Rows of skulls erupt from ground, their mouths opening and closing as if crying out in pain. Alternating flames of blue and gold burn their faces, the heat singeing and cracking through the dense bone.

“Taran!” Johnny is yelling from afar. I can’t hear what he’s saying. I only know he’s scared and in trouble.

“Taran!”

The vampires are screaming for me.

“For fuck’s sake,” Agnes pleads. “You have to help the master.”

I can’t see her, or Johnny, or any of the vampires. I only feel them, lingering close while their voices screech further away.

Around me, the earth burns, roasting the skulls and releasing a sickening aroma that makes me cough. I’m perched on my hands and knees, my fingers digging into the barren wasteland the garden has become.

I whip around at the sound of Misha howling in agony. He’s on his knees, beating the flames overtaking a giant tiger with his bare hands. His efforts and despair are pointless, she’s dying, her roars mercilessly raking against my ears.

“No!” I scream, racing forward.

It’s Celia, it has to be by the way Misha is losing it. I struggle to reach them, every step I manage taking them further away from me.

Misha’s cries turn wretched and his magic responds in turn, sending another burst of his power coursing through me. My arm reacts to the invasion of energy, flailing madly and throwing me against an invisible wall.

The scene breaks apart before I can gather my senses, the inferno and heat surrounding me replaced with large snow drifts and a cruel wind that sails my hair behind me. As I watch, Misha’s clothes dissolve. He collapses into a drift, naked and unmoving.

I lurch forward, cursing when I strike the wall and can’t find my way around it.

Misha is dying, I sense it even from where I stand. I pound my fists against the walls, calling forth fire that fails to come. Images of the skulls appear and fade. I don’t know if they’re real. I don’t care if they are. I only see Misha, his long, wet hair and limbs strewn across the frozen ground.

He’s half the man he was moments ago, his frame lanky and emaciated. His chest heaves as a pool of blood forms beneath him, trickling and tainting the otherwise pure white surroundings. I think he’s trying to rise, or breathe. It’s only when I stop pounding the clear wall that I realize he’s crying.

My hands slide along the invisible barrier keeping me from him, each ragged breath and sob that breaks through his throat like a shard of glass that pierces my heart.

His torment is more than I can take. I’m not certain what happened to him until the long tail of a whip soars past me and the tip cracks across Misha’s back.

A man dressed in fur spouts angry words in Russian as he sends the whip soaring again and again, slicing through the muscles along Misha’s back and exposing the bones.

 “What are you doing?” I scream at him.

He ignores me, pulling back the whip and bringing it viciously down.

“You’re killing him,” I shriek.

“Stop it!”

My palms slap against the invisible divider.

“Stop it!”

I curse, begging the man to show Misha mercy.

He won’t listen. Instead he shakes out his hand, now sore and swollen from the strength he used to hurt Misha, and passes the whip to another man.

This other man, he’s not tired, and more than eager to take over his comrade’s task. Snow falls in wet clumps as he lifts the whip and strikes Misha’s broken body.

A streak of blood splatters against my face with the next lash. Somehow it breaks through the invisible space keeping me in. I run forward, tripping over a long skirt I shouldn’t be wearing and falling beside Misha.

My long dark hair is now blond and streaked with gray, the force of my fall spilling it from of the head scarf I’m wearing and draping it over my wrinkled and battered hands. My mouth moves, speaking words in Russian I shouldn’t be able to say.

The first man swings back his leg, kicking me hard in the stomach, his heavy boot-clad foot cracking a rib. I roll over, gasping for breath as he straddles me.

I beat my fists against his chest, thinking he means to rape me, until his fist comes down in an arc and crashes against my sternum.

I didn’t know he had a knife. I caught the glint of the blade as it came down and buried deep into my chest.

Pain unlike any I ever felt spreads along my limbs and warm fluid spills from my mouth. The next stab that comes dulls the ache by half. The third, I don’t feel at all. All I feel is my body bouncing off the ground as he continues to pound the knife into my chest.

His strikes are now more annoying than anything, after all, my time to die has come.

My head rolls to the side, meeting Misha’s tormented features. Tears stream down his eyes and fluid trickles against his dry, cracked lips.

Still, he screams, his hand reaching out. “Mama. Mama!”

I sob into my hands as I return to my prison behind that invisible wall. Misha crawls to his mother, his fingers barely grazing her outstretched palm when the first attacker casts his final blow.

The heel of his boot comes down, crashing into Misha’s head. Misha crumbles, his bloody fingers falling just beside his dear mother’s grasp.

The men say something I don’t understand. Neither bother looking back as they mount their horses. I swallow hard, unable to stop crying even long after they gallop away.

