Nine While Nine: Book One

By Stasia Morineaux

There are things that humans are not meant to know...

In one explosive night, Isabeau Finne's perfect life shatters into chaos when she learns of them. Thrust into an ancient society of exiled beings still thriving and hidden among us, she be

• Language: English
• Publisher: Apocrypha Athenaeum
• Release date: Oct 31, 2024
• ISBN: 9798330503780

Stasia Morineaux

Stasia grew up in Southern California, pursuing faeries in the garden, casting spells in her grandma's attic, and seeking spirits in the local graveyard with her cat Bartleby; she also spent countless nights hunting down things that went bump. She has since resettled in historic and haunted Franklin, Tennessee with her family, and a bevy of creatures...both real and "imaginary".Mysterious dreams, copious hours of music, and obscene amounts of coffee fuel her writing sessions of modern gothic faerie tales, dark urban fantasy, paranormal romance, and light horror.Utilizing her varied background in writing, film, and design, Stasia is excited about developing new dark fantasy works that will be released across different entertainment platforms in the forthcoming year. "I'm a Bohemian souled, squirrel gazing, city hopping, movie bingeing, living room dance partier, big city loving urbanite who got herself lost in the woods. I have a deep love for the unseen and inexplicable that is ever-growing. I believe in living with intensity while searching for, and never losing, your whimsy and wonder. "Stasia loves connecting with her readers:www.thedarkwhimsy.comhttps://www.instagram.com/stasia.morineauxhttps://www.tiktok.com/@stasiamorineauxhttps://www.facebook.com/Stasia.Morineaux.Author

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Dedication

This book is for my family:

To Magic and Sorscha Muse, the loves of my life,

Thank you for your endless love, patience, support, understanding, and

all those many phone calls for pizza. Thank you for playing house with

me, for believing in my crazy ideas and schemes, and for coming along

on this never-ending, roller coaster of a journey! My love is yours,

forever and for always…Googfinway!

Mom and Dad, thank you for passing on to me your love of books and

reading, and the multitude of shelves where I discovered Anne Rice,

Stephen King, and Dean Koontz. Thank you for gifting me with perseverance

and a belief in the impossible. Thank you for all your love and

support throughout the years. Words aren’t adequate for how much

I love you both.

Jeff and Paul, thank you for always being there for me, whether things

were going great or falling apart…and for always wanting to beat up

the bad guys for me. Thanks for being my big brothers! I love you guys

with all my heart, and even though we are so many miles apart

you are always with me.

XOXOX

Acknowledgments

Enormous thanks to Shayne Townson.

Handing over a story that is so deeply entwined through oneself is a difficult thing to do.

You saw some magic in my tale.

Not only did you help immensely in polishing it to a gleam but in getting it out into the world.

Thank you for that belief and for your guidance through the entire process.

I will always be grateful to you.

And I will always cherish our friendship.

Dear Reader

I’ve included a comprehensive glossary and pronunciation guide at the back of the book to illuminate the language of Na Síraide Cinn, the Everlasting Ones.

You can either read the guide first, to acquaint yourself with the terminology, or reference it as you go along . . . or both!

NINE WILL RISE

NINE WILL FALL

THE OLD SHALL REPLACE THE NEW

THE NEW SHALL BECOME THE OLD

NINE WHILE NINE TO AWAKEN

TO SEIZE A REALM

WHOLLY SHAKEN

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Prologue

FIVE YEARS BEFORE

THE SCÁTHANNA—A WATCHER, a guard, a tracker, a shadow—was there. Watching. He was constantly astonished at how oblivious humans were to their surroundings, what was always taking place at the periphery of their vision, existing at the edge of their lives and senses, yet never realized.

His ward, Isabeau Finne, was different. It was almost as if she could sense him near her, making his job as her Scáthanna a little more problematic than the norm. Perhaps it was her upbringing, coupled with her lineage, which was the cause of this disconnected cognizance—her mother had been an O’Cailleach, one in a long line of Scottish-Celtic witches. This gifted Isabeau with innate talents she was only on the cusp of discovering were much more than she’d ever been made aware of.

