One

Quinn shouldered her way into the Carmichael family cabin and dropped her suitcase beside Harry, the stuffed coyote serving as immortal guardian. A weekend alone in the backwoods with a blizzard on the way, only her cat and a preserved predator for company was exactly what she needed to salvage her dignity.

“I hate this.” Isaac rubbed the back of his neck, lurking on the porch a step beyond the reach of lazy snowflakes. “Every time I drop you off here, I feel like I’m betraying my baby sis. You could stay with me instead.”

The guilt in his sky-blue eyes didn’t help, especially knowing she was the source. She pasted on a smile. The expression wouldn’t fool him, but at least she tried. “You know how Wolfgang feels about she-who-must-not-be-named. Your girlfriend would wind up shredded.”

“Or Wolfgang a hat.” He handed her the pet carrier. “Molly has a vicious streak.”

A low, feline growl rolled from the carrier. Quinn agreed with her cat’s sentiment, but she didn’t want to mess with Isaac’s prim and proper life. She had enough of her own problems keeping that façade.

“Are you sure about this?” A few fat snowflakes stuck in Isaac’s dark hair, and he lifted his gaze to the boiling clouds stained an ominous gunmetal. “The blizzard’s supposed to be an overnight doozy.”

“Which means you better get your tush back to the airport before you get snowed in and trapped here with me.”

“Tempting. No cell service, whining clients, or crusty judges? I could use a mini vacation.” His grin reminded her of their childhood summers, days of freedom, no politician mom agenda, and nightmares that kept to themselves. Best days of her life.

She leaned against the doorframe. “Your girlfriend would hunt you down with a snowplow.”

He chuckled. “You don’t give her enough credit. She’d hire a snow tank squad.”

“Scary woman.” Quinn’s shudder was only half-pretend as she shooed him away. “I’ve got a full wine cellar and plenty of potential career pamphlets to keep a bonfire going for days. I’ll be fine.” She’d been here alone a hundred times before. Stocked pantry, sufficient wood for a year, and a generator. The perfect temporary hole to hide in until she snapped her pieces back together and could carry out the Carmichael image without cracking.

“I still hate it.” Isaac wrapped her in a bear hug, and she clung to his wiry form, breathing in the faint sweetness of pipe smoke on his ski jacket. He kissed her cheek and jangled his keys. “I’ll be back for you in two days.”

She swallowed and worked up a winning smile. “Take off, bro. Storm’s coming.”

“Love you, Q.” A frigid gust whipped around them, and he ran for his Range Rover. He flashed a wave and jumped in.

She waited on the threshold until the taillights had disappeared behind the swirling snow and the crunch of tires on gravel bled into the growing mutter of wind-shaken branches. Ultimate solitude and a heavy dose of winter. Maybe it would be enough to figure out what the deuce to do with her sinkhole life.

***

A tickle, soft as a feather’s kiss, brushed the back of Zaire’s neck. He groaned and forced his eyes open. New snow dusted his bloodied hand, same as the surrounding pine needles.

He pushed up from the half-frozen ground. Pain arced from his hip to his knee, and another groan rattled for freedom. This one stayed bottled, a small victory. Corpses circled him in broken poses, cold and silent as the mountain air, no stench, death too fresh to stain the scent of pine and soil and blood.

His arms shaking, he sucked in a ragged breath, the air icy in his lungs. What a fool. He’d strolled straight into a group of Faction members, the greatest adversaries of his kind, the V’alkara. Apparently, the recent alliance between the Faction and the Red Crows—a V’alkara splinter group he had the great misfortune of being temporarily chained to—didn’t apply to him.

No one wanted the Prince of Purgatory on the opposite side of the battlefield.

He shoved to his knees and swayed with the effort. Blood glistened on his jeans, soaking through to the earth beneath. His entire leg had gone numb. Glorious. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been caught unaware. Granted, he’d been distracted by his own schemes and perhaps allowed the isolation to relax his instincts, but his enemies had clearly prepared for him.

The syringe he’d been stabbed with during the attack still lay in the grasp of one corpse. Whatever they’d injected him with was important enough that they were willing to sacrifice their lives for it. And nasty enough to paralyze his leg and silence the demons always muttering in his head. He ignored the tremor snaking through him. If other side effects arose, he’d deal with them.

Zaire hauled himself to the syringe, dragging his wounded leg over pine needles and snow. His fingers trembling so badly he could barely grasp the small device, he capped the empty needle and shoved it into his jeans pocket. Maybe enough residue remained to study—to get some answers. He huddled under the sheltering branches of a tree, panting, an inferno burning beneath his skin. He should be shivering from the cold, not sweating.

More snowflakes swirled in the menacing sky, slowly stealing all color. The trees offered a bit of protection, but not sufficient to survive the night or the storm promised in the clouds. Remaining in the wilderness of nowhere Montana would mean ending in a grave beside his fallen enemies.

He gritted his teeth and fought off the fatal urge to lie down and rest. Walking was out of the question with one useless leg. He’d have to embrace the darkness, assume the form of the fiends always whispering evil in his ear, and take another step in stripping his humanity. It was either Change or death, and death wasn’t an option, not yet, not while he still had to rescue his nephew from the Crows. For Braden, he’d claw his way back to sanity as many times as necessary.

Inhaling a calming breath, Zaire willed the Change and waited for the claiming corruption.

Nothing happened.

He lifted his shaking hands, his pulse throbbing an unsteady rhythm. No talons sprang from his fingertips. No leathery wings unfolded at his back. No decay stained another slice of his soul. Since the tender age of seven, far earlier than most V’alkara, he’d accessed his ability to Change into nightmare forms stolen from dreams. Never had it failed him before. He grimaced.

The timing could have been better.

The snow fell thicker, faster, sticking to his jeans as the wind kicked through his hair and bit at every inch of bare skin. Without the ability to Change, to escape the coming blizzard, his only option was to find adequate shelter. Before the attack, he’d passed a house, isolated in the trees, likely a getaway for the rich and famous that saw annual use. It had appeared uninhabited.

A chill rolled through him, followed by a wave of dizziness so powerful he grappled with a tree trunk merely to remain upright on his knees. He leaned his forehead against the rough bark until his head cleared. Occupied or not, he needed lodging to survive and privacy to heal. He’d eliminate any tenants, wait out the storm, and decipher how to counteract whatever the Faction had done to him. Clenching his jaw, he released the welcome sturdiness of the tree and crawled in the direction of the house.

First, he had to make it there.