Hot water struck Temperance. It wet long black hair and flowed over slick olive-toned skin in a caress that never failed to harden Demetri’s cock.

She knew he was on the other side of the glass shower door. She’d known the minute he stepped into the bathroom but was pretending she didn’t instead of sending him a come-fuck-me invitation.

He grinned and tugged off his tank top. Two could play at this game.

His shorts followed the tank top to the floor and his cock bobbed and licked across his abs. She did it for him. Some days it still surprised him just how much he could want her—all of her. She’d become his inspiration, his motivation.

He wanted to make good for her. His days of hard drinking and engaging in risky, anonymous sex were over, not that he was ready for the white-picket fence and the two point five kids.

Not that she was either. She had her shop. He had his art.

Right now all they needed was each other. And before the picket fence, before the kids, it’d be better to find their third.

He rubbed his fingertips over his nipples and his hips gave a quick jerk as pleasure streaked straight to his dick. Until Temperance, he’d never wanted to be with a woman more than he did another man. He wouldn’t again. When it came to the female sex, she was his one very permanent exception.

The night she’d come into the club where he worked as a bartender to support his real passion, his art, he’d known he wanted to be with her forever. Later, stretched naked on the futon in his studio, she’d said their meeting was fated. Told him about going with a friend earlier in the day for a tarot reading and drawing The Lovers card from the deck.

He’d agreed then that it had to be fate.

He agreed now, she was his fate.

On the other side of the shower door she turned her back to the water then smoothed soapy hands over her breasts. She teased dark, beautiful nipples into sultry pouts.

He licked lips that suddenly ached to clamp and suck. She took her nipples between her fingers and tugged rhythmically.

His cock pulled away from his body in time to her movements. Fuck if he hadn’t already lost this game.

He curled his hand around his shaft and shuddered with need. His dick pulsed against his palm and he dragged his eyes downward to her pussy.

The steamed glass only allowed an impression of the tiny black triangle of hair that pointed and issued a command. He loved being inside her, but he loved sucking her clit almost as much. It probably came with being bi, closer to gay than straight. Then again, he loved everything about Temperance.

He closed his eyes to shore up his resistance. If he didn’t he’d be on his knees the moment he joined her in the shower.

A laugh escaped though it was more of a pant acknowledging her power over him. They both knew that when it came to pleasure, he was her slave.

He opened his eyes and at least had enough stamina to stroke his shaft long enough to drive one of her hands to her pussy.

That made the ache in his dick worse. Much worse.

A few steps took him to the shower. He tightened his fist on his cock before opening the door and joining Temperance beneath the water.

Her mischievous smile had his heart lifting and his lips curving upward. She said, “I thought maybe you’d decided being with a woman didn’t do it for you anymore.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and a leg around his hip then rubbed her pussy against his dick. His hips bucked. He moaned and forced her backward against the wall.

Pressing his cock against her swollen clit, he said, “Does this feel like I’ve lost interest?”

Dark lashes dipped. Her tongue darted out and traced her upper lip. “I’m not sure.”

He placed open-mouth kisses along her shoulder and up her neck, smiled at her soft moan and arched back, at the press and rub of her nipples against his chest.

He bit her neck, sucked, tasting Temperance and honeysuckle. They had body paints, but from the beginning, he was content to have nothing between her skin and his fingertips and tongue.

She shivered as he approached her ear, shivered harder when he reached it and sucked her earlobe. “Demetri,” she said, her hands going to his nipples.

It was enough to have his dick screaming for her touch. He fucked his tongue into her ear and she grasped his nipples, tugging and twisting and sending fire streaking to his cock so it jerked for her like a puppet on a string.

He palmed her ass and kissed his way to her mouth. “What about now? Convinced I’m interested?”

“Almost,” Temperance said, aching with the need to have him inside her. Whether she was with him or not, men and women both hit on him, drawn by his dark-angel face and shoulder-length black hair, by an artist’s soul in a totally fuckable body.

She sucked his bottom lip and he shuddered, ground his cock against her clit. He wanted to go down on her. He loved to bury his face between her thighs. Loved it more when she had his cock in her mouth, sucking as he sucked. Licking as he licked.

Liquid hunger pooled in her lower lips, parting them so she was open for him. Ready for his tongue and the hard length of his penis.

She brushed her thumbs back and forth over his nipples. Followed it with twisting pinches meant to blend pain and pleasure.

Before Demetri, she’d never played sex games. She’d never trusted anyone enough to let them tie her up. Then again, Demetri easily switched roles so he was the one tied to the bed and on the receiving end of carnal discipline and sensual torment.

Arousal slid from her opening, heated like the water striking her skin. Anticipation pounded into her in time to the race of his heart against her palm and the throb where his cock pressed to her mound.

His tongue tangled with hers. Stroked and rubbed and twined. His fingers speared her hair, pinning her to the slick tile.

With a moan he took his mouth off hers. “Say it.”

Needy ache throbbed in her nipples and pussy.

Sometimes he made her beg. Sometimes he ordered her to pleasure him. But this time, the tone of his voice said he was in the mood to prove he was her slave.

“Get down on your knees,” she said. “Put your mouth on me.”

She reinforced the command with a hard squeeze to his nipples and his hips jerked, his cock spasmed.

He panted and closed his eyes. Opened them and met hers to let her see just how turned on he was, then kissed downward, stopping to lick and suck her nipples. To bite them and share the pain.

Her fingers tangled in the long strands of his silky black hair, tugged in silent demand. Need rippled from her breasts to her pussy and her channel clenched, opening and closing, hungry for his tongue, his cock, his fingers.

Heat filled her belly. She loved him. She loved this game.

She canted her hips and rubbed against him. “Just like a cat,” he teased, “a pussy that wants attention.”

She retaliated by tugging on his hair and pulling him lower.

He went, leaving a heated trail with his tongue, a stinging path of nips across her abdomen. He reached her mound and draped her leg over his shoulder for better access.

“Beautiful,” he said, his voice holding a lover’s appreciation and an artist’s.

“You always say that.”

“That’s because it’s always true.”

He nuzzled her mound. Inhaled. She was bare except for a tiny triangle of pubic hair. She’d left it for him because he loved the play of lines and shapes, curves and textures.

Demetri pressed his mouth to her sex and pleasure blasted into every place he kissed and licked. “More,” she said, thrusting against his face, rubbing slick folds over his lips, her hands clenching and unclenching in his hair.

He fucked his tongue into her slit, retreated. Did it again. And again. Tormented her with the promise of a release kept out of reach until she demanded what she needed. “Suck me.”

He latched on to her clit and icy-hot shards of sweet sensation spiked to her toes and into her nipples. Her hips jerked in time with his sucks.

She closed her eyes and leaned over him, hands on his back. Her fingernails scraped over his skin. Her reality narrowed to the ecstasy centered in her clit.

He stopped sucking and she cried out, dug her nails into him. His mouth formed a tight seal around her stiffened clit. He flicked and rubbed his tongue over the naked head in a demand she couldn’t refuse—and master became slave.

She straightened and fucked through his closed lips as if her clit was a tiny penis. Her whimpers blended with the sound of her rapid breathing as need and pleasure layered, sharpened and became too much to bear.

“Please,” she begged. “Please, Demetri.”

He sucked her again and it was all she needed. Her head tilted back and her body blissed out in a rush of heat.

Demetri stood and lifted her. Holding her against the wall, he guided his cock to her opening, inserting just the head. Moaned with the hot clench of her slick channel.

He was desperate to get inside her but he resisted. He wouldn’t last long. He was too close to coming.

His eyes met hers and his heart swelled. Luck. The Fates. It didn’t matter how she’d ended up in his life, he was just glad to be with Temperance.

Before her, lust and love and gender hadn’t always completely meshed. There’d been times he’d had to close his eyes to become aroused enough to fuck a woman. That never happened with her. He only had to think of her to need and want her. He craved the intimacy he experienced with her. Love and desire were as intertwined as their two bodies during sex.

“Do you want me to beg?” The slumberous post-orgasmic look was now the fuck-me expression of a born seductress.

She licked her lips in a siren call for him to lean in. Her tongue darted out, caressed his lower lip before she took it in her mouth and bit.

She shivered at the decadent pleasure at tasting her arousal on him. “Sex with you has got to be a sin,” she said, and he deepened the kiss, pushed his cock into her in a forceful thrust.

She moaned and clung, the wall against her back and his arm around her ass keeping her just where he wanted her. He pistoned in and out, harder, faster. And she came again, her pussy clamping on his dick and demanding total surrender.

He gave it to her. Panted her name as shudder after shudder racked his body in a high that was better than alcohol or drugs.

Temperance unwound her legs from Demetri’s waist. Her feet landed on the wet tile and he sagged against her dramatically. Not that they wouldn’t do this again in a heartbeat regardless of who might have been solo in the shower.

She turned off the shower before the hot water ran out and they got blasted with cold. He said, “What’s that term they use on those cop shows you love?”

“Circling the drain.”

“Yeah, that’s the one. That’s how I feel, like I’m circling the drain.”

She bit his lower lip in a playful rebuke. “Not very romantic. Especially for an artist. You should be speaking in French, talking about la petite mort. The little death.”

“That’d describe it too. Now I need a nap.”

“Poor Demetri.”

“Believe it or not, I came in to tell you something. But then I got sidetracked by the sight of your naked body and what you were doing with your hands.”

“So you’re saying sex was the last thing on your mind when you stepped into the bathroom?”

He pressed his mouth to the place where her neck met her shoulder and smiled against her skin. “I’m taking the Fifth, except to point out that I am a guy, Tempe.”

She curled her fingers around his semihard cock. It pulsed against her palm and revived. “Yeah. Definitely a guy.”

He gave her a love bite then followed it with the swipe of his tongue. “Hunter called. That’s what I came in to tell you.”

“About Jason?”

“He’s heading for another breakup.”

Which meant he’d come back to Demetri. Which meant the hardening in Demetri’s cock wasn’t only because she had her hand around it. He still cared about Jason.

It would be easy to be jealous and insecure. Once she would have been—had been, though not of Demetri.

Her throat locked and she rubbed her thumb where she’d once worn Ryan’s engagement ring. The memories of him were always strongest around this time of the year, of his being home on leave, partying with friends. Of her walking in to find him kissing another girl—or the girl kissing him.

She hadn’t waited around, just thrown the engagement ring at him and fled, full of teenage hormones, foolish and self-absorbed, a stranger to herself.

