my shit, and I’ve had two centuries of digging myself out of the shit he’s piled on top of me. No more. I’m done.

It ends today.

Starting with shooting the messenger.

Before I even process it, I’ve circled the desk and clamped a hand down on Jess’s neck. When I lift her off the ground, crimson blood seeps around my fingernails. She pries at my hand. Her stiletto-shod feet kick ineffectually at my shins. I can feel her desperate attempts to breathe, the faint rasp trying to work its way along her windpipe under my fingers.

Lore’s suddenly there, tugging hard at my wrists. “Xaine, stop. Let her go—”

“Lourdes?” Cas’s tinny voice filters through the office.

The second I peer down into Lore’s wide eyes, everything clicks back into place. I drop Jess on the floor. Turn as she slithers down into a heap on the carpeting. My next step is toward the phone, but the second I go for it, Lore is there, reaching as well.

She wraps her fingers around my hand. “Please, let me talk to him.”

I keep my grip on the phone. I don’t want to hand her over to Cas, even if I know I should. There’s obviously some sort of unfinished business here—

“Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” Cas shouts, and the words grab Lore’s attention quick as anything. She withdraws her hand like the Swarovski gems burned her fingers, slapping a palm over her mouth and staring at the tiny talk box like Satan just crawled out of it. “Xaine?”

Every speck of Lore’s body language tells me she’s changed her mind, maybe doesn’t want to stick her head in the lion’s mouth yet, so my next words are aimed at Jess. “I’m giving you ten minutes to gather your shit and get the hell out of my building, chica, or I’ll toss you out the nearest window.” I tilt my head toward the phone. “You get that, Cas? You send in any other moles, and I’ll return them to you in pieces. Understood?”

There’s a long pause, then a terse “Understood” from the other end.

I click off the speaker and putting the gem-studded monstrosity to my ear. It’s just him and me now, with two hundred years of revelation sprawled out behind us. Jess huddles where I left her, her cool facade cracked all to hell, dark mascara trailing a graceful line down one perfectly rouged cheek.

Then my attention returns to the woman standing next to me, physically as close as two people can get without Tab A going into Slot B. My attention’s on Lore, but my words are for the man on the other end of the world.

“Oh, and Cas?” I say.

“Yes?”

“Thanks.” I smile softly. Looking at Lore. Remembering Elizabeth. Achieving the first small measure of peace that I’ve known in two centuries. “I never thought I’d get a do-over.”

And I disconnect the call.

CHAPTER TWELVE
Lore

I never thought I’d get a do-over.

Those words tumble around in my head for a long moment, twisting and turning until my brain reboots. The haze recedes until I’m standing in Reille’s office again, enveloped in an oppressive silence.

Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?

Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to dispel the echo of Caspian Declan asking that very same question. Right now, I’ve got a hand clamped over my mouth so hard that my fingernails dig into my cheek. My throat feels tight, like I’m holding back a scream, and now there’s no doubt in my mind that he was the harbinger of my nightmares. I should have taken the phone. Should have asked him about everything. Now, I have more questions and less answers.

“Lolo?” It’s Jess’s voice, full of concern, that brings me back to myself. Blinking twice, I bring her face into focus, and I can tell she wants to reach out. “Lolo, are you—”

“Get the fuck out, Chiquita,” Xaine growls.

“Screw you, pendejo,” she shoots back. “Lourdes is my responsibility—”

“Not anymore,” he tells her. “Your boss understands my terms, and my terms are that you get the hell out of here and never come back.”

“I—”

“Now!”

A second later, the gem-studded cell phone shatters against the wall next to Jess’s head, a fortuitous near-hit that causes her to start and duck. She doesn’t say anything else, but turns and steps through the door, pausing long enough to pin me with a sympathetic look as she whispers, “I’m sorry.”

Then we’re alone, me and Dark Prince Apocalypse. Xaine’s glaring at the doorway, but the minute I shift my stance, I’m the one pinned by that furious gaze.

But all he asks is, “You okay?”

I manage a nod and a small, “Yeah.”

“You sure?” he prompts. “You backed out of the conversation pretty damn quick.”

Before he can ask why, I frown and say, “You didn’t have to throw the phone at her.”

“I didn’t throw it at her. I threw it near her.”

Semantics are the least of my worries right now. I’m starting to wonder if my life isn’t some staged reality TV program, like The Truman Show, only worse.

“So, you know Cas,” I say, “and you know Reille, and she knows Cas, and she knows you, and he knows you both.”

Xaine rakes a hand through his hair, scraping back the dark strands hanging in his face. “Yeah. We’re all one big happy family.” Except, there’s enough bitterness in that statement to tell me that nobody’s happy about anything in this situation.

“And Elizabeth?” I ask. “Who’s she?”

He hesitates then, turning to look out the windows. The glass isn’t UV tinted at night, so the glow of the streetlights carve space under his eyes and his cheekbones. “My wife. Cas’s sister.”

“And she’s dead?”

“Yeah, sweetheart.” Xaine’s voice softens. “Long dead.”

My throat closes up, because I’m not sure if I even want to ask the next question, but I do, I need to ask. “Why did he say what he said? What did he mean when he said—”

“That you have his father’s eyes?” Xaine finishes for me, tacking on a bitter laugh as he falls into the office chair and starts digging in the drawers. “Because apparently, sweetheart, you do.”

If you look close enough, it’s all there, stamped across her face with bits of each and every ancestor that came before.

“That’s not possible, right?” I say, shaking my head in denial.

Xaine turns his back on me, rifling through a file cabinet, talking off-the-cuff. “I know it seems impossible, but you need to understand something. Cas doesn’t make mistakes. Ever.”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

“Not this time,” he says with a headshake. “I sensed it, in the hallway the night Benny juiced us up. I was dreaming of her, and you stepped right in, like the perfect understudy—” He cuts himself off again, maybe realizing how shitty that sounds.

“No, he’s wrong about this.” I tell him. “And I’m not a do-over. You don’t get to—”

“I know that, sweetheart. I was jerking Cas’s chain.” Xaine slams the drawer shut harder than necessary, yanking open another one to root around inside as a strained silence falls between us. “Christ, for a woman as picky as Reille is about where she keeps her shit, this office is a fucking mess.”

It’s meant to change the subject, to shift the tenor of the room, to be some punch line that makes me smile, puts me at ease, but instead, it makes me realize that Xaine’s serious. Utterly and completely stone-faced serious. Somehow, I’m related to Caspian Declan. God knows how he figured it out. There have to be ten generations between then and now, and Jess must know the whole story, too—

Because she works for him.

And I let all the answers I ever needed walk right out the door.

Muttering to himself, completely determined to not look at me, Xaine’s not paying me a single speck of attention right now. Making a break for it, I duck into the hallway and head for the elevator at a trot. My finger hits the button with more vehemence than necessary, and I wait anxiously for the car to make its way to the top floor. Behind me, I can still hear Xaine digging around in the office, slamming drawers and shuffling papers until—

“Lore?”

Shit.

The elevator dings, silver doors sliding back, and I’m wedging myself inside before they’re fully open. As I stab at the door-close button, Xaine skids into the hallway.

“Lore!”

But it’s too late; the doors glide shut, and I hear the hard slam of his body against the metal on the other side. Without so much as a hiccup, the car begins its descent, and when my stomach drops out from under me, I’m not sure if it’s gravity, nerves, adrenaline, or all of the above. I hit the dimly-lit lobby five seconds later. One foot over the threshold and I turn back, pulling the emergency switch, trapping the elevator car there and leaving Xaine to take the stairs down. The water feature throws rippling reflections across the walls, turning stars into streaks of light that decorate every darkened surface as I make my way out the way we came in. Presumably, it’s the only way in or out until they reset the security.

Garage smog hits me the moment I step foot outside Scion’s air-conditioned interior. I hadn’t noticed before how stuffy it was, or the scents of hot concrete, asphalt, leaked oil, and car exhaust. A wave of nausea rolls through my gut as I look left, then right. I spot Jess’s receding form as she heads down the aisle, walking in too-tall heels that’ll have her in blisters well before she makes it to her car. There’s nobody down here; normally the place would be crawling with vampires that didn’t rate VIP entry and nightclubbers looking to get bitten or laid, but after the lockdown, the police cleared everyone out, including the employees. I can count the number of cars on one hand, and that includes the Zenvo and Asher’s Hummer. Jess’s Honda is parked at the far end, near a white delivery van.

I start forward, immediately wishing I’d taken Xaine up on his offer to lose these infernal shoes. I’m not a girly-girl by any means, and stilettos never were my forte. Still, I’ve got an extra two feet of leg on Jess, and I’m quickly closing the gap between us. Once she’s within shouting distance, I open my mouth to call her name, but then—

Wind chimes.

The soft tinkling of metal on metal stops me in my tracks, sends a hard chill down the column of my spine, and dredges up the very worst of my broken memories. Pressing myself against a concrete pillar, I cast around for the source of the noise. My pulse kicks up a frantic tattoo as panic snakes through me. There’s no one else, but I can still hear it, even over Jess’s shoes and the van door sliding open.

“Back it up, pendejo!” Jess yells. “The entire damn place is empty and you gotta crowd me—”

“Here we go, boys.” The voice hits every one of my trauma buttons. My stomach threatens to revolt as everything inside me clenches into a knot of fear. “Looks like we found Declan’s lapdog. Chihuahua by the looks of it.”

Whatever insult she would have hurled next is lost to a sudden, wordless shriek. I duck out far enough to see three men in dark clothes tossing Jess into the back of the van. Two of them jump in after her, the third turns to climb into the driver’s seat, and I get a glimpse of his face—that face—the same guy who grabbed me from the record store a year ago. The chains loop from his ears to his nose, dangling with silver charms that still look eerily like teeth. His face is as pale as I remember, and his eyes are as cold. Reflective.

Mirrors into the soul.

Like in a nightmare, I’m frozen in place, unable to move, unable to yell, unable to do anything but listen to the tinkle of wind chimes again as the door slides shut and the engine turns over.

Then all the adrenaline pours into my system, and I run for the Zenvo, digging Xaine’s keys out of my pocket. It takes all of two seconds to get the supercar running and thrown into reverse, then I’m tearing out of the structure at top speed, spotting the van’s tail lights as it turns the corner. Left foot hits the clutch, right hand drops the car into third gear, then fourth after I hit the gas. Left hand reaching out to jab at the On-board communication system, and when I bark out “Call Asher Reece” the robotic voice responds with “Dialing G.I. Joe.”

Asher picks up immediately. “What?”

“Hey, it’s Lourdes. I need you to grab Xaine and get in your car. I’m headed east, following a white van. Remember that guy I told you about at the precinct? The one with the teeth?”

“Yeah, but—”

“He’s here. He just kidnapped my roommate.”

There’s a pause then, and I imagine Asher blinking at his handheld. “What the hell, Lourdes, are you tailing them?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s Xaine?”

“Somewhere between Reille’s office and the lobby.” But when I think about it a moment longer, I feel compelled to add, “He could be as far as the parking garage.”

“Well, that sure narrows it down,” Asher fires back at me. “Where the hell did you get a car, anyway?”

I wince at that. “I might have sorta stolen the Zenvo.” In response, I only get Asher’s stunned silence. “Are you done asking irrelevant questions? Will you get your ass out here?”

“Car chase in a stick shift.” He’s on the move now, feet hitting the floor at a solid run. “Who do you think you are, Wonder Woman?”

“These are the same guys who kidnapped me last year. We need to stop them before they hurt Jess.” I’ve caught up enough that I actually have to slow down and drop back so they don’t notice the million dollar machine shadowing them. Asher’s yelling Xaine’s name into a space that echoes, the stairwell most likely. There’s an answering shout a few seconds later, then the scuffling of feet.

“C’mon, we’ve got to go,” Asher says.

“Where’s Lore?” is Xaine’s muffled demand, so they must both be in the garage now.

“Chasing a bunch of vamps through downtown.”

“Where the hell is my car?”

“She stole it, apparently, to save her roommate.”

“It’s not technically stealing if he gave me the keys,” I offer as they get in the Humvee and Asher fires up the engine. “And good fucking thing, too—”

“No sense of self-preservation whatsoever,” Xaine mutters.

“I think running away from you was probably the smartest thing she’s done yet,” Asher says.

“Oh, yeah, right into a vampire gang. That’s great. Over a piece of shit, lying roommate who’s been working for the enemy.”

“There has to be a reason.” My hackles rise in Jess’s defense, because I know deep down that she’s a good person; I can feel it, as instinctively as I did with Jax Trace and Asher.

And Xaine.

Two blocks down, the van pulls into a gritty parking lot and cuts the engine. I immediately pull over to the side of the lot and do the same.

“They stopped at a warehouse, corner of Broadway and Seventh.” The lighting down here is sketchy at best, but I can still make out Jess’s form as they pull her from the car, thankfully still kicking. Not screaming, so they must have shoved something in her mouth. Wind chimes again; I can taste bile at the back of my throat as I force myself to unbuckle my seatbelt.

“Stay in the car, Lourdes,” Asher says.

“Get here as fast as you can,” I mutter as the kidnappers drag Jess inside and slam the door shut behind them.

There’s a muffled “put it on speakerphone, shithead” before Xaine’s voice comes through again, loud and clear and pissed. “What the hell, Lore? You’ve got a serial killer stalking you.”

My hand freezes on the door handle, because apparently seeing the guy who tried to kill me a year ago was enough to make me forget all about the guy who’s trying to kill me now. “Remind me to start carrying a gun. I should really carry a gun.”

“Nobody’s giving you a gun,” Asher says. “You’ll shoot your eye out!”

Xaine shouts over him. “You wouldn’t need a gun if you hadn’t taken off without me.”

“I wouldn’t have had to take off if you hadn’t ordered Jess out. And, to be fair, this wasn’t supposed to turn into a field trip.” Swallowing hard, I add, “I’m going inside. It’s the gray door right next to the van.”

“Don’t go inside!” both of them yell.

“Get back in the car!” Asher tacks on. “We’re right behind you.”

“I can’t wait,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

I reach out and tap the touchscreen, cutting them both off. Two seconds later, I’m tiptoeing down the street, cursing my shoes and heading for the door. I don’t know what I’m going to do once I’m inside, but I can’t stand out here, helpless, useless…

Especially now that I can hear the sounds of a struggle, Jess’s muffled screams, the muttered warning of “Shut her the hell up.” Sucking in a breath, I ease into the building and keep my back pressed flat against the wall. I’m in a loading area, surrounded by dusty pallets and shelving full of unidentifiable industrial parts. The only light in the room struggles through a row of filthy windows set high up the walls, near the ceiling. I work my way slowly to the source of the noise: a back office, lit up with pale blue halogens. Pausing behind a stack of massive tires, I can make out the open metal cabinets, surgical equipment, hanging transfusion bags. The scents of blood and rubbing alcohol hit me at the same time, and it’s all I can do not to retch.

They’re strapping Jess down, hooking her up, and I watch in sick horror as crimson fluid makes its way toward her, a steady drip of poison that I know is going to burn. Sure enough, the second it hits her vein, the muffled screaming starts again, an echo of my own nightmares.

Before they can activate the second IV, I start shoving at the nearest set of shelves. It’s heavier than expected, so I put my shoulder to it and push hard. As soon as it starts to topple, I sprint down the aisle, ducking behind a pallet loaded with crates and spiderwebs. The shelf and a dozen metal pans hit the floor with an almighty crash, and there’s a flurry of shouts from the office.

“What the fuck—”

“Someone’s out there.”

And a voice… his voice says, “Finish the job. I’ll go check.”

Two sets of footsteps, but only one set of wind chimes. There’s the click of a heavy light switch, then another, but nothing happens.

“The wiring in this building is for shit,” he mutters, flicking it over and over again, each one like a gunshot fired off in my head.

A second voice answers. “Yeah, well, we’re not exactly using this part of the warehouse, Tiberius.”

The nightmare has a name.

“A pile of shit fell over,” he says. “Now, get back in there and stick her with the other needle—”

But then he—Tiberius—stops himself. Turns in a slow circle. Two hands rise up from the darkness and push back the hood of his sweatshirt, exposing the sharply-cut planes of his face to the glow of the streetlights. He tilts his head up ever so slightly, and then smiles.

“I can smell you, love,” he says. “Still wearing that same sweet perfume. Like peaches. Brings back good memories every time I catch a whiff.”

I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I couldn’t, even if I wanted to. His footfalls are heavy on the concrete floor and I take a moment to reach down, to snap off the spindle heel of one shoe, then the other.

Sorry, Christian…

“Last I heard, you were in a body bag, headed for the incinerator. One more little lost soul.” A clucking noise, almost like he’s amused by this turn of events. “But nothing quite sticks on you, does it? Not even death.”

I’m crouched down, balancing on the balls of my feet, watching as he meanders up the main row like he’s searching for a Mänsklig Flicka at Ikea. I don’t have a weapon; all I have is my backup, which may or may not arrive in time. Jess’s muffled screams turn into full-fledged shrieks, and I squeeze my eyes shut.

Someone must have taken out the gag.

“I love that sound.” A soft chuckle. “Do you remember the screaming? I do. Like music to my ears.”

He’s getting closer, homing in on me like a bloodhound. He stops at the last second, turning and squinting into the darkness. I catch the quick flash of a rat as it scurries through the debris, and the animal holds his attention right up to the point where I back into the nearest shelf. A metal tire rim clatters to the floor, and Tiberius’s head snaps around, those eerily-mercurial eyes fixing on my face. No hope that he doesn’t see me, because he peers through the wide shelves and various pieces of metal and junk, then smiles and takes a step forward, crouching down for a better look.

“’Allo, love. Why don’t you come around here and we can have us a little chat?”

Another scream pierces the air, and I clamp down on the metal ledge behind me, drawing in air through flared nostrils because if I open my mouth, I’ll scream too. I don’t speak until I know my voice will be steady, and even then I don’t dare chance more than three words. “Let her go.”

“You don’t get to make demands,” Tiberius says. “You’ve got no leverage.”

“If you let her go. I’ll stay,” I tell him. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Oh, sweet girl,” he says, “you’ll do that anyway.”

A sound behind me makes me jump, but before I can pull away, two hands clamp down on my arms from the other side of the shelves. It’s the second guy, the vampire, his stronger-than-ten-men muscle pinning me in place. Tiberius disappears, his stride rapid and heavy as he rounds the corner. Panic envelops me as I wait for the executioner’s axe to fall. Flipping through any and every alternative, I come up with the only one that’s likely to work. Bracing my feet flat upon the floor, I push. Push until the shelf wobbles back, pull forward until it sways, then push again until the whole thing tips, spilling its contents all over my captor. The entire unit follows, falling down and taking me with it. My back hits the metal slats with painful accuracy, and I’m momentarily stunned, air knocked from my lungs. Gasping, I somehow manage to evade the flailing hands that keep making mad grabs for anything within reach.

Tiberius stops at the edge of the debris, smiling like he’s vaguely impressed. “You gonna run, love?”

“Yes,” I croak out, struggling for breath, struggling to get upright, struggling for purchase on anything more stable than a floor littered with ball bearings and metal hubcaps. “I do believe… I will run now.” My snapped-off Louboutin catches a metal bearing and skids, my foot sliding out from under me until my hip bangs against a wooden crate. “Maybe.”

He takes one menacing step forward and then another, picking his way toward me with lethal determination. More tentative tiptoeing on my end, and I clear the ball pit. The second my feet touch down on solid concrete, I take off at a full sprint, headed toward the room where they’re holding Jess. A glance backward tells me that Tiberius is still working his way through the mess I made. He ignores the neophyte wedged beneath the shelving and just keeps coming, like the Terminator and—

“Oof!” I slam face-first into a hard plane, one that I’m fairly sure wasn’t there a second ago. When I lift my eyes to look, I’m expecting to see the other vamp friend.

“Heya, Lo. Miss me?”

Fuck.

“Benicio,” I say, and swallow hard. “I, um…” Fuck! “Help me. Please?”

His smarmy grin turns into a frown as he looks over my shoulder at Tiberius, who’s marching double-time. The other vamp pops out of the smaller room and heads straight for us.

Just me and my serial killer stalker. No biggie.

Benicio trails a finger down my cheek. “I got this, Lo. I’m not going to let anyone else hurt you.”

Because he wants to keep that honor for himself.

As the one puny mortal in a room full of immortals, I have zero options right now. Suppressing a shudder, I muster a smile and look up at Benny in what I hope is an encouraging manner. His mouth is but a hairbreadth from mine, and I get the distinct impression that he’s about to—

Please, please don’t kiss me.

I’m already bracing for impact when Benicio turns, his hand catching the office vamp by the face. Before our attacker can get off a single scream, his skin turns gray. His entire body follows suit, and within seconds, there’s nothing left of Tiberius’s henchman but a pile of ash and clothing. Blinking twice, I stare at the sin-eater, but he only gives me his signature greasy smile, hitching one shoulder as if he dusts vampires on the daily.

“Who the hell are you?” Tiberius demands, breaking into our little circle.

When I turn around, I find myself boxed in by the enemy. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Jess’s next cry dwindles to a piteous moan. Benicio’s hand clamps down on my shoulder, dragging me back and putting me behind the hulking shield of his body.

“I got this.” And he puts his hands out, Kung-Fu style, like he’s about to karate chop his foe to death. “Watch and learn.”

And then he’s off, my knight in Abercrombie & Fitch and a serious amount of Polo by Ralph Lauren. Benicio winds up and swings at Tiberius, the latter easily dodging the wide arc of the punch. A second later, Tiberius has the sin-eater in a choke hold, and I’m seriously rethinking the wisdom of siccing one killer on another. The tide turns when Benicio shakes the hold and manages to land a punch, clipping Tiberius on the jaw and setting those creepy strings of metal teeth to jangling. He doesn’t dust him like he did the other vamp, so either he’s out of juice or he simply can’t.

Movement in the distance catches my eye. The vamp that was crushed under the shelves has finally managed to get free, and as soon as he gets his bearings, this fight’s probably going to be two-on-one. Turning, I sprint toward the office. Jess’s screams are jagged, heartfelt shrieks of agony that trigger some serious PTSD on my part. I skid to a halt inside the doorway, grabbing hold of the jamb to slow my momentum. She’s strapped to a stainless steel table—

Cold, unyielding. I’m kicking so hard my skin bruises. Screaming so loud my throat goes raw…

Breathing in through my mouth and out through my nose, I shove the memories aside and dash toward the table. Jess’s body arches, bowing at the middle as she lifts up off the hard surface. The blood—her blood—has already started pushing out of her pores, and it’s soaking through her clothing. My fingers find the place where the needles enter her arms, and I carefully pull the tubes loose, peeling back the medical tape and unhooking her from the haphazard warehouse camp clinic.

“Jess,” I whisper. Her eyes pop open, and I’m stunned to see that the deep brown of her irises has transitioned to a shocking red. When she opens her mouth to speak, I find myself searching for fangs, but apparently those come later. “I’m going to get you out of here. Can you walk?”

“Go,” she whispers. “Lolo, get away from—”

Another spasm hits her, cutting off the warning. I’ve got no choice but to wait for it to pass before I hook my hands around her upper arms and pull her into a sitting position.

“I’m not leaving you,” I tell her.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she gasps, but lets me slide her off the table and onto her feet. With her arm slung over my shoulder and mine gripping her waist, I guide Jess toward the office door. “You need to leave me and go, Lolo. Cas wouldn’t want—”

Her legs buckle and her body drops to the floor, dragging me down with her. There’s a few seconds of mad scrambling as my hands slide across the slick surface of her skin, trying to find purchase. Once I have her propped up again, I begin what seems like a forever-march. Benicio and Tiberius are still scrabbling, two titans clashing without realizing that their prize is getting away. They’ve reached some sort of impasse, neither one able to do much damage to the other. When the third vamp joins the fray, Benny catches his fist within his own, and the other henchman goes down in a second pile of ash.

“Lolo—”

“Shhh, they’ll hear you.” And I hate to say it, but I have to add, “Try not to scream.”

There has to be another door out of this place. Benicio and Tiberius are between us and the one I used to come in, and I doubt I could drag Jess through the mess I made when the shelf tipped over, anyway. Off to my right, there’s a huge rolling door, the kind that a semi could back into with a trailer, but the chain is padlocked in two places. My eyes track frantically, looking for any other option when they hit the faintest green glow where dust and more spiderwebs and a collapsed ladder partially obscure an exit sign. Thankfully, even the shittiest structure is built with concerns about potential fires.

“Go on, Lo,” Benny says, sounding unnaturally cheerful for a guy nuts-deep in a fist fight. “I’ll catch up.”

Awesome.

Still clutching Jess, I shove the ladder out of the way and put my hip to the door as hard as I can. It gives with a rusty screech, dumping us out on a loading dock on the back side of the building. I don’t know what the plan would have been if the door had been locked, and I don’t care. There’s no thought left for anything save getting Jess back to the Zenvo and as far away from here as possible. She’s wheezing, a horrible wet sucking kind of noise that indicates her lungs are full of fluid even before the tiny red bubbles start forming on her lips.

“Hold on, Jess. I’ve got you.”

And it’s a good damn thing she’s as petite as she is, because I’m half-carrying, half-dragging her now. By the time we hit the corner of the building, her head is lolling against my shoulder. Without warning, she stiffens and shrieks right into my ear. It’s the straw that breaks this camel’s back, and both of us go down a full block from the Zenvo. Jess’s eyes roll back, and it’s all I can do to hitch her up in my arms.

“Jess.” I shake her, but her head only falls to the side, long dark curls matted with blood that looks black in the streetlights. “Jess, you have to wake up.”

Headlights cut across us. A second later, Asher’s Humvee screeches to a stop in the gutter, and the boys bail out.

“They tried to turn her,” I yell before they can ask. “She’s bleeding out.”

Asher puts on the brakes and doubles back to the trunk. “Where are the kidnappers?”

“Two piles of dust inside the building, plus the guy I told you about before. Last time I saw him, he was fighting with my stalker.”

Then it’s Xaine’s turn to skid to a halt. “So Benicio did follow you here?”

Before I can answer, he turns and follows Asher. There’s a brief, muttered conversation, then Xaine comes at me with a small medical kit and Asher’s off and running with a bow slung over his back and a UV pistol in each hand. Eerie to watch a guy that big move without making a noise, but he manages it, heading straight for the fire exit. Hope like hell that he remembers not to let Benny make contact; the last thing we need right now is a doped-up commando.

Xaine lands on his knees next to me, cracking open the box and rummaging around until he finds a silver case. It holds what looks like an EpiPen, or it would, if it didn’t have the words “Property of CasDec” and “Prototype” stamped all over it. He wrangles it out of its protective plastic even as he checks Jess for a pulse.

“Is she—” I start to ask.

“It’s happening fast. Too fucking fast.” He cracks open one of her eyes and gets a good look at the crimson of her irises. “Fucking A, Cas, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Without another word, Xaine hikes up Jess’s skirt and jams the needle into her leg. Holding my breath, I wait for any kind of response. I don’t know what he gave her, but I’m sure as hell not expecting her to turn her head to the side and cough blood all over the sidewalk. Every muscle in Jess’s body constricts, and liquid spatters the concrete and a nearby chain link fence. It’s like a horror movie, looping over and over until she coughs one last time and her body goes lax. She’s still breathing too quick, pulse thudding too fast, but those issues seem minor in comparison to what just happened.

“What the fucking fuck.” Xaine seems more horrified by whatever was in that tube than the fact my roommate coughed up three quarts of crimson all over the sidewalk.

“What is it?” I ask. “What’d you give her?”

Xaine’s quiet for a long moment, staring at the cylinder he’s holding. Then he’s up, spinning in a circle, and I catch a softly muttered “sonovabitch” before he hurls the injector pen against the fence and shouts, “Sonovabitch!”

“Xaine—”

“He fucking did it. Just two hundred fucking years too late.” There’s a wealth of unspoken sentiment in that simple proclamation.

“Are you…” I start to say, but find myself rephrasing. “Did he find a cure?”

Somewhere around the corner, there’s the sound of an engine turning over, rubber spinning against asphalt, tires spraying gravel as a vehicle speeds away. Xaine kneels next to Jess, pulling back her eyelid even as she swats him away with a muttered, “Don’t touch me, pinche.”

“No,” he tells me, shaking his head. “Not a cure. He’d be selling it otherwise, but maybe… an emergency injection. If you can catch it before it takes hold.”

“So, she’ll be all right?”

“She’ll be fine,” Asher cuts in, heading toward us with that purposeful walk I’m getting to know so well. He stoops down and hefts Jess up in his arms, carrying her toward the black Humvee like she weighs nothing. “I’ll get her to the hospital. I want you two at the mansion. I’ll send a team to run security until we track down these assholes.”

“What, you didn’t take care of them?” Xaine reaches down and hauls me to my feet, scowling as he digs in my skirt pocket for the Zenvo’s keys. “What the hell good are you, Boy Wonder?”

“The guy with the piercings cleared out as I went in. Left Benicio standing there holding his nuts and the hubcap he was using to beat the other dude’s face in.” Asher fastens Jess’s seatbelt and slams the passenger door shut, then circles around to the driver’s side. “Benny’s definitely a sin-eater, but the other one is… something else. And not a vampire, either, or he’d be dust like the other two.”

“Wait!” I take a step toward the Humvee as he clambers in. “I’ll come with you.”

“Like hell,” Xaine protests even as Asher shakes his head.

“I’ve got this,” he said. “If you’re there, you’re a target, and I don’t need the distraction.”

“Way to make a girl feel special,” I mutter, touching my hand to the window. Jess is curled in on herself, but breathing normally now, and I have to trust that Asher’s the capable guy I take him for. “Don’t fuck it up, Flipper, ’kay?”

That sparks a grin, and he jerks his chin at me in acknowledgement before he throws the Humvee into drive and takes off down the street, hitting sixty before screeching around a corner. There’s the first hint of light on the horizon, the faintest suggestion of how hot the day is going to get. I wobble a little, ducking into our ride, and the second my butt hits the leather, I realize all the places I ache, how badly my feet hurt, that my stomach is tangled up in knots, that I’m spattered with—

“Yeah, we both need a shower,” Xaine says, sliding in next to me and turning the engine over.

“Again.” I let my head fall back against the rest. “This is getting to be a habit.”

Xaine doesn’t miss a beat as he hits the gas. “I’ll try to keep the soap out of your eyes this time, sweetheart.”

As we pull away from the curb, something heavy hits the back window, shattering the glass and spraying my hair with glittering debris. I jump a mile, twisting around in time to see Benicio standing where Jess and I fell a few minutes ago. Through the busted pane, I can see his face twisted up in anger, the metal shine of a hubcap spinning in the street as he stoops to pick up a chunk of concrete.

I reach for Xaine, lacing my fingers through his. “Drive faster,” is all I say, but he knows, hand flexing under mine like a cat extending its claws.

“When I get my hands on that little shit,” he says, “remind me to beat ten thousand dollars’ worth of rear windshield out of his face.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Xaine

Twenty-four hours. I don’t know how I know, but that’s how long I spent passed out in the giant bed. Maybe it’s because I’ve always tracked the seconds the way I do beats in a piece of music or someone’s pulse at their throats, but before I crack an eyelid and peer at the bedside clock, I know that it’s somewhere near seven AM the next day.

A second later, I register that I’m alone.

And the second after that—

“What… the fuck?”

The arm extended in front of me is covered in Post-It Notes. My face is papered over with the same bright green and yellow and pink and blue snippets, as are my legs, my back, my shoulders and…

“My asscrack.” I pluck the first of many out. “Damn woman woke up and stuck memos in my asscrack.”

Except they’re not memos… they’re song lyrics. Snippets that don’t make much sense, until I realize they were written in order, stream of consciousness style, and if I lay them out on the bed in the same rows that they were stuck on my body, they form a song that is equal parts my scribbles—which she dug out of the bedside table—and her bits of inspiration linking them together. I pause a second, musing over her handwriting. Just like on the contracts, Lore takes the time to neatly form the letters, and yet there are little artistic swoops and curves that peg it as wholly feminine. Once I stop ogling the way she dots her i’s and crosses her t’s, it only takes a few minutes to get them laid out, perfectly color-coded bits of unfinished songs, finished. Staring at it all, I’m not one hundred percent sure that I have the verses in the order that she intended, but it’s setting off a thousand musical sparks, and my fingers are itching for a guitar, a piano, something to start pounding out a melody.

So much for telling Reille I don’t pull new songs out of my ass.

“Lore!” I reach for the shirt that’s closest and the sleeping pants I’d opted not to wear. Hell, if it gets me a new song every time I skip them, I’ll burn the damn things and put up with Post-Its for as long as she’s willing to cram them in my outbox. “Lore!”

She’s in the house, I know that much. There’s security, too. I can scent all of them, but the only one I’m interested in smells like peaches, is wearing my T-shirt, and has her cute little butt parked on the couch in my media room. She’s got the flatscreen on and tuned to E!, which is treating her to grainy cell phone footage from the first duet and then the more professional shots from the night of the lockdown. It’s muted, but that doesn’t stop me from lip-reading the rundown, from the incident with Cas in the VIP area to the fact that “In Your Light” is the most downloaded bootleg on BitTorrent.

The fans couldn’t even wait for us to lay a track in the studio. Jesus.

“Did you know you’re on every station?” Lore asks before I get a word in.

“I’m always on every station.” I flop down next to her on the couch.

“And that there’s a vampire running for president?”

I glance at the screen. Of course, there’s Uriel Dellessandro in a too-expensive suit and too-styled hair, smiling for the cameras, fangs on full display. I should have guessed it would be him. “He’ll never win. His constituency is outnumbered a million to one, never mind the fact that he was their second choice.”

“Who was their first?”

I pull a face because politics have never been my thing. Doubling down, I throw in a fake snore before saying, “Cas.”

“Oh, I suppose that makes sense.” Another one of her thoughtful pauses. “Did you know he’s a viscount?”

I realize she’s dug up my iPad and must have been Googling Enemy Number One all night. “Was a viscount,” I say, then emphasize it by repeating, “Was. And that was like… two hundred years ago. It doesn’t even count.”

“No, it viscounts.” Those humor-filled eyes turn my way. “He was also the governor of New York City for two terms. How did I not know that?”

“It was before your time.” I pluck the tablet from her hands and chuck it across the room before she treats me to the litany of Cas’s many and varied achievements. “Do you ever sleep?”

“Not much.” Lore reaches around under her legs, presumably for the TV remote.

“And why were you Googling Cas?”

“He keeps popping up everywhere,” she says. “Figured I should do my homework.”

“For the record, it boils down to ‘pretentious douchebag with too much money and time on his hands.’” More than done talking about Cas and not wanting my brain to flick the connect-the-dots switch back on, I actively seek to distract us both. Reaching across my chest, I scratch my bicep, still feeling the tickle of her words on my skin. “Why did you stick Post-Its in my butt?”

“You were on your stomach,” Lore says as if it’s the most logical answer ever. That sly smile of hers makes a reappearance as she adds, “Wouldn’t be a problem if you wore clothes to bed.”

“Sweetheart, with prospects like that, I’m never wearing clothes to bed again.”

She ducks her head, like she’s trying not to imagine me naked. Her cheeks flush a very, very pretty pink, enough so that my fangs remind me that I need to get something into my system. “Have you eaten?”

“Rosa made me enough food for three truck drivers before she left for the night.”

“And how much of it did you actually eat?”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not one of your LA toothpick girls,” Lore points out wryly. “I had like forty eggs and a whole pack of sausage, but… that might have been a while ago.”

“Come on, then.” I bounce off the couch and head down the hall. “You’re going to need to carb-load before we go in the studio.”

Lore perks up at that. “Studio?”

There’s the pit-pat of her bare feet following me, so I keep right on going. “Yeah, we need to lay down ‘In Your Light’ properly before no one’s interested in buying it off iTunes.” A lie. We could make them wait a year and the fans would still be slobbering for the official version. “We’ll use the one here, so Asher doesn’t shit kittens over us leaving the property.”

It goes without saying that the studio downstairs is as high-end as the one at Apocalypse, and I actually prefer it because at least here I can control who barges in on me, and when. But if we’re going to put in a solid eight to twelve hours, I need blood, and a lot of it. Jerking open the door to the stainless steel refrigerator, I toss four packs on the counter and follow that with storage containers full of anything and everything.

“It was a surprise to see how much… er… food you keep in the fridge,” Lore observes, sliding onto a bar stool.

“I have human staff,” I point out. “The occasional guest. Noah Carmichael drops in pretty regularly to shoot pool. Last time, he dragged the Leto boys out with him, and those shitheads might be vegans, but they can clear out the tofu and sprouts like Hoovers.”

“Bullshit,” Lore says, but the way she says it tells me she’s tickled to death by the very idea.

“Cross my heart.” I nuke the first blood pack and follow that with the usual high-end stuff, lobster mac and cheese with truffle something or other. Switching out bowls, I get a good whiff of something really rank.

“Mmm,” Lore says. “Gorgonzola.”

“Yeah, that.” My nose wrinkles a little, because expensive cheese and alcohol have this way of suckerpunching me right in the olfactory receptors. “It smells like ass.”

“Isn’t it the cheese of your people?”

“Sweetheart,” I drawl, leaning far enough over to get right in her face, “I am the cheese of my people.”

“A national treasure, for sure,” she says, grinning back at me. “I bet they built statues of you in the plazas of Rome.”

“Venice. Hometown boy made good sort of thing.”

Lore snorts. “I doubt you were ever good.”

My next lean brings me close enough that I’m within kissing distance. “I’m always good.”

Before she can give me some smartass retort, I pile trays of sushi and California rolls, cartons of dim sum and spicy Thai noodles in front of her. “Have at it.”

“Xaine,” Lore says with the hint of laughter in that gorgeous voice of hers, “how much food do you think I need?”

“One of everything,” I say, distracted by a bright pink bakery box. A yank of the string yields petite French pastries—no clue who’s eating those—and I grin to myself, remembering all the dessert I had sent to her apartment.

“What’s so funny?” she demands less than a second later, and I realize I’m going to need to school my face if I don’t want her reading my damn mind.

“What was it you said about the pies and the dildos? That you made a night of it?” I nudge the box at her. “Why don’t you start with the pie and we’ll see about the rest.”

“You’re awful,” she counters, fishing in the box and going straight for the lemon curd tart. “Jess was furious.”

“You liked it, though, admit it.” When she doesn’t deny it, I smirk and reach for one of the metal straws. Punching it through the blood pack, I empty it out in one swift suck and toss it, straw and all, into the garbage can under the sink.

Lore lifts a brow at that, her mouth full of fruit and custard. “Those are reusable. Or, at the very least, recyclable.”

“So?”

“So, you’re immortal. Shouldn’t you care more about saving the planet?”

“Sweetheart, I didn’t name my record label ‘Apocalypse’ for nothing.”

She swallows and gives me a narrow look. “Really? So you’re not going to care when climate change burns up the entire planet and takes all of us with it? It’s altogether likely you’ll be around to see it, you know.”

“There’s a doomsday bunker in the backyard,” I say with a straight face. “You play your cards right, I’ll let you hole up with me.”

“Is there a studio in the bunker, too?” Lore pops off.

“There will be.”

And we keep on like that, verbal badminton through three more blood packs for me and most of the pasta for her. In addition to that, Lore eats a lot of the smelly cheese and more fruit tart. I track every choice, mentally composing a list of what to have Rosa reorder, until I can see she’s about done, and then I start punching buttons on the espresso machine.

“That thing’s pretty fancy,” Lore observes, leaning back and licking something off her fingers. “I think I’ve seen its baby at Starbucks.”

“The one at Starbucks is a piece of shit,” I observe cheerfully, pulling two double shots and pouring them into a single cup. “You want milk? Sugar?”

“I… don’t usually drink coffee,” Lore answers softly.

I pause, because I’d been on autopilot again. Reille could do a quadshot at midnight and still fall asleep an hour later, even if it was more passing out than falling asleep. “No worries.”

But when I make to pour the shots down the drain, I find Lore’s hand on my arm. Even that passing touch sends a shiver up my spine.

“Latte,” she says and when I look down into those eyes of hers, I lose a little something. My mind, I think. “Don’t waste it. Lots of milk and maybe some sweetener?”

“You got it.” Trying to get a grip on myself, I pull out a gallon of milk and start frothing.

“So, I was wondering if maybe…” Tentative, hesitant, and I get the distinct feeling I’m not going to like whatever she’s about to say. “Could you arrange a meeting? Between me and Cas?”

Everything inside me goes cold, utterly and completely chilled to the core. Twisting off the steam valve, I slowly turn around, bringing Lore into my crosshairs. She immediately looks guilty; that’s how I know she’ll be a terrible liar.

I love terrible liars. They never know when to quit.

“Is that what this is about?” I ask. “You wormed your way into my house hoping I could get you closer to Cas?”

“No, me ending up here just kinda… happened,” she says, surprising me with her candor. “I wormed my way into Scion hoping I could get closer to Reille.”

I frown at that. “Why?”

“I told you.” Lore swallows hard, her throat bobbing a little. She knows she’s turned down the wrong road, but she forges ahead anyway. “I met her before. That guy at the warehouse, he took me somewhere… like he took Jess. And wherever he took me, Reille was there too, except she got out, and I got left behind.”

“And you think Cas is involved?”

No blinking, no stammering. “Yes.”

Fuck. Even if I’d tried to avoid it, Lore is trying to connect dots of her own. Just my luck that her biggest dot also happens to be a two-century-old pain in my ass.

“Me and Cas aren’t exactly bosom buddies,” I tell her. “Not to mention the fact that he’s fucked off to god-knows-where to do god-knows-what with Reille, and the last time you had a chance to talk to him, you dropped the phone like a hot rock.”

“I know.” Lore lays her hands out flat on the island, palms up, like she’s willing me to understand. “But after yesterday, I started thinking. If Cas managed to make whatever it was we gave to Jess, how would he know it even worked?”

“What, exactly, are you getting at here?”

Lore opens her mouth, then closes it, and takes a second to put together a new set of words. “At the precinct, while you were in the other room, I had the chance to talk to Asher and he thinks… we both think… that whoever took me tried to turn me. Only it didn’t work.”

“You’re related to him,” I remind her. “No way Cas snatched you off the street so he could human-trial his anti-vamp drug on you.”

“I know it makes no sense, and for a long time everyone had me convinced I was crazy…” Lore pauses, eyes going a little unfocused as if she’s flipping through her mental scrapbook, trying to find the answers she needs. “But I know he was there. I know I was there. I know.”

Cas and I have been at odds for a long time, but I don’t buy for a second that he would inflict a possible-turn on his own bloodline for any reason. Yeah, he’s annoying and pretentious and far too holier-than-thou for my taste, but if there’s one thing I know about him, it’s that he’s forthright. Honest to a fault.

And completely and utterly guilt-ridden.

Lore stares at me like she’s waiting for an answer. Trouble is, I’m not sure what she thinks I can give her.

“Reille never mentioned anything like what happened to Jess.” I heave a breath and shove my phone at her. “Number’s in there. Call him and see if he’ll actually pick up. If he doesn’t, he’s probably in the middle of something that involves a winch, a pulley, and his sausage basket.”

Her hand hovers over the phone for a long second, but when she picks it up, she only slides it into her pocket, putting a bookmark in the conversation.

“How ’bout that coffee?” she asks, smiling to cover the dull ache lurking in those blue eyes. “Then we can make beautiful music together.”

Pouring espresso into the frothed milk, I have to wonder if this is a box I really want to open.

Pandora’s Box.

Because who the hell knows what’s inside.

I shake my head, setting the mug in front of Lore like some sort of caffeinated peace offering. “Drink up. You’ll need your strength.”

“You gonna put me through my paces?” Delicate, long-fingered hands wrap around the mug, and it’s the first time in my life I’ve ever envied a cup of joe.

“You’ll be walking funny by the time I’m done,” I tell her. With a soft snort, Lore jumps down from her stool and leaves me to play catch-up. “Hey, where you going?”

“The studio,” she says, headed that way with unerring accuracy.

“It’s that way.” I point in the opposite direction just to mess with her.

Lore glances in the direction of the living room before frowning and giving me a suspicious look. “No, it’s not.”

“Sure about that?”

Smiling at me over a cup full of foam, she retorts, “Your asscrack wasn’t the only thing I explored while you were sleeping.”

Keep on making yourself at home, sweetheart.

And I add Post-Its to the mental shopping list as well.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Lore

“Look, Lore, I know you’re worried.” Asher’s voice rumbles out of the iPhone. Somewhere along the way, he dropped the “Miss Chase” and even the “Lourdes” and picked up the nickname Xaine gave me. “And I’m well aware that you want to talk to Jess, but she’s sleeping off—” A hesitation, brief but enough to make me anxious. “Everything.”

“What, exactly, is ‘everything’?” I ask.

“Jesus, Lore, everything,” he says, impatient. “She’s got a slight fever, and she’s still sweating pink, but otherwise, the doctors say she’ll be fine. Whatever the hell Cas gave me, it worked.” Another pause, and I can easily imagine Asher with his fist in his hair, pulling it out by the roots. “Hand to god, I’ll have her call you the second she wakes up.”

I’m not quite ready to give up on the subject, but I don’t have a whole lot of choice in the matter. “Okay, fine. But as soon as she wakes up.”

“Gotcha,” he promises.

I’m alone in the house. Well, I’m as alone as someone can be, surrounded by a small army of people that I barely hear or see. Occasionally I catch sight of Xaine’s housekeeper, Rosa, but the rest of them move like silent shadows, raking the leaves, cleaning the pool, dusting the marble bust of Xaine that’s stationed in the foyer. The man of the house bailed out a while ago, muttering something about getting me breakfast, although I don’t know when it became normal to eat breakfast at three PM.

Maybe right about the time you became platonic bedmates with a vampire.

Or maybe platonic-adjacent. I’d woken up draped over Xaine again, only this time he had his fingers threaded through the holes in my borrowed shirt, and he was idly plucking my nipple in his sleep. Hadn’t apologized for that, either, only gave me that signature fangy grin as he’d tossed his phone at me and headed downstairs wearing only a silk robe. I’d punched up Caspian Declan’s contact information and spent the better part of five minutes staring at it before scrolling back to find Asher’s number instead. He’d picked up on the first ring and relayed everything that happened at the hospital, plus how he got Jess cleaned up and tucked in at Phantom Firearms. Rationally, I know she’s as safe as she could be with him, and yet the irrational side of me wants to steal Xaine’s car again and go down there, if only to hold her hand while she sleeps and be there when she wakes up.

“You don’t have anything to worry about, either,” Asher says, reminding me he’s still on the line. “Benicio isn’t going to come anywhere near the mansion with the team I have in place there.” Another hesitation. “Don’t leave the house, Lore. I know it’s not fair to make you feel like a prisoner right now—”

I can’t help but laugh at that. “Oh, yeah, it’s the trial of the century to be holed up in a mansion in the Palisades—”

Asher runs over the top of my sarcasm with, “You could have just as easily ended up dead last night as…” He trails off, and I wait, but he doesn’t give me anything beyond a cough and a muttered, “Chasing you down once was enough, if you get my drift.”

“Yeah, I do. And I cross my heart promise that I’m looking forward to a very quiet day of planting my ass on Xaine’s couch with all the pizza and beer ever and not getting stalked by a serial killer, thanks.”

Oddly, Asher sounds amused when he says, “Good luck with the pizza and beer part of that plan. I’ve got the rest covered,” before he hangs up.

I stare at the phone for a long moment, wondering what he meant by that, then slowly exhale and pull up Caspian’s number again. This time, I don’t give myself a second chance to chicken out and hit “send” before I can reconsider. I sweat my way through six rings before it rolls over and I hear his voice—that voice—responding with “You’ve reached the voicemail of Caspian Declan.”

Then it beeps. No warning, no “leave a message and I’ll get back to you” pleasantries, just a beep and then the hissing crackle that tells me my awkward silence is being recorded for posterity.

“This is Lourdes Chase, calling from Xaine’s phone… but you probably already guessed that.” Wincing a little, I forge forward. “I think it’s important that we speak as soon as possible.” I pause, debating with myself before blurting out, “There are things I remember, and things I don’t, and a lot of things I don’t understand. You’re sorta… all of those things. If you could call me back? If not, I could… I could… I’ll try again later. Okay, um… thanks… bye.”

Positive that I’ve made a complete and utter ass of myself, I disconnect the call and drop the phone onto the nightstand.

“Didn’t pick up, I’m guessing,” Xaine observes from the doorway, and I jump a mile.

“No, he didn’t.”

“Probably busy.” Completely pokerfaced, Xaine heads for the closet. “Saving the world, curing disease, bringing fresh water to impoverished villages, that kind of thing. Oh, and banging Reille.”

“Does it bother you that he’s with her?” I ask, not sure I want to know the answer.

“Nope,” is the muffled reply. “I have zero fucks left for Reille or Cas. The two of them are welcome to each other.” Xaine heads for me with a second robe, which he drops in a silken puddle in my lap. “Put that on.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“You’re not the boss of me.” Except I can’t help the fact that I’m already smiling. “I was told there would be breakfast.”

“There is all the breakfast ever downstairs. And if you want to go down stark-naked, that’s your business. Will make for a very interesting start to our afternoon.”

“Why?” My stomach suddenly bottoms out. “What’s happening this afternoon?”

Because it could be anything, with Xaine. He could just as easily toss me on a plane as he could in the swimming pool. It could be a photoshoot, a movie shoot, a swanky party, or the two of us on the top of the tallest building downtown. Not to have dinner, but to base jump off the roof. Xaine doesn’t answer me, instead heading out of the bedroom like it’s just another day in paradise. I follow him, chin up, determined not to be the one who blinks first.

Which lasts about as long as it takes me to get a good look over the banister.

The entire first floor looks like the backlot at Universal Studios. Chairs and tables and lights occupy significant real estate. Black electrical cords snake across the marble, held in place with strips of gaffer’s tape. Xaine is three steps ahead of me, but I catch up and clamp down on his shoulder hard enough to make him pause on the first landing.

“What’s going on down there?”

He half-turns, grinning up at me as he reaches for my robe. “That? Is the beginning of a blitzkrieg.” His hands fiddle with the sash, pulling me down to meet him one inexorable stair at a time.

I resist, for whatever that’s worth. “And what, exactly, are we blitzkrieging?”

“You, sweetheart.” His eyes don’t waver from mine as he runs down the list, but there’s an evil glint lurking in those baby blues. “Hair and makeup in the game room. The light’s best in the foyer, so that’s where we’ll film the mini-interviews. They’ll give you a sheet of questions I approved, if you want to start thinking up some pretty answers.”

He’s said ten mouthfuls in as many seconds and I’m flailing, waving my hands at him until he stops the litany of All The Things. “But why?”

Xaine leans in, so the next bit is conspiratorial. “Shit like this happens, Lore, when a song no one was expecting from someone they’ve never heard of debuts at number five on the Top 100 charts.”

His words don’t really process until I blink, then blink again, staggered and thrown all at once. Suddenly, I’m getting the full gist of what I did the other day when I signed on the dotted line. My mind flashes back to the in-house studio, laying tracks for hours on end. Even then, head ducked close to Xaine’s, working over the harmonies and laying the tracks, it was just fun and games. Two people with like hobbies sharing a few precious hours of mutual passion. The strictly platonic sort.

Then I peered over that banister and saw Tinseltown staring back at me.

This is what hitting the big time looks like.

Holy fucking butts.

“But it’s not even a new song,” is my only line of defense. “It’s not even my song.”

“It’s new to them,” Xaine tells me with enviable nonchalance. “In less than twenty-four hours, this thing’s chewed up iTunes and spit it out again, not to mention Spotify, Pandora, and YouTube. And that is the glory of a digital world, sweetheart.”

I can only stare, slack-jawed, blindsided, and more than a little tempted to shove Xaine down these stairs. The only thing stopping me is the fact that he still has a death grip on my bathrobe. As it is, I barely manage to keep myself from turning around and marching back into the palatial bedroom, mostly for the same reason.

Stupid belt.

“Coffee first.” I might not normally drink it, but right now, I need it. I need time, too. Time to process, time to wake up, time get my mental shit together. “Please?”

“Sure.” Ever obliging, Xaine pats me on the butt and sends me off down the hall toward the kitchen.

I’ve explored it top to bottom, but the reality of Xaine’s house still surprises me. It’s not one of those ultra-modern places that’s all glass and metal. He didn’t veer in the opposite direction with faux-crumbling plaster and old Tuscan tapestries either. Instead, it’s… austere. Cold, beyond the temperature on the thermostat. There aren’t any mementos sitting on the tables scattered throughout, and the only photographs are massive black and white prints of Xaine from various photoshoots. The furniture looks like it came straight out of a Beverly Hills showroom. Everything from the heavy marble slab of a coffee table to the black colonial-style couch looks as if he walked into the model, slapped a handful of cash on the rolltop desk, and bought everything as is. It doesn’t even look lived in. No scratches, no scuff marks. Every surface as slick and shiny as the day it got delivered.

Usually it reads like a mausoleum, but today it’s a bonafide madhouse. People crisscross the floor space and gather in every corner. Tech ninjas set up cameras and lights, hang backdrops, and mill about behind big, fuzzy microphones. I pass a girl who looks like me, with the same skin tone, same hair, same height and weight and general body shape. They’ve got her positioned in front of the cameras, and one of the million people huddled around her is adjusting the lighting. There’s a guy who looks like Xaine next to her, and it’s weird, like I’m looking at a pair of Twilight Zone doppelgangers. They’re stand-ins, but they’re creepily familiar nonetheless.

I’m so intent on staring that I trip over some wires and stumble awkwardly. The belt Xaine used for a leash comes loose, and the robe starts to slide open. Thankfully, I catch it before my bits and pieces are bared to the world, but the entire incident serves to remind me that I’m down here, milling through an honest-to-god throng in nothing but a bathrobe and a ratty T-shirt. From that point forward, I keep an iron grip on the silk and both eyes trained on the floor. I’m fine, right up to the moment that a dark-haired guy carrying two heavy-duty silver cases rounds a corner and nearly takes me out. As it is, I barely manage to flatten myself against the wall in time.

He flashes an apologetic grin that shifts to something else, like he’s running through a mental guest list and finally lands on my name. “Hey, it’s you!”

I blink, because it’s such a weird thing to say to someone you’ve never even met. He huffs a laugh, and the smile is back, this time with a dimple at the corner of his mouth.

“Sorry, I mean, you’re DJ Lore. I caught your act at Halo before you went supernova. Was already a huge fan.” He hitches the cases up, because they are heavy as hell, according to his bulging arm muscles.

“Halo?” I repeat, with no little bit of surprise. “We’re a long way from DC, sir. What were you doing at Halo?”

“I spent some time in that area,” he says, almost apologetically. “Sorry, I know these Hollywood types are all slick as shit about stuff like this.”

“Meaning you’re not a Hollywood type?” I’m starting to wonder if it’s smart, standing here in the hall with a guy I don’t know. Black T-shirt, ripstop pants, built like a Greek god but lean as a whippet. When he moves, it’s with an easy grace that suggests… well… exotic dancer.

Or a guy completely at home in his own body. Geez, Lore, get a grip.

“I’m with Asher’s crew,” he says with a shake of the head. “Name’s Lonan. I’d offer a hand—”

“Otherwise occupied. No worries.” Even if he’s with PFC, I feel better about skipping the handshake. After Benicio, I’m wary of touching strangers, and even thinking about that is enough to bring out the goosebumps. “It was nice to meet you, Lonan, but I need to get coffee and then…” I vaguely wave at Everything Else going on down the hall.

“I don’t want to get between you and your caffeine fix. And you don’t have to worry about your safety either.” Lonan’s eyes go dark, his easygoing expression hardening, almost like he dove inside my head and plucked out my thoughts. “We’ve got this, Miss Chase. The security, I mean. We locked absolutely everything down after the most recent attack—”

“The one in Xaine’s pool, you mean?” Phrasing it that way is disconcerting, because the pool in question is visible through a set of French doors. They drained it and are in the process of scrubbing it out, but I wonder if I’ll ever feel comfortable enough to swim in the damn thing—

“No, the other girl,” Lonan corrects, hitching up the boxes again. “The one from last night.”

“Wait, what?” I ask him, my world falling out from under me. “What ‘one from last night’?”

“Uh…” he hedges, realizing how much he just screwed up. “Xaine didn’t mention that?”

“He sure as hell did not. And neither did your boss when we spoke on the phone earlier.”

“Uh…” Lonan repeats, trying to sidestep me. “Maybe they were saving that for after the junket.”

“I’ll ‘junket’ them.” Then, because he’s still trying to get away, I slap a palm against the opposite wall, barring him from moving. Oh, sure, he could probably walk right through it and keep on going, but if Asher’s men are anything like Asher himself, I doubt he will. “Let me guess. Blonde. Leggy. Looked a lot like me?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Sometime after you guys left the warehouse.” Beads of sweat gather on Lonan’s brow, but I’m not sure if that’s because his arms are giving out or because I’m grilling him.

“And Asher thinks it was Benicio again.” Not a question this time, because we both know the answer. The sin-eater got close enough to rub up against me, fought a not-vampire so I could get to safety, and then I took off with Xaine again. So he found someone who looked like me, killed her, and dumped her again.

“Miss Chase,” Lonan grunts out, “would you mind not shooting the messenger?”

“Fine. Yeah.” I back off, realizing it’s not exactly his fault that the other men in my life have been less than forthcoming.

“I meant what I said. We’ve got the security loopholes on the property covered, and the house is pretty much buttoned up. If you need anything else, let me know.” Lonan offers up one last smile before he lopes off.

Rosa finds me there, staring after him, and she hustles me into the kitchen. If the foyer is organized chaos, then this is the military base camp. There are massive thermal pots for coffee and hot water. A mini-fridge set up for sodas. Plastic-wrapped flats of bottled water. A heating drawer that, on further inspection, is stocked with Type O packs. That means that there are vampires other than Xaine in the house right now, because even on a good day he couldn’t run through this much blood. I’m not afraid, but I don’t like the idea of it. For some strange reason, it doesn’t seem right. This is his place. His home.

My eyes skim over the kitchen, taking in the bones beneath all the writhing tissue. Like the rest of the mansion, the space is lacking in any sort of welcome. Every room, except for those that Xaine occupies regularly, is completely devoid of personality, and maybe that is exactly the way he intended it.

The separation of Church and State.

I get about ten seconds to scarf down a scone and a cup of light-and-sweet coffee before someone snags me by the elbow and I end up in a chair in the game room, which is serving as an improvised dressing room. There’s a pool table, jukebox, neon-lit bar, and a row of vintage pinball machines. Somehow, it’s hard to picture Xaine hanging out in a man cave, but judging by the scuff marks, the pool table has seen quite a bit of use. Whether it was used for a good old-fashioned game of eight-ball or a rousing game of one-pocket is anyone’s guess, but I’d wager that any horizontal surface sturdy enough for two people probably sees a surfeit of action in this house.

Right now, the only action involves three people grabbing at my hair and dabbing at my face. Another three stand by a rack of clothes, tapping their collective toes until they can get their hands on me. Like vultures, they all smile wide and put their heads together to talk, but frankly, I’m more concerned about the third dead girl on my conscience than whatever they might do. I think about her as the hair stylist puts in massive Velcro rollers, winding them so tightly that I can feel each strand tugging painfully at my scalp. I wonder who she was and why she was in LA as they spackle foundation on with a trowel and glue inch-long false eyelashes to my eyelids.

Someone’s daughter… mother… lover… wife.

They don’t even attempt to cover up the bite marks on my neck. Instead, the area gets highlighted with a pale cream so that the holes stand out in even greater relief. Considering the way they are trying to bring attention to Xaine’s puncture wounds, I’m surprised they don’t smear the whole area with glitter. Meanwhile, all I can think about is the fact that I’m shacked up with the sexiest bad boy on the planet, getting ready to talk about my Top Five song, closer to Cas Declan than ever before, and all it cost was three human lives. Doesn’t really seem worth it anymore.

Because it’s all my fault.

“Up.” The stylist glaring at me is the same one that dressed me the night of the lockdown, even if she didn’t do much except squeeze me into the skimpy outfit Xaine had already picked out. She looks mad now, and I wonder if she’s still pissed about the shoes.

Nobody, but nobody snaps a heel off a Louboutin.

I end up all in white this time, a one-piece catsuit cut out of some sort of curve-hugging spandex that makes me look like a comic book character. A leather belt gets slung around my waist, and one of the three not-so-amigos shoves me into matching boots. They cap the whole deal off with an utterly ridiculous fur shrug that catches strands of my hair the second they pull the rollers out. The only color I’m wearing is the violent red on my lips and the marks at the side of my neck.

The costuming makes sense the second they steer me toward the photoshoot set-up, because Xaine is head-to-toe in black. Devil to my angel, Dark against Light.

