Demons of Oblivion: Volume II: Demons of Oblivion

By Skyla Dawn Cameron

Get books 4-5 in the Demons of Oblivion series along with two bonus short stories.

A diverse cast of characters come together in classic urban fantasy about monsters, the people who hunt them, and the occasional apocalypse. Snarky humor, magic with bite, nonstop action, a dose of romance, and at its core: broken people finding family in one another.

Exhumed: Zara Lain, narcissistic vampire and assassin, cleaned up after a crazy warlock tried to build a vampire army, made some cash when the North American covens were left in shambles, got away when framed for the murder of a Demon Hunter, and dealt with some idiots who tried to jumpstart Armageddon. None of that could prepare her, however, for the moment when her lover of the undead persuasion awakens…

Oblivion: Earthquakes. Plagues. Rivers of blood. The ever-so-popular rain of toads. When end of the world fare is on the rise, it's well past business as usual in a city where the veil between dimensions is thin.

Novels included: Exhumed and Oblivion

Included short stories: Fated and Prey

• Language: English
• Publisher: Skyla Dawn Cameron
• Release date: Feb 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781927966440

Book preview

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Praise for Skyla Dawn Cameron

SOLOMON’S SEAL

Whip-smart, gritty, and fascinating. Olivia Talbot is a badass, and a mother, I’d want on my side if the world went to hell. Skyla Dawn Cameron’s deft characterization, complex plotting, and brutal action leaves the reader gasping for more.

—Lilith Saintcrow, New York Times Bestselling Author

It's well written with a balanced blend of humor and adventure you can't deny is spellbinding.

—My World...in words and pages

DEMONS OF OBLIVION SERIES

This not-to-be-missed release rocks from word one. Skyla Dawn Cameron writes as though she’s been producing bestsellers for years.

—Bitten by Books

Urban fantasy at its best with characters and a plot that makes it stand out from the rest of its genre.

—The Romance Reviews

A dark and gorgeous heroine that will have you enthralled in moments.

—Bookmark Your Thoughts

What a riot this book was! I felt like rediscovering what the genre of urban fantasy is about all over again.

—Nocturnal Book Reviews

...fast, funny, and furious... The action and fight scenes were intense, the romance bittersweet, and it left me wanting more.

—The Romance Studio

RIVER WOLFE SERIES

River is a powerful and new take on your typical young adult paranormal story and I absolutely loved it!

—Bitten by Books

...a fresh and unique take on the werewolf legend.

—Judy Bagshaw, author of Kiss Me, Nate

...a terrific book, filled with unique and well-drawn characters, realistic dialogue, and a great deal of humor...

—ParaNormal Romance Reviews

This book is a permanent addition to my keeper shelf, and will be revisited many times in the years to come.

—Elaine Corvidae, author of Tyrant Moon

...a story about love. Not just the happily-ever-after fairy tale kind, the real kind, the sort of love that takes two people and cements them together in relationships that are like lighthouses on rocky shores.

—Long and Short Reviews

Demons of Oblivion:

Volume II

Skyla Dawn Cameron

Table of Contents

Series Note

Copyright

Exhumed (Book Four)

Fated (Short Story)

Tales from Alchemy Red: Prey (Short Story)

Oblivion (Book Five)

Preview of Solomon’s Seal

About the Author

Other Works

New Releases

Series Note

The books in this series are not standalone; although different protagonists feature, each book is connected. Demons of Oblivion Volume I should be read prior to this one.

Some of the short stories interspersed between the novels were separate releases and have been compiled in the best order for reading. There are additional works in the series listed at the end of this release, in case you would like to explore more.

Exhumed – Copyright © 2012-2013 by Skyla Dawn Cameron

Oblivion – Copyright © 2016 by Skyla Dawn Cameron

Fated – Copyright © 2012-2013 by Skyla Dawn Cameron

Prey – Copyright © 2015 by Skyla Dawn Cameron

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

Cover Art © 2012-2021 by Skyla Dawn Cameron

D2D EDITION

All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

This book is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this or any copyrighted work is illegal. Authors are paid on a per-purchase basis. Any use of this file beyond the rights stated above constitutes theft of the author’s earnings. File sharing is an international crime, prosecuted by the United States Department of Justice Division of Cyber Crimes, in partnership with Interpol. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is punishable by seizure of computers, up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 per reported instance.  Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material.

If you obtained this book legally, you have my deepest gratitude for the support of my livelihood.

If you did not obtain this book legally, you increase the likelihood that there will be no future books. Please do not copy or distribute my work without my consent.

Exhumed

A Demons of Oblivion Novel

Some people just won't stay buried...

Zara Lain, narcissistic vampire and assassin, cleaned up after a crazy warlock tried to build a vampire army, made some cash when the North American covens were left in shambles, got away when framed for the murder of a Demon Hunter, and dealt with some idiots who tried to jumpstart Armageddon. None of that could prepare her, however, for the moment when her lover of the undead persuasion awakens...

And promptly tries to kill her.

She’s raised a handful of orphaned baby vampires during the past six years and she knows the score: if they don’t get sane again, they have to be staked. And even if she can fix her would-be boyfriend, he’s not the only formerly deceased one in town who wants to kill her. Old enemies are back to put a cramp in her love life, ruin a good pair of heels, and just maybe end the world.

An apocalypse is nigh...and it gets a lot worse than having nothing to wear to the occasion

---------

Warning: This book may cause you emotional turmoil and feelings of great pain. I'd apologize but it would be a lie; I feed on your tears. Keep 'em coming.

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Dedication

For those of us who are the heroine and the monster.

The past is not a package one can lay away.

~Emily Dickinson

Love is whatever you can still betray. Betrayal can only happen if you love.

~John le Carre

Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. Pooh? he whispered.

Yes, Piglet?

Nothing, said Piglet, taking Pooh’s paw. I just wanted to be sure of you.

~A.A. Milne

Ana

The forest is black at night. Black in the way many humans do not understand—cannot conceive of. Without a moon or stars above, it is impossible to find one’s way.