She should have talked to him before he deployed. Or taken his calls after he’d gotten to the Middle East. Or even written him a letter…

Too late now. Time couldn’t be rewound. And she’d grown up since Ryan. She knew what she needed to be happy. She’d gained the courage to live life on her own terms.

Demetri caught her left hand and carried it to his mouth. “I never even met him, but I know he’d say, Let it go, Tempe. I forgive you.”

She blinked back tears. “Thanks.”

“That’s what I’m here for, to keep you moving forward and not looking back.”

She laughed. “I notice you didn’t say, to keep you on the straight and narrow.”

“Well, since I’m not totally straight…”

She brushed her thumb over Demetri’s cock head. He thrust reflexively.

“I can’t share you with Jason.” He was funny and sweet, flamboyantly gay and proud of it. He was also sensitive, needy, very high maintenance and always surrounded by drama.

She liked him, even loved him. But she’d end up feeling excluded and left out. Even if Jason were bi, he couldn’t be more than a friend.

Demetri gave her a quick kiss. “The right guy will come along. For both of us.”

“I wish it would happen soon.”

“Me, too. But until then it’s just you and me forever, Tempe. And if you kill me off with the great sex, we’ll just do it as ghosts.”

A chill swept up her spine. She used to joke about sensing ghosts, but she’d never actually been scared of them until the old bookseller had manifested more strongly in the building she rented from her gramps.

Before that, the occasional glimpse was kind of cool. But once he’d become scared that someone was going to discover his treasure…

She shivered and Demetri’s arms tightened. “You okay?”

“Thinking about the ghost in my shop.”

“Bryn and Atticus took care of him. He’s gone.”

“I know.” And thanks to the stuff they’d discovered the ghost was guarding there’d be enough money for a lot more inventory. Plus she could help others be successful at doing the things they loved.

At the top of her list was sponsoring a multi-artist exhibit that’d showcase some of Demetri’s work. He hadn’t wanted her to at first, had said she should put the money into Vintage Threads, but she’d finally talked him into letting her do it for him—for them.

He’d believed in her, told her she had what it took to own her own store. He’d convinced her that being too afraid to go for her dream was the true meaning of failure.

“I love you,” she said, the feeling welling up inside her, sharp and intense and forever.

“I love you too.” He hugged her then reached over and opened the shower door. “Atticus come by the shop this morning?”

“Yes, with his brothers. They wiped me out of 1920s and ‘30s stuff for men.”

He stepped out of the shower, tugging her after him. “I’ve got to get dressed and head to the club. It’s my turn to do inventory. After that I’m filling in for Mark while he’s at Lamaze class with his girlfriend. You going back to Vintage Threads?”

“Today’s the day Ava is picking up her bridesmaid dress and giving me the check for the book. Plus Bryn’s coming to choose a wedding dress. She loves the idea of wearing vintage which is perfect considering she really is a ghostbuster.”

“Come to the club after you’re finished?”

“Definitely.”

He snagged a towel but instead of drying himself off, crouched in front of her, his cock hard against his abs and his testicles hanging beneath, causing heat to flare in her pussy and her channel to spasm.

He placed the soft material on either side of her ankle. Dried her skin there and slowly moved upward, over her calf and knee and thigh, stopping with his hand between her legs.

She was hot and needy again. “I thought you were in a hurry to leave.”

Demetri lapped his tongue over her clit. She was a sweet temptation he couldn’t resist. “I’m never in too much of a hurry to take care of you.”

“Let’s use the bed this time.”

As if to enforce her will, her hands went to her breasts. Her fingers captured dark nipples and squeezed.

His cock jerked and left a wet lick of arousal on his abdomen. “Circe,” he said against her pussy, suddenly feeling the same sense of expectancy he had the night he met her, that something important was about to happen, not just in his life or hers, but theirs.

Tonight was the first step for her. Maybe she wouldn’t be with Lucca and Quade in the way she wanted it. There was every possibility she could never be more than Tripp’s widow to them, even if there’d been times when she’d looked up unexpectedly and thought she saw desire in their eyes. Maybe they weren’t ready to let go of the past and the guilt they felt over Tripp’s death. But tonight she’d share a bed and experience the fantasy of being with two men who enjoyed taking a dominant role to a woman’s submissive one. If not Quade and Lucca, then the men Lyric had lined up.

Thinking about the woman married to her vice cop cousin, and the one she’d been named after, Kieran, made Kiera smile. The Burke men were all macho, saved from being complete cavemen by their absolute loyalty to the women in their families, and a code of honor requiring them to protect and serve. They preferred their wives to stay at home or work in professions viewed as safe, and they liked them law-abiding.

As far as Kiera was concerned, the oh so bossy Kieran got what he deserved when he got married. Lyric Montgomery was a private detective who didn’t see the same line between legal and illegal as he did. She’d blurred the edges in his life to the point he’d even managed to accept the reality of his baby sister being married to Benito but also sharing her life and bed with Benito’s brother, Dante.

Calista had paved the way for others by daring to live her dream. Kiera knew she wasn’t the only one who’d watched the reaction of the various family members and determined she could live with the consequences.

If this plan concocted while sitting in the hot tub with Lyric and Calista led to a future with Quade and Lucca, she knew there would be times when choosing an alternative lifestyle would be uncomfortable. The Burkes were passionate by nature and rarely kept their opinions to themselves when it came to loved ones. But at the end of the day, while they might rant and rave, argue and scowl, they still remained close-knit, loyal and protective of their own.

Kiera glanced down at her left hand. A pale line marked the place where her engagement ring and wedding band had lain against her skin.

Taking them off had been hard, despite knowing it was time. Doing it was symbolic, a milestone reached in the grieving and healing process, but she still felt naked without them. More alone somehow.

Before she could stop herself, she looked at the picture taken on her wedding day. An ache moved through her chest, almost nothing compared to the agony of those first months, that first year without Tripp.

She accepted the lingering pain, was glad for it. She didn’t want to forget. She just wanted to move on, had to. At twenty-six, she’d been a widow almost as long as she was a wife.

Kiera reached over and picked up Calista’s hand, needing the comfort and reassurance of touch. “Whatever happens tonight, I’m ready.”

It was so much more than that. She needed to do this, to submit and melt the part of her that felt frozen now, afraid to love deeply because losing again would destroy her.

The dogs jumped off the couch and rushed to the door. Calista squeezed Kiera’s hand. “Good. Because I think Lyric’s here.”

A flutter went through Kiera’s chest. An answering one followed in her belly.

She rose from the couch, feeling as nervous as a virgin getting ready to go on a first date. A knock on the door drew her forward, away from the past and into the future.

Lyric greeted her with a hug and a question. “This still a go?”

Kiera returned the hug. “It’s a go.”

“Great. Tyce and Jake are already at The Red Zone and waiting for an intro.” Lyric released her with a grin. “Not that they’d really need me to point you out to them for a threesome. As soon as you walk in they’ll be up for the task of delivering pure pleasure if Lucca doesn’t rise to the occasion and take you home with him.”

Calista snickered and joined them at the door, picking up a wriggling black dachshund. “You’re bad, Lyric.”

“I just call it the way I see it. We should head out now. Let Benito know we’re on our way so he can get Lucca there before Kiera gets lost in the sexual fog surrounding Jake and Tyce.”

“I’ll do it,” Calista said. She gave Kiera a quick hug and said, “Go for it. Don’t worry about the dogs. They can stay at my place all weekend. You deserve to be happy and carefree.”

So do Lucca and Quade, Kiera thought, desire rippling through her and starting to pool in her cunt at the prospect of standing between them naked, of having their eyes and hands roam her body and their cocks harden as they looked at her, touched her.

He hated humans now as fiercely as he’d hated them for centuries. If not more so.

They were dust, the walking dead. Frail and unworthy.

They were less than the most simple of beasts.

It was their cunning, their intellect that allowed them to rule. And yet their base nature always reasserted itself.

Time and time again they raised civilization to unimaginable heights only to plunge it into a dark abyss of decadence and decay.

He’d witnessed it for more years than he could count, seen the cycles of humankind repeat themselves over and over again. Blissfully he could no longer remember all of the details.

He was old. Hundreds of years old. That much he knew from what memories he still held.

Perhaps his age could be measured in thousands. The heavy weight of his soul whispered it might be so, though why he should be so convinced he had a soul was beyond him.

His form was human, but it wasn’t his true form. He was positive in that regard. Just as he was equally sure the name resonating through him was his own. Tir. Though he hadn’t heard it spoken in centuries and would never willingly share it with any of his captors.

Was he the last of a supernatural race no longer walking the Earth? Tir didn’t know the answer. He had never met another of his kind.

Great stretches of his remembered life were spent in darkness, in damp underground catacombs, his ankles and wrists manacled. In the early days the priests and their acolytes cut out his tongue periodically so he couldn’t speak, then later, as science gave them other tools, they sewed his lips together and fed him through a needle in the arm.

He could no longer remember why his human captors feared what he might say. Apparently neither did they—though they still feared what he might do.

They were right to.

One day he would be free of the sigil-inscribed collar around his neck. When that day came and his memories poured into him along with the power he sensed at his core, he would wreak vengeance not only on the human race but on whatever beings had first enslaved him.

He would have his revenge. The promise of it had kept him sane over the centuries, given him the strength to endure torture and dismemberment, depravation and degradation.

In the cage next to Tir the human finally succumbed to his injuries. His rattling breath was a death knell making the hyenas laugh and the lion charge.

The wereman, his body caught in a grotesque blending of cougar and human, paused in his savage assault on the bars of his cage, his lips pulling back to reveal broken teeth and a bloody mouth.

At the far end the lethal dragon lizards turned their heads, flicked their tongues out to capture the scent and taste of death. Their huge size and venomous bite, their aggressiveness, made them terrifying creatures, illegal to house or transport, though Tir had seen little evidence humans obeyed the laws they were so fond of creating.

The sound of footsteps drew Tir’s attention away from the companions he was caged alongside. He shifted his weight and the chains tethering his shackled wrists and ankles to a metal belt around his waist rattled.

There was enough play in them to allow for a shuffling walk, to allow him to scoop food into his hand and bend his torso to eat, but not enough to allow him to kill—though given the opportunity, he wouldn’t hesitate to attempt it.

His hands curled around the bars of his cell. The door at the far end opened, allowing pure sunlight into the building. His eyes stung but he didn’t close them. He let the light burn itself into his soul, let it strengthen him and feed his resolve for freedom and vengeance.

“Let’s start a fire and sit in front of it,” Laith said. “I promised Rykken you would capture his likeness on paper.”

I am only barely hanging on to my control, Rykken shot back, rising from his seat, his body protesting the thought of posing motionless even as it thrilled to the idea of being on display for Cyan.