The smile to my frown, the pale to my blush, the arrogance to my innocence…

Working my way through a yin-yang litany helps distract me from my anxiety about the newest body dump. I don’t have a single quiet second to ask Xaine about it. Standing under the brilliant lights, everything starts to blur, one pose into the next, one shouted instruction to another, until precious little seems real. It becomes clear early-on that I am most definitely not a natural at this. I spend the first twenty minutes tripping over my own feet, the next ten tripping over Xaine’s feet, and then five after that flushed so red that they have to stop until I get my fumbling under control. For his part, Xaine seems merely amused by the entire episode, pulling me up and dusting me off, wrapping himself around me until I have no choice but to stand and deliver, so to speak. It seems like forever before the photographer waves us off in opposite directions: me to the Dreaded Chair, X to wherever he’s been hiding out for the last three hours. Apparently we’re going to bounce around each other, only touching occasionally until this trial by fire is done.

Next up is an interview, and thankfully they stick me in a pair of ripped jeans, a glittering tank top, and a pair of stilettos that might just kill me. Dead or not, anything is an improvement over the fur cape, in my opinion. The stylist makes a huge deal over the heels, telling me in no uncertain terms that I am not to drag my feet, damage, scuff, mark, scratch, dent or—god forbid!—break them. Right about then, Xaine swings into my corner of the ring, grasps me by the hand, and yanks me from the chair. There’s an unsure second as I struggle to get my legs under me.

“Quit it, jerkface.” I scowl because he did it on purpose, but I manage to keep from snapping the precious red-painted peg that’s holding me up.

“Relax, babe.” He grins into my I hate you face, sliding a hand around my waist and pulling me snug against him. “You can burn the shoes in effigy if you want, once we’re done. I won’t even tattle.”

They put us on a couch. It’s not Xaine’s couch, so I can’t fathom where it came from unless there’s an attic full of couches somewhere. Or they brought their own, which seems inordinately silly but this is Hollywood. Xaine does most of the talking, and I’m content to let him, following his lead, watching him soak up the limelight.

It’s all cake until someone fires up one more Leko, and I’m pinned to the upholstery by a high-intensity halogen—

White illumination overhead, burning into my retinas, and yet I spot the flash of gold as someone turns. His eyes catch the light the way that vampire eyes do. Like cat eyes do.

My mouth is dry, lips so parched that they’re cracking. My voice is gone, long gone, and I don’t even bother trying to speak. It’s no use anyway. It’s all going to end soon. I can feel it, the pervasive weakness weighing down everything inside of me. There’s no strength left, no fight. We stare at each other, me and the man with the tiger eyes, and I find that his face is as devoid of sympathy as it is devoid of malice. It’s just blank.

There is no hope.

“Hey,” Xaine’s lips brush against the overstyled hair at my temple, causing me to startle. “You holding up?”

“Yeah,” I turn my head enough to offer up a tight smile. “I’m great.”

Xaine gives me a skeptical once-over, but nods and turns his attention to the minion powdering his nose. Someone else comes at me with a makeup sponge, but it hardly matters. By the time the stylist reapplies my lipstick, my mind is a hundred miles away. I’m fishing, casting the line and bringing it back empty, trying to remember more than mere snippets. It’s like waking up in the middle of a dream and then trying to go back to sleep so you can pick up where you left off.

Doesn’t work that way.

After Tiberius kidnapped me, all the hurt parts got buried deep. Really deep. But now they are being shaken loose, little by little, and there’s really only one thing—one person—that I can attribute it to. The only person I know who gets his rocks off on all the lockboxes inside my head, and the only person who’s got the Master Key to each and every single one.

Take-a-memory, leave-a-memory.

Benicio.

A long second later, I realize Perez Hilton just asked me what it feels like to piggyback on someone else’s fame.

I look him right in the eye. “I dunno, P, why don’t you tell me?”

Then I catch sight of a caterer carrying a platter of sandwiches and promptly abandon the couch. The clip of me snagging a hoagie and kicking a Louboutin at the stylist will end up on YouTube by nightfall with a thousand different parodies following swiftly in its wake. All I can really do at this point is offer up a shrug and filch a glass of champagne on my way off-set.

Shooting a quick glance over my shoulder, I find Xaine eyeballing me with a bemused smile on his face. This is exactly the sort of thing he’d do, so I guess he understands. He knows I’ll be back eventually.

The moment I find a quiet corner, I plop down with my sandwich and my bubbly, cramming the food down my throat as quickly as possible. I need a few minutes to think. It’s only a matter of minutes before someone comes looking for me and, at the moment, guilty and hungry are at war inside me with a vengeance, so I’ve got to spend what little time I have wisely. As soon as I wash the last bite down, I lean back against the steps I’m sitting on, letting the square edges dig into my back.

Another dead girl.

When I started out, I couldn’t have even anticipated someone like Benicio jumping into the mix. He’s the wild card, the completely uncontrollable variable in this volatile equation. Granted, I’m pretty much charging my way through this whole thing like a stampeding rhino, and I’m not getting that far with any of it. Reille and Cas are on the other side of the planet, Asher and Xaine don’t know anything about my situation, and even I don’t have access to the inner workings of my own mind.

Not only that, but the longer I tilt at windmills, the more dead women are going to turn up. I may not be able to do anything about Caspian Declan or Reille Reece or all the blank spots in my memories, but I can do something about this. About him. The rest of the answers will come in time, but with every moment that Benicio is loose, time is of the essence.

“This has to stop.” I mutter as I head back into the fray, determined to take matters into my own hands. Lonan promised me that the house was safe, that it was secure, that nobody was getting in without their express permission.

I know what I have to do.

When I sit back down next to Xaine, he hits me with all the bemused boredom he can muster. “Better?”

“Yeah. What now?”

The next hour is filled with a million different questions, each one more invasive than the last, but I answer them all with a brutal honesty and candor that borders on recklessness. It becomes a game, I think; the more private the question, the more blatant the answer. They ask about my childhood, my home life, my sex life, our sex life. When they start hinting around questions about what Xaine’s like in bed, I blush, turn ten shades of red even, but keep right on going.

“You’re sporting a pretty mean set of bite marks there,” one interviewer points out. It’s not a question really, but it’s leading enough, and I take the bait like I just love the taste of worms.

“Yes, they are. Xaine gave me these during our first time.” That’s the first giant lie, and I steal a glance at the vampire in question when I deliberately touch my fingertips to the two red puncture wounds. He’s got one deceptively lazy arm looped up on the back of the couch; when it flexes the slightest bit, I wonder if he’s going to call me on my bullshit. One second passes, then another, so I push a bit more, reaching out to brush my thumb adoringly across his cheek.

He doesn’t say anything, but I know he knows something is up. He knows, and he’s going to do his damndest to shut it down as soon as he realizes what I’m doing. So the second the last umbrella light goes out, I’m up and moving, ditching the final pair of too-tall heels and striding away like I’m not wearing a tight-as-sin Little Black that shows off more thigh than it really ought to. People trail behind me with cameras and microphones, because even though the official Q&A is over, there are always the ambitious bastards after the more meaty stuff.

I don’t disappoint, either. By the time I hit the front hall, I’ve wiggled the back zipper down past the crack of my ass, and the second as my foot hits the first step, the whole thing drops around my ankles. Everyone skids to a stop, because there’s not a single one of the reporters, ballsy or not, willing to chase me upstairs into Off Limits territory. That doesn’t stop them from gaping as I ascend the stairs wearing nothing but two scraps of black lace from some smutty-but-expensive Hollywood lingerie shop. The real eyebrow-raiser comes when the top half of my racy ensemble drops into the foyer two seconds later, drifting onto the marble floor with whisper.

Yeah, that’ll hit YouTube right about the time it hits XxxTube.

“Clear out, assholes,” Xaine says, stepping between them and following me into the master suite at a leisurely amble. The words sound cheerful enough, but the reporters know better. Down to the last camera-jockey, they know they have approximately ten minutes to get out of his house before shit gets broken.

In our absence, Rosa made the bed and picked up our scattered clothes. It’s night again, so the drapes are pulled back to show off the spectacularly expensive canyon view. Stooping, I locate the one discarded T-shirt that Rosa missed on the bedroom floor, pulling it on before turning to face Xaine.

“Want to tell me what that was all about?”

“Just answering their questions.” I might have been all sass and backbone in front of the cameras, but now I’m blushing over the fact that I got naked in front of that many people.

Never mind why I did it.

“Bullshit, sweetheart.” Xaine moves into my personal space without a second thought. “You were taunting those fuckwits.”

“I was bored.”

“You were playing with them,” he corrects. “Except I’m not sure I get what the game is.”

“I wasn’t playing with them—”

“Then who?”

I can’t help but hesitate before answering. “Benicio.”

Once Xaine manages to pick his jaw up, he blurts out, “What the hell for?”

“I know about the body,” I tell him. “The other body.”

Whatever he’s feeling right now, it contains zero guilt. “And how does that explain shaking your ass on national TV for the serial killer who’s got a massive boner for you?”

Instead of dignifying that gem with a response, I ask, “Where did it happen?”

There’s a hitch in his indignation parade when he answers, “The warehouse.”

“The warehouse where we found Jess?”

“Yes.”

“For fuck’s sake, Xaine, when were you going to tell me?”

He considers the question like the cameras are still rolling. “Probably never.”

“Don’t you think I should know about things like this?” I ask. “I mean, it’s kinda relevant to my interests.”

“And what are you interests?” he asks. “Before it was Reille and Cas. Now it’s luring in Benny? Then what?”

“Then we take him down,” I say. “Turn him in. Get him off the streets, stop him from murdering people because he’s obsessed with me, and hopefully recover whatever pieces of my memory he siphoned off—”

“Benicio is a dickhead,” Xaine interrupts. “A dangerous one.”

He’s used to getting his way, but I’m not done arguing. Not by a long shot. “It’s my fault those women are dead, so it’s my responsibility to make it stop.”

“Let Asher do his stupid job.” Xaine’s hand slides across my shoulder, up my neck until he’s cradling my jaw in the palm of his hand. “You just…stay here… with me.”

Before he even dips his head, I can see the intent in his eyes, along with a flash of pain. Then he shuts those eyes, shuts away the pain, sealing our lips together in a kiss that actually tastes bittersweet. My heart aches for him, but as his fingers tighten down on me and the kiss deepens, I can’t help the nagging feeling that I’m a prop, a stand-in for the thing he really wants.

“Stay here,” he mutters against my lips, “where I can protect you—”

There’s a soft but distinct clearing of the throat from the vicinity of the bedroom door, followed by the staccato of knuckles against wood. Xaine’s body tenses, and I immediately reach for him, closing my fingers down over his hip, his arm.

“Asher’s trying to get a hold of you, Xaine.” It’s Lonan, eying us both a little warily. “He says it’s important.”

“Get out, dipshit, I’m busy.”

“I can see that.” Lonan glances over his shoulder, like he’s debating whether or not to forge ahead. When he finally makes up his mind, he ignores Xaine in favor of talking directly to me. “Lore, Jess isn’t doing so well. Asher needs to talk to you.”

“That’s what the phone is for,” Xaine mutters, but the adrenaline is already snaking through me when I say, “Define ‘not well.’”

A muscle in Lonan’s jaw jumps. “She’s bleeding again. Running a high fever. He thinks maybe whatever you guys gave her just delayed the inevitable.”

“Oh, god…” It’s like someone punched me hard in the stomach, in the heart. Pulling out of Xaine’s grasp, I head straight for the closet and start grabbing clothes, whatever’s closest.

Lonan and Xaine mutter at each other as I pull on his jeans, make a mad grab for the ballerina flats. I catch snippets of the conversation, but it all boils down to the fact that Cas’s miracle shot didn’t work. It only gave Jess a temporary reprieve.

When I exit the closet, Lonan’s gone, and Xaine clenches the doorframe with one hand, fingers flexing like he wants to punch something.

“You’re going down there to watch her die.” It’s not a question or an accusation, but a softly worded warning, in case I hadn’t understood the implication in Asher’s message.

“Yes.” I step up behind him, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder. The muscles in his back are bunched up, harder than rock, but he exhales and forces himself to relax even as he turns to face me. “That’s what we do, Xaine. What humans do.”

“Not all humans,” he says, bringing his forehead down to meet mine. “Just the good ones. And there are far less of you than you think.” His frown deepens. “I’m not sure Jess is one of them. You might be wasting your prayers.”

“I don’t pray anymore,” I tell him. “But if I did, she’d be the one I’d waste them on.”

With an irritated huff, Xaine pulls away, threading his fingers through mine and towing me down the hall and toward the stairs. “Yeah, well, don’t expect a last minute Hail Mary. I’m pretty sure we blew all chance of that on Cas’s prototype piece of nothin’.”

As ordered, the crews are in the process of cleaning up and clearing out, but Xaine plows through them, striding toward the front door. Lonan’s waiting in the driveway, his Jeep already idling. I slide into the backseat, and Xaine ducks in behind me.

“Keep your eyes peeled for Benicio,” Xaine says as we pass through the gates.

“And if I see him?” Lonan asks, gaze flicking to the rearview mirror.

“Run him the fuck over and keep going.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Xaine

As soon as my ass hits the seat, I pull out my phone and start checking the stats. Three different clips of Lore stomping off the set with her huge-ass sandwich. Fourteen different bootlegs and counting of her in her underwear, but the primary upload came from a burner account run by one of the Scion PR lackeys, under a pseudonym, of course. Despite what Cas thinks about how I run my company, I don’t let people get the jump on me when it matters. And it’s nice footage, I will admit, of Lore’s pretty ass working its way up my staircase.

Her gaze slide over to the screen, drawn by the backlight. “Jesus, they didn’t waste any time, did they?”

“Nope.” It sounds a little more cheerful than it ought to, given the circumstances, and she doubles-down on the frown when I hit repeat. “Five thousand hits and counting.”

“Why?” she says, sounding a little bewildered by it all.

Welcome back, Fuzzy Bunny.

Punching up my iTunes account, I jab at the screen until “In Your Light” starts to play for her. “That’s why, sweetheart.”

I hand it over, watching her face as she cradles the cell in her palm. It’s one thing to hear your song in the studio, but something else entirely to hear it like it’s the new release from Taylor Swift or Katy Perry, fresh off the internet. She probably doesn’t realize it, but she’s stroking the phone case. Conflicted, because she’s probably daydreamed about something like this, and now it’s happening while her friend is dying by inches.

“They’ve been playing it nonstop on KIIS and KROQ all day,” Lonan adds, turning on the radio.

Then she gets it in stereo, her voice chasing mine. I reach out and shut off my phone, because the Jeep has decent speakers, but I leave my hand over hers. Then she’s petting me instead, which is more than fine by me.

“We need to do that again,” I observe softly when she doesn’t say anything all the way through Noah Carmichael’s newest single. “Just you, me, and the studio. It was a good time.”

She gives me a flicker of a smile, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You think so?”

“You don’t?”

“It was… not what I expected?” There’s the half-shrug to go along with the question that’s not a question. “It was awesome, but you were different than I thought you’d be.”

“Yeah, I can see how my up-close-and-personal might surprise you,” I tease her, just to feel that blush intensify.

“No, I mean… it wasn’t like the rookie and the rock star. It was just you, and me, and the music…” Her voice trails off, because she can’t find the words to explain herself.

Me, I have the words. I’ve been in that bubble often enough, burning through the hours like they’re nothing. When I’m in there alone, it’s a frenzy that lasts hour upon hour. Forgetting to eat, forgetting to sleep, forgetting everything.

Or trying to.

Lore is right. It was different, sitting in that bubble with her. Crosslegged on the floor together, like we did onstage at Scion, except for the times she was at the piano and I was on the soundboard instead of the guitar. Even caught in the throes of her muse, Lore takes the time to savor the notes, to neatly write out the lyrics, to meticulously record everything in perfect pitch and time so that the raw notes-on-bars echo inside my head without a single word sung. There’s deliberation there, the sense of a soul at ease, a bird gliding on an updraft. She’s a worker bee, too, with a precise and focused purpose to everything she does. Hell, in those short hours, she taught me a few things about composing, about the mixing software she uses, about taking the skeletal remains of a two-decade-old napkin scratch and making it a song.

I know where Lore’s version of “In Your Light” came from. The piano, the violin, the vocals, the guitar, the percussion… it was all her. One line at a time, each instrument in turn. The girl is a closet virtuoso. Unfortunately, in an industry where every pretty voice and pretty face is spit-shined and run through the mass-production wringer, nobody’s even going to notice. She’ll be famous, no doubt about that, but nobody on the planet is going to know what I know about Lore. Nobody’s even going to ask.

Their loss. My gain.

I tilt my head back and close my eyes, wishing we were back there right now, instead of headed for the shitfest waiting for us at PFC. When Lore’s fingers tighten down on mine, I crack an eyelid at her.

“What?”

“Maybe you should eat something before we go in there?” She chews the inside of her lip before adding, “You know what we’re walking into. There’s going to be a lot of blood. And if you haven’t eaten…”

“I know, sweetheart. Like an alcoholic wandering into a bar, or something.” I scowl and try to count back the hours, because I never eat when I’m on set, and I was too distracted by her staircase stunt to give a single fuck about food. “Lonan, we need to make a pitstop—”

A soft little snort interrupts me, and then Lore sticks her wrist under my nose. When I wrap my fingers around her arm and push it down onto the seat, she crosses the other one over and tempts me with that.

And absolutely no lie, I am tempted. She smells like makeup, and under that, she smells like my shower wash, and under that she smells like warm female. I’ve been on my best behavior since she stepped foot in my house, especially since she planted all those curves in my bed, so I guess somewhere along the way I’d acclimated to the constant tingle in my fangs.

And my dick.

While I’m wholly unwilling to fix the thwarted dick situation in the back of Lonan’s Jeep, I raise Lore’s wrist to my mouth and break through her fragrant skin. She sucks in a breath, then exhales and leans against me, body going lax when I disengage my teeth and drag the first warm mouthful in. Then we’re back in the bubble… that space where everything is quiet except her pulse, a heartbeat that’s set the rhythm for my every waking second since the moment she walked onto the stage at Scion. In the vaguest of ways, I hear Lonan mumbling about how he could have pulled through Starbucks, and Christ, don’t get anything on his seats, but then he’s smart enough to shut his mouth and concentrate on the road.

I don’t intend on taking much, because the last thing I need is Lore falling out of the car at PFC and into Asher Reece’s Popeye arms with two fresh holes in her. Hell, I didn’t intend on any of this. You’d think pulling a girl into my insane world would be enough to knock her on her ass and then some; instead, I’m the one whose life has been upended, like someone took my snow globe and shook the living shit out of it.

I keep her wrist against my mouth long after I’ve stopped drinking, lips pressed to the wounds until the blood slows to a trickle. Takes me a moment to realize that mellow haze has taken up residence in the back of my skull again, another to realize I’m murmuring new song lyrics against her skin. Lore has her head against my shoulder, and I know she’s transcribing the whole thing onto mental Post-Its for us.

Soon, I promise myself. Back into the studio, and the entire world can go fuck itself.

Only one hurdle to clear first.

“We’re here,” Lonan says, and I catch his nervous, frowning glance at Lore in the rearview.

The second we pull past the first industrial gate and checkpoint, Lore sits up straight, sucks in a deep sigh, and pulls her wrist free of my grasp. Her other hand wraps around it, twisting loosely as she works through the worst of the aching. A shiver runs the length of her spine, visible, raising goosebumps on her pale flesh and causing her teeth to chatter. That’s how I know she’s cold. That’s how I know I took a little too much. Scowling, I reach out and recapture her hand.

When her sweet face turns my way, she’s quick to reassure me. “I’m okay.”

“You sure?”

She nods, offering up a sleepy smile. “Yeah, I’m good. Not even dizzy. Let’s do this.”

The sooner we get in, the sooner we get out, but I’ve got to brace myself for what’s to come. Lore may be utterly clueless, but every moment of every turn that I’ve ever witnessed is burned into my cerebral cortex, the same as every note of music I’ve ever written.

“Let’s get this over with, then.”

Phantom Firearms is ghetto-adjacent, but the crackheads know better than to go near the industrial fencing that encloses the concrete building. At one point in time, it was probably a shipping warehouse. Pretty much a box with windows, it takes a closer look to see that those windows are frosted over on the upper levels. Vague discolored outlines on the lower floor show where other old panes have long since been bricked up. Someone carved out enough earth underneath it for a subterranean garage space, and I know for a fact that Asher’s stashed a veritable convoy down there. There are cameras everywhere, from the second gate that swings open when Lonan punches in a code to the reinforced steel door bearing the company logo. It’s nothing short of a fortress, and while some men might pump their dick with huge houses or fancy cars, Asher Reece compensates for his in the form of big guns, bad bullets, and a vamp-killing research facility like nobody’s ever seen before.

It must be really fucking tiny.

Before we’re even out of the car, the proprietor is already headed out to meet us. His gaze goes straight to Lore, skimming over her from head to foot but dodging away before he looks her full in the face. She’s still wearing my clothes, and I must admit that the jeans are far more interesting on her. Judging by the disapproval on Asher’s face, he doesn’t quite agree.

A few feet closer and I start to notice other details about our host. He’s limping a little, walking with a slight hitch in his normally regimented step. One of his eyes is rimmed in purple, and there’s a scabbed-over cut across his left cheekbone. Bandages are wrapped around one arm from wrist to elbow, too, which tells me that some serious shit went down in the twenty-four hours since we parted ways.

“The fuck happened to you?” I ask.

A single sour look is all I get before he turns to Lore. “You need to mentally prepare yourself before we go in.” Dark eyes return to me. “She’s not doing very well. I’ve had her on an IV most of the day, trying to get enough blood into her.”

I raise an eyebrow at that, because if Jess isn’t able to drink it, then “not doing very well” is a polite way of saying she’s completely fucked. With weak-blooded amateurs trying to force-turn a girl, it really couldn’t have gone any other way. “She’s sweating that out, too, isn’t she?”

Far from surprised or horrified, Lore looks grim. Her lips are pressed together in a thin line that reads ten kinds of pissed. “I want to see her.”

Asher’s eyes meet Lore’s, and whatever he was about to say goes right out the window. It takes a second for me to realize what I’m looking at, but when I do, I can’t stifle a surge of irritation. There’s sympathy there. Commiseration. Pain, and suffering, and all those other human traits that make martyrs out of men. Asher and Lore care about Jess, and it gives me pause, because Asher’s never once taken an interest in anything but stroking off his guns. Pause, because the only person I’ve ever seen him actually care about is Reille. Even his own sister is something of an obligation, but some borough-born lackey is his new BFF, apparently.

“Are you trying to wait us out?” I say, drawing Asher’s attention to me. His eyes flash with irritation, and I can practically see him drumming up enough spit to tell me to go fuck myself with a cactus. “Because if we stand out here much longer—”

“Come on.” Turning on his heel, Asher strides into the building, almost like he’s in a hurry to return to the sweaty, bleeding mess we’re sure to find dying inside his warehouse.

I keep my eyes trained on his back, taking mental inventory of the man with us tonight and weighing it against the Asher Reece I know. There’s a slouch to his shoulders and a curve to his spine that has nothing to do with his injuries. Beyond the bruises and limp, he’s broken down. I’m still considering his cocked-up body language when I hear the telltale beep of a security sensor. My stomach clenches as the heavy door swings open, and it completely bottoms out when I put one foot on the other side. I’m in a building devoted to UV weapons development, and either of the men walking with me could ram enough concentrated sunshine up my ass to reduce me to a pile of dust in half a second flat. Knowing Asher and his father’s reputation, I’ve no doubt that they wouldn’t even have to exert themselves to kill me; there are probably UV tubes in the overhead lighting throughout the entire building. Flick a switch or thumb over a touchscreen, and I’m toast.

So this is the bit where I should be grateful that Asher and I have become unlikely allies. Next comes the part where I’m supposed to hand the whole thing off to a pair of studio tosspots and have them cough up a movie script for our little bromance over a flat of Red Bull and Chinese take-out.

Or not.

After a long corridor and a set of metal stairs, we end up in an observation room kitted out with a two-way mirror. Asher gestures that we should stay here, then ducks through a second door. Through the glass, the three of us watch as he pulls back some hospital-style privacy curtains, revealing the baby vamp in the bed. Lore sucks in a breath, reaches out, and places her hand flat against the pane. A thin, steamy outline forms around her fingers.

Damn cold in that room.

“Asher’s hoping the lowered temp will slow the blood flow.” Lonan pauses, flashing a quick glance at Lore, but her attention is fixed on the room beyond the glass. “That maybe it’ll keep her from bleeding out so quickly.”

“How long will this go on?” is Lore’s softly worded query.

She’s talking to Lonan, but what does he know?

“It goes on until it stops,” I mutter.

Jess looks like shit. The blood those vamps pumped into her is matted in her hair and clotted under those slick, lacquered acrylics of hers. Her skin has a yellow pallor to it, as do her eyes, because the juice headed into her arm via IV is oozing out her pores. The linens are soaked-through red, shiny from the liquid, and I can’t help the way my teeth ache at the sight of it. The flavor of metal hits the back of my throat with every breath I take.

There are tears in Lore’s eyes now, glittering along her lashes, and I’m suddenly rocketed back to a similar face but a different vigil.

Elizabeth lasted three days. Three days of her fragile human body trying to make the turn. Three days of human blood oozing out her every pore because I’d pumped her full of mine and it was trying hard to claim her.

I believed she would make it. That first day, she brimmed over with ferocity, thrashing on the smeared linen and snarling at anyone who came near her. I tasted hope, a single sip from a cup that was dashed from my hand by the second night. Her fangs remained stunted bits of ivory in pale pink gums. When I brought her a tumbler of blood, the merest sip caused her stomach to clench. I watched her grow pale and weak, not voicing my worst fears until that third moonrise. That’s when Elizabeth had turned those blue eyes upon me, eyes that were too tired to cry, and asked me to send for Cas.

I have exactly zero desire to watch that particular shit show again, to see someone else fighting for a life that they’re not ever going to get back. Lore might be ready to face it, but I am not. Except when she turns those heartbreakingly-blue eyes toward me, I find that I’m powerless to save myself, mostly because I can’t deny her a single thing in this universe, not if I have it in my power to make it happen. There’s a heavy ache in my chest, one I don’t acknowledge often, but for once in my life I just let it hit me.

In the meantime, Asher’s doing a good job hiding his concern. He speaks to Jess in an undertone, asks how she’s feeling, fields the weak answers. After changing out the IV bags, he wipes her face clean with a series of damp cloths, betraying himself when he flings them into the garbage with more force than necessary. It looks as if he’s about to reach for her hand, but then pats her on the arm instead. I step closer to Lore, but she doesn’t move. Her gaze is trained upon Jess, and she doesn’t so much as flinch when the baby vamp in question bucks up off the gurney and lets loose with a scream to rival any wraith ever depicted in folklore.

God’s honest truth, this is anyone’s horror story, right here.

Brushing a hand across Jess’s forehead, Asher speaks softly to her until the convulsion ends and her body wilts back to the blood-sodden bed. Like a passing contraction, we’re all standing here watching the soon-to-be stillbirth of one of the could-have-been undead. My hand finds its way to the back of Lore’s neck, and I squeeze a little, kneading the warm flesh. Her concern is written across every clenched muscle in her body.

Asher makes his way back toward us, leaving the land of the lost. “How did you do it?”

It’s exactly the sort of tone he’s always used when dealing with me: the annoyed older brother voice, the pissed-off vampire hunter voice, the stick-up-the-ass do-gooder voice. But when I glance at him, he’s not looking at me. Nope, those hard brown irises are trained on Lore. Every protective instinct I have flares, my hackles rising right along with the hairs on my arms. Lore must feel the tension in my fingers because she very slowly turns her head so that she can look first to me, then to Asher.

“This exact thing happened to you, Lore. They grabbed you and tried to turn you. Except you didn’t turn, and you didn’t die.” Asher’s voice breaks and desperation bleeds through. “How did you survive that? What did Cas do?”

My girl just shakes her head, those fair brows drawing together in confusion. “I don’t know.”

Asher approaches her, one hand unconsciously curling into a fist. He’s in full intimidation mode, and it’s obvious to me that Fuzzy Bunny’s not even sure why.

Hell, I’m not even sure why. “What are you talking about, Asher?”

He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t even acknowledge that I spoke. He takes one more step, and that’s one step too close. The hand I had at Lore’s neck slides down her back, fingers clamping around her waist and pulling her behind me. Doesn’t really matter, because Vampire Hunter could take me out in two seconds flat. Lore’s not safe here, and I shouldn’t have let her come, but there’s no going back now.

So much for the bromance.

“You want answers?” he asks. “I’ve got them. But I need answers, too.”

All the color drains from Lore’s face. “What do you mean?”

“You came to LA looking for Reille, right?” Asher snaps out. “And now you’re looking for Cas?”

Her normally open expression shifts to suspicion. “Yeah.”

“I know what happened,” he mutters. “I don’t know why, but I know what.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I was there.” Guilt is painted across Asher’s face, clear as day. “At the vamp facility. I came for you and Reille, but they were keeping you in separate rooms, different rooms than our intelligence led us to believe.” He tears his hand through the dark bristle on top of his head. “It was all a setup, I think. I had three men with me, and none of them made it out. It shouldn’t have gone to shit the way it did. If that asshole hadn’t betrayed us—” Then he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “It’s my fault you were stuck there. That they tortured you like that.”

“You left me there?” Lore asks, the icy chill of her fingers creeping along my wrist to my hand. When I turn to look at her, she’s pale as death. “To die?”

“That’s the point. You didn’t die. You survived.”

When Asher takes another step toward her, I’m there between him and her, growling into his face. “Step off, Reece.”

Except he reaches around me to grasp a fistful of Lore’s shirt. “I need to know how you did it—”

My arm flashes out reflexively, my open palm catching him at the shoulder and shoving him backward. Lore’s chest thuds against my side, a startled cry escaping her as Asher’s grip pulls her against me before he finally lets go. Without warning, all the fury drains from Asher’s body, his spine returning to that dejected slouch. He retreats a few feet, eyes flashing toward the two-way glass before they seek out Lore.

“Jess saved my life last night,” he says. “I owe her. So I need to know how you fought the change when they tried to turn you. And I need to know what Cas Declan did… to bring you back.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lore

Since Asher pulled back the curtain around Jess, I’ve been in a stomach-dropping nightmare I can’t escape. I close my eyes and know exactly what it feels like. The way the blood pushes out of your skin. The clammy-wet of the sheets underneath. The way the pain comes in waves, tearing through every muscle like it’s changing them one at a time.

There’s a sound like rushing water in my ears, and I feel sick. Shaky. I can’t move, because if I do, something’s going to break loose inside me. Something I might never put back together. On top of all that, I’m assaulted by sterility: bleach, iodine, alcohol, antibacterial cleaners. The overwhelming smell of blood brings the bile up my throat, and I’m hard-pressed to gulp it back down.

How did you survive?

“You asshole.” Xaine lunges, fist raised, but Asher’s faster with a gun, drawing a modified Glock that hums with a UV charge. Only then does Xaine step back, spitting mad. “You’ve been holding out on us the entire time.”

A muscle twitches in Asher’s cheek. He lowers the gun as I pull Xaine backwards, twisting my hands in the fabric of his shirt. My vampire protector curls his lip, flashing fangs, but he allows me to hold him, even going so far as to reach back and catch my wrist.

“Why didn’t you say anything at the police station?” It’s the first question that presents itself in the aftermath of Asher’s revelation.

He shifts, glancing away as if he can’t bear to look at me. “I wasn’t at the precinct for you… not originally. They called me because Xaine had been brought in for questioning in a murder investigation. I showed up because I’ve wanted to pin X’s ass to a wall ever since he put my sister through one.”

“Then why talk to me at all?” I ask.

“I was supposed to get you out, and I didn’t. You’ve been on my conscience for a year. Then I realized you’d survived just to end up in Xaine’s back pocket. Needless to say, I don’t exactly trust him to mind his manners. But you looked fine, and I told myself that you made it out, that you were moving on.” Asher pauses before asking, “But you haven’t moved on, have you?”

“No, I haven’t.” I touch Xaine, because I need to touch Xaine. I’m ice cold, but I doubt he notices. He keeps his hand clamped around mine, his body between mine and Asher’s. “And you can grill me all you want, but I barely know what happened. The memories are just… dreams I can’t remember.”

“Doesn’t keep her from staying up all night, just to avoid sleeping,” Xaine says, laying on the guilt trip. “Or waking up in a sweat, or nearly falling off the bed. So be a prince and tell us what you know so my girl can start the healing process, huh?”

He’s so indignant it makes me smile the tiniest bit, despite the gravity of our situation. The Angry Doctor Phil routine is kind of adorable.

“I’ll tell her whatever she wants to know.” Asher’s jaw tightens, and his chin tilts up with resolve. “Once she gives me the answers I need.”

“I don’t have the answers you need,” I tell him. “Don’t you think that I’d do everything in my power to save Jess? I don’t know anything.”

“You do know.” It’s a statement of fact, or at least the facts as Asher knows them. “You know they tried to turn you. We figured that much out, but there’s a gap. I found Reille and extracted her, but we were forced to leave you behind. We just couldn’t stay any longer. After that, there was no communication with the inside.”

“Why don’t you ask Cas?” I say. “He’s the one who knows everything. He was there! I remember him.”

The look Asher gives me is strange, like he’s trying to piece things together, too. “No, Lore, Cas wasn’t there.”

“I remember him,” I insist, pressing my fingers to my temple, trying to drum up the memories of his face. “I do. I know he was there.”

“Your brain scrambled the timeline.” Asher’s expression goes sympathetic. “We got word a few days later that you—” He hesitates before admitting, “that you’d died.”

I can only blink at him, struggling to keep a lid on my disbelief, but Xaine has no such compunction.

“What are you trying to say here?”

“You know Cas, Xaine,” Asher says. “He was pissed as hell that Lore got left behind, but he wasn’t about to let the bastards donate her body to science.”

“No, of course not,” Xaine snorts. “Not when he could do it himself, right?”

Ignoring the jibe, Asher returns his attention to me. “You were transported to CasDec Medical on February tenth of last year after being reported missing by your adoptive parents three weeks prior. You were brought in via body bag from an unspecified location. You were dropped at the facility as a research specimen, Lore. A cadaver.”

My stomach drops, and for a long moment I think I might be sick. It’s the worst sort of fiction, the kind that asks you to suspend belief just a little too much. The sort where you’re sitting, and frowning, and thinking—

This has gone too far to be real.

But Asher’s not done, not by a long shot.

“There’s a gap,” he reiterates. “I know what happened before and I know what happened after. I just need to know what happened during, because that’s the part that could save Jess.”

Swallowing hard, I look toward the room where my friend is dying. Women don’t make the turn; we’re told that all the time, and it’s not a warning to be trifled with. It’s the world’s most relevant PSA, just in case someone was seriously considering it.

“I told you before, I only have the one distinct memory, and it’s of Caspian Declan. Just his face, his eyes, looking at me. I don’t know what happened at CasDec, Asher. I would tell you if I did.” I can feel my tone flattening out, the ragged edges becoming sharp as a razor. “I remember being grabbed by Silver Teeth, but there’s nothing except tiny flashes until I woke up in the mental facility back home.”

On the East Coast, three thousand miles from Los Angeles, CasDec Medical, or any viable memory of the weeks between January and March.

“No one at CasDec will talk to me, and the man in charge is on a different continent at the moment.” Asher crosses his arms over his chest. “What information I have, I had to get by other means, and it all equates to a whole lot of not much.”

A familiar story. The last few months have been nothing but a whole lot of not much. If I want to help Jess, I’m going to need to remember what happened in the glaring blank spot between then and now. More than ever, I’m convinced that my hunch back at the house was spot-on.

“I don’t have your answers, Ash,” I say, falling into a comfortable half-version of his name. “But I know who might. We need to track down Benicio.”

“What for?” Xaine barks out, his every muscle immediately tensed, coiled, ready to spring. “Look, I don’t understand what the hell’s going on here, but I’m not sure what he has to do with any of it.”

“Because if anyone would know what’s going on inside your head,” Asher says slowly and right over the top of him, “it would be the sin-eater who’s been using it as his personal playground.”

I run a hand down Xaine’s arm, willing him to relax, trying to transfer some of the dead-calm that’s washed over me. Because I know what we have to do next, and he’s going to fight me.

Tooth and nail.

“Every time I was with Benicio, it knocked some memory loose. It happened at the motel and again that night at Scion.” My gaze travels again to Jess in the bed. “I’m not going to remember on my own. I’ve tried. I think… I think only Benicio can fill in the gap.”

Asher stares at me, arms crossed tight over his chest. I’m willing to bet he’ll listen to just about any suggestion I have to make for Jess’s sake, but Xaine interrupts the silent indecision pinging between us.

“So, what?” He tightens his grip on my hand, swinging me around until we’re face-to-face. “We invite Benny in for a little session of Seven Minutes in Heaven?”

“He can help me remember,” I say. “And maybe the things I remember can help Jess.”

“He’s a murderer.” Xaine spits that last word at me. “A girl was killed not four hours after I took you from him.”

“Xaine…”

“No,” he cuts off whatever I’m about to say. “I’m not letting him put his hands near one single hair on your head. Not a chance.”

“It’s the only chance.”

Asher unwisely chooses that moment to chip in his two cents. “She’s right, Xaine. If Benicio’s the key to whatever’s inside Lore’s head, then we need to try to bring him in.”

“You—” Xaine thrusts an arm straight out to the side, fixing Asher in the trajectory of one pointed finger, “shut the fuck up.”

His other hand digs into the meat of my arm. I try not to flinch, but it hurts, and will likely leave five finger-shaped bruises on my skin. I try to stymie my heart’s racing gait, because I know he can hear it, feel it, smell it. I know he knows that I’m afraid. Afraid of Benicio, afraid of everything I don’t understand and all the things I can’t remember.

“What if he kills you, Lore?” Xaine flashes at me. “Huh? What if I let him put his hands on you and he wraps them around your neck?”

“You won’t let that happen.” And I believe it. I have to believe it.

Xaine stares at me, nostrils flaring, forehead creased, the picture of bottled fury. I can’t begin to fathom what he’s thinking, so I don’t even try. After a moment, he turns and pins Asher with that same death glare. “And how, exactly, do you propose we catch a sin-eater? Cardboard box, a stick, and some bait?”

Asher coughs a little, clears his throat, and jerks his chin in my direction. Enlightenment dawns across Xaine’s features, followed swiftly by disbelief and denial.

“Like hell.” He snatches up my hand and hauls me toward the door.

“Wait!” Asher’s voice echoes behind me. “Where are you going?”

“We’re leaving,” Xaine tosses over his shoulder, dragging me in his wake like a recalcitrant child. “There’s no fucking way I’m letting you dangle her out there in the wind.”

“Xaine, stop!” I pull against his grip, but he’s ten times stronger than I am. “If it can help Jess—”

Xaine backpedals so fast that I skid into his chest. With one arm still clasping my wrist, he snarls out, “She’s not your friend, Lore. Cas sent her in to watch you. To spy on you.”

Asher butts in with, “Look, Lore. Jess loves you. For whatever it’s worth, she regrets—”

“You’d say anything, do anything to get Lore to help you!” Xaine fires off. “I’m not blind, Reece. I saw the way you looked at her.” He’s not talking about me anymore, that’s for certain. The words are an accusation that flares into something else. Something retaliatory. “Man, it must be killing you right about now, wanting to stick your dick in a half-turned vamp. Mister High-and-Mighty, falling for one of us. But hey, at least you’re not falling for all of us like your sister, right?”

Asher’s hands ball into fists, like he’s about to knock Xaine’s fangy teeth out of his runaway mouth. At the last second, I step forward, using myself as a buffer between two charging bulls. Xaine wouldn’t go through me, and it gives Asher pause. For all that he’s pissed as hell, he still possesses a modicum of chivalry and takes a step back.

“It doesn’t matter.” My voice is small in comparison to the two men roaring at one another in the cavernous space of the warehouse. “Whoever she is, whatever she’s done, nobody deserves to suffer the way Jess is suffering. And what’s more? This all goes far beyond just her. It’s about me, too. I can’t go through the rest of my life just missing an entire chunk of time. Months of time. I need answers.”

Xaine glares down at me, but I know all that anger isn’t for me. It’s for Asher, for Jess, but mostly for the situation, the circumstances, the shitstorm I’ve dragged him into. He’s not this guy, and I shouldn’t have tried to make him into this guy. Xaine’s a notorious hedonist, a king amongst playboys, so asking him to narrow his realm of concern to one little female and her problems is tantamount to asking him to swear off the rocker lifestyle forever.

“You don’t have to stay,” I tell him, although it ties knots in my stomach to utter the words. “You don’t have to be here.” The smile I give him is genuine, because he needs to understand that I have no expectations of him beyond this moment.

It feels like forever before he answers, and I wait, holding my breath until he does.

“As kiss-offs go, that was pretty piss-poor. You’re going to have to do better than that if you want me to bounce.” He lets go of my arm, leaning forward until his forehead is touching mine. His eyes are closed, like he can’t take looking at me one second longer, if this is where it ends. “Tell me to get the hell out, if you want me gone.”

I feel sick for just a second; I feel selfish for far longer than that. I should let him go, because that’s what you’re supposed to do, right? You’re not supposed to hold onto things because you want them. You’re supposed to do the kind thing, the right thing, because doing anything other than the right thing would just be, well, wrong.

Right?

“One,” he interrupts, startling me just a little. His hands find my wrists and clamp down. “Two.” Then I’m plastered against him, no space between us at all. “Three.”

“Wait, but—”

“Too late, sweetheart. Offer just expired. You should have told me when you had the chance.”

“I was thinking, you ass!” I would punch him if I could, but thankfully his grip’s keeping me from breaking my fingers on his face.

“Blah blah, thinking,” he says before tossing a fake snore at me. “Completely overrated exercise.”

For a moment, I press my face into the fabric of Xaine’s shirt, breathing in the soft scent of detergent and cologne. When I lift my head, he’s looking down at me, vaguely bemused. It’s just a breath from his lips to mine, and he’s got me all caught up in the tangle of his arms. Slowly, so slowly, he begins to close the gap between us, his smile turning from wan to wicked in a flash, but he’s interrupted by a very unwanted third party.

“Oh, I’m sorry, were we going to save a life tonight? Or play suck-face in a warehouse?” Asher gives us a dark look as he turns back the way we came. Instead of heading down the circular steel stairway, he climbs up to the next floor.

Breaking away from Xaine, I follow our host upstairs and into a room that looks like a command center out of science fiction movie. Four LCD widescreen displays run tracking programs on who-knows-what. I can see the schematics for something that looks like a metal scarab straight out of The Mummy movie. And there’s a Google map printout on the wall, riddled with thumbtacks.

Asher jabs a finger at it. “Red pins are dead girls. Yellows are suspicious attacks that might have been our boy before he got angry enough to kill his vics.”

“They have a sudden influx of confused blondes down at the precinct lately?” Xaine asks.

Asher’s nod is grudging. “Something like that.”

The dots are clustered around the downtown area, scattered across the city in no particular pattern that I can see. Staring at the map, I begin to notice what might be the absence of a pattern. There’s a gap right in the middle of the West End. Suddenly, I get a flash-pan memory from the night of the lockdown and Trick’s second rule—

“Don’t fuck where you sleep,” I say, turning toward Xaine. He stares at me oddly, but I affect an exaggerated cockney when I tack on, “That’s what the guest rooms are for, mate.”

Xaine pulls back his lip in disgust. “Don’t you quote St. John at me. And you shouldn’t be taking advice from him, either.”

“He’s right though, look.” Reaching out, I point to the vaguely empty spot on the map. “O’Reilly’s is where he picked me up the first time. I mentioned it to you before, I think.”

“It might be his hunting ground,” Asher says. “But he doesn’t kill them there.”

“No,” Xaine concedes, “he wouldn’t. Not if he wanted to go back. It would draw too much attention.”

“See?” I say. “Rule Number Two.”

Xaine moves in close, hovering behind me. A second later, one hand slides around my waist and pulls me against him. Selfish or not, I’m glad to have him here.

“You think he’d venture out in the open?” Asher asks. “Even knowing that we might track him down?”

“The guy followed Lore right into Scion,” Xaine grumbles. “Ballsy as hell. Tried to make off with her backstage and then was hanging right outside the parking garage, close enough to tail her to that warehouse.”

“We’re the only ones who are onto him, right?” I’m still staring at the map, at that damning blank spot. “We’re not the police, or anyone he has to be afraid of, really.”

“Oh, he should be really fucking afraid of me right about now,” Xaine murmurs.

“Yeah, but he has no reason to hide. Not yet.”

Asher’s interrogator glare drills into me from across the room. “Do you really think he’d track you there?”

“I think it’s possible, if he’s so hot to get his hands on me again.” Hitching one shoulder in a shrug, I hear a vague growl coming from the halo of my hair. “But I have to go in alone—”

“I’m not sending you in there alone,” Xaine snarls.

“Benicio knows you. If he sees you anywhere near me, he won’t come within a ten mile radius.” To make him feel a little better about the situation, I say, “Asher can ride along.” Then, because the devil on my shoulder tells me to, I grin and add, “He can be my date.”

“I still think you should have stayed behind,” I tell Xaine as the Humvee turns the last corner before the club. “You being there will just piss Benicio off.”

“Fuck if I’m letting my girl run around town like a moving bullseye while I sit home like the Little Woman,” Xaine mutters.

“But—”

“End of discussion, Lore.” And he folds his arms across his chest as if to illustrate his immovability.

I can’t help the spark of humor that ignites. “I love it when you’re adamant.” Nudging him with my shoulder, I add, “It’s so sexy.”

“You two are gross,” Asher mutters from the front seat. “Thank god, we’re here.”

O’Reilly’s is packed to capacity, with the overflow lined up on the sidewalk outside, and I realize it must be Saturday night. Asher parks his tank of a car down the alley, far away from the crowd. Once he cuts the engine, he heads straight for the trunk. By the time I’ve wrangled my way out of the seat belt, he’s already gearing up. Covering all his bases, he holsters regular Glocks in addition to the ones modded to hold his UV bullets.

“I know Benicio’s not a vamp,” he explains, racking back the slide and checking that there’s a bullet in the chamber. “But I don’t know what’s going to stop him, either.” Asher spares a glance for Xaine. “I can’t legally let you carry any of this stuff.”

“I don’t need any of that stuff,” Xaine shoots back at him, then dips his head toward me. “She needs something, though.”

“Here.” Asher slaps a can of pepper spray into my hand, and I’m left staring at it with no little bit of disgust.

“Seriously?” Xaine and I say at almost the exact same moment.

“You think that is going to succeed where bullets fail, Reece?” Xaine adds. “Give her a gun.”

Asher glares at me. “I’m sorry, are you licensed to conceal-carry in the state of California?”

I cock an eyebrow at him. “Are you licensed to conceal-carry that pole up your butt?”

“Very funny. No gun for you, smartass.” He trades the pepper spray out for a small taser, running down the features from the safety on the side to the small defensive spike on the bottom. “Stick him with the pointy end, ok?”

“Thanks, smartass.” I watch as he pulls a compound bow out of the trunk for a grand finale. Robin of the ’Hood. “Well, that’s real subtle.”

“I have arrows tipped with trackers,” Asher says over his shoulder. “If he runs for it, I’ll ding him with one of these, and we can follow the little piggy all the way home.”

“You can fit sunlight into a bullet, but GPS requires a whole arrow?”

Ignoring that last quip, Asher shifts his attention to the buildings on either side of us. Everything is painted in shades of gray, like something out of an old black and white movie, all hard shadows and hazy outlines. I swear it feels like I’m living in darkness lately, but this is my stomping ground, so the dirty brick walls are about as familiar as the scent of piss and the group of people gathered at the end of the alley.

“We’ll split up,” Asher tells me. “I’ll head in the back and keep an eye on you from a discreet vantage point. You go in like normal. Try to look natural.”

“I sincerely hope that ‘looking natural’ means that you’re going to stay at least fifty feet from wherever I am,” I say, eyeing the two-hundred-pound arsenal he’s got strapped to every pec and glute. “’Cause there’s nothing especially natural about wearing kevlar to a bar.”

“Funny in the face of danger. Awesome.” He checks the superhero bracer on his left forearm for fit, adjusting the leather strap as he adds, “You might try taking this a little more seriously.”

“It’s a defense mechanism.”

“What about you, Count Chocula?” Asher eyes Xaine. “You’re going to get mobbed the second you step inside.”

The look of distaste on Xaine’s face is comical, and I can’t stifle the grin that breaks out at the sight of it. He stares at the side of the building like it’s riddled with plague, and I can practically see the flashes in his head of squealing fans and girls begging for boob autographs.

He glares down at me when I let loose with a chuckle. “What’re you laughing at?”

“Not a thing,” I say, cramming the taser into my back pocket. “So… Katniss, Edward… we ready to do this?”

“Yeah, I’ll be at the bar, getting a goddamn drink.” Xaine pulls a rubber band out of his back pocket and scrapes his hair out of his face. A pair of shades go on to cover up the eyes and then he almost… almost… passes for Just Another Guy headed into the local watering hole. “And seriously, I want you to jam that taser in Benny’s nutsack the second he gets anywhere near you.”

“I’ll give it my very best shot.” With one last salute, I start off toward the light end of the alley. “But maybe I’ll save it for when we get home instead.” Turning back, I give Xaine a little meow and cat paw, a couple of air pistols, and a wink.

“Goddamnit, Lore,” he starts in, but I’m already ducking through the haze of menthol and cloves, headed for the front door. The crowd gathered outside is the usual revolving conglomeration of warm bodies intent on adding to the daily smog tally, one cigarette at a time. I recognize a couple faces, and one in particular.

Having escaped Jax Trace’s front seat, Tamsyn is tiny. Miniscule. If there was a scale of human smallness, she’d be a freaking pixie. What she lacks in natural height, she makes up for in shoe, balanced atop seven inches of platform latex and leather.

“Heya, Lo,” she pipes up as I slip by her. With a flick of her fingers, the butt-end of her clove goes flying and she charges forward to keep up with me. “How’s it hangin’?”

I hear a muttered curse behind us; if I had to take a guess, she just nailed my undead shadow with the business end of her discarded cigarette. I keep walking, barely throwing a glance over my shoulder as her short legs double-time to keep up. Standing side by side with her, I feel like King Kong in drag. Or rather, King Kong in a too-tight pair of guy’s jeans and a well-worn band T-shirt from the mid-nineties.

Either way, tonight is not the night to get waylaid by someone other than Benicio. “Oh, y’know. The usual. Same shit, different day?”

“Aw, man, I hear that.” Tamsyn keeps pace with me, taking three steps to every one of mine, chattering her head off about the new song and how she heard it twice on the way over tonight. By the time I jerk my chin at Charlie the bouncer, she’s sporting a small pucker in the center of her forehead. “Did you know there’s a guy following you?” She jerks a thumb over her shoulder even as she waves her ultraviolet handstamp and reflective armband at Charlie.

“Uh, yeah,” I say, not daring to cast a glance in Xaine’s direction. “Security, you know.”

I’m so intent on running through the motions that it startles me when someone screams my name. I look toward the sound, but then heads start turning, and I find myself staring into a couple hundred unfamiliar and excited faces. The tenor of the room shifts, and for the first time in my life, I’m very conspicuously the center of attention.

In a flash, there are people all around me, clogging up any venue of escape and waving bar napkins in my face. Tamsyn sticks with me, though maybe not by choice. Without any other option, my eyes scan the crowd briefly for Xaine, needing to reassure myself that he’s here and watching. That I’m not alone.

The instant I see him, I feel better. As tumultuous as he is, his very presence seems to instill me with a sense of peace. He can do anything. Does everything. Never stops or holds back or talks himself out of stuff. He’s fearless and brash, overbearing and outrageous. He’s had four hundred years to become the man that every other man wishes they could be, and in a few short days, he’s become the part of me I never knew I needed.

“I love your song!” An enthusiastic voice recalls me from my reverie. A smile spreads across my face as my attention lands on a girl who can’t be more than my age. Younger, probably. She beams from ear to ear and holds out a scrap of paper. “I’ve been listening to it on repeat!”

“Thanks,” I hear myself saying, “but it’s really not my song.”

“Oh, I know!” Her face becomes even more enthusiastic, impossibly enough. “I’ve seen Xaine in concert like ten times, but I wish I had a voice like yours. So great.”

I take the paper and sign it with a blue pen that someone shoves into my hand. Then I smile and sign the next, and the one after that. When I glance at Xaine again, he’s wearing a knowing smirk. He makes a little gesture, the tiniest go on wave of the hand. It must be strange, to watch fame from the outside, probably as strange as it is for me, looking out from the inner circle. We’re like two satellites—

… fallen out of orbit,

Circling one another,

’Cause all we know is gravity…

—and all we see are stars.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Xaine

It takes approximately six seconds for everything to go to complete shit.

Lore ducks into O’Reilly’s first, trading me in for an Itsy Bitsy Bodyguard with bright orange hair. I catch a whiff of our boy Benny, but then I realize it’s different, a little more subtle, a little more… something, but before I can figure out what that is, I get stuck at the door. I’m lacking the requisite handstamp and over-21 bracelet, but a couple of hundred-dollar bills take care of that. Trouble is, I have to dig them out of my wallet and hand them over to the gorilla standing between me and my girl and whatever is waiting for us inside, and that takes far longer than I want it to.

Asher, you fuck, you’d better have her back until I can get in there.

By the time I make my way past the hulking meat puppet, I’ve lost the trail of whatever-it-was that I caught outside. The crowd inside has IDed Lore, and they are giving her the A-list crush. She’s surrounded four people deep on all sides, all of them squealing and waving slips of paper at her, snapping iPhone pics and yelling at each other to “hashtag it DJ Lore!” Far from looking flustered, Lore’s gone full Kardashian, down to the wry grin. More importantly, she sets up an invisible fence of cool that the fans actually recognize and respect. The orange-flavored munchkin is helping, for whatever reason, elbowing anyone who gets too friendly. I leave them both to it, sticking close enough to wade in if she needs me while I keep an eye out for Asher.

Bingo. He’s taken up residence against the back wall in one of the blank spots where the dim lights don’t quite overlap. A nonchalant lean obscures most of the bow riding his back, but there are a couple interested parties eying him already, and it’s only a matter of time before some liquored-up coed asks to handle his weapon.

The whole place is the typical mom-and-pop dive that the hipster crowd recently decided is worth saving. More bar than nightclub, the dance floor is scabbed-up hardwood, probably original to the building. Nonexistent light system. Decent sound system. There are recessed, leather-upholstered booths where people are cozied up with microbrewed beers and specialty cocktails. The two dudes behind the bar are wearing vests and have suitably scruffy faces, but neither one is our boy Benicio.

He’s not here. Not yet. Even with an overwhelming amount of regrettable cologne and Axe body spray, old wood, older brick, spilled drinks, and sweat, I’ll pick out the scent of him the second he steps foot into the place.

If he steps foot in the place.

Maybe he wasn’t quite as dumb as advertised and figured he’d better stay away. He has to know that I’ve got a lock on him now. That, at the very least, the cops should be interested in him as a suspect.

Cocksucking motherfucker. When did I start thinking like Asher?

Right about the time Lore decided to dangle herself like a worm on a hook over a tank of piranhas, I guess. No sharks in the water yet—

“Oh, hello. Shall we call you Mr. X? I didn’t even see you there.”

—just a trained seal.

I roll my eyes and turn to peer at Jax Trace over the edge of my sunglasses.

With a smirk, he adds, “Oh, wait… yes, I did.”

“Jackson.” I don’t offer him my hand, and he just stands there like some douchebag supermodel version of Clark Kent. Tonight, he’s rockin’ a pink-purple plaid shirt, black vest, and blue Marc Jacobs wingtips with gold plates on the toes. It hurts to look at him, mostly because he’s so put together that he could be a Stepford Wife. From the studded, slant-stripe tie to the Burberry skinnies and right on up to the expensive hair product holding his dark waves so perfectly in place, Jackson Trace is everything a hipster could be if they could afford to spend eight hundred bucks on a single pair of pants.

“Really subtle disguise you got there.” He gestures idly to my ponytail, then encompasses the glasses with a wave of his hand. “Almost too subtle. So subtle, in fact, that it’s really not subtle at all.”

“Fuck off.” I’ve got my gaze trained on Lore, but I’m pretty sure I can spare the half-second it’s going to take to ram Jax Trace’s shiny teeth down his gullet if he doesn’t shut up.

“No, really,” he just keeps going, “it’s like the Inception of subtlety. Was that what you were going for? ’Cause, uh… nailed it. I’m especially keen on the after-midnight Aviators, genius. Nice touch.”

Right about then, some asshole decides we need a bit more mood and dims the overhead lights. I can still see perfectly fine, but it’s going to look weird and draw more attention if I keep the glasses on now. Pulling them off, I stuff them into the pocket on my jacket. “Thanks, man. You should write a style article for the Times. Going to need a new gig, if you keep dropping the ball on signing the next hot thing.”

His gaze travels to Lore, and there’s an infinitesimal pause in the near-constant stream of babble that is Jax Trace. I’ve watched this man talk for four hours straight about whatever god-awful topic happens to be on the plate, but one glance in her direction and he’s actually quiet for a minute.

“You slummin’?” he asks, right back to playing Doofus the Schmuck with a shit-eating grin and rocked-back posture that screams preppy casual. “Must admit, you keep working your way lower and lower and lower. Pretty soon you’ll be dumpster diving with Ke$ha trying to find the next hot thing.”

“What the hell do you want, Trace?” I’m only half-paying attention to him, because I keep scouring the crowd gathered around Lore and eyeballing the back wall to make sure Asher’s still in place. I keep catching whiffs of something that reminds me of Benicio. It trips all my triggers, and yet isn’t his signature scent at all. It’s the difference between night and day. Black and white. A dude and—

A fucking girl.

“I want to know what you think you’re doing, Xaine—” Jax starts in, but I’m already shoving off the wall and cutting my way through the crowd to Lore. Trace is right behind me, still running his particular brand of verbal diarrhea, only now it’s a nonstop stream of “’Scuse us, pardon me, coming through, watch your drinks, that’s a really nice shirt!” right up to the point where I reach out to snag the orange pixie by her Hot Topic slut blouse and his hand gets in my way.

It’s been a long time since anyone reminded me what it was like to be human. To be fragile. To remember what broken bones and bleeding feel like. But in the split-second that Jax Trace reaches out and deflects my hand with his, the impact causes a tremor of actual pain to shoot straight up my arm.

“Hands off the mini-muffin there, Jumpy McGrabberson,” he says.

“Holy fucking shit, Trace.” Gripping my wrist, I glare daggers at him.

Lore whips around, the fan of her gold hair catching what’s left of the light. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Asher trying to make up his mind if he’s going to shoot first and ask questions later. A shake of my head and he eases back, but only a little.

“Is he here?” Lore’s gaze jumps past me, scanning the crowd briefly before coming to rest on my unwanted company. “Oh, it’s you.” The way she says it gives me a pang of satisfaction. She gives Jax the once-over and comes up smirking. “Nice shirt, Fig Leaf. Steal it from a Beiber fan?”

I screw up then, flashing the fangs when I grin, and the girl closest to my elbow lets out a shriek like someone grabbed her ass. “Oh, my god, it’s Xaine!”

Jax’s voice chimes in, loud and clear and full of revenge for the Beiber comment. “Oh, my god, it is Xaine! Look everyone, it’s Xaine!”

I’d punch him in the dick, but judging by what just happened to my wrist, I’d break every one of my fingers, and that’s not what I want on the front page of the Enquirer tomorrow morning. The mini-muffin hovers next to Jax’s elbow like a bouncy little terrier, the kind that rich girls carry in their purses. Trace likes them travel-size, I guess, but she still smells like the raspberry body wash version of Benicio, and I’m not letting her out of my sight.

Putting my hands on either side of Lore’s waist, I lift her off the floor a good six inches and head for the stage. “Coming through!”

God, now I sound like Trace.

The raised area is barely more than a platform, two stairs, and some fire-hazard Lekos washing the area in swimmy amber light. I deposit Lore next to a bar stool and smack her once on the ass, just to get the crowd going. They’re already cheering and clapping by the time I point a finger at the douchebag sitting there with his acoustic guitar, mouth hanging open. “Hand it to the lady.”

Not waiting to make sure he does it—because he’s going to do it, and we both know it—I turn back to the audience. The door guy is having a hell of a time keeping people back, but Benicio has to be headed in here if he’s within ten miles of the place. Everyone’s chanting “Xaine! Xaine! Xaine!” with Lore’s name tossed in there often enough to make an interesting remix. I put a finger up to my lips and the entire place goes quiet, save for one last piercing shriek of “I love you, Xaine!” and my answering shout of, “I fucking know, now shut up!”

