Where the fuck was he?

Julius Crowley peeled himself off the over-bright yellow-and-white-checkered tiles and scanned the kitchen through bleary eyes. The walls sported a sunny yellow paint which highlighted the white trim and cabinets. Jesus. Some yahoo had taken the time to paint little daisies on the edges of each corner. A refrigerator hummed at the end of the counter and a Tweety-Bird cookie jar watched over the space from on top.

Too bright. Too happy. The lot of it made his fucking head hurt.

Never would he walk into such a place—the epitome of domestication. Made him think of a wife baking. Children sitting and doing homework. Made him think of family. Warmth. Love.

All things he couldn’t have.

The scent of ash and blood lingered despite his fresh, clean surroundings.

Every inch of him ached, bringing to mind a balloon stretched to its limits before being deflated and tossed aside. That’s how he felt—stretched out and yet . . . empty.

He took inventory, checking for injuries. Dark splotches of blood caked his skin and clothing. When he moved, the maroon stains tugged at the little hairs on his skin.

What the hell had he done? The blood wasn’t his. Couldn’t be. He didn’t bleed.

“Hello?” His voice held a weak, shaky quality. He tried to put more force behind his question. “Hello!”

The house remained still and silent.

A shiver ratcheted up his spine. “What the hell is going on?” he shouted the question, trying without success to put strength behind his voice.

No one answered.

He glanced into the dark living room through the kitchen entry. Considering the condition of his clothes, he doubted he’d find anything pleasant in there.

Julius rubbed his hand over his face, causing maroon flakes to flutter down, marring the pristine floor.

Christ, he didn’t belong here. He was the antithesis of this bright little kitchen. A killer. Usually, though, he required a sound reason to commit murder and he sure as fuck didn’t frolic in his mark’s blood.

This wasn’t right. None of it.

He flung open the back door. The first, faint hues of sunrise lightened the sky over the tops of the surrounding firs. “Jesus Christ on Sunday.” This just kept getting better. He couldn’t risk getting caught in the sunlight. He was stuck.

He glanced back to the living room as he closed the door. He’d much prefer tucking into his own bed for the day, but . . . . His whole frame stilled and he rubbed the heel of his hand against his chest. He couldn’t picture his bolt-hole. Why couldn’t he remember where he lived?

He tried to slow his respiration while he prodded the black hole in his mind where his memories should be. Calm down and think.

Last night he must’ve woken . . . maybe showered . . . . Shit! Nothing.

SUBMIT. The deep voice vibrated through the house.

His entire body tensed, his hand going to the small of his back where he wore his weapons.

His blades weren’t there.

Slowly he turned, staring into the black hole of a living room. “Who’s there?”

OBEY.

“Show yourself, you son of a bitch.”

CUT OUT YOUR EYES.

Though he faced the living room, the voice still came from behind him. He turned a slow circle, scanning the yellow walls and the white cabinets with little daisies painted around the edges, searching for speakers. Cameras. He didn’t see any. The hair on the back of his neck prickled.

The kitchen was clean. Tidy. Happy. Looked like a kitchen straight out of the latest issue of Better Homes and—too-much-fucking-time-on-my-hands—Gardens.

YOUR EYES. YOUR EYES. YOUR EYES. YOUR EYES.

Something else was in here with him. Something dark. Angry.

CUT OUT YOUR EYES.

Nah. His eyes were his survival. He’d be helpless without them.

FIND A BLADE. CUT OUT YOUR EYES. DESTROY YOUR EYES.

The compulsion spiked through him, adding a frantic, antsy quality to his already frayed nerves. Urged him to move. To take action. He lifted his hand, stretched his arm toward a drawer.

He snatched his hand back. Drummed his fingers on his leg to keep them busy.

CUT-CUT-CUT-CUT-CUT.

Someone had fucked him up good. Some bastard had used their talent on him. He should know the signs—he was a mesmerist. Now that he knew the problem, the voice would go away. The will of a mesmerist always faded once the victim became aware.

CUT OUT YOUR EYES!

He damn near jumped out of his socks.

CUT-CUT-CUT-CUT-CUT.

The demand pounded away all other thoughts in his head, relentless in its cause. He reached for the nearest drawer.

Opened it and sighed. Towels—all bright-colored swatches of cloth folded into neat rows.

CUT YOUR EYES OUT.

Though he didn’t want to, he did grab the handle of another drawer. His muscles bulged as he fought the urge. He shook. The dried blood pulled at the hair on his arm. He flung open another drawer. Utensils. Spoons and forks. Gouging his eyes would be difficult with these, but he could . . . No!