It had scarcely been a year since he was appointed as her guard. He’d been called into action after his predecessor had mysteriously abandoned his post—and become one of the Missing.

Now he found himself on a plane heading to New Orleans. No one on the midnight flight out of LAX that October evening noticed the brutally handsome man sitting three rows behind the amber-haired beauty who was his charge. Manipulating perception was one of his kinds many advantages over humans. Another was never needing to make a reservation for travel. He could merely slip to the Vahel—a place in between the here and the there—and move freely and invisibly among them.

Sliding the crumpled and overly browsed inflight magazine back into its snug seat-back pocket, he watched as Isabeau gathered her costuming paraphernalia together. She carefully stashed away her midair couture shop into a leather bag before rising from her seat to stow it in the overhead compartment. For nearly half of the flight, she’d been embroidering minuscule silk threads and ribbons into an array of fall leaves across the front of a gown. It was a creation specifically designed to wear to the costume ball she was traveling towards.

The elaborate dress remained draped over her, a makeshift blanket on the increasingly chilly flight, too precious to risk being damaged in the overhead bin. It was her first journey to New Orleans, and with all the excitement and anticipation she was feeling, he was doubtful she would have found rest if it had not been for exhaustion finally taking over.

He watched as she fell asleep against her boyfriend’s shoulder, curling her legs up under her as well as she could in the coach seat. She snuggled her pale cheek into the age-softened collar of his distressed black leather coat, with a content smile edging her lips.

She was resting now, which gave him an excellent opportunity to catch a few desired winks of his own. Pulling an under-sized airline blanket over his body, he found himself wishing he would have grabbed two on his way down the aisle before takeoff. He stuffed a tiny white pillow between his head and the window, then stretched his long legs across the other two conveniently empty seats. The flight was not fully booked, freeing up the entire row to relax his formidable physique across.

THE PILOT ANNOUNCING their descent to the New Orleans International Airport interrupted the slumber of the plane’s passengers. Waking, the Shadow stretched his arms overhead, the muscles protesting from his nap in such cramped quarters. He watched as Isabeau mirrored his movements, her head tilting from left to right to work out the aches she’d also acquired. In search of her makeup, she rummaged through her bag until she found a travel pouch. He watched as she freshened up, applying a touch of makeup before popping a mint into her mouth. Following her lead, he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew his own tin of curiously strong mints, then took a swig of water from the bottle the flight attendant had given him five hours before.

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THE SCÁTHANNA WATCHED as Isabeau perched on the edge of the fountain that was the centerpiece of their French Quarter hotel’s brick courtyard. Clear waterspouts burbled from the mouths of four statuary frogs into the pool sitting beneath their cement amphibian feet. She was cooing at a family of turtles, attempting to coerce them to the surface with a piece of croissant left over from her breakfast. He sat on the other side of the courtyard at a verdigris café set, his presence casually hidden behind a newspaper and his intrinsic talent to mask. Waiting.

It was her first night in the Quarter, and he’d decided that with the immense number of revelers on the streets, there would be no need to hide behind the deceptions of his kind, other than a simple manipulation to disguise his true face.

With his hands buried deep within the pockets of his long wool coat, he discreetly trailed behind Isabeau and her group of friends as they departed from the courtyard. Expertly blending into the crowd, he positioned himself a few bodies behind her, as they made their way through the fog enshrouded streets. They strolled in merriment along Esplanade Avenue, crossing over to Royal, and continued their journey down Ursulines and then Chartres.

With every step of their route, Isabeau’s eyes were full of wonder. Beautiful and captivating objects in shop windows invited her consideration one after another. She stared up at the delicate and ornate, awe-inspiring architecture of the city. She marveled at the allied feeling of the people around her upon entering Jackson Square. Kindred spirits all gathering in this amazing city for the same event. All of them traversing through the magical night as thick mist rolled in off the river to lend an even more dream-like ambiance to the experience.

The Scáthanna found himself completely enchanted by her. He watched as she drew her first breath of the magic-tinged atmosphere of the French Quarter. Her eyes grew wide and her smile enormous with each step deeper into the city she’d dreamed of visiting for ten years.