The full heat of the Vesti mating fever was on him, had been from the moment he’d seen her captured in the headlights of the car. He wanted to strip her of her clothes, to fuck her until she acknowledged his dominance and accepted his protection, until she craved his touch as much as he now craved hers.

There was nothing gentle in what he felt. It was animal desire and raw hunger, tempered only by his deep friendship with Laith, his willingness to trust in Laith’s vision.

He stripped out of his shirt, reveled in Cyan’s small whimper, in the way she fought against looking at his chest and lost. When his hands went to the sweatpants, her whispered, “No,” made his cock pulse in protest.

“No, leave them,” Cyan said, nearly light headed from the lust pounding through her.

They wanted to share her. As soon as Laith had pulled her from the chair, told her of his promise to Rykken, she’d known. What she didn’t know was whether she wanted to accept the pleasure they offered.

It was one thing to fantasize about having two lovers, but to actually risk her heart… That’s what it would be for her, a risk with the potential of leaving her devastated. She knew herself well enough not to hide from the truth.

Casual lovers weren’t her style. She’d never been able to separate the needs of the body from the needs of the heart, the soul. And for weeks Laith had tormented her with his closeness, his sensual appeal, the mixed signals of desire and reserve that left her aching and feeling confused. To give in now then return to the way it had been… She didn’t think she could handle it and yet… She let Laith guide her to the rug in front of the hearth.

Her cunt spasmed when Rykken lay down in front of her on his side, assumed a classical pose, the same one Laith took when she’d drawn the first nude of him. She forced herself to breathe deeply, to slow the wild rush of her heart, to see Rykken as an artist’s subject instead of a man who wanted to cover her body with his.

It was almost impossible to do.

Laith started the fire then positioned him behind her. She wanted to ask why and why now. Wondered for a split second if they were bisexual, then discarded the idea, knew instinctively these two men desired only women.

Cyan fell into the rhythm of drawing, tried to keep her distance but the atmosphere in the cabin found its way into the picture, captured heat and intimacy, smoldering desire, all made more so by Laith’s presence at her back. Fantasy intruded, slowed her hand as images of being held between Laith and Rykken intruded, the two of them potent masculinity, beautiful power given perfect form.

Her breath grew short. Her cunt lips were flushed and swollen beyond bearing by the time she was done sketching Rykken. She handed the tablet to him, thought to rise and escape the cabin but Laith’s hands on her shoulders stopped her, his lips on her neck sent her resistance tumbling.

“Cyan,” he murmured in between hypnotic kisses, the sound of her name holding such profound desire she whimpered in response, closed her eyes against the thick burn of lust.

His hands moved down her arms, stilled at her waist but only long enough to push under her sweatshirt. Sanity tried to surface but it lost against the smooth glide of his palms over her abdomen, against his whispered, “Let us have you, Cyan. Let us take care of you. I’ve dreamed of this from the first moment I saw you.”

If humans had appealed to the Fallon, it soon became obvious to Iden that those on this planet were equally draw to the Amato and Vesti descendents of the Fallon. Even with their wings transmuted into unseen particles by the Ylan stones, every step was a battle. Men and women alike found a reason to stop them, some offering sex with a subtle glance or touch, others with bold words and equally bold hands.

Iden took it in stride and found immense enjoyment in watching Miciah confront what he least wanted to confront, the dual nature of his sexuality. Had Zoë known what awaited her, their mate couldn’t have picked a better place for them to meet for the first time and explore what they would soon mean to each other. There was an openness here, an atmosphere of celebration and experimentation and acceptance Iden doubted would easily be found elsewhere.

He grinned when a young male wearing eye make-up and extremely tight pants approached Miciah. But rather than let the scene play out, he spared the boy and used the moment to reinforce a message.

“He’s with me,” Iden said, closing the small distance between he and Miciah so their bare arms touched.

Desire surged between them, as it had from their very first meeting. Miciah tensed but didn’t pull away. Progress, Iden thought, satisfied for now.

Miciah’s stomach tightened into a knot even as his cock pulsed at the contact of skin against skin. He felt as though he’d been dipped in one of the lava pools found on the jungle planet of Farini, yet at the same time, he felt speared by ice.

Was his willingness to couple with another male so obvious? Had some barrier hiding the nature of his sexuality fallen when Iden forced him to admit the truth of what their relationship would be if Zoë was accepting of it?

Never had he been approached with such confidence and propositioned so blatantly by members of his own sex. It was disconcerting, terrifying if he allowed himself to worry at what it meant for his return to Belizair.

He pushed forward, noting how yet another human squinted, though the sun had long since disappeared and it was very nearly full dark. He thought back to how often he’d glimpsed a surprised, disbelieving expression as he and Iden passed, as if their wings were visible, at least for an instant, until human minds hid them as something that couldn’t exist.

Such a reaction indicated the presence of Fallon genes and there seemed to be a higher percentage of them here, among those with an artistic nature, than in the general population. Relief poured into Miciah then as he desperately latched on to the reason he’d been propositioned so many times by men. They were drawn to him because he, too, was a descendant of the Fallon, and not because they’d guessed at his fantasies of Iden.

Miciah relaxed and made a note to himself to speak with Jeqon about his observations. Bounty hunters should be sent to gatherings like this one. There could be dozens of matches…

Worry returned in a rush, of a different nature. Despite the desperate situation on Belizair, integrating large numbers of humans all at one time risked adding to the already increased tensions. Change to their world needed to be controlled. It—

Enough, Iden said, the word slicing across Miciah’s thoughts. If I were to guess I’d say you’re consumed with deliberations regarding the fate of Belizair. Forget your duties as a Council member while we are on this planet. Forming a mate-bond should take precedence. No one will fault you or judge you for focusing all of your attention on what we are trying to build for ourselves. Do you want Zoë to believe she is only a means to an end and has no value in her own right, if she’ll have us at all?

Denial screamed through Miciah—both at the thought she’d reject them and the possibility she would believe they didn’t want her for herself. Upon seeing her image he’d nearly dropped to his knees as heat surged through him with the stirring of the Vesti mating fever. When they finally reached her, it would take all his control not to pounce.

You are correct. From this moment on, I will close my mind to thoughts of Belizair or my duties there.

Good, Iden said, but his reply was lost in a roar of lust as they pushed through the last of the standing humans and glimpsed Zoë in the distance, kneeling as she unrolled a blanket and smoothed it flat on the sandy desert floor.

Need such as Miciah had never known shot through his cock like a lightning strike. A growl escaped before he could stop it when Iden moved forward purposely, his attention completely focused on Zoë.

Primitive urges assailed Miciah, the Vesti need to fight any rival who would lay claim to a chosen female. He struggled against the desire to a place himself between Zoë and Iden, to warn Iden away from her then take her to place where he could mount her repeatedly and possess her thoroughly, until his name was the only one imprinted on her heart and soul and body.

Are you coming? Iden purred into his mind.

With the words came an image of the two of them taking Zoë at the same time. It was enough to deflect the seething possessiveness brought on by the Vesti mating fever, turning it into a violent need to be inside her, his cock rubbing against Iden’s as the three of them became one.

Yes, Miciah said, easily catching up to Iden and matching him stride for stride as they maneuvered their way around couples and groups of humans sitting and lying on blankets, some of them engaged in the very activity Miciah planned to be doing shortly, lovemaking.

His jaws clenched against the need to immediately press his mouth to the tender spot at the base of her neck and let his mating teeth finally slip out of their hidden sheaths for the first time in his life. He shuddered in anticipation of the heightened pleasure that would occur at the moment of climax, when the serum making a female easy to track and that had once helped bring about pregnancy in the Vesti, would flow through his fangs. His hands fisted and unfisted as he imagined piercing her, both with his cock and his mating teeth, sinking into her body and marking her with his scent and his bite.

As if sensing their presence and their carnal intent, Zoë glanced up. Miciah felt the impact as their eyes met.

His heart thundered in his chest. His cock screamed in protest when her attention shifted to Iden.

“Exquisite,” Iden murmured, lust coiling in his belly and snaking down through his shaft until each step was sweet torture.

He’d known on Belizair that she was the one he wanted to bond with. But even knowing it, he hadn’t anticipated her true effect on him. Desire such as he’d never known crashed through him, opening a place only she would be able fill.

“We won’t leave her side until she agrees to return home with us,” Miciah said, his voice holding the unwavering resolve of a Vesti in the grip of the mating fever.

“Agreed. She is ours to pleasure and protect.”

There was no turning back now.

It was nearing midnight when the sound of the door opening woke her. “Come, they’re waiting for you,” the nun who’d escorted her to the room said.

Aisling slipped from the bed. “I’d like my clothes back.”

“They’re being washed. When they’re clean, they’ll be returned.”

It was such a small thing, considering everything that had happened and might yet happen, but the knowledge she’d soon be wearing her own clothing lifted Aisling’s spirits. “Thank you,” she whispered as Aziel reclaimed his perch on her shoulder.

The nun’s expression gentled. “Come,” she said, her voice warmer. “They’re waiting for you. I believe it must be important given the mayor’s presence.”

Aisling was led to a room. It was cold, as if it wasn’t used much and therefore wasn’t heated often. Though the nun had said the mayor waited, there were only two men in the room, one was the priest who’d come for her, the other a much older man wearing blood-red robes.

“You’ve met Father Ursu,” the unknown priest said. “I’m Bishop Routledge. Your services are needed. In exchange for a successful performance of them, you’ll be granted a license to practice your skills in Oakland. You’ll be provided with a residence in the area of town where others with controversial abilities have settled. You’ll also receive vouchers for food and transportation as well as a small fee in order to ease your transition.”

He started to turn away. Aisling said, “Father Ursu told me I’d be allowed to return home.”

The bishop halted. He smiled though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Returning home with a financial reward is a possibility. But first let’s see if you succeed tonight.”

Aisling tried to appear confident, unafraid. His voice and wording confirmed what she already knew. There was no choice about whether or not she would help them. “What service have I been brought here to perform?”

“An important constituent is in need of aid. He asked me to act as a go-between. A woman acquaintance of his has disappeared. The police haven’t been able to find out what happened to her. Our constituent wants closure, even if the news is bad. It’s not something the Church would typically condone or take part in but there are extenuating circumstances. We’re hoping a shaman or shamaness might be able to locate her, especially if her soul has already departed.”

Bishop Routledge retrieved a photograph from a table Aisling hadn’t noticed. He handed the picture to her. “The woman’s name is Elena Rousseau. I fear time is of the essence. Father Ursu will remain with you. I have other matters to attend to.”