Everyone laughs, then there’s a hush, and I hand that silence off to Lore. She sits there in my T-shirt and jeans, full glamour-puss makeup and porn-star hair from the photoshoot. The girl looks like a million dollars and doesn’t even it realize it. She licks her lips, but I doubt she’s nervous about playing. She’s been here before, performed here before…

But she hasn’t performed here with me a foot away from her. She hasn’t played while waiting for the other goddamn shoe to drop.

“Now, you’re all going to behave yourselves,” I tell them. “You’re going to shut your mouths, open your ears, and listen to my girl here. And if you’re spectacularly good, maybe I’ll sing a song or two in a couple of minutes.”

“What are you doing?” Lore whispers, cupping her hand over the mic to keep the words from carrying. “Have you lost your mind?”

Leaning in, I bring us eye-to-eye. This close, I get a better picture of all the details I tend to miss when I’m blasting through life at a hundred miles an hour. The blue of her eyes? It’s not the same as mine. There’s no ice or aquamarine comparison to be made here; no, her eyes are deeper, darker. Not the color of the sky, but the color of the ocean. Endless. Fathomless. And right at the center there are little flecks of gold, the slightest slivers radiating outward until they disappear.

The tiniest hint of someone else.

Lore fidgets, those irises flashing sideways and back. She’s getting more anxious with every passing second, probably because we’re deviating from the plan. Not like we really had a plan to begin with, but this definitely wasn’t in her mental playbook.

“Sing a couple of songs,” I tell her.

“Why? Where are you going to be?”

“You wanted to be bait, sweetheart.” Without waiting, I sling the guitar strap over her head. The instrument settles into her lap, and Lore cradles it like she was born holding the damn thing. “So be bait.”

With that, I stand up and step back, giving her another nod, sterner this time. Lore stares up at me for a long moment. Pursing her lips, she finally looks away, twists very carefully atop the tall stool, and offers up a smile to the crowd.

“I, um, wasn’t really expecting to play tonight.” She’s got that perfect mix of shy innocence and wry mischief, like some puckish faerie on a string, running into things trying to keep her balance, determined to prove she can do it all without actually flying. “This is a new one, but I guess they’re all new to you, really.”

Taking a breath, Lore plucks a pick from the mic stand and looks down to find the right finger placements. The entire time, I’m counting off the metronome ticks in my head, one, two, three, four, until she strums out the first chord.

Wasting words, and wonder why

My heart is on my sleeve,

You kill some faithless part of me,

And I can’t even grieve.

I wallow in the taste of you,

The scent of sweetest sin,

Swallow down my deepest fear,

So I can let you in…

I give myself a second. One precious moment to let that voice sidle over every one of my senses. It’s like she’s sliding a knife between my ribs and right into my useless heart. I get it then. I get everything. Hot and cold. Love and hate. Joy and sorrow. I feel every last thing that I’ve been holding away from myself for so long. I’m molten glass plunged into a bucket of ice water, with Lore threading cracks throughout my entire being.

And then I have to exhale slowly and open my eyes. Step away from her, even though I don’t want to move. After one quick glance at Asher, I head straight back to Jax Trace and his Shrinky Dink sidekick for some answers.

“Guess dumpster diving with Ke$ha has its perks,” he gets out as I slide into the booth on the opposite side and squeeze in so far that the girl becomes the compressed filling in a really uncomfortable man-sandwich. Jax’s eyes are on Lore, but mine, well, they’re all over Orange Pop here.

“What the fuck, dude?” she fires off, squirming because I’ve got her pinned tight.

My nostrils flare, because seriously, I’ve never caught a whiff of anything quite like this before. There’s woman there, all right, along with some other woman, telling me she definitely plays for the other team. There’s also the suggestion of secrets, the same smell that lingers in places where they store really old books. Ozone, like before a summer thunderstorm. And—

“What are you, an ass-sniffing bloodhound? Quit crowding me.” She levels the demand at me like I give two shits what she wants right now.

My gaze slides over her. “Look, toots—”

“The name is Tamsyn, dickhead.”

“And my name, surprisingly enough, isn’t dickhead, toots.” Then I look at Jax. “Are you going to tell me why you’re running around town with a sin-eater? Your pet pixie here is the second one to come skulking around Lore lately. Incidentally, every time that happens, my girl wakes up with her panties around her ankles and her head in the proverbial spit sink.” Jax opens his big, stupid mouth to answer, so I tack on a cavalier, “And when that doesn’t happen, that other sin-eater tosses a dead girl into the dumpster behind Scion or in my swimming pool. So don’t lie to me, Trace.”

Lore is still singing her heart out, like it’s Madison Square Garden and not some shitty dive bar off the side of Koreatown. iPhones capture the whole thing, the 21st century version of a Bic lighter at a concert, and in ten minutes there will be a hundred different angles of this performance splattered across the Internet. Thankfully, the crowd has almost completely forgotten me for the moment, so I get the opportunity to sit back and watch. To sit back and listen.

So let it go,

Let it fall away,

’Cause I am bold,

And braver than you know.

So let it burn,

Let the battles rage.

I’ll fight ’em all,

So the weak can have their turn,

Ooooh, let it burn…

The audience watches her like she’s the answer to all their prayers. It’s twisting something up in Jax, too, I can see it. He takes a second to think. To sort through every word in the English language twice, picking and choosing the ones he’s going to lay on me. And even if he takes all night, I know I’m not going to like what I hear.

Because I’m an impatient bastard, I turn to Tamsyn and add, “Sound like Benicio’s calling card to you? Because we were hoping he’d show tonight.”

She scowls at that, dark eyebrows rushing together. “Yeah, yeah it fucking does. Fuck.” Rounding on Jax, she surprises us both. “I told you that was him. Cocksucker.”

Jax flicks it off, his eyes still pinned to Lore. “Yeah, well, you tell me a lot of things, Tam, but pancakes are not always the answer, and vagina is not as difficult as you seem to think.”

That shuts us both up, because I have no clue what Trace is on about, but Toots apparently understands and steam just about comes out of her ears.

“I didn’t say a fucking thing about pancakes tonight, douchenozzle, I was telling you B had something to do with those dead bodies they’ve been splashing all over the news.”

“So you do know him.” I squeeze her a little harder, like a tube of toothpaste with the cap only half-on. Enough pressure, and she’s going to squirt out whatever information I want, if Jax keeps his mouth shut long enough for me to get it out of her.

She pushes back at me with her leg, trying to get me to move. “Yeah, I fucking know him, you stupid fanger.” When I don’t budge, she narrows her eyes a little. “How’d you like to wake up with your head in the spit sink?”

“Hit me with the juice, pipsqueak, and I’ll eat you for breakfast.”

“Shut up, both of you.” For the first time, Jax fixes superhuman Superman eyes on me. The damn fool look is gone from his expression now. He’s deadly serious and I have to say, it’s all that much more jarring for its rarity. “Are you honestly inferring that you placed Lore up on that stage hoping to lure a serial killer out of hiding?”

“Because that’s somehow worse than letting him mind-fuck half the valley while you shop for vests?” I fire back.

Jax leans in really damn close, so close that mini-muff is squashed against the leather like the aforementioned pancakes. She lets out a squeak, but that doesn’t seem to faze Trace in the least; he simply closes the gap between us like he’s got every right in the universe to get in my face. In return, he gets nothing from me but the hard line of my jaw.

“Little girls are one thing,” he says, “but Lore is something completely different altogether.”

“Why? Because she can sing? Because you want her for Genesis?”

“No, you giant, narcissistic asshat, it’s because…” Then, instead of answering the question, Jax lifts one hand slowly off the tabletop and points a finger at Lore. “Get her the fuck off that stage right fucking now.”

“Or what? You’re going to hair gel me to death? Strangle me with your dipshit tie? Or make me wear those ball stranglers you call pants?”

“I will trip you into sunlight, Xaine,” he says, “after I strap you to a cross and huck wooden darts at your chest.”

I motion to Asher, who’s standing about as close as he can get to the stage without crawling up on the platform, bow in hand. “Talk to him about buying some UV weapons. You wouldn’t even have to wait for dawn. And you’ve missed the fucking point entirely—”

Then I stiffen, because the Y-chromosome match to Orange Pop is somewhere in the building; I can smell him. Every fiber of my being wants to launch itself at the stage, but if I do that now, it’s Game Over. Instead, I make sure Asher’s looking my direction, then nod at him. He was already on high alert, but I can practically see his asshole tighten up as he turns the scan the room.

That’s right buddy, you keep that pole clenched right where it is.

The only complication is that it’s packed wall to wall in here and I need a way to separate the fans from the Fuzzy Bunny mindfuckers. With that in mind, I flash my fangs at the next waitress who heads past the table. When she ducks nearer the booth, I toss my black AmEx at her. “Try to keep up, ok?”

She gapes for a second. “What’s this for?”

“Hold on a second and you’ll find out,” I tell her, sliding out of the booth, stepping onto the bench, and planting both feet on the table the second the last notes from Lore’s song fade to nothing. “Intermission! Drinks are on me!”

The bellow carries to the farthest corners of the room, and the applause that had already started doubles over on itself. The bartenders start lining up shot glasses as everyone turns and makes a beeline for the liquor. They act like I’m personally pouring each drink myself, and that’s fine by me, because as long as they’re headed away from my girl, they can think whatever they want. I keep my eyes peeled after that, because I’ve tipped my hand, made a spectacle of myself, and everyone in the place is headed for the bar.

Except for Benicio. He’s headed straight for Lore.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Lore

The world is completely silent for all of three minutes. It’s just enough time for me to close my eyes. Just enough time for me to get comfortable. Barely enough time for me to forget. Absolutely everything fades away, slipping from my fingers the moment they strike that first, soft chord. It’s easy to lose myself in the music, to let the worry and fear slide away and just let it all go.

Of course, peace like this doesn’t last forever. When I open my eyes, the world surges back with a vengeance that I’m not immediately able to understand. Xaine’s standing on a table, shouting to the room. People crowd toward the bar, chaotic and cheering. My eyes shift back to where I last saw my vampire rock star friend, but he’s not there anymore. Instead, he’s plowing his way toward me with a single-minded purpose that sparks my own panic. He yells my name, but I see it more than I hear it as a heavy weight slams into my back and the tight anchor of an arm slides around my waist.

“Heya, Lo,” a familiar voice whispers into my hair. His breath curls into the shell of my ear, hot and damp, sending a ripple of revulsion down my spine. “Heard I might find you here. Social media is a beautiful thing.”

“Benicio.” My own voice sounds so distant. “Been looking for you.”

“I know.” He pulls me backwards, tugging me into the crowd that’s thwarting Xaine. “Saw you shaking your ass on TV. Thought you mighta missed me.”

Xaine’s shoving people out of the way, bouncing bodies off other bodies, yelling something over to the side. I search the crowd for Asher, but he’s not where I left him either. I spot Jackson Trace turning and tugging Tamsyn toward the front door. I’m caught in a tornado of anarchy, a perfect storm of chaos. The bulk of my safety net has vanished into thin air, and here I am, fish-on-a-hook, biting back a scream as Benicio’s tongue touches the bare curve of my earlobe.

“I missed you,” he says. “The other girls don’t taste quite so… damaged.”

I’m not entirely sure when that became a desirable personality trait, but I’m not really in the position to protest. He’s hauling me backwards faster than Xaine can catch up, and I start to think that maybe it’s best. Maybe I need to be caught. Maybe Benny and I need to finish this thing once and for all.

“Make you a deal.” The words fall out of me on a rush, expelled from my lungs by the shackle of my captor’s forearm. “Do whatever you want, but I want to keep the memories this time.”

“Trust me,” Benicio huffs out on a laugh as he plows backward through an emergency exit, “you don’t. You really, really don’t.”

“I need them.”

“Nobody needs these kinds of memories,” he says. “Nobody except me.”

One more heave, and he pulls me outside, into the alley where I stood not a half-hour before. The night air’s gone cold, and the bricks are drowning in shadows. Shifting his grip, the sin-eater curls his other hand over the lip of a dumpster and pulls it over to block the door. I have a moment to wonder if that’s the dumpster I’m going to end up in before he turns, starts dragging me away—

And pulls up short at the business end of Asher’s Glock.

Click.

“Well, hello there.” Ash’s voice is low and monotone, and if I didn’t know him better, I’d almost say I detect a hint of bemusement in it. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Something slams into the other side of the door, hard enough to make the metal to bulge outward. The pounding comes again, the heavy impact of something that keeps beating at the inside, trying to get out.

Xaine.

The heavy dumpster slides, inch by metal-screeching inch, until the door opens far enough that he can shove it the rest of the way, and my vampire watchman steps into the night. Two sets of footsteps echo at the other end of the alley as Jackson Trace skids to a halt with Tamsyn at his side. All at once, everything comes to a grinding standstill, bodies frozen in place, everyone staring at everyone else.

“You’re surrounded, Benny,” I say. “Trapped.”

“Eenie, meenie, miny, mo. Two mortals, a vampire, and a sin-eater.” He pulls me close until we’re plastered front-to-back. I stare ahead at Asher, but his expression is carefully blank. The gun is locked and loaded, but we both know it might not do anything. “Hardly ‘trapped.’”

There’s a snarl from Xaine, and Benicio’s head shifts until I can feel the wild flutter of his eyelashes against my temple.

“One more step, bloodsucker,” he says, “and I’ll snap her pretty neck.”

He keeps me immobile, using me as an all-too-human shield. I’ve got a free hand, but it’s the one opposite the pocket where I stashed the taser. Shooting Asher a look, I glance downward briefly, willing him to understand. Willing him to do something, anything to keep Benicio’s attention away from my roving fingers.

“Seems like you’ve had pretty good luck hunting these parts,” Asher says, drawing the sin-eater’s gaze and drawing the heat off me. “Lots of pretty girls around here. Everyone’s a blonde in LA, huh?”

“They’re all garbage,” Benicio says, shifting his feet. I can feel him glancing about for an escape route, and he’s pulled tighter than Asher’s stupid bowstring. “They all die before I’m done with ’em.”

“But not Lore.” It’s Jax this time, entering our little stand-off. “She didn’t die so easy, did she?”

The sin-eater breathes harshly in my ear, and I can feel his heart thrumming wildly against my spine. Not with fear, but excitement; the erection he’s digging into my ass is evidence enough of that. The hand on my wrist lets go and slides north, fingers skimming over the fabric of Xaine’s T-shirt until Benicio’s damp palm crosses my clavicle and curls around my neck. Right about then, I start getting a little warm. The heat spreads, but not as fast as before, and I wonder if maybe, just maybe, Benny’s whole bag of tricks revolves around the element of surprise.

Well, half the bag, anyway.

Benicio nuzzles the place where my neck meets my shoulder. “No, she didn’t die. I could keep going deeper, and deeper, and deeper…”

It apparently doesn’t matter to him that Asher’s got a gun trained on his face or that four people surround him, blocking every avenue of escape.

He’s not afraid.

“I could take the memories out and put them back a thousand times, and each time she’d be sweeter. Riper.” The rough scratch of Benicio’s jaw chafes at the flesh of my neck, rasping over Xaine’s puncture wounds. I feel lightheaded now, drifting on soft waves of desire. “Her body, her face, her fucking eyes… she’s perfect.” He chuckles into my hair. “Right, Xaine? Doesn’t she remind you of everything you ever loved?”

“Fuck you—”

“Everything you lost?” Benicio says, hurling the words at my guard dog. “Everything you had, and everything you fucked up? The thing you wanted so badly you’d kill it to keep it with you?” There’s an answering growl from somewhere over my left shoulder. “Yeah, kinda feels that way for me, too.”

“Let her go,” Jax’s voice chimes in. “You don’t really understand what you’re doing.”

“Yeah, fuckstick,” Xaine says. “You hurt a hair on her head, and I will shred you.”

“It’s okay, Benny,” I purr as I lean my head against his shoulder. Everything’s tilting sideways, and with every second that passes, I slip a little further away. “I get it. You can’t help it. Some people… they just taste so good.” Pushing back against my captor, I press the soft curve of my ass into his not-so-soft front.

Benicio groans, and his fingers tighten around my neck, damp and hot; whatever drug he’s pushing, he’s pushing hard. “Oh yeah, baby, you have no idea.”

I slide my free hand down, skimming my palm across his leg, over the bulge in his jeans. Benicio hisses and pulls back far enough that I can reach into my other pocket, snag the taser, and flick the safety off. His sucks in a sharp breath, but before he can get a warning out, I ram the tail-end spike straight into the meaty part of his thigh, twisting it brutally as I slam my elbow back into his ribs.

“Fucking hell!” He releases me so quickly that I stumble forward.

Asher immediately puts a bullet into Benicio’s chest, but the sin-eater shrugs it off like it’s only a flesh wound and grabs for me. In a moment of pure panic, I raise the taser and fire off the two spring-loaded diodes. Xaine chooses that exact second to tackle our friend Benny, and the moment those two electrically charged wires touch skin, both men drop to the concrete like stones.

Asher slings me out of the way as I sputter out, “Shit! Sorry!”

“Goddamnit, Lore!” Twitching at random, Xaine tries to get to his feet, with minimal success.

Asher carefully approaches Benicio; the second the sin-eater gets a knee under him, the hunter shoots him again, this time with a UV bullet. Benicio jerks on impact, and now I can see blood. It’s slick and red, but not the right shade of red. More like when your computer monitor or your television set needs to get adjusted. Too red.

Benicio snarls, flattening out against the filthy ground. Hurting, finally, but still not done.

“You think I don’t know what she is?” he yells at Jax. “What she is to you? I know exactly what she is, and she’s mine. I snagged me a little piece of heaven—”

Before he can finish, Jackson Trace’s shiny-as-shit gold-tipped shoe plows straight into his mouth. Benicio’s head whips over, droplets of blood and what looks suspiciously like a tooth arcing in the harsh orange glow of the streetlights. His eyes roll into the back of his head, only the whites showing.

“How’s that for a piece of heaven, you stupid fucker,” Tamsyn mutters, eyeballing Asher. “You got any handcuffs on you, Sparky?”

“I don’t want anyone touching him with bare skin,” Asher says. “He’s… not human.”

“That makes two of us.” Tamsyn holds out her hand. “Trust me, I won’t touch him any more than I have to. Anything dick or dick-adjacent I’ll leave to you.”

I snort at the wry frown that hits Asher’s face. Everyone turns to look at me then, and all I can do is offer up a shrug, taser still clutched in my left hand. I feel a little drunk, a lot dizzy, and I’m pretty sure that if I tried to walk, I’d have to think twice about every step. The adrenaline’s wearing off, and apparently that was the only thing keeping Benicio’s Jungle Juice at bay, because the minute my heart resettles into a steady rhythm, I start laughing.

“Why do you all look so serious?” I peer at the semicircle of solemn faces, then focus on Xaine, who’s peeling himself off the ground. “You have to admit, that was funny. Especially the part where I zapped Mr. Big Shit Rock Star.”

I can’t seem to get the rest out past the giggles, so I make a vague gesture and pantomime a body hitting the ground. Finally regaining his equilibrium, Xaine stomps over to me and snatches the taser out of my hand.

“It’ll be fine, she says. Asher can be my date, she says. He’ll keep me safe, she says. Who’s going to protect the rest of us from you? Huh, Thora, Goddess of Lightning?”

Clinging to his arm, I snicker into his shirtsleeve. Apparently self-preservation wins out in scenarios like this one, because I know that if I let go, I’ll be a heap on the concrete before anyone has the chance to catch me. Thankfully, Xaine’s not shrugging me off. He’s perfectly content to head for the Humvee, muttering under his breath, keeping the worst of it unintelligible and the other parts in Italian as he pries the door open and boosts me inside. I try not to laugh, biting down on my lip, but I’m punch-drunk and woozy and everything is hilarious.

I don’t really lose my shit, though, until Xaine mutters, “Thank fuck he didn’t give you a gun.”

The ride back to PFC is awkward but quick and probably less quiet than everyone would have liked. Turns out, Benicio’s not exactly the sort to die with dignity, so to speak, and it’s a pretty solid litany of expletives the entire way.

On my end, there’s a lot of squirming. Good ol’ Benny still managed to get a couple of licks in, literally, so I’m most definitely feeling the effects this time. Xaine’s arm is looped around my waist, and he holds me so tightly against his side that I can feel the heat of my skin burning between us. When my palm lands on the denim-clad expanse of his thigh, my nipples harden, and for a brief second all I can think about is all the things underneath those pants—

“So,” Tamsyn interrupts, flashing that manic-pixie smile of hers at me, “how big is Dark Prince Apocalypse’s dick? Enquiring minds are dying to know.”

“Big enough for you to choke on,” Xaine answers, but Tamsyn doesn’t pay him the slightest bit of attention.

“It smells like double-chocolate fudge brownies and cotton candy in here.” She leans closer to me, inhales deep, and adds, “I think you’re the cotton candy. I like cotton candy.”

Jax’s head appears between the two front seats. Those crazy-clear eyes of his zero in on Tamsyn, and he gives her that dad stare I recognize from the Audi. “Don’t.”

She lifts her hands in the universal sign of surrender. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Intent is the difference between murder and manslaughter,” Jax says, then turns back around in his seat. “You’ve been a total pain in the ass about pancakes since the hotel. And besides, she’s too young for you. Fifteen’ll get you twenty, just remember that.”

“I’m not fifteen.” Scowling at the back of his seat, I kick out with my foot, nailing the leather with my shoe. “Asshole.”

“Trust me, there’s a big enough age gap there that you might as well be.”

I turn my eyes back to Tam, who’s sitting there all sweet smiles and baby face, wearing a shirt made from white parachute fabric, a pair of strategically-torn khaki cargo shorts and, of course, those massive platform boots. For all that, she doesn’t look a day over sixteen. Right about then, her “that makes two of us” from the alley boomerangs back and clicks into place. And I know Asher half-explained it back at the police station, but I want some info straight from the source.

“You’re a sin-eater, too. How does it work, exactly?”

Tamsyn starts digging in her massive pockets. One hand pulls out a pack of clove cigarettes, the other locates a wad of detritus that includes gum and some Blow Pops. Weighing her options, she unwraps a sucker and shoves it in her mouth. “You wanna field this one, Dad?”

“Nope,” Jax tosses over the headrest, “you go right ahead.”

Tamsyn holds her hand out to me, shifting the sucker over to one side of her mouth to say, “Go on. I don’t bite.”

Xaine makes a noise that, swear to god, sounds like a Rottweiler growling at someone through a junkyard fence. “Fuck off, Orange Pop.”

“Not if you were the last man on earth.” She doesn’t spare him a glance, her eyes still trained on me. Behind her, the window flashes with streetlights and neon.

“How ’bout we do this without all the touching, huh?” Jax barks out. “And before you give me any more lip, Tam, I want you to think about what pawing her did to the guy tied up in the trunk.”

I gape a little. “Me? I didn’t do anything to him.”

“Nothing you meant to do,” Jax corrects without explaining. “But a year ago, he was considerably less psychotic.”

Tamsyn retracts her hand with an exaggerated sigh. “He might have been less of a crackhead, but he was always a douche.”

I glance at her, so tiny and cheerful and about the least intimidating person I’ve ever laid eyes on. “You’re like him.”

“Well, yes and no.” She scrunches up her nose at me. “Sin-eater, yeah. But I’m way less of a dick about it.”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” Xaine mutters, but either Tamsyn doesn’t hear him or she opts not to acknowledge the snarling.

“It’s sort of our job to help out the humans,” she says, crossing one giant-boot-clad leg over the other and slurping on her Blow Pop. “Figure out who’s naughty and nice. Get into your heads. Pull out the bad bits so you can get through your day-to-day without sticking a gun in your mouth or jumping out a window—”

“Tam,” comes the disembodied warning shot from the front seat.

“Sin-eater, get it?” Tamsyn raises an eyebrow at me, waiting for the light bulb to click on. “I knew something was up with Benny when he stopped trolling every skanky bar in LA. Normally, you couldn’t shut him up about all the pussy he was getting, so when he got really quiet, I started tailing him.” There’s a crunching noise as she chomps down on her sucker to get to the gum inside. “It’s not in anyone’s best interest for humans to know about us. We’re sorta the bottom rung on a crap-ladder they don’t need to climb anytime soon.”

“So you followed him?” I ask. “Where to?”

“O’Reilly’s,” Jax answers for her, dark head turning around so he can fix me with a stern look. “And then a sleazy motel in Van Nuys.”

Heat spreads across my face the second that processes. “What took you so damn long to get there? And I have mentioned recently that you are the worst guardian angel ever?”

Jax ignores the jab. “I let someone park my car, and someone parked it in a handicapped spot—”

“You are handicapped,” Tamsyn offers, then adds, “mentally.”

“—and while I was on the phone with the towing company, convincing them to turn around and bring back my Audi, you disappeared. I had a helluva time tracking you down, too. The hobo network ain’t what it used to be.”

“I could have been dead,” I point out.

“But you weren’t. You were fine.”

“I was naked!”

“But fine.” Jax waves a dismissive hand at it all. “Anyway, by the time we turned up in Van Nuys, Benny was long gone.”

“That about how it played out, B?” Tamsyn tosses at the trunk. “You kinky little shit?”

“Self-righteous bitch,” he fires back. “We don’t all have a Johnny Blue Shoes to do our face-kickin’ for us, yanno. I do what I gotta do.”

“Riiight.” Tamsyn pulls the tiny white stick out of her mouth and flicks it at the back of Jax’s head. “And hoarding ‘little bits of heaven’ is exactly what I would do, given the chance… said no one ever.”

I’m not following one word in three anymore, but it doesn’t matter, because Asher’s guiding the car through a reinforced security gate and straight down to hell. At least, that’s how it feels when we descend into the underground parking structure. He hasn’t said a single word during the entire drive, and as soon a he cuts the engine, he hops out of the Humvee and shouts a few words. A second later, the trunk clicks open.

“Welcome back.” Lonan waves a gloved hand at me, but he doesn’t wait for any sort of response. Instead, he hauls the bleeding sin-eater over his shoulder and takes off down the hall.

Latches pop and doors open on both sides of the car. Tamsyn slides out and heads off to confer with Jax. Xaine stretches a hand toward me, wrapping those long fingers around mine and pulling me toward him. The world spins as soon as my feet hit the ground, and I sag heavily against his chest, one palm pressed to my head as if that’ll stop it.

“You okay, sweetheart?” There’s concern written across that suddenly too-familiar face of his, so I offer up a smile and a nod.

“Yeah, fine.” Except I’m not. Not by a long shot. I’m hot and itchy and a deep flush colors my skin. I know it’ll wear off, but I’ve never actually been this aware of it before, or this unaware of how to stop it. “We should see where they took Ben—”

Xaine’s mouth finds mine, stifling the words like he’s the one full of Jungle Juice. His hands tighten down on my waist, just like Benicio’s had, but I could tell the difference between them even if I’d gone deaf and blind. Xaine doesn’t pull away until I’m dizzy from lack of oxygen, and one small gasp isn’t enough to drag all the air I need into my lungs.

“I can smell him on you,” he mutters against the side of my neck. The bristled scrape of his chin against my super-sensitized skin elicits a full-body shudder. “Tell me he didn’t hurt you before I got outside.”

He doesn’t give me a chance to answer, mouth back on mine and tongue slipping past my shoddy defenses before I even realize what’s happening. Doesn’t matter, because this is exactly what I want, exactly what I need, right now. Xaine slams the car door shut, then I’m suddenly pinned against several thousand pounds of steel and glass. What was a dull throb of arousal flares into an inferno of desire as I tangle my hands in the dark fall of his hair, fisting the locks and dragging his lips toward mine again and again. He tastes like sin, my version of sacramental wine, and I flatten myself against him, frantic with the need to get closer, to drink deeper, to open myself to him and—

“Jesus Christ, do I need to turn the hose on the two of you?” Asher yells from the doorway.

Jax stands off to one side, eying Xaine like he wishes he’d kicked him in the fangs. Next to him, Tamsyn makes exaggerated puking noises and tacks on a “so gross!” for good measure.

“I swear to god, Xaine, I will shoot you in the ass if you don’t get off her,” Asher adds.

“So shoot me already and shut the hell up!” Xaine yells back.

And there I stand, between a truck and a hard place, a low groan of frustration escaping me as my head falls back to thump against the window. Honestly, I’d stamp my foot right now if I didn’t need it for equilibrium. Closing my eyes, I slowly comb my fingers through the silken strands of Xaine’s hair, savoring the feel of it on my skin because, apparently, that’s as close as I’m going to get to him right now. When I open my eyes, a spectacularly thwarted pair of aquamarines stare right back at me.

Xaine swallows hard. “We are going inside and figuring this shit out,” he says slowly. “Then I am going to kill Asher and Jax and maybe the mini-muffin. And then we are going home, and we are going to fuck until my dick falls off and you can’t walk straight for a week.”

That gets a chuckle out of me. “Can there be eating somewhere between all that fucking? I’m starving.”

“Yeah,” Xaine says as he cracks the first actual smile I’ve seen out of him for hours. “I could use a bite myself.”

“Bad vampire joke is bad.” But I grin and give him a little push, one that he allows.

When I teeter off after Asher, Xaine falls in step beside me, one protective hand on my lower back. By the time I drag myself up the three flights of stairs behind our host, I’m ready to collapse into the nearest chair. Not an option, because the only resting surface is a metal table, set on a slant, and Benicio is strapped down to it, restraints around his head, wrists, and ankles. I steel my resolve, muster up my nerve, and step toward Public Enemy Number One.

“I need your help.”

He barks out a curt, “Fuck you.”

“Watch your language with the lady, asshole.” Xaine’s still at my back, his hand pressed to my spine.

“Yeah? Screw you too, bloodsucker.” Benny grins and tugs at his cuffs. I don’t have any clue what Asher’s equipment is made of, but I can only assume it’s vampire-grade double-reinforced whatever-it-takes-to-hold-an-immortal-down. I remember the tussle between Xaine and Benicio in the hallway at Scion. As far as strength goes, I’d say the two of them are equally matched, and I can only hope good ol’ Benny doesn’t have any other tricks up his sleeve. With his magic fingers, he could drop us all in a matter of seconds and leave us clutching our crotches while he beats it out the back door.

“Please,” I tell him. “You owe me.”

“Man’s gotta eat,” Benicio tells me. “You want your memories? I want another taste.”

Xaine growls, but doesn’t say anything. He knew this bit was coming, knew and was probably banking on us not finding Benicio.

“Tell me what you know,” I say. “Please?”

“What’s in it for me? You gonna let me go?” He doesn’t wait for a response before tacking on, “Nah, didn’t think so.” The sin-eater’s gaze roams from my head to my chest, pausing there long enough for him to lick his lips. “I like the new hairdo, but I must admit, I’ll miss tasting the rainbow.”

“Shut your filthy mouth.” Xaine clamps down on my arm, pulling me backwards like he’s going to save me. My hands seek and find, petting any part of him I can, trying to diffuse his fury.

Still grinning, Benicio shifts his attention from Xaine back to me, his tongue working in his mouth. “It’s all blood and pain… the things hiding in your closet, under your bed, in the mirror. Monsters in the dark, demons you don’t need. But I do. I need them. I want them. You gonna give them to me?”

As Benicio’s eyes trace over my shoulders and breasts, he swallows hard, like his mouth is watering, like he’s salivating at the thought of getting his hands on me.

“As much as I hate to admit it, Ol’ Benny’s kinda right,” Jax interrupts. “The memories sin-eaters feed off of aren’t exactly the sorts of memories that most people want back. What the hell do you need them for, anyway?”

“It’s kind of complicated,” I say, looking to Asher.

Of course, Jax notices. “I’ve got time.”

“Yeah, but Jess doesn’t,” Asher mutters. “Long story really short, a group of vampires jumped Lore last year, and she managed to survive without turning. I need to know how she did it to save the girl who’s dying in the room next door.”

“You’re not going to save that girl in there,” Jax says, looking grimmer than I’ve ever seen him. “Not if you’re relying on what saved Lourdes.”

“Am I supposed to take your word on that, Trace?” Asher’s cool-calm-collected routine cracks, the hunter’s mask slipping to reveal the smallest glimpse of the man underneath.

“Yeah, you are.”

“And what the hell do you know about it?”

“Oh, I know all the hell about it,” Jax tells him. “I also know that Lore and Jess are very different people. Too different. Trying the same tactic isn’t going to work, Asher, and as someone who makes it his job to kill the unkillable, you should understand that no two scenarios play out exactly the same.”

“Well, that’s just fantastic. So I’m supposed to just trial-and-error it? Take shots in the dark until I find something that works?” Asher balls his hands into fists. “And in the meantime, what am I supposed to do with a half-turned baby vamp who can’t keep down so much as an ounce of food or blood? She’s dying in there.”

“You know the survival rate for women,” Jax looks sympathetic if not particularly moved. “Chances are good that she was dead the minute they opened up her veins, but if I had any advice to give, I’d say you need to find a way to finish the change. You were, I’m guessing, the one who interrupted it?”

“Actually,” I say, swallowing hard, “that was me.”

Jax stares at me, disbelief turning to cold fury in an instant. “What the fuck were you doing there?” There’s an edge to his voice now, a razor sharpness that feels like it should be completely uncharacteristic, but somehow isn’t. “Never mind, I don’t wanna know.”

I find myself staring at Jackson Trace’s face. There are two sides to him, a perfect dichotomy of affable fool and iron general that makes it hard to predict what his next move will be. To look at him, he’s just a guy. A guy who picks up lost girls and returns them to their vampire keepers. A guy who follows people he barely knows to a warehouse full of dangerous weapons, and for what?

“Why are you here?” My voice sounds so small, but it still rings in the silence and draws all eyes to me. “I don’t know you. You don’t know me. I mean, it’s nice of you to try to help, but you don’t even have to be here.”

Jax looks me straight in the eyes, with a piercing connection of blue-on-blue. “Yeah, kiddo, actually I do.”

“Why?” Really, I’m almost afraid he’ll tell me. A muscle twitches in his jaw, but he doesn’t flinch or look away. Eyes narrowing, I suddenly understand that this goes a lot deeper than Random Acts of Brutality. “It’s because you know things.”

“Yeah,” Jax nods in confirmation. “Too many things.”

“What things do you know about me?”

“I know that your memories aren’t going to save that girl.” He jabs a finger in the direction of the glass that separates us from Jess. “I know that all you’re going to do is break yourself. All you’re going to do is let him,” he gestures toward Benicio, “break you, and it makes no goddamn sense for you to do that.”

“I’m not afraid.” Now I’m in a full-blown staring contest with him, the two of us nearly nose-to-nose. “Not of him or the things inside my head.”

“Yeah? Well, you damn well should be.”

“Step off, Trace.” Xaine’s voice rumbles across my shoulder.

There’s a flicker in Jax’s eyes, the briefest twitch at his water line before he leans away, taking one slow backward stride, then another, and one more after that. He ends up next to Tamsyn, who looks like she’s ready to either break us up or place a bet.

Or offer a distraction. “You know, if you wanted to leave Benny tied to the table, I could totally—”

“No,” Jax says curtly, “you couldn’t.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” I tell him. “Tamsyn wouldn’t hurt me. She wouldn’t—”

“You would hurt her, kid, and I don’t plan on letting that happen.”

“I don’t understand.” I look back and forth between Jax and his pint-sized minion. “I wouldn’t ever hurt Tam.”

“Have you ever shot heroin, Lourdes?” Jax lobs from somewhere out in left field.

“No. And I’m not sure why that’s relevant.”

“It’s what you are to them, Lore: a drug. An instant addiction. Nobody with half a brain is gonna play around with something like that. Not more than once.” His attention shifts to Tamsyn. “Bad enough you had to go fishing around inside—” He catches himself, pulling up short, gaze skipping over each of our faces in turn like he’s only just realized we’re all still here. Still listening. Jax jerks his chin at Benicio. “It’s like I tried to explain on the ride over. He wasn’t always a murderer. A lowlife scumbag, yes—”

“Hey,” the scumbag in question interjects, “I’m still in the room, asshole, I can hear you.”

Calm as hell. Like he’s not tied to a table in the den of the enemy. Like we couldn’t turn him over to the police. Like he’s just waiting, watching, wondering how it’s all going to pan out.

“A scumbag, but not a murderer,” Jax finishes. “Tam’s hands aren’t going anywhere near you. You’re lighter fluid on the flames.”

“How can that even be remotely true? I mean, isn’t that what sin-eaters do?” I ask him. “Isn’t it her job to help people like me?”

Jax wilts, looking a little distraught. “No, it’s my job to keep people like you safe so she doesn’t have to.”

I’m not entirely sure whether Jax just confessed to being my secret stalker or to failing at it. Everyone’s quiet then, even Benicio, but given the circumstances, I think he’d probably do a Joker-style slow-clap if he could.

“So,” he says, “do I get to fondle Lo tonight or what?”

“Or what,” Xaine answers for me.

“No, Xaine,” I say with a glance at Benicio. “He knows what’s inside my head. And what he doesn’t know, he can find out.”

“You heard Trace. Letting that murderer inside your brain isn’t going to do a damn thing for your friend,” he says. “Who, incidentally, is not actually your friend, but a corporate spy.”

“I have to try.”

“That asshole is not putting his filthy, killer hands on you,” Xaine spits out.

“I could use my tongue,” Benicio says, so matter-of-fact that I can’t help but shoot him a scathing glance. “I mean, if my hands are the problem.”

Xaine’s eyes narrow to slits. “Shut up. Nobody asked you.”

“Okay,” I begin. “If Tam can’t touch me, and no one wants me climbing on top of Benny for a little heavy petting session—”

“Fuck that,” Xaine blurts out.

“—then you tell me what you know, Jax, because I know you know things. Things that could help.”

Jax shoots a glance over my shoulder, and I follow his lead, peering behind me at Xaine who’s shaking his head and daring Jax Trace to offer me up for a fondle. I swear I hear his knuckles crack. Far from worried, Jax crosses his arms over his chest, stern-faced, daring Xaine to say one single word in protest.

“Well?” I say, provoking identical scowls. “What’s it gonna be?”

Jax seems to consider the question, actually consider it, but when I see a slow smile start to crawl across his lips, I realize that he’s about to call my bluff.

“Shall I get you a saddle, kiddo?” he drawls. “Or do you plan on riding bareback?”

After that, I don’t think anyone is entirely shocked when Xaine’s fist plows into Jax’s pretty face. Whatever Jax knows, he’s keeping his cards close to his chest. I’m not really sure what would cause a man to voluntarily take a jaw-jab from a vampire, but apparently some secrets are worth it. He rocks back, head turning to avoid the worst of the punch, but he still catches the broad side of Xaine’s fist. It all happens so fast that I can barely follow it, but instead of stepping toward the boys, instead of intervening yet again, I move toward Benicio.

Jax’s warnings echo in my head as I meet our boy Benny’s leering expression. I don’t want to do this. I might not be able to help Jess. But there are monsters under my bed, in my closet, all around me. Someone tried to change me, and I need to know why. If I’m ever going to sleep at night, I need to be able to see into all the shadowed corners.

So I put my hand on either side of his face, rise on my tiptoes—

“Lore, don’t!” Two voices, maybe three.

—and press my lips to the past.

CHAPTER NINETEEN
Lore

I’m numb, but still aware of certain things: the scent of blood, the warm moisture in the confined space, my face scraping across something rough and cold. Despite myself, I take a breath, then another, sucking in slow lungfuls of fetid air. It’s dark and humid-damp, like being zipped up inside a sleeping bag.

Or a body bag.

I open my eyes to utter darkness and the smothering scent of heavy plastic. I want to flail, to cry out, but my body won’t respond. Worst of all, Benny’s voice is in my head.

“Keep going, we’re almost there.”

I swear, it sounds like he’s enjoying himself.

And I know he’s enjoying himself when the heavy hiss of a zipper tracks from my nose to my navel and I’m staring up at his stupid, grinning face. A second later, he’s gone, replaced by someone in a blinding white lab coat. I only process flashes of the new guy, because now Benicio’s behind me, running his fingers across my face then lifting them to his mouth to lick them.

“Yeah,” he says, muffling a groan. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it, Lo?”

I suppose it is.

Be careful what you wish for.

Benicio ambles a few feet away, expanding my view of the room around me. It’s all pristine, high-tech, and sterilized within an inch of its life. Within a few seconds, a team of people surrounds me, cutting me out of the blood-matted hospital gown, wiping down my skin as best they can while hooking me up to a thousand different monitors. There are injections, something they’re hoping will stabilize me, get my heart rate back up. There’s only one quiet set of eyes in the entire room, and they belong to a doctor standing to my right.

“You wanna know who he is, don’t you?” Benicio smirks a little.

“Yes.” My throat rasps like I swallowed a chunk of sandpaper somewhere along the way.

“Ask me nicely.”

I grit my teeth and manage a “please” when really I want to tell him to go fuck himself.

Benicio knows. Knows, and loves it. He’s in my head, can rummage through every fantasy, so I guess we should be thankful that we ended up here instead of somewhere far more intimate.

Like Xaine’s bedroom.

“We can go there,” the sin-eater offers without missing a beat, “but I thought you wanted to see all the bloody bits?”

“I do.” The idea of Benicio traipsing through my memories of Xaine makes me feel sick. I don’t want Benny anywhere near those. He’d only ruin them. “Stay here.”

But things don’t get any better when they slip an oxygen mask over my nose and mouth. I concentrate on the doctor standing to the right of the bed; amid the chaos, he’s the eye of the storm. Security badge reads “Takashi Osamu.” Hair buzzed short. Dark-eyed. Medium build, the lab coat not quite hiding his musculature. Instead of wearing the usual doctor uniform of button-down shirt and conservative tie, he’s got on some kind of gray woolen hoodie that looks almost post-apocalyptic in its texture and stitching. It has those elongated sleeves with thumb-holes, which you’d think would just get in the way.

Like he can read my mind, he smiles faintly and cuffs them back. His slim, cool fingers find my inner wrist, taking my pulse, taking my measure. That aura of calm transfers slowly, seeping into my skin with the suggestion of sunlight on storm clouds. When I finally manage to bring him into complete focus, his head is surrounded by a halo of halogen light, making it hard for me to pick out the finer details of his expression. And yet, I can see that there’s sorrow there. A sense of loss that I feel even as my pulse steadies and the ache in my throat recedes.

Behind me, there’s the soft click-and-hiss of a door opening. Without warning, there they are, those relentless tiger eyes bearing down on all of us like some predator in a jungle. “Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on here?”

Half a dozen people in the room, but it’s my guy who answers. The doctor applies gentle pressure, a tiny squeeze of reassurance, and doesn’t break eye contact with me when he says, “She’s alive.”

Caspian Declan draws up short, his brows coming together on either side of a set of forehead creases. He’s frowning, and it’s terrifying, but there’s a hesitant sort of disbelief there as well. It’s like he can’t dare to hope. “What do you mean, she’s alive? That’s not possible.”

The doctor shakes his head. “It really isn’t possible. It’s entirely impossible, in fact. There have been no viable signs of life up until now.”

Then hands are all over me: a bevy of doctors and nurses, touching my arms and legs, lifting me from inside the black bag. They heft my dead weight across the short chasm between my grave and the hospital bed. The only complication is that my corporeal body goes and I—

I… stay. Debatably the most important parts of me are left behind, disembodied, a soul or a ghost or something. A specter spectator to my own worst nightmares.

As if I’ve been released from weighted shackles, I’m finally able to sit up, to slide my legs over the side of the gurney, to put my feet on the floor and push myself upright. I stare at my actual body, laid out flat on a hospital bed not five feet away, stained with blood and gore and all the rest. I gape at myself, barely recognizing me underneath all the horror those people inflicted.

“Yadda, yadda,” Benicio says, and it startles me enough that I jump. “This is the boring part. Let’s skip to the really meaty stuff.”

Then everything shifts, converting from a pristine operating room to a quiet recovery room. My physical body is there. Caspian Declan is there, standing by my bed, staring down at me. His face is a mask of stoic professionalism relieved only by the slightest frown of concern. He’s a vampire, yes, distant and cool, but he seems curious and caring in a way that makes me wonder why he didn’t reach out to me long before this. Why he waited for the other vampires to pick me up and try to turn me before getting involved.

“The guy’s a bleeding heart,” Benicio answers the question I didn’t bother to ask. “Not to mention the fact that he’s obviously neck-deep in the shit. Hell, I bet he thought he was doing you a favor, keeping you out of the fray.”

It makes sense, I guess. You can hide something in plain sight and people will walk right past it, so long as you don’t give yourself away. No contact. No nothing. He left me right where I was and looked the other direction.

I suppose even the strongest men make a misstep every now and again.

“Some favor,” Benicio snorts. “The guy’s worth billions. Do you know how much personal security you can buy with billions of dollars, Lo?”

Rhetorical question, but I’m done listening to him anyway. Moving closer, I stand right behind the man with the golden eyes, peering around the pristine sleeve of his jacket. There’s a buzzing sound from the vicinity of his breast pocket, and when he picks up the phone, I see a familiar name on the screen.

One more piece to the puzzle.

Caspian doesn’t answer the call, instead tucking away the cell with a heavy sigh as he turns toward Dr. Osamu.

“That was Patrick, no doubt champing at the bit for more samples,” Caspian says. “It’s been weeks. Is she going to wake up?”

The doctor clears his throat before venturing, “Her heart is pumping, her lungs are functional. Everything is as it should be. She took the blood they gave her, and she healed herself with it. It is a miracle, unlike anything else I’ve ever seen.” He keeps his eyes averted, head slightly bowed. “The body… is alive.”

Caspian turns a critical gaze upon the doctor. “So you’re saying that she’ll be a vegetable for the rest of her life.”

“The vampire blood likely had a hand in regenerating her cells,” Dr. Osamu clarifies, “but no amount of physical healing can bridge the gap between this world and the next.”

Closing his eyes for a moment, Caspian shakes his head and moves toward the bank of windows that run along far side of the room. He’s silent for a long time, but there’s a slight tremor in his body. Quiet fury spills out when he swings around to ask again, “Will she ever wake up?”

The doctor’s eyes lift, gaze sliding across the bed, across my body, and suddenly his dark eyes are boring into me.

Me.

The me standing beside my own hospital bed. The me that fell out when they lifted my body off the gurney.

He can see me.

“It’s possible.” The doctor’s gaze is full of sympathy and sadness. “But it’s just as possible that she simply isn’t in there anymore.”

It’s like he’s talking to me, too. That those words were meant for me and not Cas Declan. Eventually, Dr. Osamu turns away, those kind eyes shifting toward the tablet in his hands.

“Hey!” I scream. He doesn’t glance my way, but he does startle. Turning around, I focus my attention on Benicio. “He can see me, I know he can. Why’s he pretending he can’t?”

“It’s not the real thing, sweets,” the sin-eater scoffs. “You’re not really here. You were, but you’re not now. This is an instant replay. And besides, nobody talks to dead people unless they want to end up in the loony bin, y’know? I mean, you oughta know.”

I do know. It’s all playing out like a dream on repeat, an echo of things that have happened before. I’m struck by the strangest sort of déjà vu, like I’m running lines in a play I’ve seen a thousand times before, uttering the words over and over until I know them by heart. Because this is all another one of my dreams, one of my nightmares—

A memory within a memory.

“Oh, god,” I hear myself choke out because it’s my cue and the show must go on. “I’m really not in there, am I? How am I not in there?”

The voice that speaks next belongs to the doctor. “You are ikiryō. A living ghost, a soul separated from the body.”

We’re alone in the room now, just me, the doc, and my empty shell. The room is somehow dimmer than before; not day turned to night, but an encroaching absence of both light and dark that somehow adds up to a great big Nothing.

But I have more important questions to ask first.

“You can see me,” I say, because that’s the script.

He nods. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Then why—”

A nurse enters the room, and Dr. Osamu looks away, consulting his tablet, ignoring me as I move closer. My bare feet make no sound on the floor, but the doctor flinches away all the same. The nurse rustles around, checking my wires and tubes, hooking up a new bag of medications to my IV, tinkering with the monitors and readings. I stare at myself while she does it, studying my still-living corpse. I’m clean now, bathed and put to bed like Sleeping Beauty, except that my eyes are open, staring, wide, blue, and blank.

“Tell me what happened,” I implore, but the doctor ignores me, flicking brief glances at the nurse. “Please?”

I stand close enough to him that I can feel his heat. It’s weird, that warmth, and I realize that it’s the only thing I’ve felt since I was, as the movies like to say, shaken loose from my mortal coil. Without thinking, my hands reach out with desperate longing toward his skin.

The doctor evades me, taking a few casual steps out of reach, toying with a knob on one of the machines. When the nurse leaves and we’re alone, he acknowledges my presence again. “There is nothing I can do for you. You should go.”

“What about my body?” I say, incredulous.

“Everything is as it was,” he tells me. “There are secrets in your blood that we have yet to discover, but thankfully, we will have the opportunity. You are very special, and your spirit may depart knowing that some good may yet come of this.”

“Depart?” I shake my head. “Where am I supposed to go?”

“Wherever people go,” he says softly, “when they move on.”

Panic rising, I can feel absolutely nothing where there should be something. It’s all black and cold and empty. “You have to help me. You’re supposed to help me.”

Dr. Osamu’s expression changes then, breaking apart and shifting as if I’ve moved something inside of him. “I heal people. It’s what I do. But I cannot put a soul back into a mortal vessel. That’s beyond the scope of medicine.”

“You’re not just a doctor.” I don’t understand how, but I know it for a certainty. “There’s something about you. I feel it. You brought me back from the edge when you touched me.”

I flash out and grasp him by the wrist. He jerks like I shot him with a taser, muscles spasming. I can tell he wants to pull away, wants to shake me off, but he can’t. His next exhalation of breath is accompanied by a puff of white, as if the temperature in the room dropped below freezing.

“I cannot help you,” he protests.

“You have to.” My other hand clamps down on his arm, and I jerk him toward my inert body. “You’re going to put me back. You’re going to do it right now.”

“Please stop.” He manages to pull away, slipping through my fingers like I’m nothing but air. I watch in horror as my hands lose solidity, fading to transparence even as the doctor takes a few slow steps backwards.

Staring at my palms, I try to wrap my head around everything. This is why I can’t remember those months. This is why I only see things in flickers and flashes. This is why there’s no memory of anything other than those random moments that Benicio dredged up. When I look at the doctor again, I feel the urge to cry, but no tears are forthcoming.

“Nothing is ever the same once it touches death,” he tells me, repeating his earlier words. It sounds like a warning, an admonition to understand exactly what I’m asking of him.

“I said I don’t care.” Hope rises hard and fast enough to choke me. “Can you try?”

He shakes his head. “No, I will not do it.”

“I’ll wait,” I tell him. “I’ll wait forever. I’ll haunt you until you change your mind. I’ll—”

“Lore!” The voice calling me back is familiar, but out of place. It doesn’t belong here.

Swiveling my head to the spot where Benicio was standing, I gape in disbelief at the suggestion of someone very different. “Xaine?”

There's a flash of him, the quickest flicker of his face and form before he’s gone and I’m staring at a blank wall. I stride toward it, hands outstretched, palms thudding against the surface. My eyes are telling me that I’m looking at pristine, white plaster, but the surface beneath my palms is rougher, colder, like stone.

Like brick.

Something plows into my side, knocking me to the ground. I hit hard, skin scraping and head bouncing against the concrete. I can taste blood dripping into my mouth, but from where?

Lips. Nose. Head.

The real world returns in a screaming, roaring, overwhelming rush of sight and sound and reality. I blink up at my assailant, stunned and confused. I’m lying on my back in the semi-dark with Benicio crouching over me. He’s bloody and huffing, like he just ran the world’s longest marathon, but he’s smiling nonetheless.

“What—”

“No, no,” he growls. “Thank me later.”

“Lore!” Xaine’s voice again, accompanied by the sound of him running toward us.

Benicio makes a noise that I swear sounds happy. I don’t know how he broke out of PFC, whose blood he’s wearing, or what’s going to happen when he gets his hands on Xaine, so I do the only thing I can do: I clap my hands on his face and summon the memory of the scummy motel room.

As distractions go, it’s pretty disgusting, but the memory of us tangled up in cheap cotton sheets is enough to get the sin-eater’s eyes closed and his mouth hanging ajar. Xaine’s gloved hands clamp down on Benicio’s shoulder two second later, jerking him away from me. I scramble back against the bricks, wishing I still had a weapon on me, but I’m not sure there’s anything I could aim it at without hitting Xaine. They grapple, with the sin-eater trying like hell to get a hand up to Xaine’s face, the only place he still has skin exposed. And Xaine…

For all the times they’ve photographed him covered in fake blood, teeth bared, no one has ever captured this side of him. Somehow, his fangs look longer. His eyes have gone completely dark, repelling the light from the security lamps that blaze to life with a series of whining electrical charges. Reaching between them, Xaine grasps Benny by the hand and twists slowly, inexorably back until it reaches a sickening point of tension. I see the look on Benicio’s face, an awakening sense of panic as the odds balance out and then tilt in someone else’s favor. Finally, with a grunt and a nauseating pop!, Xaine breaks his wrist.

The rest plays out like an action sequence from a street fighter movie, with Xaine taking Benicio apart, limb by deliberate limb. Kneecaps shattered. Ribs broken. Pretty soon, the sin-eater is curled in on himself like a shrimp, snarling and whimpering by turns, not that it makes any difference to the vampire. He’s still moving, his actions fast, furious, deliberate, vicious, and as horrifying to watch as it is gratifying…

…right up to the blood. I can see spatter, but I can’t believe that Xaine would ever drink from a sin-eater, a suspicion that’s confirmed when I catch the metal-glint of light hitting a small knife in his hand. It’s one of Asher’s, I have to guess, curved like a velociraptor claw.

“Let’s see if you’ll bleed out the same as any human would,” Xaine says, slicing through Benicio’s bicep. The sin-eater’s half-swallowed scream accompanies the spurt of too-red, but Xaine’s already moving to the other arm. “It’s rank, man. You reek like misery. My girl’s misery.” Xaine digs the tip of the knife into the soft spot under Benicio’s chin. “I think I’m gonna cut your head off and see how long it takes for the rest of you to stop twitching.” He moves in closer. “How much do you think they pay for powdered sin-eater dick in Chinatown?”

Benicio’s answer is garbled, thick with the blood filling his mouth and the bubbles breaking on his lips. I should stop this, I should do something. Like an echo, I hear myself tell Xaine not to hurt him, the memory of concern. Except too much has happened since that hallway at Scion, and I’m tired of looking over my shoulder and holding my breath. I exhale, releasing the air from my lungs on a wordless whisper, issuing no stay of execution. And I watch as Xaine shoves the knife by painstaking increments into the neck, surpassing the base of the jaw, the hard palate, the sinus, and finally the skull. That’s when Benicio goes slack, the lean lines of his body relaxing into nothing more than a pile of very dead meat.

There’s a flesh-hiss when Xaine slowly pulls the knife out. Flipping the blade around in his hand, he rocks back on his heels and stands. The madness is still there, painted across his face, his shaking body. He blinks, once, twice, clenching his teeth together, pushing one rough palm into his own eye socket like he’s got the mother of all brain freezes.

When he finally looks up at me, his eyes are still black. He takes a step forward, then pulls up short, curtailing himself like he’s afraid he might not be able to stop if he moves too quickly. “Lore?”

“It’s okay.” My voice wavers but I slowly crawl up the wall until I’m on my feet again, leaning hard against the cold brick. “I’m okay.”

I get the flash of fangs, a gut-deep growl as Xaine stalks toward me. Maybe it’s stupid, but I’m too relieved to be afraid of him. I’m dizzy, the world is spinning, and I think I might lose my cookies all over the damn parking pad outside of PFC, but—

“I feel better, actually,” I tell him as he grabs hold of my waist and drags me against him. “I feel—”

Not haunted.

“Well, I’m glad you feel better.” Xaine’s words a little garbled, leaving me to wonder if maybe those famous fangs of his aren’t actually a little bit longer, sharper, and deadlier than before. “Because that was the stupidest idea on the planet.”

“What happened?” I touch the tips of my fingers to my aching head.

“Asshole busted the restraints the second you were within reach,” Xaine says, squeezing me against his chest so tightly that I can actually feel the blood seeping through my clothes. “Scrambled Asher’s brain, took out the Mini-Muff, and chopped Trace up with his own goddamn sword, that’s what.”

“Oh, my god.” I stare up at him in horror. “Are they all dead?”

“I don’t know,” he says grimly. “I didn’t exactly stick around to find out.”

The inside of the warehouse looks like a war zone. The moment I step through the door, I draw up short, gasping at the trail of blood extending down the hallway. The sudden action makes my head reel, my stomach flipping over and over again until my knees give out. Xaine catches me, setting me gently on my feet and holding me up until I’ve stabilized.

“Easy,” he admonishes. “You hit the pavement pretty hard.”

Great. Just what I need, more brain damage.

When I take a tentative step, my heel clicks loudly in the silence. Xaine is at my side, guiding me with his hand as we pick our way around the scattered red puddles. Back in the interrogation room, Jax is sitting up against the wall, grimacing as Lonan presses a heavy pad of gauze to his shoulder.

“It’s severed, man,” Lonan says. “You need to go to a hospital.”

“It’s fine,” Jax manages through gritted teeth. “It’ll be fine. Just… give it a few minutes.”

“You don’t have a few minutes.”

Jax snorts. “I have all the time in the world.” He pauses, then adds, “I think.”

When the two men catch sight of me, there’s a collective frown. Lonan ducks his head and looks away, content to play nurse.

Jax decides to lead with, “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“That I was tired of watching the menfolk duke it out like a bunch of Neanderthals.” Without thinking, I touch my throbbing head again. That’s when I notice the gravel embedded in my arms alongside scrapes that are still weakly oozing blood. “If it’s any consolation, I’m really, really sorry I did it. And also not sorry, because you were wrong. I did find something that could help.”

“Lore—” Jax starts to say, but gives up and shakes his head. Raking his good hand through the gel-shell on top, he cracks the crisp waves of dark hair and leaves them to fall forward into his face.

My eyes scan the room, searching for the others, but all I see is a circular pattern of debris and worse, like something detonated at the center of the room.

Ground Zero.

“What the hell happened?” I ask.

It’s Lonan who answers. “The dude nailed us. He projected. Threw out some kind of pulse that knocked us all on our asses. Busted those bindings like they were nothing…”

“Retard strength.” That bit comes from Tamsyn as she hobbles around the corner. She winces as she plops down on a crate, cradling her arms close to her chest. “G.I. Joe tried to take him on, got hit with the juice, and now he’s the Cobra Commander.”

That provokes an unwelcome mental image, to say the least. “Where is he? Is he okay?”

“Yeah,” she says, leaning against the wall with another fierce scowl. “He locked himself in the storage closet and won’t come out. Apparently an erection is serious business. So what happened to you?”

“Xaine found me.” I glance at the man in question. He’s quieter than usual, still dazed by the whole ordeal. Not damaged, really, but cautious, like he’s afraid he could lose it again at any moment. It’s a very strange look on him and doesn’t sit quite right on his features. “He ripped Benicio to pieces.”

Tamsyn nods her approval. “Double retard strength.”

“I don’t understand,” Lonan says. “How did Benicio break loose? Those cuffs are meant to hold men like him. Men stronger than him. He cracked those suckers like they were made of tissue paper.”

“Sin-eaters feed off of the emotions associated with memory.” Jax is still pale and slumped a bit, his pretty-man clothes torn all to hell. Lonan’s soaking through gauze pad after gauze pad trying to staunch the bleeding. “Plate of pancakes, man lives to shit another day. Plate of a pretty girl’s most painful memories?” He makes a gesture with one hand as he adds, “Kaboom.”

Then, from the orange-haired peanut gallery, “Super retard strength.”

“He was playing us all along, biding his time.” Jax nods to Lonan and pulls his arm away. “I think it’s fine now.”

Lonan looks skeptical, but a moment later, he grips the fabric of Jax’s shirt and yanks the sleeve off to bare a still-red but healing wound.

“Motherfucker!” Jax sucks in a sharp breath and clenches his teeth. “Could you maybe not jerk it out of its socket again, huh?”

Lonan touches tentative fingers to Jax’s shoulder. “It’s clotted. And healing. Who the hell are you?”

“It’s not a matter of who he is.” Xaine’s eyes are back to their trademark blue, but he looks no less menacing when he adds, “It’s a matter of what. Right, Trace?”

The two men glare at one another, the air rippling with unspoken words. Jax looks away first, but his hard gaze doesn’t wander far; it lands on me, with all the censure and resentment that he must be feeling in the aftermath of our own mini-Armageddon.