No. Slamming the drawer shut, he turned away. Walked out of the kitchen into the gloom of the living room. He refused to do this. Would not. Why was he even arguing with himself about it?

Even as he willed himself not to, he returned. His muscles flexed with every halting step—he shook with the effort to restrain himself. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Still, he went back into the cheery, fucked-up kitchen and continued his maniacal search.

“Your eyes.” Jesus, he was saying the demand aloud now. His voice wasn’t right. He sounded . . . off. “Cut out your eyes.”

He had to stop himself. He couldn’t do this.

He grabbed the handle of a drawer.

Flung the whole thing away, before even glimpsing the contents. The drawer hit the wall and fractured. Utensils pinged and jangled across the tiled floor.

He went for another.

Panting with effort, he struggled, decimating the tidy kitchen one drawer at a time in his fight against himself. Potholders and kitchen bric-a-brac littered the floor, making him slip and stumble as he searched.

Eventually though, they found the knives.

They? He was out of his ever-loving mind.

Blinking away the tears blurring his vision, he left the safety of the house, keeping to the shadows the firs provided, with the knife clutched in his hand. His body refused to heed his mind—he’d lost all control. “Cut-cut-cut. . . .”

Stop! Sit down. Lie down. Throw the fucking thing away.

He walked around the side of the house and out into the forest.

Stop, damn you. Go back. The sun’s rising. We’ll never make our way back if we can’t see.

The stars had almost disappeared, pale blue lighting half the sky.

Stop!

His body listened. They stood there, swaying, head tipped to the side.

Go back. Leave the knife and go into the house. Get away from the windows.

“Cut out your eyes. Cut out your eyes. Cut out your eyes.” The words spilled from his mouth, monotone. Robotic. His fingers flexed around the cool hilt of the knife. “Eyes. Cut out your eyes.”

He tried to block out the voice. Couldn’t tell anymore if that was him speaking, or him thinking, or if he’d disappeared altogether. Maybe he’d died and this was hell.

“Gouge the eyes from your head and let the sun take you.” The blade of the butcher knife gleamed in the dim light. “The eyes hurt. They cause pain. They destroy. Destroy the eyes.”

No! Don’t do this. Don’t listen . . . but he’d spoken the truth. His eyes had caused all his problems.

He gripped the knife in both hands as if that would stop his shaking, the dangerous part pointed at his face.

“Obey me. Cut out your eyes.”

He had to remove his eyes.

Closer. The tip blurred and disappeared as the point neared his iris.

“Submit. Cut out your eyes.”

He had to do this.

Machon.

Katherine O’Hickey pressed her hand to her belly in effort to settle the flock of stomach-lining-eating butterflies swarming there and sped-walked toward the Citadel.

She’d kidnapped the Harbinger—the most wanted criminal on both Earth and in the daemon realm of Machon—right out from under the noses of her coven and the Guardian. Well, she did have her new high-priestess’, tentative blessing—but only if she could heal Crowley and prove he was still sane after being possessed for the last three hundred years.

“Kat!”

She waved to Harrison but didn’t wait for him to catch up with her. She was exhausted, dirty, and worried about her mate. She’d transported him to her house with a spell, but had stayed behind in Machon to make sure she was seen. Neither Trina nor Lilith wanted anyone to suspect she’d caused Crowley’s disappearance.

Harrison picked up his pace until he was even with her. “You look like hell.” A wide grin broke over his face, softening the criticism.

His minion, George, rode on his broad shoulder, his wide, diamond-shaped head bobbing with each of Harrison’s steps. The minion broke into a toothy grin.

She paused long enough to give the ferret-sized minion a pat. Baby-fine black fur poked out from between the white, armor-like scales covering his back from his nose to his thick tail. George let out a gurgle of pleasure.

She had a right to look awful. They’d spent the last hour fighting the Watcher—a fallen angel—they’d exorcized from her mate, and the Nephilim the Watcher had conjured to fight with him. Well, more specifically the Original had fought the Watcher and the rest of them had destroyed his children, the Nephilim.

“Right back at you, tough guy.”

Dirt and ash smeared Harrison’s handsome face and his hair stood up at angles. “If I never see another Nephilim, it’ll be too soon.”

The creatures were humanoid but twisted with bulging muscles. While once human, they behaved more like animals, running on an instinct to kill and feed.

