It was stifling hot. He couldn’t see. The air he dragged in tasted stale and thin. The hood muffled and distorted the sounds around him.

He hated the hood. It wasn’t the first time he’d been forced into one and he doubted it’d be the last.

Sensing someone nearby, he strained to hear over his breathing. The low whine of a bone saw whirred and his stomach rolled.

Laughter bloomed inside his head.

All his muscles seized under a sudden attack of acute agony. It was too much effort to even drag in a stale breath of air around the blinding fire in his hand. His thoughts shattered.

Julius jerked awake with a gasp, grasping his left hand. His pinky was still there . . . most of it. His little finger felt shorter than the one on his right, the nail malformed.

That had been a memory, not a dream. He lifted a shaky hand to his face and wiped away the moisture from his cheeks.

If he wasn’t already crazy, he would be soon. He couldn’t take much more. He couldn’t even find escape in the oblivion of sleep.

Hell, he didn’t even remember climbing into bed. He remembered meeting Kat. Trying to convince her to let him leave. Touching her. Kissing her.

He recalled the voice. That woman—Mary Jane Kelly, reaching for him, her insides—

A shudder coursed through him. He pushed the grim memory away.

He focused on his breathing. Slowing it. Deepening it. Trying without success to block out memories of the hood. Of being pursued by those long dead. He wouldn’t get anymore sleep today.

He should try. His body and mind needed rest to heal, and then maybe he’d remember. That’s what he needed. To remember. How had he known Mary Jane? How had he come upon her in such a condition? Had he done that to her? Why?

In truth, he wasn’t sure he wanted to refill the black hole of his past. What he did remember didn’t paint a pretty picture. Thus far his memories had done nothing but torment.

His eyes didn’t hurt so he opened them, finding yet more proof of insanity: He could see though the blindfold still wrapped around his skull. He stared up at a textured ceiling. The fan was still, the lights were off but a colorful illumination—similar to an aurora borealis—danced around the peripheral of his vision. That’s how he saw the ceiling and the fan—there was no color to the ceiling or the fan—they were in grayscale, but the way those dancing lights reflected off the objects’ surfaces gave them depth and definition.

Something was wrong, he shouldn’t see anything through the bandages.

He got out of bed, taking the sheet with him, wrapping it around his naked hips. The lights dimmed. When he turned back to the bed, light filled his vision once again.

The lights came from her.

Kat snuggled under the comforter facing away from him. Brilliant colors surrounded her—orange, yellow, purple, green, pink—they surged in the various bubbles encasing her. Two of the bubbles angled away along the line of her shoulders like wings instead of cocooning her from head to foot. Lying there, she looked like a luminous butterfly.

He almost shook her awake to tell her he was stark, fucking crazy. Except he sort of . . . liked her and he didn’t want her to know he was asylum material.

So he left, pausing in the hallway. There were three doors upstairs. To his right flexing ribbons of light reached out from under the door, reminding him of how the sun’s rays rippled into fragmented lines on the bottom of a pool.

He let himself into the room with the caged animals. Kat’s patients. Their little hearts thrummed anxious rhythms. They didn’t recognize his look, his scent, and he made them nervous. Each of the animals glowed with faint auras that swirled and throbbed around them. The hawk flexed its wings in agitation and the others scurried for cover in their pens.

Leaving the small menagerie, he headed downstairs. This wasn’t a trick of his mind. Somehow, he could see, though nothing looked as it should. He slowed his pace as he neared the landing. Some items—the robe on the sewing mannequin—glowed with bright colors, while others—the dining table and chairs—appeared more like negatives from a photograph, reflecting the light from the robe.

Kat’s place was a disaster. As tidy as the kitchen and upstairs rooms were, the living room and dining room looked like a tornado had hit. A full laundry basket sat on the table. Stacks of books littered the floor. The bookshelves were full to bursting with disorganized tomes, jars of stones and herbs, and a full zoo of crystalline animals.

It almost seemed purposeful—the mess. Some of the books on the shelves had even been put in backward, with the pages facing out instead of the spines.

She had nice furniture—the kind he’d seen in those all natural eco-friendly places. Clean, straight wooden frames that housed large cushions. Oscar was curled up on the corner of the couch in a patch of sunlight that bled through the blinds.