Moisture clung to the exposed skin of his face, settled into his dark hair, further enhancing his features. He raked his fingers through his damp and slightly unruly locks, pushing them back from his face. He tugged his collar up higher to ward off a chill. The humidity of the day had abandoned them, and fall was officially taking its place.

The full moon cast misty images of the people wandering through the night against the fog, turning them into shadow puppets in a play. They walked unaware of what wandered the streets among them, possibly hunting them. Not Isabeau. His Isabeau would be safe.

He could feel her heart soaring. She beamed as she oohed and aahed over favored objects in the windows of the closed shops, steering Robert’s attention to any number of things as they passed. Jazz floated through the air along with the lingering and delectable scents of creole cuisine. She was giddy, and Robert got caught up in the lure of her infectious delight. He kissed her and vowed his undying love then and there. The Scáthanna clenched his jaw, with his fists held tightly in his pocket.

An adorable tabby cat sat serenely in the window of a loom shop. Isabeau tapped on the glass and spoke to the feline as he rubbed his furry jowls against the glass, trying to reach her hand to be petted.

Lost in his own beguiled state of mind, her Shadow nearly ran into her. He veered away just before colliding into the couple, narrowly avoiding sending all three of them crashing into the storefront. The startled cat dashed away from the glass and into the depths of the shop. Regaining his normally cool composure, the Scáthanna slid effortlessly away. He remained unseen by Isabeau, but still observed the sweet expressions on her face as she looked into the night sky, breathing in the magic of the city . . . and the love of her young man.

She pulled her attention back to Robert as she slipped her hand into his. Their group peered into a toy store window, all exuberant as children at the old-fashioned toys tucked away inside. Before continuing on their way, they paused to ask a young woman walking by to snap a photo of them. Cat removed the vintage Nikon 35mm from around her neck, handed it carefully to the woman, and briefly showed her how it worked.

They all struck a silly pose in front of the toy store window that was bursting with color and cheerful lighting. Her Shadow couldn’t help but grin widely at Isabeau’s jubilance as she pointed into the window and pulled a goofy face for the camera before bursting into laughter. Onward they went, laughing and carousing down the slate pavement through Jackson Square, past Madeleine’s—where the young women all agreed to gather in the morning for café au lait and pastries—toward Decatur. They waited for a mule-drawn carriage to pass, then crossed the street and entered the mecca that was Café Du Monde.

Isabeau hooked her arm through Robert’s and let him lead her to a vacant table near the railing where they could people-watch and have a front row seat to the trio of jazz musicians taking up roost near the café. A tattered hat was set on the ground in front of their feet collecting tips from many music lovers as they paused to enjoy the impromptu performance.

Her Shadow watched as she had her first sip of café au lait made with chicory and her first taste of a beignet. He was delighted as her face became awash in bliss with the very first bite. She giggled while trying to remove the avalanche of powdered sugar that cascaded down the front of her velvet dress and touched down onto her lap. The white stood out starkly against the black velvet.

He followed as Isabeau wandered away to observe the making of beignets through the large viewing window at the back of the café, and as she first set eyes on the meandering Mississippi. "Down by the river where it’s warm and green." He heard her sing dreamily, a line from a song by Concrete Blonde.

As they walked hand-in-hand along the Moon Walk, Robert pulled her into his arms, twirled her in a circle, bringing forth another bout of her sweet laughter, before whispering in her ear and kissing her.

Her Shadow turned his eyes away. She was a truly enticing creature, and this boy could never adequately appreciate her.

He watched as she fell more in love with the city the longer they meandered throughout the Quarter. He stayed with them, with her, to be certain she remained safe on their walk to the hotel. Remaining vigilant until she was safely tucked away in her room, before retiring to his own.

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HER SCÁTHANNA WAS indulging in an evening cup of dark French roast and a pastry from Croissant D’Or when the four young women met up at the courtyard fountain, breathless with elation and fawning over each other. Exclamations of delight wafted to his ears on the breeze. They were adorned in elaborate costumes for the Halloween festivities being held at St. Elizabeth’s. Isabeau was wearing the Georgian ball gown she’d been putting the finishing touches on while in flight.