Unless you’re a vampire.

The lights are off in the house. I pass the mausoleum but continue on as if I can’t see it—as if I can’t remember it. Remember being there, in the dark. Remember waking unable to move. There’s a hole in my mind, memories I’m unwilling to recall, unwilling to process yet. Dragomir says it’s been years since I was killed. Murdered. It could’ve been years still since I awoke as well; I cannot be exposed to daylight now and tied down, locked away, deemed a dangerous monster after my awakening, I cannot say how much time has passed. So the mausoleum is nothing, just a large dark shape in my sharp peripheral vision, something I shall revisit after.

When I’m through with the task ahead.

My maker had me expecting change. The eight years I’d been gone had seen the turn of a century. Lost independence. My land weakened, made a territory of an empire. Dragomir had droned on and on, preparing me for the night they let me out of that tiny room in their basement.

But nothing seems different. Trees are a little larger. The grounds are mostly the same, seared into my memory as I’d traversed them many times.

I have a key to both doors of the house—my own, something small Dragomir had taken from my body when he assassinated me. Turned me. I take it to the servants’ door around the side and it slides easily in the lock. When I was the lady of the house, we kept only a handful of people as staff. Perhaps whoever the new mistress is, she’d provided a greater dowry, for now I hear the heartbeats of at least a dozen, all quiet in their beds.

Except for one.

Madelina had been a mouse of a thing. She kept a good house and I tried, but though timid when I faced her directly, I sensed something when I gave her my back—sensed sharp eyes, sensed dislike. I dismissed it then, but not now; now there is nothing nice of me left, nothing willing to give someone the benefit of the doubt. Madelina pads through the hall, the floorboards creaking softly, light flickering across the walls from the candle she carries in a brass holder, and I know it then.

She will be the first to die.

Her dark hair hangs in a braid over her shoulder, her long white bedclothes stark in comparison. She’s thin and bony after all this time, and her face is more gaunt than I remember, the hollows beneath her high cheekbones darker now.

I wait in the dark, pressed against the wall. Nearer and nearer, my gaze narrows on her throat, on the steady pulse of blood beneath her flesh. I hunger but I will not eat this one. This is my first kill in my right mind. My first kill without the full insanity of starvation and isolation. My first planned kill.

And it will be beautiful.

She pauses as she turns the corner toward her room, right foot poised with her heel off the ground and nightgown fluttering about her legs. Her gaze moves toward the door, which I have left slightly ajar. She frowns, shifts the candle. She searches the darkness.

I move.

I’m fast now. It lasts for short bursts, but it’s enough. I’m alive, jittery, thrilled, nervous energy moving through my limbs; one hand locks on her throat, the other over her mouth, and I pin her against the nearest wall. Her eyes widen and the candle drops, striking the hardwood and blowing out.

Spirit, she hisses against my hand.

Not quite.

I bare my fangs and slam them into her throat. Blood rushes past my lips—fresh, warm, unlike what Dragomir and his consort have been feeding me, funneling their leftovers down my throat while I’m tied to a chair. The blood sparks hunger but I resist and drag my fangs down, cutting deep.

I lean back.

Madelina sputters and chokes, blood nearly black as it pours down her neck, over her nightgown. She stumbles.

I cock my head to the side, watching. Detached.

She tries to suck in a breath. Blood gurgles. She might wake someone soon so I grab her face in both my hands and give her head a firm wrench. Spine snaps and the tear in her throat deepens. I’m drenched in blood. The body drops and I drag my hands over the walls as I walk towards the bedrooms.

I kill two in their sleep before the third wakes. This one I recognize: Almos served my husband well before my marriage. I can’t remember if he’d been kind or not.

I also don’t care.

The light is poor in his corner of the room, but he sees me; he backs up, huddled between two beds. I’m covered in blood and his gaze trails over my gown, up to my face and fangs. He murmurs more words about monsters and demons.

Strange, having someone see you as something else. The servants before glanced over me, Ana the wife. Quiet, obedient. Accommodating. Ana easily replaced. Forgotten. Now I am a monster. A demon, apparently.

Even if I don’t entirely feel it, I can grow to be that. Happily.

My nails are long and I slash them against his throat, cutting deep. My other hand juts out and snatches his hair, yanking his head back. He thrashes and cries. I cut with my nails again and blood arcs gracefully in the air, painting the walls. And I cut again. And again. And again, pouring rage into the movements, preternatural strength doing more and more damage. I pause at last, a fistful of stringy meat around my fingers, and turn my hand over to gaze at the mess. So easy. Ana had been nothing to them, and now they are nothing to me.

I discard the body and go in search of more.

Six go easily. And their children. I feel no horror in dissecting their tiny bodies. Innocence means nothing now. I was innocent and it hadn’t mattered. There is no justice, no right in the world, and I feel nothing at being a part of that unfairness. They are victims simply due to their parents living and working here; I was a victim simply due to my family’s choice in husband for me.

I am finished with the lower floor. Now I walk up the stairs. My steps are soft and the wood makes no noise under my bare feet; my gown is sticky against my legs, soaked through with the blood of my victims. My stomach is empty and hollow, twisting with hunger I will soon sate. My heart is...gone. I left it in the crypt when I died and I do not wish it back again.

No one has awoken in the upper level. I head straight for my bedroom, where I slept with my husband night after night, believing he loved me, trusting him. The door is shut and I ease it open, steeling myself even as adrenalin pumps through my veins, as my pulse pounds in my ears, as my vision tunnels. Knowing what I will see still doesn’t prepare me.

The bed is occupied. Two lumps under a sheet. A woman in my place. Her hair fans out across my pillow. Her pale, dainty hand is on my husband’s chest. If I look, I know I will find her clothes tucked away in my chest across the room. I will smell her in my spot at the breakfast table. I will see signs of her presence all over my home.