There was no TV. No stereo or computer. Was she a Luddite?

Making his way back upstairs, he passed Kat’s bedroom and tried the last remaining upstairs door. Beyond, a narrow staircase led to a large room on the third floor. Nothing here moved or breathed. There were no tiny heartbeats thrumming a rapid rhythm. Nothing he could mesmerize if his mind snapped again.

He pulled off the bandage.

Everything blurred.

“Fuck’s sake.” He covered his right eye which left him with blurry vision from his healing eye, but everything looked as it should. The items in the room had normal everyday colors and textures.

He switched, covering his left eye and now that strange light illuminated some of the things in the room and while the light only emanated from certain objects, it reflected off others, allowing him to see their outlines as if they were a negative of a photograph.

Maybe the lights were some odd side-effect of his injury. Maybe he would ask Kat about it later. For now, he wanted to check out what he’d found.

The room brimmed with art supplies. She had an easel set up in the corner, several canvases stacked against one wall, and finished paintings on another next to a large cabinet. Inside, he discovered a plethora of brushes and pencils, oils and pastels. Everything was organized by color, size, and purpose. The opposite of the rooms downstairs.

He eyed the stack of finished paintings. They glowed with the same colors that had surrounded Kat; they must be her work. He shouldn’t look, it was an invasion of privacy, but he had a compulsive need to understand her.

His mate.

He snorted. What if she was? Mates could be harsh as hell to each other if introduced before both were ready for their bonding. Him and Katherine . . . . He shook his head. They’d been oil and water everywhere but in bed.

The first of the paintings was of Oscar. She’d rendered the cub in charcoal, but had still managed to capture the life of the feline. He looked ready to pounce right off the canvas, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

He leaned the canvas forward and found an oil painting of a beautiful blonde. Her face symmetrical, with flowing hair and the most startling blue eyes he’d ever seen. Kat had talent.

He’d never figured out face structure or the aspects of three-dimensional rendering that Kat had mastered. He loved to paint, though. Not that he was an artist like Kat; his paintings always came out in swirls of color and strange shapes—infantile, his brother used to tease—but it calmed him and Jesus, did he need that right now.

He froze. He remembered his brother. Julian. He used the heel of his hand to rub the spot in his chest that started to ache. How long had it been since he’d thought of him?

“Brother, I wish you were here.”

He’d love to trade playful barbs with him again. Funny how much he missed him when he was the reason Julian couldn’t be here in the first place.

All those fresh supplies proved to be too much temptation. He wandered over to the easel and set up a fresh canvas. He’d do anything to escape his thoughts.

On the Astral.

---

The coven was dying.

Kat stood on a darkened dirt path between neat little rows of cabins, her hands fisted at her sides. A Magical battle raged around her on a new moon night. The only light came from the orbs of destructive energy the coven hurled toward the Nephilim.

The Nephilim were once human, but were larger, stronger. Their abnormal muscle mass made them appear twisted and misshapen and their jagged teeth and yellow eyes as evil as they were.

She wasn’t participating in the battle. Instead, she walked toward her mate. Julius’ handsome features twisted into a sneer of disgust as he let Lilith’s limp body fall away from his bloody hands. His jerkin and hose were covered in a combination of dirt and blood. She didn’t want to know how he’d come to look that way.

The Original was dead and her mate was still possessed. In the distance, Trina screamed.

She passed Claire’s body lying under a tree, her throat opened from one of the Nephilim. Fiona was wounded, bleeding but focused with otherworldly intent on carving something into a tree. Fiona’s whole body shook with the effort it took to press her knife into the wood—she would transform soon.

Kat didn’t stop. She did little more than spare a glance for Fiona and the three letters she’d managed to carve: C-R-O. Instead, her gaze traveled back to Julius.

He’d noticed her. Was headed her way.

She should run. All around them what was left of the coven fought and destroyed the Nephilim but Julius sauntered toward her as if he were strolling through Hyde Park. His lips quirked into a smile. “Now what, little witch? Your plan failed.”

The coven was dying, but so too were the Nephilim.

“Julius, please.” He had to be in there still. “Fight it,” she said. “For me.”