The bishop left the room without another word. Father Ursu indicated a chair next to the table. “I’ve witnessed this kind of thing before. I won’t interfere.” He picked up a chalice and handed it to her.

Aisling managed to contain her expression and her thoughts when she glanced down to find grains of salt in the silver cup. Aziel chattered happily as he buried his hands in the white granules and threw some of the salt to the floor.

Father Ursu cleared his throat. His face was tense. “It’s nearing midnight. The police have discovered several bodies recently. We have reason to believe the victims were all murdered during the witching hour.”

Aisling wondered again what abilities he possessed. Fear lurked deep in his eyes, as if he’d seen some of the beings drawn to the dead hours of the night.

She moved to the center of the room and sat on the bare, cold floor. If she’d been at home she would have placed Aziel on her lap and enclosed them both in a circle of chalk or ash, or surrounded them with the fetishes she used when she wanted to project her astral self into the ghostlands. But here, under the watchful eye of the priest, guided more by intuition than reason, she plucked the ferret from her shoulder and set him away from her.

She dipped her fingers in the salt. It was a witch’s protection, a warlock’s. She wondered if other shamans used salt to open a doorway into the spirit world.

Tentatively Aisling enclosed herself in a salt circle. Though her eyes were closed she was aware of Father Ursu watching her. She was aware of another presence as well, of someone nearby and able to witness what happened.

She tried to still the panic deep inside herself, felt caught in a deadly spider’s web where to struggle was to become more thoroughly entangled. She focused on breathing, on steadying the rhythm of her heart, on clearing her mind of fear.

There were sigils she usually drew, but once again instinct warned her against revealing the most sacred parts of her ritual. She concentrated instead on visualizing them, on making them real in her mind as she silently called the true names of the ones who offered her protection in the spiritlands.

Her heart rate tripled as the heavy gray clouds of the spirit world rushed toward her. She held herself open and the ghost winds blew through her, seeking resistance, weakness, filling her with the terror of endless death even as they welcomed and claimed her. When they calmed and settled she looked down and saw her body, there and yet not there, naked as she always appeared in the ghostlands, her hair a curtain down her back.

Without warning a man stepped from the gray mist. His face bore the tattoos of a lawbreaker.

He licked his lips as he glanced at her naked body. His own was covered in clothing that looked expensive. He leaned forward slightly, emphasizing the fact his hands were bound behind him as they had been in the moment of his death. A metal cable served as a hangman’s noose. It twisted around his neck then trailed down his back before disappearing into the mist swirling at their feet.

“I see they’ve sent a sacrificial lamb,” he said in a raspy voice. “Or maybe that’s Elena’s role.” He cocked his head. “Then again, maybe third time’s the charm.”

Aisling resisted the urge to smooth her hands over nonexistent clothing. “You’re here to lead me to Elena?”

“I can find her if I must. Blood calls to blood and all of that.” He tilted his head. “And in a few minutes there’ll be plenty of blood. You might not need me at all by then.”

“What do you want in exchange for your aid?”

“If only it was a matter of what I want. Personally I’d leave Elena to her fate. Once I began collecting the facial artwork, my sister wouldn’t have anything to do with me.”

He smiled and some of the tattoos cataloging his crimes merged. His eyes reflected a cruel enjoyment. “It was only a matter of time before Elena became disposable. When you make your bed in a nest of vipers you eventually get bitten. But time’s wasting. In exchange for my help you’ll agree to take the good bishop’s offer. Stay in Oakland.” He laughed. “You might as well. They don’t intend for you to leave. This is only the beginning act—if you survive it, of course. You realize that, don’t you?”

Aisling’s heart raced in her chest. His words rang with the same hidden truth she’d heard in the bishop’s voice. “Who do you serve?”

“One whose name you’re not meant to hear at the moment.” He rolled his shoulders and the cable he’d been hung with shimmered, a long silver leash leading to an unseen master.

Aisling studied him. Good or evil, malicious or beneficial, with no formal training she had only her instinct to rely on when it came to the spirit guides and entities she encountered in the ghostlands. “I will stay in Oakland, for a time.”

The man cocked his head as if listening to an unspoken voice. “Good enough,” he said before turning and walking deeper into the gray landscape.

There was no sense of time or distance in the spiritlands. They may have traveled for seconds or hours, yards or miles. There was a sense of being watched but Aisling couldn’t be certain which plane it was on given Father Ursu’s presence in the room where her body awaited her return. Heat and cold brushed across her ankles, occasionally there was a phantom touch to the back of her hand.

The gray gave way to pink. The pink darkened and became blood red. Her guide stopped. “End of tour for me unfortunately.” He kicked at the red mist at his feet. “Too bad. I wouldn’t mind seeing how Elena is faring.” He tilted his head. “She’s not screaming. Could be a good sign—or a bad one.” He laughed before taking a step backward and being swallowed by the ghostlands.

Aisling closed her eyes and let herself sink into the physical world as she remained in her astral self. She was greeted by the sound of chanting, by the thick smell of burning incense mixed with blood. Her breath caught in her throat when she opened her eyes and found herself in a nightmare scene of flickering candles mounted on goat heads, of dark-robed figures surrounding an altar where Elena lay naked and spread-eagled. Sigils were painted on her eyelids and lips, on her palms and on the soles of her feet. The steady rise and fall of her chest was the only indication she was still alive.

The gleam of a blade being raised turned Aisling’s attention to a man next to the altar. He wore the headdress of a goat. The chanting stopped when be began to speak in a deep, mesmerizing voice.

The words were unfamiliar to Aisling but she could guess their meaning, their purpose. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She had no true physical presence here. She was only a witness to the events. Even if she left the room and determined where Elena was, by the time she returned to her own body and conveyed the location, it would be too late.

Warm fur brushed against her ankles. She looked down and startled at the sight of Aziel. Always before he’d traveled with her or didn’t appear at all.

The flames of the candles flickered and reflected in his yellow eyes as he met Aisling’s gaze. Their minds touched in a way they did only when they were both in spirit form. There is a name you can whisper on the spirit winds, a being you can summon.

It was her choice. It always was. But there would be a price to pay. Tell me.

The ferret climbed to her shoulder. His face pressed to hers as if to ensure the name he yielded would only be heard by her.

Zurael en Caym. Serpent heir. Son of the one who is The Prince.

A shiver streaked down Aisling’s spine in soul-deep recognition. There was no time to question the reaction or agonize over her decision. The dark priest’s prayer climbed toward a crescendo. When he reached it the athame in his hand would plunge into Elena’s heart.

“Zurael en Caym. Serpent heir. Son of the one who is The Prince. I summon you,” Aisling said. “I summon you to me and command you to end this ceremony before the sacrifice is made.”

The dark-robed acolytes shrieked as Zurael appeared, black-winged and taloned. With a casual swipe he severed the jugular of the dark priest and sent blood spewing across the altar. In panic the participants tried to escape only to be grabbed and killed, their bodies tossed casually to the floor as their hearts ceased beating and their souls fled.

Terror and horror filled Aisling at the sight of the demon, at the destruction he wrought with so little effort. His face and naked body were human but his eyes burned like molten gold. When the last of those participating in the black mass was dead he came to stand before her, coated in blood, his expression promising retribution for being summoned and commanded.

A ring flared to life at her feet, circling her, protecting her. Zurael’s eyes slitted as his gaze traveled the length of her and his cock became engorged. “Savor these few moments when you hold me enslaved, child of mud. They will cost your life.”

Jazzlyn glanced down at the mirror, half-hopeful and half-afraid, and not completely convinced the magic Aislinn apparently believed in was real. Alexandria would love this. “Nothing seems to be happening.”

Almost as soon as the words were out, Jazzlyn thought she saw a flash of silver streak through the stones. Aislinn’s quick smile made her ask, “Did you see that?”

“Yes.”

Jazzlyn worried her bottom lip as her courage started to desert her. Asking Aislinn to find Caro was one thing, even police departments sometimes used psychics, but holding a magic mirror and believing in heartmate stones…

She took a deep breath to steady herself. “How does this thing work?”

“I’m not sure,” Aislinn admitted. “If the mirror is the same one I found referenced in an old book, the original gems set in the frame were sorcerer stones.”

It was too much of a journey into the surreal. Jazzlyn lost her nerve and started to put the mirror down on the counter. Aislinn’s hand on her arm stopped her.

“Please, hold onto it for a minute longer. It’s safe, that I can promise you. If it’ll help, we can talk about what brought you here. Before my client burst in you started to say you wanted my help with something. What can I do for you?”

Jazzlyn looked at the mirror she continued to hold and felt a confusion of emotions, all of them making her uncomfortable. How could she accept one possibility—that Aislinn could help her—without accepting another, that this could be real too? How could she accept that Alex’s fetishes became something more than just carved stone, and completely discount this?

Maybe because this was a lot riskier to her heart.

Jazzlyn took another deep, centering breath. She’d come this far, she’d think less of herself if she didn’t follow through. But that didn’t mean she intended to ignore the conversational lifeline Aislinn had tossed out.

“Sophie told me once that you have a gift and can sometimes help find people who’ve gone missing. My cousin Carolyn didn’t show up at our great grandmother’s birthday party. I’ve looked and I’ve asked around, but no one has seen Caro or knows where she is. I’m afraid something’s happened to her.”

“Have you talked to the police?”

“No. I’m the only one worried about her. Her mother and mine both say she’ll show up eventually. But I can’t shake the feeling she’s in trouble. No one in my family will back me up if I ask the police to look for her and I don’t have the cash to pay a private detective, not without selling some of the gems I need for my jewelry. You know how that is. Unless it’s the right buyer, I’d take a loss on them. If you can help, I thought maybe you could look through my collection—”

“If I can help, you don’t owe me anything.” Behind them the chimes announced another visitor to the shop. “Or better yet, consider the debt paid in full by your humoring me and holding onto the mirror so I can determine if using heartmate stones instead of sorcerer stones achieves the outcome I hoped for.”

Before Jazzlyn could think of a response the stones flared, becoming liquid silver spiked with dark blue. The change was so obvious Jazzlyn couldn’t deny seeing it.

For a split second, just as a man’s face was captured in the mirror, she would have sworn he was outlined in the image of a silver dragon with a blue neck crest. A blink and he was only a man, the stones clear again but still warm to the touch.

He can’t be real, she thought, her stomach doing a somersault and her throat going so tight she doubted she could get a word out with a crowbar.

There was gorgeous, and then there was raw, primal beauty. He could have been conjured right out of one of her most decadent fantasies. The kind where a dominant male—one who deserved her trust—took possession of her and never let her go.