She was borderline otherworldly as she breezed past him, never glancing his way as she rushed with her friends through the gaslamp-lit courtyard to the cab outside the wrought iron gates. The three young men trailed behind, adjusting cuffs and cravats, and deep in discussion about the bands performing. They were running late and were anxious to get to the gathering. Turning back to beam a wide, gleeful smile at her friends, the lamplight caught on her delicate kitten-vampire fangs; the addition caught him by surprise.

Her Shadow folded the newspaper he’d been reading and left it on the table for the next patron looking for a quick read. He weighed it down with a polished stone so it wouldn’t blow away with the river breeze. Gathering his coffee to-go cup and pastry wrapper, he deposited them in the waste bin on his way out the gate. He had prepared for the occasion with great care as well, donning attire worthy of being seen in The Lord of the Rings. However, this was no insignificant costume; they were customary garments he wore regularly when riding front steed of the Ard Sciath, the most prestigious division of the Eirr Rúnaigh.

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THE VAMPIRE MASQUERADE ball was beyond any and all expectations. The venue, St. Elizabeth’s, had once been an orphanage, but was now the private residence of a highly celebrated author. It was expansive and opulent, covering an entire city block in the lush Garden District. No expense had been spared by the hostess when it came to decorations, entertainment, or refreshments. The recently renovated building now flaunted highly polished dark wood floors, wall tapestries, draperies, and furniture of the most luxurious quality. It was a step back in time. It was a dream night. Trinkets, keepsakes, and programs were being handed out at the door as enthusiasts of the author—and her vampires—passed over the threshold. Within the expansive courtyard, sumptuous food and drinks were being served endlessly.

Not an hour had passed since their arrival before the close-knit friends found themselves gathered beneath a strand of gently swinging paper lanterns which were festooned throughout the giant oak trees lining the perimeter of the courtyard. The group was engaged in a lively exchange of words with a couple they’d met while waiting in line at the outdoor bar. The debate centered around a series of books by the author, which chronicled the life of a vampire, and whether the movie was better than the book.

Robert hugged Isabeau, and then grabbing William, Lucas, and their two new friends, went in search of bands in the grandiose house. Musical offerings were being presented in two rooms at opposite ends of the building. Excusing themselves to hunt down a powder room, Cat, Moira, and Gigi made plans with Isabeau to meet back up shortly in the ballroom where a presentation of baroque dancers was scheduled to take place. She was eagerly anticipating their performance and excited to participate in the minuet lessons set to follow.

As Isabeau wove through the crowd of partygoers, her Shadow remained nearby, following her discreetly, blending in and merging with the revelers ascending the grand staircase. She was swiftly swept past her intended exit on the second-floor landing and carried upward to the next, caught up in the jostling press of bodies. She managed to escape the mass only as it bulldozed her into a room on the third floor.

Her unexpected stopover was decked out with themed party props of floating bats, cobwebs, and flickering, moody lighting provided by wall sconces. Chairs and café tables lined the room, waiting for guests. Music played from a sound system in the corner near a snack station that offered canned sodas and various Halloween treats. For further entertainment, the room offered a red felt-covered pool table. But at the center of it all, the pièce de résistance, was an antique-looking casket of highly polished wood with creamy satin lining displayed on a raised dais. It was full of plastic eyeballs, souvenir voodoo-mojo satchels, and rubber rats with painted red eyes.

Isabeau came to a halt, swiftly examining the shadowy room. Hello, anyone in here? she called out, shifting her surveillance down a corridor that led to a hall, then turning to peer through a different doorway. Her brow furrowed in that familiar way it did each time she thought she wasn’t alone. The room remained silent, with no response forthcoming from its darkly obscured corners.

Frequently, over the years, he’d beheld his ward scanning crowds—just as she was now— methodically searching for something beyond her ability to see. She’d peer deeply into the space he occupied, yet always fail to perceive him tangibly as he remained invisible to her. Perplexity would knit her brow, her lip caught between her teeth in concentration, and her eyes would dart around as if she’d misplaced something invaluable, before she’d stumble back into a conversation or move onward through a crowd. Not until that moment could her Scáthanna, her Shadow, relax and blend back into the throng of people, conserving his magic, no longer needing to slip behind the fragile curtain that hung between their worlds.