It isn’t rage anymore rising in me. Clutching me. Coating me in a cold sweat, burning behind my eyes. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I’m trembling, shaking, staring. There isn’t a word for this feeling, betrayal cutting so deep I feel cleaved through. The steady tattoo of my pulse hasn’t eased up but is beating harder, harder, so hard I see it pounding against my peripheral vision.

I want to flee. I want to cry.

Most of all, I want to wake up.

Monster. Demon. I remember myself then, remember what I am. Remember that I am here not to mourn—I can’t mourn now. Pavel betrayed a girl called Ana.

And Ana is dead.

I move silently to the candle waiting on a shelf. There ought to be light for this, so that they might see me. So that I might prolong their fear.

A soft breath draws my attention. I tilt my head, predatory gaze moving across the room in search of the source.

Then I see the bassinet.

Chapter One

There’s an App for That

"Do I really look like the kind of girl who would kill someone for just fifty grand? I ran my fingertips up the stem of my champagne glass and tilted my head to the side, smiling sweetly. And if you say yes, by the way, I’m going to punch you. Free of charge."

Craig shifted, gaze darting around the restaurant. I’d picked a nice place I knew, all swanky and expensive. Low candlelight on the tables, classical music playing at just the right volume in the background, wait staff who seemed to disappear into the background and only reappear if something was needed. The hum of voices and occasional brief, lilting laughter from the other patrons was nonintrusive and no one could follow our conversation from the plush burgundy booth where we made our deal. Or attempted to make our deal. Tension had Craig’s shoulders hunched up and he glanced behind him again.

Icky, packed coffee shop or biker bar? Yeah, he probably would’ve thought nothing of it. But you don’t hire an assassin on behalf of your boss in a five star restaurant with the current face of Italian Vogue sitting three tables over next to her NBA boyfriend, and an up and coming director whose film was buzzed about at Sundance sitting in the corner.

Well, most people don’t. But I like to be on my own turf during negotiations so I have the upper hand when some douchetard tries to lowball me.

Like right about now.

I leaned back, plucked my champagne from the table, and took a sip. Sweet, dry, and bubbly. I watched my companion over the rim of the glass. Cocked a brow. Waited for him to finish fidgeting, which might take a while.

Craig was short, square-shouldered, with very closely cropped dark hair and dark eyes that tried to be hard but failed utterly. A lightweight. He’d dressed well in steel gray Armani for our meeting but the sleeves of his coat were a touch too long and the pants didn’t sit right—bought off the rack, nothing custom tailored. Way over his head.

I set down my glass. Crossed my legs under the table, expensive dress pants shifting over my skin. Smiled again. The flickering candlelight played off the champagne bottle, danced between us. I was quite comfortable and could sit here all night; Craig, I suspected, had no such ability. That he hadn’t left when I said no to fifty grand told me he’d been given a lot more leeway. And that he hadn’t a clue what he was doing.

Of course, I hated it. My secretary had her own place with her girlfriend and while she put me in touch with people, she did fuck all to organize contracts for me now. Over a year of not having to do it and I forgot how much it totally sucked.

At least I was getting good champagne out of it.

Finally my companion leaned forward, table rattling under his elbows in a way that likely had the maitre d’ wringing his hands and prepping to run over. I can offer up to five hundred.

Once in a while I did a charity case for that now. Rarely, though. What are the particulars? Higher risk to me, higher the pay.

The phone buzzed in my slim black clutch next to me. Lips twitched, hand clenched, but I held still. Whoever it was could wait. If it was Nic, I’d chew her out and fire her ass for not taking care of this herself.

Look. His voice pitched low as he leaned forward even farther, close enough that I thought he might lose his balance and flop on the table. I got a whiff of his cologne and it wasn’t pretty. I can’t give out anything until you agree.

Jesus H.— I’m not agreeing to anything until I know the particulars. Especially not for that paltry sum. Five million? Ten? Hell, I’d do just about anything for numbers like that, including put my very fine person at considerable physical risk. But five hundred thousand doesn’t even cover the property tax I pay in a year. Try again. I lifted the bottle of champagne from the bucket, ice clanking against the metal, and refilled my glass, then returned it. Took my glass stem. Sat back once more. Sighed dramatically. Now. Let’s talk target. Who is it?

Craig, I knew, was from a special organization. I wouldn’t go so far as to say mafia and all the images that idea incurred, but they were involved in crime and they had cash. Otherwise my contacts were all hushed about it. Craig was shit for brains, but his boss wouldn’t have sent a lackey to see me about it if it wasn’t serious.

Clearly you want it untraceable to your boss or you’d get someone from within the organization, I offered. Is it a bigger boss? Someone higher up? Father, maybe?

Craig’s mouth flapped wordlessly, sweat beading on his brow. He leaned back, shoulders deflating. Older sister.

My phone buzzed again. Irritation rose but I smoothed it back. And what’s so tough about her?

"She’s...special. Not...entirely human."

Better and better. Supernatural kills start at one million. Surely my secretary explained this to you.

But—

They’re higher risk. Again, my secretary would have told you all this.

But my boss—

"You do not approach Zara Lain, attempt to procure her services as a killer-for-hire, and then punk out on your end of things"—Buzz. Fucking phone—and continuing the conversation in this direction will, at best result in me leaving here without having a business arrangement with you, and at worst, result me in sending your head back in a box to your boss for insulting me. Now, why don’t you call your boss back— Buzz. Oh, for fuck’s— Just hold that decapitation thought for a minute. I reached for my clutch, popped it open, and plucked out my phone. If it was Nicolette, I was going to—

I stared at the touch screen. Blinked.

Still stared.

Motherfucker.

Panic coated my insides, sudden gooseflesh rising fast and hard on my arms. My fingertips trembled so I shoved my hands down to my sides as I eased toward the edge of the booth. If you’ll excuse me—

Wait! The table nearly flipped as he tried to follow, scrambling around the corner booth after me as I rose. I need to tell my boss—

Everywhere, the restaurant perked up, patrons at tables pausing to watch and wait staff shifting in case they needed to intercede, and I was too irritated to pretend to be embarrassed about the disturbance. Phone held so tightly the edges bit into my fingers, clutch gripped in the other hand, I wove around the tables for the door.