Dark blue eyes bored into hers intently, causing her channel to spasm and drench her panties in arousal. Embarrassment flooded into her with the realization he could probably see her expression in the mirror and read her thoughts.

She hastily set the mirror on the counter and turned as Aislinn did. Her breath caught at the full impact of the stranger who’d entered the store, the very one whose image in the mirror had sent desire racing through her, and who—if what was claimed about heartstones was true—was supposed to be her perfect mate.

Black hair cascaded to his shoulders in waves she wanted to touch. A broad chest and muscular arms begged to be caressed. And his lips…

Pleasure. They were made for it—both giving and receiving it.

Jazzlyn shivered as she realized her perusal of him was chaste compared to the one he gave her. He stripped her with his eyes. Bent her over the counter and fucked her where she stood.

The heat in her cheeks deepened. Escaping the shop was impossible.

She couldn’t move. Couldn’t utter a single word.

She was drowning in lust and confusion. She was totally out of her depth.

“I am Kirill.”

His name rumbled through her saying something more. You are mine.

He was going to fuck Renata. Get it out of his system. Gamble—same as he’d done in Bulldog’s office—that he’d come out of it unscathed and unattached.

His cock pulsed in celebration of his resolve. His brain called him a fool even as he was punching in her cell number and going hard when she answered.

“I’m at the ranch,” he said. “You close by?”

“Five minutes and on my way there.”

“Good, I’ll see you then.”

He hung up, his jaw clenched as his cock pressed hard against the front of his jeans. Frustration rode him, the need for release making him want to unzip and jerk off, or better yet, pull Renata into his tack shed and pin her to the back of the door with his dick.

To hell with his grandmother’s prediction and running from it. Running hadn’t gotten him anywhere because here he was, back where he started, only needing to have Renata under him even worse than before.

Cole took a deep breath when Renata pulled into the ranch and parked next to the Harley. He forced his features into the same emotionless mask he used when he played poker as she got out of her truck, long legs encased in jeans guaranteed to make a man think about peeling them down and off.

A peach-colored shirt caressed her torso, filling his mind with thoughts of slowly unbuttoning it to reveal breasts tipped with dark, dark nipples. Christ, she was beautiful.

The first time he’d seen her he’d thought Halle Berry, only better. Lithe and sleek, utterly feminine and yet she didn’t come across as helpless or weak.

Renata was the kind of woman who looked good on a man’s arm but didn’t need to be there. She could hold her own. Hell, hadn’t she proved that at the ride when she’d been in the woods with a body and a killer close by?

“Something up, Cole?” she asked as she approached, making his cock want to tear out of his jeans in order to get to her. “Something besides the fact it looks like we’ll be working together to find out who killed Lauren?”

He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out, putting his hands on her shoulders. Damn, part of him had been looking for an excuse since yesterday in the truck. “Your tack shed was broken into last night. There’s damage.”

She trembled slightly, unnoticeable if he hadn’t been touching her. “How bad?”

“I’m not sure. I didn’t disturb anything, just opened the door and looked inside after I got here and found someone had been in mine.”

“Somebody looking for something?”

“That’d be my guess.”

“You call the police?”

“No. I called you.”

She gave a small nod as though that made sense to her. Beneath his hands he felt her straighten, put steel in her spine. “Guess I’d better see.”

He let his hands drop away. Took a step back and turned, emotional self-preservation kicking in when he realized he wanted to take her hand, twine his fingers with hers in comfort and solidarity.

They walked to her shed in silence. Like his, the lock was cut then put back so only someone looking closely would realize it’d been tampered with.

Renata reached toward it, halted midway, shaken though she thought she was doing a pretty good job of holding it together. Whoever broke in was probably wearing gloves, still, she asked, “What about fingerprints?”

“Doubt whoever was here left any.” But Cole pulled out a handkerchief and offered it to her.

She took it and removed the lock, stomach churning at what she was going to find inside. Then she took a deep calming breath and opened the door.

Everything she owned was on the floor. It was mixed in with Solitaire’s grain, the bag it’d come in slashed and torn until there was barely anything left of it.

Bile rose in her throat at the savagery. Tears formed despite her determination not to shed any. Fear threatened to make her start shaking.

This was rage. Violation. This was the killer saying they were sorry they hadn’t killed her when she stumbled onto Lauren’s body.

Her bridle lay in pieces. Her saddle was next to it, the stuffing exposed where it’d been stabbed repeatedly.

Renata didn’t pretend not to need someone to lean on when Cole’s arms went around her, pulling her backward against his chest. Her heart thundered louder as a new fear arrived. “Solitaire.”

When she would have pulled away in panic, Cole stopped her with the tightening of his arms. “Solitaire’s fine. I saw her on the hill when I drove in. I don’t think the killer will come back to attack her. Your shed is about loss of control and fear of being caught, not revenge. I think my shed was hit first. That’s where Lauren’s stuff is. When the killer didn’t find what they were looking for they tried yours and lost it.”

Renata shuddered. She forced her mind to concentrate on the puzzle, the story. Her sense of humor saved her from despair, from the helplessness that could come with being a victim. “You think Orrin’s going to shit a brick when all this ends up on my expense reimbursement request?”

Cole laughed, a masculine rumble of approval against her back that shored up her courage. “If it’s a problem I’ll get it for you at the poker table. Whenever I’m in town I sit in at the regular game he’s got going with Bulldog.”

Renata couldn’t help smiling. Damn, she was a sucker for a man who was self-aware, confident without being a swaggering asshole. “You sound pretty certain of winning.”

“Played with Orrin enough times to justify it.” Cole’s arm tightened slightly and for a second she let herself believe it was because he didn’t want to stop holding her, but then his arms dropped away and he retreated, leaving her feeling bereft even though she knew it’d be a big mistake to get used to having him at her back.

Renata turned her attention to the shed. She didn’t have the heart to clean up, to bag her stuff as trash and haul it home. If there was any consolation to be had it was that the saddle and bridle hadn’t cost a lot of money. They’d come off eBay because she’d figured it was smarter to go with cheap and used until she knew exactly what she wanted.

A good saddle could cost a thousand dollars or more, not exactly the kind of money she had lying around. And saddles were like new cars, as soon as you used them, the resale value plummeted. “Call the police?”

“We can if you want to. They might pick up trace evidence. Could come in handy when they’ve got a suspect to compare it to.”

Renata’s stomach tightened as she realized calling Detective Gaines could tie up hours, hours maybe the killer was trashing her place or venting his or her rage on Puff.

The scene from Fatal Attraction flashed into her mind, the one with the kid’s pet rabbit boiling on the stove. Nausea threatened. “I think I just want to go home, Cole. Get my rabbit and move him somewhere safe.”

“My place. I think you should stay with me until this is over.”

Renata’s heart stuttered. Heat rushed into her belly, chasing away the nausea. The part of her brain that wasn’t migrating to between her thighs managed to voice itself, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” There was no way she could stay with him and not sleep with him. No way. She just wasn’t that strong.

The oppressive feeling of having his life completely out of control pressed in on Trey Masters like a heavy fog. Could it be any worse?

His stomach clenched. His skin chilled and the rush of his pulse said yes, yes, hell yeah it could be a lot worse, a whole lot worse.

He could be ostracized for a crime he didn’t commit.

He could be in prison with a thousand inmates looking for a chance to jump and shank him.

He could be in some unmarked grave.

So yeah, it could be a hell of a lot worse. And that only scratched the surface of real horror, the things that had already happened to kids he didn’t know—and what could have happened to his students or the kids he coached.

He shivered, goose bumps rising along his arms. He rested his forehead against the cold passenger-side window of the blue-and-white police cruiser.

No regrets. Even now, he didn’t have any regrets.

He’d done what he needed to do. He was an elementary schoolteacher, for god’s sake. But even if he hadn’t been, what kind of a man would say no to the Feds when they showed up and asked for help bringing down a powerful family making and distributing child pornography?

Even if he’d known beforehand that Patricia Veron made a deadly, vengeful enemy, he would have kept sleeping with her and pretending everything was okay. The kids she and her family had already hurt deserved justice.

But that wasn’t the only reason he’d have kept sleeping with her. If the Feds hadn’t stepped in…

Bile rose in his throat at the possibility that he might eventually have asked her to marry him. He wanted to believe the answer was no. But…

Until this had gone down, he’d been desperately clinging to the illusion of heterosexuality.

Fisting his right hand, he struck his thigh once, twice, as if that could drive out the urge to run and keep running from the truth.

Pretending, yeah, he was good at that. Pretending and denial had been a part of his life since he was twelve and got an erection thinking about his best friend, Aaron.

He’d been convinced he was going straight to hell. He’d become certain when the fantasies became more detailed and erotic as he grew older.

Fag. Queer. Pervert. The names were knives with the power to eviscerate.

He’d seen what happened when other kids got labeled. He’d done everything in his power to avoid it. In high school he’d become a track star, a debate team captain, the boy who never lacked for a date or a girl willing to hook-up.

In college it was more of the same. He’d continued to run track though he’d traded the debate team for the school paper. There’d been fewer girls, but the ones he did go out with, he’d fucked, wanting to convince himself he was straight.

If only…

Old feelings of self-loathing threatened to return. He ruthlessly stomped them down.

Even if he hadn’t already been steeped in years of denying his core self before Patricia, he wouldn’t have acknowledged his sexuality. Not in his devoutly religious mother’s house growing up or after, when she started exhibiting signs of the disease that would come to define both of their lives.

On the outside, he’d been the successful son his mother had wanted. But on the inside, he’d had to work harder and harder to suppress the truth of what he really was. Gay.

He grimaced. What a word. Gay. There was nothing about being homosexual that made him even remotely happy, much less lighthearted and carefree. Then again, when had he allowed himself to act on a same-sex attraction? Never.

Maybe it was time to stop pretending. Maybe when this was over and it was safe to involve someone else in his life…

No.

He was still a teacher. How could he ask a man he’d come to care about to pretend to the outside world that they were nothing but friends?

So that left him where? Going the rest of his life without gay sex when the thirteen years since getting an erection for Aaron had only gotten harder and harder?

Maybe when this was over he’d take a trip somewhere and…what…hit a gay bar, check out the personals? Yeah, right.

His virgin ass was so obvious it glowed. He’d attract every predator in town.

A flash of lightning was followed by a sharp crack of thunder. They passed a sign welcoming them to Hohoq.

The round-faced cop in the driver’s seat grunted and said, “They might as well have sent you to Alaska. Christ, who picked this place?”