I’ve wandered off to an attic room in a very old, probably haunted, New Orleans mansion. Not the smartest thing to do, Isabeau. She laughed nervously.

They were alone. No guests and no ghosts.

His kind watched. Protected. Always unseen. Always at the fringe of her life, never in it. Those were the rules. He was nothing if not exemplary with rules. He was honor-bound to protect her—body, mind, and soul.

Somewhere below her, the Baroque dancers had likely commenced their graceful turns, dips, and spins within the ballroom. Isabeau only wanted to find her way there, eager to immerse herself in the exploration of every room the mansion had to offer and partake in every event scheduled. The night was perfectly enchanting, and she felt a pang of regret for missing out on so much while being lost in the desolate and dimly lit section of the house.

A deep shudder coursed through her as an unexpected burst of cold air cascaded past her. She wrapped her arms around herself, her gaze unknowingly passing over him. Turning in one direction, then the other, she deliberated on which path to choose, determined to reunite with her friends.

A furtive movement accompanied by a soft scuttling sound seized her attention. A murky and elusive figure, barely discernible, slinked along the floor, emerging from beneath the pool table and disappearing behind the casket. It might have been a mere illusion, a trick of light, or rather the absence of it, but it spooked her all the same, raising the fine hairs at the back of her neck.

In an effort to peer through the inkiness, Isabeau squinted, her eyes skimming over her surroundings, looking for a presence. But the expression on her face was not the usual one that accompanied her habitual searching. When she sought that elusive something she could sense near her—when she looked for him— there was always an air of longing and hope. Flickering across her face instead was trepidation and uncertainty, it was altogether unfamiliar to him.

Isabeau heightened her senses, her ears attuned to catch any sound beyond the music. Amidst the melodies, there was a scraping, groaning noise emanating from somewhere in front of her. A low, muffled, depraved snickering echoed from her left, intertwining with the previous sound. The cacophony sent chills through her as it seemed to slather across her skin, evoking a sense of terror.

It brought to mind the swampy midnight pond from her childhood nightmares, full of things no one should ever see. Dank and rotting things that oozed malevolence. Upon awakening from the nightmares, she’d wrap herself beneath layers of quilts while holding her breath, cocooning against the dark things waiting beneath her bed or behind her closet door.

She eyed every surface and unlit corner as she exited the room. The hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention. It dawned on her that she’d become turned around when she’d popped into the attic space. Instead of returning to the hallway from which she’d first stumbled from, she now found herself in a much murkier, tunnel-like corridor. The ceiling was low and claustrophobic, and she was unable to see the end of the passage. She had no idea where it might lead, but as long as it was away from the attic room, away from those sounds, that would be just fine.

Isabeau halted as a figure seemingly crafted from the dark particles of the gloom materialized from the darkness just feet in front of her. He moved forward, closing the space between them. As she peered up into the most beautiful male face she had ever seen, relief flooded her body. He was just another young man who wandered too far from the festivities. She felt foolish for being so shaken by the trappings of a Halloween party.

I’m so sorry, I totally didn’t see you there, it’s so dark in here, she exhaled the words in a rush of alleviated tension. I’m all turned around. Do you know how to get to the ballroom? My friends are waiting for me there. She babbled, but the note of relief lacing her voice was audible; happy not to be alone any longer in the nightmare room. She glanced back over her shoulder to the attic. I think that room got to me, the craziest sounds . . . Her voice dwindled to nothing as her sight returned to rest on the young man’s features.

When she’d shot that brief glance behind her, removing her attention from him for only a split second, he’d instantly closed the distance between them. Gone was the sublime visage from scant seconds ago. Instead, she found herself looking up into a face that flickered in and out of focus before morphing and settling into something so abhorrent she couldn’t draw a breath to scream. Instead of the charming smile, she now stared into a mouth full of dripping needles, and the boggy sludge rimming his mouth threatened to ooze onto her. Its eyes—she could no longer bring herself to use the term he—had changed from glimmering pools of opulent waters to black pits of soul-sucking despair and loathing. They were sunk deep in a face so pasty and clammy it seemed to belong to a water-logged corpse. Its unnaturally long fingers with too many joints reached to grasp at her shoulders, shoving her alarmingly hard against the wall behind her. The fingertips that might as well have been glass slivers were dangerously close to puncturing her skin.