But what do I tell—

I spun, dancing backward, and shook my head. Tell him you caught me at a real bad time. My back struck the door and I stepped out into the warm summer air.

Shit shit shit SHIT. I held up my phone again as the attendant outside went for my car. Something had happened in the apartment. Jarred the coffin. Unhooked the wires.

It could be anything. Anything at all.

My stomach tightened and I swiped hair from my face as the wind blew it. Fucking Nicolette had to get her own fucking place with her fucking girlfriend when... Shit, there was no sense getting pissy about her. If I was out of town, she’d vampire-sit. It was our agreement. I wasn’t out of town—I was five miles from home. Closer to the apartment than she was, so no sense in calling her.

I glanced at the screen of my phone once more, red jerky lines and WARNING flashing at the top.

Have a boyfriend newly turned into a vampire, in stasis, with no way of knowing when he’d wake? There’s an app for that.

My deep sea blue metallic BMW convertible pulled up. The attendant passed me my keys and I slipped into the driver’s side, slamming my foot down on the gas before I even had my door closed. The engine purred like a sleepy kitten as I sped, quite the contrast to the violent thump of my heart and adrenalin-soaked veins.

I hadn’t paid for my drink. Or tipped the valet attendant. Maybe Craig would. If not, I could call and give them my credit card. Or ask Nic to. Or...

Or for three blessed seconds I was thinking about something other than what waited me at home.

I rammed my foot down on the gas, speeding down the busy city streets, and I tried to will away the rising dread in my gut.

And failed miserably.

Chapter Two

Sunrise

The convertible jerked to a halt in front of my apartment building. Parking inside, going up the elevator—it all seemed slow. Too slow. I left my keys swinging in the ignition, car beeping at me for forgetting them. Left my purse. All I took was my phone, clutched in a death grip. I slammed the door and ran, sharp heels beating on the cement. My place didn’t have a fire escape—I didn’t need one with all the other escape routes I had built in—but I could get up there. And I would.

Phone stuffed in the pocket of my slacks, I took a running leap and grabbed the drainage pipe. Feet scraping on brick, pipe groaning, I held it but a second before scrambling up and left, reaching out and snatching the edge of the second floor windowsill. I’d stopped renting that floor out years ago when I dug him up and brought his coffin to stay here, so there was no one to disturb as I clambered upward.

Even in the summer, the air gets cooler at night the higher up you go outside, as the wind blows freely, salt and fish off the harbour nearby tingeing the atmosphere. My hair danced over my face and I leapt again, this time grasping the top floor sill. My floor.

He’s okay. He’s okay. Probably just—

Shit. He might be awake. He might be awake.

I shook my head vehemently, hot tears burning my cheeks as they fell.

Once again, when forced to choose between a hot guy and a hell of a lot of money, and you’ve got three centuries of perspective—not to mention bad relationship experience—the choice is surprisingly simple.

My fangs grew.

I love you, I whispered.

I nearly lost my grip. Gave myself a mental shake to shove back that last memory of him and grabbed the window ledge with my other hand, hauling myself up. Barked my elbow on the brick. Scuffed up my knee. My poor goddamn clothes, getting mucked up for a boy. But I kept going.

I stood precariously on the thick brick windowsill, wind pushing at my back and yanking at my hair. The windows were glass but beyond them were steel blinds I’d had installed, awkward to break through and, if damaged, would leave me exposed to the sun during the day.

Thankfully, there’s an app for that too.

Like my interior lights, the blinds were hooked to my phone, and with a swift button pressing after I swiped it from my pocket, the blinds rose. Well-oiled hinges were silent and the slats folded before me, revealing the dark apartment within.

He might be awake. Holy fuck.

He might not be. I shouldn’t get my hopes up. I shouldn’t—

The blinds had finished opening, so I unlatched a window and popped it open. The windows were tall, reaching near the ceiling, and only the bottom section opened. It was enough for me to duck and squeeze through and I jumped, landing with a thud on the living room hardwood floor. Moonlight spilled through behind me, casting large squares across the floor, foreign because I rarely had the blinds up anymore.

I stuffed the phone back in my pocket and I was already running, darting across the floor and up the stairs to my loft. Light burned under the closed door but then I usually left it on, like I left his coffin out in my room in case he awoke, and because—

I eased open the door.

Stared.

And stared.

And...and couldn’t fucking comprehend, couldn’t think or function and just kept staring.

He was awake.

Awake.

My heart was a loud, steady hammer in my chest, sounding up by my ears. The initial jolt of shock wore off, lifting lightheadedness from my brain. I blinked. Focused.

He stood across the room, back to me and facing the wall. Blood poured bright crimson from a cut on his arm, streaking down his elbow, his bicep. Both hands were up, locked around a white sheet from... The bed came into focus in my peripheral vision, blankets and pillows askew. He’d torn the sheet from my bed and held it in place over the wall. Blood soaked through, red bleeding over white.

Something was very, very wrong and the thought crashed into me hard, slamming with enough force that I felt it in my bones.

No, he’s fine. He’s...

He’s not fine.

My hands jutted out, gripping the doorframe, because I was slipping, ready to fall, trying to pull myself together and failing utterly because something was wrong. My lips parted, trembling. Nate.

He glanced back at me and smiled cheerily, the sight breaking my heart. I have to cover the windows.

Oh god. My fingers squeezed the frame hard enough to crack the wood.

What had I done?

He looked the same. A bit thinner through the body—he was only in a pair of dark yoga pants, so I saw where his ribs were starting to show, how sharp his shoulders were—and face a bit gaunt. It would take time to regain weight. Feeding. I’d kept his hair trimmed to the length it had been when he was turned, face clean shaven as it had been, because I wanted the minimal amount of changes for him when he awoke. But...

But.

He...was not himself. Not when I met his startling blue eyes and saw something not quite registering in their depths, not quite seeing me. It was that distinct look of crazy I’d seen a few times in other vampires.