This is a memory from Misha’s past, triggered by his pain at watching Celia burn. It’s what my mind reasons. But just because it occurred long ago, doesn’t make it less horrific or easy to witness. No, this is one of those memories that will haunt me the remainder of my days.

The snow thickens, obscuring him as he lies naked beside his dead mother. But I know they’re still here, abandoned like garbage and their bodies left to rot.

I wipe my eyes as another set of riders arrive. I can’t see them well through the thickening snowfall. That doesn’t mean I don’t recognize the man in the lead.

Even then, Uri loved his capes. He motions to the men on either side of him to Misha. They dismount, hurrying to wrap him in the fur blanket Uri throws them.

Uri slides from his steed and carefully removes his thick gloves, watching Misha with interest. His fangs elongate as he hands his gloves to another servant and kneels beside Misha.

The servant at Misha’s head pries Misha’s mouth open, and as quick as a blade, Uri’s incisor cuts through his wrist. Using great care, Uri presses the large gash he made into his skin over Misha’s mouth.

I didn’t understand the other men when they spoke in Russian. But I understand Uri. Maybe because Misha wants me to.

“Drink, young fighter, young champion, young prince,” Uri tells him. “Live for me and you shall have your revenge.”

Misha doesn’t react, at least not at first. Then I see it, his lips seeking out the edges of Uri’s wound. He fastens his mouth against Uri’s skin, suckling hard and consuming Uri’s blood like a deeply parched man taking his first drink.

Uri loves young beautiful men. I’m not surprised he chose Misha to save. What surprises me is the way he strokes Misha’s head as he nourishes him. Not as a lover, but as the son he always claimed him to be.

Misha’s head falls to the side as Uri pulls away his now healed wrist, his chest rising and falling with purpose even while his eyes remained closed. I don’t expect Uri to coddle him, and he doesn’t disappoint. He slips his gloves back into place, appearing to fuss with them so they lay just right while his servants drape Misha’s limp body over a horse.

Uri doesn’t wait for the man tasked with leading Misha’s horse to follow. He gallops away, his beautiful stallion kicking snow behind them.

I suppose he doesn’t have to wait. He knows Misha will live.

Just as he knows he’ll have his revenge.

“Taran!”

“Taran!”

Something hard smacks my face and I’m back in the garden struggling to keep my feet.

Agnes grips my shoulders. “You have to help the master,” she says, tears streaking down her face.

I turn to where the vampires surround Misha, his gaze feral and his claws lashing out at anyone who nears him. Ash erupts as he takes one down, and another, and another.

“Hank!” I yell when Misha just barely misses him.

He turns around, his face panicked. “He doesn’t see us, Taran. It’s like he’s blind to us.”

More ash streams through the air as another of his family dies, followed by the she-vamp who greeted us when we arrived.

“Celia,” I stammer. “We have to call Celia.”

“We’ve tried, God damn it,” Hank hollers. “You’ve been unconscious for almost twenty minutes. We’ve been calling her non-stop, but the fucking mutts won’t let us talk to her.”

I whip out my phone from my back pocket and search my favorite’s list, immediately tapping Celia’s number. The line goes to voicemail as another vampire wails and ash erupts in a cloud.

“Celia, it’s Taran. Misha needs you. You have to come.”

My phone falls out of my hand when Misha lunges at me. Agnes shoves me out of the way, up the incline, and toward the house. The others tackle him, trying to subdue him and forcing him in the direction of the guesthouse.

More ash, and now blood. Misha is out of his mind with grief and rage.

“Celia needs to be here,” I say. “He needs to know she’s still alive.”

“What?” Agnes asks. “Why would he think she’s dead?”

They didn’t see the vision I had. They didn’t see her die. But Misha did. Just like he saw his mother murdered.

Growls erupt as well as hisses, the anger behind them startling my already fragile nerves. My vision sharpens as the amount of supernatural magic around me intensifies. I think it’s Johnny, but then I see her.

Celia storms across the garden flanked by a small army of werewolves in beast form.

“Stand down,” she bites out through her teeth, the severity in her tone and stance making me and Agnes back the hell up.

I think she’s speaking to the werewolves, but it’s the vampires who give her and the wolves ample berth. Her eyes widen when she sees Misha close to the path that leads to the lake.

The cluster of vampires struggling to restrain Misha back away when he falls eerily still. Like a statue, he remains unmoving, his long, deadly nails draped at his sides and his wild gaze focused on Celia.

“Oh, my God, Misha,” she rasps.

She hurries forward only to be intercepted by a white wolf with patches of silver and black peppering his back.

“I’m not arguing with you,” Celia snarls at him. “I’m telling you, you need to get out of my way.”