The dark energy around him shifted, receded, and his expression changed from rage into one of intense concentration.

He was trying to fight.

She stepped closer.

He backed away with a jerk, the foul aura returned with renewed vigor, churning in agitation. The hateful mask returned, his spine straightened and he took a menacing step forward. The light from the battle reflected in his eyes, heightening the unholy promise in his gaze.

“We’re losing everything we ever believed in, damn it. You’ve got to fight.”

The energy receded again; his body shuddered with effort. The evil glint left his eyes.

“Praise be.” She threw herself into his arms.

“No time.” He panted. A shudder ran through him. “Have to hurry. I can’t hold him long.” Another tremor rocked through his body. “We have to make sure the Nephilim are gone.”

She pulled away and nodded. The night had grown so dark she could barely make out his features. So quiet. The coven was no longer fighting. Kat glanced over her shoulder to where the battle no longer raged. Were any of them still alive?

“They’re gone.”

Julius drew her behind him but he didn’t let go of Kat’s hand. Together they walked through the huts, his thumb rubbing against her wrist in a comforting gesture. “I don’t see any of the coven, either.”

She swallowed. He was right. “They’re all dead. The coven and the Nephilim both.”

His body fought another wracking tremor. Still, she dared to walk closer. “Please, forgive me. I didn’t intend for this to happen.”

She pressed her mouth against his, putting all her heart into the act. “I thought we’d have time. I thought I could be here for the coven in this lifetime and you’d wait for me to reincarnate.” Now none of that would be. She’d have to destroy him to kill the being within him.

He trembled against her and his hands brushed against her arms as he raised them to cup her face.

Another shudder wracked his frame. His hands caressed lower, settling around her neck and before she could so much as gather a scream his fingers constricted.

Kat moaned as she woke, gripping her throat. It was just a dream. She’d been having that same dream about the Clearances—the rest of the world knew that event as the disappearing colony of Roanoke—since she was a little girl.

Now that she was awake, her neck didn’t hurt, but her arms did. The discoloration had gone from her skin, but her muscles had cramped while she slept. She rubbed the tightness away, flexing and rotating her wrists. For a disoriented moment, she didn’t remember what happened. Then she did—she was losing her Magic.

Suddenly, everything was too much.

She rolled back on her side, covering her eyes to hide her tears, and staying as still as possible so as not to disturb her mate.

What was she doing? The last two weeks had been hell.

Everything had changed.

Two weeks ago, on Samhain Eve, she’d caught her first glimpse of Julius. It wasn’t the most auspicious of meetings, he happened to be colluding with Mother to kidnap Lilith. At the time, no one had known the wayward Watcher possessed him, but even thinking the worst of him, she couldn’t get him out of her thoughts. That night was the first time in hundreds of years that the coven had worked with daemons for a common goal. It was the night Mother had died. The night Julius had been captured and taken to Revelations Industries. The night that started Armageddon.

A week later, while fighting the Vampiric Council after they’d kidnapped Trina, she ran into Julius again. Or so she’d thought. It wasn’t him, but a doppelgänger—a projection of her deepest desire—created by Leopold, the head of the Vampiric Council. As soon as she let the doppelgänger close, he’d bitten her. Transformed her. If she hadn’t been so intent on saving Julius, she wouldn’t have fallen for Leopold’s doppelgänger. She would still be human and a witch and her Magic would be strong as ever.

But no, now she wouldn’t be able to help and heal anymore and why? Because of the possibility of love with a daemon she didn’t know? One who had hurt her in the past. One that had killed her in a previous life.

Everything that had happened in the last two weeks—Mother’s death, her transformation, the start of Armageddon, the Nephilim—it was all linked to Julius.

Was trying to save him even worth the trouble?

She rolled over to check on her mate. “Shit!” She smacked her hand over her mouth which was ridiculous because no one was there to hear her slip.

He was gone.

She leapt out of bed and bounded down the stairs. She called his name and got no answer. Heard no sound at all. She flung open the front door and scanned the empty porch. Her shield was still up—he hadn’t left the house.

Something in her calmed. He hadn’t left. He was here. Safe.