Done with staring contests, I pull away from Xaine. “I’m going to check on Asher.” Without waiting for permission, I head down the hall; a glance over my shoulder tells me that those glacial eyes of his are trained on me, following my every step toward the nearby broom closet.

Leaning in close, I rap a knuckle on the heavy door. “Ash?”

“Leave me alone,” he answers, voice muffled by the barrier between us.

“I’m coming in, okay?”

“That would be the opposite of ‘leave me alone,’ Lore.”

“Yeah, well, that’s me, rebel all the way.” Slowly pushing my way in, I peer around the edge of the door, searching the mostly-dark for Asher. I find him sitting on a stack of boxes, his head in his hands, clothes conspicuous only for their absence. “Are you naked?”

“What?” The question comes out panicked, like I startled him into some new revelation. None of that improves when Asher does a quick scan of himself and finds that, yes, he is, in fact, slightly more than Calvin Klein underwear ad in Times Square naked.

The second he starts to rise, my hands shoot out, gesturing him back down. “No, no, please don’t stand up.” Asher’s bare butt hits the crates again a second later. “Did you Hulk Smash all your clothes off?”

“I don’t remember.” He falls silent again, his elbows propped on his knees, clutching two handfuls of hair.

I give him the moment to think while I inch closer, approaching him like he’s a cornered animal because, really, that’s exactly what he is. Not feral like Xaine, but lost and confused and full-up on all the surging adrenaline and hormones that Benicio kicks into high gear with each unsolicited touch. “Are you okay?”

“My dick hurts,” he says. “And I sort of want to fuck everything.”

“I’m sorry. I get it, I do, having more than a passing acquaintance with the ‘Juice.’” When he cocks a brow at me, I add, “It’ll wear off soon enough.” In the meantime, the sight of him sitting in a broom closet without so much as his skivvies is actually pretty funny.

“I’m hot… so I took my clothes off.” A pause before he adds, “I think.”

“You must have,” I say, “because I certainly didn’t do it.”

He blinks up at me blearily, dark brows pulling together over the Grand Canyon of forehead creases. “Please don’t do that again. The sin-eater thing.”

“Yeah, that was not my best idea ever,” I tell him. “But I did find out a few things that might help Jess—”

“Jess!” Asher shoots to his feet, giving me an instant full-frontal.

Blinking twice, I clear my throat and avert my eyes. “Ash, holster your weapon, would ya? I can’t really think when it’s staring me in the eye.”

He only gapes at me. “What?”

I gesture to his—Jesus, what the hell?—substantial package. “Would you mind… uh… putting it away?”

He finally understands, scrambling to locate his discarded pants and flashing me a full moon. I turn my back as he wrestles his pants on and stuffs the anaconda into its cage.

“We need to get as much of my blood into Jess as possible,” I tell him. “Then you need to take her to CasDec. Ask for a Doctor Osamu.”

“He can save her?” There’s tentative hope in Asher’s voice now.

“He can try,” I say, with a pang of regret, because it doesn’t seem like much.

“Hell, Lourdes, I can try. I have tried.”

Spinning on my heel, I look him right in his hugely-dilated eyes. “He brought me back from the dead, Ash. Literally back from the dead. I don’t know if he can help Jess, but he’s your best bet. That, and you were there, at that vampire testing facility. You know where it is, so if all else fails? You can go get a little vengeance for me, for Jess, and for the guys you lost before.”

I reach out and gently touch his cheek. Asher stares back at me, high as a kite and apparently taking it as an invitation. His hands clamp down on either side of my face, and his body pins me against the door, which slams shut with a bang. Then his lips are on mine. It takes a second for me to fully comprehend exactly what’s happening, and by the time my mind processes the fact that Asher Reece is kissing me, I’m already shoving him back. Thankfully, he immediately stumbles away.

“Gross, Ash,” I tell him, spitting a little. “Ew.”

“Sorry.” A bright red flush crawls up his chest and into his cheeks. “I have no idea why I did that. I don’t grope people…”

I wait a long moment for him to qualify it with something like “in broom closets” or “without asking first” but instead, he trails off, looking at the wall and letting it hang.

“You don’t grope people… like, ever?”

If anything, he turns ten shades redder, mortified to his horny man-toes, but manages to fire back, “Yeah, well, not all the men in LA have had four hundred years and a thousand fuck buddies to practice on, you know. I work. A lot.”

With impeccable timing, Xaine’s voice reverberates through the metal barrier. “Lore? What the hell’s going on in there?”

“There is absolutely not one thing going on in here,” I answer, giving Asher the hairy eyeball as I ease the door open. “We’re good.”

Xaine eyes me, his skepticism changing to outright disgust the moment Asher comes into view, naked from the waist up, fifty shades of burgundy, and sporting a highly visible pant-leg pup tent.

Asher clears his throat and mutters, “This isn’t what it looks like, Xaine.”

“Yeah? Then why are you wearing Lore’s lipstick?”

The expression that crosses Asher’s face then would be fairly hilarious, if I hadn’t just watched Xaine disembowel a sin-eater. Without explanation, Asher starts scrubbing at his mouth with the back of his hand, and I can’t help but feel a little offended-yet-squeamish over the whole deal.

“Hooookay,” I say, clapping my hands together. “Who’s ready to transfuse a little blood?”

That recaptures Xaine’s attention. “What?”

“Really, really long story short,” I tell him, “I think my blood can help Jess.”

Asher eases past the two of us with a muttered “’Scuse me,” and Xaine’s whole body tenses. I get a hand on his arm before he can go ballistic.

“Oh, no you don’t,” I tell him. “You’ve done enough ripping and stabbing for one night.”

The look he gives me borders on petulant. “But—”

“Nope,” I tell him. “We’re going straight to Jess’s room for a little bloodletting, and if you’re good, I’ll let you hold my hand while they do it.”

Of course, I only make it half a dozen steps with Xaine in tow before the sound of cocked weaponry brings us up short. In a flash, I’m barricaded behind three bodies, squished into some sort of protective circle between Xaine, Jax, and Tamsyn. Asher shoves past us and keeps walking, like there’s not a bevy of weapons pointed in our direction by enough muscle to row a Viking ship.

“At ease, idiots,” he grumbles, then raises his voice. “Everyone, meet Phantom Firearms.” Gesturing to each newcomer in turn, Asher fires off names. “Rebel. Jude. Sullivan. You assholes should have been here thirty minutes ago. What were you doing when the alarms went off?”

“Chasing that demon across town.” One guy—Rebel, I think—steps forward, detaching himself from the group as they collectively lower their guns.

My eyes zero in on the c-curve prosthetic he’s got on one leg. Like a little kid, I can’t help but stare at it, wondering how he ended up sans-a-limb. His face is familiar too. I’ve seen him before but I can’t quite place where.

“You know, like you told us to?” The man Asher introduced as Jude takes a look around at the blood splatter and beat-to-shit civilians gathered in his workplace. “What the hell happened here anyway?”

“I kissed a sin-eater and I liked it?” I offer.

Asher swings around, pointing a very serious finger in my direction. “Not funny.”

Tamsyn laughs anyway, and Jax elbows her in the ribs. The rest of them stare at me like I’ve lost my damn mind, except that I haven’t lost my mind at all.

I’ve gotten it back.

“Alrighty then,” I tell them. “Shall we, gentlemen?”

“Hold on a second.” Asher turns back to his crew and gives the order to retrieve Benicio’s corpse from the alley. Apparently, the plan is to take samples, call the cops, and have the body hauled downtown to run DNA tests.

I wonder if they’ll drag Xaine into the precinct… again.

The moment our small crew is alone, Asher looks to me. “Okay, explain to me why you think your blood will help when no other blood has?”

Deadpan as anything, I pop off with, “Because I’m a special snowflake, asshole.” At his unappreciative frown, I tack on, “Call it a hunch?”

“Hunch or no hunch,” Xaine says, “you’re in no position to offer up blood, Lore.”

“Why?” Asher snaps. “Because it belongs to you now?”

“Yeah,” Xaine tells him, “as in it’s ‘belonged to me’ twice in the last twenty-four hours. If you take anymore, you’re going to kill her.”

“I won’t die,” I tell him. “Trust me when I say I’ve survived far worse.”

Asher frowns. “Jess wouldn’t want this. She wouldn’t want you—”

I cut him off. “If all else fails, hook me up to Xaine.” Now they’re all looking at me like I’m loony. “Trust me.”

I can tell that they don’t, so I start walking, heading out of the main room while they’re still trying to pick their jaws up off the floor. Leave it to Jax to be the first to recover. Calling out my name as I round the corner, he tugs my attention back to his irritated face.

“You still got that coin I gave you?”

My forehead crinkles. “Yeah. It’s at home, on my dresser. Why?”

“Keep it close to you,” he says. “Like, real close. In-your-pocket close. Just in case.”

I nod tentatively, ducking out of sight and leaving the menfolk to follow, but all the way down the hall toward Jess’s room, one question circles around and around, like water going down a drain.

Just in case of what?

CHAPTER TWENTY
Xaine

Naturally, we didn’t make it out of the warehouse before the police showed up. We might have, if the horse we rode in on wasn’t a PFC vehicle. Turns out, Asher doesn’t lend his armored cars out to civilians, and the police aren’t so keen on letting suspect vampires head home while they clean up the bloody mess in the alleyway. They didn’t book me this time—the one time I actually did kill someone—but between the questioning and giving my statement, it took a couple of extra hours to get the hell out of there.

It was probably for the best, because after Lore pumped more blood than she could really spare into Jess, the EMTs on the scene pulled half a sidewalk’s worth of asphalt out of her elbows and kneecaps. By the time I got her loaded into a car and on the way back to the Palisades, she was looking more like a mummy than a girl, and I spent the whole police cruiser ride beating back little pangs of I-don’t-know-what.

Guilt, maybe. Anger, probably.

Lust, definitely.

Not that I have a thing for mummies, but I’m a sucker for a damsel in distress.

Lore doesn’t look all that distressed, though. Contemplative, she sits quietly through the entire ride, her pretty face tilted toward the window, watching the lights go by on the other side of the tints. I don’t know what she’s mulling over, but it must be some pretty deep stuff. She’s chewing the inside of her lip again, digging that wrinkle in her chin a bit deeper, so it’s not much of a surprise when she turns toward me, frowning.

“What is Jax Trace?”

“A douchebag,” I say, because this is the last thing I want to discuss right now.

“Seriously, Xaine.” Lore gives me a look of censure.

“Seriously, sweetheart.”

With a small sigh, she lets her head loll on the headrest, eyelids fluttering shut. Here I am again, tensing, waiting, bracing for an argument, a fight, whatever it takes for her to dig the information out of me, but then she lets it go. No battle royale, no fight to the death, no gloves, no helmets, no American Gladiator batons, just a shrug and an “I’m starving.”

“Same here. It’s been a long fucking night.” I say. “I’ll dump you in the tub and call for a pizza.” Or six. “Sound good?”

“Mm… pizza.” I can practically hear her salivating, but after some consideration she shakes her head at me. “It’s okay, there’s stuff in the fridge. I can forage.”

The cruiser pulls to a stop in my driveway a second later, and Lore’s already popping the door open. I jump out on the other side, chucking a quick wave and a “thanks” to the officer who drove us home before I swing around the car and catch my girl by the elbow.

“You’re not eating leftovers,” I mutter. “You need to keep your strength up.”

“Leftovers have just as many nutrients as new food, Xaine,” she tells me. “And I hate to let things go bad.”

“You can eat old food tomorrow.” Planting a kiss at her temple, I pull her tight against me, steadying her new-colt wobble. “Really, sweetheart, what do you want? I’ll order the whole menu.”

“Please don’t do that.” Lore wrinkles her nose, dropping her forehead against my shoulder as I lead her up the stairs toward the house. “It’s such a waste of food.”

“Not when I do it.”

Her laugh is light and clear, and it settles some of the twisting in my gut. “How is it less of a waste when you do it? You don’t even eat. If I wasn’t here to clear out your refrigerator, there’d be nothing left but mold and O-neg.”

“Rosa takes it all home at the end of the week before the restock,” I say, towing her up the stairs and making sure she doesn’t faceplant on the travertine. “What did you think happened to it before you got here?”

“Hungry herds of Playboy bunnies?” Lore grins into my face, showing me two perfect rows of blunt, white teeth.

“You’re the only fuzzy bunny that I want in the house.” The admission flies out before I’ve even realized what I’ve said. Lore goes wide-eyed; it’s not real surprise, though, and I know I’m in for a doozy of a smart-assed remark.

Right as she takes a breath, I reach beneath her knees and sweep her off her feet. The sudden shift from vertical to horizontal forestalls any reply save a squeak of surprise. Just to be sure, I dip my head down and seal my mouth over hers. Her arms slip around my neck, holding on tight, and I pretty much kick the front door in because I can’t be arsed to go for my keys right now.

Lore arches against me, wanting more, wanting me, still a little looped up on sin-eater juice when she murmurs, “You don’t have to stay on your side of the bed tonight.”

Her hands pluck at my shirt, her smile is shy, but her pupils are still dilated, her breath the tiniest bit ragged.

Food and shower are going to have to wait.

The minute I plant Lore’s feet on the checkered marble in the front hall, I’m on her, dragging the T-shirt up and off because I’ve waited all night to be this close to her and a sin-eater has gotten more play from her than I have. I don’t want her thinking about Benicio. Not now. Not here. One of my hands digs into her waist and the other has a death-grip on her breast, thumb flicking over her nipple until Lore moans into my mouth. Her sweet lips part, her nails raking against the back of my neck, fingers carding through the tangle of my hair.

Suddenly, the master bedroom seems too far away.

Walking her backwards, I hook my fingers into the waistband of her jeans. My fingers work at the fly, unhooking the rivet at the top and snagging the zipper, separating the little teeth until the backs of my knuckles brush against bare skin. Lore’s hands slip from my hair then, traveling down the length of my body until she slides them beneath the hem of my shirt. She tugs at the worn cotton until I relinquish my hold on her, pull it over my head, and hurl it aside. She’s plastered against me, working at my pants, trying to get me as naked as she is by the time the backs of her heels hit that bottom stair. I cradle her as we both go down, shielding her from the worst of the awkward tumble, and next thing I know we’re a heap of tangled limbs and denim. There’s a mad scramble to kick off what’s left of the shoes, the jeans, her underwear. God knows I’m not wearing any, and thank fuck for that. The next second, she’s got those mile-long legs wrapped around my waist like she doesn’t give a single shit if her back is one giant bruise in the morning.

“I don’t,” she huffs out between kisses, and I realize I must have said that bit out loud. “I don’t care.”

I don’t either, really, because the bruises and the bite-marks and everything else will heal with time, but nothing will ever take away the sensation of poising my dick over her entrance, feeling her liquid heat lick over me. I hook my arm under her right knee and hitch it up, teasing her until she’s writhing against me, pinned between the stairs and my body and not going anywhere.

Mine.

The thought slams into me as I push into Lore, absorbing her moan with my mouth, her shudder with my chest and arms, giving her all of half-a-heartbeat and a single breath before I pull back and ram into her again. She tears her lips away from mine with a keening noise that would give me pause if she wasn’t already whimpering and urging me to do it again. It’s been building. This has been building. All night, hell, all week, since the second we met; it’s all culminating right here. Right now.

“Xaine.” Lore clings to my body, pulling me closer, sealing us tighter, whispering the next words against the shell of my ear. “Bite me, Xaine.”

I let my head drop forward, dark hair falling over her face, my nose buried in the crook of her neck. Beneath me, Lore’s hips rise in little canting jerks that bring her closer to me, draw me deeper within her. For a long moment, I don’t move; I just hold there, so still inside her. I stay like that until she’s undulating against my cock and panting against my shoulder. Her fingers rake up the skin of my back, and her nipples are hard points digging into my chest. I want to taste them and her and it’s too much and not enough all at the same time.

“Fuck, Lore.” I’m trying to draw it out, savor it, because Lord only knows when it’ll happen again.

The entire world seems to be conspiring against it, against us, but right now, I drag it to a standstill. It’s not hesitation, because I don’t ever hesitate. I don’t give myself space to breathe and time to think. I don’t reconsider. I don’t change my mind. Gut instinct has served me well for over four centuries, and it’s that ability to leap and land on my feet no matter how improbable the jump that’s brought me to this moment.

She will be mine.

I can feel the venom burning bright and hot behind my eyes. It’s always there, ever-ready, and yet I only ever seem to feel it in these moments. Four hundred years of existence, thousands of willing bodies and just as many feeds, but I’ve only marked a handful of them. I can remember them by name, by face, by voice, by the color of their hair and eyes, the wetness of their lips, the gentle perfume that shifts from something wholly their own to something that smells very faintly… of me.

Mine.

I bear down, break through, punch two holes in Lore’s neck and revel in the hissing breath that escapes her. My dick and my fangs are as far into her as they will go. She’s pinned in every possible way, and that’s when I let it slip, a small taste of the venom every vampire carries within them. The pretty poison surges through the hollow space in my teeth to flow free in her veins; in my mind’s eye, all that I am, all that is black and dark and tainted uncoils inside her, grasping her from the inside with vicious claws that sink deep and won’t want let go. Lore feels it, the burn of something foreign, like a shot of 100 proof liquor hitting the back of her throat and searing through her extremities. Song lyrics, scrawled across her soul.

X marks the spot, right on her heart.

She jerks, her cry filling my ears and the room and the house. Hell, the entire hillside might hear her, but there’s as much pleasure as there is pain. Triumph surges through me, but when I inhale, there’s no hint of me. All I get is the sweet-sick of the venom itself on her skin.

Lore’s processing it out, rejecting it, rejecting me in ways she doesn’t even realize.

What the fuck?

So I pump a little more into her, slowing down the rhythm of my dick despite the fact that she’s clawing up my back with her crazy-long acrylics. When the venom hits her a second time, she starts whining my name, carving gouges into my ass, pleading for me to go harder, go deeper, to give more.

I’m giving her more, but seconds later, she dumps that, too.

Frustration doesn’t even begin to cover the tidal wave of emotion that hits me. My balls tighten up; I can feel my climax building the same as I can feel the walls of her sex clamping down on me. Lore opens her thighs wider, encouraging me to go deeper.

“Please… Xaine… please.”

“Only because you said the magic word, sweetheart,” I mutter against the slow-bleeding holes, tracing my tongue across the raised bumps.

I can taste the flavor of the venom as it trickles out, clear-tinged-pink, stained with her blood. With a snarl, I give her everything she wants then, everything this body can deliver, until she’s mewling against my shoulder with every punishing thrust. Muscles strain, pumping and releasing, my body working over hers, reaching toward fulfillment. Her hips buck against mine, our skin slapping loudly in the austere space around us. Lore makes perfect noises. Not porn star screams or fake moans, no, but gasps. Little cries. Throaty pleas and filthy, filthy whispers.

I close my lips over the holes in her neck again, drawing upon them, sucking hard until I can feel the blood pulling to the surface beneath my lips. I need to taste her again, because I’m hoping against hope that she’ll taste different. But under the fire-and-ice, under the burn, there’s not a single trace of me, not one little tongue-tingling hint of the mark I tried to make.

Poison.

That’s all I am, no better than Benicio, in some ways, so she’s rejecting me, even as the flavor of her makes me stronger, so much stronger—

I could keep going… deeper, and deeper, and deeper…

And never hit the bottom.

A perfect sanguine drop slips out, streaking down her neck before I have the chance to close my lips over the wound. I lose it then, feeding myself to her inch-by-inch, thrusting and withdrawing, giving and taking, fucking and sucking all at once. My hands curl beneath her, palms pressed flat against her back. I can feel the outline of her ribs beneath the fragile skin, and under that is the steady thrum of her heart.

“Again, Xaine.” The words are a panted demand, harsh and raw, but I don’t know what she wants. There’s nothing more I can give her. “What you did before… do it again…”

What you did before…

I clamp down tighter with my teeth, embracing the burn at the back of my throat, the tingling rush of the venom as I force it past her so-soft skin and into her pliant flesh. She tenses instantly, her entire body drawing up like a coiled spring. Then everything tightens, clenches, arches, and bucks as Lore comes with a strangled cry, holding onto me so tight that there’s not a single particle of air between us.

“Yes!” Her scream echoes off every surface in the room and in the empty space inside me. “Fuck yes, so good… Xaine…”

Pulling my fangs from her neck, I mutter “oh santo cielo” against her shoulder as my cock spasms, pumping her full of me. I’m clenching, clutching at her and planting my toes on the tile two steps down so that I can push until I’m as deep as I can be. Until I’m bottomed out at the end.

Holy fucking shit.

There’s a full minute when the only noise in the entire world is the sound of our mingled breathing. It’s harsh and sweet, like the music, like her heartbeat pounding away in her chest. There are pauses, fleeting moments of silence containing nothing at all. It’s in one of those pauses that I pick up the sound of a throat clearing.

I freeze. Lore goes so still that I wonder if her heart’s seized up.

“When you’re quite done, Xaine,” comes Roman’s wry voice from a not-too-considerable distance, “I’ll be in the library. And not to rush you, but Lumen and I are a bit pressed for time.”

Two sets of retreating footfalls, one of them decidedly more light and feminine than the other.

Fuck.

Lore would be reaching for her clothes and her dignity if I didn’t still have her sandwiched against the stairs. As it is, her head’s on a swivel, trying to see past me to our uninvited and barely-welcome guests.

“Xaine, get off me. Who was that?”

My head hits her shoulder as I listen to receding footsteps, and all I can think is it’s my vampire dad and my human sort-of-stepsister, which isn’t exactly the most mature description on the planet. Lore smacks me hard on the ass, trying to unseat me, but I’m not moving until I’m absolutely certain that Lumen’s not going to catch any more of the Lore Show than she already has. For all she knows, Lore is a piece of tail here for my general amusement, and until I get some answers from Roman, I’m not certain I want him knowing more than that, either.

The moment I hear the library door close behind them, I ease myself from inside Lore, regretfully slipping free of her silken warmth and peeling myself from her arms. She immediately goes for the nearest piece of discarded clothing, which happens to be my jeans. Clutching them to her chest seems to make her feel better. For a second, she’s the perfect picture of afterglow, all tousled hair and sprawled limbs. The tiny trail of blood glistens at the curve of her shoulder, only serving to enhance the mental picture I’ll carry with me into whatever’s left of my eternity. Then the arousal that paints her skin pink deepens to a hot flush of mortification. It’s actually adorable, the way she ducks her head behind the golden fall of her hair and scrambles around for a shirt like my family might come back at any second.

I don’t have the heart to tell her that whatever Roman didn’t see he sure as hell smelled. Girls really don’t appreciate information like that. Sometimes ignorance really is bliss, and this is one of those times.

“It’s my sire.” There, that sounds better than the first draft. “And his ward. She grew up in his house. At least, until he packed her off overseas.” For her protection, a maneuver I’m growing increasingly familiar with.

Jerking the T-shirt down over those magnificent tits of hers, Lore pops her head out of the neckhole and gives me a narrow look. “Why are they here right now?”

“No clue.” It’s my turn to slap her on the ass, encouragement to head up the stairs. She doesn’t budge, despite the fact that I know she’s got a souvenir trickling down her inner thigh. “There’s FeedFade in the medicine cabinet. And you might want to snag that shower before storming in to meet him. You smell like spunk.”

That gets her moving, except it’s to pull back and throw my jeans full in my face. Then she twists around and makes a run for it, the pale-and-perfect globes of her ass bouncing a little with every stair she takes at a full-tilt retreat. There’s nothing I want more than to give chase, to tackle her to the carpet, to pin her against the bedding, to plow myself into her again—

Except answers. I want her, but I need answers. We both do. As sulky as any thwarted and horny teenager, I jerk on my pants. Lore’s scent is all over me, from the kisses she planted on my mouth to her honey all over my half-hard dick. I could use a shower, too, but it’s not ever a good idea to keep Roman waiting. Lore took my shirt, and I can’t currently locate the one she was wearing. Combining that with all the fucks I don’t give, I head down the hall bare-chested, barefoot, and scowling.

I do wipe off that expression before rounding the last corner. This might be my territory, but Roman isn’t just my sire; he’s my guest, and he tends to take etiquette matters seriously. I move forward, gaze forthright, meeting his eyes without flinching. It’s one of a hundred occasions when I’m glad I don’t have a guilty conscience bothering me, because he’d root it out in a second. Then I clasp him, hand to forearm, right over the family sigil that he had branded into my skin before my turn.

“Apologies for interrupting.” Roman would never be so gauche as to flare his nostrils at me, but I know he’s taking in Lore’s perfume as surely as he’s running down the visible catalog of nail-gouges and semicircular human bite marks she left on me. I start to let go, but he doesn’t release me. Not yet. That extra second is enough for him to pick up something else. “She must mean something to you, Xaine.” His smile is unexpected; rare to see all of Roman Scipio’s teeth at once. “You marked her.”

“I tried.” Reaching out, I snag the door and close it, affording us a modicum of privacy. My gaze flickers to Lumen, who’s ignoring me in favor of tracking her hands all over my illuminated manuscripts. She’s bundled up again in a long skirt and one of those stupid sweaters she favors, with sleeves down to her knuckles, deep pockets, softly rounded collar that still hugs her neck up to her chin. Maybe it’s not a bad choice, given how many vamps she must run into on a daily basis. “I’d apologize for the eyeful you just got, but it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

She pulls out one of the ledgers and cracks it open, reading a few lines before returning it to the shelf. “Your technique hasn’t varied since the last time I walked in on you.” Another book open, shut, put back the shelf. She’s not even looking at me when she asks, “What do you mean you tried to mark her?”

“I mean I tried, but it didn’t take.” The only thing worse than discussing sex with Lumen would be my utter inability to get my venom into my shiny new human girlfriend, but somehow we’ve managed both in less than two minutes. Lumen and Roman exchange a very long, very meaningful sort of look, and given than I didn’t want to discuss this in the first place, I’m more than pissed when I tack on, “Any idea what that’s about, bookworm?”

Then, hand to god, she gives me the same perfectly blank expression that Roman employs. The one that tells me I’m banging my head into a solid brick wall of “not going to happen.”

She learned from the best.

And surprisingly, it reassures me in the same way that Roman’s expression does. It means the knowledge is theirs until I actually need it. It tells me, without words, that there’s nothing necessarily wrong with Lore’s body rejecting my venom. So I might as well address the reason they’re in my house. “Fine, then, mini-Sphinx. Want to tell me why you’re petting my stuff?”

“The book I gave you before I left.” Lumen’s eyes get a little bigger, and she seems to shrink into herself. For a second, I’m looking at the sad, tear-streaked face of the eight-year-old who clung to me when Elin died. “Do you still have it?”

The implication that I would have lost it or given it away stings more than a bit. Stalking past her, I head for the far end of the room. There’s an impressive collection of books and curios, all the things I didn’t let the cameras pan over on MTV Cribs. Even before we locked everything down, this room was off-limits to the general public. There’s too much personal history here that I don’t want publicly pissed on. In particular, one portfolio sits on a central pedestal, occupying the exact spot I set it the day I moved into the house. According to the insurance company’s appraiser, it’s Italian, approximately four hundred years old, illuminated, and contains artwork not created by any of the masters of the period.

My sketches weren’t half-bad, I guess. I was decent with oil paints, but utterly hopeless at sculpting. Glancing at the smudged rendering of one of a thousand naked women who’d paraded through the salon, I try to remember if any of them had ever really struck me the way Lore has in the few short days I’ve known her.

With a frown, I step up the wooden ladder that runs on rails around the built-in shelves. The “book” Lumen’s talking about is actually another leather portfolio, one containing a collection of drawings, diagrams, and writings. Pages and pages in Latin, more in a language I can’t even identify. I’d pieced through all of it, filed away tiny snippets, forgotten most of it…

But when Lumen holds out that slim, scholarly paw of hers, I’m reminded of the one poem I could read with very little effort. It had echoed the charming stories Roman told us about fallen archangels siring the first of our kind. An allegory, or so I’d believed at the time. I’d continued to think that, too, until I ran into two sin-eaters and—

Jax Fucking Trace.

Dot, to dot, to motherfucking dot.

I look over Lumen’s shoulder at Roman. “It was all supposed to be bullshit. But that’s what we’re dealing with, isn’t it? Some biblical, Old World vampire cult trying to worm their way into the New World.”

“They call themselves the Legacy of the Fallen,” Roman tells me, then corrects, “The Legacy.”

“Are they the ones that grabbed Lore and tried to turn her? Because they seem to have had about as much success with that as I’ve had with marking her.”

He’s stone-faced, the expression so much like Cas Declan’s default setting that I almost want to punch him in it.

Almost. And with all due respect.

“Look, you’re going to have to clue me in on some of it.” My hand’s still clamped down on the leather-bound book. As I wave it around, I’m peripherally aware of Lumen’s eyes following it, like it’s a cat toy and she can’t help it. “Because I’ve had a lot of weird this week, and I need to know what we’re up against.”

Raising an eyebrow, Roman waits until I pass the portfolio to Lumen. The second she has it in her possession, she heads straight to the desk. He tucks his hands into his pockets before continuing.

“What happened to Lourdes Chase a year ago was not an accident. They would have done the same to Mireille Reece, save for a timely rescue.”

“Yeah, so I heard.” I shoot a sidelong glance at Lumen, who’s sifting through bits of parchment and wearing an epic frown. “I suppose Jess wasn’t a random kidnapping, either?”

“Correct,” Roman says. “The sloppiness of that encounter would indicate they are growing… impatient.”

“They are doing their damndest to get to Cas,” I say. “Reille, Lore, Jess. Dot, dot, dot.”

“You’re certain they didn’t approach you when you were seeing Miss Reece?”

“They didn’t have to. Matty was handing them anything they could have gotten from me or Apocalypse. Nobody tried to recruit me until I shut down the pipeline.” I level a look at Roman. “Cas and Reille left Scion the other night with a vampire goon squad. Didn’t look like a kidnapping to me. Plus he managed to ‘smuggle’ Lore out of their facility. Asher Reece is good, but maybe not that good. Are you certain Cas is still playing for our team?”

That earns me another frown. “I’m certain, Xaine. And what’s more, I need the two of you to settle your differences. This family will only survive the coming days if we work together.”

“Well, great. As soon as Cas gets back from wherever he went, we’ll all have a nice sit-down dinner. Me. Lore, the end of Cas’s bloodline. My ex-girlfriend, whom Cas is currently off fucking and was fucking while she was living here with me. Trick and his whores-du-jour. Matty and Margot, glaring at everyone because they’re broke again. Food for the humans, blood dolls for the vamps, and maybe a nice family gangbang for dessert.” I shoot another glance at Lumen, who is hunched over, lips moving as she reads silently. “I vote we lock the little one in her room for the evening.”

“I am not ‘the little one,’” is her only response.

Roman sighs. “Four hundred years, Xaine, and you still take everything to the extreme.”

“That’s sort of my thing.”

His answering smile is faint. “I know. Perhaps a bit exhausting for everyone around you, though. You might keep that in mind, especially when dealing with the young lady upstairs.”

“Lore?” The snort that escapes me is equal parts denial and disbelief. “She’s the be-all and end-all of patience.”

The look Roman gives me then is contemplative. “You know, you might be more right than you realize.” His gaze shifts to Lumen. “Did you find what you need?”

She nods, somehow managing to look both relieved and anxious as she gathers everything up and fastens the leather ties. Without another word, the two of them head out of the library. I hasten to catch up and keep pace as they move down the hall and toward the foyer like the place is on fire. Reaching out a hand, I slam it against the front door to hold them up a second longer, because I’ve still got more questions than answers.

“Is Jackson Trace what I think he is?”

A pause, in which everything seems to hang in the balance, and then Roman nods. “Yes.”

“Is Caspian involved?”

“You all have parts to play.”

Not what I wanted to hear. “Is Lore in danger?”

“Oh, most certainly, now more than ever, but she’s in good hands.” Reaching out, Roman claps me on the shoulder. It’s meant to reassure me, I suppose, but I feel the transfer of responsibility as keenly as I would a sword handed into my keeping. “I’ll look into the Legacy situation,” he adds with a look that urges me to step aside.

So I do the only thing I can: I get out of his way. “Speak with Asher Reece at Phantom Firearms about that. If he can let go of his dick long enough to pick up the phone, he could be useful.”

“I will,” my sire says, opening the door.

Lumen’s got that stupid portfolio clutched against her chest like it’s precious cargo, so god only knows what I’ve been inadvertently safeguarding all these years. In passing, she leans in close to brush a soft kiss to my right cheek, then another to my left. “Please be careful, Xaine. There are things—”

Roman clears his throat in admonition, and she swallows whatever else she was going to say. As she scuttles to the car, I piece together a very clear mental picture of Benicio. Of the look on his face as I rammed that knife into his skull, inch by inch.

One less “thing” at work to worry about.

There’s the soft beep as Roman deactivates the alarm and opens the passenger door, tucks Lumen inside, then circles around. A few seconds later, his taillights disappear out of the gate, which swings shut with a clang!

When I re-enter the house, I glance up to see Lore sitting silently at the top of the stairway. She’s dwarfed by this house, curled into a ball and peering down at me between the balusters. When she sees me, she stands but doesn’t approach, choosing instead to teeter between two steps. Her hair’s been washed and left damp, but she took the time to twist it up into some sort of churched-up ponytail that all girls know how to do. The shirt she’s wearing is one of mine, but it’s a dress shirt and it hangs nearly to her knees. I don’t recognize it, but that only means it’s new, expensive, and a little less me than I’m used to seeing on her.

Slowly, so slowly, I make my way up the stairs, climbing until I’m standing on the step two trots beneath Lore. She peers down into my face, looking concerned, and before I even have the chance to speak, I can see the flush start to creep into her cheeks.

Still embarrassed, apparently.

The moments pass in silence. Lore fidgets, but right as I open my mouth to speak, she tilts her head up and sniffs the air, her next words stealing my thunder.

“You sorta smell like spunk.”

There she goes, sassing me like she hasn’t been run through the damn wringer today, and all I can do is shake my head. It’s a little harder to slough off the tightness in my gut, harder still to ignore the ache in my chest.

I reach down for her wrists, yanking her off the stairs and into my arms as I head for the shower to deal with all this. “Woman, there is something seriously, delightfully wrong with you.”

My girl shrieks as I tilt her over my shoulder, but she’s laughing all the same. “Well, that makes two of us.”

For some reason, that hits me harder than all the rest, wiping the shit-eating grin right off my face.

“Yeah.” Thinking about everything that Roman told me, and all the things he didn’t, I can only mutter, “It sure as hell does.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Lore

It takes more than a week, but I finally get a minute to myself. Hurricane Xaine is exhausting, and I’m beginning to think you’d have to be immortal to survive it. I’m tired, but I can’t sleep, mostly because my internal clock is all sorts of off-kilter. There are no alarms in Xaine’s world. Day is night, and night is day. That alone has been enough to keep me napping intermittently, eating erratically, and waking up at odd hours.

Word from PFC is that Benicio’s shredded remains were turned over to the LAPD and identified as a DNA match to the small bevy of girls assaulted and murdered over the last few weeks. Case closed on that and not a moment too soon, but I have the feeling that if Xaine hadn’t broken every bone in Benicio’s body, someone else would have eventually.

Benny being such a likeable guy and all.

On a slightly more pleasant note, Asher calls intermittently, giving me updates on Jess as she recovers from her own set of near-death experiences. They didn’t find Doctor Osamu at CasDec; apparently he up and quit soon after my release. Toss another mystery on the pile, because nobody can actually tell me how Jess recovered, only that she did. I should be thankful, but the lack of answers niggles at the part of me that knows there’s more to this story.

And that it’s not over. Not by a longshot.

As a distraction, I pick up the Martin D-100 and cradle it in my lap, allowing it to sit in the curve between my crossed legs. It’s a hundred-thousand-plus-dollars’ worth of pearl-inlaid mahogany, rosewood, and dreams, as far as I’m concerned. Xaine might be the only collector on earth who would leave it out for me to play. Hell, he’d probably kick back and listen, but alas, the man of the house isn’t actually in the house right now, because apparently the only thing that it takes to launch a vampire into full-blown pop culture hero status is catching a serial killer.

Who knew?

So here I sit, alone for the moment, content as a kitten in a basket full of yarn. I could do this for hours, getting lost in the chords, lost in the songs, lost in the music until my fingers go numb from clutching the pick, until I can’t feel the tips anymore because of the constant vibrations from the wires. I’ve got a notepad propped on my knee, and every once in a while I slip the tortoiseshell triangle between my teeth so I can scratch out a new note or a line of lyrics. It’s what I do, and if nothing else, Xaine can rest assured that I keep busy in his absence.

When it feels mostly right, I fire up my laptop and lay down a simple recording of the new song, just me and the guitar, to get a sense of how it sounds. The hairs on my arms come up a little when I listen to the replay, which tells me it’s good enough to copy onto a thumb drive.

Good enough to play for Xaine—

The doorbell rings, and I jump a mile. It’s an involuntary response, just like I can’t help the dart of excitement at the thought that he might be home, though I know darn well that if he’d locked himself out, he’d be hammering on the door by now. I hop off the couch anyway, setting the guitar down and shoving the thumb drive deep in my pocket. Craning an ear toward the sound of Rosa’s voice, I catch a click and an echo when the front portal is sealed shut again. When I move toward it, I spot the housekeeper headed back toward the kitchen.

“Rosa, was there someone there?”

“No.” She turns to face me, already shaking her head. “Nobody.”

“I am not nobody.” The voice on the other side of the door gives her away, but Rosa only hitches her narrow shoulders at me. A moment passes, but the housekeeper’s expression betrays nothing in the way of acknowledgment. Eventually, our visitor gets antsy over the extended silence. “Hello? Did you leave? Lore?”

“Is that Jackson Trace?”

“It’s nobody,” Rosa repeats, and I frown at her, eyes narrowed at her dodgy, well, dodging. Slowly, I reach toward the door knob, but the housekeeper shuffles her body, blocking the latch from my roving fingers. “Mister Xaine said not to open the door for strangers.”

“Jax isn’t a stranger,” I tell her.

“He’s strange, very strange,” she insists, gesturing to the gray and white outfit that makes up her uniform. “Too fancy. He dresses like a woman.”

I laugh at that, then grin wider as Jax’s annoyed voice comes through the door again.

“I do not dress like a woman! Lore, let me in!” Then there’s a significant pause. “Please?”

“It’s fine, Rosa.” I’m already reaching for the handle again, dipping my hand under her arm and wrapping my fingers around the cool metal. “Jax Trace is the most harmless human being on the planet. I know children who are more vicious than he is. Total cream puff. Complete softy when it comes to kittens and puppies and babies and—”

“Ha, ha, so funny. Can we open up now?”

Raising my voice, I shout through the door, “Rosa’s worried you’re going to hurt me. Promise Rosa you’re not going to bite, Jax.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” There’s a beleaguered sigh from the other side. “Rosa, I am not going to hurt her.”

I swing the door open before the housekeeper has the chance to intervene. With a huff of disapproval, Rosa heads toward the kitchen, and I’m almost positive I’m going to receive a call from the master of the house very soon. When I return my attention to Jax, he’s standing there in all his Clark Kent glory, adjusting a slant-stripe silver-black tie until it lays flat over his white undershirt. Unbelievably, he’s wearing two vests today: a black one layered over a gray one. The former is open at the front but held neatly together with a short, black chain. His shirtsleeves are turned up, exposing a patterned inner cuff. Black pants and a wide leather belt complete the ensemble, and I have to give the guy props—he knows how to put together an interesting outfit.

“Nice shirt—”

“No, I didn’t steal it from a Beiber fan,” he says, pushing past me and into the house.

“Pffft. Like a Beiber fan would wear something that understated. Give me some credit.” Closing the door behind him, I watch as he cranes his neck, taking in the classic front hall and curved staircase, not looking particularly impressed. “Where’s your sidekick?”

“Ditched me for pancakes.” He pauses a moment, then adds, “And probably pussy.” Turning toward me, Jax gives me a slow once-over. By the end of it, I get the distinct impression that he’s actually disappointed to find me alive and well and not in need of rescue. “How’re things?”

“Last time I saw you, you were defying death and the laws of nature. Now you’re stopping by to chitchat?”

“Pretty much.” Jax gives an impatient shrug. “So, everything’s good?”

I open my mouth to give him the rundown, then realize everything I say is going to sound like that game you play with the fortune cookies.

“I’ve been hanging around.” In bed. “Working on a new song.” In bed. “Xaine and I have been…” In bed, in bed, and oh, in bed. “Right. Anyway, I am fine.” When I fumble, the guitar pick I completely forgot I was clutching hits the floor with a little plink.

Without missing a beat, Jax picks it up and sets it on the table by the door. “So, you turned on the television lately?”

“How lately? I’ve been kinda busy…” In bed.

Fuck you, brain.

Jax pauses, like he can hear the thought, then moves further into the room with his hands in his pockets. It’s the kind of mosey you would do on a boardwalk or down a beach somewhere. A little bit careless, a whole lot aimless, until he hits the first massive black and white photograph hanging on the wall. “I like what you’ve done with the place. Gives it a real Martha Stewart homey feel.”

I have no clue what he’s referring to until he jerks his butt-chin upward. Only then do I realize it’s a photograph from the shoot. Xaine and me, larger than life. His finger is hooked in my panties, yanking them down like the puppy in the Coppertone sunscreen ad.

You know, something totally classy for the foyer.

I stare at it, then my eyes skip over the other pictures. All of them have been replaced, making it a parade of my face alongside Xaine’s all the way down the hallway and up the stairwell. Candids from the shoot, film captures from the interviews, the last two weeks distilled into a slideshow. And the pictures are… beautiful.

Surprisingly honest.

It’s a little scary, a lot overwhelming, and the worst part is that I have no idea when he changed out the old black-and-white Xaine show for one of the two of us.

You’re the only fuzzy bunny I want in my house.

“Holy hell.”

I’m so busy staring that it takes me a few seconds to realize Jax has wandered off like a little kid at Disneyland. I track him down at the French doors that lead to the backyard. I’ve been out there a handful of times; it’s all immaculate landscaping and perfect blue infinity pool.

“Sort of a waste for a dude who doesn’t see much daylight.” Jax gestures out the window.

“Night swimming definitely has its perks,” I say. “No sunscreen required, plus there’s always a full moon. Or two.”

Jax pulls a face, one that comes up just short of horrified. “Jesus, Lore, I can’t unthink that.” When I open my mouth to expound, he holds up a hand to stop me. “Please don’t tell me anything else about your sex life.”

I can’t help a small snicker before asking, “What’s on television that I should have seen?”

“Oh, this, that, and the usual. Xaine, wars in the Middle East, Xaine, celebrities flashing their cooter getting out of limousines—” There he looks at me over his sunglasses. “Try not to leave the house without underwear, all right?”

“Yeah, okay,” I agree, raising one brow in question.

In return, Jax tilts up the Aviators and gives me a twice-over, like he can actually discern the general state of my underwear drawer just by staring at me.

“Don’t give me that look,” I tell him. “You’re the last person who should be judging.”

He snorts. “Actually, I’m the first.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Never mind, kid,” he says, waving me off. “So, Mr. Rock Star is now Mr. Hero. I’m sure he’s been complete hell to deal with lately.”

“Not really,” I say. “He struts a little more, talks it to death, but he kinda deserves to reap the rewards, don’t you think?”

Jax Trace gives me the most peculiar look then. “So, it doesn’t bother you at all?”

“Doesn’t what bother me?”

“The growling, the pushiness, the impulsivity, the barking commands, the sexual demands.” Jax rattles through Xaine’s more eccentric traits like it’s the disclaimer at the end of a pharmaceutical commercial. I open my mouth to protest, but click it shut when he holds up one forbidding finger and continues, “The not-sexual demands. The order-everything, give-me-one-of-each, make-it-rain-on-these-hoes, I-want-the-world mentality. That doesn’t disturb you?”

“Uh, no?” I say, eyes narrowed, because seriously, who died and made Jax the Grand Poobah of Hypercritical Condemnation? “Besides, he doesn’t do it as often anymore. Xaine is a reasonable human being.”

“No, he’s not.”

“Reasonable? Or human?”

“Yes!” Jax blurts out, then thinks it through and says, “Both.”

I gape at him, because seriously, what the fuck. “You are so weird.”

“You are so weird.” Jax shakes his head at me. “He would have driven anyone else on the planet stark raving mad by now, but not you. Never you.”

“What can I say?” I say. “I like Xaine’s idiosyncrasies. I like Xaine. A lot.”

Jax opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, but instead runs his hand over a day’s worth of chin stubble before he comes up with a different plan of attack. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to stay here. He’s a terrible influence.”

I shake my head at his audacity. “Sorry, but you’re not my real dad. You can’t tell me what to do.”

“Please?” he asks.

“No.”

“Pretty please?”

“No.”

“Pretty please with a cherry—”

“Jax!” I bark out, cutting him off. “You are disturbing me. Why are you even here?”

“Uh,” he says, buying himself a few seconds to come back with, “because I’m worried about you?”

Eyes narrowing, I glare at him, wishing he would stop hedging and spit it out. There have been a lot of half-truths and shoddy attempts to lure me out of the only place where I feel safe. I don’t kid myself into thinking that Jax Trace doesn’t have an agenda, because everyone has an agenda, but since he’s not willing to share his with me, he’s not getting any piece of me that I can keep to myself.

“Hookay, it’s time for you to go now.” Gripping him by the arm, I shove him toward the front door. “Look, I don’t know the entire story, and I sure as hell don’t know how you fit into it. So thanks for your concern, but unless you’re going to give me some idea as to why you keep popping up in my life, then maybe you should mind your own business.”

Jax lets me bundle him toward the foyer, but at the end of my speech, he puts on the brakes, his newspaper-print Oxfords skidding a little as he comes to a halt. Momentum carries me forward until I bump against his back. To his credit, Jax reaches out to steady me because someone at some point taught him some manners.

Or at least enough manners that he balks at the idea of letting me fall on my ass.

“You’re right,” he says at last. “You don’t know the entire story, and if I have any say… any say at all… you won’t. Ever.”

“Why? If you tell me, will you have to kill me?”

A smile kicks up the corner of his lips, and I’ve gotten so used to being around Xaine that the blunt, white squares of Jax’s teeth actually seem strange.

“I believe people should be allowed to live their lives, Lore. I don’t believe anyone should be treated differently because of an accident of birth.”

I decide to jerk his chain. “Are you telling me I’m secretly a princess? ’Cause I’m not sure I’d really complain.”

“Royalty of a sort.” Jax peels off the glasses, hooking one earpiece into his vest. He fixes me with a stupid grin, eyes glinting with humor when he quips, “Princess Pain in my Ass.”

“Everyone in this town is so funny.” I give him a wry look.

“Present company included,” he says, offering up more of that stupid eye-twinkle. “Well, my job here is done. I’ll see myself out.” Jax turns himself toward the door, raising his voice to yell, “Rosa! Have my horse and buggy brought ’round!”

She materializes out of nowhere, rushing in to deliver an incomprehensible string of Spanish. For his part, the man of the hour lets himself be shooed toward the door, interjecting smart-assed remarks at intervals.

“No, Rosa, I do not have time to hear about your lord and savior, Jesus Christ,” he says. “Alas, I can’t stay for a bite of your taco pescado—” He takes her heavy slap to the back of his skull and ekes out, “Ow! Okay, fine, I’ll pick you up at eight. Wear the dominatrix costume,” just before she slams the door in his face.

Chuckling, I shake my head. “What a weirdo.”

I reach for my pick, the one Jax dropped on the foyer table. Except a familiar gold coin’s sitting in its place, glinting in the overhead lighting, warm to the touch when I pick it up. My eyes flash immediately to the door, and I wonder if Jax is still outside. Tamping down on the impulse to check, I flip the coin over in my palm, staring at the blank golden surface, but when I turn it over once more, a picture appears—

“Lore! Where the hell are you?”

I startle when Xaine’s shout emerges from the general direction of the garage. There’s a momentary surge of guilt, like he's caught me doing something illicit. The coin gets tucked into a back pocket, and I take a few steps in the direction of his voice. “I’m in the front hall. Why are we yelling?”

Xaine swings around the corner, walking with the swagger I’ve come to know so well. He looks damn pleased with himself until he hits the foyer and takes a deeper sniff at the air. “Why was Jax Trace in my house? Was that his car at the gate?”

“You can smell that?” It pops out before I can stop it. “And if it’s a gray Audi, then yes, it’s his.”

“Jeezus. It reeks like a metrosexual’s wet dream in here.” Xaine reaches up to pinch at his nose with a scowl. “Like fresh skunk spray right up your nostrils, then multiply that by a hundred and douche.”

“He does not smell that bad,” I say. “In fact, he smells kinda nice. Like cologne and those little flavor crystals you put in your laundry to boost the scent.”

“Try turning your olfactory senses up to vamp level and tell me that again with a straight face,” Xaine grumbles. “What the hell was he doing here, anyway?”

“Honestly, I have no idea.” Not a lie. I don’t know, and the way these boys like to keep their secrets, I never will. “Probably came by to make sure you haven’t killed me or something.”

Xaine’s eyes narrow, his lean body curving toward mine. He’s sniffing me now, like a bloodhound. “You sure that was it?”

“Seriously! Ask Rosa, she had her face pressed to the door the entire time.”

He turns his head toward the kitchen door and bellows for the housekeeper. When the wooden panel immediately swings open, I know she was standing on the other side, awaiting her inevitable summons.

“Is it true?” Xaine asks, like he doesn’t even have to explain what he means.

“It’s true,” Rosa says with a nod. “She didn’t touch. He didn’t touch.” Then, as if Xaine had personally solicited her opinion, she adds, “I think he’s gay, anyway.”

With the wave of a hand, Xaine shoos her back into the other room and the housekeeper disappears from sight. In the meantime, I stand there smirking as Xaine glares down into my face.

“So what were you up to before he turned up?”

Digging into my pocket, I pull out the thumb drive. “New song.”

He cracks a grin. “Oh, really?”

When he reaches for it, I pull it just out of range. “You forgot to say the magic word.”

In return, he gives me the full-fang smile. “Las Vegas.”

“That’s two words,” I say, but then my brain sputters to a halt. “Wait, what?”

Taking advantage of my utter bewilderment, he plucks the thumb drive out of my hand and nudges me toward the stairs. “We’re going to Vegas. I’ll listen to this on the plane. We need to pack, because we’ve only got like an hour.”

“I am not going to Vegas.”

“Yes, you are. We’re piggybacking the release of the new single on top of the PR I have going for playing Batman. Big red carpet event, the whole nine yards. It’s going to be huge, Lore.” He jabs playfully at my ribs. “You and me? We’re the hottest thing in this town right now, and you’re not even out there to see it. You need to see it.”

“I can’t go to Vegas, Xaine.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Everything I’ve been chasing after is right here. Jess is here, too. I need to stay close in case—”

“Fuck Jess, and fuck Asher.” Xaine scowls, his glee replaced by frustration. “Fuck Cas Declan and Jax Trace, too, while we’re at it, because none of those assholes matter right now. This is your chance, Lore. Your golden opportunity to do something with your life that doesn’t have anything to do with what happened in the past. Stop looking back.” His hand slips across my shoulder, fingers skimming up my neck until he’s cradling my jaw in his palm. Pissed and indignant on my behalf, he adds, “There’s nothing left behind you, Lore. It’s time to look ahead.”

It tears me up a little, breaks my heart a bit more, and leaves me feeling the tiniest bit hollow inside. “I don’t think a trip to Vegas is the answer.”

“Why not?” he demands. “Are you afraid I’m going to knock you over the head and drag you off to a twenty-four-seven wedding chapel?”

I can actually feel my eyes go wide with horror. “Well, I wasn’t, but I am now!”

An expression flashes across Xaine’s face that looks an awful lot like hurt, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared, leaving that all-too-familiar arrogant smirk in its wake. I can feel the tension building between us, palpable and thick. He’s standing so close to me that my heart begins to skip, thudding hard in my chest as my anxiety builds.

“Do you trust me?”

Now there’s a question for the ages, and I teeter on the edge of something that threatens to undo the balance we’ve achieved this last week. Somehow, it feels like everything… everything… hinges on my answer. Xaine looks at me, those crazy-blue eyes of his latched on my face. I didn’t come to Los Angeles with the expectation that I’d end up with him, but one crazy random happenstance after another and here I am, standing so close to my rock star fantasy that it steals my breath.

It’s weird, being this close. Different, because I know him now.

Different, because I care.

“Yes,” I whisper. “I do.”

Xaine’s pleased expression morphs into something wholly wicked. “Then come to Vegas, sweetheart. I promise you won’t regret it.”

I draw in a breath and hold it, eying him with suspicion. It’s now or never. Time to jump without a net or spend the rest of my life wondering what the fall would have been like.

“Okay.” When Xaine grins, fangy and altogether pleased with himself, I stick a finger up between us and poke him in the chest. “No funny business in Vegas. I mean it. I won’t marry you.”

“Don’t recall asking,” he says. “But would it really be so bad?”

I can’t help the squeeze of pain in my chest that rises into my throat. I don’t want to talk about this with him. Don’t want to talk about it ever again. I can only live one day at a time. When it comes right down to it, Xaine’s lifespan is forever. And mine?

Considerably less than forever.

“Never mind, don’t answer that,” he says. “The Apocalypse jet will be ready in an hour, so you need to pack your shit before I mount you on my dick like a hood ornament and carry you to the airport.”

“Charming,” I say, following him up the stairs. “You’re a prince among men.”

“Damn straight.” He pauses at the door to the master bedroom. “And don’t you forget it.”

“Somehow, I doubt you’d let me.”

He turns, eying the messy, dark cavern that is the master suite. The shades are drawn, and there are clothes, sheets, pillows and the like strewn everywhere. The odd-man-out in the tableau is the set of pink luggage in the corner, and Xaine stares at those bags now like they’re some sort of blight on the junk skyline.

“You know,” he grumbles. “You can unpack your stuff.”

“You just told me to pack it,” I point out. “Why would I unpack it?”

“No, I mean, you could have unpacked it before now.”

“I know.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.” I give him a sidelong glance, but Xaine’s eyes are fixed on the pink suitcases in the corner. He broods, considering those bags like he wants to kick one for the pure joy of breaking a toe on it. Not that he’d actually break a toe, but I get the feeling punting one of them would help ease the furrows in his forehead.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says eventually. “That just means we have time for a quickie.”

Xaine reels me in, tugging my arm until I fold against him. Graceful as a dance, he slides one hand along my arm, the other around my waist until we’re cheek-to-cheek. I laugh out loud when he bends me backward, dipping me low. There’s a pause then, a moment when he just watches me, his eyes alight with affection.

“You don’t laugh as much as you should,” he observes. “You smile. Lopsided ones, crooked like your twisted, crazy brain… but you don’t laugh as much.”

“Word on the street is that rock stars are a very serious bunch,” I tell him.

“Serious as a heart attack,” he says. “And seriously? You smell good enough to eat. Pun intended, everywhere.”

That pulls another light chuckle out of me. “What? No skunk spray times a hundred and douche?”

“You think I’m joking,” he says, walking me slowly backwards, “but all I can smell right now is the lingering stench of eau de record executive windbag. I may need to cleanse my palate.”

Two seconds later, my shirt is off and the hot press of his tongue tickles over my ribs, leaving a wet trail behind to grow chill in the ridiculously frigid room. Strong arms reach beneath my ass, hooking under the shelf of my butt cheeks, lifting until my feet are off the ground. A startled squeak slips out of me as Xaine heaves me up, and my first instinct is to reach for the only stable thing within my grasp, which happens to be his head. His tongue snakes into my belly button as he starts walking, and I grab hold of his ears, tugging on them in a futile effort to put some space between his face and my skin.

“That tickles, you ass!”

Xaine’s idiot grin is perfectly framed by my boobs. “Someone failed anatomy, because that is not an ass, but that’s next on the list.”

He tips me over onto the mattress, and then falls atop me without any of the grace I know he’s capable of. A second later, he dives in to bury his face against my throat. I laugh louder at that, a full, throaty laugh that bubbles up from my center, from somewhere in the vicinity of my heart.

“Guess we both failed anatomy,” I tell him, “because that is not an ass either—”

Without warning, Xaine goes completely still, muscles bunching until he’s a statue above me. Rough hands clamp down on my arms, holding me place. His head tilts slightly, eyes searching the wide expanse of the bed. His nostrils flare, and he draws in a sharp breath.

“Xaine…” The rest of my question goes unspoken, because I get the sudden sensation of moisture seeping through my clothes. Without preamble, Xaine lifts himself from the bed… our bed… and pulls me up after him. A chill snakes down my spine as I reach out and touch the tips of my fingers to the soft fabric of my shirt, dangling from my upper arm. It’s soaked, and when I move my hand into the dim light that permeates the dark confines of the bedroom, I see—

“Don’t,” Xaine orders, closing his fingers around my wrist and tugging the whole arm down where I can’t look at it. My gaze goes to his face then, searching the half-light for answers as anxiety clogs my throat. Xaine scans the room, gaze sliding from corner to corner then glancing behind me. He holds my hand in his the entire time, enveloping it, his thumb brushing lightly along the pulse at my wrist. For comfort.

Or something.

“Lore,” he says, very seriously, “I need you to listen to me.”

“It’s blood, isn’t it?” I can hear the waver in my voice. Instead of answering, he draws in a deep breath, an exploratory inhalation that summons goosebumps. “I’m covered in blood.”

“Shhh, sweetheart.” He edges around me, then as one we slowly return to the bed. Xaine reaches down, and I watch his hand, my gut weighted by dread and fear. He digs his fingers into the heavy black comforter and tosses it back.

“Oh, my god,” I hear myself whisper.

Blood is splattered across the sheets, glistening in the low light, dripping from the bed frame to the floor. There are pale patches that I’m sure are skin—were skin—and whiter patches that I’m relatively sure are bone, but one thing I know for certain: I’ve seen their faces before.

“It’s us.” I stagger back a few steps, hitting the end of my tether when Xaine’s grip stops me from fleeing. My mind flashes back to the day of the photoshoots, the day of the interviews, the day I flaunted myself on television and taunted Benicio so that I could lure him in. “It’s them.”

“Who are they?” Xaine asks.

I swallow heavily, barely holding back the bile. It’s a slaughterhouse scene, like someone tore them limb from limb and left them there in the bed like that, posed like lovers, untouched faces forever frozen in rapture. “They are us. Our stand-ins from the junket.”

Oh, my god.

“I can smell someone else,” Xaine says. “Sickly sweet with a hint of—”

“Decay,” I finish, because I get it, too. In my nose, at the back of my throat, choking me with its cloying scent. Raw, meaty, metallic, it’s soaked into my shirt and bleeding through my pants.

Bleeding through my pants.

“I should have smelled them before,” Xaine snarls out. “Smelled him before. But I had a nose-load of Jax Trace… and you.”

“Oh, god.” The words burble out of me, some semblance of understanding cutting through the shock. I start brushing at my arms, my face, start tugging at my clothes until I’ve pushed the sodden jeans off my hips and dropped them on the floor with a wet splat—

Blood on skin, coating, burning like acid and leaving behind sores. Raw flesh that itches and peels.

It’s not over.

—then, I’m frantic, scraping the drops off my skin, sloughing off the perfect crimson beads like Lady Macbeth. It smears, painting me with rusty color, and I can feel it at the back of my neck, gluing my hair to my flesh.

It’s never over.

Xaine grips me, drawing me to his chest, pinning me in the protective circle of his arms to stop my compulsive wiping.

“Rosa!” he shouts, dialing a number on his cell phone. Then he’s talking on the phone to Asher or the police or someone and it doesn’t matter, because all I see is two pairs of staring blue eyes, two bodies intertwined, two corpses’ worth of blood soaked into the sheets that he and I woke up on this evening.

“Benicio’s not dead, Xaine,” I mumble into his shirt.

But it’s not Xaine’s voice that answers. “They never really are, kid.”

When I turn my head, Jax Trace is standing in the doorway. Numbly, I feel Xaine’s arm clamp down tighter; he’s no longer responding to the person on the other end of the line. Distantly, I process his head turning to greet our unexpected re-visitor, lip curled back. Jax doesn’t seem to care; his gaze stays fixed on mine. There’s a world of concern on his too-young-to-look-so-old face; all I can do to acknowledge it is give him a tiny nod before turning back to Xaine.

“I think Vegas might not be such a bad idea, after all,” I whisper.

“You can’t leave town,” Jax tells me, expression stern. “I have… other responsibilities… and I can’t chase you all over the damn planet.”

“Nobody asked you to,” Xaine snaps out. “I’ve got this.”

Jax’s lips press into a tight line. “You’re in over your head, X.”