Trey didn’t have an answer as he looked at what was supposed to be his refuge but seemed more like a dreary prison. He counted five buildings, all of them old, and prayed the rest of the town was being hidden by the mist pressing in on the cruiser.

The hope of there being a bookstore was instantly extinguished. They were hard enough to find in a big city. But maybe there’d be a library.

He’d probably end up grateful for a TV that picked up more than one or two channels.

The police car slowed to a halt in front of an old-fashioned sign swinging on heavy chains. Sheriff.

“Grab your stuff,” the cop said, cutting the engine and placing a hand on the door handle. “As soon as I make the official handoff, I’m out of here.”

“Sure thing. I know you’re in a hurry.”

“Bet your ass I am. My wife’ll kill me if I’m not back and on the plane with her to Vegas.”

Trey rubbed at the ache centered in his heart. He wanted what the cop had, a nice heterosexual lifestyle that included a wife.

He wanted it, but it wasn’t going to happen unless he was willing to spend the rest of his life living a lie. Or until he stopped letting what others think define how he lived—and was willing to risk how that might impact him as a teacher.

Don’t ask, don’t tell didn’t apply solely to the military. It applied to lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender teachers.

Yeah there were legal protections, in some places, but discrimination didn’t have to be overt to be a reality. And social media meant it was nearly impossible to keep private and professional lives separated, not when even elementary kids had cell phones with cameras and posted on Tumblr!

Snagging the single duffle bag he’d had time to pack in his mad rush to get out of the house and into an informal protective custody arrangement, he opened the cruiser’s door. A blast of wet, icy wind hit him and it was enough to center him in the here and now. Survival. Until Patricia Veron stopped being a threat, he didn’t need to deal with being gay.

He ducked his head and plowed through frigid air in the cop’s wake. They made it into the office. A Native American man with a thick, black braid and a sheriff’s star pushed off from the heavy pine desk he was leaning on. He dropped what he’d been reading onto the desk’s surface and met them in the middle of the small room.

Dark, penetrating eyes studied him. “You Trey?”

He nodded. The cop who’d brought him to Hohoq said, “He’s all yours. No sign of Patricia Veron, but that doesn’t mean she won’t surface for some payback.”

“So expect trouble?” the sheriff asked as another Native American man, also with his black hair braided, stepped into the room, letting in a blast of cold air, but all Trey felt was an explosion of heat.

He stiffened, cock-first. His heart beat like it was tapping out Morse code and the message was touch me, suck me, fuck me.

He inhaled, caught a woodsy masculine scent and had his skin shrink-wrap, trapping the heat and intensifying the wild-pounding effect of his heart banging away with its message.

Trey buried his hands in his jacket pockets and was grateful it was long enough to cover a boner that’d scream fag.

Ducking his head was the only defense available to hide the blush blitzing into his face, and the panic in his eyes that’d be easy to read for men whose daily lives involved dealing with criminals.

I’ll be out of here in a few minutes. Just zone out like someone who is still a little shell shocked.

Impossible. Not when he was hyper aware of the man wearing jeans, cowboy boots, light blue denim shirt, and who was an arm’s length away and standing next to the sheriff, not when his cock was hammering out its own message, that it was tired of being denied what it really wanted, another man’s attention.

Not happening, he told it. Not in this tiny town and not with a sheriff’s deputy.

Tenino was having a hard time paying attention to the conversation between the city cop and Tekoa. His gaydar was pinging and his dick was at attention and ready to serve in the line of duty.

It was the last thing he’d expected when he stepped into the office. He’d been dreading hauling a stranger out to his cabin, but now…

Blond hair, blue eyes, a neat ponytail he could already see himself freeing so that hair could spread out across the sheets on his bed. He could hardly wait for introductions.

Ever since his cousins Ukiah and Tekoa had found their mates, he’d been hoping his mate was in the offing. Hell, he’d been hoping that before coming back to Hohoq, not that there were good odds on finding a mate in the truest sense, a man who could join him in flight when the storm called and the Thunderbird spirit rose. For that to happen he’d have to find one among The People, which didn’t seem likely since not many of them were bisexual, or like him, one hundred percent gay.

It was a downer when he thought too hard about not having that ultimate spiritual connection, so mainly he didn’t think about it. He lived. He had sex when he could get it, which was far easier during the tourist season, not that he wasn’t ready to be done with casual, but… Use it or lose it and his dick liked a workout.

It said the blond who seemed to be trying his best to ignore him would be an excellent workout partner. Not that he could see as much as he’d like to with the heavy black jacket hiding what he’d bet was a mighty fine boner.

Shy? With hands crammed into the pockets and the collar up, the guy had turned his jacket into a turtle’s shell.

He’d never found shy attractive in men though it could be kind of cute in women. But he could make an exception for the blond.

Besides, the blond was going to find it hard to stay shy at the cabin. The place was small. They’d be bumping into each other every time they turned around.

Tenino grinned. Bumping and grinding wasn’t going to be a hardship.

He tried to remember exactly what Tekoa had told him about his soon-to-be guest. It hadn’t been much. Friend of a friend asking a favor. The possibility of danger so Tekoa didn’t want the stranger at his cabin, because of Jessica, or at the lodge his brother Ukiah owned because of Marisa.

That’s all he remembered about the situation. Good enough. If he needed more information, it’d come. The grin widened. Hopefully he’d come.

Tekoa made the introductions. Trey. It fit. He liked it. And imagining himself lying on top of Trey, saying it as he thrust into heaven was enough to have his foreskin retracting in preparation for the main event.

Forget the foreplay his dick said. It’d been out of action for too long, or at least action that didn’t involve Mr. Hand.

His eyes met Trey’s. His gaydar pinged harder and Trey’s quick look-away only put him more in the mood for a sexual takedown.

Tenino swallowed a laugh. Shy was going to be a hell of a lot of fun.

He turned to shake hands with the city cop. The cop’s face was flushed and his expression said it wasn’t because the office was too hot.

Tough shit. I’m gay. Deal with it.

“You going to be okay here?” the cop asked Trey. “If you’re not good with this, you can ride back with me.”

“I’m good,” Trey said, his stomach in a spin cycle that was pulling his skin tighter and tighter while his heart pounded like a classroom of kids banging on their desks in revolt.

Through an open doorway two old-fashioned cells were visible, the kind with floor to ceiling bars. Both had a pair of cots with folded white sheets and a light green blanket at the foot of the mattress.

Home sweet home? As long as he wasn’t locked in, he could deal with it…as long as Tenino didn’t spend much time in the office. Or maybe one of the nearby buildings was a hotel and Tekoa intended to put him up there.

The cop didn’t waste any time leaving. Tenino said, “The cabin’s remote, might as well grab something to eat in town. You hungry?”

“Cabin?” Thank you god it didn’t come out as panicked as he felt.

Tenino’s smile was pure sin, purely unconscious sin but that didn’t deaden the impact though Trey doubted a Kevlar vest would stop the heart shot that was then deflected to his cock.

“Can’t put you somewhere it’ll be easy for the bad guys to find you. So are you up for some dinner?”

I’m up for more, more, more his cock said. A nod was all he could manage.

How was he going to survive this? Should he volunteer to stay in a cell?

“What about you?” Tenino asked Tekoa. “You eating in town or waiting ‘til you get to your place?”

“I don’t think food will be on the menu by the time I get back home.”

“Torture me, why don’t you?”

Tekoa laughed and placed his hand on Tenino’s shoulder. “Your turn’s coming.”

“I’m not counting on it.”

“I never thought I’d find what I needed either. But look what dropped into my lap. Look what happened with Ukiah. Your turn’s coming.”

Tekoa’s gaze flicked from Tenino to him, then back to Tenino and Trey’s heart stuttered. Then stuttered harder with the possibility they’d figured out he had a hard-on for Tenino.

No way. Absolutely no way was Tenino gay and the sheriff suggesting… What he can’t possibly be suggesting. These guys are law-and-order types and this is a small town.

Sweat trickled down Trey’s sides the way it had when he’d stepped into the classroom that first day as a newly minted teacher. He needed to get his attraction to Tenino under control.

Their eyes met and guilty heat rushed up his neck. Please god, let the floor open and swallow me, now.

It didn’t.

“Ready?” Tenino asked, his voice like a fist curling around Trey’s cock and stroking from base to tip.

With one last glance at the jail cells, he said, “Ready,” and grabbed the duffle then followed Tekoa and Tenino out.

A white Jeep Rubicon was parked in front of the office. Red, yellow, and blue stripes curved over the sheriff’s department logo on the front doors and swept to the tail lights like a wing. Tenino opened the back door. “You can toss your gear in here.”

Trey threw the duffle in and they kept going. The restaurant was next door. It was a small mom-and-pop place with a juke box, black-and-white tile flooring and the cooking area behind a counter lined with barstools with bright red vinyl seats.

They claimed a window table, with him electing to keep his jacket and drape it over his lap instead of hanging it on a hook near the door. Outside, black clouds promised a downpour and competed with nightfall for which would darken the town first.

A flash of lightning streaked across the sky. A second later there was a boom of thunder and the mist condensed, giving the town a mystical appearance.

He’d been wrong about Hohoq when he’d seen it from the cruiser’s passenger seat. It wasn’t a dreary prison at all but a great place to gather Native American myths and rural folktales.

“So what do you do when you’re not hiding from dangerous ex-girlfriends?” Tenino asked, drawing Trey from cool, misty comfort into scorching discomfort.

He picked up the menu and used it as an excuse not to study the man across from him—and be studied in turn. He’d die if Tenino picked up on the fact that he was about to have a houseguest who was crushing on him.

“I teach. Elementary school.”

“You’re lucky the Feds approached you and asked for your help instead of hauling you in as a suspect.”

Trey shivered. His stomach clenched hard and fast and with enough force that he swallowed against the bile rising in his throat. “Yeah, I am lucky. Damn lucky.”

He still broke out in a cold sweat several times a day over that fact. All it took was suspicion to ruin a reputation and a career and turn life into a living hell.

The first thing he’d done after the Feds laid out their evidence and asked for his help was to call his principal and arrange a meeting. They’d agreed on a plan of action, so the school wouldn’t be hurt and neither would he when the story broke about the Verons.

The Feds had done as promised. They’d told the media that he was never a suspect and had been instrumental in helping them build their case and shut down a child pornography operation.

He put the menu on the table, his appetite gone. Their waitress arrived, wearing jeans and a denim shirt.

Like Tenino and Tekoa, she was Native American. Mid-twenties maybe with her hair pulled back in a ponytail and three silver loops in her left eyebrow.

