Oh, there had been hints of the truth, so obvious now in hindsight. Her eagerness for sex had been constant, but only when he had been rough with her had she grown truly excited. Her petulance when he refused her something—the few times that he had—had always been edged with anger, as if she wanted to strike him instead of pout.

Had she wished him dead, all the years they had been together? Had the love he had thought he had seen in her eyes been only a clever mask for her hatred?

Angelica had even used his trust in her to carry out her revolting work for the Brethren. The way she had convinced him to permit her to travel by herself, laughing at his worry that she would be taken by the monks. I am Darkyn; they are human, she had said once. They can do nothing to me. Such confidence, but that had been one of the few truths she had told him. The Brethren would never harm their most talented hunter and interrogator.

Thierry wished Alexandra Keller had not killed his wife so quickly. Angelica had not deserved such mercy. But if she had not, I would have my Angel's blood on my hands. His love for her was dead, but even so he was not sure he could have killed her. She had been the traitor of their kind. She had been the mother of his child.

That duplicity shamed him as much as Angel had.

Only thinking of his son, Jamys, could dispel Angelica's ghost. Yet with those thoughts came even more intense guilt. Fearing in his madness that he might harm the boy, Thierry had abandoned him.

He is safe with Cyprien. Perhaps in time, Jamys would even forgive him for the part his father had played in his suffering. Yet Jamys would never be able to tell him either way. Angelica had done that, too.

She carried our son in her body when she was human. She told them to turn him into a mute. She suckled him at her breast. She watched them torture our son. My son. My boy. Thierry ground his palms into his eyes, as if he could shove the madness farther back, to some place where he could cage and chain it. She would have seen us all murdered. She said that she had watched the torture. She enjoyed it.

How could he have not seen this? How could he have loved such a monster?

Thierry looked down at Jema's sleeping face, and knelt beside the bed. She had never hurt anyone in her life; he sensed that. She would rather suffer herself than see another in pain. It was one of the weapons her clinging mother used on her—her guilt, and her love.

If he woke her and told her everything, would she feel sorry for him? Would she take him into her bed as openly and affectionately as she had welcomed him into her mind? Or, facing the real demon, would she scream?

He brushed his hand over her cheek, tucking a piece of wayward hair behind her ear. Then he cupped the long curve of her throat and closed his eyes.

It became easier each time he touched her.

Tonight he found himself in a wide, open field covered with small purple and white wildflowers. One building stood before him, and it appeared to be a small, rather dismal-looking tavern. As he walked toward it, snow began to drift down from the perfectly clear blue sky.

Jema was standing outside the tavern's entrance door. She was dressed in abbreviated clothes; a silvery shirt that ended just beneath her breasts and a black leather skirt that hugged her hips. Her small feet were shod in glittering red shoes with heels so high he feared she would do herself an injury trying to walk in them.

Her face was painted with makeup, far more than she ever wore. Red lips parted and pursed as she inspected him. "Why did you come back?"

The snow picked up, changing from a drift to a steady fall. Over the last several nights he had learned that asking her questions did not startle her awake, as it did most humans. "Why are you dressed like a harlot?"

Jema brought forth a sword, one fashioned in a time long before Thierry had walked the earth as a human. She lifted the sword and brought it straight down, burying the tip of it in the deepening snow. It made a smooth thunking sound that went up the back of Thierry's neck. The hilt quivered a little after she took his hand away. "Isn't this what you wanted?"

"No." The sword confused him. Jema's dreams were playful, even erotic, but they were never about battle or violence.

She smiled. "Good." She sauntered over to him and tucked her arm through his. "Come in and buy me a drink."

"It would be my pleasure." He walked in with her, circling around the sword in the snow. "Is this from a book, Jema?"

"I don't read books." She gave him a seductive smile before releasing his arm and strolling over to the bar.

Thierry stopped inside the door and let his eyes adjust to the dim interior. All of the stools at the bar were filled, but none of the men there bothered to turn and look at him. Behind the bar, the short, stocky Hispanic was topping off a mug. He looked at Thierry and nearly dropped the beer.

"Hey." Jema curled a finger at the bartender, who hurried over to look down the front of her blouse. "This is my friend Jack. Jack and I are going in the poolroom, and we don't want to be disturbed."