“When am I not in over my head?” Xaine counters. “We’re getting the hell out of LA, and you’re not stopping us. You worry your pretty head about those other responsibilities. I’ve got Lore.”

There’s a pause, each man staring the other down.

“Get the lady’s bags, Trace,” Xaine says, taking two steps toward the only thing standing between us and freedom, “or get out of my way.”

The Dark Prince hath spoken.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Xaine

Fifty-five minutes. That’s how long it takes to fly from Los Angeles to Las Vegas. I sit with a recently-showered but still-traumatized Fuzzy Bunny in my lap and listen to her new song while Lonan and Rebel Gunn the One-Legged Wonderboy sort out security logistics and discreet weaponry. There’s a third guy, Jude, but he sits apart from the other PFC goons, staring out the window and occasionally shooting sidelong glances in my direction.

I don’t blame him. I’ve been keeping an eye on him too, and while I’m inclined to trust Asher’s instincts, I’m not one hundred percent sure even he knows what he’s working with here.

Not my circus.

I’ve got the volume on the earphones turned up as high as it will go, the song set on repeat, one hand on Lore’s ass and the other threaded through her hair. She’s gone quiet. Too quiet. Too still, with only the occasional sigh to mark the fact that she’s still awake. She fidgets whenever I stop petting her, so I keep petting her, keep touching her softly as I listen to the girl she was a few hours ago croon into my ear. This isn’t some poppy one-hit wonder that’s going to have all the teenagers bopping up and down and screaming. Nope, this is the perfect quiet-audience ballad. A lighter song. A cell phone recording song. The kind of song that will move an entire crowd of thirty thousand. The sort of song that will rip people up inside when they’re sitting alone by themselves.

The kind that rips me up more than a little.

A vicious lie of hope and fate,

A cry of wild-winged glory,

Tearing through a place in me,

Some aching, darkened place

In me…

The melody is still buzzing around in my head when we disembark. The pilot steps out to shake my hand like he does at the end of every flight, and there’s more security waiting for us in the corridor. They’re milling around the Next Big Thing, and they don’t even know it. Hell, Lore doesn’t even know it. Pinned against my side, she stares down at her feet, and I can tell her mind is a hundred miles away. She’s trapped in her own headspace, wondering when—not if—Benicio is going to catch up with us.

You are a monster, you are the cure,

Stamp yourself across my heart,

And write it in my blood,

Paint my face with your desire,

Rock me…

The deep, dark, sin-eater flavored introversion lasts until that first step into the terminal. The second Lore’s shimmery little shoes hit the cool marble tiles, there’s a collectively indrawn breath, and a ripple moves through the crowd.

This is where they get those paparazzi shots that you see splattered across the entertainment rags. This is where those high-flash-right-in-the-face, bad-hair-and-yoga-pants pictures originate. Lore’s still in Regular Joe mode, striding through life under the impression that she’s invisible. That people don’t notice her, notice us. It’s not until the first photographer screams her name that she looks up. Those blue eyes go wide, and she actually backpedals a bit, because she’s been caught by surprise.

My arm shoots out to reclaim her waist before she can turn and flee. The Phantom Firearms boys are doing their best to keep the path clear, and most of the fans are taking the wall of muscle seriously. Lore takes too long to adjust; a full minute passes before she stops staring at the flashing cameras like she’s Bambi. With my arm around her, she’s not got much choice; it’s walk, or walk, because we’re certainly can’t turn back now.

“Smile, sweetheart,” I whisper in her ear. “You’re on Candid Camera.”

The second her brain clicks into gear, that trademark lopsided grin makes an appearance along with the matching embarrassed blush. Lore ducks her head as we wade through the gathered crowd. Every once in a while she looks up, right at some photographer, and gives a little wave. I can feel the heat rolling off her, and she leans into my body like I’m some sort of protective barrier.

I am. And I won’t lie, I like it that way.

You found me in the shadow

Of the night beyond the storm,

Fighting for the light in me,

A tangled, twisted hope

In me…

It’s a relief when we hit the tacky stretch Hummer parked outside, and it’ll be easier from this point forward. The hotel we’re staying at is brand new, technically not even taking reservations from the public yet. We’ll be able to test run the swanky restaurant and swing by the nightclub or hole up in the penthouse with all the room service on the planet. Until tomorrow, at least. The red carpet party for the new single release is going to be the usual media circus for me, the paparazzi’s communal wet dream, and probably Lore’s worst nightmare.

No. Scratch that. Second worst.

So step into my world,

Where I’m the dreamer and the dream…

Lonan, Rebel, and Jude duck into the limo after us, along with four other nameless twerps from PFC and the production assistant from Apocalypse. Given that there’s still room in here for six hookers and a Jacuzzi tub, I’m tempted to send Asher a selfie to show him that my Humvee is bigger than his. Lore doesn’t say anything about the blue LED rope lighting or the champagne mini bottles poking out of approximately fifty cupholders. Instead, she peers out the back window as we pull away from the curb, waving to the fans gathered at the edge of the sidewalk. As the airport fades from sight, she sinks down in her seat, releasing the sigh to end all sighs. Then she turns that half-smile on me, looking pretty poleaxed.

Whatever world she was lost in before, she’s rooted here with me now.

Reaching over, I slip a hand under her knees and drag her into my lap. Lore curls an arm around my neck, puts her head down on my shoulder, and exhales into that sweet spot at the side of my neck.

“That was crazy,” she says softly. “I don’t know how you do it. I was scared shitless for a second.”

“That’s because you were off wandering inside your own head,” I murmur against her skin. “It’s less hair-raising when you’re braced for it.”

“I’ll be ready next time,” she assures me.

Except I’m not entirely sure that’s true. Lore’s got the talent, no doubt, but I get the sense that life’s always going to take her a little by surprise. Even now, she reaches up and touches her fingers to the glass, like she can reach the lights, like she can feel the Strip through the bulletproof pane.

I’ve got plans for Vegas, and they all start right here, right now, with moments like this one.

Find the crimson heart of me,

The beating, bleeding heart

Of me…

I press a kiss to her temple to hide the beginning of a frown, because the only thing that can fuck up this weekend would be the ill-timed appearance of everyone’s least favorite sin-eater. But all I say is, “If you think that’s crazy, wait until you see the hotel.”

Turns out I was right, because Lore’s not ready for that either. Can’t complain, because each new jaw-drop just makes me crave the next one. Plan for the next one. Our luggage gets loaded on a brass cart and whisked away. We head into the lobby and retrieve our key cards and chat with Steve the Owner, who turns up like a main stage conjurer. We exchange a quick handshake and a couple pleasantries while he runs down a few particulars that I pay very close attention to—extra security at all entrances, vetted staff, no access to the suite without passkeys—and then a bunch of crap I pay absolutely zero attention to.

Blah blah blah dinner reservation at nine.

Blah blah blah private butler.

Blah blah blah massage therapists on-call and blood dolls at my disposal. At that point, Steve catches sight of Lore and claps me on the shoulder, suddenly conspiratorial.

“Shall I send up some clothes? Shoes?”

I lean against the counter, considering my options. “Anything you got that sparkles, including jewelry. The kind that gets a girl’s panties wet, even when she claims she doesn’t like diamonds.”

“I can manage that,” he says, taking Lore’s mental measurements until the elevator arrives with a soft bing-bong chime.

“Going up,” I announce cheerfully. She’s all shy smiles until the doors begin to close and I add, “She’ll be going down later.” The pale flash of a fist shoots toward me, but I catch the punch before Lore lands it and return her hand to her. “Careful there, you almost hit me.”

“I meant to hit you, you… you…”

“Dickhead?” I fill in with a grin as the doors open on the penthouse suite. The windows overlooking the Strip are UV shaded, the bags are already getting unpacked by staff, and Rebel and Lonan head off to set up base camp in the en suite office while Jude mans the door. Lore decides she’d rather prowl the digs than knock my block off for the blowjob joke. I keep my fingers crossed that a couture wardrobe and a hundred thousand bucks’ worth of borrowed diamonds arrive soon. Maybe it will help her forget the Benicio situation, for a while at least.

“So what’s the plan, Stan?” she asks, throwing herself onto a pristine white couch in the living room and peering up at me because I’m the one holding all the cards in this game of strip poker.

“Dinner, I guess.” Except I don’t want to cover her in war paint and stuff her into a skirt so short that she’s going to be tugging at the hemline all night. I want to keep her here with me, omitting all the bullshit that’s awaiting us downstairs. I shouldn’t be surprised that I’m having a selfish bastard moment in a long string of the very same, but this time, I can’t keep her all to myself. The music has already ruled that out, and I was the one shoving her into the limelight in the first place.

“Dinner and a ‘show’?” Lore teases, not realizing that I’m feeling weirdly contemplative.

“If you want a show, all you have to do is ask, sweetheart.” I let my gaze stroll over her until she squirms. “Oh, and get naked.” Striding around a table topped with a stupid-huge floral arrangement, I peer at her, considering the full picture: boyfriend shirt, ballet flats, and…

God damn you to hell, Levi Strauss.

“I’m going to burn all your jeans,” I mutter. “I’m sick of wrestling pants off you. I almost miss the days when I could bend a girl over and hike up a petticoat.”

Lore rolls her eyes. “Charming.”

“I said almost.” Grabbing her by the ankles so that both her shoes go flying, I jerk Lore’s ass out from underneath her even as she scrabbles at her button and her zipper. “I sort of like it when you wear my pants.”

“You crazy feminist, you,” she says, playfully sarcastic in a way that I wouldn’t put up with from anyone else.

When I whip the jeans off, she’s left on white leather in nothing but her shirt and a pair of pink lace panties. Yanking off her top, she throws it at my head. By the time I get it out of the way, she’s armed with a couch cushion, which she also hurls directly at my face with enough strength to knock a human dude on his butt. I swat the thing away before it even has a chance to make impact; two seconds later, I have her back against the furry white carpeting, which is thankfully brand-new. Lore’s got her legs splayed open, her hands roaming everywhere, and then she sinks her pearly whites down on my ear. My own jeans are only half-off as her song ricochets around in my head.

Fighting for the light in me,

A tangled, twisted hope

In me…

Jerking her panties to the side, I sink my dick into her as far as it will go. Urgent, like I’m racing some kind of internal clock, at least until I’m buried inside her. Then there’s only her. Only her heat lapping around me and her mouth on my chest and her fingernails digging into me. Her breath on my ear. Her words in my head.

So step into my world,

Where I’m the dreamer and the dream.

I’m in her; she returns the favor in spades, so inside of me that I can’t begin to find the boundaries between us anymore. Then I climax so suddenly and so thoroughly that I pull a muscle in my calf. Lore goes still and quiet, clutching me against her and stroking my skin.

I didn’t give her what I wanted to. Just everything that I had.

Fuck.

And I worry my “everything” won’t be enough to keep her safe from the shit that goes bump in the night. The stakes are higher than ever now. I still don’t know how Benicio plays into this whole game, but I know one thing for certain: there are people in this world striking out at everything Caspian Declan loves, only because he loves them. And as Lore gracefully weathers every near-miss brush with death, I get a better picture of the bigger picture.

Rule Number One has never been so relevant, because I finally understand that she is the link that connects us.

Dots on dominos.

And I’ll be damned if Lore is the first to fall.

Her hands roam down my back, fingers flattening in the dip right above my tailbone. “You all right?”

No. “Yup. Peachy keen, jelly bean.” That bastard was in my house. “Never better.” So close to you that I wouldn’t have been able to stop him if—

“Maybe we should get up off the floor before one of the PFC boys comes in to see what the ruckus is about.” The scorching heat of a blush works its way across Lore’s chest. “Food? Maybe? Please, food?”

I pull out of her and kick off my shoes, which disappear under the couch with her Princess Sparkle Toes slippers. Jeans go next, so that I’m striding naked past a lot of uniformed staff when they roll into the room loaded down with clothes. Lore squeaks and reaches for something to cover up her tits even though she still has her bra and panties on.

“Shower first!” I throw over my shoulder. “Come on, you smell like jet fuel and… other stuff.”

“Let me guess.” Wry as anything, she pulls herself off the floor and brushes a hand over her butt, dusting at nothing or possibly inspecting a rug burn. “Spunk?”

“Woman, you have a seriously filthy mouth on you.” I shake my head at her and crook a finger. “I need to wash it out with soap, maybe.”

The staff busies themselves with the racks and the boxes so that Lore has a chance to locate her shirt and pull it down as far as it will go, which is, admittedly, not far enough for her taste but more than enough for mine. I’m polite in the shower, which means I don’t bend her in half and fuck her the way I want to, to make up for my premature finale on the floor. In short order, she’s flicking through the collection Steve sent up. I park it in a chair and get my hair professionally mussed, back to leather pants and not bothering with a shirt.

Just like audition day at Scion.

And I sit there reliving every second since the first one, from Lore’s voice sidling through Scion’s speakers right up to the moment I came in her with my knees digging into the furry hotel carpeting. Realizing my fangs are aching from the mental slideshow, I plow through a pack. The blood’s only a few seconds old, milked from some doll somewhere in the bowels of this very hotel. Three more packs, more than enough for a full feed, and yet my teeth are still tingling when Lore finally emerges.

Then I have to clamp a mental hand on my dick. At least the leather pants are tight enough to keep everything where it’s supposed to be, because every single thing about Lore’s outfit screams shut up and bite me where it’s not whispering shut up and fuck me. The little black number is strapless, with a sweetheart neckline, a cut-out midsection, and a high-low hem that’s all lacy peepshow at the thigh and gauzy train trailing behind. They’ve painted her up with slashes of eyeshadow and dark liner. The ponytail slung over one bare shoulder is spangled with a spray of glittering diamonds. Then I have to figure in the miles of bare arm, perfect cleavage, tiny waist, wide hips, and leagues of leg, all teetering atop the highest heels imaginable. Lore stands just out of reach, head tilted at an angle that she wears almost better than the dress, eyes glinting with bright blue challenge.

Bring it on, I dare you.

“You look ready to put the sin back in Sin City, love.” I know better than to screw up her makeup by kissing her mouth, so I kiss the side of her neck instead. And I continue to kiss it for the duration of the elevator ride down to the lobby. Have to stop when we hit the ground floor because it’s too hard to walk and give her a hickey at the same time. Not that I care, but Rebel and Lonan aren’t fans of the PDA, given the former’s glaring and the latter’s incessant throat-clearing. I’m inclined to punch Lonan in the neck, but seeing as how none of this would be viable if PFC wasn’t here, I’m forced to cut him some slack.

Amazing what a week, a cool half-million in equipment and overtime, and some sin-eater scrapings can do for technology. The boys are packing the usual UV guns, but the ammunition is a whole different ball game now. Nothing they were able to test in the field, because Jax Trace nixed the idea of taking potentially lethal potshots at the mini-muffin, oddly enough. Still, Asher seemed pretty convinced the new ammo would take out Benicio, or at least put a significant dent in him. There had been a long-winded explanation about the reaction they got in the lab between some chemical cocktail and the psychotropic fuck-juice the sin-eater smeared on all of us, but I don’t give three shits how it works, only that it obliterated the tissue samples they took off Benicio before dumping him at the city morgue.

Only mostly dead, the bastard.

I almost want him to put in an appearance, but even he is not that stupid. PFC’s presence is unmistakable, as is the extra security roaming the building. Jude’s upstairs keeping tabs on the surveillance equipment, and while Rebel and Lonan might be in plainclothes, they’re both built like brick shithouses and visibly armed. Rebel must have drawn the long straw, because he heads for the back of the restaurant. Lonan sticks to Lore, even when we end up in a corner booth with a bottle of very expensive booze that no one is drinking. Lonan looks ten kinds of uncomfortable, despite having the two top buttons on his shirt popped open and his sleeves rolled up. Instead of a watch, he’s wearing a set of leather cuffs that might pass for badass if they weren’t decorated with black feathers. Even from here, I’m picking up whiffs of Corvus corax. Guy smells like my goose down pillows.

Well, before two dead doppelgangers bled on them, anyway.

When the waitress turns up, I stay quiet, swallowing the urge to order one of everything just because that’s the fastest way of getting rid of someone. I catch Lore flicking a glance at me, like she’s waiting for it to happen, but I keep my mouth shut.

Standing by for the appetizers, Lonan and Lore sit side-by-side like strangers on a bus, each one feeling out the other, wondering what the other person is thinking. Well, Lonan, maybe. Lore’s pensive expression doesn’t have anything to do with him. The girl takes a stroll inside her own subconscious, gets beaten half to hell, has road rash for days, and walks it off like it’s nothing. But Benicio coming back from the dead has hit her right in the family jewels, so to speak, and every minute she spends not talking is proof she’s sinking another inch deeper into her own mind.

Reaching out, I deliberately turn over the three glasses that arrived at the table with the liquor. “You two need to loosen up. I’ll take two shots to every one of yours. Last person conscious gets the big bed.”

“I didn’t know you could drink something that wasn’t blood.” A few short weeks ago, Lore wouldn’t have been able to finish that sentence without flushing pink to the roots, but now she only gives me a very quiet, very deliberate look.

“Oh, I am a bottomless well of secrets.” I flash the fang-grin, hooking both my elbows up on the booth. I’m not touching her anywhere right now, not even a knee under the table, and I wonder if she feels the loss as keenly as I do. But if I learned anything from Roman Scipio, it was strategy. I might not have his patience or Cas’s ruthlessness, but all of us… every last member of his motley family… knows how to play the game. “So what’s it going to be, love?”

“I’m not sure this is a very good idea,” she says, still eying me skeptically.

“You chicken?”

For an answer, Lore picks up the bottle and pours out three shots, one of them a double. Actually, the one she pours for me is closer to a triple, but the smile she gives me tries for innocent when she hands it over. “Bottoms up?”

“That’s the plan.” I take it from her.

“I can’t drink on the job.” Lonan tries to ward off the glass Lore pushes at him. “It wouldn’t be safe, and Asher would have my ass.”

“Your ass, huh?” I repeat with a finger snap. “I knew he played for the other team. You the top or the bottom?”

Lonan gives me a considering look and says “both” without missing another beat. There’s a challenge there, one I let fly right by me because frankly I don’t care if he stuffs his dick in someone’s ear as long as he can shoot straight.

“I should have guessed. You kids today, with your technology and your internet porn and your bisexuality and never knowing if you want to spank or be spanked.”

“One drink,” he fires back, “if that will shut you the hell up.”

“Done.” I hold my glass aloft to make a toast. “Here’s to our friend Benny. May hell be full of boring brunettes.”

I clink the glass against Lore’s and toss the shot back. It burns, worse than Roman’s Scotch. It’s more like lighter fluid, but I’m already reaching for the bottle and refilling our glasses. The second shot hurts more than the first, and Lore winces, putting her glass down with a gasp that reminds me of all the noises she makes in bed. And in the shower.

And on the carpet.

I pour us a third, but the appetizers arrive and that puts the game on pause. All the eats are teased, wrapped, stacked, and tortured until they barely resemble food, and I would be hard-pressed to identify a single damn thing on the plates. Lore is into it, but she would eat cardboard if it was wrapped with pastry dough. Smart girl, tucking away some carbohydrates to soak up the liquor snaking through her system. I can tell the alcohol is working its magic because she’s already pink and cute and flustered in a way that’s wholly different from her regular pink and cute and flustered.

I put another drink in her hand between mouthfuls, and she tosses it back like a pro, right up to the point where she misses the last sip at the bottom and it sprays across her face. Lore gets her eyes shut, at least. Makeup ends up smudged at the corner. Wiping at it with my thumb cleans up the worst of it and leaves her cat-eyed. I lick my finger and smear the other side to match as I take my third double-down.

“Come on, switch-hitter. You’re lagging.”

Lonan takes the shot right about the time the waitress hits the table with yet more food: a steak for him and some stupid bed of greens for Lore. Rabbit food. Beverly Hills Housewives kind of food. I swear to god, if she starts doing Pilates, I’m locking her in the bedroom and force-feeding her pie.

Grabbing her fork, Lore starts pushing the lettuce around without really eating it. “So how did you end up working with Asher?” It sounds like she actually wants to hear the answer and gives me a dirty look when I don’t bother to stifle my long-suffering sigh.

“Military referral,” Lonan says around a mouthful of French fries as he digs into his side of bloody cow. “I was in the Air Force, but Uncle Sam decided I’d be more useful in the private sector.” When I feign a snore, he actually turns a shade redder before adding, “I don’t mean to butt in on your date, or whatever this is. I don’t have to sit here. Rebel’s probably shitting kittens as it is.”

“Ignore him.” Lore reaches across the table and snakes a bite of his meat right off his plate. She follows that up with a handful of his fries, and Lonan lets her. Because she’s adorable. Because it’s all blue-eyed sympathetic looks and sneaky fingers. I get it then, and can’t help the smile that creeps up on me as I realize that all her niceties and polite questioning is mostly a ruse to get closer to what she really wants: Lonan’s food. Then she pops off with, “It’s nice to have someone to eat with, even if my rock star vampire friend over there is giving you the stink eye.”

Lonan, that shithead, just grins back at her like she’s a puppy he wants to squeeze while Lore helps herself to another mouthful of rare meat. Me? I’m stuck on four words that instantly wipe the smile right off my face:

Rock star vampire friend.

It’s not like I can be pissed about it, either, because what else would Lore call me? I’m not her boyfriend. I’m not her husband. I don’t own her, haven’t marked her, can’t mark her. So basically she’s a free agent, and what does that make me?

An asshole.

And her lover. At the very least, I’m her lover.

Maybe it’s not a word Lore’s comfortable using at dinner over a retarded upscale salad, but she’s still holding out. Holding back. Not wanting to admit what this is because she expects to have it yanked away from her.

So I lean in and snag the bottle. Upend it so that the last of the liquor goes straight down my gullet. Set it down hard enough that the plates dance against the tablecloth.

“We’re outta booze. And outta here. Come on, babe.” I haul Lore out of the booth and toward the exit, leaving Lonan and Rebel to catch up if they can.

She clutches my hand, her mouth trying to keep up with her feet. “Where’re we going?” Hic. “I didn’t even have a chance to finish my dinner.” Hic. “Or Lonan’s… Xaine, slow down, these heels are really tall!”

“I’m tired of sitting still,” I tell her as we head down the hall toward the telltale thump thump thump that’s the heartbeat of every nightclub everywhere. “Say the word, sweetheart, and I’ll carry you.”

Lore laughs. It’s a giddy noise, cut with booze and adrenaline… and me. Lore is giddy on me. Doesn’t matter what label she slaps me with, she’s always going to look at me through the goggles of a young kid listening to her first angsty ballad. Some teenager slow dancing at her prom. The young woman who agreed to marry some hayseed hick wannabe musician.

Oh yeah, she was all good with marrying him. Guess he ranked higher than “friend” on the Lore-Shag totem pole. That’s okay, that’s fucking fine. I’m fine. We’re all fine with the bright pink state of our fucking world today. She wants a Rock Star Vampire Friend, well, she’s going to goddamn well get one.

On the dance floor, A- and B-list celebrities are getting down and dirty. There are photographers at the four corners of the room, but they’re being discreet about their snaps. I count at least two Oscar winners in a booth off to the side, a couple of Grammy winners, more nominees, and at least one next-gen party-girl Hilton. I plow through all of them, taking the pats on the back, the greetings, the half-hugs, the proffered hands. By the time we hit the bar, the staff has seen us coming. They’re not prepared for the body shot request, though.

Lore’s ass hits the bar two seconds later. “What’m I doing up here?!”

“Lying down.”

She snickers, her nose all wrinkled up at me. “Alrighty, then.” And she stretches completely out, arms over her head, toes pointed, an explosive little “hic” tossed in for good measure.

I can’t say that I have ever actually licked 200 proof anything off someone before, but there’s a first time for everything. I reach over her and grab a bottle off the lit-up wall. The glass is cold, even to my touch, and Lore shrieks when the frozen booze hits her bellybutton. My tongue immediately follows it, sliding over her flesh and seeking out her navel like a dent in a pot of cream. She squirms and goes to slide a hand over her middle, but I catch her by the wrists, because she tastes like everything I like. Woman and salt and sunshine. Warm flesh. Willing flesh.

Lore. Just Lore.

And I don’t question it. To be honest, I never question it, but I’m questioning this less than I probably should. I never stop to think, but I’m thinking less than normal. I always enjoy myself, but right now, I’m enjoying myself so much that I take a second shot with a slurp that leaves me coughing. It’s been a long damn time since I tied one on like this.

But what happens in Vegas…

By then, Rebel’s caught up to the bar, if not to me. “What the fuck do you think you're doing? A known killer is back from the dead, on the loose, after the two of you, and you think it’s smart to slip your security detail?”

Lonan’s right behind him. “What did I miss?”

“Not much, by the looks of it.” And Rebel has a point, because Lonan’s face is sporting three shades of lipstick.

I heave Lore into a sitting position and then, because I can’t help myself, I kiss her. It was supposed to be one of those passing things, but she wraps those mile-long legs around my waist and moans into my mouth. Then it’s on, with my tongue sliding past her lips and delving deep. Deep enough to taste her again. Deep enough to want that and more and everything. I don’t think to pull away until her hands spasm against my shoulders, and when I do, she comes up for air with another gasp.

I hold up my finger for another round, and the bartender leans over to shout, “What do you want this time?”

“No more drinks!” Rebel yells the same time that Lore screams, “Sex on the Beach!”

He glares at her, but her head is tilted back, all that hair rioting over her shoulder like sunshine. The diamond spray is slipping south, and I can’t say that I blame it.

Lore pulls it off and stuffs it into my pants like she’s tipping a stripper. “Sex on a park bench!” Hic. “Or…”

“Sex on a bar!” I suggest, digging my fingers into her thighs because I can smell her, the core of her. I think about ducking my head between her legs, dipping my tongue into the honey pooling in the crux between her thighs, wanting her to arch into my mouth like I’m the only thing that exists in her entire universe.

“How about some Porn Stars?” the bartender counters, cutting off the vivid mental image of eating out my Human Singer Friend in public and in full view of a lot of photographers.

The next thing I know, we’ve each got a shot glass of some bright blue liquor, Rebel and Lonan included. I don’t care if they drink theirs, so long as Lore slugs hers back.

“Keep ’em coming!” I yell at the bartender as I drag her out to the dance floor.

Lore backs her ass up to my crotch and grinds me like she wants me to knock her up through god knows how many pairs of Spanx. “You good?”

“It’s all good!” I yell back, beyond delighted that she turned out to be a horny drunk. She rubs up against me, shaking her hair in my face like she’s in a rap video, getting down and dirty to the point that a circle clears around us. Everything’s going fuzzy, a camera out of focus, a paparazzi shot from a thousand feet, to the point that it’s hard to put names with faces anymore.

But when Charlie Sheen gives you the big thumbs up, you know some seriously crazy shit is going down.

I spare a half-second glance at Rebel, who leaning against the bar looking disgusted and muttering orders into a radio. My gaze skips over to Lonan, entertaining two women and the shirtless stud who was working one of the dance platforms when we walked in. Honestly, I don’t know what he thinks he’s going to do with that much T&A, much less the dong, but that’s his business, not mine. I don’t have the bandwidth to spare him even if it was, because Lore’s got her arms around my neck and she’s murmuring something against my cheek. Her breath is sweet and boozy and warm, and I swear I’m hard as a rock, almost-but-not-quite-fucking her in front of God and Charlie.

I have to duck my head, and it’s tempting to bite her ear instead of shouting into it. “How about we get the hell out of here and hit the Strip?”

“We should go to the Crazy Horse!” she yells back, falling against me so that it’s easier to start hauling her toward the door than it would be to help her find her feet. “The paparazzi would go nuts!”

Generally I’d be amenable to an evening filled with strippers and good company, but tonight I’ve got far different plans than hitting up the local cabaret. One way or another, I’m putting my mark on Lore, and if I can’t do it in the popular contemporary fashion, well then, things are going to have to get a little more traditional.

Biblical, even.

“Sounds like a ‘yes’ to me! Come on, Lonan!” I yell in passing. “There’s a jewelry store in the lobby, and I need to make a pit-stop on the way out.”

He trails after us, looking bewildered and ten kinds of shitfaced. There’s a redhead on his right arm and the dude on his left. I don’t know where he ditched the other woman, and I don’t care.

“Isn’t that Xaine?” the girl mutters.

I turn on my heel and walk backward long enough to answer, “Naw, I am the artist formerly known as Xaine.”

“Dude,” the other one blurts out like he’s waited his whole life to have the opportunity to ask, “do you even have a last name?”

I’m beyond caring what anyone other than Lore thinks about me, about all this, and she laughs all the way outside, her loose giggles interspersed with those adorable fucking hiccups.

“Nope, he’s just Xaine,” she says, falling against me as we reach the curb. “Thank god he’s not a symbol yet.”

“Well, I’m a sex symbol,” I say, stuffing her into the limo. “But if it makes things easier, you can call me ‘Rock Star Vampire Friend’ until death do us part, sweetheart.”

Because the Something Old is me. The Something New is her. The Something Borrowed can be Lonan, and the Something Blue—

Was the Porn Stars.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Lore

Consciousness comes at the cost of comfort, stampeding into my head with all the grace of a rhino. At first, I don’t even move, don’t open my eyes, don’t so much twitch a single muscle except to draw a breath. A slow, careful breath that I have to monitor, in case I need to make a sudden lunge for the bathroom.

“Hell,” I mutter into the silence, swallowing hard against the gorge rising in my throat. “This must be what hell feels like.”

I’m hot, but my skin is coated in a cool sheen of sweat, and the more discomfort that I acknowledge, the worse it seems to get. My hands shake, so I clamp them down on the sheets, pushing at the fabric until I’ve kicked free of the wild tangle. The bedroom smells like alcohol, sex, and perfume: a mélange of debauchery that keeps my roiling stomach on edge. I need to open a window. Turn on the air conditioning. Something, anything, because if I don’t…

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck…

I jump up from the bed so quickly that I lose my equilibrium, then it’s a battle against vertigo the entire way to the bathroom. Hitting my knees at a tile-burn skid, I lean over the pristine white porcelain bowl.

Then I empty my guts. Heave until my jaw hurts, my throat burns, and tears trickle down my face. Heave until it’s all yellow bile and reflex. Heave until there’s nothing left. Eventually it tapers off into a full-body weakness that has me shaking and caving in on myself. Slowly, I recline, ass pressed to the bare tile floor, shoulders against cool porcelain.

Too bad they don’t leave mints on the toilet seat, too.

It smells like soap here, like air-conditioning and clean, which makes it a far better place to wallow in my misery. Propped against the whirlpool tub, I battle the urge to puke some more and wait for my stomach to settle. I don’t know where Xaine is, where Lonan and Rebel and Jude are, but I get the distinct impression that last night was a wilder ride than any of us bargained for. I have vague recollections of icy body shots, vaguer recollections of dancing, and a niggling feeling that tells me I’m missing a big part of the paint-the-town picture.

So, about that niggling feeling in your boobs…

Except I encounter a white bandage on the curve of my right thigh first. I narrow my eyes at it, then tug at the medical tape holding the gauze down. A swear word trips across my lips the moment the bold, black tattoo comes into view.

That motherfucker.

It’s unmistakably Xaine’s X. The one he dashes across eight-by-ten glossies and fangirl tits. That trademark slashing autograph that gets auctioned off on eBay, burned across an expensive guitar or etched into a monogrammed pick… or scrawled on a napkin with some song lyrics written on it.

I’m a goddamn piece of Xaine memorabilia.

Irritation flares hot, but on the tail of that discovery comes another realization: there is an odd feeling in the vicinity of my boobs, certainly more painful than the anger building in my chest. Right now, I’m wearing nothing but a dress shirt. Whose, I don’t know, but it’s white and starched and pristine, except for the tiny dots of blood streaked across the front. My first instinct is to touch the bite marks on my neck, dabbing at the skin and searching my fingertips for signs of a spill. Nothing, though.

So the next move is to nut-up and peer down my borrowed shirt. With my hands on either side of the collar, I spread the fabric wider, peering inside, jaw dropping at the sight of two perfect little barbells through two very sore nipples.

Pink. The balls are pink and cold and definitely not plastic.

“What the fucking fuck? I am going to kill hi—”

Even before the words are out of my mouth, my eyes catch on the matching rosy sparkle of something else. Letting go of my borrowed shirt, I spread the digits of my left hand wide, gaping at the conspicuously pink diamond sparkling on my ring finger. It’s huge, square cut with a ring of smaller diamonds around it, and set in shiny platinum. My mind goes completely and utterly blank.

Because… he wouldn’t… he didn’t… he…

The bedside alarm clicks on, sending staticky voices spiraling through the suite. Echoing off the bare walls and amplified by the white tiles, they compete with the pounding in my head.

“There’s some surprising entertainment news out of Las Vegas today,” the disembodied male voice tells me. “Seems that bad-boy rocker Xaine got himself hitched last night, and to none other than the recent break-out pop artist, DJ Lore.”

Oh, no…

“No one could have seen that coming, John,” his female counterpart volleys. My head hits my hand, the cool brush of metal across my forehead so foreign that it startles me and I have to open my eyes to look at the ring again, blinking twice to take it all in. “Apparently the wedding was witnessed by none other than Noah Carmichael, another rock icon signed to the Apocalypse label. He was the one who tweeted the first pictures and video of the happy couple.”

…Noah Carmichael?

That’s a new development, and one I most certainly don’t remember. Trouble is, relying on my memory for anything these days is tantamount to asking an orthodontist to fix a hemorrhoid.

In other words, completely pointless.

Pushing up from the floor, I have to clutch the sink because the room’s spinning and I’m spinning right along with it. Giving it a minute, I hover in limbo until I stabilize, until I can open my eyes, take a deep breath, and move away from the counter. Legs like a fawn’s, I work my way through the bedroom and into the living room, clinging to every piece of furniture and every door jamb on the way. I aim for the TV remote, and as soon as I have it in my hand, I click on the tube, flipping to the E! Network.

My stomach bottoms out when I am the first thing that I see, leaning heavily against Xaine, head resting on his shoulder, both of us standing in front of Elvis at the altar. Xaine’s got his arms looped around my waist, like he’s not ever going to let me fall. He can’t. Not if he wants me to make it through the goddamn vows.

It’s the shit-eating grin that hammers the last nail in the coffin I have planned for him, and I head off in search of my Asshole Vampire Husband.

“Xaine!” Too fucking loud, Jesus Christ. I lower my voice several notches to shout his name again. The suite is big, but not that big, and I’ve already covered the territory from the bed to the bathroom to the television set. If he’s here, he has to have heard me puking my guts out. If he’s here, he has to know that I’m awake. Then there’s not only the righteous indignation burning me up; there’s a sudden stab of fear that he didn’t make it back to the hotel with me last night—

“For fuck’s sake, stop shouting,” comes the hoarse retort.

Still clutching the remote, I head for the door off to the side of the full bar, behind the dining room table and chairs. When my bare feet hit the marble tile beyond the furry white carpeting, I shudder.

He’s holed up in some kind of office space, complete with a giant flatscreen playing the Drunken Vegas Wedding Highlight Reel. A wall of windows overlooks the Strip, the dimmer switch set to “hungover vampire,” so that the view is still visible but the glass is shadow-gray. The massive conference table is covered in ToughBook computers, USB cables, and surveillance equipment from PFC. There’s a few half-empty coffee cups and a glass scummed over with Alka-Seltzer residue, so my guess is the boys were here for part of the morning, at least until Xaine commandeered their base camp.

My wayward bridegroom is collapsed in a leather chair, a glass dangling from his right hand. It contains some hair of the dog: Bloody Mary, celery stalk and all, but I highly doubt it’s tomato juice. Xaine’s head is tilted back, his eyes are closed, his chest is still bare, but twin silver-glints on his nipples draw my attention straight to the matching piercings he’s sporting. The white gauze bandage on his wrist suggests he also got tatted up. And the metal on his ring finger is the last bit of confirmation I needed.

Clutching the remote and the door jamb, I glare at him as hard as my head will permit. “You colossal douchebag—”

“Just to clarify,” he interrupts, “the nip piercings were my idea, but you wanted the tattoo. Being a gentleman, I went along with it.”

That leaves me sputtering for a full twenty seconds before I manage to get out, “Gentleman my ass.”

He lifts his head then, cracking one eye at me in something akin to surprise. “I tried to get food and water into you before you conked out, too. Extra credit points for me when you up-chucked cake all over me.”

“Wedding cake?” I throw the remote at him as hard as I can. It finds its mark, bouncing hard off his forehead.

“Ow!” He flinches and musters half a glower. “What the hell, Lore?”

“You said no funny business!” I’m unreasonably angry. Unusually angry. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever been this angry in my entire life. “You promised! There was a specific ‘No Wedding’ clause in our verbal contract!” The accusations are threaded through with panic and rage, and I can’t seem to get my hands to stop quaking, even when I jab an accusatory finger in his direction. “You did this on purpose!”

“If you don’t stop shouting, security is going to storm in here to cart you away. Then they’ll be showing wedding and arrest footage on the five o’clock update.” Xaine’s head falls back again, and I can tell he’s struggling not to smirk over the idea.

“Newsflash, Xaine, if I start screaming the house down, it’s not me they’ll cart off to jail.”

He lifts the Bloody Mary and takes another swig. I give him a minute, wait to see if he’s going to say anything else, but when he fixes me with that trademark bored stare, I can’t help but stomp one bare foot on the floor in frustration.

“What were you thinking? Four hundred years and suddenly you got a yen to turn domestic? Do you even understand what you’ve done?”

“You seemed to think it was a good idea at the time. Something about the press eating it up with a spoon, which they are. It’s a field day on every channel, and it’s driving presales through the roof. But I’m guessing that’s not what you’re actually pissed about.” He pauses, taking another deliberate sip of his drink. “If you don’t like the ring, we can get a different one.”

Standing there with a hip cocked, a finger pointed in his direction, and the weight of that diamond pulling at my other finger, I gape at him. “Don’t play stupid, Xaine. The shots were your idea. You had this planned from the beginning.”

“Not quite the beginning,” he retorts. “It was actually somewhere between your stupid salad and Lonan’s steak.”

That gives me pause, because between the appetizer and main course there wasn’t anything except—

“Oh, my god. Were you mad that I called you my rock star vampire friend?” He doesn’t say anything immediately, but ducks his head instead, turning his guylinered eyes toward the tinted glass windows. “Xaine, you can’t just marry someone because you don’t like the nickname they give you.”

“It wasn’t the nickname,” he says, but there’s enough of a hesitation that I know the moniker had something to do with it. “And you can calm your tits, love, it’s really not that serious.”

My every extremity is cold, glacial cold, arctic winds blowing across my fingers and toes cold. I feel sick and weak and my head is pounding. I want to scream and cry and curse him, curse myself, curse anything and everything that I’ve done in the past twenty-four hours. Getting liquored up was a stupid thing to do, but not quite as stupid as trusting him. If I’d placed my faith in someone else, anyone else, I might be a little less married. My slow descent into madness might have begun a year ago, but it wasn’t until I reached LA… and met Xaine… that my life spiraled completely out of control.

I swallow back the rising bile. “We need to get an annulment.”

“If I thought you really meant that,” he says, giving me a hard look, “my feelings would be really fucking hurt. As it is, you might want to reconsider. The publicity is doing wonders for the gravy train.” Then he’s up and out of the chair, setting the Bloody Mary down on the conference table with the hard crack of glass against glass. He reaches past me to snag the door, slamming it shut so hard that the wall vibrates and the tails of my borrowed dress shirt flutter against the backs of my legs. “We’re both back here in one piece, and the only difference is that we’re sporting some new ink and some nice jewelry. So there’s no need to go all nuclear fallout drama queen on me right now.”

That hits like a slap to the face, mostly because I think I’ve been pretty relaxed about his constant shenanigans. I never yelled or screamed, stopped him or told him no. I went along for the ride, thinking I’d get off whenever he got tired of me. This wasn’t supposed to be permanent, because Xaine doesn’t do permanent. It wasn’t supposed to be forever, because he doesn’t do that either. I figured I was just the flavor of the week, the blip on the radar, another girl who was there and then forgotten. A stand-in for what he really wants.

A do-over.

“Annulment, Xaine.” There’s a tremor in my voice, and I’m really close to tears of anger, panic, heartbreak even, because he’s right. Some little piece of me wishes that I could gallop off into the sunset with Prince Not-So-Charming. “I am not kidding.”

He stares me full in the face, right in the eyes, unwilling to give me a single inch to move or a second to breathe. There’s a flicker of something dark, but then he smiles like its nothing. That my tears and this place and the ring on my finger are nothing more to him than One More Wild Night. “Whatever, babe. You can call in a lawyer after the launch party tonight. Any shark in Hollywood ought to cream himself thinking about the kind of settlement you can go after.”

“I don’t want your money,” I say, waving the suggestion off with a gesture. “I want—”

“What?”

Xaine watches me expectantly, waiting for whatever I’m trying hard to verbalize. There’s a pit of dread in my stomach. I’m mad at him. Mad at myself. Mad at Noah Carmichael for no good reason, save for the fact that now the alarm-radio is yapping about his recent night out on the town, making my head ache all the more.

“What are you playing at here?” I ask Xaine finally. “Because we both know that I am not what you really want.”

“I’m not playing at a goddamn thing, babe.” He reaches out and snags the door, jerking it open with even more force than he used to close it. One of the hinges actually gives, the screws wrenched out of the wood and hardware left to dangle when he heads into the living room.

I follow him out, undeterred. “We met two weeks ago, Xaine. We don’t know each other, not really. And whatever you think you’re feeling right now, it’s far too soon to be love.” I pause there, because for one damn second I actually debate the wisdom of my next query. I debate the likelihood of surviving it. I already pissed Xaine off to the point that he’s walked away from me, and I wonder just how far I’d have to push it before he wrings my stupid neck. “Would it have killed you to ask?”

He swings around, still moving when he answers, “You would have said no.”

“Yeah, I would have, because it’s too soon.” I give a little shrug and add, “But a year from now might be a completely different story. By then we would know each other better. By then, you would know what you want.”

“I know what I want,” he insists, “even if you don’t.”

I brace one hand on the door jamb, holding myself up, bolstering my resolve. “This isn’t like ordering everything in the FTD catalogue or demanding the entire menu, Xaine. You can’t just play with lives like this. I have the right to make my own decisions, and people keep taking my choices away like I’m physically incapable of looking out for myself. Cas Declan, Benicio, you…”

That stops him dead in his tracks at the center of the room, every muscle clenching when the words hit home. “Yeah, because a wedding is exactly like a kidnapping, right? Putting a rock on your finger is exactly the same as raping your memories, right? Giving you my last name is just like what they did, isn’t it? Gosh, I hadn’t thought about it like that before. Thanks for making that crystal clear.”

Everything in me wilts; I don’t have the sort of energy required to sustain my rage. “You promised no funny business in Vegas. You asked me if I trusted you, and I said I did. That doesn’t mean I trusted you only to get me back here with all my limbs intact…” I pause, because it could go on like this forever. Me fighting him, him fighting me, but in the end there’s only one of us who has forever at their disposal, and it sure as hell isn’t this girl. “I trusted you to keep your promise.”

When Xaine turns around to face me, there’s no trace of hurt or anger or anything else evident in his expression. Everything is carefully, studiously blank. “It was a PR stunt, babe. I’ll get Steve to run down some paperwork, we can sign off on all the fuckery ever, no hard feelings, sayonara, thanks for playing.” Then he’s off and moving, lifting a shirt off the couch and tugging it on as he heads for the door. “Catch your act on the red carpet, then you can take the Apocalypse jet wherever you want.” He swings around to flash his fangs at me. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Capello, I need to get some fresh air and track down some breakfast.”

The door slams shut behind him, rattling the frame and everything beyond it. Crystal vibrates on shelves, the television wobbles on the wall, and I stare at the place where Xaine used to be. When the air conditioning kicks on, the sudden breeze brushing across my face lets me know that angry tears spilled over at some point. The alarm is still blaring in the other room, and as if by rote, the DJ picks this exact moment to fire up “In Your Light.”

A banner day, and it’s only eight in the morning.

As I sink down into the white cushions of the couch, Xaine’s parting shot plays over and over in my head.

I need to get some fresh air and track down some breakfast.

Idly, I wonder what her name will be.

Karen, Hannah, Rebecca…

Closing my eyes, I drop my head into my hands, scrubbing at my eye sockets with rough palms. I want to go home. I want to rewind the clock a month and wake up in my own bed, in my own apartment, in my own world. Not this one where everything is wild and confusing.

Lily, Abby, Anna…

The giant, pink diamond twists around my finger until it’s digging into my fisted hand.

Tina, Sabrina, Sara.

I should feel better knowing it was all a PR stunt.

Lauren, Gabrielle, Lorena.

I should feel relieved.

Brittany, Hailey, Jo… short for Josephine.

I should be happy he’s not entertaining some stupid notions about love and happily ever after.

Samantha, Jessica, Courtney, Jennifer, Beth, Amelia…

And I most certainly have no right… to be jealous.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Xaine

She doesn’t trust you.

And there’s no reason that she should.

I’m not really aware of moving until I hit the lobby. There had to be an elevator ride in there somewhere, but everything’s a haze of red, Lore’s every accusation pinging in my brain like the incessant dinging of the slot machines firing off all around me.

It’s early in the morning. Really early in the morning. And yet there are still asses in seats, eager fingers pressing buttons and letting it ride and losing fortunes. Because there are no windows or clocks here, no one knows they should be passed out or eating breakfast. The main floor is specifically designed to be a labyrinth of tables and machines, making it difficult to find an exit without hitting a Minotaur first. I pause in the middle of it all, trying to figure out what the plan is now, besides an annulment and a massive red carpet event that should have been my biggest moment of triumph.

Lore on my arm. A ring on her finger. “Mine,” finally.

Not being able to mark her was a warning, her body’s way of telling me she doesn’t want anything to do with all this. Not for the long haul. Sure, I’m good enough to sing with and more than good enough to fuck for a while, but she never had plans to stay and doesn’t want to be tied to me for one second longer than it takes her to roll those pretty pink suitcases to the curb.

The ones she never unpacked.

So here I stand, in Vegas, with a wedding ring on my left hand and nothing to hold onto.

“Hey, man.” Someone claps me on the shoulder, and I slowly turn around. Noah Carmichael is a hundred and seventy pounds of nice guy stuffed in a stringy rocker-boy suit. He’s human, but I guess I can’t hold that against him. Signed him to the Apocalypse label and let him play wingman for a few years. The last time we spoke in LA, we had a little scuffle over Reille. Noah had slipped up and said that maybe I needed to dial it back a notch, and I told him to mind his own business.

Actually, what he said was, “You might want to take it easy before you kill her,” and then my fist plowed into his face so hard that he spent the next six weeks hiding out in his Malibu house while the gossip rags placed him in rehab. No hard feelings, I guess. Noah didn’t even demand an apology, because he’s not that kind of guy. One day after it was all over, he turned up on my doorstep with his guitar slung over his back, ready to jam like none of it even happened. He’s good like that, and in the aftermath of all the Reille-fueled insanity, I was also glad he wasn’t the hold-grudges or sue-my-ass-off sort.

I hold out my hand to him with a casual “Good to see you alive and kicking” because last night, he’d been my best man. I guess that’s what happens when you crash the wrong stupid-long Hummer as all the artists on the label pile into the same hotel.

Cracking open a bottle of high-end water, he takes a tentative sip. “Tell me you got Lore up to the room all right.”

“Yeah, she’s up there.”

Noah tips his head down so he can peer at me over his sunglasses. His eyes are bloodshot, but he doesn’t look half as crappy as I feel right about now. “Everything okay?”

No. “Yeah, it’ll be fine. I need to get some food into me. I haven’t had anything since last night.” Normally, I’d swing by the front desk and have every egg and strip of bacon in the joint sent up with room service, but Lore is done with my particular brand of excess, and she can order her own food, if she wants any. “You should go to bed. You look like shit, and you smell like a brothel.”

“Aw, I love you too, man.” Reaching up behind his glasses, Noah scrubs at his eyeballs for a second, moves to the bridge of his nose and then up to his hair. “I’ll grab breakfast with you, and then I can pass out for a few hours.”

Now that I’m sobered up, I don’t remember his name in the run-down of talent I’d gotten from the production assistant yesterday. “The fuck are you doing in Vegas, anyway, Carmichael? I thought you had a couple private club gigs lined up in LA.”

“Change of plans,” he mutters, not meeting my eyes. “I hopped on the jet late last night and hit the party about the time you and Lore were leaving it.”

“What the hell happened? Last I checked, you were happy to be off tour for a while. Something something, hit the beach… something something, sun and surf… blah, blah, bullshit whatever.”

I may have missed the mark in the empathy department, but Noah doesn’t seem to notice.

“Yeah, well, shit came up,” he tells me, then adds, “They even tell you about the girl I found behind Scion?”

“The body?” My forehead crinkles up, because it’s too early in the morning for this crap.

“The girl, X. She was alive when I found her. Got her to the hospital as fast as I could, but…” Noah averts his face, like he doesn’t want me to see what flavor of inner turmoil is going on behind those glasses. “Not fast enough, I guess.”

I brush off mental cobwebs, trying to follow the sudden swerve in the story because I was expecting erectile dysfunction with the latest Victoria’s Secret angel and instead I’m getting the lone wolf hero story.

“Come on, then.” Reaching out, I snag a waitress by the elbow. “Hey, babe, could you be persuaded to play tour guide?”

Her mouth falls open, but she sure as hell doesn’t tell me “no.” Instead, I get “Anything you need, sir.”

Damn straight.

“What Mister Carmichael and I need are restaurant recommendations and a quick way out of the building that doesn’t involve me getting a tan.”

She nods and purrs and escorts us to the VIP exit, where Noah and I end up in a black town car headed for parts unknown.

“Remind me to never drink with you again,” he mutters, reaching for another bottle of water and cracking it open.

“Whatever, tweet-fucker.” I should be mad about the drunken leaking of pics and videos all over the internet. Payback for the busted nose, probably. But really, it was good PR. Great PR.

That bit wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t the whole truth, either.

Thinking about how Lore systematically hit me in every last leggy-blonde-feel that I have, I know I need to go lick my wounds and whatever else my tongue can find. It’s the only way to get back to being That Bastard. The one she thinks I am. The one the world thinks I am. Without realizing it, I took off all my armor and let her shoot straight through me

Hair like sunshine, mouth like a UV bullet.

Well, if there’s anything that Taylor chick taught the world, it’s that break-ups make great fodder for lyrics. “In Your Light” will hit the charts because of the wedding, and whatever I write next will take over the bestseller reign, because if there’s anything the music-buying public loves more than a love song, it’s the angsty, heartbroken, morning-after shit.

Which is not going to be a problem.

I can’t help but replay the entire thing in my head as Noah mutters something about thousands of retweets and tries to change the notification settings on his iPhone. With only a few small things to be thankful for right now, I’m glad I didn’t get all pleading and needy. I didn’t tell her that I loved her or that I meant every word of the vows we’d exchanged. Until death do us part has a different meaning for me than it does for her.

Or it does this morning, anyway. I’m not sure that in the moment that Lore was giving it all that much thought.

“Come on, dude, we’re here.” Noah bails out of the car and into the shadowed corridor built especially for vampire access. The interior is dimly lit, the booths are private, and the wait staff fades into the shadows so well that shit keeps showing up like magic. In short order, Noah is digging into gluten-free vegan waffles. I have an armful of warm-and-willing, and all that’s left for me to do is sink my fangs into something new to wash the taste of something old out of my mouth.

Except I don’t want to. It’s too personal. Too much. A bag is one thing, but putting my fangs into this girl would be the same as having sex with her, which I don’t want right now, either. And suddenly, I get it. All those months I spent telling Reille that these anonymous girls were just food, that it was nothing personal, that it didn’t matter.

It did matter.

I was just using it as a convenient excuse, as one more reason to distance myself from a woman who fucked so right but felt all wrong. It was one more thing driving the wedge between us.

And I’m not even sorry.

But I will be, if I start off my honeymoon sucking blood from a big-breasted broad in an upscale Vegas restaurant. The girl’s squirming around, trying to get me hard, trying to rev me up, but I just want to dump her in a heap on the floor and head back to the car.

To the hotel.

To the suite.

To Lore.

I can’t, though. Can’t go back there and grovel. Can’t ask for all the things I need that I didn’t need before she made me need them. This is where I see her resemblance to Cas, clear as day. The cold. The determination. The willingness to tear everything down to nothing, all because she’s afraid of this.

Of me.

“Get out of here,” I tell the Daily Special, slapping her on the ass when she hesitates. “Changed my mind. Squeeze it into a cup for me so I’m not cheating on the little woman.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but Noah glances up from his breakfast, fork and knife in hand, and puts in a quiet “just go” that convinces her. A cup of warm red appears at the table a few minutes later. I drink it, but don’t taste it. Ditto on the refill.

“Let me guess,” Noah says, leaning back against the leather and finally taking his sunglasses off. “Lore’s having buyer’s remorse this morning.”

“Liquid Courage only takes you so far, right?” I let my head fall back until I’m staring at the upholstered ceiling. “So who is she, man? The one who sent you running scared?”

He pauses with a mouthful of not-waffle puffing out his cheek. “No one.” Then he swallows and amends that to, “No one you know, I mean.”

“I know everyone there is to know.”

Noah snorts at that. “Not this one, you don’t.”

“You’re slumming it with a C-list celebrity?” It would be mind-boggling, if I actually gave a crap.

Scowling, Noah grabs a butter dish and slathers whipped gold all over his breakfast like saturated fat’s back in style. “These things taste like shit. Also, if you keep asking me questions, I am going to pay you back in full for the busted nose.”

“Whatever.” I’m only half-listening as I get my phone out. The glare is like sticking a steak knife into my eye sockets, but Steve gets the first text.

#

Clear all the clothes out of the suite and replace everything with new couture for the event tonight. Make *everything* white.

#

I follow that up with messages to the PR people back at Apocalypse, telling them to roll out the official press statement to all the media outlets. I want phrases like “madly in love” and “soulmates” and “already planning on adopting a baby from China” splashed on every news station on the planet.

One of everything.

I fall back on that motto, hard. Every text I tap out punishes her for punishing me. Punishes myself for falling for her. Reminds me of everything I don’t deserve and never should have tried to take. Here I am, flailing at the world again, because when all else fails—

Go big, then go home.

“Hey, Carmichael, did you know that you can rent an LED-lit glass carriage for special events?” It’s reserved before I can think twice about what a twat I am going to look like.

“Nice,” he says with a snort. “And I thought it couldn’t get any tackier than a stripper bus.”

That gives me pause. “Damn it.”

“Seriously, no, Xaine. You cannot take your new wife to an industry party in a stripper bus.”

“Well, I can’t now. I already paid for the pumpkin coach and footmen. And extra for the horses to be white.”

Another text, this time to the event coordinator, asking for the red carpet canopy to be decorated like a goddamn Disney movie. I want the entire cast of Cirque du Soleil out there, dressed like singing mice or whatever. We need to celebrate the Wedding That Never Was, fairy princess-style. Champagne and caviar and black tie and a billion dollars’ worth of pink diamonds.

“In Your Light” is going to be our first dance, and our last.

“I need a tux,” I announce abruptly, sliding out of the booth and heading for the door. I have enough food in me now that everything makes sense. Everything’s come into focus, crystal-clear and sharp as hell at the edges. Every second I have left with Lore, I’m going to cram in something ridiculous and embarrassing and impossible. A lifetime’s worth of memories bookended by our wedding and that annulment that she wants.

Then, when she takes her pink luggage and bounces, I’ll know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she’ll remember tonight for the rest of her stupid, human life.

Reality will be the pale imitation of all this.

And maybe someday she’ll realize she wanted to live in Technicolor.

“Come on, asshole,” I bark at Noah, “you’re best man until the fat lady sings, or something.”

I don’t know what’s going back in the suite, and frankly, I don’t care. By the time I’m kitted out in a velvet tux the likes of which no one has ever laid eyes on—and probably shouldn’t ever again—I’ve used up all my goodwill and patience on the never-ending stream of texts, emails, and phone calls I’ve had to field. For the most part, everyone’s done their jobs. The event coordinators here went into hyperdrive with florists and light crews and rental companies. The PR people back in LA pulled the pictures from the photoshoot at the Palisades house and whipped those out like greased lightning. The shots hit the ’net like bullets.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Scrolling through them, I feel every impact. Sure, there are the super-posed ones, but someone managed to find two or three stolen moments, glimpses under the masks when we were looking at each other, smiling as I kept her from falling. I keep going back to them, the way her hand was plastered against my chest, the way she laughed with her entire body, the mischievous twinkle in her eyes. For a finale, there’s a somber snap, when the photographer caught me nuzzling the side of her neck. Lore’s eyes are closed in that one, her body curved into mine like it belongs there.

Not sure if it helps, really, the knowledge it wasn’t only bullshit and booze that got us here.

The town car dumps Noah and me back at the hotel right as the sun disappears behind the Luxor. There’s a crowd gathered outside, and Cinderella’s coach is parked at the curb, lit up a retina-scorching blue-white. I amble that direction with my hands in my pockets, letting the photographers in the press area get their rocks off.

They’re waiting. We’re all waiting, and a few minutes later, I wonder if I’m going to be left standing here… waiting… alone. Wondering if Lore’s upstairs locked in the bathroom or, better yet, if she hopped on a plane back to Los Angeles. There might be a note telling me to go fuck myself sitting right on the conference room table, for all I know.

“There she is!” the shouted exclamation catches my attention. “Lourdes! Mrs. Capello! Over here!”

Suddenly, there’s about fifty of the bastards. They know better than to mess with me, but Lore is a different story. She’s new, she’s shy, and she’s certainly not had the occasion to punch a paparazzo in the zoom lens.

“Hey!” I yell into the crowd swarming around her. I missed the moment she stepped into the twilight, and right now all I can see is the fleeting peep of gold hair in the mêlée. “Back it the fuck up!”

Like I’m Moses, the sea of bodies parts, peeling back with last-second flashes and a few more daring shouts to call Lore’s attention to their cameras. I’m ready to grab the last asshole by the scruff and toss him across the street, but he finally clears the damn runway and lets me get my first glimpse of—

My wife.

Lore steps past the photogs with a shy smile, tucking a lock of hair that doesn’t need tucking because it’s pinned in a thousand different places with tiny sparkling gems. It’s up tonight, pulled off to the side in one of those crazy, sloppy knots that somehow looks like a million dollars. Her makeup is subtle, pink, and pretty. She looks young, too young for me, and more fresh-faced than when I first laid eyes on her at Scion.

I rake her over from head to toe, a slow perusal that I’m in no hurry to finish. I don’t know what Steve sent her, but I know what she picked, and I’m not entirely sure I’ve ever seen anyone rock a white dress quite the way Lore does. The pristine fabric hugs her torso, one sparkling, diamond-studded strap arching over her shoulder and giving the whole thing an asymmetrical Grecian flair. A starburst of gems north of her hip gathers up the full skirt, exposing every single glorious inch of one of those forever-long legs. The icing on the cake is the way the whole thing moves when Lore walks, runway style, like she’s been teetering on perfect pink heels since birth.

Look at me.

Pausing, she stops to strike a pose for a group of photographers. She smiles, graciously speaking into a microphone that someone holds out to her.

Look at me…

Her eyes flicker sideways, caught by the glow of the carriage-and-four, and she actually does a small double-take. And I can lip-read from where I’m standing—

“You have got to be shitting me.”

Well, I wasn’t expecting enthusiasm, was I? I’ve dragged her along, strapped in and hollering from the get-go, so why would she hold her hands up in the air and revel in the coaster ride now that she’s made it abundantly obvious that she wants off at the next stop?

So I take a page out of Cas’s book. Out of her book. I go stone cold again, switching over to some other version of me who’s just in it for the laughs. For shit and giggles. Certainly not for keeps. Strolling up, I flash the fangs at the closest camera and say, “Try to keep up, babe. Limos are so last year.”

Speechless, her eyes roam over the fairy tale rig. Unfortunately, the photographers are standing there with big ol’ National Enquirer hard-ons for the snap of the century: Xaine Capello planting one on the new little missus. Lore’s tensed up, probably because on some level she’s come to the same conclusion.

In case she missed it, one of the assholes yells, “Give him a kiss, Lore, and watch out… he bites!”

Guffaws of laughter erupt from the crowd, and I stand there waiting, like a proper bridegroom at the end of the aisle. Lore’s got too much pride to run, and I can practically see her gird her loins as she turns and presses a precise three-count chaste peck on my lips.

When I offer a hand, she does accept it, and the feel of her skin sliding over mine causes everything to ache more than it did a few seconds ago. I close my eyes, trying to hold onto the pieces of the mirror even as they’re shattering. Even as they’re slicing right through me.