Something in the primal depths of her soul knew this was no party-going reveler in costume. No amount of FX makeup could produce this look or the putrid stench floating around it. An outpouring of absolute depravity encircled them, fouling her skin right through her gown. She knew without the slightest amount of doubt that whatever was holding her abrasively in its grasp was not human and had never been human.

Evil things do exist.

Her Scáthanna threw all caution out the window—consequences and dictates be damned. Isabeau was about to be ripped apart and devoured by a Sgoltadh, and whatever mess was left behind would meticulously be lapped up from the walls and floorboards by his minions, the Sgrìoban.

With one simple thought, he tore through the veil separating them. He was visible to her, but not to the Sgoltadh; the creature was too enthralled with its prey to notice him. The Scáthanna, whose career originated with the Eirr Rúnaigh, employed his skills by wrapping his arms around the girth of the monstrosity and pulling it away from Isabeau a scant second before it would have dipped its shard-like claws into her tender flesh.

He threw the hulking, stench-ridden body away from him. It crashed into the end of the passage, causing the heavy wood door behind it to groan under the strain. Her rescuer, drawing two incredibly long blades as if from thin air, raised them up in a flash under the monster’s jaw to sink into the soft matter within its skull. The creature, stunned by the impact with the door and the sudden appearance of an adversary, never had a chance to duck away from the blades, never had a chance to raise its own razor-sharp implements to intercept the incoming death blow. It collapsed on the floor, and simultaneously she heard tiny screeches of protest and anguish rising from the attic room, followed by crisp pops. There was a brief silence before she heard a jolting noise, like a mash-up of fabric being violently split at the seams fused with the sound of steam escaping a tea kettle, sans the whistle.

She looked back to the corpse of her attacker, or where it should have been. Nothing was there now. The dead thing was gone. There wasn’t even any blood. Only her champion lingered. She finally exhaled the breath stuck in her throat from terror. Oh, my gods . . . what the hell . . . what . . . what was it . . . not real . . . couldn’t be . . . she stammered as adrenaline-driven words tumbled from her mouth. Monsters don’t . . . not really . . . was it dead? It smelled like death. I’m just crazy. Its fingers . . . all wrong . . . its hands . . . this didn’t happen . . . but it did . . . no eyes . . . just pits . . . needle teeth . . . so many . . .

Her eyes met those of her Scáthanna. When he brushed the terror-produced tears from her cheek, warmth spread across her face, traversed through her skin, and made its way to her heart. He flashed a bold grin that made her smile in return, made her heart lift.

It was all just for show, huh? No expense spared, right? For the party. They really went all out, didn’t they? She paused to catch her breath as relief flooded her. Before he could reply, she continued with a furrowed brow. Do I know you?

He seemed so familiar. Is he from my L.A. crowd? There’d been many recognizable faces from the club scene on her plane. Perhaps, she’d seen him there.

No. He answered simply, with a baritone voice. The sound sent a delicious shiver through her. He shook his head slightly, never removing his gaze from hers. It was a multipurpose answer. No, it was not for show, the creature had been authentic, but he wouldn’t tell her. He’d let her think his response was in answer to whether she knew him. You’ve never met me.

Her heart was thudding in her chest, and her head felt light and dreamy. She could hear the music from downstairs more distinctly, while at the same time, the narrow room in which they stood grew fuzzy and imprecise . . . and became quite unimportant to her. Why was she here? Who was she with? It didn’t matter if she went left or chose right, or if she found the dancers. What dancers? Every thought other than the man in front of her slipped from her mind. In this moment, being here with him was all that mattered. Standing right in front of her was the man she’d been seeking within every room for as long as she could remember.