Now heads turned and everyone had a look at Thierry. Everyone swiveled back to hunker down over their drinks, muttering things to each other.

"You won't be, Miss Jem," the bartender said, grinning and showing a gold tooth. A pink stone shaped like a rabbit adorned the tooth. "Have a good time."

Thierry strode over. Two men got off their stools and made a space for him. He leaned on the edge of the bar and saw that the little bartender had the rag in his hand twisted into a tight knot. All the other men showed him their backs.

"A bottle of champagne for the lady," he said to the bartender.

The bartender gave him a doubtful glance and came over to whisper, "The lady don't drink." His breath smelled of peppers and onions. "She's not in… you know"—he winked—"the mood."

"I'm getting bored," Jema announced as she adjusted the black satin band around her upper thigh.

The two men sitting on either side of the empty stools beside Thierry flung some bills on the bar and left. "Where is the poolroom?" Thierry asked.

The bartender jerked a thumb to the left.

Thierry straightened and turned toward Jema. The air grew colder with every step he took. She was standing half in shadow, half in the blue-and-white light from a sign that read COORS in looping script.

Before he reached her, Thierry drew on the dream realm to adjust his own appearance. Faded jeans, a black T-shirt, scuffed boots. He didn't change his hair or features; in this place he looked right at home.

"You have," Jema said, walking up to him, "without a doubt, the best chest I've ever seen." She ran her hand across it. "Big, wide, well developed. Muscles on top of muscles. Better than Brad Pitt's, and he has the number one spot on my perfect-pecs list."

He had no idea who Brad Pitt was, but he went along with her play. "I'm glad you like it."

"I'd like it better naked and sweaty." She leaned in, balancing on one foot. "I could make you sweat, you know. All night long. Take off your shirt."

One part of Thierry wanted to put his hands on her shoulders and push until he had her on the floor under him. Another part wanted to shake her until her hair tangled. "Why are you behaving like this?" It reminded him too much of Angelica.

The bartender and the rest of the patrons suddenly ran for the door, fighting to get through the door until Jema and Thierry were alone.

"Just like a western movie," she told him. "All we need are some guns to draw on each other."

She's furious. Now Thierry could feel the emotion raging inside her mind, manifesting in this dream. "I'm not going to shoot you." As she sauntered back toward a wide pool table, he followed her. "What happened that made you so angry? Talk to me."

"Is that what you really want me to do to you with my mouth?" She tapped her scarlet lips with a finger. "Talk?"

That stopped him in his tracks, about a foot and a half away from her. He had kissed her, and fondled her, but the eroticism of her dreams never went beyond that. Tonight was different. "I'm not here for that."

"Cute. You said you'd come back. You said you'd be whatever I wanted you to be." She leaned back against the bar. "I want you. You do realize that. You've been teasing me every night this week."

His eyes narrowed a fraction. "Me, or will anyone do?"

"Good point." She treated him to a long, insulting smile. "You have to go."

"No." He crossed the space between them and saw her garments had become shorter, tighter, as if they had been painted onto her skin. He refused to let them distract him. "You know me. You know why I'm here. I want you to trust me." Nothing was between them now but two inches of icy air. Snow was piling up around them, as high as his knees now. Inside, he was scalding. "I will do whatever you want, but talk to me. Tell me what you want."

Jema grabbed his belt loops and pulled his hips against her belly. "I want you naked, inside me."

"Why?"

She glared up at him before she pressed her hand to his crotch. "Why do you care?" She moved her palm up and down, dragging her fingernails against the rough fabric. "You'll like it. You liked everything else."

"I did." He bent down. "I do. But what we do together isn't what makes you angry now."

Pain flashed over her face, and she stepped back. Her mouth trembled, and then tiny diamonds appeared on her dark lashes.

"I want a life."

"You have—"

"I want a life." She hit him with one small, hard fist. "I want a husband, and a house, and a baby."

"Jema." He caught her wrist before she could hit him again. Wind howled through the tavern, whirling around them, pelting their faces with tiny sharp ice crystals. "You can have whatever you want here. I'll give it to you."

She took in a sharp bream, and the snow and wind disappeared. "Even if I puke up my guts like I did at Wendy's?"

"Even so." His breath wasn't coming out in white puffs anymore; the perspiration on his face wasn't freezing. "You are stronger than the anger. I think you are stronger than me."