“Xaine?” When I open my eyes, she’s giving me a look, that look, the one that asks me in every possible way whether or not I’m okay. She might not want to do more than fuck me, but at least I can take comfort in the knowledge that she’s got as much empathy for me as she does everyone else.

I’m not giving her one thing more, though. No explanations. No smiles that let either one of us off the hook. “Come on, princess, time to take a ride.”

This is the part where I second-guess my decision-making process, because a limo would have had us there in less than two minutes. Instead, we’re stuck in a horse-drawn carriage with a motorcycle escort to deal with the traffic and the fans. Sitting ducks if anyone wanted to take a shot at us. The photographers cluster as close as security will permit, so I drape the obligatory arm around her shoulder, let it fall casually down to her waist, careful not to hold her closer than I have to. The second we pull away from the curb, I ease away from her.

“No worries,” I say. “Couple hours more and you get to cut bait.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” she says, frowning at the space between us. “I’m not trying to run away, Xaine, but together and married are two completely different things. I mean, if you don’t want me around anymore, then I’ll go, but I’m not trying to ‘cut bait’ as fast as you seem to think.”

Lore doesn’t even break her indoor voice on the words, but they snap with electricity nonetheless. She’s still pissed, that much is obvious, and when I don’t make any move to close the distance between our thighs, she averts her face, folding her arms over her chest and staring out the window.

I tilt my head to the side until I hear my neck pop. “You’re either in or you’re out, babe. I don’t do shit halfway, and I don’t drag people along by the hair. You want to half-ass your way through life, be my guest, but it’s not going to happen in my house or in my bed or on my dick.”

Her jaw clenches so tight I wonder if she’s going to break a tooth. “You. Didn’t. Ask.” The last word lashes out at me like a whip-crack. “And don’t you dare tell me I agreed to everything because I don’t remember most of it. Your distinct advantage in last night’s little game, Xaine, means you’re more than a little bit culpable.”

“That’s a big fucking word.” I crinkle up my forehead up like English isn’t one of many languages I speak fluently. “To be honest, I was pretty shit-faced. Did we even consummate the marriage?”

“If we did, it was about as memorable as the rest of the night,” she says. “Which is to say, not very.”

I stare up at the neon-lit dome of the carriage, making thoughtful noises. “I remember fucking someone. Might have been you. Might have been Noah. He’s built like a girl.”

“Well, that’s special.” Lore’s smile is brittle. “Did you ask him before you fucked him? Or are we looking at criminal charges on top of civil paperwork?”

“Naw. Pretty sure if I’d fucked him, that would have ended up on YouTube, too.” I stretch out, like I’m enjoying this hugely instead of wishing my brain would tell my mouth to shut the fuck up. “Cheer up, cupcake. Next time you get married, you’ll remember every bit of it. Someone’s backyard, with a big dumb bohunk and a tiny ring tied to the stupid-hairy dog the two of you walk together. Or maybe in the church you went to as a kid, with all those people back home who warned you and warned you and warned you what would happen if you moved to a place like LA. Then you’ll squirt out a few kids, and all of you will sit on the porch in your rocking chairs, drinking lemonade and reminiscing about That Time You Married An Asshole.”

The worst part is that I can picture every bit of it, and I know that’s better for her than anything I have to offer.

Our pumpkin coach pulls up to the curb. The red carpet got traded for white. There are rose petals everywhere. It’s lit up like the Magic Kingdom down that aisle, and I pause only long enough to add, “Whoever he is, Lore, he’s seeing all this on television right now. I guarantee it.”

Hauling myself out of the carriage, I don’t wait to see if any of that hits home, and I don’t bother giving her a hand down. Instead, I saunter along the carpet with my hands jammed in my pockets, lyrics already spinning out in my head.

“Happily Never After.”

Song writes itself.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Lore

Xaine’s parting shot stops me, ripping the quips and the anger and the smart-assed everything right out of my mouth. My body goes still, my mind goes slack, my lips stick together slightly as they part, the lipstick still tacky although the stylists swore it’d last all night. Hand to god, I can feel my heart and my guts and every single piece of me shred like the glittery confetti Xaine’s stirring up on that stupid, white carpet.

He doesn’t even stick around for the fallout, instead taking himself and his self-righteous indignation from this Twilight Zone version of our lives, stomping down that runway like he owns it.

I don’t know how to make it make sense.

I don’t know how to make him understand that I don’t want this because he doesn’t want this.

Oh sure, he thinks he does, because he looks at me and sees Elizabeth. But what happens when he’s spent enough time with me that the illusion wears off? What about tomorrow? Ten years from now? Twenty? Forty? When my ass and my tits and my face start to sag? When I’m no longer young and pretty and the perfect piece of talented arm candy? What happens when there’s nothing left of me but the memories of the girl I once was? There’s no pound, no shelter, no rescue society for washed-up ex-singers who tried to hold onto immortal rock stars.

It’s madness. And I certainly feel like I’m going mad, one carefully-counted heartbeat at a time.

Slowly, I grasp hold of one of the footmen and step down from the carriage; the second my red-soled heel touches that white carpet, I’m hit in the face with a couple dozen camera flashes. Glancing about, I can see Lonan looking a little worse the wear after last night, Rebel scowling at the crowds, and the rest of the team spaced at intervals along the walkway. Even in the Vegas heat, they wear dark suits, cut so the holstered guns don’t print, but I know they’re under there. Earpieces, too. The PFC guys should be a source of reassurance, but not by much, because there are people everywhere, reporters everywhere, photographers everywhere.

Because I’m here, because I came this far, I paste on a pleasant smile and strike a pose, holding my sparkling silver clutch and standing in just that way that’ll be in all the magazines tomorrow. The way women in those pictures always stand to show off their dress and their figure and their giant, pink wedding ring.

“I notice that you and Xaine aren’t walking the carpet together,” says some nard from one of the entertainment programs. “Trouble in paradise already?”

Waving one hand at the pumpkin carriage, I offer up the charming nothingness of any professional celebrity. “He’s all about the roleplay.” Then I lean in like I’m imparting a secret. “Very disappointed that I wouldn’t wear the glass slippers.”

There’s a collective bark of laughter from the people closest to me. A glance down the carpet offers up Xaine’s slightly irritated face, his dark brows drawn together, those sky-blue eyes fixed on me for one burning second before we both look away. He’s halfway down the gauntlet now, ignoring the clamors for his autograph, to turn this way and look over here and can we get a smile? Charging through it all like an angry bull, which probably isn’t so far from the truth.

Another reporter shoves a mic under my chin, recapturing my attention. “This is a fairly large event for a single song debut. What do you think about this whole red carpet roll-out?”

“Well, I think the carpet is white,” I say, eliciting another round of chuckles from the throng. “And you know Xaine…” My eyes find him once again, but this time I only catch the tense line of his shoulders. “Nothing by halves.”

You’re either in, or you’re out.

“Rumor has it that the two of you are planning on adopting a baby from China,” another reporter says.

All I can do is stare blankly, because I don’t know what the hell to say to that. “Um, if you’ll excuse me…”

“Hey!” The voice over my shoulder is accompanied by the lightest touch at my waist. It’s enough to make me jump out of my skin, then jump again when I twist around to find Noah Carmichael grinning down at me.

Holy shit.

The first time I met Xaine, there wasn’t really an opportunity for my shy to kick in full-force; circumstances and other things got in the way. But here and now, looking up at the other guy whose posters I had pinned to my bedroom wall?

Holy. Fucking. Starstruck.

I swear I gape at Noah’s face until he hits me with a low chuckle that has playboy written all over it. Granted, he’s had time to get used to all of this, but the moment it becomes apparent that my mouth is still open and no words are coming out, he looks almost sympathetic.

“You don’t remember me?” he asks.

“Remember you, no,” I tell him. “But I’d have to be living under a rock not to know you. I mean, not know you, know you, but I… uh… er…”

Noah’s face goes a little inscrutable. “You don’t remember any of it, do you? You have no idea—”

“Oh,” I say, quick to stop him, lifting my left hand to show him the giant, pink diamond. “I have some idea.”

“But the wedding? The reception?”

“There was a reception?” The words tumble out of me before I realize that five microphones are hovering not a foot away. Lowering my voice, I lean in and hiss, “Why on earth didn’t you stop it?”

He looks puzzled. “The reception?”

“No, the wedding!”

Noah’s laugh startles me slightly, and I wonder who else heard it.

Everyone, Lore, every-fucking-body.

Even Xaine. He’s looking back and frowning, his gaze bouncing between me and Noah, whose current expression is entirely contemplative.

“I did ask you,” he says. “Right before I walked you down the aisle. Told you I’d toss you in a limo and take you wherever you wanted to go. You pointed right at Xaine and said that was where you wanted to go.”

“Because bleary-drunk is the best state of mind for making life-altering decisions?” I fix him with a stern look.

Noah pauses, exhaling through his nose like he’s thinking. “Look, I’ve known Xaine a while, and I’ve seen him a lot of ways: careless, angry, manic, mean. Hell, I’ve even seen him sad. I’ve never seen him like this.” His dark eyes twinkle when he adds, “Couple months back, he nearly put my face through the back of my skull. A few weeks later, he ran Reille Reece through a wall. But honestly, I think he’d cut off all his fingers one by one and lay them out in the sun to fry before he’d hurt a hair on your head.” Then, as if it excuses everything, Noah adds, “And he seemed sure. About all of it, but especially about you.”

I know what I want, even if you don’t.

With a sigh, I track Xaine’s progress down the white carpet. I’ve felt everything from smitten to exasperated with him, but I’ve never felt unsafe. Even when he was out of his head and tearing Benicio limb from limb, I never once considered he might turn on me. He’s dangerous in every possible way, but of all the things that might have happened last night, I guess it could have been far worse than standing me up before God and Elvis.

“So, you seriously don’t remember the karaoke bar?” Noah says, drawing my attention back.

“No?”

Hello, not-a-question question. It’s been a while.

He grins again in the sort of way that tells me I’m not going to like where this is headed. “You have zero recollection of getting up to sing ‘Cry, Heaven’?” At my empty stare, he continues, “Just a big ol’ duet-shaped blank spot, huh?”

“I sang a duet?”

“We,” he clarifies. “We sang a duet. And it’s already huge. You’re like, viral video magic.”

My brain stutters to a complete and utter halt. “Are you telling me that I sang ‘Cry, Heaven’ with Noah Carmichael and I don’t remember it?” The words come out louder—oh, my god, so much louder—than anticipated. The flush that hits my face a second later is hot, hotter, hottest, and I can feel it traveling across my bare shoulders and down my chest.

Noah can’t begin to comprehend my complete and total mortification in this moment, because his eyes crinkle at me like I told him the best joke he’s heard this week. “You want to do a dramatic reenactment? We could totally Shatner the thing. Except, drunk as we were, I’m not really sure that’s possible.” He clears his throat, giving me the look that says I dare you.

“No.” Emphatic, firm, I am not doing this.

“C’mon, it’ll be like old times!” he taunts.

Wry as anything I say, “It was last night.”

Noah grins, waggles his eyebrows a bit, then opens up and let’s loose. “So, cry heaven, and don’t go. I need your grace to get me home…”

Top of his lungs, clear as day, and there’s a sudden shift in the decibel level coming from the spectators cordoned off behind metal barriers. Listening to him, they go absolutely berserk, screaming and crying, waving pieces of paper around like flags of surrender.

I can’t blame them really.

Noah stops singing, smirking at me like an asshole. “What? Haven’t seen the YouTube videos of it yet?” I give him the glare to end all glares, but he just leans in close, turning me around until I’m facing the crowd of rabid groupies. “I bet they have.”

Cheek-to-cheek with Noah, I watch the teenagers jumping up and down with Sharpie markers in their hands. These are the fans… and not just Noah’s fans, but Xaine’s fans. My fans. The people who heard the song, liked the song, bought the song, and now they’re standing in the Vegas heat clutching pictures and pens and excitement to their chests like armor.

“Lourdes!” someone shouts. I turn my head to look; it’s an instinctive action. “Over here!”

“You should go say hello to the adoring public,” Noah tells me, then plants an impulsive kiss on the side of my face. “I’ll catch you later.” A wink and a smile. “Try to remember me next time. It’s Noah Carmichael…Carmichael spelled with a C.”

“Right, and I’m Lourdes with an O, as in ‘oh, for fuck’s sake,’” I toss back, swatting at him with my clutch as he laughs and dances away. Suddenly, I’m as alone as someone can be with a hundred people screaming my name and freaking out for reasons unknown.

Okay, I can do this.

Except I only make it one step before a hand catches hold of my elbow.

“You shouldn’t,” Lonan says, his eyes scanning the crowd. “We didn’t have time to vet everyone.”

I consider the bank of people a few feet away, frowning a bit. “They’re just kids, Lonan. It’ll be fine.”

He hesitates, then mutters something into the mouthpiece at his collar and nods. Giving him a reassuring pat, I walk toward the risers. Me, in my belated wedding dress. Me, with all my blushing and stuttering. Me, with butterflies in my stomach, an ache in my chest, and a polite smile plastered across my face. This, I can do. Take a paper, sign a name, shake a hand, give someone a hug. It’s simple. It’s gratifying, because they’re here for me, for Xaine, for the two of us. There are so many well-wishes that I start to believe that this fool’s errand of a wedding might not be so bad. The fans squeal and cry. They tell me their stories and how they came to be here. It’s a veritable tornado, hundreds of names and voices, all belonging to people who don’t know me, underscored by—

The soft jingle of metal on metal, like a wind chime.

“’Allo, Lo.”

Dread lands hard and heavy in my gut, and I shift until I’m staring at that too-familiar face. Same as he was in the warehouse, with pale skin, mirror-eyes, and those odd chains hung with metal teeth strung from ears to nose. He’s wearing that gray hood and smiles like we’ve shared a joke.

Like we’ve shared a past.

“You left before we could catch up on old times, so I came to finish what I started.” Tiberius looks regretful, but genuinely so. “There’ll be no comin’ back from this one, I’m afraid. It seems you’re destined to be my little raven, sending messages from the land of the dead to the land of the living.”

His hand flashes out faster than I can flee, catching me by the arm and dragging me close to the barrier. A rushing sound starts in my ears, the sound of the sea in a shell. My vision narrows, tunnels, goes black at the edges. From a distance, I hear the high-pitched noise of someone’s scream.

Not mine. I’m going to die without making a single sound to save myself. I’ve stopped breathing, mind telling me to move, body keeping me still. I never understood what it’s like to be frozen with fear, until now. The whole world stops spinning, leaving you and your worst nightmare to stand alone, together.

“You can’t escape them, Lo.” Tiberius grips me right above the elbow, and it feels like he’s pulling at me, at my insides. Slicing me into a million pieces and extracting them one by one via that bruising touch. “Mercifully, you won’t feel a thing. The most important parts of you will be long gone by then.”

Stop.

I want to fight, but I can’t. The blackness gets darker, the tunnel gets smaller, and sounds fade further away. I can’t feel my body anymore, can’t move my arms to swing, can’t move my feet to run, can’t move my tongue to speak the defiance brewing in the heart that I can no longer feel beating. There’s anger there, but it’s dim and distant. I know this feeling; I’ve felt it before. Back at CasDec, during those days when I could look at myself from half a room away. Apart. Detached. Separated from my body.

I don’t want to go there again.

I won’t.

And just like that, I slam back into myself with an audible gasp. Everything refocuses, and the first thing I see is the shock on my captor’s face. Beyond him, it’s business as usual. Interviewers continue to shout, fans reach for the next closest celebrity.

Tiberius’s eyes narrow. “What the hell?”

I find the strength to struggle then, but he drags me closer, until his body and mine are touching from chest to ankle with only the hip-height metal barrier between us.

“What are you?” He breathes the question right into my mouth. As his eyes scour my face, their color shifts from clear to blue and back again. There’s a moment when he seems to waver with indecision, but then his expression hardens and he shifts his weight. “Doesn’t matter. Was hoping I could do this nice and quiet, but I’m not averse to a little screaming. Sorry, sunshine, but this is your stop.”

Sharp and blinding, pain slides between my ribs on the edge of a blade that I can’t see. My mouth opens on a cry, but nothing comes out. Nothing happens at all but the tears. Big, fat drops run down my face in hot-to-cold rivulets. I can feel them hit my chest, soaking into the fabric of my gown. For an impossibly long moment, Tiberius and I stand like that, caught in the danse macabre with people from all walks of life living all around us. I stare into his eyes, memorizing every single feature, and I promise myself that in my next life—

I’ll remember your face.

Tiberius jerks his hand, the quickest flick of a wrist. I listen as the blade tears through more tissue and organ, unidentifiable bits of me popping as the razor-sharp anelace catches on them and then cuts through. I can’t breathe; there’s no more air. There’s only a raw and unexpected sort of disbelief.

“I’m sorry, love,” he says by way of apology. “If it’s any consolation, this is going to hurt them far more than it hurts you.”

Them. Xaine. Them. Cas. Them. Jax. All of them.

Destined to be my little raven, sending messages from the land of the dead—

“Hey!” Lonan’s voice, I think, or maybe Rebel’s.

Tiberius tilts his head at the shout, then he pulls away, fading into the crowd as the hot seep of blood soaks through pristine white fabric. For the first time, I look down to my hand, pressed against the tiny, destructive wound. Pulling my palm away, I stare at it and muse on the unexpectedly red color of my blood. Redder than I would have guessed. So red, it’s almost black, a perfect sanguine stream spilling out and soaking the gown.

Blood on snow.

My last thought is for Xaine, and suddenly I regret all of it and none of it, because for what it’s worth, he made me forget for a while. I turn my head, seek him out, find the hard line of his back twenty, maybe thirty feet away. A scream rends the air, a real scream this time. That sharp shriek draws his attention, and the first thing he does is look for me.

To make sure I’m near. To make sure I’m safe.

I open my mouth to say the words I should have said when I woke up this morning. His probing stare catches on my face, recognizes my distress. His gaze wanders downward and those spectacularly vampire-blue eyes go wide. He takes one step, two, then he’s plowing through people like that night at O’Reilly’s, hands outstretched to catch me.

A blur passes by me, a shadowed streak that I dimly recognize as Lonan. The crowd ripples as one man takes off after my assailant and another comes to my rescue. Rebel’s there at my side, hands closing over my bare shoulders as I begin to wilt, but I slide from his grasp before his mind even registers that I’m about to fall.

And I will fall.

Already have.

“Lore!” When Xaine catches me and touches the wound, I suck in a hissing breath. Everything snaps into place, going from slow motion to fast forward in a blink.

Not enough time.

“Xaine…”

Then, finally, as if all it was waiting for was his permission, the world slips out from under me.

And I let it go.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Xaine

Deus meus, ex toto corde paenitet me omnium meorum peccatorum,
eaque detestor, quia peccando…

The steady thwip-thwip-thwip of the helicopter’s blades is the only noise I process. I can’t hear the medics yelling at each other as they run blunt-nosed scissors through the red and the white to reveal the worst of the damage. There sure as shit isn’t any noise when a heavy gold coin falls out of Lore’s bra and hits the metal floor. It spins on its edge, and I stare as it skitters across the steel, bouncing off of every upraised rivet.

I do hear the ping when it flattens and goes still, though. Bending down to retrieve it, I don’t bother looking at it again, keeping it clutched it in my palm for the entire ride to LA. I squeeze it once they get the IV set up, pumping my blood into Lore. I know it won’t turn her, but I remember what she said about being able to use vampire blood to heal, and I’m hoping like hell it will keep her alive from here to CasDec.

It’s the only safe place for her right now.

Non solum poenas a te iuste statutas promeritus sum,
sed praesertim quia offendi te…

She’s so full of morphine and so far beyond my reach that she doesn’t even register the burn of the transfusion. The medics work on her without faltering, and I bear witness; the first time they hurt her, I am going to throw them out the door of the helicopter. But so far, they’ve done the smart thing and tried to save her. Stymied the bleeding from the gut wound. Assessed the damage done to her internal organs.

“What kind of knife was used in the attack?” one of them shouts at me.

“I don’t know,” I say, on autopilot. “I didn’t see it happen.”

Summum bonum, ac dignum qui super omnia diligaris.

Ideo firmiter propono…

No, I was halfway down that carpet, sulking like an asshole and wrapped up in a thick layer of wounded pride. Full-blown sanctimonious dipshit-mode, wiped away the second I turned and saw the look on her face. The red blooming across the front of that dress.

I caught Lore as she fell, landing hard on my knees with only a layer of velvet and satin between me and the carpeted concrete. Her eyes were already closed, her body slack, blood pumping out of her with every steady contraction of the heart I’d done my best to break. While I cradled her to my chest and pressed both hands against the wound, the security team went straight to Evacuation Plan 1, which involved landing a helicopter on the Strip.

And even though I know there’s no heaven to be had, I’d prayed, and continue to pray, the same act of contrition spoken at every service I ever attended as a child.

Ideo firmiter propono, adiuvante gratia tua, de cetero me non peccaturum peccandique occasiones proximas fugiturum…

Amen

I’m not all that worried about offending God, but I do detest my sins, and the greatest one was leaving her side for a moment. My need to urge and prod and goad and shove everything one step too far pushed me down that aisle and straight into my own personal hell.

I swear I can do better. Be better. Be what you need.

With Lore’s hands clasped in mine and my forehead pressed against her fingertips, I make every promise there is. To give her the time and space and whatever else she needs to make this right. To find the dead-man-walking that did this to her and end him. The security teams are already scouring the footage of the walkway; there’s no way he evaded every camera in the place. The fans have rallied, lining up to give their statements and download the pictures off their phones.

His image is captured somewhere.

And then he’s fucking mine.

But these thoughts are scattershot. There’s no room for rage or plans or anything beyond Lore’s next shallow inhalation. There’s so much blood, it’s scary. I’ve had orgies that ended with far more arterial spray, but this is different. My blood, her blood, blood seeping from the wound, soaking the bandages, dripping from IVs, pearling in each pore as her body processes me out.

Just like Elizabeth.

I’m back in that nightmare. Another fatal wedding, different only in that my last words to Lore were taunting, bitter. The kind of last words you regret for eternity, because you don’t have the chance to take them back. I’m looking down the barrel of killing the second woman I’ve ever loved, even if I didn’t shove that knife into her myself.

“How much longer?” I shout. “Are we close?”

Lore’s lips are blue, her skin is cold, and I have no idea if my blood is doing anything at all. For all I know, she’s already gone. She might only be a few internal bits that haven’t stopped working, a few brain synapses that haven’t stopped firing. To the medics, she’s meat. Literally, meat. According to the license they pulled out of her clutch, she’s an organ donor, so right now they’re going through the motions. Keeping the blood flowing, keeping the heart pumping, keeping everything fresh long enough to take it.

“We’re coming up on the helipad now,” the pilot yells over his shoulder.

Not ten more seconds later, we touch down and the medics get the door open. Two figures are on the roof, both of them wind-whipped and grim-faced. I was expecting Cas. Prepared to take a UV bullet the second I set foot on his building, in fact.

I wasn’t as prepared to see Jackson Trace standing alongside him like a sentinel.

Guess I’m really in the shit now.

I grit my teeth, because it’s going to get ugly the second they try to separate me from Lore. The medics hop off the transport and lift the rolling gurney down. I follow it, eyes trained on the two men standing at the edge of the chopper’s blades. I brought Lore here because it’s the best place for her, the safest place. The humans can’t protect her from a bunch of immortals.

But Caspian Declan can. Can and will, so long as she makes it through this.

As the medics roll closer, I keep my grip on Lore’s hand, on the coin, and what’s left of my reality, because shit’s gotten awfully surreal. The IV lines snake between us, the rubber tubing still pumping fresh blood into her. Two sets of eyes track me, but only Jax approaches. Someone did him the favor of punching him in the nose very recently, but the moment he draws alongside Lore’s gurney, he reaches out as if he plans to lay hands on my wife. My first instinct is to sling him halfway across the roof. Luckily, I remember what he did to my hand way back when at O’Reilly’s, and in that moment of hesitation, Jax’s fingers cup Lore’s face, right under her jaw.

“She’s in bad shape,” he mutters, and though I wasn’t banking on him to make it better, my stomach drops about a foot. “You said you’d keep her safe! What the fuck happened to ‘I’ve got this’?”

My own words, tossed right back in my face, and I can’t say a damn thing in my own defense.

He’s not waiting for my excuses, anyway. “We need to get her inside. The OR is prepped, and the surgeons need to start putting her back together. Unplug the IV, Xaine, and let her go.”

“No!” Panic surges through me, hot and sharp, carving into my guts. Then my mouth clogs up with all the things I can’t say beyond, “I… can’t.”

If she dies in there, I don’t want Jax Trace to be the one holding her hand when it happens…

“Xaine.” Jax reaches across the gurney to rest a hand on my bare shoulder, right next to my bloodied undershirt. For a second, I wonder where the rest of my clothes went, then I remember I shucked the bloody tux jacket and button-down right about the time I suggested plugging myself into Lore. I meet Jax’s gaze and wait. He doesn’t speak, but in the place of hollow reassurances, there’s the sense that all the sharp edges are suddenly sanded down and rounded off. My raw nerve endings are completely settled by the time he says, “You’re not going to miss anything, because she’s not going to die.”

“Fuck off, Trace.” Except there’s no real heat behind the words, because I believe him. I mean, I know what he is. I have to believe him.

If anyone could help…

“I’ll stay with her,” Jax tells me, giving me a sage nod like he knows what I’m thinking. Like he just knows.

Relief eases through every taut muscle in my body. Slowly, so slowly, I reach down and unpeel the piece of tape holding the needle in my arm.

“It’s going to be fine,” Jax gives me one of those asinine, reassuring smiles of his. “Trust me.”

So I do. I pull the needle out. Take a step back to let them wheel Lore away. My eyes follow her, locked on the trailing white fabric of what’s left of her gown until a set of automatic doors slides open and swallows her up. It’s not until a few moments later that my anxiety surges back to crush me, fear and concern mixed with seething fury.

“What the hell?” I don’t know what he did, I don’t know how he did it, but when I get my hands on Jackson Trace and his magical fairy dust, I’m going to rip his pretty head off and wallow in the ensuing fountain of blood. I take one step, then another one, but then a hand closes around my arm. It draws me back, spins me around, and I come up swinging.

My fist connects with Cas’s jaw so hard that his teeth click together upon impact, his face twisting to the side with a force that cracks the bones in his neck. And I hope he hits me back. I hope he plows into me so hard that he knocks me out because if he doesn’t, I might be inclined to keep digging my knuckles into his face until I rearrange every single feature.

His voice is soft, but his eyes are feral-gold. “If you ever tire of breaking your fingers on my jaw, I could suggest a few softer spots. I know you’re hellbent on hitting me one way or another, but you really ought to learn a little discipline—”

“Fuck you and your discipline. Was it disciplined to leave Lore twisting in the wind? Because I don’t know how much you knew, but you sure as hell knew the Legacy was after her.” There’s a flash of something, the tiniest flicker of surprise and maybe even admiration. Apparently, I’ve shocked him. “That’s right, I know about them.”

Cas hits back harder with three words than he ever could with a fist. “She was dead,” he says softly, “and she was supposed to stay that way.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” I twist my bloody hand in his pretty pastel tie, twisting the fabric around my fingers and reeling him in until I’m snarling into his face.

“She was dead to everyone who knew about her, Xaine,” he says. The helicopter’s long gone by now, leaving the two of us, the wind, and all the secrets in Cas’s arsenal. “Anyone who might have looked for her, anyone at all who might have wanted to kill her, believed they already had.”

Eyes narrowed, I pull tighter at the length of fabric in my hand like it’ll make a difference, but Cas merely stares back, stoic and cool, those calculating cat eyes tearing me apart.

“Leave it to you to sniff her out,” he says, “and leave it to you to shove her into the spotlight. Every camera in Hollywood focused on her. Her face splashed across every television screen and on the cover of every gossip rag in print. That was you. You were the one who caught their attention. You put her blood in the water and expected the sharks not to bite.”

“You left her alone,” I tell him.

“I left her with Jackson, and Jess, and a hundred other people who were put in place specifically to protect her,” Cas shoots right back.

“Then the joke is on you, isn’t it? If they couldn’t even protect her from me, how were they supposed to go up against a bunch of immortals? The Legacy, for fuck’s sake!”

“They weren’t supposed to have to protect her from those men,” he gives me a faint, cruel smile.

“What are they after, Cas?” I shove him away from me, wanting to see him as off-balance as I feel. Wanting him to stagger and try to recover, so he knows what it’s like. “What do they want from you so badly that they’re willing to go through Lore and Jess and Reille to get it?”

Cas does stumble, but it’s far less gratifying than I hoped, with just a few skidding steps backward before he brings himself upright. I crowd him toward the railing, but he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t do anything but stand there, ramrod straight and jaw clenched.

“Are you with them?”

“I’m not,” he says curtly. “You know that. You wouldn’t have brought Lore here otherwise.”

“You’re involved in something.” Because I know he is, one way or another. “Lore remembers you. One of the few memories she held onto was of your face.”

Another flicker, those same tiger eyes of his narrowing. “She remembers me?”

Yet again Cas manages to shut me up with three little words. He seems surprised, even a little pleased that Lore might remember him, even as the enemy. I find myself trying to put it all together into a picture that makes sense, but I come up empty-handed. And I suddenly understand what it must have been like for her all these months: all of the questions, none of the answers, and just a single flash of memory to start the dominos falling. “Yeah, she remembers you. The medcenter. Being brought here.”

A single nod of acknowledgment. “Yes.”

I ball up my fists, because it’s a game of Twenty Questions, and I’m the idiot asshole who decided to play with the Junior Grand Master of Secrets. “So you brought her here to do what, exactly?”

“An autopsy,” he says. “I tried to get her out when she was alive, but the PFC team only managed to extract Reille. After that, the Legacy kept Lore locked up, hooked up to machines, and heavily guarded. There was no opportunity.”

“But then she died.” A question and a statement all in one. It’s all so farfetched, so hard to believe. “They hucked her body into a corner somewhere. And then you… what?”

“I paid someone to smuggle it out, then doctor the records to confirm that she’d gone into the incinerator with the rest of the bodies.” Cas rattles it off like it’s his grocery list: peas, carrots, bribery, grave robbery.

“And then Doctor Magic Hands fixed everything up? Resurrected her like Zombie Jesus?”

Cas straightens his tie, adjusting the perfect Windsor knot like we’re not discussing a dead-girl-walking here. “It didn’t have anything to do with the doctor. It was the vampire blood they used. It didn’t change her, but it didn’t kill her either. In fact, it did quite the opposite.” Those amber irises fix on my face. “But you’d figured that part out as well, or you wouldn’t have stepped off that helicopter with a tube linking your arm to hers.”

“It was a lucky guess,” I admit bitterly.

“Well, you always did have the devil’s own luck, Xaine.” Cas’s smile is about as friendly as the rest of him. “Except in matters of the heart, it seems.”

The urge to land him another facer rises pretty quick. Cas is that guy. That guy I always want to take down a peg because he’s so damn sanctimonious. That guy who pushes every last one of my buttons. That guy—maybe the only guy—who can take my anger. My grief. I know he’ll take all my punches, too, because despite all the years and bullshit between us, we’re still bound by blood. Brothers of a sort, and Caspian Declan is nothing if not dutiful.

Even if I am the one brother he’d drop off a cliff with great pleasure.

“Speaking of heart matters, how’s Reille doing these days?” I hear myself saying because that old rivalry is all I have by way of ammunition. “And by that, I mean have you figured out who she’s doing, besides you?”

The muscle in Cas’s jaw jumps. “Taunt me all you like, but it doesn’t change the fact that if Lourdes dies today, it’ll be because of your negligence.”

He’s right, but I don’t need that kind of reality. Not right now. “Why is Trace here? What’s his part in this whole thing?”

“You know why, Xaine.” Cas takes a step into the bubble of my personal space and raises his voice above the wind to quote, “‘For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways.’”

I slump back, because it’s the confirmation I needed and absolutely the last thing I wanted to hear. “Don’t quote the bible at me.”

And yet. And yet. Jax is here with Lore, and that’s the best thing for her right now, right? Because it’s sure as shit not me. I’m the last thing she needs. One more demon chasing the sunshine. My impulsivity and petulance snuffing out one more ray of light.

Whatever, she’s still mine.

“Are you going to invite me inside, or are we going to stand out here like assholes?” I finally mutter.

That seems to surprise Cas for a second, because it takes a certain kind of balls to punch someone in the face and then invite himself in. He gives me an assessing look, weighing his options, like he might leave me out here to rot.

“By all means, do come in. Lord knows you’ve done all the damage you can do, for the moment.” With a polite inclination of the head—fucking British, no matter how many years he’s spent in the upstart Colonies—he waves me toward the door.

It’s not until we hit the elevator that I start to shake. Panic and determination and whatever voodoo Jax Trace hit me with on the roof fade into the background, and Cas just watches me, letting me hit rock bottom

“I need to be with her.”

“You need a shower and probably some food,” is the placid comeback.

“I don’t want any more blood.” The thought of trying to eat right now makes my stomach clench. The images of Lore on the white carpet, Lore in my arms, Lore bleeding out and me unable to stop it cycle through my head on a never-ending loop.

My every sin come back to haunt me.

“She’s going to want to see you when she wakes up.” Coming from anyone else, the words would have been an attempt to soothe; from Cas, they contain equal parts remonstration and disapproval. “Do you really want to look like something out of a horror film?”

“Of all the shitty things you’ve ever said to me, I think that might be the worst.” The elevator doors glide open, and I’m confronted with miles of spotless white corridor.

“Pretty lies do no one justice, Xaine.” He sets off at a stroll, like this is Hyde Park. “And you do look terrible.”

“I meant the bit about her waking up and wanting to see me,” I correct him, two steps behind him. If she wakes up. Then all I can think about is what comes next. Or, more aptly, what comes next if I have to do it without Lore. Yeah, she’s got a smart mouth, a shitty hand with a taser, and a memory like a goldfish, but she also sings like an angel, smiles like the devil, and loves like a—

Fool.

Which is exactly what I’ve been.

I reach out to stop Cas. “If things go to shit, I don’t want you to tell me. Just put a UV bullet in the back of my fucking head.” To his credit, he at least has the decency to look bewildered before I add, “It’s more mercy than I deserve, I know, but maybe it’ll be the thing that makes your Grinch heart grow three sizes today.”

There it is again, that considering look, like he’s trying to weigh the pros against the cons. He doesn’t agree, but it’s not a “no” either.

“You, Xaine, are the bane of my existence,” he finally says, beckoning me with the flick of a wrist as he resumes his saunter. “And when I pit that against everything else I’m fighting, that’s a fairly weighty accomplishment.”

“Yeah, well, you’re no prize yourself, Declan.”

That draws him up short, his lean body shifting until I’m caught in that penetrating amber stare once again. “That’s where you’re wrong, Xaine. We are all the prize.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he says, “that we are all the prize. It means that, for one reason or another, the Legacy will do whatever it takes to win us.”

“And you think that Lore was a message,” I say. “A message to me? Or you?”

“All of us, Xaine,” he says, then adds an ironic, “Rule Number One.”

“Fuck St. John and his stupid fucking rules!” I yell at him. “And fuck you and your fucking cure that doesn’t fucking work! Fuck Matty and his goddamn—” But the rage fizzles, because none of this is their fault.

Or maybe it is. Maybe it’s our fault.

“It’s all right to be angry,” Cas says. “You’re going to need every bit of that fighting spirit to weather what’s ahead.”

Gritting my teeth, I spit out, “And what, exactly, is ahead?”

He draws in a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “You are going to reconnect with Sebastian Winters and the Legacy.”

“Like hell I will.”

“You are going to let them filter billions of dollars through your little web of gluttony and excess.”

“You’re insane—”

“You are going to fill your coffers with so much rebel gold that you could wipe your arse with thousand dollar bills, if you took a fancy.”

He’s so close now that I can smell him: expensive cologne and leather, shoe shine and mouthwash. We’re face to face in a way that we haven’t been in centuries, but there’s no reading Caspian Declan, no judging by his tics and twitches because he doesn’t have any. Trying to figure out his game is like playing your first chess match against a Master.

“Lore will live,” he tells me. “And if she lives, it will be more important than ever for you to take Sebastian up on his offer. Trade your underground money railroad for Lore’s safety. Promise to do whatever they say—”

“Then they win.”

Cas shakes his head. “There are battles, and there are wars, Xaine, and occasionally you have to forfeit a skirmish in order to take the day.”

“Oh, yeah?” I sneer in return. “And what skirmish are you forfeiting, huh? What exactly are you sacrificing?”

He flashes me that cold, dead, humorless half-smile that’s a perfect dark-mirror image of Lore’s. “You should really watch the news more often.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because if you did,” he replies, “you’d know that you’re looking at the next president of the United States of America.”

And if that doesn’t steal the words right out of my mouth, I’m not sure what would. “Holy shit.”

There’s a vague glimmer of amusement, evident in the crinkle at the corner of Cas’s eyes. He wouldn’t be so crass as to actually laugh at me, but this is the closest I’m going to get.

“Holy shit,” I repeat.

“Yes, well,” he says, as casually as if he hadn’t dropped the equivalent of an A-Bomb on my head, “there are clothes belowstairs, and food if you need it.”

Giving me a nod, he turns on his heel and heads down the hallway. I could follow the trail of expensive cologne if I wanted to, try to get more answers. It should all make sense after a revelation like that, but it doesn’t. If Cas agreed to run on the Legacy ticket, there’s a whole lot of holy shit going down, precious little of which I am privy to.

Everything and nothing.

Roman’s words, come back to haunt me, along with the scent of death. I barely notice it at first, but then I realize it smells like Lore’s blood in here. It’s heavy in the air, absorbed into my clothes, and a glance down at what’s left of my tux shows me a series of red stains, thick and damp, clinging where it touches my skin. An image of Trick St. John flashes through my head, a memory from that night at the precinct, his entire suit soaked in blood.

Maybe we’re not so different after all.

Except Trick managed to bring his attachment out the other side, whole and unharmed, which is more than I can say for myself. I end up in the shower at some point, watching red spatter the tiles and circle the drain. All the hot water in the world isn’t going to wash this soul clean, but I get the gore off, scrubbing harder than necessary, trying to feel something other than numb. Something other than cold. There’s a set of clean scrubs waiting for me when I get out, which is better than ending up in a dress shirt and slacks belonging to Cas.

His clothes wouldn’t fit me anyway. Not enough room cut in the crotch—

I catch myself before I can finish the jibe. This isn’t the time or the place to be a dick. I’m on his turf, at his mercy, and praying that the medical team he put together is doing their job. It’s humbling to know that all my money and music and influence mean precisely squat at this juncture. I always thought Cas was kidding himself, playing the good Samaritan, sinking time and cash into this kind of venture.

And now my entire universe hinges on what he has done. What he is able to do.

Deus meus, ex toto corde paenitet me omnium meorum peccatorum,
eaque detestor, quia peccando…

It starts over again, and I can almost feel the rosary in my hand.

Non solum poenas a te iuste statutas promeritus sum,
sed praesertim quia offendi te…

Taking a deep breath, I catch the cloying smoke of the incense. Under that, there are notes of old wood and beeswax, expensive fabrics and body odor. I slide to my knees on the floor, trading tile for stone, harsh overhead lights for the memory of candles. I close my eyes. Shut myself down, shut myself off, leaving only the prayer. My contrition. My promises to do better.

Summum bonum, ac dignum qui super omnia diligaris.

Ideo firmiter propono…

And I wait for someone to come get me, because Lore is awake and wants to see me. Because a miracle has been wrought.

Ideo firmiter propono, adiuvante gratia tua,
de cetero me non peccaturum peccandique occasiones proximas fugiturum…

Or for Cas to put a gun to the back of my head and pull the trigger.

Amen.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Lore

The constant beeping brings me back. It’s a slow but steady cadence that starts off like a mosquito buzzing near my ear or someone kicking the back of my chair, wearing me down and growing exponentially until I can’t ignore it.

And then I’m simply awake.

The next bits are less pleasant. My head is muzzy, my mouth is dry, and it almost takes more effort than I can manage to open my eyes. There’s an ache in my middle, a dull and radiating pain that I notice the second I try to move. That stops me from twisting, turning, or curling myself into any position but the one I’m in. Safer this way, until I know exactly how much it’s going to hurt.

There’s an ache in my neck too, but it’s only the crimped pinch you get when you’ve been in one position for too long. My head’s tilted to the side, propped on something soft, and when I finally manage to open my eyes, I can’t help the tiny smile that I feel, even if I don’t necessarily have the energy to actually make it happen.

Xaine.

He’s sleeping, sprawled out in a chair by the bedside. Has it kicked back on two legs instead of four, propped against the wall, and he’s got a Gibson in his lap. I can’t imagine how he got into that position or how he’s staying in it, but that’s Xaine in a nutshell.

Defies gravity, makes his own rules.

He’s got one arm curled over the body of the guitar, but the other one is on the bed mere inches away from where my hand rests. Despite the needles and tubes snaking out of my veins, I need to touch his skin. Slowly, I ease my hand toward his—

“Welcome back,” a voice startles me, tossing my heart into my throat. I turn my head in the other direction; busy looking at Xaine, I hadn’t realized there was someone else in the room. “Can you tell me your name, Lore?”

Jackson Trace sits on the other side of my bed, smiling at me like I’ve done something incredibly awesome. I don’t know, maybe I have. All I really remember is getting myself stabbed in the gut and ruining a perfectly good Valentino.

Besides which, he just told me my name, the twat.

But when I open my mouth to speak, I can’t manage much. I want to ask where I am, how I got here, how long Xaine’s been asleep in that chair, whether he’s been fed, has he left?

And I am so sorry, for everything.

All that comes out is one single word, dry and rasping. “Xaine.”

“That is definitely not your name,” Jax says, giving me one arched brow. “I even cheated and told you the answer.”

“Jax.” The word spills out in a rusty, whining huff of frustration, because I’m not in the mood to play.

“Nope, also not your name.” And he grins, teasing me because apparently he loves kicking people while they’re down. “You’re really terrible at this.”

After that, I just glare at him. Undaunted, Jax reaches for the pitcher and cup by the bedside. My attention shifts to the plastic carafe, and I practically drool at the sight of the tan cylinder, slick with condensation. Mercifully, my tormentor pours me a cup of water, then pushes a button on the bedside that eases me into a semi-upright position. It stings to bend at the middle, but not as much as I’m expecting.

“Best of three?” Apparently the look on my face conveys my lack of enthusiasm because he only chuckles and holds the water cup so I can take a sip. The liquid goes down cool and clean, perfect and probably the best damn thing I’ve tasted in my life. “It’s okay, you can be Xaine if you want, although I’m not sure why you’d want to. He’s got the second filthiest brain I’ve ever—”

“Jax.” Throat wetted, my voice is slightly stronger when I say, “Shut up.”

He smiles that idiot smile of his and puts the empty cup back on the bedside table. There’s a few seconds when he’s not talking, and I’m free to scrutinize him. It’s the same impossible face that greeted me that first morning at the motel, and the grin that never fails to get me. Despite myself, I feel better already, even if he is a blithering dummy with an ass for a chin.

Jax sobers, the amusement fading from his lips. He’s got serious questions. I can feel them. My answering smile slips away too, and anxiety starts to boil in my gut. Like it’ll help, he takes hold of my hand, curling his strong fingers around mine; the moment skin touches skin, my anxiety eases up, fading into the background alongside the beeping of the medical equipment.

“You’ve been out for a while,” he says. “Weren’t sure you were coming back.”

“Where else would I go?” I’m joking, but an expression crosses his face that wipes away any amusement I might have felt. It’s the sort of look someone gets when you’ve accidentally hit upon some big secret, except you haven’t, but they think you might have, and now they’re sitting there trying to figure out if you really know or if you’re talking about something else entirely.

“Good point,” is all he says. “But glad to have you back nonetheless.”

Casting another quick glance at Xaine, I’ll be the first to admit, it’s with no little bit of longing. I don’t really want to talk to Jax, nice as he is. I just want to curl into Xaine and sleep alongside him for a while.

But Jax isn’t about to drop it. “So, you wanna tell me how you ended up drunk, married, dressed-up, and stabbed on the Strip?”

My head lolls a bit, tilting until I’m looking at him again. Then, because we’re both idiots, I say, “What happens in Vegas…”

“That is, surprisingly, not as funny as one might think,” he tells me. “Spill it, Lore.”

“Thought we decided that that was not my name.” And this time it’s his brows drawing together in irritation as my eyes start to drift shut. I’m awake, but I’m tired. So damn tired. All I want to do is slip back into the darkness, get away from the beeping for a while…

“Lourdes,” he says, demanding that I wake up and be serious.

“Wrong again. Best of three?”

“You’re an asshole,” Jax grumbles irritably. “You two are perfect for each other.”

His wry statement causes me to laugh, except it comes out as a weak chuckle punctuated by a weaker cough. Jax’s eyes go wide, and his hand fists around mine, like he’s suddenly afraid he’s broken something. Broken me. Except I’m fairly sure I was broken when he found me. I forego more laughter and content myself with giving him a lopsided grin, one that he doesn’t appreciate in the least, judging by his concerned scowl.

“How long has Xaine been here?” I ask softly.

Jax’s attention shifts over the white blankets to where my—Jesus Jumping Christ on a pogo stick—husband lies sleeping. “About a week. He won’t go home. Probably going to be pissed that you woke up while he was unconscious.”

That makes me smile, mostly because Jax is right. “He was pretty mad at me.”

“Why?”

“Because I said I didn’t want to be married to him.” I don’t know why I feel compelled to confess things, but I do. My hand creeps toward Xaine’s, and at the same time, I pull my fingers from beneath Jax’s. It doesn’t seem quite right to touch them both at once.

“You can get an annulment,” he says, echoing my earlier thoughts.

“No.” I shake my head a bit. “I think that maybe I need to take a page from the Book of Xaine and just enjoy the moment. Never know how many tomorrows you’ve got left.”

Jax stares through me in that uncanny way he has, then leans back into his chair. One hand delves into his pocket, and it takes some doing, tight pants and whatnot, but he eventually comes up with the same gold coin that I’d been carrying since the day he came to the Palisades house.

Once he’s fished it out, Jax leans forward, propping his elbows on the edge of the bed and holding the disk up where I can see it. At first I think that maybe he’s offering it to me, so I reach for it, but he pulls it away.

“Do you know what this is?” he asks.

“Yeah, your trick coin.”

“It’s not a trick, Lore.” Jax shakes his head. “It’s also not a guitar pick, which is what Xaine’s been using it as for the last couple of days, the heathen.”

Poor Jax looks more beleaguered than anything, like someone stole his fork and called it a dinglehopper.

“Did it work?”

He shakes his head. “Assholes, the both of you.”

“Alright, so… not a guitar pick,” I say. “Then what?”

He goes all serious on me, all traces of humor gone. “It’s a scale. You hold it, see, like this.” He turns it over in his palm to illustrate. “And when a picture turns up, then we know.”

“Know what?”

“Know how much a soul weighs.”

Skepticism hits first, my eyes flickering from his earnest face to the object he holds in his hand. “So, you hold it in your hand and it judges you?”

“Well, yes,” he says, then turns the coin over. “Each side is a different facet of the human condition. There are two sides to every story. To everything, really. There are two coins, too, but the other one is… somewhere else.”

“I don’t understand.” He gets my confused face then, because I don’t know what else to give him.

“It’s okay,” Jax says, palming the coin and tucking his arm out of sight. “So, what can you tell me about the man who attacked you?”

The topic shift throws me, but only for a moment. “His name is Tiberius. He said it was my destiny to be his little raven, carrying messages from beyond the grave. After that, things got… fuzzy.”

“Fuzzy how?”

I hitch a shoulder, because I’m not sure how to explain it. “Like he was pulling on me, except… on the inside? And everything narrowed down to a little tunnel with black edges. He said that I wouldn’t feel any pain because I’d be gone before then. Except that I didn’t go. And I definitely felt the pain.”

“Reaper.” Jax says it without emotion or inflection, like it’s just a word.

“Is that like a sin-eater?” Because I want to know. I need to understand something, anything, everything that I possibly can.

“No,” Jax says, shaking his head. “Sin-eaters are demons, but reapers were angels. Except, in the war, they didn’t choose a side.”

“The war?”

Jax hesitates, pressing his lips together like he’s not sure how much to tell me. Red Pill or Blue Pill, Neo? I can practically see the question spelled out in the turquoise of his eyes. “The war for heaven.”

When all I offer up is a scoffing snort, he frowns harder. I laugh until I realize he’s not joking, or at least until I realize that he doesn’t think of it as a joke. The man might be off his rocker, but he believes every word he’s saying. That wipes the humor away, leaving behind a cold-blooded chill in its wake.

“You’re serious.”

“Yes,” Jax says. “I’m serious. Reapers were the angels who didn’t choose a side. For whatever reason, good, bad, altruistic, selfish, or just indifferent, they chose to willfully ignore their part in the war, and for their indifference, they were sentenced to a sort of indentured servitude.”

“To what purpose?” The words tumble out, despite the face that I’m enabling a crazy person. “To go around killing people?”

Jax shakes his head. “No, they’re couriers. Soul-shufflers.”

“Soul-shufflers…” I feel a bit like a mentally handicapped parrot, repeating random phrases.

Jax waves a dismissive hand, brushing it all off like it’s nothing. “Long story short, reapers are reapers until they aren’t anymore. Whatever their offenses, they’re soul-shufflers until they’ve worked off their debt. Servants of a sort, but they shouldn’t be taking a soul unless it’s time.”

“Time?”

“For the soul to go.”

“Go where?”

“Go on, Lore,” Jax says, like he’s talking to a very small child.

Or a mentally handicapped parrot.

It’s too much to wrap my head around, but I struggle to understand it all, to believe it all. “Scales, war for heaven, reapers… What does any of this have to do with me?”

“Well, nothing as far as Benicio is concerned,” Jax says. “Dark things are attracted to Light things, so it’s possible that Benicio just happened to brush up against you one night. I do know that the reaper’s agenda is far larger. There’s nothing accidental about Tiberius’s reappearance.” He gives a sly smile and adds, “We call him ‘Tibs’ behind his back.”

“That’s nice,” I mutter. “Because my own personal reaper wouldn’t be named something like Bob or John. Nope, I get ‘Tibs.’” Then, because Jax has stopped explaining things, I ask, “So, what next? Will they leave me alone now that they think I’m dead… again?”

His eyes fix on my face. “Nah, they know you’re alive. The press has been on high-alert ever since you hit that walkway. It makes sense that they’d try to tie up loose ends.”

“If I choose to believe you,” I hold up one staying finger to add, “and I’m not saying that I do…” I slide my fingers toward his hand, tapping his knuckles because I know the golden coin is still enfolded within his grasp. “Then what is this?”

The disk reappears, flashing brightly as he tosses it on the bed where I can see it. It comes to rest against the pale white of the hospital blanket. “I told you what it is, and what it does.”

“And you?” I prompt. “What are you?”

Jax hesitates, drawing in a slow breath and releasing it, turning toward the door as if weighing his options. Stay or leave. Speak or remain silent. Eventually he seems to decide on some sort of compromise. “I told you that before, too.”

Consider me your guardian angel, kid.

“And me?” My voice trembles a little, along with the rest of me. I’m so close, too close, to all the answers I never wanted. “What am I? I’m not an angel, am I?”

He snorts at that. “Hardly.”

“Well, you don’t have to be an asshole about it,” I grumble. “You coulda just said no, douchebag.”

Jax shakes his head but answers the question anyway. “You’re a puzzle piece, Lore. One of seven. It’s like Benicio said. You’re a little slice of heaven. When Pandora’s box flew open and all the evil spilled out, you were a tiny piece of the hope that was left at the bottom.”

“Mythology or theology, Jax,” I snap. “Pick one brand of crazy or the other, you can’t own both.”

“It’s all the same. Just depends on who’s telling the story. Nobody ever gets it totally right, you know. It’s like playing the world’s biggest game of Telephone from the clouds down, across seven continents, seven billion people, and seven thousand languages.” Jax gestures a little wildly. “Impossible to keep the message one hundred percent straight.” He seems to mull it over before adding, “You're left hoping for the basics: no stealing, no killing, no raping… that sort of thing.”

“That sort of thing,” I echo, closing my eyes and letting my head fall back against the pillow. All this is taking more energy than I have right now, and I can feel the last vestiges of denial slowly burn away.

When I open my eyes again, it’s to the blinding lights on the ceiling. I stare at them for a long time, mulling things over. Jax lets me; I guess he understands that it’s not every day that someone gets pulled out of the Matrix, so to speak.

“One of seven.” The words come at last. “Like one of the deadly sins?”

“You may not be an angel, but you’re not quite the devil, either.”

“So… not a sin?”

“The embodiment of what remains of righteousness. A Virtue.”

My head rolls to the side to meet his gaze. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

Jax leans back in the chair with the creak of plastic and metal. “Exist,” he says, a little too flippant for my liking. “Truth is, I don’t have all the answers. It’s like God shook the ant farm one last time and walked the hell away. I don’t know where He went, or why, but He’s just… gone. Left us here to slowly rot, as far as I can tell. Hell, until a coupla decades ago I was just some guy. One day, I was building an empire, and the next day, well…” He hefts those broad shoulders up, then lets them sag on the downslide.

It’s a lot to take in, and it puts the fear of no-god into me, knowing that my guardian angel is just as lost as the rest of us. After a moment, I nod, turning my head so that I can spend my time looking at someone who’s a little more sure of things than Jackson Trace.

“And him?” I nod my head in the direction of the slouched form in the armchair. “What about Xaine?”

“Him? Well, kid, he’s the goddamn Darkness. Said it yourself… Dark Prince Apocalypse.” Jax shakes his head, letting his hands fall against his thighs with the dull slap of skin on fabric. “I suspect, anyway. The one time we had occasion to shake hands, I was busy trying to pry him off your cold, dead body, so X and I haven’t exactly had occasion to get to know one another.”

My mind flashes back to that first day, when Jackson Trace picked me up at that shitty no-tell motel out in the Valley. I get the vivid mental picture of me holding out my hand and him staring at it like he was bracing himself for the impact of an emergency landing.

“…have we, Xaine?” Jax tacks on.

The words sling me back into the present just as Xaine’s hand slowly clamps down on mine. I turn my head to find him wide awake and glaring at Jax, who stares impassively back. Judging by his furious expression, Xaine’s been awake long enough to hear the important bits.

“Nope,” he says, curling his fingers around mine, mindful of the IV taped to the back of my hand. He’s got an unfamiliar leather cuff on his wrist, the one that was bandaged up in Vegas. “Not sure we’ll ever have occasion.”

“No worries,” Jax counters smoothly, not giving up an inch of space to the predator snarling at him over the bed. “I don’t generally go around groping people.”

“Neither does Asher,” I say. “You should go hang out with him and the dudes in the Warehouse of Misfit Boys.”

“I think I’ll pass,” Jax says, but thinks it over way longer than what’s it worth before adding, “He really doesn’t, does he? Grope people, I mean.”

“Not unless you’re touching his nock,” I say, offering up a half-hearted grin. “Then you gotta keep a good handle riser on his grip, or you’re likely to find yourself face-to-face with his lower limb. Trust me when I say that you don’t want to be in his sight window.”

The look Jax gives me is priceless before he deadpans, “This is why women shouldn’t have access to books.”

“This is why you’re the worst guardian angel ever.”

But Jax is still looking thoughtful, and without warning, he pops off with, “Jesus Christ, double-chocolate fudge brownies.”

I stare at him blankly. “What now?”

Already shaking his head, Jax only answers, “Never mind. Shoulda known. Fucking sin-eater dessert blood hound…”

Fixing him with a mock-stern look, I say, “You can’t bring up brownies and then give me a ‘never mind.’”

Jax sucks in a breath, maybe to answer the question, maybe to suggest I ring up the medcenter cafeteria to ask for a menu, but Xaine cuts in with distinct impatience.

“If you two are done bonding or whatever,” he says, attention skipping between the two of us, “I need Jax to get in contact with Mister No-Touching, because we’re going to need even more security at the mansion.” His gaze narrows, like he’s planning to dig a moat and fill it with crocodiles. “If PFC doesn’t already own a tank, it will very soon.”

“I know this is Hollywood and you people carry teacup dogs around in your armpits to shop at Cartier, but Lore’s not a pet or a toy, Xaine. She deserves to live as normal a life as possible.” Jax actually looks a little pissed now, like a birthday party magician in a roomful of kids unimpressed by the rabbit in his hand. “If I wanted her holed up in a tower and guarded by a fire-breathing dragon… well, never mind, that’s happening already, isn’t it?”

“Fuck you, Trace.” Instead of going up a notch, Xaine drops his voice to the point where a chill ripples through me and every hair on my arms stands on end. “And fuck you again if you think I’m letting her wander all over the city while a group of renegade vamps figure out a more effective way of killing my wife. And while we’re at it, why don’t we let Lore decide how much security she’s comfortable with? If she wants snipers on the roof, she can have them. And if she wants to walk down the street naked with a target painted on her back… well… she and I will have that discussion. Without your two cents or your gold coin. Got it?”

“You and Cas.” Jax rolls his eyes and stands, stretching his arms toward the ceiling like he’s getting ready for a yoga class. “I told him the same thing. Stick a guard on her, hell, stick two, but don’t try to keep her in a cage. Besides, she’s pretty much famous now. There’s really no stuffing that one back in the box.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” Xaine sounds pissed, but there’s a desperate note under that. “Give her a five-mile radius? Put her in a shock collar that zings the ever-loving shit out of her if she wanders outside the safe zone?”

Jax shakes his head as he moves toward the door. “Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there’s no ‘safe zone’ anymore.”

“Could we not talk about me as if I’m not in the room?” They’re discussing tanks and guards and safe zones, and I’m still stuck on the idea that I’ve somehow made a bunch of faceless enemies for life. I never did anything to anyone, but I’m getting the karmic boot like nobody’s business these days. “They’re not going to stop looking for me, are they?”

“Not unless you’re dead,” Jax shoots back. “And even then there are those who could still use the pieces Tiberius tried to rip outta you.”

My brow wrinkles at that. “What the hell would they do with my soul?”

“What is it Miller said? ‘You don’t have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body, temporarily.’” Jax shoves his hands in his pockets. “We’re all recycled parts, Lore. If your immortal nougaty bits could be removed from the mortal chocolate shell, then someone could, feasibly, buy themselves an eternity to figure it out.”

“Figure out how to do what?”

“Fit the puzzle bacl together, maybe?” Although Jax seems far more in tune with everything that’s happening, it’s abundantly obvious that we’re all muddling about in the soup. “Your best bet right now? Use the fame. It’s harder to make America’s Sweetheart disappear.”

The look Xaine shoots at Jax is miles beyond irritated. “That guy already stabbed her, in public, on a runway full of celebrities.”

“Yeah, he did.” Jax nods. “Won’t be dumb enough to do it a second time, I guarantee it. If they try to kill Lore again, they’re gonna have to make it look like an accident. Last thing this group wants is to draw undue attention to itself. Whatever they’re doing, they’re pretty pissed that someone else knows about it.” His hand is on the door, already twisting the knob. “Oh, and I wouldn’t try to contact Asher. He’s a little, uh, detained at the moment.”

Then Jax is gone, slipping from the room with a parting salute, leaving me alone with Xaine for the first time in I don’t even know how long. Seems like forever.

The door barely clicks shut before Xaine gets out, “I’m sorry I was an asshole.”

Turning my head, I glare at him as best I can. “You’d better be.”

“Hey, where’s my apology?”

“That was your apology.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” The words are flippant, but his expression is anything but. He sets the guitar down and is out of the chair before I can answer. With gentle but insistent repositioning, Xaine manages to slide under the tubing and wires of a thousand monitors, wedging himself between the pillows and my body so that I’m resting back against him instead of the bed. When I turn my face to the side, his head dips down to my neck, pressing a soft kiss against the first place he ever bit me. His arms snake around me, too, so I’m more aware of him than anything else in the room.

“I wasn’t kidding. You want snipers on the roof, I can make that happen. I want you to feel safe. You shouldn’t have to always be looking over your shoulder.” A pause, and a slow exhalation that stirs my hair. “I’m usually the scariest monster in the room. This is really disconcerting.”

I lean back against him because as much as I hurt, as awful as this has been, whatever is waiting for us outside, he’s here right now. The anger and the misunderstandings are gone as suddenly as they came into existence. “We’re going to need better conflict resolution next time we fight.”

Xaine’s arms tighten down infinitesimally. “I already ordered those giant American Gladiator-style batons. We are going to whack the crap about of each other, helmets optional. Clothing optional, too, because you’d look adorable with pink stripes all over your bod.”