He was wrong to pull her through to the Vahel, in which they stood. It was neither on his side of the veil nor in her world, but perhaps herein existed a loophole to the situation at hand—that he, without hesitation and without fail, had to embrace this chance, embrace her. He’d nearly lost her to a Sgoltadh. It happened so fast. Why had it been in the attic room with its minions? Why was it at the party?

She had never before faced more danger than a near-miss traffic accident or a potential tumble down some stairs. Once, when she’d been on the verge of consuming that one-drink-too-many, which would have tipped her over the edge into being ill, he’d swiftly knocked her glass from a table, causing it to shatter on the nightclub’s unforgiving cement floor. All of these perils were human in nature, not the threat of a Sgoltadh.

The unexpected arrival of a Sgoltadh changed the game beyond anything anticipated. She’d come too close to being irrevocably lost.

Who are you? Isabeau breathed out. I know you. Her voice was a wisp of sound.

His answer was to seal her lips with his after indistinctly voicing a brief litany of words she didn’t understand. It was a kiss that would have to last him, in all probability, for the rest of his life. Once the Comhairle learned of his transgression, he would be removed from her life. He should know better. He should be stronger, but she was his undoing. He had watched from the edge for far too long, without ever uttering a single word to her, deprived of even the most trivial touch—always separated by the ethereal stratum between their existences or by a crowd.

It was a kiss that tore through his soul, forging an unbreakable connection between them that defied the laws of his kind. It bound them together in ways that surpassed his wildest expectations and comprehension, leaving him staggered.

It was a kiss meticulously crafted not only to appease his desire, but to erase from her mind the haunting images and emotions she’d experienced. A kiss meant to banish him from her thoughts. Because she could not know he existed.

Isabeau fell back against the wall behind her as a gust of warm, honeysuckle and forest-scented air rushed against her in an abrupt force, leaving her dazed and confused as to what had just occurred.

She brushed her fingertips across her lips, still feeling his kiss warm against them. She could still faintly see his eyes and feel his light touch against her skin.

Her Scáthanna’s intention had not fully worked. His heart was not resolute in the undoing, and he was no longer there to pursue a second attempt. He’d been pulled back through to the opposite side of the veil, back to where he came from, just as he’d anticipated and feared. Though he had not expected such immediate action for his indiscretion.

What the hell was that? She gasped to catch her breath. The kiss had been long, deep, and full of passion, longing, and promise.

But there was no one there with her. She was alone in the hallway.

It didn’t seem as poorly lit now; the warm lighting from the sconces bright enough to keep the gloom at bay. She spun around, reaching out with her hands and her heart for someone who was not there. Maybe hadn’t been there at all. I’m nuts. Isabeau’s sight darted desperately about. Or this place is haunted. Neither a great option. Cat’s not going to believe this. She spoke into the room under her breath, trying to gather her wits. I don’t know if I do.

There you are! Cat burst into the hallway gleefully, with Gigi in tow. Isabeau nearly jumped out of her skin, startled by the sudden appearance of her friends. This place is seriously huge. And we have zero clue where the guys are hiding, cell reception sucks for some reason, but oh well . . .  I’m so glad we finally found you. You have to come check out the life-sized Nosferatu figure Anne has down in the billiard room, and we found a stash of Vampire wine! It’s so amazing!

Gigi jumped in gushing, her excitement palpable, Listen up, dance lessons are about to start downstairs, and we cannot miss out on this. We managed to sneak a peek at what’s going on, and let me tell you, it’s like something out of a fairytale—the grandeur, the elegance. Oh, and your gown, Isabeau, it’s the perfect fit for the whole scene. I mean, sincerely, you’re gonna slay it out there. Let’s go, like, right now, before we’re too late.

Isabeau’s glance delved behind her into the depths of the room, searching for the vaguest hint of him, reluctant to leave. Part of her realized she should be frightened of what had happened. A stranger in a dark corridor had laid one hell of an unexpected—and uninvited—kiss upon her and then vanished into thin air. She was either nuts or she’d been kissed by an otherworldly suitor.

But in that kiss, she had seen a hint at another world and felt possibilities within herself that she had never been aware of, a tease of an awakening. She had seen things not of her world, things for which she did not possess a vocabulary.

