Kat’s house stood silent and empty. It was the empty part giving her heartburn.

Gaia, bless me.

He wasn’t here.

She dragged her hand through her untamed, brassy-red curls, growling when her fingers got tangled in the mess of her hair.

Had she miscast her spell? She had performed the spell in haste in the midst of a battle and the Traveler’s spell was a new skill—she’d never transported someone else before. She went through the words she’d used. No, she’d made no error.

She went into the kitchen and froze. He had been here. The back door stood open and the room was trashed. Several drawers had been thrown on the floor and their contents strewn about. He’d searched everything. For what? She didn’t own any weapons.

Except the knife set.

The drawer she’d kept the knife set in lay upended on the floor. Had he taken one?

Dearest Gaia, she’d have to assume he was armed. She rushed outside, scanning the area with her nocturnal eyes for some evidence of which way he’d gone. He could be anywhere, gone in any direction, and the sun had risen. The thick trees surrounding her property were the only thing keeping her from the bright morning light.

What if he was dangerous? Everyone believed him to be the most unrepentant murderer on two worlds and now that she’d rescued him, she shouldered the responsibility for anything he did. Anyone he might hurt.

She had no time for a physical search. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, grounded her energy, and pushed her aura out to the surrounding area.

Every living thing put off energy, pinging against her aura in a sonar-like fashion as her energy passed over them—trees, plants, insects, and small animals. She came across a larger source of energy—not plant, nor animal, nor human. The aura carried the unusual trademarks of a daemon—deep, earthy hues.

She followed the signature around the back of her house and through shrubberies and pines. The aura appeared far too weak to be Julius; the energy was still. She rounded a dense stand of trees and came to an abrupt halt.

He lay face down on the ground, his cheek resting in the dirt, one arm covering his face and her biggest kitchen knife clutched in his hand. He reeked of dried blood, was covered in the stuff.

His energy was slipping away at a rapid rate.

He didn’t kill anyone.

Check for injuries.

She knelt, running her hands over the back of his skull, down his neck and shoulders, continuing along until she assured herself he’d sustained no gaping wounds to his back. She pushed at his dead weight, struggling with his unyielding body until she got him rolled onto his back. She probed his legs and torso and found no rips nor tears in his clothing to indicate injury beneath. She glanced at his face and recoiled.

His eyes were gone. Two gaping, ragged holes stared back at her past sagging lids. The right was far worse than the left. The jagged laceration began an inch above the inside of his eyebrow and ended near his ear, bisecting the empty socket.

Admit it. You thought the worst, that he’d gone off and proved everyone else right. You have no faith anymore.

Gathering herself, she pried the knife out of his grasp. There was a fine sooty substance dusting the tip. At least he’d killed whoever had done this.

She cut a strip of material from her long skirt, rolled the cloth and wound it snug around his head, tying the material off with a knot.

The flow of his energy ebbed to a faint trickle.

They needed to return to the safety of her house. Still, she hesitated, scanning the ground for footprints, for signs of a fight. There was nothing. Wherever the fight had taken place, it hadn’t been here.

She lifted her face to study the pinks and blues lighting the indigo sky. Did she want to do this? To take on Julius Crowley, the Harbinger, as her mate? There was the possibility they could find great joy together but in many ways life would be easier if she walked away and left him for the sun.

This male was wanted for releasing Nephilim onto the world. For bringing daemon kind back into the human’s consciousness. He’d murdered her friends. For that matter, he’d murdered her in one of her previous lives. Everyone wanted his ash.

When they realized she had absconded with him before they could get their revenge, they would want her ash, too. She’d even put Lilith and Trina into a bad spot in her effort to help him.

Except, he hadn’t done any of those things. He’d been possessed.

Her gaze dropped back to the large male lying helpless next to her. The coven had exorcized the Watcher from him but none of them believed he was redeemable. Not even Lilith and Trina. They said he’d be insane now. They said he wouldn’t be the same man he’d been before.

By all rights, he should be insane. After three-hundred years of possession . . . . She had no idea if she could help him. If he was even worth helping.

She’d stood by and done nothing while Mother had abused not only her, but her coven sisters. Fear had ruled Kat back then, stifling her gifts to heal. She would not allow fear to dictate her actions now. She refused to stand on the sidelines this time. She couldn’t allow him to be held accountable for sins he didn’t own.

“Gaia, give me strength to do what is right even when it is not easy or safe.”