She set three glasses of water on the table, took Tenino and Tekoa’s orders, then looked at him and lifted the brow sporting the rings. He shook his head. “Nothing for me.”

Tenino laughed. “Get him what Tekoa and I are having. Otherwise he’s going to regret not eating once I get him to my place.”

The waitress’s dark eyes turned speculative and heat shot up Trey’s neck.

Tenino said, “Briar—”

“I’m going, I’m going. Spoilsport.” She grinned and collected the menus, shot another speculative look his way then left, leaving him with a heart pounding hard enough to sound like kids thundering toward the school exits after the last bell had rung.

Maybe his read in the sheriff’s office hadn’t been off. Maybe…

Trey swallowed, but his mouth was so dry that nothing went down. He dared a glance at Tenino and fought the urge to grip his cock through his jeans at the heated, bold look that said I know you’re gay and when we get to the cabin, we’re going to fuck.

Trey glanced away first, his skin too tight, too hot, his heart beating too hard, too fast. He was imagining things. This couldn’t really be happening.

Yeah, when they’d driven into town he’d been thinking maybe, maybe when this was all behind him, after the Feds caught Patricia, he’d go somewhere, finally let himself be gay, at least in some anonymous place in the future.

The mist settled more heavily outside and the wind created the illusion of movement, turning swirling grayness into a dark, birdlike shadow that disappeared on a flash of lightning.

Thunder pealed. The shadowy bird reappeared, wings spreading further, as if a great bird drew closer along with the storm.

An odd sensation struck, like feathery talons reaching, sinking in, surrounding his heart and taking its measure. He rubbed his chest, silently laughed at his own flight of fancy.

It hit him then, “Isn’t Hohoq one of the names for the Thunderbird?”

“It is,” Tekoa said. “How’d you come to know that?”

“I collect stories, mostly stuff that deals with supernatural beings and occurrences because those appeal to kids more.” His gaze skipped from the mist to Tekoa sitting on the other side of Tenino. “The promise of a story is a great incentive for good behavior.”

“Makes sense. Myths and legends were ways to teach, entertain and bind people together. What do you know about the Thunderbird?”

“I don’t remember any specific stories. I do remember that there are a variety of beliefs. Some cultures view them as protectors. In others they’re the Creator’s messengers. And in at least one tradition they live as men but take the form of a thunderbird when necessary. But pretty much across the board, thunder is the result of their wingbeats and lightning shoots from their eyes.”

“You know a fair amount.” Tekoa glanced at Tenino and smiled. “What do you think?”

Trey didn’t follow Tekoa’s attention to Tenino, but the way his heart and cock sprung into hyperactive awareness said Tenino was looking at him. And Tenino’s soft laugh had him fighting not to turn his face toward the source of that sound.

“If and when,” Tenino said, amusement in his voice. “I’ll be happy to say you were right.”

Tekoa’s smile widened. “Those words will be music to my ears. And a song I’m used to hearing.”

Tenino snorted. “You wish when it comes to that last part.”

The waitress returned with their food, three identical plates with a hamburger to the side and a huge pile of fries. She set them down. “Anything else?”

“We’re good,” Tekoa said, pooling ketchup on his plate then handing the bottle to Tenino.

Tenino squeezed some ketchup out and offered Trey the bottle. “So what’s your take on the situation? Is there likely to be trouble?”

Trey took the bottle, the pooled ketchup making him think of blood, though it didn’t keep him from squirting some on his plate. Hell, it reminded him of the situation he was in and that went a long way toward distracting him from the question he kept spinning back to, Is Tenino gay?

“If Patricia finds out where I am, then yes, she’ll come after me. The Feds think she might have killed before, more than once, to keep her family’s secret safe. She’ll feel responsible for bringing them down and she’ll want to punish me for betraying her. Her sister committed suicide when the story broke.”

Trey picked up his burger, hated that his hands shook slightly. Patricia had nothing to lose. If she found him, it would end only one way—with one of them dead.

He lowered the burger, appetite gone again.

Tenino reached across the table and stole a fry despite having a plate full of them. “Eat up. Weather’s getting worse. We need to get out of here.”

He ate, trying not to think about the flutter in his gut every time Tenino helped himself to a fry.

Repeat after me, he thought. I’m a grown man, not a sixteen-year-old with a crush.

I’m a grown man, not a sixteen-year-old with a crush.

I’m a grown man, not a sixteen-year-old with a crush.

His disadvantage came in having spent so much time avoiding situations that would put him around men he found attractive. And in not having been free, before now, to make a different choice when it came to his sexuality.

Dull pain created deep furrows in his heart, wide grooves that would too easily fill with guilt. He turned his face toward the window. A red pickup truck with a camper shell on the back pulled to an angled stop in front of the diner.

He caught a glimpse of a beautiful blonde woman before she was pulled forward by the driver and the truck windows fogged.

That’s what he wanted. What the cop had, what this couple had. He ached, longing for it, and ached knowing it wasn’t going to happen for him. He wasn’t hetero.

The driver got out. He was blond and beautiful like the woman.

He walked around the truck and opened the passenger door. The woman slid from the bench seat, light catching on the diamond in her engagement ring and turning it into a rainbow’s promise.

The man pulled her against him, reclaimed her mouth and Trey expected steam to start rising. Tekoa pushed away from the table. Tenino said, “Now that Clay and Jess are back, I guess we shouldn’t expect to see you unless there’s an emergency.”

What? Trey pulled his attention from the couple, only to follow Tekoa back to them.

The woman smiled at Tekoa. She left her blond lover’s arms, slid into Tekoa’s and their kiss was every bit as hot as the one he’d interrupted.

She clung to him, softened, seemed to melt against Tekoa and Trey couldn’t look away. Finally the sheriff lifted his head. He said something to the blond and the blond laughed then leaned in and touched his mouth to Tekoa’s in a kiss that sent a lightning bolt straight into Trey.

He hadn’t been wrong in the office. He hadn’t misread what Tekoa meant when he’d told Tenino, Your turn’s coming.

He hadn’t misread the speculation in their waitress’s eyes. He hadn’t misread Tenino’s heated look that said I know you’re gay and when we get to the cabin, we’re going to fuck.

But that didn’t mean he knew what he was going to do about it. Whether he was going to keep pretending, keep denying to everyone but himself that he was gay.

“You’re wearing that?”

Death glanced down at the white jacket, white trousers and the white shirt accented by a silky blue tie—all of which offset his darker skin tones and midnight black hair superbly, even if he did say so himself. “Does it not appear as though I’m wearing it?”

“It looks like a pimp suit,” the youngest of his brothers said from the doorway.

The twin who’d escaped being youngest by only a few minutes shook his head. “Reminds me of Mr. Clean.”

“Mr. Clean. You mean the one in the commercial?” This from the brother currently calling himself Azrael and who had started the conversational assault on Death’s clothing.

Death huffed. No wonder he was in need of a vacation.

Not that anyone would notice. His brothers had been chomping at the bit, tugging on the reins for ages, each one of the five thinking he could spice up the role of Grim Reaper, could put a new spin on it, a new twist, do it better.

Well, here was their chance and more power to them.

He took in the jeans that the twins were wearing, the holes in the knees and across the thighs making them look like garments scavenged from a dumpster. And Azrael’s garish pink tank top—

It was a blow to the eyes. Elegance was wasted on his brothers.

“I’m hardly in need of your fashion advice. Now step aside, as you’ll find out for yourselves soon enough, the business of managing death isn’t all fun and games.”

His brothers parted, allowing him to escape. But standing in the cobblestone courtyard among the family vehicles, a small fissure of worry opened. A pimp suit? A costume from a television commercial?

He shuddered and the elegant suit became a thing of the past, replaced by black jeans and a shirt in the same blue as the vanished tie.

From inside the house came shouts of laughter and Death’s humiliation was complete. No doubt they’d placed wagers on whether he’d change his clothing.

Well the last laugh would be his. His immediate future held no misguided souls, no disenfranchised spirits, no death. In fact, no Death. Unless he chose otherwise or his brothers made a mess of things, he could take whatever name he desired and be whomever he wanted to be. He was on vacation.

Death created an identity for himself. Not that he didn’t already have a name, he had a slew of them, all affixed to him by others, including a particularly atrocious one given to him by his mother. It was one of the reasons he’d taken refuge in Death. It was simple. Elegant. A name and a title. A clear definition of his role and his duties.

But a man on vacation was entitled to leave all that behind. He chose Denali as a last name because he’d trekked in the Alaskan national park by that name and thoroughly enjoyed the cold snow of Mt. McKinley. He chose the first name of Atticus because unlike his brothers, who thought culture was found in an Xbox, he was a reader and Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird was a favorite.

The name, of course, was the easy part. The destination far, far trickier.

As if the very act of pondering where to go drew them from the house, Azrael emerged along with Sammael, the oldest of the five, and Jonah, the youngest.

“So where to?” This from Sammael. “Some ancient haunt?”

“What about Mount Olympus?” Jonah volunteered. “Or Valhalla?”

Azrael snorted. “Those places are all about wine, women and song. Death is hardly the life of the party.”

That brought another round of laughter at his expense.

“Go away,” he ordered.

They remained.

Despite the human world being essentially one trouble spot after another for Death, he felt that’s where he’d find the most enjoyment. And beyond that, he didn’t intend to let the energy he’d expended on preparation go to waste.

It’d been particularly tedious gaining permission from the Oracle of Amun to become fully human for the span of his week-long vacation. Really! One would think that after centuries on the job he could be trusted not to run amuck like some new god who’d only just received the proverbial breath of life that came from human belief.

No. The human world it was. For some reason—not that he’d tried very hard to examine it—he couldn’t seem to shake the notion that’s where he needed to go for his vacation.

He frowned as he mulled over the collection of black vehicles. An elusive worry skittered along the boundaries of his psyche, a thought just out of reach. He shook it off.

“The dune buggy is a sweet ride,” Jonah said, following it with a snicker.

Sammael manifested a coin like those collected by the ferryman for passage across the rivers Styx and Acheron and walked it through his fingers. “Take the hearse. You’ll be more comfortable in it.”

Azrael tucked his thumbs into his back pockets, the act sliding the jeans lower. It was a surprise they stayed on at all. “Yeah, the hearse is a good fit.”

Death decided on the vintage Aston Martin DB5, its early fame a result of the James Bond movies that were so popular in their day. It was the perfect automobile for Atticus Denali.

“Stay out of trouble,” he told his brothers before slipping behind the steering wheel to face the moment of truth. Where to go?