A package sat on the doormat. She reached out and sunlight hit her skin. Her skin reddened and began to smoke. She gasped and snatched her hand back. One finger and part of another had been burnt—not any worse than that time the potholder had slipped and she ended up grabbing a hot pan.

Vampirism officially sucked.

She stared at the package sitting there within a bright streak of sunlight. Had the delivery person thrown it a little to the left, she could grab it. She marched into the kitchen, bandaged her fingers, grabbed her broom, and used it to pull the box into the shadowy part of the porch. She picked it up, closed the door, and continued her search.

She walked through the lower rooms one by one—kitchen, dining room, living room. Upstairs, she checked on her animals and found her patients alone and well.

In her bedroom, she set the package on the dresser, and peeked into the bathroom. Empty.

That left her art room.

The door was ajar. She pushed it open, crept up the stairs and paused in the doorway.

There he was.

All of her doubts shrank. He was the one for her. She couldn’t explain her certainty, maybe it was the crazy flock of butterflies that came alive in her stomach or just the sense of rightness.

His eyes had healed well enough to see. He’d removed the bandage, leaving it on his lap where Oscar chewed away at it.

He was painting, using the canvas she’d set up before everything had gotten crazy. Absorbed in his work—almost fanatical in his task—he sat hunched over, a pallet in one hand, a paint brush clenched between his teeth and another in his hand. Paint coated the edge of his right palm, from where he’d smudged and blended the colors on the canvas.

He hadn’t had any clothes after his brush with the sunlight, so he’d wrapped the bed sheet around his waist and, Gaia, was he a beautiful man. Underneath the scars, he had the lengthy muscle of an athlete. As he worked, her gaze followed the play of muscle across his back, shoulders, and arms.

She’d never seen him quite like this. So focused. So calm. Art was good for him, would help him heal.

Reluctantly, she shifted her attention to the painting and shivered. He’d chosen to use oils and the dominant color was black. He’d painted on to the canvas in great swirling, textured strokes that made her feel as though she was falling into an abyss. She dared a step closer, looking over his shoulder. Those whirling brush strokes narrowed to a pin-point of light. To the left of the pristine white dot was a tiny abstract figure with wings. The brilliant colors—red, yellow, orange, and pink—he’d used gave a sense of hope, a small savior from the overwhelming darkness.

He was quite gifted. Her own talent was limited to what she saw. She could create almost a photographic copy of anything, but lacked the imagination and depth of feeling to create something like this. The painting was disturbing. Dark. Hopeless. Yet the small, winged creature gave the impression of ultimate redemption and light.

He cleaned his brush and dipped it in white. She took a step closer, drawn to what he created, needing to see the finished product, but her skirt brushed against the canvases stacked against the wall and his shoulders tensed.

The paintbrush clattered to the floor. He eased the bandage away from Oscar and yanked it over his head. His movements were jerky, almost angry—except for when he touched the cub. He picked up the oil-stained rag off his other knee, snatched up the fallen brush and wiped the splotch of white off the floor.

“I’ll find a way to replace them.”

She looked around, seeing nothing amiss. “Replace what?”

“The supplies,” he spoke in clipped tones. “I shouldn’t have come in here without permission.”

He made it sound like she’d caught him stealing. “Don’t worry about the supplies. A friend of mine ran an art shop. When she retired she gave me more paints than I’ll use before they expire. I don’t mind that you’re in here and I never said you couldn’t.”

He finished cleaning off the brush and set it aside. He paused. Tipped his head to the side. “Is everything all right?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t remember how I got to bed.”

That was probably good. “I put you there.”

He nodded. “I don’t suppose I fell asleep in the recliner?”

“What happened wasn’t your fault. It was a felo-de-se curse.”

His head snapped up. “A suicide curse? What happened? What did I do?” All his muscles strained against his skin. The tremor in his hands increased. This wasn’t good for him.

“Jules, it’s nothing to worry about. You didn’t do anything wrong. I think I can help you purge the curse from your system.”

He shrugged. Nodded.

Though she wasn’t an empath like Trina, she couldn’t miss the waves of shame and regret radiating off him.

He cocked his head toward the easel. “You sure you don’t mind?”

“Not at all. I’m glad you found it.” She twisted her hands in her skirt, unsure of herself. “I love the piece you’re working on.”