Placing her hands on his chest, she closed her eyes and used the Traveler’s spell to get them back in the safety of her home. She cast a circle around her small house to both keep enemies out and keep them imprisoned inside. Then she chanted the spell her high priestess had taught her, a spell that would shield them from the prying eyes of seers and Watchers alike. At least she wouldn’t need to worry about someone attacking while she tried to heal him.

Gaia knew, she had plenty of other concerns. She had seven days to prove her mate was sane. To make sure he wasn’t a threat to either daemons or mankind.

Then their real problems would start.

She flicked on the lights and in the harsh illumination she blanched at the sight of him. Dried, crusted blood stained his clothing, skin, and hair a dark maroon, an undeniable challenge to her resolve. Seeing him this way, anyone would be convinced of his guilt.

The coven was. The Guardian, too. They were all certain he had been in league with the Watcher.

She should be convinced. After everything she’d been through with Mother, she’d learned better than most that people never changed.

No. Julius was different. Innocent. As a healer, she had a duty to help him. As his mate, she needed to discover if he might be worth loving.

She moved him upstairs with a levitation spell, pausing to grab a first aid kit, scissors and towels. She led him through her bedroom and lowered him straight into the old cast-iron tub in the adjoining bathroom.

Blood stained his skin and her hand brushed over the raised edges of cuts as she cut off his blood-stiffened clothes. He needed more than a quick wipe before she discovered the extent of his injuries. She turned on the shower, letting the water run over him to ease away the dried blood while she worked.

Bracing herself, she pulled off the bandage protecting his eyes and washed his hair and face. She hoped, once clean, his eyes would look better, but if anything, they appeared worse. One eye had been plucked out—there were minimal cuts and abrasions around the socket or lids. The other, however, was a mess. With the aid of her gifts, the wounds would heal, but she couldn’t prevent scarring. Worse, she wasn’t sure if she could restore his sight since both organs had been removed in their entirety.

What a shame, he was such a beautiful male.

Once she got his eye sockets re-bandaged with clean material, she scrubbed the rest of him with a sponge. She tried to remain unaffected by his nearness, his nakedness, she really did. Gaia, was that a losing battle. As she stroked her hands over his flesh, knowing he’d been put on this Earth specifically for her, her nipples tightened and her breath grew shallow.

Focus.

His neck was free of wounds. She washed away the blood from his shoulders and chest but the fresh cuts she’d expected weren’t there.

There were plenty of raised, puckered scars, though. Scars over scars over scars to be precise. From wrists to ankles, scars roughened every visible surface normally covered by clothing.

As she continued, she found no defensive wounds on his arms or hands. Nothing suggesting he’d fended off an attack.

She sat back on her heels.

Now that she’d gotten him clean, she drew an altogether more disturbing picture of what might have happened.

She had a straight, puckered scar below her thumb. She’d cut herself with an athame when she was a teenager—an accident.

All of his scars couldn’t be accidental. Many of them were similar to hers—the result of a sharpened blade. However, instead of one, thousands marked his flesh. He’d even been shot a few times by the look of things.

Leaning forward, she ran her hand from his neck to his abdomen as if the raised scars were Braille and trailing her fingers over them would decode the answers she wanted. His scar-roughened skin was pulled taut over thick, roped muscle and sinew. His broad shoulders tapered into a narrow waist. Why in Gaia’s name would he hurt himself?

These old wounds must be self-inflicted. Why else would there be none on his hands, neck or face? And if he’d done all this to himself, what about his eyes? Had someone attacked him as she’d first assumed? No one knew they were here. She’d seen no evidence of a fight. The bit of ash on the blade could’ve come from his eyes instead of an enemy.

“Gaia, I’m trying not to fear him. I really am. But he’s not making it easy.”

She turned off the water and grabbed a towel from the rack. While she dried him off, she tried to keep a detached, professional attitude but her gaze kept straying from her hands. He had an amazing body and he was her mate. He was hers.

A wave of possessiveness washed over her.

“What am I getting myself into?” Shouldn’t the scars, the idea that he may have done all this to himself make her wary? Disgusted? Why then did her insides tighten a little each time she touched him despite the scars? Why did she want nothing more than to keep touching him?

Her gaze trailed from his sharp, stubbly jaw, to his wide shoulders. Down the bulge of muscle in his bare chest and the washboard abs. She couldn’t resist looking lower.

Then she couldn’t quite look away.

Oh, stop it! He’s injured! Behave yourself!

With a fiery blush heating her cheeks, she stood and once again used Magic to lift his weight. He hung mid-air while she moved around to dry his back. She paused, mid-stroke. His shoulders were free of scar tissue aside from the exit wounds from the gunshot-wound scars she’d noted earlier, which supported her theory that the scars were self-inflicted. The skin on his back was smooth.