The wolf changes, leaving an immense male looming over her, his dark skin slick with sweat. “Aric won’t like this,” he practically barks at her. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“My mate will understand,” Celia tells him.

I’m not entirely sure that’s true. At the very least, Aric might snap someone in half. I just hope that someone isn’t me.

Celia whips around when Agnes lurches forward, her nails out and her fangs exposed. “I told you to stand down,” Celia snaps.

“The master is in trouble,” Hank shouts, storming to Agnes’s side. “If these mongrels keep you from helping him, truce or not, they’re not leaving here alive.”

I’m ready for Hank’s head to come to a rolling stop at my feet. But instead of using brute force, sympathy splays along my sister’s beautiful face. He’s scared, but she is, too.

“Hank, trust me,” she says, speaking quietly.

I’m glad she’s calm. I’m not. Not with the way the wolves form a ring around her, their haunches tightening as the vamps close in, and not when whatever humanity Celia returned to Misha drifts further away.

I push my way toward Celia, only to be wrenched back by Hank.

“Taran, stay where you are,” Celia tells me.

And maybe less blood will splatter on your cute clothes, she doesn’t add.

The wolf, the naked one who stands over her frowns. “Aric will understand,” she repeats.

He sniffs, trying to uncover her lies. But Celia isn’t lying.

Whatever he scents in her makes him nod in the direction of the wolves. “Let her pass,” he orders.  

“Hank,” Celia states, not that she needs to say more.

“You heard her,” Hank commands. “Stand down.”

The vamps withdraw, giving Celia enough space to easily step through.

I race after her.

Okay. Maybe more like stumble and stagger after her, trying to avoid the multitude of skulls fading in and out at my feet.

Misha’s memory left me drained and disturbed. My energy isn’t anywhere near where I need it to be, making me vulnerable despite that vulnerable is the last thing I need to be.

Misha slumps to his knees at Celia’s approach. Like me, he’s exhausted, and struggling, and . . . inhuman.

“Celia,” I say, my eyes rounding. “I think his soul is gone.”

“No,” she says.

I try to grab her, but she slips from my grasp. “I’m serious,” I stammer. “I don’t feel it.”

“I do,” she answers quietly.

She lowers herself in front of him. I more or less flop, trying not to curse when my knee crashes against a rock buried beneath the soil.

If I’m being honest, I can’t exactly feel Misha’s soul. What I do feel is all the wrath and strength that comes with it. It’s different then, his entire form void of anything close to human.

I’m re-thinking allowing Celia to save the day and am pretty damn sure we’re about to die. “This isn’t a good idea,” I tell her. “He could hurt you. The vamps need to hold him or something.”

“No,” Celia replies, keeping her voice gentle. “I don’t want anyone to touch him.”

“Celia,” I beg.

Her hand snaps over my wrist when I try to inch forward. “Taran, I told you to stay put,” she reminds me.

She tilts her head, her compassion almost palpable as she takes in Misha’s beaten-down form. Very carefully, she releases my hand. “Misha, it’s Celia,” she tells him, her voice sweet, tranquil, and surprisingly absent of fear. “Can you hear me?”

Misha lifts his head. I almost sigh with relief until his seething stare latches onto Celia and his fangs lengthen.

Celia’s palm shoots out, keeping everyone in place, including me. “Don’t anyone move.”

Her command and the surety in her tone are the only reason I don’t erupt like a tornado of fire. Holy God, I’ll kill him if he harms her.

“What’s wrong with him?” I ask, barely breathing.

“He’s in pain,” she explains, watching him closely.

“Will he attack?” I manage.

“Yes.”

“Yes?” I glance between them. “Then why the hell are you kneeling this close to him?”

She bats her hands, trying to shush me. “Misha, it’s Celia,” she says again.

“I know who you are,” he responds, his voice unearthly.

“You should,” she says. “We’re friends.”

Her response makes him pause. “I called to you,” he says, continuing to watch her like he isn’t sure she’s really there.

“Yes. I heard your voice whispering in my head,” she replies. “I’ll always hear you when you need me to.” She smiles softly, as if Misha’s voice doesn’t sound possessed and he doesn’t seem ready to peel our flesh from our gnawed-off bones.

“Do you hurt?” she asks gently.

His stare falls to her belly. There’s no hiding her pregnancy from the world, not anymore, and especially not from Misha. “Yes,” he responds, his eerie baritone growing more forceful.

I clutch my arm against me. Right now, Sparky trusts Misha almost as much as I do. She quivers, shaking me and my words. “Celia,” I warn. “You have to move away from him.”

“It’s all right,” she says.

I think she’s speaking to me until she reaches out and cups Misha’s shoulder. “They’re gone,” she assures him.