“That sounds like the perfect way to end up with a naked concussion.” I must be really cold, because Xaine’s skin against mine almost feels warm. Barely awake from a week-long coma, I got hit with too much information in too short a period of time. Tired. So tired, and yet I don’t want to fall asleep just yet. I need a few more minutes of him and us and words that don’t have anything to do with Virtues and heaven and wayward keepers of golden coins. And then, because there are too many words and not enough time to say them all, I just murmur, “Have you really been here for a week?”

“You’ve been here for a week, so I’ve been here for a week.”

Makes perfect sense, I guess, when he puts it that way. “I really don’t want you to leave, like… ever.”

His soft rumble of laughter vibrates through both of us. “Don’t hurt yourself, working up to an ‘I love you,’ okay?”

Already drifting off, I reach up and find his face with my hand, palm settling against his cheek. “You’re pretty full of yourself. Expressing my adoration would only make it worse.” But I smile when I add, “It could take a while for me to work up to something like that. A lifetime, maybe, give or take a few decades.”

“Sounds like a plan. And just to save the trouble of growling at everyone who comes near you for the next half-century, I’m going to put this back on your finger.”

There’s a flash-and-sparkle of pink and platinum. It’s ridiculous and impractical and insane and so very Xaine for him to want that stone on my hand in the midst of all this, but if love isn’t wearing a billion dollar diamond in a vampire medcenter after almost dying, I don’t know what is. So I nod, and feel it slide over my knuckle not even half a second later. He raises that hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to it, and I start to drift off, absolutely surrounded by his presence: reassuring and fierce and wanting…

And mine.

I’m backed up against him like a kitten parked in his lap, so I’m not surprised when he starts to pet me like one. The leather cuff keeps snagging my hair until Xaine makes an impatient noise and goes to unbutton it. It’s only when he hesitates that I raise an eyebrow at him. With a huff of breath, like a guilty little kid, he wraps my fingers over it and indicates that I should take it off for him.

“Go ahead. I’ll show you mine and then you…” There’s the tiniest nudge in the direction of my inner thigh, “can show me yours.”

Now I have a pretty good damn idea what’s under there, but it’s still a surprise to pop open the snap and see the words encircling his wrist, spelled out in old-school calligraphy:

The Dreamer & The Dream

Before I can say anything, he speaks softly in a tone that I’ve barely heard him use, and only ever with me. “That’s everything you are and that I want. And it’s still not enough, love. I want every word you’ve written and will write, scrawled across my skin.”

I don’t know what to say, so I just curl into Xaine’s lap, my thumb brushing idly over the black marks. I imagine they’ll fade over time, bleeding out of his vampire skin like his blood bleeds out of me. It’s a little daunting, that he has every intention of carrying a piece of me into eternity. Twining my fingers with his, I lift his hand to my face and place a soft kiss on the slightly-upraised script. “I might love you… maybe just a little.”

“There it is.” He buries his face in the curve of my neck. “Give or take a few decades, huh?”

I turn my head just enough so that I can grin into his idiot face. “You’re growing on me.”

After that, silence settles in between us, comfortable and comforting. It’s that quiet lack of action that lulls me into a half-sleep, slowly easing me away from the waking world. Xaine rocks me gently, humming just a little.

“Hey,” he says abruptly, not quite ready to let me drop off into sleep again, “what do you think about honeymooning in Italy?”

“Sounds nice,” I murmur, because it’s the Mediterranean and Tuscany and sunshine and pasta and any number of things that a girl would have to be crazy to pass up.

“Forever?”

“Whatever forever I have left, you get first dibs.” Turning my face just a bit more means I can press my cheek against his throat. “Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest… something something.”

Xaine’s lips are pressed to my hair, so the next words are like soft kisses. “When you wake up, love, just remember that there was not a single drop of alcohol involved in this decision.”

“Alcohol, no.” I can’t help but add, “Morphine maybe…”

The last thing I hear as I slip off is his tortured groan.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Xaine

It takes another week before Cas’s team discharges Lore from the medcenter, giving her the all-clear to unhook from the monitors and head back to the Palisades house. After the whole sin-eater body dump in the bed thing, PFC had instructions to fortify security around the mansion. Facing the combined threat of Benicio and the Legacy, they’ve done everything short of rigging trip-wires down the canyon side of the drop-off and hell, for all I know, they did that, too. We’re down to a skeleton crew of staff, people I’ve known and employed for the better part of twenty years, impervious to bribery because there’s nothing someone else can offer them that I’m not already giving.

Trouble is, it really does end up feeling like a cage. The second the door closes behind us, everything echoes because the house is emptier than ever. Lore doesn’t notice, I don’t think. Even the drive here drained her waning reserves, and she leans against me with a yawn. There are purple-blue circles under her eyes. Her hair is scraped back in a braid that’s a tad on the greasy side, but it’s hard to grab a shower when you’ve had holes punched in your midsection. She complained about it until I promised to shampoo her in the sink, and then she’d subsided into silence. I’d twitched until she started humming softly along with the radio; didn’t realize or care that it was “Cry, Heaven” until she matched pitch with Noah Carmichael at the very end of it.

Normalcy. That’s all either of us want right now: ten seconds of absolutely nothing weird. And despite being able to make any porny fantasy come true with a few text messages, normal might be the one thing beyond my realm of influence.

Ass parked bedside next to Lore at the medcenter, I had a lot of time to think about what Cas said. He’s a smart man, the sort who doesn’t make a move until he’s worked through every possible outcome. He told me to call up Sebastian, to take the Legacy up on their ‘offer,’ and for the first twenty-four hours or so I couldn’t begin to fathom why. It wasn’t until I started thinking like me that I saw the bigger picture. Given his extensive acquaintance with my thought patterns, Cas knew that I’d take Lore and run, go somewhere safe, somewhere we couldn’t be found. That I’d start selling off real estate, piece by piece. That I’d liquidate everything I owned.

And he knew that I could take a few billion in Legacy dollars right along with it.

Matty inadvertently paved the way for the biggest setup of all time, because what man in his right mind would give up all this for—

A do-over.

Smart man, Cas. Too bad I still want to punch him in the face.

Rosa’s in the hall when we arrive, hands clasped in front of her, feet shifting on the marble. Lore doesn’t even lift her head, but the housekeeper looks disconcerted enough that it draws my eye, putting a wrinkle in my brow when her gaze keeps shifting pointedly toward the library.

“You have a visitor,” she says, with a pointed look that tells me, in no uncertain terms, that I should go in alone.

Placing an affectionate kiss on Lore’s temple, I slide her arms from around my waist. “Let Rosa take you up to bed.”

Her kind eyes look worried. “Who is it?”

“Probably just Roman.” When she flushes three shades of red, I tack on, “He loves to drop in unannounced, remember?”

The housekeeper takes Lore’s arm and leads her upstairs. Lore keeps an eye on me until she turns the corner and disappears into the bedroom. Worried that she might have Benicio-induced PTSD the moment she sets foot over the threshold, I listen for a second. When I don’t hear any panicked screaming, I gather my resolve and head for the library. Ten steps down the hall, and I’m breathing in the trademark eau de douche that I’ve come to know so well. I’d almost think it was lingering, except that the house has been mostly devoid of life for the last two weeks.

“Jesus Christ, Trace,” I start in, “you’re really—”

…not who I was expecting.

“Good afternoon, Xaine.”

The satin-smooth cadence of that voice, that accent, stops me in my tracks. Then I’m staring at a ramrod straight back, the tailored tails of an expensive suit, the heels of perfectly shined shoes, and a crown of sandy hair that’s still the wrong length to be fashionable. When I don’t immediately answer, his head turns until I’m looking at him in profile, caught in the downturn of a sharply aristocratic nose, snared by the question in one golden iris.

“My presence can’t be that shocking,” Cas says. “Don’t I at least warrant the usual pleasantries?”

I snort and iron out the wrinkle in my brow, an exercise that doesn’t quite iron the wrinkle out of my brain. “Hello. Also, you need to spend far less time around Jax Trace. You’re wearing his stink.”

Cas’s nostrils flare and the corners of his lips turn slightly downward. He seems to dismiss it altogether, however, in favor of staring out the closed French doors leading to the pool. For a long moment he doesn’t speak, leaving me to look around, wondering what sort of ambush I’ve wandered into. When the silence extends beyond my comfort zone, I start searching for a distraction and find one in the stocked sideboard of vintage liquor. I only make it as far as the uncorking before my own PTSD kicks in, sending my stomach into a lurch that has me replacing the crystal stopper without taking so much as a single swig. When I turn around, I find Cas watching, his eyes fixed on the crystal decanter before they make the inevitable leap to my face.

“Take a picture,” I suggest. “It’ll last longer.”

A vague smile touches the corner of his lips. “The years and decades and centuries move along, and you, well, you move right along with them.”

“Is there a reason you’re here?” I ask. “Or did you come by to yank my chain?”

“I came to check on your little venture.”

“My venture?” I scoff. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Well, it is your most ambitious play to date.”

“And aren’t you a proud papa?”

“I am,” Cas says rather seriously, stealing the wind from my sails and putting another crease in my brain. “I’ve been waiting a long time for you to be ambitious.”

“As I recall,” I tell him, “you didn’t much care for the last time I was ‘ambitious.’”

That vague smile turns dark. “Only because she didn’t survive.”

The words hang in the space between us, laid out there like the two hundred years between then and now. For a long time, we stand like that, in silent observation of the single moment in which friends turned to bitter enemies. I once told Matty you can hate a man and still respect him. Well, I don’t hate Caspian Declan, but he hates me, and for good reason.

“Look, Cas,” I rake a hand through my hair, gathering it away from my face as if it’ll somehow make me seem more honest, more trustworthy. “Lore’s not a do-over. We don’t get to write over the past with the present. There’s only today. And tomorrow, if we’re lucky.”

His expression doesn’t change. “Is that an apology?”

Silence, because I can’t say the words. Silence, because I can’t give him the satisfaction. Except…

“Yeah,” I tell him. “I guess it is.”

Because I am sorry. I always have been.

He nods in acceptance, if not forgiveness. “Very well.”

There’s a thud from upstairs, drawing our mutual attention upward. It’s probably those stupid pink suitcases hitting the floor in the bedroom. Cas stares longer than I do, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as if he can discern all the answers in the universe from the designs in the plaster.

“Do you want to talk to Lore?” I ask out of some odd sense of obligation. “You didn’t come to see her back at the medcenter.”

“I didn’t want to dredge everything up again by storming into her hospital room.” It’s the same impassive expression, and yet I can see his regret. “All of her pain and suffering has been because of me, and she didn’t even know why.”

“She knows now.”

Cas shakes his head. “No, it’s quite all right. I have much of Lourdes Chase on my conscience. I don’t wish to compound it by venturing where I’d best not tread.”

“Okay,” I say. “Mind if I ask some questions then?”

The corner of his lip twitches, but he utters a soft, “As you will.”

“How is this possible?” I ask. “Which branch of the Declan line did she sprout from?”

“Mine,” Cas tells me. “I had a mistress before.”

Before the illness that nearly killed him. Before the turn that saved him.

“How did you find her?”

“I didn’t,” Cas says. “It was a complete accident and an utter misstep. In a ploy to curry public favor, I granted some historians permission to dig into my lineage, to borrow old family heirlooms and photographs and lithographs and portraits.”

Enlightenment dawns. “The museum exhibit.”

“‘Famous Faces: Past, Present, and Future,’” Cas says with a nod. “Exactly that. The curators told me about her. They were delighted, acting as if they’d dug up a chest full of buried treasure.” Cas huffs out a mirthless chuckle. “I tried to put a cap on it, but they had legally binding documentation that I signed long before I realized I might actually have something to hide.”

“Once you knew, why didn’t you protect her?”

“I hoped that if I ignored her, the Legacy wouldn’t believe her to be of value.”

“Well, you hoped wrong, huh?”

“I did, indeed.”

A few weeks ago, I would have gloated, rubbed it in his face that the Great and Powerful Caspian Declan was wrong. That he made not one, but two errors in judgment. Then I think of Lore, and Jess, and Reille, and the steady stream of thousand-year-old Legacy money flowing like an underground current through my revenue stream. It’s then that I start to realize that this snowball has barely begun to roll.

And there’s one more question I need to ask.

Speaking of Reille…

“Why that night, Cas?” When he only cocks an eyebrow at me, I clarify, “Why’d you tell me about you and Reille that night, at the gala?”

He gives me another thoughtful look. “How much of that evening do you even remember, Xaine?”

Asshole has me there. “Not much, honestly, between the blood and the tequila shots.”

“More the blood than the tequila shots, I should think.” He pauses before adding, “We both know Reille isn’t like other women when it comes to blood… and to sex. The two of you together would have eventually killed each other.”

“I almost did kill her, Cas.” I flinch away from the memory. “I know you’re the king of cool…” Fuck me, that’s probably where Lore gets it from… “but how can you feed off her and not completely lose your mind?”

“I have… help.”

“Meaning you have drugs. That’s technically cheating, isn’t it?”

All I get is the ghost of a smile before he says, “I didn’t come here to speak about Reille. I came to discuss your recent business arrangement with our friend Mr. Winters.”

“Oh, my ambitious venture, you mean? It’s doing fine, thanks,” I tell him. “Matty laid the groundwork and everything was out of commission for less than three weeks. All it took was me using Lore’s life as a bargaining chip. I launder their money, nobody touches a hair on her head.”

“Then you’d best be ready to go the very moment you drop the axe.”

“Yeah, well, you do your part, and we’ll be long gone before the news goes public.”

“I’ll do my part,” Cas says, “but kindly remember I’m not doing any of this for you. This is for Lourdes. I owe her reparations that I can never repay.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Then I tamp down on my almost overwhelming need to goad him and manage an honest, “I’m going to take care of her, Cas. And not to make things right between you and I, because nothing will ever change what happened with Elizabeth. I can’t erase that. It’s my cross to bear.”

Trapped between the memory of one woman and his concerns for another, it takes a moment for Cas to pull his thoughts together. “No more fits of pique, Xaine. Lourdes isn’t strong enough to fight the Legacy if you’re off sulking somewhere. You’ll be her only line of defense.”

“I need real estate, not reality checks. I’ve had enough of those recently.” We might have buried the world’s oldest hatchet, but that doesn’t mean I’ve lost the urge to punch him in his pearly whites.

He just nods. “I’ll do as you ask. Frankly, if you manage to smuggle Lourdes out of the country, it will be a significant weight off my shoulders. Call me when you’re prepared to leave.”

Without further ado, he takes his suit and his tie and his shiny shoes out the door without so much as a goodbye. I hear the upstairs television click on, so instead of placing the first call on a list of thousands, I head out of the library and up the stairs three at a time.

Lore glances up as I crack open the door, her smile crooked and faint, but real. “Were your vampy senses tingling?”

“Something’s tingling.” I cross the room, running down her color, heart rate, the fact that the circles under her eyes have faded but the space under her cheekbones is hollowed out too much for my taste. She’ll be on a liquid diet for a while, a steady stream of clear soup and vitamin water and whatever else they give someone who’s been through hell and major surgery. The second she can swallow solids, every swanky Beverly Hills restaurant with a Michelin-starred chef is getting a call.

“Who was downstairs?” she asks.

“Nobody important.”

Lore’s chin tilts up, her eyes narrow, and she gives me a suspiciously appraising look. “You’re plotting something.”

I hold up my hands. “You caught me. I was trying to figure out how soon is too soon to stuff you full of pizza.”

She makes a funny moaning sound then, one that gets me hard and puts the crease back in my forehead, so that I don’t know if I’m horny or concerned.

Probably both.

“Now I really want pizza,” Lore mutters, resting back on the pillows and dropping the iPad with the remote app still running. “And as nice as this room is—”

“You’re sick of being horizontal without doing the mambo.” I reach the bed, and my dick is winning out over the wrinkles on my brain. Lore’s safe and here and mine, with that diamond glinting on her finger. I know it irks the crap out of her—the weight, if not the symbolism—but she hasn’t taken it off since the hospital. I’m amazed she hasn’t put a dent in the damn thing for all the times I’ve heard the sound of rock hitting glass or metal or wood. I make a mental note to call Harry Winston and get her something just as pink but slightly smaller, then lower myself onto the edge of the bed. “You give me the green light, I’ll book a ski weekend in Aspen. Or glassblowing lessons at a nudist colony in Idaho.”

“Har.” The single wry syllable is accompanied by a nose wrinkle that does the Fuzzy Bunny proud. Like she can’t help herself, her hand slides up my leg and under my T-shirt, seeking out the feel of skin-against-skin. “The American Gladiator batons turn up yet?”

She tickles my ribs, tracing her way up my chest and hiking the cotton up with it. “Love, if you want me naked, you only have to ask.”

“Well, the shiny must have worn clean off if I have to ask you to ditch your shirt,” she fires back, hitting me with that lopsided grin of hers.

“Just for that, I’m losing the pants, too.” It takes all of three seconds to shuck every stitch I have on, a few seconds more to backtrack to the end of the bed.

“Where are you going?” When she sits up, she winces.

Still, she’s a lot better than she was a week ago, and a lot less near-death than she was two weeks ago. The doctors at CasDec gave me credit for saving her, but it really was another one of our collaborations. Yet again, she managed to absorb the vampire blood and use it to heal faster than she would have without it.

Like a vamp can.

Or something.

Nobody really understands it scientifically, and I’m not the guy who’s going to question it. Lore’s here and mostly whole; aside from a long abdominal scar, a couple dissolvable stitches, and those disconcerting purple eye-circles, she’s as alive as someone can be. Sassy, and smart-mouthed, and obviously extremely, extremely horny.

And with me around, why not?

“I’m going Fuzzy Bunny hunting.” When she smothers a giggle, I press my finger to my lips and issue a stern, “Be vewy… vewy… quiet.”

Then I grasp two handfuls of the bedding and yank hard enough to untuck everything from the end of the mattress. I duck under them, inching my way up until my face hits her feet. She almost kicks me a good one, but I get a firm grip on her ankles and pull them inexorably apart.

“Who are you and what have you done with Dark Prince Super Serious?” She’s laughing uncontrollably now, peeking beneath the blankets and trying like hell to clamp her knees together. When my hands slide up the underside of her calves though, she sucks in a sharp breath. “Xaine…”

It’s muffled by the blankets, by how weak she still is, a reminder that I need to take it easy, even if it means throttling the dirtiest thoughts firing off in my brain right now. Even so, that doesn’t stop me from biting her very gently—no fangs necessary—on the inside of her ankle. She says my name a second time, only this time her voice catches, and I can practically hear her capillaries dilate as her pulse kicks up. And it wouldn’t be gentlemanly at all to mention that I can scent her arousal, trapped under the blankets with nothing between me and the rabbit hole, so to speak.

Another slide, and I can lick the inner curve of Lore’s leg, just behind her knee. I keep waiting for her to pull the blankets off, grab me by the hair, and read me the riot act about how I don’t have any self-control at all. Instead, her legs splay open wider, an invitation if ever there was one, and more than I really needed because I was headed that direction anyway. My mouth skims over the place where I signed her skin with ink and needles; the tattoo is healed now, so I press my lips to it. It might not be possible to inject my claim into her blood like I wanted to, but I’ve stamped it across her flesh and put a ring on it, and that’s got to be enough to carry us both through. Nothing left to do but breathe her in, close my eyes, and let every single nuance of Lore soak into me.

I thought we wouldn’t make it back to this place.

For all my stupid-crazy hedonistic optimism, I was almost sure that Cas would get to put a bullet in my skull. Makes it something of a benediction to bow my head and kiss that holy place, to feel her shudder under and around me when I run my tongue along her slit and then delve deeper. Her clit is already hard, her lips flushed with arousal, and the scent of her is enough to get me drunk. Fuck booze and bars and Vegas; this is the only mind-altering substance I ever want.

Careful not to nick her with the fangs, I close my mouth around the spot that sets her off every time. It’s the kind of button you press to launch the fireworks, and I nudge at it with my tongue, advancing and retreating until her thighs clamp down around my ears and a needy cry bursts past her lips. I keep my arms hooked around her legs so she can’t wriggle because I know—I know—she’ll get overwhelmed. She’ll writhe. She’ll thrash.

If I let her.

But I’m not going to. This is going to be slow, and steady, and just short of everything she wants even if it’s more than what I should be giving her. When her back arches, I pause, exhaling softly against her swollen flesh, waiting to hear that sudden inhalation of breath that tells me she’s paying very close attention to what I’m going to do next.

“Don’t move, sweetheart.”

“Xaine—”

“I mean it. You pop a stitch, we go straight back to CasDec.” I exhale again, this time rubbing my five o’clock shadow against her inner thigh. “Is that what you want? Another long talk with great-great-granddad? Some time tracing back the family tree to some boring ancestral seat? Finding out whose nose you have?”

“Feels like I have your nose in my—” she starts to mouth off, so I make good on the observation, pressing my face to the warm-and-wet and not coming up for air until she’s wriggling again.

“Seriously, love, behave yourself,” I tease. “Doctor’s orders.”

“I am going to—”

“You’re going what?”

Lore starts to threaten me, but a couple long, slow licks steal the words right out of her mouth again. Jax Trace can keep his lectures about heaven and earth. This is all the heaven that’s left in the world: my face buried Lore’s pretty little snatch, my nose to her landing strip, my hands pinning her hips to the mattress. She’s in no position, literal or figurative, to disagree with me, either. Not when honey pools out of her, sweet and slick and somehow even more her than the blood. She’s panting, too, tiny gasps for air that claw me up inside, because some things are always going to remind me of that helicopter ride to CasDec.

Only one thing to do for that, then.

I let go of one leg, but only so I can tease two fingers inside her tight passage. There’s no jokes from her now, no quippy repartee, because my mouth is on her again. I delve into her as she moans my name, two fingers sliding three-knuckles-deep, again and again in desperation and reaffirmation. I rock against her, against the bed, against the knowledge that I almost lost her. It would have been oppressive here without her, desolate, echoing with the heaviness of nothingness where there was something before.

Empty house, empty bed, empty life, empty—

And then absolutely everything inside Lore contracts, her muscles clamping down and a sudden gush telling me—as if I might miss it—that she’s coming and coming and then coming some more. I’m still lapping at her as her entire body bows and her throat convulses around a sharp cry that splits the air. The sound of Lore’s orgasm tears through all the empty, filling it up with every lascivious thought I’ve ever had and leaving me aching in ways that I couldn’t explain if I knew every single word in the English language.

Fuck.

Yeah, that’s about as close as it gets, really.

The muscles in her stomach and legs go completely lax. Her breathing evens out. Her pulse slows, and I’m concerned enough by the idea that she might have blacked out that I raise my head and bring the blankets up with me. Lore’s eyes are closed, but her mouth is curled into a dreamy kind of smile. When those baby blues flutter open, I get matching pink spots on her cheeks and that trademark half-grin. It’s the healthiest she’s looked since I dragged her off the plane in Vegas.

Right, lady. Doctor’s orders: all the orgasms ever for you.

I brace myself on my elbows so I’m not putting any weight on her, doing my best to ignore the fact that my dick is really close to where it most wants to be at this moment. I guess turnabout is fair play, because Lore gets this evil look on her face and rolls her hips against me so all that impossibly warm and wet flesh teases the head of my cock.

“You’re not actually afraid you’re going to break me, are you?” Her legs wrap around my waist, drawing me closer.

“Lore…”

Before I even get the chance to protest, her hands are on my face, palms pressed to my skin. She holds me captive so I’m looking right at her when she says, “Xaine, I’m okay.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I manage between gritted teeth, pressing my forehead to hers, trying to tamp down the desire that’s threatening to overwhelm me.

“You won’t.” And because my hands are propping me up, hers are free to reach down and make a grab for the brass ring. “I promise.”

When her soft fingers close around my shaft, the hiss that escapes me sounds like someone opened the cap on an overheated radiator. Peering down at her through the dark hair that’s completely escaped the rubber band I was using earlier, I mutter, “Sweetheart, I’m all good if you want to drive stick.”

She doesn’t answer, doesn’t even give me time to think before she guides me in. Then I can’t think of a goddamn thing. Every single nerve ending in my body has apparently been rerouted, and every bit of my mental circuitry blows up. Buried deep inside her, a long moment passes before my brain starts firing on all cylinders again, and that only happens because Lore moves her hips. She urges me to go faster, deeper. I try to slow it all down, mostly because I can already feel my sack clenching up. It’s been more than two weeks since I’ve done this, or anything else vaguely resembling this.

And this is everything.

Levering myself up, I tow her as gently as I can against me, greedy and wanting and wishing I could clamp my mouth down on her pretty pierced nipples and kiss her mouth and sink my fangs into her neck, all at the same time. It’s not easy to take my time, to move slowly, to match the rhythm of my hips to hers, to watch her skin flush and her pupils dilate again. I listen to her panted breaths, her soft moans of encouragement, and I let her urge me on as I reclaim her, thrust by thrust.

Thankfully for her health and my sanity, it doesn’t take long. The urge to spill myself inside her has been there from the beginning, but soon it’s a driving need, a raw nerve tingling all the way from my balls to my brain. A second climax starts to ripple through Lore, and that’s the last shove that sends me over the mental and physical cliff. I bury myself as deep within her as I can and let myself go, a hoarse shout escaping me as I shoot her so full of me that I can feel it sliding out of her and down our thighs.

I want to fall forward onto Lore and pass out on the full softness of her breasts, but she’s not well enough for that yet. As it is, I figure I’ve only got five, maybe ten minutes tops before the sweat and assorted other things override her desire to spoon. Shifting to one side, I pull her against my chest as gently as I can manage. For all that I recently emptied out the bank account, my skin is still on high alert, hyperaware of everything from the way she’s pressed against me to how her eyelashes flutter every time she blinks.

“You all right?” I murmur.

“Better than all right.” She stretches out, as content as any cat that’s found its pool of sunshine.

Or shadows.

All the information Jackson Trace coughed up at the medcenter has been replaying in my head on an almost nonstop loop. One more reason for the Great Upcoming Disappearing Act, with bonus all-the-plans-ever for getting the hell out of Dodge. Hard to figure out when to clue Lore in on all of it, but it will have to be soon.

A familiar voice interrupts my train of thought with a song playing from the vicinity of my discarded pants. Lore laughs, then presses a hand to her middle with a groan.

“You made the chorus from ‘In Your Light’ your ringtone?”

Fairly certain it must be Cas ready to run down the newest series of international hiccups, I sigh, slide out of the bed, and retrieve the denim-trapped tech. “Yeah. And for your information, the song is at number three on the Billboard Hot 100 Chart.” Lore’s mouth drops open, so I tack on, “And climbing,” as I swipe over the screen. “What the hell, Reece?”

Asher’s voice sounds like he’s been gargling cement. “Nice to hear you, too, Xaine. Look, before you pop off with some asshole comment, would you please let the gatekeepers know I’m barreling your direction at approximately ninety miles an hour, and if they don’t open it, I’m gonna drive through it?”

I’m already on the move, figuring we hit some kind of DEFCON1 and all hell is breaking loose. I don’t even respond. I simply hang up, jerking on my pants and yelling for Rosa to buzz the guards.

Lore’s eyes have gone wide, and she’s thrown off the sheets like she’s going to teeter downstairs on her spindly fawn legs to greet the goddamn apocalypse. “What’s happening?”

“Stay in bed,” I yell at her, already headed for the wall safe. By the time the PFC Humvee throws gravel all over my front walkway, I’ve got guns in both hands and the other members of the security detail closing rank. Lonan’s there, and he’s wearing the grimmest expression I’ve seen on him to date. “Did you know he was headed in?”

“We haven’t heard from him since he took the away crew and headed back east,” Lonan says with a shake of his head. The muscles under his shirt clench as Asher bails out of the vehicle with Jess right behind him.

Baby Vamp, I can smell you from here.

And not some punk-turned neophyte, but old blood. Not as old as mine, but then again, I hadn’t exactly volunteered it. If I had to guess, Asher probably did exactly what Jax Trace told him to do: limped her along until Cas Declan got back and donated a few quarts of high octane. Despite all that, I’m impressed that she survived. She looks hale, hearty, and astonishingly monochromatic. The clothes and the hair have been toned down and ironed out, more fatigues than fashion, from the sleek black ponytail down to the green cargo pants tucked into a pair of high-shine combats. Jess glares back at me, tilting her chin up, and I find myself staring into eyes that changed from dark brown to startling red.

“Hey, Chiquita Banana, nice to see you again.” I nod in her direction, but she only curls her lip and turns toward Asher. I’m sure she knows that I walked away and left her to rot. People tend to hold grudges over things like that.

“Get in the goddamn house,” Asher barks, and the boys from PFC fall in line like the soldiers they are. He unceremoniously hustles us all in and slams the door shut. “Activate the alarm.”

I lock us up good and proper in time for Lore to start picking her way downstairs. She’s located a pair of silk pajamas and a robe, but instead of covering her up, they melt around her body like chocolate on a hot sidewalk. Amazing how a recovering attempted-homicide victim can look so much like sex-on-a-stick.

My stick.

I shove past the gape-mouthed mercs to meet her halfway, catching her around the waist when she wobbles. “Go back to bed, love. You shouldn’t be up and about.”

“Like hell, Capello,” Lore starts to protest, then has to reach out and plant a hand on my shoulder to keep from swaying. Her fingers fist up in my shirt, and I’m about two seconds away from packing her back to the bedroom Scarlett-O’Hara-style when Asher intervenes.

“Bring her down, Xaine, she needs to hear this.”

I turn my head to glare at him, like maybe I can make him spontaneously combust if I hate his face hard enough. For as many moments as I’ve spent waiting for him to come back, I’m sure I’ll spend just as many regretting that he didn’t stay wherever the fuck he was. Eventually, I give a slow nod and return my attention to Lore, guiding her down the steps.

“You look like shit, Ash,” Lore says, and she’s right. He’s living up to his name with a complexion that’s gray and pale. Lost a little weight too, if I had to guess. He’s sporting the same hollow-eyed, gaunt-cheeked look as Lore, but I don’t smell blood and I don’t see a scratch on him.

“Says the girl with a knife wound in her gut and a vampire for a husband,” he says.

“Touché,” she says, tacking on an accented, “douché.”

He shoots her a withering, big brother kind of look before motioning for everyone to follow him into the media room. The second that Lore lays eyes on Baby Vamp, though, every muscle in her body tenses, and she stops in her tracks with the tiniest squeak of bare feet on marble.

“Jess?” Definitely a question this time, like she can’t quite believe it’s her. Lore tries to take a step toward her friend, but I try a little harder to prevent it, holding her against me. When she turns those angry eyes upon me, I know I’m in for it. “Let me go, Xaine.”

“Nope,” I say, keeping an eye on the newest addition to our undead ranks. “Not a chance, sweetheart. Last time I let you wander alone in the presence of strangers, you ended up in a hospital for two weeks.”

“Jess isn’t a stranger,” Lore insists.

“She is to me. I don’t know her.” Because I don’t. Not really. And what I do know, I don’t like. “I don’t trust her.”

“You trust Cas and Asher,” Lore counters, getting all stubborn. “And they trust Jess.”

“Perfect. So when Cas is here to stand between the two of you in case his progeny decides to get bitey, then you can hug her.” I raise my voice to make sure Jess gets the message, too. “Until then, I want more distance between you than two awkward teenagers slow dancing at a Catholic school prom.” I gesture to a space of about three feet with my hands. “Leaving room for the father, the son, the Holy Ghost, and me.”

I glance over at Jess, who’s drilling those creepy red peepers of hers into Lore. There’s a flicker of something small and sad and wholly familiar—

Regret.

—before we’re treated to the hard-as-nails routine again.

“Jess,” Lore starts. “I—”

“No, niña, it’s okay.” But judging by the way Jess averts her gaze, it’s not.

Personally, I’m pretty satisfied with the way things have panned out on this one, but then Lore gives me that stare. The puppy-eyed, pouty-lipped, tears-balanced-on-lashes look that will get her what she wants from me, now and forever.

Man, are you wrapped around her little finger, or what?

“Okay, fine,” I mutter, turning her loose. The brilliant grin she shoots me is almost worth the pit of anxiety that opens in my gut when she flings her arms around her former-roommate-turned-bloodsucker. At first, it’s like Lore’s hugging a statue, and Jess just kinda takes it. She stares over my girl’s shoulder, those eyes boring a bitter hole in my face. Nothing can resist the Fuzzy Bunny for long, though, and a second later Jess’s arms come up, wrapping tentatively around Lore’s waist. Inwardly, I wince, mostly because Big Bad Baby Vamp is ten kinds of gentle and twenty kinds of scared, holding onto Lore like she’s made of glass.

I remember those early nights, when I was terrified of my own strength.

“Enough already,” Asher says from the doorway. “Save the reunion for later.”

Lore lets go with visible reluctance, squeezing both of Jess’s hands before she allows her to move away. It’s almost eerie the way Jess walks in front of us, no telltale jingling of jewelry to give her away anymore, no smart-mouthed comment to betray whatever thoughts are rolling through that predator head of hers. But once we hit the other room, my focus shifts to Asher. He’s hijacked my flatscreen, plugging it into one of his ToughBooks.

“The first facility had been cleared out by the time we got to it,” he’s telling the others. “Patients, prisoners, medical records, equipment, all gone. But there was enough evidence to confirm that’s where they detained Mrs. Capello. Then we got… an anonymous tip… leading to a second facility, so we used demolition charges to secure the first site.”

His definition of “secure” and mine sure as shit aren’t the same, because next Asher pulls up GoPro footage of some spectacularly big explosions. There’s no sound, but we can see the way the camera vibrates before the ground under the compound shudders and then opens up, swallowing it whole. Lore draws closer to me, the light from the TV hitting her full in the face. She’s got one hand on my waist and the other wrapped around my wrist, fingers tightening down on the ink-needled words.

“The second facility was four hundred miles away and locked down tighter than a maximum security prison. Despite our… intel…” Another hesitation. Confirmation, if I needed it, that Asher’s not telling us the entire truth. “The infiltration didn’t go as smoothly as planned.”

Jess has her hands on her hips and her gaze trained on him like a guard dog. Whatever went down, it was serious business, but the way Reece refuses to meet my eyes, I know it’s not only about his team.

“What information did you get before you ended up ‘detained,’ Reece?”

He shifts his attention to me, frowning, but not at the interruption. “It’s big. Bigger than we ever realized.”

“How big?” Lonan wants to know.

Jess cuts in. “Big enough that they didn’t even feel the crater we made in the ground.”

“They have lists of your assets, bank accounts, real estate, political alignment,” Asher says now that he has my undivided attention. “They’ve also amassed an inordinately large amount of information on your family: Roman Scipio, Caspian Declan, Patrick St. John, Matthias Addison, Margot Vauclain. And they had a huge file on Lourdes.” He pauses, letting it all sink in. “I don’t know what their plan is, Xaine, but they’ve got your number, Lore’s number, and they sure as shit have my number now.”

“So basically,” I hear myself say, “we’re sitting ducks at the moment?”

“Yeah, basically.”

“Clear your boys out, Reece.” I am not saying one word in front of them about the plans I’ve made with Cas. Not that I don’t trust them, because hell, I’ve put Lore’s safety in their hands, but there’s no telling what information the Legacy might be able to torture out of them later.

Asher hesitates, then jerks his chin toward the door. The PFC guys head out, but there’s not a single grumble out of any of them, even Lonan. They understand clearance and the fact that we just leveled up several significant notches, I guess. I wait for the door to click shut behind them, leaving Lore and me, Asher and Jess.

I start. “Lore and I are going to disappear. Drop off of the Legacy’s radar.”

Asher leans the nearest couch, looking suddenly and disconcertingly tired. “That’s not going to stop them, Xaine. They’re going to hunt her down, and you with her.”

“Why?” Lore whispers.

“For the same reason that they’d prefer I was dead, too,” Jess says. “Because we survived. Because any one of us can blow the cover off all their dirty secrets.”

“But I don’t actually know anything,” Lore says. “I can’t really do any damage.”

“They don’t know that,” Asher says, shooting down her protest. “They have no clue what you might have gleaned in your time at that compound, and apparently their plans go all the way to the top of the government food chain.”

The time has come, the Walrus said, to spill all of the beans. “That’s why I’m planning to do more than get Lore the hell out of here. A lot more.”

“I’m listening.”

I fold my arms over my chest. “They have to think she’s dead, and it has to be the most convincing fake-death ever. I don’t care how many explosives it takes and what we have to blow up to make it happen, but this time next week, it’s going to be all over the news that Xaine and Lore Capello died in a horrible, untimely, and gruesome accident. I want shrines set up and candles burning all over the planet so that not a single one of those Legacy fuckers can doubt for a second that it’s the truth. What Cas tried to do for her, but fuck subtle and understated. This is going to take showmanship. Production values.”

The world goes silent. Lore drags in a breath, nice and slow, and holds it. My eyes are on her, our bodies so close that I can scent her anxiety. She’s afraid, rightly so, and carrying a million other burdens that I’d shoulder if I could.

Jackson Trace was right again. Lore can’t spend the rest of her days under lock and key, and there’s only one way for her to have any sort of shot at living.

“If we do this right, it’ll cause more than a PR speed bump for the Legacy. With a good enough frame job, we could make it look like not-such-an-accident.” Thinking about it makes me sick, but I plow ahead. “One of their guys tried to put Lore on ice, and we have a hundred YouTube videos that caught it from all angles. Every news outlet on the planet wants a statement right about now, but I haven’t said anything… yet. We drop a word or two to the press about a secret vampire organization with political ties, the authorities start looking into things, the public goes a little apeshit. Then, if it looks like they actually killed me and Lore—”

“The Legacy will have to slow down,” Asher says. “They’d have to do damage control to keep their campaign from running right off the rails. I’m sure they don’t want a bunch of stake-brandishing, UV gun-buying, torch-carrying zealots on their hands.”

“Exactly. And I don’t care how big this thing is, they’re not seven billion big. Vamps or not, they’re still incredibly outnumbered.” And for once, Asher Reece and I are in full accord when we both say, “It would buy us some time.”

“Well, shit,” Lore contributes. “Guess I get to die again… again. Now I’ll never get to be famous.”

I can’t help the grin that hits my face, because we both know she would have been the most awkward celebrity ever. “I don’t know about that, love. Look what death did for Elvis.”

“Or Tupac and Biggie,” she says.

“I really hate to break up your little bonding-over-dead-people moment,” Asher’s impatient voice slips between us, “but how exactly do you presume to pull all this off?”

Summer blockbuster-style.

But all I say is, “I’ve got a couple ideas.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Lore

Whispers sweet like poetry,

You’re glad to know you’re all of me.

Caught up in your strong embrace,

I think I’ve always known your face.

Guitar in my lap, I sit on the stage where it all began. We waltzed in here hours ago under the guise of a belated wedding reception, and I swear that waiting is all I’ve done since. In the beginning, there was a good bit of action. They smuggled in Asher’s supplies via giant catering racks and amp cases, men scurrying here and there to put all the things in place for this, the end of my story.

Our story.

Footsteps sound on hollow wood, and I know them by their very cadence because his walk is a metronome, perfectly in sync with the world as I know it. My head turns, a smile alighting on my lips before Xaine even comes into view.

Bleeding blue and colored red,

You’re every thought inside my head.

Pleasure plays a ruthless game,

All you do is speak my name—

“And I run to you,” Xaine sings, finishing the line for me as he emerges from behind the stage curtains.

“That works.” I set the guitar aside and peer up at his exceptionally scowly face. “Is there a problem?”

“Nope.” When he holds out his hand, I allow him to pull me to my feet so that we’re face to face. “Everything’s going according to plan.”

“Then why so serious?”

“I’m really going to miss that water feature.” His gaze slides to the glittering blue-green tank under the dance floor and trawling up one wall. After a moment, he turns back to me. “You have everything you need?”

I cock my head toward the familiar pink bags parked at the edge of the stage. “I’d just unpacked them, too.”

“Remind me to buy you some new luggage,” he says, shooting them a really dirty look. “Those things are bad luck.”

I start offer up some quippy comeback, but a door against the back wall slams open and I tense up. Xaine does more than that, pushing me behind him before Asher steps into the light.

“Fucking A, Reece,” Xaine mutters, easing his arm down. “What ever happened to ‘speak softly and carry a big stick’?”

“My big stick isn’t any of your business.” It sounds like it should be a joke, but there’s no humor behind it. Asher and Jess have opted to stay and fight, to take each day is it comes and each enemy in much the same way. “We’re all set. Not much left to do but set the charges, slip out the door, and blow the place up. You two should head to the back and get ready to exit. There are eyes on this building, so we’re going to use the service entrance in the alley leading to the restaurant next door. We can use a covered rolling rack to get you out to the van.”

“You’re smuggling us out as food?” Xaine sounds disgusted, and the look on his face is pretty priceless. When laughter burbles out of me, he gives me a look like I’ve lost every marble I ever owned. “What’s so funny?”

“Beloved husband of mine,” I sober up enough to squeeze out the words, “I am food.”

“Yeah, well I’m not.” And he looks honestly insulted by the comparison.

“How sweetly the tables do turn,” I grin, sliding my hands into his back pockets. He takes that as an invitation to put his tongue down my throat, and in two seconds flat we’re falling into what’s recently become a very good bad habit.

“For god’s sake, I didn’t sign up to babysit two horny teenagers,” Asher says.

Xaine lifts his head long enough to toss out, “Nobody asked you.”

Everyone tenses when the door slams open again. Squinting into the darkness, I make out the barest glimpse of bright orange hair and the flash of something metallic hitting the light. The moment the newcomers step into the illuminated circle around the stage, I frown. Rather than her usual clubbing gear, Tamsyn is drowning in a sweater big enough for a small pony, and Jax Trace is wearing an unbuttoned gray dress shirt that flutters around his midsection. The white beater underneath is stained a rusty red. The same crimson is splattered in darker patches down his once-neat black slacks.

I squint at him again. “Is that—”

Jax cuts me off. “Blood? Yeah, but don’t worry, it’s not mine.”

“…a sword?”

Because it is. It’s a fucking sword, and it’s clamped in his hand like he’s been using it, and recently.

Jax lifts the metal weapon a few inches, looks at it, and gives a nod in the affirmative, as if owning and wielding something like that is yet another thing he does. “Yes.”

“Just checking.” Oddly, I’m fine with it, because really, life doesn’t any get weirder than it’s been for the past few weeks. It can’t possibly.

Slightly more perturbed, Xaine blurts out, “What the ever-loving fuck, Trace?”

Jax doesn’t get the chance to answer, because there’s the whine of a UV charge and the definitive click of a hammer being pulled back. Jess stands right behind him with two guns to the back of his noggin.

“Light or lead, pendejo?”

“Shoot him with both,” Xaine tells her, but she’s looking to Asher for an answer, and he only shakes his head.

“It’s all right. He’s all right.”

“He is covered in blood and smells like death, so he’s not quite as right as he could be,” Jess corrects Asher, but she takes a step back and lowers both weapons.

“Technically I smell like undeath.” Jax glances down the front of his shirt. “And if it’s unblood, does that mean I’m not actually covered in it?” Jess gives him a curled lip and a disgusted nose-wrinkle, and Jax waves it off as if two guns to his head is nothing. “Shoot me with both if you want, but you’re going to want me conscious to hear what I have to say.”

“Don’t you mean we’ll want you alive?” Asher frowns, then starts muttering into the radio communicator he’s got strapped to his wrist.

“Oh, I’ll be alive,” Jax says. “But two gunshots to the head might take a few days’ recovery. And in the meantime, the big, bad vampire coalition—”

The power abruptly cuts out, plunging us into pitch-black darkness. In the distance, I can hear the glass plates slamming into place over the windows: the building’s going into lockdown again, exactly like the night of the concert.

“—is here,” Jax’s disembodied voice finishes with no small amount of I told you so.

“We’ve got hostiles in the building,” Asher tells the rest of the PFC crew via radio as the emergency power clicks on. The pale imitation of light bathes the room, leaving shadows pooling in the corners. “Everyone watch your asses and work your way toward the service entrance.”

I draw that much closer to Xaine. His welcome hands search me out, fingers digging into my arms. Everyone’s afraid to make a move, and as one, the collective gaze shifts to Jax and Tamsyn.

“Nice one, dipshit, they trailed you here,” Asher says as he sweeps the room, locking the doors so that no one can get in.

Or out.

But the guy with the sword only shrugs. “You were going to blow up the place anyway, right?”

“Yeah, on my goddamn terms and timeline,” Xaine counters, clenching up like he might take the two steps necessary to punch my guardian angel in his butt-chin.

“No time like the present,” Jax says, matter-of-fact. “Besides, you’re going to need some bodies to make that cover story of yours stick.”

“Yeah, except we’re still in here.” Xaine dials up the volume several notches, pointing out the obvious to Captain Oblivious.

“I didn’t say it was a perfect plan,” Jax says. “And pipe the hell down, Capello, before you bring the heat down on our heads.”

“Those assholes didn’t follow me here. You’re the douchebag that let them in.” Xaine extends a hand toward to Asher, who’s quickly and efficiently distributing UV weapons. He goes to hand me a modified Glock, but Xaine gets there before I can, snagging that gun, too.

Everyone else checks magazines and flicks safeties. Asher reaches behind his back, unsnapping a holster on his belt; a second later he’s slapping the taser into my hand again.

I shoot him a wry look. “Seriously? Am I ever going to get a gun?”

“You get a gun when shit gets real,” Asher says, passing me a bulletproof vest. “Here, put this on.”

Struggling to fit my arms through the holes and Velcro it shut around me, I grumble a bit. “At what point does it get more real than a secret group of angry vampires trying to kill me—”

Except I don’t get to finish because he shoves me behind him, shielding me from the silent figures slipping onto the darkened balconies above us. A series of not-so-subtle clicks echo in the aftermath, and the humming charge of UV weaponry spirals eerily upward. Then, like a ghost, there’s another sound that steals my breath, a teasing tinkling that sounds light and innocent, but is anything but.

“Wind chimes.” I wasn’t afraid, not until my mind registered that familiar clink of metal-on-metal. “Wind chimes.”

Xaine pulls me closer. I know he hears them, but I don’t think he understands. My hand shoots out of its own accord, seeking the one person who could possibly know. When my fingers locate fabric, I ball it in my fist, gripping Jackson Trace’s sleeve. His face is turned toward the balconies, piercing eyes scanning each and every cowled figure, taking mental inventory as he always seems to do when he stares right through people like that.

Weighing them.

“Little late for the party, guys,” he finally says, raising his voice to carry through the vast space. “Reception ended hours ago.”

I’m still searching, frantically skimming over each and every hood, each and every face, through the crowd and beyond, trying to find him. I curse everything, then: the darkness, my mortality, my shitty human eyesight. My fear magnifies every single time that soft metal jingle tears through me.

“Oh, but the after-party’s just beginning.” His voice ripples down my spine, and I can’t help the shudder that races across my flesh. Goosebumps rise to the surface a second later when I realize I’m standing directly across from the man who keeps trying to orchestrate my demise. His silver-tooth smile is all for me when he says, “Surprise, love. Did you miss me?”

Xaine growls. I relinquish my hold on Jax’s arm and clamp my hand around Xaine’s bicep, holding him back as best I can with a sharp, “Don’t.”

“I’d listen to her if I were you, mate.” Tiberius lets his grin slide sideways. “Smart girl, if a little forgetful.”

Flanked by two more hooded figures, he stands a mere ten feet from our little cluster. The rest of his group has us surrounded and covered from all angles. Basic strategy says to find the high ground. Keep the enemy beneath you.

Unlucky for us that I wanted to sit onstage one last time.

“Pissed off some very important people, you lot have.” Tiberius fixes those piercing eyes on me again. “Telling secrets.” He gestures to Jess and Asher next. “And you two, blowin’ shit up. Think you’re clever, do you?” He looks past me then, gaze tracing over the rigid line of Jax’s shoulders, sweeping past Tamsyn’s orange head and beyond. “Sin-eaters, angels, vampires, Virtues, and vigilantes. Jesus, it’s like an immortal grab bag, isn’t it?”

“Reaper.” I say the word seriously for the first time. Xaine’s head turns toward me, and I can see the reflective flash of his vampire eyes in the half-light. His gaze caresses my face, dark brows drawn together in consternation. I can only shake my head in reply, because really, I’m not entirely sure of anything anymore. “You forgot ‘reaper’ on that list. I mean, you are here with us.”

“Very good, love—”

“Call her that again,” Xaine warns him, “and I’ll wipe you clean off the planet, mate.”

Tiberius laughs. “You can’t kill me. Like the lady said, I’m a reaper. Indestructible. Unkillable. It’s what makes me the perfect machine. Bleed me, burn me, stab me, shoot me, I’m here until the Big Man says I’m done. Except I’m starting to think I might never be done. Like maybe the Almighty’s forgotten all about us.”

There’s a smile on Jax’s face that sends an arrow of fear into the very heart of me. An inferno burns behind those eyes, a righteousness that scares me more than Tiberius and all his minions.

“The Almighty might have forgotten, but I haven’t. I remember you, and I’ll remember you for all my days.” When Tiberius stiffens, Jax’s disconcerting smile widens a bit more. “Don’t think for a moment that I won’t.”

Then there’s a sound, that subtle whoosh of ignition when flame catches gas, the genesis of judgment. Blue light suffuses Jax’s face, illumination rippling across our respective skins like the glimmer of sunshine on water. A shimmering undulation of disbelief passes over Tiberius’s face, the chains across his cheeks rattling when he gulps back whatever arrogance he was about to hurl our direction.

“Word on the street is that you quit,” the reaper tells Jax. “Hung up your wings and turned in your halo. So what’s one little Virtue soul to you, anyway?”

“To me? Nothing.” Jax offers up a shrug. “But obviously she’s of value to someone very important, if they keep sending you after her. Joke’s on you, though. You’re wasting your time. A soul in Judgment can’t be reaped.”

“Her soul’s already been judged,” Tiberius snaps, but he edges back all the same, his gaze moving from face to blade. “She’s just waitin’ out the clock. We both know it.”

Jax takes a step toward him. “Takes both coins to cross the river, Tibs.”

“You think you’re clever?” The reaper speaks bravely, but those sharp eyes betray his wariness. “Where’s the other coin?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jax says, still advancing. The shadows at the reapers’s flanks fade backward, retreating from the fiery tip of Vengeance. “Until she holds both in her hands, she’s safe from the likes of you, the likes of him, and them, and everyone, really.”

“You’ve invested an awful lot of energy into a single Virtue,” Tiberius tells him. “What about the other six?”

“All I need is one.” When Jax shifts his weight, the blue flames leap and hiss to match. “Someone with a Grand Plan, well… they’d need the full set.” There’s a smirk on his face that does nothing to quell the anxiety in my belly. “The reaper gig was your chance at redemption. You were supposed to ferry the souls, work off your indenture, and then go home. What exactly are you hoping to achieve instead?”

“The tide of war is shifting. I’m finally choosing a side.” Tiberius’s expression is the grim, self-righteous look of a man who’s picked a path and decided to follow it to the end. “That’s the lesson I was supposed to learn, right? That I can’t sit idly by while the Titans clash around me? You’re not going to win this one. Not this time. Your ranks are scattered and outnumbered. You have no army. You have no chance. You’re waiting out the clock, too. No wings, no halo, no hope.”

“War’s over, Tibs,” Jax tilts his head to the side. “We’re all just men now.”

The smile that spreads across the reaper’s face is cool, amused even. He drags in a heavy breath and exhales it on a heavier sigh. “Well, General, that’s where you’re wrong. The war’s not over. It’s just beginning.” He turns to his men. “Take them.”

Gunfire explodes around me, and I duck instinctively, covering my head with my hands. Xaine’s arm wraps around my shoulders, shoving me further down into the huddled circle of friendly protection. I can hear footsteps hitting the ground, the sound of pistols firing, of UV charges humming. The world dissolves into chaos, and here we stand, right at the epicenter.

A glance over my shoulder shows me a veritable legion of dark shadows leaping from the balconies as if it’s nothing. Their feet hit the floor, smashing through glass and wood and concrete, leaving spiderwebs of destruction beneath the soles of their shoes. They advance, silent and stoic, their faces half-covered by fabric and shadow. We’re surrounded, outnumbered, but the hard knot of Asher’s jaw tells me that he hasn’t yet given up. Jess aims and fires over and over again, her expression blank, so different than the woman I knew. Tamsyn throws herself into the fray without fear. Unarmed, she grabs the nearest man by the shirt, slams him into the wall, and trails a single finger down the side of his face.

“Hey there, handsome.” It sounds like a seduction, except a dark line of ash follows in the wake of her touch. Like Benicio’s attack at the warehouse, a trail of darkness spreads across the vampire’s face and down his neck. A second after Tamsyn lets go of his collar, he’s reduced to a pile of dust swirling around her ankles. A little more rapid-fire, she dispatches two more Legacy minions by clapping her hands against their wrist and neck, respectively.

Jax catches her by the back of her shirt and slings her at the nearest door. “Stop, before you burn yourself out. We need to get Lore out of here.”

Because it’s about me. Mortal me. Wounded me. Insignificant me. And yet, somehow the reason for all of this.

“Go,” Asher orders us. “We’ve got this.”

Jess is already moving forward, looking like some Lara Croft body double as she shoots a just-landed vampire right in the face. He convulses once and then explodes in a shower of ash that she steps through in order to keep shooting.

Before the dust has even settled, Xaine’s got me by the wrist and we’re headed out a side door. “Stick close to me, all right? Bad shit happens when we get separated.”

Jax slams the auditorium door shut behind us, then kicks the knob so hard with his combat boot that the locking mechanisms activate from the outside. Sword still firmly in hand, he turns to us, his eyes at once terrifying and awe-inspiring.

This is what heavenly wrath looks like, and woe betide any vampire that gets between us and our escape.

Like the ones standing behind us when we turn around.

“Xaine!” I shriek, trying to warn him.

A millisecond later, a bullet directly impacts his chest, exploding with a tiny burst of concentrated sunshine. Xaine goes down, taking me with him to the floor. I scream again, curling around him and waiting for the inevitable, but he only groans and pulls me nearer to the wall, letting Jax and Tamsyn lead the charge. Our champions disappear down the darkened hallway, Jax cutting through bodies with his sword, corpses falling to pieces with heavy thuds right before it all goes to dirt.

“What the hell, Capello?” My hand goes straight to the hole in his shirt as he drags me to my feet. There’s some kind of reinforced plating under the fabric, the flattened slug embedded over his heart.

“You thought I put clothes on for formality’s sake?” He sounds winded, if that’s possible, the consonants clipped because I do believe he just got the crap scared out of him, figuratively if not literally.

Before either of us can say anything else, someone comes up fast behind us. Any hope I have of it being Asher or Jess is obliterated when a heavy hand clamps down over my mouth and its match does the same to Xaine. We’re dragged backward into the oddest group hug ever, sin-eater juice already snaking through my body and turning my brain to mush.

“If it isn’t the bride and groom,” Benicio hisses in my ear.

I want to scream, but everything inside me is molten and shifting. Next to me, Xaine’s arms jerk once, twice, then his body starts going lax. He’s getting the same treatment, no doubt.

“Oh, man, your husband is ten kinds of fucked up, Lo.” The words drip with malice and glee. Benny’s arms tighten down on us, stronger than ever as he feeds off Xaine’s worst memories, four centuries’ worth of sins. “Did he tell you about the redhead?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, nudging me with his nose and licking my cheek.

“Those girls are still tucked away inside him. The one he almost killed. The one he did kill. And then there’s you.” He lowers his voice a notch, mouth brushing over my ear. “I owe you some payback for letting him take me apart in that alley. So instead of breakin’ a sweat, I’m gonna let your sweetheart do the hunting for me. I’m gonna pump him so full of fuck-you juice that he can’t see or hear or feel anything but that pretty little beating heart of yours. It’ll be like watching Wild Kingdom, him chasing you to ground and ripping your chest open. Don’t know if I can stick around long enough for him to snap out if it, but I wish I could be there when he wakes up enough to realize what he’s done.”

Next to me, Xaine’s hands curl over, fingernails like claws. A low, rumbling growl vibrates through his chest and into me. Eyes wide, I start to struggle, kicking and flailing, scraping my own nails over Benicio’s flesh, trying in vain to peel his fingers away from my mouth. I need to run, to scream, to reach out and touch Xaine. Everything’s jumbled up inside my head, a welter of sex and memories. Like Benicio spun me around in circles until I’m dizzy, the whole world spins away into a whirlwind of sound, smell, and fear.

He lets me loose without warning, and I’m struggling so hard that I fall. Pain shoots through my knees, and it takes a second to remember what I’m doing, where I’m going. The next few moments are a blind grab at anything that feels real.

Which is nothing. Not one fucking thing.

Another growl. I peer over my shoulder to the place where Benicio’s got Xaine held back, one set of arms threaded through the other. And the man who’d slay the world to keep me safe suddenly looks as if he’d like nothing better than to tear me apart.

“Better start running, Lo,” Benicio taunts, “I’m getting to the really meaty stuff now. The full-feed, wanna suck you dry kinda stuff. They all get it, you know. The urge. Not gonna be able to hold him back for long…”

I lurch forward, struggling to keep my feet under me, stumbling heavily against the wall as Benicio’s sin-eater juice screams its way through my bloodstream. My eyes won’t focus on anything. There’s nothing ahead but an endless pit of black. I have no choice, so I start walking, then running, keeping my hands against the wall. My mouth forms words, but nothing comes out except small, hoarse pleas.

“Jax… help. Xaine…”

But Jax and Tamsyn are up to their eyeballs in fangs. Too far to hear me. Too far to reach Benicio before turns Xaine loose. Too far to stop this from happening.

Run, Lore. One foot in front of the other.

I have no idea where I’m going, and now Xaine’s coming up behind me, bouncing off the walls because he’s drugged within an inch of his undead life. There’s no sound except the uneven cadence of my feet against the floor, my ragged breath in my ears, Xaine’s snarls getting closer—

One impossibly strong hand finds my waist and tightens down even as the other reaches up to grab a fistful of my hair. Using both our momentum, he shoves me forward, straight into the wall. All the breath leaves my lungs in a panicked rush, and I can’t spare anything to scream for help. Then Xaine jerks me back and flings me into the wall opposite, like a spoiled kid throwing a toy. My back hits the cold cinderblock, and I bring my arms up to protect my neck. His body closes in around mine. I can’t see anything, but I can feel the power of him, my body so hypersensitive that it’s like he’s already touching me. A second later, rough hands grasp my forearms, prying them apart and yanking downward until my shoulder gives a sickening little pop. We’re chest-to-chest, my world reduced to the way he breathes heavily into the dark.

“Xaine, it’s me.” I try, because I have to try. “Please don’t—”

He tears the plea from my lips by sinking his fangs so deep into my shoulder that I feel them hit bone. The pain radiates across every nerve, up into my brain and down my spine so that my legs buckle. He pulls back and strikes again, like a snake. I can feel the blood flowing across my skin before he rubs his face through the sticky-wet trails. One hand lets go of my arm, but only so it can slide up and clamp down on my breast.

There’s a low whistle, like someone taking a stroll without a care in the world. Benicio’s followed us around the corner and into the hallway. “I don’t normally like to watch. More of a participant, really. But this shit I could sell tickets for.”

He’s not going to save me; he’s going to watch as Xaine rips me apart, baptizing himself in my blood.

“Secondhand memories,” I eke out through the haze of pain. “You’re only getting it hand-me-down.”

“Wrong. I’m getting his version of it.” Benicio’s smile is a flicker of white in the darkness. “You have no idea how sweet this is gonna taste when I pull it out of him. Your death. Another soul on his conscience. And then? I’ll put it right back in to fester so I can feed on it again and again. Over and over. I’m going to fuck his mind with your memory until he’s so torn apart by it that he takes a walk in the sunshine just to get away.”

Xaine’s mouth moves to the other side of my neck, seeking out a clean expanse of skin to paint red. He laces his fingers through my left hand, dragging me against him until something gives him pause. We’re so far into this nightmare that I barely notice it, the way he’s touching that ridiculous huge diamond he slid on my finger in Vegas and again in the recovery room at CasDec. His mouth slides up, slicked over with my blood, but his forehead meets mine, and I feel the flutter of his eyelashes against my skin.

Please, please, please, please…

“Bleeding blue and colored red, you’re every thought inside my head.” The words come out thready, wavering with terror. I try to sing them, but only manage a hoarse whisper. “Pleasure plays a ruthless game, all you do is speak my name, and I…”

There’s a pause, a single, indrawn breath before he mutters, “Run to you.”

My heart swells. Mired in madness, he’s still in there somewhere, so I squeeze his hand, pressing the pink stone into his palm. “Yes, Xaine.” My fingers grope for his wrist, searching out my words scrawled on his flesh. “Please remember. I really need you to remember.”