Vampires I’d had to stake.

Fuck. FUCK. What the fuck have I done?

Nate offered me another smile and I didn’t have a goddamn clue if he even knew who I was. It’ll be okay. You won’t burn. But I have to keep the windows covered.

What the bloody blue hell?

I started forward, steps quickening and hands shaking. He stared at the blood, frowning, possibly completely unaware of me still there.

Nate... I halted as he glanced back at me.

They don’t survive the ensuing insanity. I interviewed one for my thesis.

Huh?

My vision blurred, tears rising and itching in my eyes. Nate’s beautiful face fell into a frown, thick dark brown brows pulling deep as he considered something. I waited for him to snap out of it, to remember himself, remember me, remember...remember what I’d done to him. I could take him hating me.

I couldn’t take this.

He looked at the sheet again, expression confused and wrenching my heart once more. I need to cover them. I...I...

I took two more steps forward, reaching him. Fingertips trembling, I touched his arm, wrapped my hand around his bicep, and pulled him away, turned him toward me. The white sheet slipped and pooled on the floor.

I don’t remember your name, he whispered as he frowned at me.

Words struck, piercing deep. But I steeled myself and reached up to touch his face, hoping—praying—that if I stared into his eyes long enough, maybe he’d come back to me. Nate.

His eyes closed for a moment and he let out a deep sigh, leaning contentedly into my hand.

Tears were falling harder and I fought to keep my voice steady. I couldn’t be a weepy, emotional wreck or that would confuse him more. Nate, you’re going to be okay.

A bright smile lit his face as he looked at me again, cheery and completely oblivious as to who I was. Of course I’m okay. But I have work to do. If I don’t cover the windows, you’ll burn. He shifted away and I just stood, staring, trying to dredge up a plan and completely failing.

What. The fuck. Had I done?

It was a dream. Had to be. And I had dreamed of this, over and over—dreamed of seeing him, hearing him, of doing really fun things involving orgasms with him. But this was more surreal than any dream, more screwed up than any scenario I’d tried to prepare myself for.

Nate turned away and walked a few steps to the box on the floor—the coffin where he’d slept in stasis these past few years, monitored, watched, cared for by me and Nicolette because I knew this day would come. And I’d had six fucking years to be ready for this and yet I’d never...

Never what? Never thought it would go badly? The way your karma is racked up, baby, you could’ve bet money on this happening.

He jerked his hand over the sharp metal edge of the box; I yelped, startled for him, but he darted past and began dragging his bloody hand over my white wall again. He’d been...he’d been painting. A square with lines in the middle, and...

I have to cover the windows. He’d been painting a window? With blood? Oh holy hell.

Please, I whispered. Cleared my throat, tried to draw strength into it. If I could get him to be calm, I could figure this out. I figured everything out, always. Please come and sit down...

Irritation laced his voice. I’m doing this for you, you know. When there’s a window, I can cover it, and then you won’t see the sunrise. He started to hum then, an old song I thought might be She by Elvis Costello that was firmly on the creepy end of the scale, and as I watched him, it clicked in my head.

What would be the last thing he’d remember? Me biting him? The showdown with his brother? Or that morning, when he’d left me sleeping in bed and gone about covering the windows of the cabin?

Did he...did he even know then? What he was now? What had happened?

Fuck, I needed help. My phone was a lump in my pocket against my thigh, reminding me I at least had help. I had people who could help me figure this out—had gone out of my way cultivating relationships with contacts and those who would be of use to me in case any difficult situation arose. But I didn’t want to do anything until I could get him to sit down and maybe feed. That might fix him—that might be enough. I reached for him again, wrapped my fingers over his arm. His skin was icy to the touch and shivers danced, gooseflesh rose. He relaxed for a moment under my hand and my heart leapt up, just hoping—

I slammed into the wall behind me, wrists pinned up by my head, barking the back of my skull on the drywall. My heart gave another kick, lips trembled. He blocked the overhead light, drowned out my view of everything else in the room—there was just him, surrounding me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so fucking small with a man—and it wasn’t just him towering over me, vise-like fingers clamped on my wrists.

It was that I had no control because I didn’t want to hurt him. Couldn’t hurt him.

Not more than I already had.

My long hair brushed my shoulders and I was hyperaware of it settling back, slipping from my neck. His gaze was locked on my throat and I knew that look, that rising crazy. He didn’t see anything else now, just my throat. Heard just my heart. Smelled just my blood. I got like that when I was starving and nearly killed him in that cabin the first time—would have killed him if he’d not charged his body up to produce extra blood to replace what I would take. No sense, no reason. Just the need to feed.

Focused all on me.

Nate. I swallowed dryly. Lost track of how many times I’d just been repeating his name and getting no response. He was pressed right up against me and I sucked in a breath, chest rising to brush his, then I thrust every ounce of warning I could muster into my words. Let go of me. I clenched my hands into fists and though I wasn’t going to hit him yet, I was giving it serious consideration.

I stiffened as he leaned in close, his head dipping down toward my throat. Breath touched my ear, my jaw, my neck, and my face flushed, body throbbed, wanting, and heart ached again because it wasn’t him.

You never told me, he whispered against my throat, lips brushing my flesh, your scent is jagged red edges. I could cut myself on you.

Panic crept up, even higher than it had been so far. I hadn’t been a human woman in many years but I still had double X chromosomes, still had that sick, irrational fear of what he might do.

And what I might do to him if he tried.

Okay, Edward, I said in a ragged voice though I tried to thrust some calmness into my tone, "the rapey alpha male thing is getting a little old. Back the fuck off. Now."

I felt the shift, the parting of his lips, the moment his body tensed in preparation to attack.

So I kneed him in the balls.

As he started to double over, I slammed my forehead into his and ran like hell for the door. There were no windows and probably no way he’d find the escape hatch in the wall—I could lock him in my room until the others came and helped. Good plan.

Only plan.

The door slammed shut before me, an echoing crack of wood meeting wood.