Misha’s gray eyes turn cold and deadly. “All of them?”

“Yes.”

“By my hands?” he questions.

She nods. By now, she’s hurting for him. “Yes, just as Uri promised.”

He doesn’t seem satisfied. “What about her?”

Celia strokes the ends of his hair, very much in that motherly way she always touched Emme’s when she was sick or scared. “She’s at peace. No one will ever hurt her again. I promise.”

“I want to kill them,” Misha growls.

Celia’s eyes well with tears, her expression changing in a way that startles me. It’s not quite angry, not quite vicious. It’s simply in tune with those who seek and acquire revenge in blood.

This expression doesn’t belong on my beautiful sister’s face, not with the compassion and kindness she frequently demonstrates in our presence. But here it is, despite how the prospect of becoming a mother has softened her further.

I suppose revenge is yet one more thing that connects her to Misha. Like him, she knows it well.

“You killed them a long time ago,” she reminds him.

“All of them?” Misha asks, before she finishes the last word.

“Yes,” she tells him. “They’re gone, and now I need you to come back to me.” She inches closer, wrapping her arm around Misha’s neck and resting her cheek against his shoulder.

I don’t like his fangs this close to her throat. Not when he’s taken his share of her blood before. Yet as much as he likely remembers her taste, and what it did to him, the moment she sinks into his embrace, his eyes close and his fangs withdraw.

“Please, Misha,” she tells him quietly. “Leave your past where it belongs and come back to me.”

Misha’s breaths, so pained and shallow before quicken. I don’t move, too busy gawking and scared out of my mind that he’ll turn on her.

If he bites a pregnant mate, especially the alpha’s pregnant mate, any truce forged will be forgotten and the vamps and weres will be at war. I think Celia’s counting on Misha to remember this, but I think she’s counting on their friendship more.

I fall back onto my heels close to where the faded images of the skulls continue to flash in and out. One by one, they sink into the ground, the lush sod swallowing them whole.

Celia doesn’t seem to notice them. Her full attention remains on Misha as she continues to speak softly, reassuring him that he’s safe and those who have harmed him are now long dead.

It takes a few minutes, and a few more, before Celia releases him and he opens his eyes.

Sweat drenches his skin, causing his long hair to stick to his face. Celia strokes the loose and messy strands behind his shoulder. “Are you back?” she asks him gently.

Vamps aren’t creatures you’re gentle with. It’s too easy for them to misinterpret kindness as weakness and target you as dinner. I almost remind Celia of this, but she and Misha have always shared a bond no one else can comprehend.

“Yes,” he says. He swipes his face, a gesture that seems foreign on someone so refined.

“What happened?” she asks.

“I don’t know. My magic, Taran’s, and the Fate’s reacted.”

“The Fate?” she questions.

“Here,” Agnes calls.

Tim, one of Misha’s bodyguards, is carrying Johnny with his arm draped over his shoulders. Johnny’s tattoos appeared to have settled back into their original spots. But like Misha, Johnny has seen better days.

Celia’s brows knit, her attention back on Misha. “Where did the magic take you?”

His attention falls to her belly. “Nowhere good. Nowhere safe.”

My vision sharpens further. I don’t have to turn around to know who’s here, but I do anyway now that I know Celia is safe.

Gemini’s jaw is set tight. Aric stands just in front of him, the rage surrounding him accelerating like a dangerous landslide as he takes in Misha’s close proximity to Celia,

Celia and Misha rise as one, with Celia edging slightly in front of Misha. “I had to come, love,” she tells Aric. “I couldn’t leave him hurting like this.”

Aric doesn’t respond with words, reaching for her hand and pulling her protectively behind him. Celia doesn’t fight him, knowing the closer she is, the easier it will be to soothe him.

“We have to talk, wolf,” Misha tells him.

“About you keeping your distance from my wife and mate?” Aric replies, his timbre low and fierce. “Good. You’ve used up any favors you think she might owe you.”

“She owes me nothing,” Misha responds. “The only debt that remains is one I owe her.”

Aric doesn’t take his comment any better. Misha doesn’t care, his stance growing more severe. “This isn’t about me and Celia. It’s about her future and that of your children,” he says, his features hardening as they hone in on me.

I can practically hear Aric’s muscles stretch when his gaze drifts in my direction.

“The skulls are a warning, Aric,” I tell him. “Something is coming after Celia.”

“What skulls?” Aric asks.

At first I think he’s distracted by Misha’s presence. But nothing gets past this wolf. I frown and point to the remaining skull as it disappears into the ground. “All of them,” I reply.

Gemini takes point beside me, appearing as thrilled with Misha as Aric.

“Taran,” Celia says. “There are no skulls.”