He’d awakened something within her that she was oblivious to; the existence of some enigmatic otherness that was an integral part of her composition. A mysterious something dwelling in her since before birth had awakened and would now continue to flourish and evolve within her. When the time was right, something from the O’Cailleach heritage and beyond would fully come to light.

The memory of the attack was successfully erased. But the images of deep green and amber forests that held creatures not of this world, and places and things of storybooks and myths, remained, though hazily. Images that had come crashing into her mind directly from his, not seen with her eyes.

A vision of his face, and his eyes of such soulful depth, lingered behind her closed eyelids. Regrettably, the more she tried to focus and remember, the hazier he became. The last hour became a déjà vu moment of a dream long past.

But one word he’d spoken after breaking the kiss still resonated with her in his tender and impassioned voice . . .

Milseachd.

As Cat grabbed Isabeau’s hand to pull her from the hallway and back into the traffic of the outer room, Isabeau reached back for him with her free hand, as if he were still there. Willing him to hear her from any plane of existence, she whispered, Stay with me.

One

AT FIRST, I WAS convinced someone had slipped a hit of acid into my Aviation cocktail. There was this weird, trippy, muddy-headed dizziness, a warping in my mind that made me close my eyes tightly against it. When I opened them, I was no longer standing but seated on a huge area rug. It was one Giselle had dragged up from my apartment just for the party.

It was only my second drink, so there was no way I was anywhere near drunk. And we hadn’t opened the Absinthe yet, so I couldn’t exactly blame it on the hallucinogenic alcohol either. So, what else could it have been? And then it struck me.

Asshole! I stood up and yelled across the roof of my three-story building. I grinned, lopsided and silly. Not my usual language, but seriously, who drugs you at your own birthday party? Who slipped me the acid? Not a single person turned to acknowledge my outburst, let alone give an answer. I was angry, but I was having a tough time remaining that way.

The celebration was at its peak. I had to hand it to Moira and Giselle, they’d nailed it with this epic surprise bash. All their planning and plotting had resulted in an unforgettable Welcome to Thirty celebration. Gods, I didn’t feel thirty! When had that happened? How had that happened? I still felt twenty-four! Streamers and twinkling lights resembling windswept diamonds were strung a few feet above our heads, swaying in the ocean breeze. Music drifted across the rooftop—Bauhaus, Ministry, Sisters of Mercy, and so many other favorites segued together—blending seamlessly with the tranquil night before floating out with the breeze to be lost over the rolling sea. Mirth tangled and entwined harmoniously with it all.

Moira had sworn to me there would be no party. We were going to have a quiet girls’ night in—just me, her, Cat, Rachel, and Gigi. Her promise echoed in my memory: I swear to you Isabeau, absolutely, no way, are we planning anything over the top. Just some takeout of your choice, lots of champagne, lots of cake, and lots of chick flicks. An incredibly quiet ringing in of your thirtieth. But for the record, I think you’re nuts. And then she’d hugged me, kissed both cheeks, and dashed off. I should have known she was up to something by the minx-like twinkle in her eye.

My spirit soared, even through the haze of the assumed drugging. Everyone in our large social circle had shown up, a multitude of extras I didn’t know were also in attendance.

I glanced down briefly at a sleeping figure on the sofa—one of the many pieces of furniture belonging to my best friend Giselle. It had been relocated for the event. Daniel and Lucas probably helped drag it all up here. William may have even lent a hand with the sofa; it was a heavy piece of furniture. I wasn’t in the loop as to who had been in charge of doing what, but I was positive these were the best handful of friends a girl could wish for—awesome friends, in fact. They had all chipped in and worked so hard to make this secret a success.

It was an impressive turnout. At least forty-five people milled about on the revamped rooftop above the three-story 1920s hotel which had been converted into apartments decades ago. It stood proudly across the street from what once was a swanky, beachside nightclub of the roaring twenties—now a private residence—and diagonally from the infamous Villa Riviera. Once upon a time, the Villa had been the after-party hot spot, the crowning jewel of Long Beach. Legends whispered that during that era, certain celebrities had kept apartments at the Villa,