He shakes his head, like he’s trying to clear it. “You’re the dream.”

It’s slurred, but he knows me. The hope that flickers into existence within me is almost as cruel as the sound of silver wind chimes echoing in the hallway.

“What the hell?” Tiberius blurts out. “You again.”

“Hey, fuck you, Jingle Bells. She owes me.” Benicio’s words are laced with harsh venom. “And I owe him.”

Xaine turns slowly, eyes still glinting feral in the half-light, face dripping with my blood. With one last convulsive squeeze of my hand, he launches himself at the sin-eater, ramming his head and shoulders into Benicio’s midsection with so much force that the two of them barrel backward into the hallway. Benicio ends up flat on his back, arms pinned down by the vampire kneeling atop him. Xaine plows a fist into his face, and even from here, I can see cast-off spattering the white walls.

Tiberius is already on the move, his huge strides eating up the space that separates them, hand reaching out to grasp the gun tucked into the waistband of Xaine’s pants. Panic surges through my gut and into my chest where it erupts in a sharply yelled, “No!”

I throw myself at the reaper, plowing into him with my good shoulder and putting all my weight behind it. It catches him enough by surprise that he takes one staggering step to the left. The second he regains his balance, he shakes me off, a sadistic smile slowly spreading across his face.

“Oh, bad move, love.” He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a knife, no doubt the very same one he used on me in Vegas. “I don’t care what your insides are made of, your outsides are still nice and squishy.”

My teeth click together with each shuffling step that I take backwards. I don’t get far; within seconds, my back is once again pressed to the wall. My right arm is useless, wrenched from the socket and dangling limply. I hold it with my other hand, fingers clamped around my aching wrist. Blood runs from the deep bites on my neck, and reality is slowly slipping away again.

“Leave us alone,” I hear myself say. “I haven’t done anything to you.”

“It’s not what you’ve done to me, it’s what you can do for me.” His hand flashes out, closing around my throat. Tiberius’s palm grows sticky with the hot press of liquid beneath his iron grip, but it doesn’t seem to faze him. “The New Order is coming, and the world will never be the same.”

His fingers clamp down until I can’t suck in a single breath. I make weak choking noises, trying to speak. I let my bad arm dangle so that I can pull at his hand, digging my nails in until they break, leaving little gouges across his skin that close over before they even have a chance to bleed.

“Give over, love,” Tiberius says, calm and cold, but with a curious spark of sympathy. “Trust me when I say you’re better off.”

The blood rushes to my face and gathers in my cheeks. They feel swollen, and I’m sure my skin is purpled with the lack of oxygen. My lungs burn, and my eyes shift, one last glance over Tiberius’s shoulder to where Xaine kneels, pinning Benicio’s arms, fists plowing into flesh over and over until there’s nothing left but a meat-grinder sort of pulp. Xaine rocks back on his heels, turning toward me.

Except it’s too late. I feel the pulling, the same as I described it to Jax, like Tiberius is yanking me out. Separating soul from flesh, wheat from the chaff.

“You’re weak, so very weak.” The words are hypnotic. I struggle against them, but as consciousness spirals away, I start to understand… and accept… the hopelessness of everything. “Just a tiny human, and so tired.”

I am tired.

Exhausted, with blood running down my neck and soaking into my shirt, pain overwhelming everything until there’s nothing left but the need to sleep, to rest, to be at rest. Then… then I hear Jax’s hoarse shout. He skids around the corner, and it’s that flashing aura of blue that catches my fading consciousness.

When Pandora’s box flew open and all the evil spilled out, you were a tiny piece of the hope that was left at the bottom.

I am not mortal. Not entirely. My outsides might be nice and squishy, but my insides are made of sterner stuff. Closing my eyes, I focus all my waning energy on that point where the reaper’s skin touches mine. I stop grappling with his hands, stop fighting against my fate. Jax’s words play over and over inside my head:

A soul in judgment. It takes both coins to cross the river.

Charon, keeper of the Styx, ferryman of the underworld. Two coins on the eyes of the dead to pay for passage to the far shore. Two sides to each Scale: a soul’s weight, a soul’s worth, and mine but half-judged.

Two sides to every story.

“What the bloody fuck,” Tiberius mutters, the silver chains that link his nose to his ears jingling in that too-familiar way. “Give it up. You can’t fight it forever, love.”

Except I can. I can fight it forever, staring into his eyes and unable to breathe but somehow too stubborn to give up or give in. If I wait, Jax will come. Xaine will come. I have faith that my guardians won’t desert me. One more minute, one more second, one more—

Something slams into my captor so hard that Tiberius falls sideways. The hand at my throat doesn’t immediately relinquish its hold, dragging me down to the floor and throwing me into the fray for one panicked moment. When tense fingers finally let go, I push backwards, crab-walking on one good hand until my shoulders hit cement. Slumping in the corner, I gasp for breath as my heart struggles to shove blood through my veins. My fingertips touch the puncture wounds at my shoulder, adding pressure, sending out sharp darts of pain that keep me from sliding into blissful nothingness.

“I told you not to call her that,” Xaine snarls out, drawing back his fist. As his arm reaches its apex, a diabolical curl turns up the edges of his bloodied lips. Slowly, so slowly, he wraps a hand around the reaper’s throat, squeezing tight and holding him in place. Then he tangles two digits in the chains connecting that hoop through Tiberius’s septum to the ones in his ears. Xaine’s fist tightens down, his bicep barely straining when he jerks the decorative contraption out of the reaper’s face, rending skin and cartilage. Tiberius screams as Xaine hurls the whole thing aside. Metal charms clang against the far wall, falling in a heap upon the floor and finally going silent.

“I might not be able to kill you, but you sure as shit aren’t impervious to pain.” The words are punctuated by a follow-up shriek when Xaine clamps fingers like vices down on the bloody, bleeding mass that used to be the reaper’s nose. “I think I’m going to wriggle these straight into your brain and scramble you like a fucking egg.”

“Down, Fido.” Tamsyn’s breathless command sounds faint to my own ears, and Xaine doesn’t get his head turned in time to see her coming at him. By then, she’s got her hand pressed against the back of his neck. “Jesus Christ, Xaine, Benny topped you off like a gas tank, didn’t he? Gotta siphon some of this out before… ew… before you do anything else.” She wrinkles her nose at the mess of Tiberius’s face. “Remind me never to piss you off, Capello.”

“Back off, mini-muffin.” The heat in the words isn’t directed at her, though. “I need to finish this.”

“A nice idea,” Jax says, leaning over the reaper and settling the tip of the sword against his throat, “but a little more complicated than you’d think—”

Underfoot, a shudder starts in the floorboards and travels up the walls, shaking everything like there’s been an earthquake. Whatever else is happening with Asher and Jess back in the main room, some of the C4 charges have been set off. The first should have taken out the massive water feature, and the rest are going to reduce the building to rubble.

Tamsyn’s taken enough of an edge off the sin-eater crazy for Xaine to realize that our timeline just shrank down to approximately sixty seconds, give or take a few.

“Leave him, Trace.” He snags my waist in passing, hauling me against his chest. “We have to get out of here now.”

The gun is still tucked into the waistband of his pants, the hard metal edges jabbing into my forearm. My next thought is for Tiberius, his claim that he can’t die. Anxiety settles hard and fast in the pit of my gut, bringing with it a burgeoning terror.

Leave. Let it burn. Get far away and try to forget. Try to start over.

Except I’ll never sleep again if I’m always waiting to hear wind chimes.

My hand closes around the gun, and I jerk the weapon from Xaine’s pants, turning back to where Tiberius is still on the floor, pinned under the tip of Jax’s sword. Impossible to kill a reaper, so I hear, but I train the weapon on him anyway. His gaze travels up the length of the barrel, sliding ever-closer to my face. The moment we lock eyes, his shimmer and come up the same blue that I see in the mirror every morning.

“See you on the other side.” I offer a one-sided shrug. “Wherever that may be.”

I tighten down on the trigger and fire, ruining the rest of the reaper’s face, splattering his brains across the floor and halfway up the wall. Rough hands close around my middle, but I’m done. Finished. There’s no fight left because there’s no fight left.

Whether he lives or dies, I owed him this.

A rush of water bursts into the hall, flooding the narrow passage and lapping at my ankles. Xaine’s got an arm around me, hauling me backward as the tide rises. He swings me around and sets me on my feet, shoving me toward some destination that I can’t even see. We’ve been trapped in the darkness for so long that I’ve almost become comfortable with the absence of light, with the scent of blood, with the feel of concrete pressed to my skin. A second explosion sends another cold wave surging around us, the water rising to knee-level as we wade toward the doors at the far end of the hall.

“Fucking water feature.” Xaine shakes his head. “Why did I have to have a water feature?”

“Because you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t,” I say. “Hey, Dr. Trace, wanna give me a hand here and pop this shoulder back into the socket?”

Jax rocks back on his heels. “Do I have to?”

“Yes,” Xaine says with a glower. “You have to.”

“She’s your wife, you do it.”

There’s a staring contest that Xaine must win, because the next thing Jax says is, “Fine, but someone’s gonna hafta hold my sword.”

In short order, Tamsyn is playing sword-bearer, and Jax is cracking his knuckles like he’s about to go to bat. He widens his stance and takes hold of my arm, pausing for a three-count before he whips my shoulder around and up with a sickening pop! I groan, but there’s no time to spare for recovery.

“Stay here,” Xaine mutters. “I have to go upstairs and override the security system. The fucking doors are still locked down.”

“Like hell, Capello.” My grip tightens down on his wrist. “You’re not leaving me here with the building about to come down around our ears.”

“Well, unless your stupid shithead of a guardian angel has some magic he can pull out of his ass, it’s going to be the only chance for you to get out—”

A third detonation, and half the wall falls into the corridor behind Jax and Tamsyn. One of the emergency light fixtures twists away from steel and plaster, dangling like my injured arm. A shower of sparks rains down on our heads, and now the race is on to see if we’ll end up buried, drowned, or electrocuted first. Jax has his sword back, now devoid of blue flame, and levers the damn thing between the reinforced glass plates overlapping the door like it’s some kind of celestial crowbar.

Xaine hugs me to his chest, raking his hands through the tangled mess of my hair. I lean against him, my face pressed to his shirt, the fingers of my good arm tracing over the seams of his bullet-proof vest. For a guy who makes his living writing songs, it takes him an inordinately long time to find the words he’s looking for.

“I’d turn you if I could. Keep you with me forever.”

“I know.” The words sound thinner than I’d like.

“I’ve never been more certain of anything than I was that first day that I saw you,” he tells me. “Mad as hell, but certain. And I am so fucking sorry it’s ending like this. God, Lore—”

“Don’t,” I mutter, holding on tight, digging my forehead into his chest. For one supremely ironic moment, I find myself wishing that he wasn’t wearing a stupid shirt. “It’s not ending. I need—”

There’s the sharp crackle of surging electricity. Every few seconds, that light fixture sways, wires touching, enough zapping light cast off that I can see Xaine. The expression he’s wearing is heartbreaking. We’re trapped here, and everyone but me stands at least a passing chance at getting out. There were so many things I wanted to do. With him. So many places I wanted to visit. With him. Everything we wanted to explore…

And not just the fleshy bits, either.

“The suspense is killing me, sweetheart,” Xaine says, interrupting my reverie. “What do you need? A cookie? Some bubblegum and a paperclip, MacGyver?”

The light swings and sparks again, and in that brief flash, I’m looking for something, anything that would indicate a manual override on this floor. Wallpaper, stucco, bits of splintered two-by-four shove us closer to the doors, closer to the wall. The water’s up to our thighs now. I can’t see for shit, so I have to run the hand holding the gun over the wall, using the intermittent sparks to see—

Bingo.

“A kitten, X,” I tell him. “If we survive this, I want a kitten.”

He hits me with a raised eyebrow. “You mean one of those didn’t come in the FTD welcome wagon? Those assholes aren’t getting any more of my business.”

Over the security doors, there’s a torn-away chunk of plating, and beyond that is a bunch of switches and circuit breakers that mean precisely dick to me. I don’t have wire cutters, and we don’t have time, so I shove the gun at Tamsyn, reach into my pocket, and pull out the stupid taser that Asher slapped into my palm.

“I need you to lift me up,” I tell Xaine, “so that my feet are out of the water.”

He looks at me strangely, then glances from the wall to the taser, putting the pieces together.

“Fuck no,” he blurts out. “I am not going to let you fry yourself trying to pop a breaker.” His fingers clamp down on my wrist and squeeze hard enough that a second later, the taser is in his hand.

“Xaine,” I tell him, hating that I have to say the next words out loud, “I’m dead anyway. At least this way, I have the possibility of being either not dead or dead quickly.”

“What’s the plan here?” Jax interrupts.

“Boost me up, Trace,” Xaine says before I can get a word in edgewise. “My wife wants to see some fireworks, and I have to keep the little woman happy.”

Jax’s eyes skim over Xaine, the taser, up the wall, and across the way to the sparking emergency light. With a frown, he says, “This is a really stupid plan.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, now make like a cheerleader so I can do this thing.” When Jax doesn’t move, Xaine adds, “Come on, asshole. I was a passenger on the Titanic and all this water is triggering my PTSD.”

“A Titanic joke, really?” Jax says, lacing his fingers together to make a cradle. “Like really, really?”

“Never let go, Jax.” I say, my teeth chattering together. “Never let go.”

Xaine starts scaling the resident angel like some kind of gothic spider monkey. It takes a little doing and a lot of cursing, but eventually he manages to stand on Jax’s shoulders, one foot planted on either side of Jax’s head. There’s a few seconds of fiddling, but it feels like forever because everything is slowing down like it did on the white carpet in Vegas. I stand next to Tamsyn, who’s back to clutching Jax’s sword. She’s got her eyes squeezed shut, muttering some kind of prayer that alternates between filth and kitchen gadgetry.

I tune her out at “tit-sink” because that’s when Xaine jams the taser’s prongs into the security system’s exposed innards. White-hot and searing, electricity arcs from device to wall and back into him. With my eyes fixed on his features, I’m only dimly aware of the hissing, popping, and cascading sparks that are like something you’d see in a Fourth of July pyrotechnics finale. It all lasts as long as it takes to fry the breaker. Then he’s falling, dropping like a stone into Jax’s arms, still twitching. There’s a split-second of catch, long enough for Tamsyn to snatch the taser from Xaine’s hand, before the inevitable give as Jax retracts his arms and dumps my rock star vampire husband into the murky drink with a splash.

“Dick move, Trace,” I say on Xaine’s behalf, because the vampire in question is only now resurfacing and far too busy stringing together expletives like Christmas garland to rebut.

“Yeah, well, I told you it was a stupid idea, it didn’t even wor—”

Click!

The reinforced glass plates over the door unlock, releasing with the tiniest hydraulic hiss and cutting Jax off.

“You were saying?” I ask wryly. I still can’t see much, because the emergency lights shorted out with the rest. There’s only a sliver of streetlight slicing between the exit doors.

“Holy assbutts waffle-maker, it did work.” Tamsyn laughs like a little kid who’s fallen off her bike, bleeding profusely from the knees and elbows but hysterically glad to have survived.

“Yeah, I’m actually pretty shocked.” Jax turns to Xaine to add, “Welcome back, princess. Can you stand without fainting?”

There’s a wheezy “Fuck you, asshole” before Xaine adds, “She told you not to let me go.”

“I’m sure we can all agree that you’re long dead, ice cold, and probably better off at the bottom of the ocean.”

Despite the witty repartee, Jax has set himself to prying the doors open, and everything flexes under the ripped-up bits of wet fabric clinging to his skin. The glass plates don’t make it easy, but he levers them to a breaking point. When they finally give, the water rushes out, and I’m swept up by the current before I can think to brace myself. Xaine doesn’t let go as we’re carried into the street. The two of us end up on our knees in the VIP driveway, at the end of the carpet which is now sodden black and littered with debris. The PFC van sits there like a present under a Christmas tree; Jax and Tamsyn head for it at ninety miles an hour.

“Come on!” Tam hollers over her shoulder. “There’s a time and place to be on your knees, and this ain’t it!”

I glance at Xaine through the dripping curtain of my hair. I’m broken, bloody, and still holding one arm close to my chest. Tired and wet and so very ready to collapse into a soft bed for days, all I can think to say is, “So, I can taze things and shoot stuff. Does this make me a weapons expert?”

Xaine shakes his head like a dog trying to get the water out of his eyes. All that so he can give me a narrow-eyed look and say, “You’ve always been an expert at handling my weapon. Now let’s get you in the goddamn van.”

His hands slide beneath my knees and shoulders, lifting me up until I’m cradled against his chest. His concern is obvious. Puny mortal is injured; not-so-puny immortal is responsible. And knowing Xaine, I’d be willing to bet that I’ll be drowning in compensatory gifts by the end of the week.

“Don’t forget,” I murmur against his shoulder, “you owe me a kitten.”

“Sweetheart, I’ll buy you any kitten that you want,” he tells me. “Never mind, I’ll get you one of each and you can choose.”

“You’re going to bring me all the kittens? Like, every single one?” My mouth twitches at the idea, because if anyone was ever going to ring up the Humane Society of Los Angeles and demand every single kitten, it would be this guy.

He hitches me up so he can get right in my face with, “Sure, how many could there be?”

“More pussy than you could possibly handle.”

“It couldn’t be any more trouble than the pussy I already have.”

Jax slides the door back as we approach, and Xaine hands me in, careful not to jostle me. Behind us, the building gives one last enormous shudder and starts to collapse in on itself. Tamsyn hits the gas before Xaine’s all the way inside, but he manages to hoist himself in and wrangle the door shut as she rockets across three lanes of traffic.

“Speaking of pancakes,” she starts.

Jax thumps her on the back of her bright orange head with the palm of his hand.

“Don’t,” he says. “Just shut up and drive.”

EPILOGUE
Lore

A bay breeze blows through an open window, warm and dry and carrying with it the sounds of life from below. The room is shaded, pointing south toward the inlet and overlooking the downward slant of the red-roofed houses that pepper the hillside. Funchal is located in a naturally-formed volcanic amphitheater, and the view is absolutely breathtaking.

I suppose the sprawling vistas and glittering blue waves are nice too, but the only view that really matters to me is this one right here in this bedroom.

Xaine.

Both of us lay belly-down on the blankets, legs tangled in the sheets. Everything is light and airy and smells permanently of sunshine, despite its proximity to shadow. With slow deliberation, I brush my fingers through the short bristles of his hair, smiling as Jax’s parting advice echoes in my head.

You might want to go incognito. And by incognito, I mean not a ponytail and sunglasses.

We have to trim it every few days. Xaine mutters under his breath during the ten minutes that I spend clipping behind his ears. He pretends to hate the fact that I grin at him in the mirror the whole time, but really, I think he enjoys the attention, especially when I thread my fingers through the ever-growing lengths of straight, black silk.

Even jungle cats like to get petted.

It’s been a couple of months. Long enough that I’ve begun to drive him crazy with my ukulele. I can’t seem to get him onboard with my upbeat strumming, go figure, so every time I pick up that little piece of musical genius, Xaine finds a fairly naked way to tell me to go fuck myself. Or him.

“Lore.” His sleepy voice recalls my attention, widens my smile. The shorter hair makes him look younger, almost boyish, and the way that he immediately reaches for the closest piece of me is absolutely adorable. Wouldn’t tell him that, though. He doesn’t like it when I think of him as anything but a snapping, growling, manly alpha. “Don’t get up yet.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” I quip softly, tracing my fingers over his stubbled jaw.

One arm inches across the blankets, but instead of lacing his fingers with mine, he reaches out to touch a soft lock of pink hair that spirals over my shoulder. When I lean in closer, my face hovering over his, he sits up far enough to place a quick peck on my lips.

“I missed the color,” he murmurs.

I can’t help but smile again and turn my head slightly to take in the dark chestnut waves with the pink and purple streaks. It’s so different from the platinum rainbow I had when we first met, but in its own way, everything’s come full circle. I look different, but I look like me, and I guess that’s all that counts really. His hand inches forward, following the heavy locks until his fingers brush against the bare expanse of my shoulder.

He gets that look then, when he rubs the pad of his thumb over the smooth scars dotting my flesh. It took them a while to heal, and they’ll probably never fade entirely. He dug in so deep that he chiseled fang-shaped divots into the bone underneath.

I think Xaine wavers between tragedy and triumph each time the shiny marks come into view. Because it’s what he wanted. Just not like this.

My hand covers his, enfolding those cool fingers between my own, and I bring his palm to my lips so that I can place a soft kiss on each treasured fingertip. He’s got calluses, and I often wonder if he’s had them for the entire four hundred years or if he’s simply so dedicated to his craft that he managed to overcome his vampire super-healing enough to make them stick.

Slowly, I push myself up from the bed, yawning, stretching, then huffing out a laugh as I take in the full picture. Xaine’s hand finds my knee, squeezing as if he doesn’t want to stop touching me for a single second. He wouldn’t, I think, given the option. As it is, he’s mindful of the current situation, and he takes care to move as little as possible.

“Don’t roll over,” I say. “You’ll squish the baby.”

“Hrmph,” Xaine grunts out, but I’m not fooled. Just like with the hair, he likes to pretend that he’s not absolutely tickled by the way that tiny, helpless things are smitten with him. “Too stupid to know better, and too damn small for her own good. Now a tiger, there’s a cat I can get behind. I could beat a tiger in a fair fight.”

With a snort, I roll my eyes and reach out, scooping up all one-point-five pounds of kitten from her nest at the crook of his neck. “Go home, vampire, you’re drunk.”

“Sleepy.”

“Then sleep.” I press the mewling feline to my cheek, rubbing my nose in her feather-soft fur. Vegas usually sleeps under Xaine’s chin, but sometimes she can’t quite scale the mountain of his big, fat head, in which case she settles for the closest piece of skin she can find.

Just like her daddy.

When the kitten squirms, I put her down on the bed. Vegas picks her way carefully across the blankets, her tail like a question mark until she curls up against Xaine.

He catches me glancing at the shuttered windows, and his expression shifts from regretful to resigned. “Jax was right, much as it pains me to admit it. This wasn’t supposed to be a cage, either. I’ll come outside with you, so you can get some color on those day-glo legs of yours.”

“We both know it’s not exactly safe out there yet. Plus, you’re a vampire, and it’s like… noon.” I swallow a laugh. “What are you gonna do? Blow your rape whistle if I get accosted? Throw yourself into the sunlight in the hope that your ashes will blind my attacker?”

The glare he shoots me is classic. “You know, I think you very much overestimate your own sense of humor.”

I plant a kiss on his scowling lips and slide out of the bed. “I’m starving. I need to go make myself something to eat.” My bare feet touch down on a colorfully-woven rug that covers a wood floor that’s as old as this island. The house is Lilliputian, but it suits me. Xaine would have bought the biggest mansion on the block, but my subtle reminder of our incognito status landed us here instead, off a quaint side street, in a small space that I’ve filled with a myriad of personal belongings purchased off the internet. “Go back to sleep. I swear I’ll be right here when you wake up. Be careful when you roll over. Remember Vegas.”

Remember Vegas.

The words give me pause for the barest second, pinging around in my head with all the good, bad, and ugly of that particular memory. I briefly wonder how things are going in Los Angeles, but as far as disappearing acts go, ours was the Houdini of goodbyes. The world mourned us; we are lost to them. It was surreal to watch it unfold on television, all the candlelight vigils and crying fans. It was a huge event, mostly dedicated to Xaine. I was a blip on their fame radar, but he was their national treasure. Xaine loved it, but I suppose he’s always had more than a little bit of the Huck Finn in him. He was impossible after the funeral, and it took weeks before he quit talking about how extravagant it was.

But after that, he just let it go. Let it all go.

Except me. Except us.

“Get naked when you’re done,” he says, raising his voice enough to catch my attention as I wander toward the bathroom. “We’ll have dessert in bed.”

By the time I wiggle into a loose skirt and peasant blouse, Xaine’s already dropped off again, the kitten tucked up beneath his chin. I stop for a second to drink in the sight of them before going downstairs. On the main level, I bypass the kitchen and head instead for the front door. There’s a pair of slip-on sandals next to it, waiting for me. They aren’t broken-in yet, because I’ve yet to step foot out of our love nest since the night I bought them. I wouldn’t leave now, either, except I have money burning a hole in my pocket.

Or rather, I have one very specific gold coin on my conscience.

Dear L.,

Salutations from the other side of the world. I’m sending you a little cash; make a wish and huck it into the deepest ocean you can find, would you? Seriously. No, seriously! Stop fighting me on this and do it. Trust me, it’s not as valuable as you think.

Sincerely (and seriously),

J.

P. S. Keep X’s grubby mitts off it.

Rereading it brings a heavy ache to my chest. Jackson Trace might be shit at the guardian angel gig, but he’s a good person underneath all the random flailing. The letter showed up mysteriously a few weeks after our arrival on Madeira. No postmark, no return address, nothing at all to show that it circulated around the world via USPS, FedEx, UPS or anything else. Like magic, it was simply here, and when I opened the white vellum envelope, I caught the tiniest whiff of Jax’s cologne.

Eau de One Hundred and Douche.

I’m not sure why he didn’t keep the coin, save it for someone else, but plenty about the plane trip from Burbank to NYC told me that he was hanging up his halo and wings, if not his floral-print wingtips. Maybe the coin is another tie to the old days, one he’s happy to cut. Or, at least, happy to let me chuck into the five thousand meters of ocean surrounding Funchal.

Either way, he had to know I would do it, and this is honestly the first time since we arrived that Xaine has let me out of his sight. An odd feeling of guilt settles in my midsection when I unlock the bolts and slip outside, not only because he’ll have a heart attack if he wakes up and realizes I’m not there. It’s because—

I’ve missed this

I wasn’t meant to live in darkness. The welcome heat of the midday sunlight slides over my upturned face, my almost-bare shoulders. Not that I haven’t spent time on the various balconies, but it’s different to wander down the narrow, twisted alleys with my sandals slapping against ancient bricks. Xaine’s been teasing me for weeks that I’ve gone full-blown boho hippie chic in a way that would have looked contrived in LA. Here, it just looks right. Better than that, the ruffled-and-sheer blouses paired with long peasant skirts, large straw hats, and even larger sunglasses help me slide into a space somewhere between local and tourist in a way that draws no attention whatsoever until I end up at the pier. Renting a boat requires a lot of pointing and gesturing, but soon enough, Marco is motoring me out into impossibly blue water. The reflection is dazzling, blinding even, but I don’t close my eyes. This feels important. I have to bear witness.

At some point, I pull the well-creased envelope from the pocket of my skirt. I can feel the Scale through the paper, the ridge of the coin having left its impression. When the boat stops, I open the envelope and let the gold disk fall into the palm of my hand. Its shining, blank surface winks up at me. I stare at it for a moment, feeling a heavy sort of melancholy settle into my chest.

I love Xaine, love our life. I’m thankful for every day, but I can’t help the restless feeling, the idea that I should be…

Doing more.

As I hold the coin, a picture manifests on the flat surface. I stare at it, waiting and wishing and experiencing a hundred other things that I can’t really nail down to a particular emotion. This thing, this tiny piece of Jax memorabilia, is the last remaining link to the old life. The life before. A sigh escapes me as I curl my fingers around it, squeezing it so tight that it hurts. When I close my eyes to make a wish, I swear it grows a few degrees warmer in my hand.

I will live, I will love, I will fight. I just need the strength to do it.

I draw back my arm and fling the Scale as far as I am able into the glittering blue water. It turns over and over again, the flat sides catching the light the way Reille Reece’s bracelet did that night at Scion. It seems like a million years ago, but it also seems appropriate.

Another way we’ve come full circle.

After that, there’s not really anything left to do but go back. When I step off the boat, I cast longing glances at the stores along the main street, wishing I could stop in for fruit and cheese and smelly little fish for the kitten but knowing I can’t take anything back to the house without setting off Xaine’s every internal alarm. I do allow myself one indulgence: a pit stop at the gelataria to order something in my faltering Portuguese. The shop owner smiles and corrects my accent with a lot of good-natured handwaving. We laugh, I blush, and I leave with the taste of chocolate coating my tongue.

Without meaning to, I pause at the tourist kiosk at the end of the street. There’s a rack of postcards that draws my attention: pictures of the beach, historic buildings, churches. Plucking one out, I look at the glossy surface and then flip it over to study the place where you’re supposed to write.

Write home.

Except I can’t write them. Can’t drop a note to the folks or to Jess or even to Jax.

Dear Butt-chin,

I did as you asked and threw your priceless holy relic into the sea.

Sincerely (and seriously),

L.

P.S. You’re stupid.

I can’t help smiling at the thought, but I know it’s a postcard that will never be written. It’s too dangerous to compromise our position as dead-men-walking for the sake of the Last Word.

Going to put the card back on the rack, a dozen regrets dimming the day for me a bit, my hand bumps into another reaching from the other side. My fingertips graze the dark red leather of butter-soft driving gloves, like someone left an Italian sports car idling at the curb. I follow that hand up, skimming over pristine shirtsleeves and the cuffs of a dark jacket. Without knowing why, a deep unease crawls up my spine.

“My apologies,” the stranger says, smooth as anything.

The hairs on my arms are already standing on end. I could blame the gelato, but it’s melting, welling up in the paper cup and dribbling over my fingers. He comes into view in slow motion: movie-star handsome face, dark fall of hair…

Not Tiberius.

And my midsection stabilizes enough to drop out from under me a second time when I realize I recognize this guy, too. He’s like that actor whose name you don’t remember, the one you saw in that sort of interesting movie, but you don’t recall the title to that either. He smiles benignly, but there’s no warmth in it.

Chewing on the inside of my lip, I study him without saying anything, without moving my hand toward the gun holstered on my thigh. His gaze flickers to my leg, like he knows what I’m thinking. Then his attention shifts back to my face and the smile widens like he’s amused by the very idea.

Amused by me.

“You can’t begin to understand how pleased I am to find you alive,” he says, then offers up a sympathetic nod and explains, “I’ve been looking for you for a long time.”

I give my head a shake, tilting my chin toward the ground so the thick curtain of my hair hides my features from sight. The sunglasses I’m wearing are huge enough to hide half my face. He doesn’t know, he just thinks he does, and I keep telling myself that as I offer up a thickly accented, “You must be mistaken.”

I turn and start walking, trying like hell to keep from breaking into a run. My mouth has gone dry, and I pause only long enough to drop the sodden gelato cup into a nearby trash can. I lick the chocolate from my fingers, snaking my tongue down the side of my hand to catch one roving drop—

“I don’t make mistakes, Lourdes.” When his quiet voice speaks my name, I trip, my toe catching on an upraised brick. A second later, I’m surrounded by warm arms, soft fabric. When I look up, it’s into brown irises that are so dark they’re nearly black, blending into the pupils until everything is one seemingly-solid color.

My hand slips into the pocket of the skirt, to the place where I cut out a hole big enough to pass my hand through. I can feel the holster tight around my thigh, and I reach for it, skimming past airy fabric and holding my breath until my fingertips slide over metal. “You’re mistaken. We don’t know each other.”

“Well, then.” The low monotone so close to my ear is polite, his expression is glassy-calm. Then he captures my hand, the one reaching for the gun, his red-gloved fingers closing down on mine. “Please, allow me to introduce myself.”

THE END

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First and foremost, our thanks go to our beta and proofreaders: Noël Furniss, Victoria D. Morris, Chloe Palka, Penny Ramirez, Stephen Segal, and Jennifer Ford. Thank you for the eagle-eyed assists on multiple drafts. Your attention to detail and intermittent squees of glee were greatly motivating.

And to the boys: Jared, Henry, Gabriel, Chris, Luke, and Adam. When Hollywood comes knockin’, please take the parts as they were assigned.

From Amanda:

Lisa told me I should scribble something here about my writerly journey… then she highlighted it in red so I wouldn’t forget to actually do it. Well, the journey has been long and hard (pun intended, everywhere), but we managed to put together this book, and two others, and plotty outlines for many books to come. All of that is way more than I could have imagined it would be when we started this whole thing—completely by accident—two years ago.

But enough of that shit. On to the thanks!

To my mother. For being so supportive, too supportive. Seriously, one kissy emote per text message is really enough. For getting excited about Lost Angeles and telling all her friends, and their friends, and their families, and everyone she knows, and strangers on the street, and that guy three doors down, and those people on the internet. I suppose that’s the adult equivalent of hanging my artwork on the wall. Which, she also still does. Thanks mom. I love you.

To the Roberts side of the family: sorry about all the sex and swears. If it’s any consolation at all, there’s a lot less sex than there was… although, there’s probably a lot more swears. I hope you read it anyway, but it’s okay if you don’t make it through.

The next book is way worse (read: better.)

To all my friends from FFXI, for greatly increasing my capacity to create the aforementioned swears. Without the hours I spent bullshitting with you all on Ventrilo, I never would have learned how to not be a bitch. Or how to be a bitch. Or learned the difference between being a bitch… and being a bitch.

And finally, thanks to Lisa for creating Xaine and for prancing him in front of me like the undomesticated animal he is. She knew I wouldn’t be able to resist. He was the first, but not the last, and certainly not the least. Also, I couldn’t have written these acknowledgements without her. No, really, she printed out a damn template and everything.

Bitches love templates.

See you in book two!

From Lisa:

I find myself in possession of a big pile of thanks, not unlike a giant stack of apple pies. So you get a thanks, and you get a thanks, and you over there as well.

To the readers. I hope all of you are well over the age of eighteen and that no one mistook this for a YA novel. Or a picture book. Harder to imagine mistaking this as a picture book, but weirder things have happened.

(Coming up next: inappropriate immortals picture book.)

To my family. For having smoothies and Mickey Nuggets for dinner more times than I’d like to admit. For listening to me blather through the complexities of three novels taking place over one timeline. For asking all the right questions at the wrong moment and the wrong questions at the right moment. And for the ten-year-old, because she’s more fascinated with the Scipio vampires than any of the characters in my YA novels.

To the loyal supporters: the faces that turn up at the signings, book launches, and conventions; the online enthusiasts, Patreon patrons, and Dress Circle members Cat Healy and Rose Elizabeth Pedersen. Your kindness, generosity, and love of reading never ceases to amaze and delight me.

And last but certainly not least, to Amanda. For writing five hundred thousand words with me before it became a novel project. For writing characters that both fascinate and give zero fucks. For powering through a brutalizing real-life work schedule and still having the strength to sit down at the computer. For wanting to hug me that one time. And for making it still fun, even two years later.

Excerpt from
LOOSE CANON
(Lost Angeles, Book 2)

CHAPTER ONE
Trick

The way to make money is to buy when blood is running in the streets.

Sound advice from one of the richest men to have ever lived. I’m not sure he meant it quite so literally as this day and age has taken it, but the truth is, there is blood in the streets, and it’s not all created equal. There’s blue blood, and those are the rivers that spin the wheels of politics and businesses, of kingdoms and corporations, of Fortune 500 companies. They’re the shakers, the moneymakers, the mountain movers, the men of good standing. They’re the kings and princes, prime ministers and presidents, the men that other men want to be. They build their kingdoms on the backs of the red-blooded, using the muscle and sweat of people common enough to be their oxen. And there are a lot of oxen.

The real trick is weeding through all the blue and the red to find the gold at the end of the bloody fucking rainbow, and trust me when I say that I…

…am the real Trick here.

And I learned a long time ago that nothing is thicker than blood, especially if you’re a vampire. I guess that’s why I ended up at Scion tonight. For all that I have zero use for the resident rock star, his nightclub is the only place in LA where I can reach every tier of my target demographic.

AKA, vampires.

Rich ones, poor ones, new ones, old ones, ambitious ones, lazy ones, partiers, networkers, they’re all here. So while I could roll up to any nightclub in LA and unload a wallet full of dead presidents, Scion is place to be for blanketing. All the blue blood is here.

The gold blood, too.

As if on cue, the soft scent of Hermès 24 Faubourg hits my nostrils. Smells like the worst parts of Paris at high noon, and only one person I know wears it.

Speak of the devil.

Reille Reece is headed my way at a clip, her epic bitch heels tapping out a stern warning that I hear, even if I don’t plan on heeding it. She’s probably nervous that I’ll start something she can’t finish; it’s happened before, which is probably why she keeps tight tabs on me whenever I come ’round.

“Boy, there sure are a lot of slutty women here tonight.” I say, flashing teeth as I turn around, bringing her into my sights. “Oh, Reille, didn’t even see you there.” Then, because I’m a big fan of calling them as I see them, I add, “What I meant to say was… there sure are a lot of slutty women and blatant, gold-digging cum-dumpsters who can’t seem keep their legs closed here tonight. I did wonder why it smelled like fish all of a sudden.”

“Sure that’s not nostalgia?” she counters. “I mean, between London’s gutters and brothels, it might just be a visitation from the Ghost of Whores Past.”

“I told you not to talk about my mother that way,” I say, grinning. “And besides, I’m pretty sure it’s the stench of Whores Present.”

Reille crosses her arms over her chest, waiting for me to make room for her in the hallway, but instead of moving over, I get right in her way. She doesn’t shift over either, so we’re heading for each other in an old-fashioned game of chicken. When our shoulders meet, I make sure it’s hard enough that she bounces off my bicep, heading for a nasty tumble as those heels teeter. She draws in a sharp breath, hands flashing out for anything to stop her fall. I let her flail for a few tenths of a second, but at the last moment, I reach out and snag her up, drawing her against me.

“Careful,” I tell her. “Wouldn’t want to turn an ankle.”

Grudgingly, she starts to say, “Thank y—”

“Harder to twist them behind your neck that way.”

Hot fury rises on her face, a red flush moving over her features like she’s the mercury in a thermometer. I might have caught her off-guard a second ago, but now all that Big Brother, Vamp Hunter training kicks in as she hapkidos her way out of my grasp and practically twists my arm off in the process. Doesn’t matter, don’t care, because I already took what I needed: a vacutainer full of gold, a few precious milliliters of Reille’s blood. I drop the glass tube into my pocket. The tiny injector gun taps cold against my leg through the thin fabric, and it’s about as close to my dick as I ever want everyone’s favorite hoebag to be.

“Jesus, St. John,” she mutters, putting some welcome distance between us as she rubs her arm with one hand. “I think you clawed me with your coke nail.”

“Aw, is that anything to say to one of Scion’s best clients?”

Whatever else she was about to say, Reille clams up real quick, clicking her teeth together hard enough that I actually hear her grinding them. She’s probably standing there reciting some internal mantra…

I will not kill Cas’s best friend. I will not kill—

“Oh, don’t hold back your gorge on my account,” I tell her, resisting the urge to tuck my hands into perfectly-tailored, pinstripe pockets. “Might as well speak your mind. It ain’t gonna stop me from spending my hard-earned money on Scion’s over-inflated goods, and it sure as shit ain’t gonna hurt my feelings none.”

“Maybe because you have no feelings to hurt?”

I put a hand over my chest, crushing the reflective Wayfarers tucked into the open V of my dress shirt. “Right to the heart. No, wait… I think you might be spot-on about this one.” Then I laugh, like being a soulless bloodsucker is funny. “Catch you la’ah, Reille. Keep your nose clean and your legs closed, a’right?”

With a wink and a grin, I head toward the VIP suite. When she doesn’t fire off a parting shot, I get the strangest sensation, and because I know how this whole snatch-and-grab distraction works, I start skimming my hands over my wrists and various pockets. When I’m sure everything is accounted for, I give my head a shake. The eerie sense of having been had sticks with me. Our little collision was just a little too friendly, a mite more amicable than I’m generally used to.

Eh, fuck it. I have better things—and people—to do tonight, as evidenced by the growing throng in the upper VIP deck. The minute I swing through the doorway, I snag a bottle of champagne out of a chiller and raise my voice.

“’Eyo, bitches.” Two shakes and a thumb under the cork yields a fountain of Cristal. “It’s my fuckin’ birthday, motherfuckers.”

There’s a general exclamation, a lot of laughing and jostling as a couple dozen faces all turn my way, women first, because let’s face it, it’s never “bros before hoes” in a room full of hookers and booze. The guys are mine, too, though. Connections and communications, all the friends and yes-men someone could ever want, all the worker bees a guy could ever need. Sharp suits, hot women, all the things that shine up nice in the dim light of Scion’s boojie faux-terior, but I’m the center of attention, and it’s kinda the way I like it.

Don’t let it fool you, though. I am nobody’s blue blood; I’m just really goddamn good at faking it.

In a trice, I’m surrounded by a crowd of people. There are handshakes and back slaps and well-wishes that I take with a good-natured smile.

Hit it and quit it.

“Trick!” One of the girls squeals my name and grips the Cristal bottle, lifting it from my fingers and taking a heavy swig; a second later, she’s sliding long, manicured nails against my scalp and pulling my head down for a champagne kiss. Now, there are vamps out there who can swallow down a few sips of the good stuff, but I’m not one of them, so when her wet mouth opens over mine, I make damn sure she gets all her bubbly back in trade. I just take the wolf whistles and howls, grinning wide and handing her off to the rabid crowd. Props to her for the effort, but anyone who tries to cram a mouthful of human food down my gullet is barking up the wrong fucking tree. She can go the hell home with someone else.

Shoulda just opened a vein, precious. Woulda had a better chance.

“Trick.” Matthias’s voice catches my attention.

I lift an arm as he sidles closer, throwing the heavy limb over his shoulders. People fall away from us; now that I’ve made my grand entrance, it’s back to the women, back to the celebration, because it’s all just one big excuse to throw a party. Hell, it’s not even my real birthday. It’s just a day, the same day every year, except that back in my day, there were too many rats in the gutter to remember each one’s specific date of birth. In all honesty, I’m not sure exactly how old I was when I got changed. Somewhere between thirty and thirty-five, if I had to take a guess. “I thought Xaine fired your ass.”

Matty scowls when he answers. “He did. Had to pay the cover charge to get in tonight.”

“You must have fucked up colossally for Xaine to have even noticed.” Not that I give a shit, but we try to take care of our own, and Matty unceremoniously becoming unemployed is going to cause a ripple in the family pond.

“Don’t look now,” he says, changing the subject, “but they all pitched in again.”

I heave a sigh. “Jesus-ass-Christ. How many of these bitches do I have to fuck before they stop buying me more bitches to fuck?”

Matty grins at me. He’s young and dumb, barely fifty in actual years, just about twenty-five by vamp time. Dark hair and a pretty face, he’s the latest edition to our demented family unit. God only knows where Roman dug him up. Or why, really. He’s not exactly the paragon of success that the rest of us turned out to be. Hell, I’m no winner in the humanities department, but Matty, well, I don’t think I’ve seen him be a winner at a single thing in nearly three decades of knowing his stupid ass.

“Just a thought,” he says, “but maybe if you quit fuckin’ ’em, they’ll quit buyin’ ’em?”

“Hey,” I say, pulling us both up short. “I never turn down free pussy, and I never met a bitch I wouldn’t bang at least once.”

And at least one that I’ve only banged once.

“Then quit’cher’bitchin’ man,” Matty tells me, matter-of-fact for such a little shithead. “I wish someone would buy me a hooker for my birthday.”

I grin and say, “I bought you a hooker last year, remember?”

The look Matty gives me is sour. “That might have been a hooker, but it was also a dude in women’s clothes.”

“She was still hot, and you need to learn to diversify your assets,” I say, but I’m not paying much attention to him anymore. Scanning the crowd, I’m looking-without-looking for the one damn thing that I’m determined to find. It’s easy enough to pick her out, because that head of red stands in pretty heavy contrast to the mostly-monotone of everyone and everything else. She’s propped up against the bar by herself; for some reason, that aloneness tickles a piece of satisfaction inside me. Doesn’t matter, don’t care, she’s free to do what she wants, free to do who she wants, so long as she shows up for the Friday parties. “You can have mine, if you want. Don’t say I never gave you nothin’.”

Except when I cut a glance over at Matty, that little fucker is staring at the same bit of red. As soon as he feels my eyes on him, though, he’s smart enough to clear his throat, avert his gaze, and offer up, “Both of them?”

“Both of what?”

“The women they bought you,” he says. “You said I could have ’em.”

“They bought me two?” I’m actually a little incredulous now. It’s not like I don’t have my own stable of females, women at my beck and call twenty-four-seven. I don’t really need more, except that it’s become something of a tradition, I guess.

“Yeah,” Matty jerks his chin in the direction of the brightly-clad birds leaned up against the bar. These two, they look like hookers, and I start thanking every god whose name I know that I am completely immune to STDs. “So, you takin’ ’em home or what?”

I consider the pair for a second, and that’s apparently a second longer than the extent of Matty’s patience. He stares up at me expectantly, tapping his fingers against his thigh through a pair of dark, fade-wash jeans, fidgeting for all he’s worth.

“Yeah, I guess,” I tell him, although the phrase lacks all the requisite enthusiasm. Seriously, I like to pick my own pussy, but if I reject a gift, someone’s gonna be butt-hurt in the morning. Leaving the hoes for later, I turn my attention to the bros at hand. “Oy, you seen Cas?”

“Yeah,” Matty says, nodding at a table near the railing before he adds, “he’s over there.”

“Of course he is,” I say, because in typical Caspian Declan fashion, he’s isolated himself from everyone else at the party. Here, but not here. Present, but apart. Sitting alone, staring down at the stage like the answers to life are to be found in Xaine’s whiney emo-boy lyrics.

Yeah, when hell freezes over.

“Yo, Declan.” I raise my voice enough to be heard above the general din. The sandy-blond head turns slowly at the sound of his name, one eyebrow raised in question. There’s no definable expression on his face, just the usual vague boredom. “Life of the party as always, I see.”

I’m already moving toward him, pulling the glossy sheaf of bound papers from my back pocket. It’s been rolled into a tube, so when it hits the table with a slap, it doesn’t quite lay flat. But it’s easy to read the title and the topic. Easy to see Xaine’s idiot face grinning a fangy grin from the shiny cover.

Sexiest Man Alive.

“Number two again.” I slide onto the nearest chair, straddling it and propping my forearms on the table’s edge so my piece doesn’t dig into my back. “Everyone loves a rock star, mate. Don’t feel bad, though. You can have one of my hookers if you want.”

Cas gives the tiniest, most aristocratic snort a man can manage. “Two this year?” he says in that dry British drawl of his. “Well, that’s impressive. Your friends, they seem to swing at opposites. This year, it’s two jaded harlots. Last year, it was one barely-legal virgin.”

My gaze flickers sideways again, seeking and finding that bobbing head of too-red curls. It’s the quickest glance, but Caspian Declan doesn’t miss a single thing, ever, so I know he caught it. There’s the barest pull at the corner of his lips; to anyone else, it would look like the beginning of a snarl, but I know him better than that.

“You forgot about the midget three years back,” I remind him, then add, “She was really fucking tight. And she made my dick look huge. I swear I looked like goddamn Godzilla next to her pussy.”

Cas just raises a heavy crystal glass to his lips and offers a slight nod over the rim. “Charming, Patrick, as always.”

There’s a second glass on the table, seemingly untouched. It’s sitting right in front of me and the scent of really expensive Scotch is wafting up in subtle, smoky waves. I stare at the cup for a second, tapping my foot against the floor and scanning the immediate area for clues: no lipstick ring, no stray red hairs, no tacky perfume, no nothing.

At least he didn’t fall off the wagon.

“You gotta hot date?” I say. “’Cause whoever was sitting in my chair left behind a comfy-warm ass divot.”

“Not that it’s any of your business, Goldilocks,” Cas tells me, his face a mask of cool indifference, “but yes, there was a woman sitting in your chair.”

“And she didn’t stay? Wow, mate, you are such a desperate loser.” I grin at him, mostly because we both know that of the two of us, Caspian Declan is most definitely not the loser. In fact, as far as the game of life goes, I’m not sure he’s ever lost at anything.

“She wasn’t my type,” Cas says.

“Yeah, I forgot you like ’em well broken in,” I say. “And while we’re on the subject—”

“No.”

“You haven’t even heard what I’m gonna say!” It comes out a little petulant.

“You’re going to ask me again for a blood sample from Mireille,” he says dryly. “We’ve been through this.”

“But you don’t even know what it could do,” I shoot back. “Look what we did with the other samples. Made millions from one little serum.”

“Reille’s not like the other donor. She’s—” He pauses, thinking, and I lean in close to wait for the answer, but he just finishes with, “volatile.”

True enough.

“Fine,” I say, huffing out a sigh. I don’t like to lie to Cas, but I’ve got the sample already, and I don’t actually need his permission to do what I plan to do with it. “I’ll leave her alone.”

And I will, because it’s a fait accompli as far as I’m concerned, and I have zero desire to lay one more finger on Caspian Declan’s skank of choice.

Cas doesn’t answer, just brings the glass to his lips again and turns his face toward the stage. Xaine’s down there with his newest plaything, a blonde I vaguely recognize from a grainy dossier picture that Cas showed me earlier this year. It takes less than a second for me to bring all the pieces together, my eyes flashing back and forth between my best mate to the girl onstage.

“That’s her, innit?” I say. Cas doesn’t look at me, just gives a nod and drawing in a deep breath that he releases slowly. “Well, that’s just perfect. Does X know?”

“No,” Cas says, his voice a grim monotone. “Not yet.”

The threat is there, though. The unspoken knowledge that if Xaine crosses the line, action will be taken. I would almost feel bad for the guy, except that he’s such a fucking twatwaffle that it’s hard to dig up much in the way of soft feelings for the oldest of Roman’s progeny.

“Do you think he’s cracked her seal yet?”

“Knowing Xaine the way I know Xaine,” Cas says, his countenance clouding over, “he probably didn’t even make it one night before he ‘cracked her seal.’”

“D’ye think he noticed?” I have to ask. “Y’know… that she’s different?”

Cas snorts. “Knowing Xaine the way I know Xaine—”

He repeats the phrase, but cuts off at the end, leaving silence hanging in its own wake. The implication remains, and we both know the truth of it: the Sexiest Man Alive might be the cock of the walk, but he’s still a narcissistic arsehole of the first order. Has been for four hundred years. The one and only time I ever saw him notice anything outside his own vice and desire was…

Elizabeth.

And I’m pretty sure that where X was concerned, she was vice and desire.

“What about the Legacy goons?” I ask, because anything is more cheerful than Cas, Xaine, and their two-hundred-year-old feud. “You heard from them yet?”

Cas’s tiger eyes peel themselves away from the stage, scouring me from head to toe with the sort of slow appraisal one might get from an actual jungle cat. It’s a long moment before he even deigns to answer, and then he only says, “Yes, but thankfully not in regard to Ms. Chase.”

“And?”

“They have no leverage. Nothing that I want. Nothing they can use against me. I have no family that they’re aware of, and my only friends are also on the list of desirables. They wouldn’t destroy you to recruit me. Wouldn’t destroy me to recruit Roman. They want the full set, Patrick: wisdom, money, power, and fame.”

“Spectacles, testicles, wallet, and watch?” I say, then add, “And just in case you were wondering, I’m the testicles.”

“No doubt,” he says, wry as anything.

“What does the Legacy want from you? What are they trying to get?”

Stone cold, those deadly amber irises focus on my face. “I suspect that they’d very much like me to spearhead their political campaign. At least, that’s the impression I got. There’s also my research. I’m days away from achieving FDA approval for the PL-220. Once that happens, it’s worth at least a cool billion to anyone who owns the rights. Not only that, but Declan Corporation owns half the world in one way or another. If they had me, they’d have a foothold everywhere. Allies across every continent. Have they come to you yet?”

“Yeah,” I say, then hesitate for a second, because one face flashes through my mind. One and only one, but it’s the first person my brain reaches for when I start flipping through the mental Rolodex of Leverage. “Same deal. They’ve got nothin’ on me. Found out real quick that I’m not sympathetic to their cause, gave up real quick when they realized they couldn’t coerce me into cooperating. They can meddle in my business affairs, but that would be bloody, fucking stupid. Outing me to the gen pop wouldn’t be in their best interests, either. He who controls the spice, and whatnot.” I tilt back in the chair a bit, cocking my head toward the table on my left, which is littered with narcotic paraphernalia. “Pretty sure they want the rundown on my biz. Every time Sebastard Winters turns up, he’s sniffin’ around the Tranq, asking a fuckton of questions, making jokes about the Colonel’s Secret Recipe. He’s about as subtle as my foot up his arse is gonna be, if he doesn’t fuckin’ chill.”

I mean, I get it. My stuff is hot stuff, streaking through the doll scene quick as a whip, leaving nothing but happy customers and empty grocery shelves in its wake. It’s the bathtub-gin version of the drug Cas is slowly but surely scooting through the FDA; a crystal-clear, super-concentrated, platelet-based pre-bite serum for humans that’s completely, one hundred percent harmless. It takes the edge off the blood-hunger for the vamps and mellows the mortals out faster than Vicodin, Percs, or good ol’ fashioned ganja. It metabolizes out of the system slick as a whistle, though the humans end up with a raging hard-on for pancakes the morning after. Best part of the whole deal? It’s completely mine. I developed the goddamn thing in my lab down south, way south, distilled straight-up from the blood sample Cas passed off to me about a year back.

“Word on the street is that he’s been trying to cook up his own version, but Sebastard is no chemist,” I say. “Or biologist.”

“Unless he knows what to test for,” Cas says, “he’s never going to puzzle it through, but I’d be on the lookout for an imitation nonetheless. Hopefully he won’t kill anyone with whatever cocktail he mixes up. Heaven help us if he manages to figure anything out.”

Which is, frankly, all the more reason to take a closer look at the forbidden fruit in my pocket.

“So, for now it’s an impasse,” Cas adds, “but how long do you think that’s going to last?”

“Forever,” I say with no little confidence. “Don’t rock the boat, and things’ll stay as they are.”

Cas nods his head in the direction of the stage but doesn’t bother to take his eyes off me. “And what exactly, do you call that?”

I shift my attention outward, downward, leaning heavily against the chair back as my ears catch on the music. Below me, past the flashing gel lamps and bobbing sea of bodies, there’s a perfect tableau of dark and light: Xaine and Lourdes Chase. It’s all old news and new news, history versus youthful optimism, ennui and anticipation. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen the sort of emotion out of Xaine that he’s displaying now. There’s something there, something more than just blood and fucking, although I have no doubt there’s plenty of that in the mix as well.

“That’s Elizabeth’s song,” Cas’s voice pulls me back. I turn my eyes toward him, but he’s not looking at me, he’s looking at them. “He wrote it for her. It’s like some part of Xaine just knows. Some pathological, subconscious piece—”

“The Sexiest Man Alive piece.” I glance at the magazine on the table between us. “Take what he wants when he wants it and exactly how he wants it, which is usually one of each.” I hesitate a second before adding, “You know he bounced Matty out of here on his ass for running Legacy money through the European clubs.”

“I did hear that,” Cas acknowledges. “I still don’t trust him with anything important.”

“Yeh, but you don’t trust anybody.”

“Indeed, I can count my allies on one hand.”

“I got it down to one finger,” I say, jerking my thumb at my chest. Cas gives me a bland look until I huff and flip him the bird. “Ok, fine, I trust you, too.”

“You should—” But I lose Cas’s attention the second his gaze flickers over my shoulder. All the calm impassivity drains away, and his expression goes blank. Not perfectly stoic, not bored or bemused, just blank.

Sonuvabitch.

Apparently no one told Reille that her ex was in the VIP suite, and now she’s headed toward the bar, checking with the bartender to make sure we’ve popped enough corks to make this worth her while. It isn’t until she turns around that she catches sight of Cas. Then, she stops dead in her tracks. I swear to fuckin’ god, it’s like watching a train wreck, because I’m horrified, but I just can’t look away. It’s the first time they’ve seen each other in a month, and girly’s face goes red as her hair in two seconds flat.

I honestly don’t know whether she’s about to blow a fuse or blush herself into oblivion, but the minute Cas’s arse leaves the chair, I find myself muttering, “Whatever happened to not rocking the boat, mate?”

Or staying on the wagon, for that matter.

Either he doesn’t hear me or he chooses to ignore me, making his way toward her, stride even and rolling. Reille ducks her head and goes to step past him, but he catches her by the elbow, swinging her around and muttering something that I can’t hear, even with my extra-sharp senses. A shadow falls over me as Matty leans across the table, snatching up the untouched tumbler of scotch and tossing it back. He looks like he might vomit for a second, but he manages to gag just the once and school his expression in record time. I think he sometimes forgets that he’s not actually human anymore, although if he weren’t so damn busy chasing after everyone’s else’s greener pastures, he might turn out to be a decent person. Right now, though, he’s just a washed-up Ferris Bueller wannabe, drinking someone else’s expensive scotch, wishing for things he can’t have, and getting one step closer to complete and utter implosion.

He drops into the chair that Cas just vacated, youthful face contorted in disgusted disbelief. “Aren’t you gonna stop him?”

All that gets out of me is a huff of something that’s not really amusement. “You don’t stop Cas Declan, fuckwit. Nothing stops Cas Declan.”

As promised, the fight escalates in seconds. Anger sparks before it ignites, and then Cas has his fingers twined in the bracelet at Reille’s wrist, twisting the silver chain until the links clamp down on her pale skin.

“Well then, aren’t you at least going to help her?” Matty asks, raising his hand to scratch at his temple.

“Nah, there’s no help for her. Reille Reece is a lost cause, my friend. Fang-whore for life.”

“What if Cas kills her?” Matty’s eyes follow me as I rise from my chair, jerking my jacket down and slipping the front buttons through the holes.

“He won’t.”

“How do you know?”

An irritated sigh escapes me, tinged with no little bit of disgust. “Because the fucking sod loves her. That’s why.”

“That doesn’t look like love to me,” Matty says, flicking a sidelong at Cas and Reille.

That gives me pause, and I glare down at Matty until he turns those earnest eyes toward me. He gives a shrug as if to ask what I’m staring at; in return, I give him my best intimidator of a face. I can actually see the moment he starts to doubt himself, throat working, eyes shifting briefly away as if he’s looking for escape.

“And what, exactly,” I say, “do you think love looks like?”

He looks up at me like a damn kid. “I dunno.”

“Precisely.” There’s a flash of silver out of the corner of my eye, but I ignore it. Matty springs from his seat, taking two anxious steps toward the duo at the door. Before he has the chance to take two more, my hand flashes out, palm pressed to his chest. “Leave ’em alone. Cas knows what he’s doing.”

His green eyes shift back and forth, but it only takes a second for him to submit, his gaze hitting the floor as he holds his hands up in surrender. “All right, fine.”

I nod once I’m sure he’s not going to disobey. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go collect my birthday pussy and head home.”

I didn’t lie to Matty; I try not to lie unless I have to. People die for love, people kill for it, people disrupt the status quo for it. Love is a fucking battlefield, and it does crazy things to a man.

Napoleon and Josephine.

Even on his death bed, years after the affairs and lies and abandonment.

Romeo and Juliet.

There’s a manic sort of desperation, a rash impulsiveness that rules all thought.

Caesar and Cleopatra.

It defies all logic, ignores all opposition, makes no fuckin’ sense.

My life is simple: make the drugs, run the drugs, sell the drugs, launder the money. Shmooze the traffickers, play the facade, and whatever else happens? No fucking attachments. No family, no females, no friends who can’t take a few bullets to the face. I always carry a gun. I watch where I’m going. And I stay alert every single second of every day.

I love my life; it’s an adrenaline junkie’s wet dream.

“’Allo, ladies.” Sidling up between my matching bookends for this evening, I grin as I squeeze myself into their collective cleavage. Flinging my arms over their shoulders, I lead Carla and Starla away from the bar. They’ve got enough liquor in them that they’re giggling like idiots before we even hit the doorway. “Who’s up for a rousing game of Rainbow? First girl to make my dick look like a candy cane gets to ride it.”

Yup, I’m good with things just as they are. Love is a bloody fucking mess.

Heloise and Abelard.

Not worth losing my cock over.

Ever.

Table of Contents

DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE - Lore
CHAPTER TWO - Xaine
CHAPTER THREE - Lore
CHAPTER FOUR - Xaine
CHAPTER FIVE - Lore
CHAPTER SIX - Xaine
CHAPTER SEVEN - Lore
CHAPTER EIGHT - Xaine
CHAPTER NINE - Xaine
CHAPTER TEN - Lore
CHAPTER ELEVEN - Xaine
CHAPTER TWELVE - Lore
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - Xaine
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - Lore
CHAPTER FIFTEEN - Xaine
CHAPTER SIXTEEN - Lore
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Xaine
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - Lore
CHAPTER NINETEEN - Lore
CHAPTER TWENTY - Xaine
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE - Lore
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - Xaine
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - Lore
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - Xaine
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE - Lore
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX - Xaine
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN - Lore
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT - Xaine
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE - Lore
EPILOGUE - Lore
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Excerpt from LOOSE CANON (Lost Angeles, Book 2)