I froze.

Of course, I could take a regular vampire. I’d taken many of them. Warlocks, though? Yeah, the only ones who had nearly kicked my ass had both been family members of his.

Son of a bitch.

I glanced over my shoulder. Turned on one heel. Nate was on the floor where I’d left him, sitting casually, chin tipped down and hair hanging over his face. Winged dark brows rose over eyes that had gone a murky, navy blue, and I felt the magic simmering in the air, firmly tipping the scales in his favour.

Son of a fucking bitch WHORE.

Nate laughed, the sound spiking more fear through me. He grinned deliriously, happily, like it was all a big joke and I’d somehow missed the punch line.

It wasn’t him. Wasn’t. Not just because he’d loved me, not just because he’d risked his life to save mine when he should’ve killed me. No, it wasn’t him because he was many things, but not cruel.

He leapt at me; I darted to the side, missing him by inches. He thumped on the hardwood behind me. I rounded the bed, stopped a foot from the wall, and spun to face him. He was crouched like an animal about to pounce. On the other side of the room, sure, but that didn’t matter for a vampire. He’d already gotten down the super-fast movement thing.

If I kept him going, he might burn out magically. Maybe. But generally that only happened when he teleported or froze time, and if he did that, well, I was fucking dead. That’s how he put a bullet in his brother’s head.

Shit.

My nerves were fraying worse and worse. "Get it the fuck together or I’m going to stake you!"

Nothing. Nothing passed in his eyes, his expression—no recognition. He understood my words, yes, but didn’t comprehend them.

He stood.

I tensed.

He moved to the right, as if to round the bed. I shifted left—I could hop the bed if he went around. I might make it to the door, unless he added a barrier spell—

Nate grabbed the edge of the bed and hauled it up, threw the whole thing forward. I yelped, backed up; my spine struck the wall behind me as the bed tumbled. Wood cracked, mattress slid, blankets glided across the polished floor.

I pressed my hands back against the wall, turned my toes to the right—if I got across the room, I’d have more space to manoeuver. My gaze moved over every inch of him, searching for some clue—anything—that might let me anticipate his next move, but that’s the thing with crazy people: you can’t predict them. Not unless you’re crazy too, and while I had been, once, as a newly turned vampire, I wasn’t quite ready to dip back there in my memory. I needed my wits about me.

I ran. Around the coffin, the bed, leapt over the bloody sheet. His steps beat the floor behind me, a steady pace, probably because he knew I had nowhere to go. The bedroom door was shut, closet doors shut, bathroom door shut—all along the same wall, too, and I couldn’t waste time and test if a barrier was in place. I nearly tripped on my own feet, skidded, scrambled forward. He moved faster behind me and I dove down, slammed on my knees. My dress pants were smooth and made it easy to slide across the floor, past my dresser.

The dresser.

On my way by, my hand darted out and snatched the tranq gun holstered underneath it. My fingers wrapped around the familiar grip and I gave it a yank, spun, both hands locked, and I squeezed the trigger without hesitation.

Twice.

Two darts hit him in the chest. Perfect shot. Two should do it—hell, one should do it, as it was enough to take down anything that burned through drugs like supernaturals did.

His head rolled to the side. Eyelids dropped, rose, dropped, rose again but only halfway. He crumpled to his knees hard enough that the floor shook, vibrating under me.

And he smiled. There was a flicker of Nate there, my Nate. I’m in love with you, you know.

He slumped down.

My face was wet, my chest heaved—belatedly I realized I was sobbing like a fool. I kept the gun trained on him as his eyes closed at last, his expression peaceful as it had been the entire time he slept in his coffin.

What the hell had I done?

Chapter Three

Triple Date

I set the tranq gun down on the floor and rubbed violently at my cheeks. Blinked until I was sure I’d stopped crying.

Okay. So my boyfriend was a crazy vampire warlock who tried to kill me. Hardly the worst dating mistake I’d made in three hundred years.

With no telling how quickly he’d burn through the tranquilizers, first I needed him restrained, then I could get help. Decent plan and once I got my feet under me, my legs working, I felt a little more confident about implementing it. My sharp heels clicked on the hardwood, sound bouncing off the walls and too loud in the silent space, stretching my nerves even more taut. I tried the closet doors, found they opened easily—hopefully sleep killed any barriers he had up.

Clothes hung from racks on my right, all the way to the end of the room where multi-angle, full length mirrors waited. The girl who stared back at me was pale with red-rimmed eyes, splotches on her cheeks from crying, and far from the pressed, put together business woman who’d left to meet Craig earlier.

I ignored her and went to the left, where racks of shoes and drawers with unmentionables waited. And also guns, because I liked them near my expensive footwear: accessories should be sorted together. But I skipped the weaponry, rose on my tiptoes, and pulled down ropes, shackles, and chains. The real heavy duty stuff, not sex toys. Stuff I had for when the other orphaned vampires I’d rescued were a little crazy and needed a time out. I hauled the mass of it down, metal clinking and rattling, and dust puffing up because I hadn’t touched them in a while.

I crept back into my bedroom, peered around the corner. My heart eased a little because he was still out, sleeping peacefully.

My hands shook as I snapped manacles on his ankles, glancing up the whole time to ensure he slept, not even letting myself think about what I was doing. If I thought, I’d worry, and if I worried, I’d lose myself and lose time. Next I bound his wrists behind him. Fed chains through them and the ones at his ankles. Each piece clicked in place and metal shone white, harsh against his skin. My fingers lingered for a moment on his, dipping into the creased palm of his hand.

I’m sorry.

The last words I’d said to him were that I loved him. I wondered if he remembered. If he’d believed me before I attacked.

I blinked. Rolled my shoulders once, got myself together. No ball gag—not something I used much in my repertoire—but the rope was thick and serviceable. His head lolled like a ragdoll’s as I pressed rope to his lips and pushed his mouth open, tied it behind his head. Duct tape was in the kitchen—it would have to do.