It was the last choice, the last bit of power he could wield until it was time to return home and take the mantle of Grim Reaper from his brothers, the now-acting Brothers Grim.

A laugh escaped at the pun. But if he shared it, they’d roll their eyes and discount his sense of humor.

Oh, they thought him lacking. Hopelessly dull. A stick-in-the-mud.

He’d come to think of himself as a stone under a constant drip of responsibility. And from that analogy was born the desire for a holiday.

Where to go?

What would Atticus Denali choose? Death asked himself, trying to get into the new persona, his vacation identity.

The answer surprised him. Land wherever he landed and wing it! Leave the destination up to chance.

The elusive worry returned, skittering along his spine and reminding him of the nervous ghost stallion that had been retired when the idea of the four horsemen became passé. Just as well, really, the horse added an unpredictable element to the business of seeing souls on their way. He shook the oddly unsettling sensation off as pre-holiday jitters.

Leave the destination up to chance?

Well, why not?

* * * * *

“Got a live one on the phone, Bryn! You need to put a hustle on if you want to collect. Double your fee if you go right now!”

Bryn DePalo silently groaned, knowing it would be wishful thinking to assume the caller on the other end hadn’t heard the comment. “Sheri—”

But this week’s temporary assistant was already reading back an address and saying, “She’s on her way. Cash due when services are performed. We don’t bill.” And then the receiver was slammed into its cradle with the energy of a victorious NBA player dunking the ball.

“Hot damn! This is better than telemarketing,” Sheri said and Bryn resolved to have another conversation with Marietta. To date she’d had five of them but she refused to lose her optimism. One of these days she’d be able to convince the woman who owned the temp agency to stop sending help as a way of showing how grateful she was that Bryn had banished her abusive ex-husband’s ghost.

It was all in a day’s work for Bryn, and though she often bartered her services for things she needed—the small office space with living quarters in a run-down, nearly abandoned office park being one of them—Marietta had paid in cash and as far as Bryn was concerned, the matter was settled. Unfortunately, Marietta didn’t agree.

Bryn picked up the piece of paper with the potential client’s information written in large, bold, purple script. She didn’t bother reminding Sheri that she wasn’t responsible for screening clients. Today was Friday and Monday would see a new assistant on her doorstep.

Sheri blew a bubble and popped it. “You need backup?”

Bryn doubted she’d be going anywhere once she called the potential client back. “I’ll be fine.” She checked her watch. “It’s close enough to quitting time. Why don’t you go ahead and get a jump on the traffic.”

Sheri surged from the chair with a jangle of bracelets. “You’re the best!” She opened the bottom desk drawer and pulled out a fuchsia-colored purse large enough to hold a medium-sized dog. “Oh, by the way, lover boy called ten times. He finally broke down and asked for you on the last one. I told him you were seeing someone else and he needed to get a life.”

Bryn groaned. “Sheri—”

A laugh interrupted the half-hearted reprimand. Sheri shook her head and sent her multiple earrings swinging. “Don’t thank me, Bryn. It was no biggie. See you on Monday, maybe, unless Marietta thinks my services are needed more urgently elsewhere. Have a good one!”

Sheri left and Bryn reclaimed her desk chair. She called the potential client. The line was busy.

Waiting a few minutes, she called again. Still busy.

Worry compressed her stomach then turned it inside out. Money was tight and she couldn’t afford to get a reputation for not showing up. A small laugh escaped. As though being called a ghost exorcist wasn’t a bad enough label.

Still, the article in one of the freebee newspapers had generated some real business. It had also led to a lot of prank phone calls and several that were downright creepy, which was what made the expense of having a number for business calls, along with her private cell number worth doing. A few of the weird calls had made her wish she did have backup, maybe a tall, dark and handsome guy who could also serve as her boyfriend.

Right. Boyfriends were harder to come by than clients and often carried more baggage than a lingering ghost.

Lover boy, as Sheri called Mark Bildner, was the perfect example.

Bryn wanted someone who could accept her and what she did for a living. Mark had, but only because of his fixation on his mother’s ghost. And despite the daily calls and the weekly delivery of flowers, she wouldn’t go out with him again. She’d made that clear enough times that her conscience didn’t bother her when she screened her calls and dropped the flowers he sent off at a local nursing home.

Not that she never got asked out, she did. She just hadn’t met the right man and she didn’t see any point in pretending to be someone she wasn’t by denying her unique gift.

Been there, done that, she thought and a familiar knot of pain formed in her chest. Her parents were conservative, church-going people who’d been content not to have children but were given an unexpected gift late in life—a gift that had, by their own admission, turned into their worst nightmare.

Bryn tried the phone number again. Still busy.

She pulled a map program up on the laptop and typed in the address. It was far enough away she needed to get moving if she was going to make it there in a reasonable amount of time, but not so far it would be a huge waste of effort if she reached someone on her cell phone and ended up turning around.

Regardless of what her mother and father had accused her of in the chilly conversation that sealed their estrangement and finally allowed her to move to the west coast with no regrets, she had no interest in feeding the paranoia of mentally sick individuals or stealing from the misguided and lost.

Either there was a ghost that needed to be sent on its way or there wasn’t. She wasn’t a shrink or a counselor. She wasn’t a witch or a con-artist.

She was just someone who wanted to use her strange, sometimes scary talent to make a difference. Because as terrifying and heartbreaking as dealing with disenfranchised spirits could be, the thing that gave her nightmares was the image of herself as a ghost, a specter trapped in a bleak eternity by regrets.

“I’ve got to stop thinking about them,” she muttered, recognizing the downward spiral that was always triggered by thoughts of her parents.

She got in her car and drove, singing along with the radio to keep her mind cleared of worries and unhappy memories.

When she turned onto the street where her prospective client lived, she tried the phone number one last time. Still busy.

“Well, ready or not, here I come.” The houses were old, most of them single-story, the stucco painted in peach, blue, green or white. The majority of the yards sported browned patches of grass and a couple of trees, most with an overabundance of fruit scattered and rotting at the base—the huge downside to fruit trees planted for shade.

Bryn checked the address and the name attached to it, Claudette Haddon, then found the house. It was at the end of the street, on the right-hand corner, the blue paint a little more faded than the rest, the yard a little worse for the summer heat, the curb in front of it blocked by cars.

She winced at the sound of loud music blaring from the side yard of the house next to Claudette Haddon’s then rounded the corner, did a u-turn and parked across from her potential client’s house.

Climbing out of her car and getting the full effect of the music, Bryn grimaced. Must be a determined ghost to stick around and listen to this. Or one who’s trapped.

An elderly woman wearing an old-fashioned cooking apron opened the door before Bryn could knock. The expression on her face was so grateful that Bryn braced herself, knowing how easily and quickly hope and gratefulness could give way to disappointment or anger.

“You came,” Mrs. Haddon said. Tears forming, she clasped Bryn’s hand between warm, boney fingers that shook slightly though her grip was strong enough to pull Bryn into the house.
Relief surged through Bryn as she felt the faint tendrils of a phantom breeze that marked the presence of a ghost.

“Do you need part of the payment up front?” Mrs. Haddon asked. “I don’t have all of it. I’m afraid I don’t drive anymore. My son usually takes me to the bank.”

Bryn cringed. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Haddon, my assistant got a little carried away. Can we sit down somewhere and talk about the haunting first? Then I can give you a better estimate of the fee.”

Mrs. Haddon shuddered. “Let’s go to the kitchen.”

Bryn followed her there, taking note of the dinner preparations on the counter. A large bowl of salad. Meat marinating in something. A towel-covered bowl that probably held rising dough. Pots, pans, a rolling pin, a heavy cutting board with a knife and a pyramid of cheese cubes. It was a lot of food for one person.

Mrs. Haddon’s gaze darted to the wall clock. She wiped her hands down her apron several times before clutching the material. “Will this take long?”

Bryn felt stirrings of misgiving. “I can come back another time if you’d prefer.”

“No. No. Please. Can we start? I’ve got candles and a Bible. And some holy water. I wasn’t sure what else you might need.”

“Mainly I need information. Spirits stay for a reason. A lot of the time just finding out why they’re present resolves the situation.”

Mrs. Haddon’s hands clenched and unclenched the apron. “I don’t know why I’m the only one who can hear them. They come every night at dusk.” Her gaze darted to the clock again. “My son’s afraid I’m going crazy. Billy. Bill. He doesn’t like to be called Billy now that he’s an adult. He’s afraid I’m going to hurt myself. That’s why he sold my house in Virginia and brought me here, because I fell. But there weren’t any ghosts in that house.”

Her eyes sheened with tears. “If I can’t get them to stop I’m afraid he’ll put me in a home. A woman at the senior center gave me an article about you. Can you really make them go away? It’s worth every penny I have if you can just make it stop.”

“Mrs. Haddon, I—”

“You’re not going to get your hands on any of my mother’s money,” an angry male voice said from the doorway before Billy, the hulking epitome of a schoolyard bully plus about thirty years and fifty extra pounds, stomped into the room.

Bryn’s stomach dived to her feet and threated to make them clumsy. “I—”

“Get out of my house and don’t come back!”

“Billy, please! Just listen to what she has to say. Give—”

“No!” He lunged toward the counter and the knife on the chopping block.

It was a scene straight out of a Stephen King novel and for a split second Bryn was frozen in place. But when he touched the knife’s handle she was out of her chair and out of the room.

Get to the car! It was her only thought as she fumbled to open the front door then nearly plowed through the screened-door.

There was a curse behind her, the frantic call of Billy’s mother. But Bryn didn’t turn around to look. She didn’t stop.

Get to the car! Get to the car!

She dashed into the street, surrounded by screaming, tortured music and envisioning the homicidal Billy.

Bryn never saw the car that ran into her.

Or rather, that she ran into.

One minute the street was empty, the next she was sprawled on the ground.

I’ve died and gone to heaven, she thought, staring into the face above hers.

What else would explain the heated appreciation in gray eyes that reminded her of fog-shrouded ghostways? What else would explain the sense of rightness she felt as a strong, masculine hand cupped her cheek? What else would explain the fairytale-like expectation that in a moment he’d forever change her life with a kiss?

Breathtaking didn’t do justice to his features. Elegant might come close. Maybe. Possibly.
It was easy to imagine him dressed in a tux and attending a ball, the black material of the suit deepening midnight-colored hair and the dark, endless centers of his eyes.

Did that make her Cinderella?

The ludicrousness of the thought jolted Bryn back to a reality where pebbles dug into her back, the smell of hot asphalt burned her nose, and her ears were assaulted by horrendous music.