She moved the towel out of her way and gasped. Almost. Someone had cut a name into his lower back—Vince.

Her perception shifted again based on this new information. He hadn’t done this. A contortionist couldn’t have done that. So, who had? Had someone tortured him? Did it have something to do with the Watcher who possessed him for so long? Or were the marks from his life before?

Setting aside her disturbing thoughts, she moved him into her bedroom, pulled down the covers and tucked him into her bed.

Speculating would get her nowhere. Maybe he’d explain it all to her, maybe he wouldn’t. All she knew was that this man had experienced suffering. The healer in her cried out for the pain he’d endured.

Somehow, she needed to protect him until he was well. Then the real challenge would begin—to either exonerate him from the laundry list of heinous crimes he stood accused of or hide with him forever.

Kat started the healing, letting energy flow through her and into him. She pictured the mending of tissue, the growth of organs and the repair of cells. It was an imperfect science, the body didn’t work as she pictured, but the universe understood what she wanted, and that seemed to be enough.

She stopped when her energy began to lag. Better to do multiple sessions than to try and do too much at once and over tax. She lifted the edge of his bandage. Much of the cut had healed. She lifted his eyelid. Tissue had started to re-grow. She replaced the bandage.

Now she needed to take care of herself. Her muscles were tense and sore from fighting the Nephilim. She had cuts and bruises that needed to be treated. She stripped out of her clothing, took a shower, treated her wounds with medicine—her Magic didn’t work on her own injuries—and put on her comfiest PJs.

When she returned to the bedroom to check on her mate, she frowned. His whole frame was shaking. She put her hand to his forehead. His skin wasn’t feverish nor did it feel too cool.

She crawled onto the bed and curled up next to him.

The tremors stilled.

Of all the ways she imagined their first meeting might go, this hadn’t even been on her list. She let her gaze sweep over his features. His damp dirty-blond hair curled around his forehead, his full lips pouted in sleep.

He was her mate and she was his.

All the insurmountable problems between them faded away.

She lay her head on his shoulder, and breathed a sigh of relief. Everything would work out.

Surely, the worst was over. She traced a few of the larger scars webbing his chest with her fingertips. He would heal and once he realized she’d saved him, he’d be grateful. In his appreciation, he would be kind and charming, and in time, they would find love. He’d be so grateful he wouldn’t mind her brassy red hair. Or her freckles. Or even the fact that she was a bit on the full-figured side.

Of course, she’d do her part. Things would change for Julius Crowley. He’d experienced pain. He’d suffered. Gaia knew, he’d known violence, hatred, and fear.

But had he ever known love, laughter, or simple kindness?

“You will.” She brushed his damp curls off his forehead. “You’ll know all those things and more, I swear to you.”

Azazel stretched and sat up. The tower was cold. He was cold. After three centuries confined within his host’s body, he’d forgotten how cold a body grew when it had no flesh to cover its bones.

How was his host faring now that he was free? Had the curse destroyed him yet? Images flashed through his mind and despite the fact he focused on Crowley, he didn’t see his host anywhere.

Pity. He’d slept through seeing him destroy himself.

As the images of everything happening on Earth right now sped past, one caught his attention. Leopold still lived. So did the Nephilim that guarded his sewer. The same Nephilim that would bring Leopold to him when the time was right. The head of the Vampiric Council was in his sewer, dressed to the nines. His long white hair almost glowed against his dark-blue suit. Strands of the stuff clung to his sleeve as he brushed his wife’s hair.

Pathetic. She was broken. Damaged. Daemons were no better than humans. Why hold onto something that no longer worked as it should? The female, Evelyn, couldn’t speak correctly. Half her body sagged. Her arm didn’t work right. She couldn’t survive on her own. He should’ve had the Nephilim kill her last week before the summoning.

His attention shifted to Tihany, Hungary, a small town with white buildings capped with red roofs. Tonight, his Nephilim walked the streets. Killing. Transforming. Men and women screamed. Buildings burned. Blood marred the once pristine white walls. Even the lake had a red tint to it.

His focus shifted again. Scott Mason. He’d been there the night the Nephilim had been born. One of the survivors of Smyrna Island. He’d met him again in Nogales, Arizona and had made him shoot his own men. Now he was heading up the DDC—the Department of Demonic Control.

Azazel’s laugh echoed on the circular walls of his tower.

Demonic control.

An oxymoron if he’d ever heard one.