I stood in a hurry, swung around, unable to stare at him. Bound. Gagged. Nate. My Nate, awake, and he’d—

Get your fucking head together and cope, you dumb bitch. Cope. I could do that.

I could.

I hauled open the door, stomped downstairs. Remembered the phone. Fished it out of my pocket as I went through the dark living room, auto-dialling Nicolette.

’ello? she said sleepily after three rings.

Sleeping at night like a goddamn human. She sucked. He’s awake.

What? More alert now, likely sitting up abruptly. A voice said something in the background—Peri.

He’s awake. I yanked open the cupboard door over the sink, shoved first aid supplies and soup cans out of the way, and my fingers latched onto the thick roll of duct tape.

How...how is he?

I froze and my arm dropped to my side, hard and thick roll of tape hitting my thigh. I stared at the open cupboard, at nothing, at the dark and the faint shadow of my head there, light coming from my open bedroom doorway in the distance.

I stood in my kitchen about to put duct tape over my boyfriend’s mouth because Nate was awake and crazy and trying to kill me.

Fuck. I was not going to cry. Not.

He’s not okay, I said steadily, surprised at myself. Go me for sounding like an unemotional bitch.

He’ll be fine, she said. It’s normal. You’ve dealt with crazy before.

But this isn’t normal. Sure, no two vampires were alike when changed, and yeah, I’d seen a few levels of crazy, but this...everything in me screamed that something was very, very wrong with him. I need... Help. Help and I hated asking for it—hating not having control over this severely fucked up situation.

We’ll be right there, she said immediately, the rustle of fabric shifting in the background. That was the thing about Nic—she might be a bleeding heart, pacifist hippy who annoyed the shit out of me with her do-gooder-ness, but when I needed her, she didn’t question it.

Maybe get Ry and Ellie, I said. Maybe Peter can... Shit, I didn’t even want to tell Peter. He didn’t know what had happened—I’d never told him. I thought he assumed Nate was dead and never wanted to ask, never wanted to face the idea of me killing his friend.

This might shock him more.

I’m not sure if...

Right, if Ryann would let Ellie contact anyone—or if Ellie would even want to. He was pretty fucked up after that last possession and hadn’t worked in the seven months since. "Don’t tell them I want to talk to Peter. We’ll figure it out then. I’d been tacking we" onto a lot of things lately and felt like an idiot for it, but I’d done a hell of a lot for all of these people and I was cashing in all my goddamn favours right then.

He deserved no less.

I’ll call them, she said. We’ll be there in thirty. A voice murmured in the background, and Nic sighed. Twenty.

Peri must be driving then. Try not to get killed. I hung up, stowed the phone away. Realized I was still staring at the open cupboard door and squeezed the duct tape again, so hard I thought I’d crush it.

A vampire, quarter-demon, Demon Hunter-slash-nun, and psychic who could probably contact a demonologist for me. It wasn’t a plan, but it was a start.

Avengers assemble.

****

I sat on the steps that led to my loft, elbows on my knees and chin on my hands, waiting there when the elevator rumbled.

I’d changed into skinny indigo jeans and a black T-shirt—an actual T-shirt made of cotton and everything, with three quarter sleeves and a V-neck. I almost never wore such a thing but it could get messy and it was something I could trash later. My hair was bound back in a long loose braid that hung over my shoulder. I hadn’t moved a muscle in twenty minutes but I looked up as the elevator door squealed open.

Four people poured into my apartment and the place hadn’t been this full in months. I stood and stepped gingerly down the last few stairs. Light spilled from the open elevator door and I realized, belatedly, that I hadn’t turned on any lamps. Just my bedroom one burned behind me.

He was awake. Oh god.

I reached the bottom of the steps and it was Nic who headed right for me, round blue eyes wide with concern. Her hair was just long enough to collect part of it back, and it was pulled from her face. She had a glowy thing going on now—since I’d only ever known her depressed, I hadn’t realized she was depressed until Peri came in the picture and she had someone to...bond with? Love? Or something? Fuck if I knew what attracted them and how Peri could make anyone happy was beyond me. Every time I saw the woman I wanted to pistol-whip her.

Of course, how I could make anyone happy was beyond me as well, and yet Nate had loved me. And I turned him. Shit, six years of worry and regret was piling up and I couldn’t even see straight. This was why I didn’t date men whose names I’d remember afterward.

Nic was dressed casual in light blue cropped pants and a white cotton T-shirt, always so bright compared to the rest of us. Her arms shifted, tensed, like she might hug me.

Ugh. I raised both hands and took one step back. If you try, you’ll lose your arms.

A half-hearted smile and roll of her eyes, then she crossed her arms at her chest. Where is he?

Wow, for a blessed moment there I actually wasn’t thinking about it. Upstairs.

Peri’s heavy steps thumped next as she walked to Nic’s side, her girlfriend’s total opposite. Black army boots, black cargo pants, and a black cami. That there had to be the attraction: dark and light, black and white. Balance. Peri kept her hair short and wild, and dark eyes dragged over me. Nic might be glowy, but Peri never softened. At all. Nic said she had nightmares, violent ones. I didn’t doubt it at all. Of course, I had nightmares too and you didn’t see me stomping around and being emo about it, but to each her own.

Behind them were Ryann and Ellie, also strangely opposite but still fitting, somehow. They both looked older, more tired, than they had a year ago, which was sad since both kids were in their twenties. Ellie went straight for the kitchen in search of a drink. Whether he knew or not what I’d ask him to do, I didn’t know, but being anywhere near me and Peri usually caused him some distress while sober.

God. It was like some weird, triple date. Except my companion was batshit crazy and not in the let’s sing songs by Air Supply during karaoke kind of way.

I sighed, shook my head, and focused again on Ellie. Check the fridge. There’s even ice.

Sweet! His voice was strained though. Older. His mind was okay now, I thought, but by the glare Ryann was giving me, I knew his recovery likely didn’t matter; in her opinion, he shouldn’t be risked regardless. Ice clinked in a glass and a bottle settled on the counter.