“Look, Kat, now that all this is over, I thought maybe you and I could . . . you know . . . .” He laughed. “Gods, I don’t even know what vampires do on a date.”

She shook her head. “You’re asking the wrong person. I’ve been a vampire for . . . .” She grabbed his hand and twisted it around to look at the watch on his wrist. “About fifteen hours.”

“Which means I’ve had an adult body for eighteen hours, twenty-two minutes, and”—he glanced at his watch—“fifty seconds.”

He’d been stuck in his sixteen-year-old-body for the last five years, aging in mind and spirit, but not physically. The Grigori coven had aged his body forward just the day before. Eighteen whole hours and he seemed quite eager to try that gorgeous new adult body out. She nodded to the watch. “How do you do that?”

“Practice.” He put his hand on her shoulder to stop her. “Come on. What do you think? A night off? No Nephilim. No fighting.” He shrugged. “Just us?”

What did she think? With those bright blue eyes and blond hair, he was gorgeous. He had broad shoulders and a narrow waist. A beautiful face. He was perfection.

But he wasn’t her mate.

“Kat!” Lilith climbed the hill behind them. Tall and willowy with dark hair and eyes, she possessed a quiet grace Kat had always tried to emulate. Lilith waved and swept her arm toward herself in a motion to “Come here.”

“I gotta go.” She smiled at Harrison and scratched George under the chin. “I’ll see you both later, okay?”

“Yeah. All right.”

She headed toward Lilith with quick strides, though she wanted to drag her feet. As the Grigori coven’s high priestess, Lilith was more or less her boss. She, and her best friend, Trina, also held the title the Original—they each had one half of the first woman’s soul. Together, they were the rightful leaders of daemon kind. They had a lot of power and they did not like it that Kat wanted a chance to prove her mate was sane and an ally.

Lilith nodded toward Harrison. “What was that?”

“I’m pretty sure he asked me out on a date.”

Lilith raised her brows. “Really?”

“Duncan suspected as much.”

Kat looked to the side to see Trina approaching. Great. The last thing she needed was for either of these women or their mates thinking she was leading Harrison on. “I haven’t encouraged him.”

Trina waved away her concern. “I’m not surprised he asked you out.”

Trina was the opposite of Lilith in appearance and temperament. Short, busty, loud, and brash, Trina Lopez said whatever might be on her mind whether she should or not. She was also one of the toughest women Kat knew and she’d always respected her.

“You’re sweet, soft-spoken, naive, beautiful—the exact opposite of Adia,” Trina added.

“Who?”

“Never mind that.” Trina waggled her brows. “What was your answer? Were you two headed back for a little one-on-one?”

“How could you ask that? My mate is at my house.”

Lilith frowned. “Are you sure you want to go through with this? You don’t even know him. He could be dangerous and you’ll be responsible for anything he does while he’s in your care.”

She smiled, though it felt brittle. “The goddess wouldn’t pair me with a dangerous male.”

“What if he was in league with the Watcher?” Lilith touched her arm. “Have you even considered that? Crowley didn’t run when we exorcized the Watcher.”

Kat snorted. Where would he go? Into a fray of daemons who wanted his ash? Into the Nephilim that killed everything in their path? The exorcism had left him weak. He hadn’t had a weapon.

Trina cut in before she could answer. “Even if he wasn’t, three hundred years is a long time to be possessed.” Trina shook her head. “There may not be much left of him.”

Easy for them to say. They were both mated. Happy. Loved. Kat looked away. “That’s for me to decide.”

“Kat, even if he proves to be innocent . . . .” Trina trailed off.

Even if he proved to be innocent, Trina had made a deal with the humans to turn Julius over so they could put him on trial for all the crimes he’d committed while possessed—as a “peace offering.”

She straightened her shoulders. “The goddess will ensure everything works out.”

“Good luck, Kat.” Lilith gave her shoulder a squeeze. “We’ll see you in one week. Sooner, if you need anything.” They walked away, Trina adding over her shoulder, “Unless you decide to come back for Harrison.”

A week. Seven days before they had to hand Julius over to the humans or find another way to appease them.

She nodded. Those were worries best left until later. For now, she had more important things to do.

Kat brushed some of the dirt off her dress. While she had no doubt that Julius Crowley was her mate, tonight would be the first time they’d meet face-to-face under peaceful terms. It would be the first time they’d talk.

Yes, the Harbinger was her mate. What she didn’t know was if he was sane. Or worth saving. Or whether she possessed the faith they both needed to get through the next week.

She closed her eyes and spell-traveled home.