You woke me up, Peri said, voice dry and humourless. Got bourbon?

I nodded. Fuck you very much too, and sure, go help yourself. And stop staring at me. God, it was creeping me out because she had one of those steady stares of a killer. I generally lacked empathy, sure, but I’d been human once. Peri, I was pretty sure, never had.

She trudged off with steps far too loud for the shortest one among us, and gave Ellie some berth when she reached the kitchen. Just being in our presence was bad enough but if he actually touched me or Peri sober, it might damn well kill him unless he was really drunk. She flipped on the light over my unused stove and hunted down the bourbon.

A paper bag crinkled in Ryann’s hands as she approached and held a package out for me. I picked it up at Nic’s request.

Well, wasn’t she Miss Conversation tonight. What it was, I didn’t know, so I took the bag and opened it. Several long slim bags of thick red liquid waited inside. Blood. I have some—

You do, but it’s on ice, Nic said. This is fresh. It might be easier to take warmer.

Right. I should just throw up my hands and let her at it because she was a lot better than me. More maternal, more patient. But no, I turned him. I...broke him. My responsibility.

Nerves were rattling in me, starting down deep, and if I didn’t get it the fuck together, I’d start shaking. I slipped out one of the blood pouches and handed it to Nic. Heat it up and grab a straw from the drawer. Check the temp—not too hot.

She nodded and grinned. Not my first time.

Of course.

Just me and Ryann now, damn nun staring at me like she expected me to ask her to rob a bank. Or not go to church or something equally horrible. Tension thickened and simmered in the air between us. I clutched the bag tightly in my hands, squeezing, blood giving gently beneath my fingers, and tipped my chin over my shoulder. C’mon.

She followed without a word as I climbed the stairs. Light bounced on the wall from the cross at her throat, sharp like knives. I’d left my bedroom door open just a crack and I eased it the rest of the way.

He was on the bed—or what I’d managed to put back together. The headboard was trashed. Frame had a few screws loose and I couldn’t remember where I put my tool box, so I’d wheeled it off to the side and just put the thick mattress and box-spring on the floor. Remade the bed with fresh linens, taking my time to press every corner just so. And then I’d picked up his body, and rested him on his side so hopefully the knot of his hands bound behind his back wouldn’t be too bad. His head had sunk down on a pillow and eyes were closed, long dark lashes brushing his cheeks.

So peaceful.

You had to gag him? Ryann said softly.

His eyes shot open and dread sank in my gut.

Ryann took a step back; my hand jutted out and snatched her arm, holding her in place.

Yeah, I said. Warlock. Magic requires words. He can’t do anything to kill us tied up, sure, but he could very well freeze time or teleport himself somewhere and that would mean we’d lose him and he’d be tied up, stuck somewhere.

That’s an exaggeration, right?

Remember how little they taught you back at your hunting church?

She nodded in my peripheral vision.

Times that by a thousand. Those are just the things I’ve seen him do and he was out of practice.

Wow.

Yeah. That’s my guy. My impressive, crazy guy. I sure know how to pick ’em.

I set the paper bag on the dresser, pulled out one of the sloshing bags of blood just in case he turned out to want the room temperature variety. Nic didn’t feed from humans—well, probably Peri, and it was likely a sexy thing I so didn’t want to know about because I felt like I’d raised Nic and I hated Peri—so she and other vampires had a supplier in town with the local Vampire Blood Association. Blood obtained from willing human sources, screened for drug use as feeding from a heroin addict could give us a rather unpleasant addiction—that sort of thing. And handy when you had to feed a starved, frenzied new vampire who would take the head off a live victim.

I approached the bed, blood in hand, and he watched every step I took. The crackling in the air rose sharply, his eyes swimming with magic. Muscles twitched under his bindings and I suddenly hoped he didn’t have any particular spells for breaking out of manacles.

Guess we’ll find out.

Something goes bad, I spoke to Ryann as I kept walking, "he does something to me, you do not stake him. You find a way to fix him. Got it?"

She said nothing.

I glanced back at the kid, her big eyes staring past me at him. Seriously. If it was me there, I’d say do it. Not him, though. He’s a good guy. It would net you seriously bad karma with your god.

Ryann sighed, shook her head, blondish curls bouncing. Wrong religion. My God has nothing to do with karma.

"Whatever, dumbass. It’ll send you to hell immediately. Do not pass GO, do not collect two hundred dollars—just hell where your tender Christian flesh will burn and be molested by Satan. Don’t hurt him."

Her lips parted to likely bark a comment at me. Closed. She took a deep breath. Okay.

Well, that was something. You know I’m going to ask him to contact Peter.

She nodded. Chin lifted defiantly.

And he’s going to do it.

It’s his choice—

Yes, and he will agree, because he’s that kind of guy. Peter won’t hurt him.

"Peter won’t, but you have no idea what opening up to these...these things does to him. Is doing to him. How hard it is to turn things off—"

Whine whine whine. "You’re right. I don’t know. And I don’t care, so save the speech for someone with a dose of empathy in their genes. Nate needs Peter which means I need Peter."

I know you... She trailed off, stared down at Nate sadly, sympathy all over her expression. I know you wanted me to see him, to see how much help he needs, so that I’ll—

Bringing you in here has nothing to do with gaining your sympathy. I don’t care if you sympathize. I’m not even going to bring out the ‘I helped Christian and saved your life and faith’ card. I took one step toward her, my shadow cutting across her innocent face, and let my voice turn to ice, all sharp and frozen, piercing. "I brought you up here so you could see, firsthand, that I will do anything to fix him. Anything at all. I will chain you up and toss you in the garage and keep Ellie here until he does what I tell him to, and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it. So be on my team or be against it. But I do not want your motherfucking sympathy because it’s not doing me any good."

Steps clattered on the stairs outside my room and Nic stepped through the doorway; I spun back to the bed, braid beating my spine, and crept the rest of the way to him. Nate looked up at me, just haunting insanity in his eyes. His gaze locked on the blood in my