Kiera Sparrow shook her head rapidly from side to side, trying to extricate her rain-soaked bangs from her eyes. She couldn’t release the rope in order to clear her vision, yet she was terrified of descending any further with her sight compromised.

The rain was icy cold. It had already soaked through her T-shirt, and her feet were growing numb. She needed to feel every inch of the sheet—and every protruding knot—in order to grasp the surface firmly. Not to mention, her sweatpants were growing way too heavy. As it stood, she was quaking like a leaf, trying to support all 125 pounds of her five-foot-eight frame. She didn’t know if she could hold on if her body grew any heavier.

“Don’t think like that, Kiera,” she whispered to herself, glancing up at the shadowy moonlight. “You can do this. You have to do this. You’re already halfway there.”

Despite her previous resolution, her determination not to look down, she glanced beneath her freezing toes, toward the pavement, hoping to be encouraged; but what she saw seized her heart, stole her breath, and rocked her all the way to her bones.

There was a giant beast with a wild mane of deep, golden brown hair beneath her. He was coated in thick, wiry fur, and his mammoth jaw jutted forward, flashing a mouthful of vicious teeth. The wolf was positively enormous. His muscles rippled as he stalked up the building, scaling it like a spider, as if he were climbing an unseen web: naturally, effortlessly, and with terrifying ease of efficiency.

Kiera’s eyes met the creature’s, and she froze in place.

His demonic eyes were adorned with pale amber irises and rimmed in a circle of black…

Xavier Matista!

The werewolf from her dream.

The nightmare from her waking reality.

He was everything he had claimed—all her subconscious had sensed—and he was crawling up the building to kill her.

She screamed and let go of the rope.

Her heart plunged in her chest, as if gravity was yanking it out of her body, and her arms flailed at her sides as she pitched through the air, plummeting toward her death.

The lycan slammed up against her, wrapped a steel, corded arm around her waist, and continued to scale the building as if nothing had interrupted his climb. He snarled against her ear, and she felt a wet, sticky trail of saliva trickling down her neck.

Keira thought she would die, right then and there.

Not from Xavier’s canines, and not from the harrowing fall.

The twenty-eight-year-old violinist was certain she would die of fright.

What happened next was so seamless and surreal, she wasn’t even sure it had happened. Xavier, the wolf, arched his back and rolled his spine as Xavier, the man, crashed through the warehouse window, landed on the bathroom floor, and shoved Kiera forward, toward her waiting captors. In an instant, he was gone, and Kiera was facing Owen, alone: a vindictive, rage-filled human who was blinking like he’d just seen a ghost.

Kiera instantly got it.

These stupid, clueless vampire-hunters had no idea that werewolves existed, and Xavier intended to keep it that way. Owen had probably seen a blur, and he was too dim-witted and brainwashed to question the laws of physics. For all he knew, Kiera had given in to a fear of heights, or been overcome by the frigid rain, and climbed back up the rope, on her own.

Yeah, because that would have ever happened.

She shook her head in both terror and defeat as Owen lunged forward, fisted her by the hair, and began to drag her backward across the travertine floor.

“Travis is on his way to the hospital—Rachel is taking him!” he snarled. “So it’s just you, me, Jon, Mike, and Nick.” He kicked what was left of the trip-rope out of his way, and by the uneven dotting of blood on the floor beneath the curled E-strings, Kiera knew that the snare had worked.

At least temporarily.

The next words Owen spoke pumped ice into Kiera’s veins, and she wished with all her might that the werewolf would have killed her: “I’m going to carve you up into creative, musical pieces. Then I’m going to slit that divine, celestial wrist and watch you bleed out while Jon, Mike, and Nick take you—all three of them, at the same time. And when they’re finally finished, you will still be alive—but barely. Do you know why?” He bent over to press his nose against hers, and his breath was rancid. “Because I want the last thing you see in this lifetime to be my eyes—I want you to watch them roll back as I mount you.” He cackled like a fiend. “Think of it this way: I get to come, and you get to expire, all in musical harmony. And that, Princess Kiera, is the only destiny that awaits you.”

* * *

“Wait. Stop. What did you just say?” Saxson asked Kristina, who continued to wax poetic about her beautiful new bracelet, a gorgeous platinum band, dotted with onyx and rubies.

Kristina wrinkled her nose. “What part?” she asked innocently, failing to pick up on the sentinel’s concern. “About the onyx and the rubies? Or how they symbolize a two-toned rose?”

“The two-toned rose,” Saxson clarified. “Elaborate on that.”

Kristina turned toward Braden, her eyebrows raised in question, and the two of them exchanged a knowing glance. Finally, Braden gestured toward the bracelet and shrugged. “Go ahead,” he said casually. “Just leave out the private part.”

Kristina smiled, angled her body back toward Saxson’s, and mimicked Braden’s shrug. “Okay, let’s see…” she mused. “Well, as Braden more or less indicated, we shared a…personal…moment, something that had to do with a crimson-and-black rose.” She shifted her weight from foot to foot, rocking on her six-inch heels. “Anyhow, he made this bracelet for me as a symbol of that moment, kind of a thank you for helping him out.”

Saxson frowned, his pulse beginning to throb in his temples. They weren’t getting anywhere with this line of questioning—he decided to be more direct. “Not good enough, Kristina.” He spoke in a firm, no-nonsense tone. Then turning to regard Braden directly, he added, “I’m sorry, son. I don’t mean to pry into your private business, but this might be significant. In fact, very important. I need you to tell me everything there is to know about that bracelet and the black-and-red rose.”

Having overheard Saxson’s statement, Nachari Silivasi sauntered up to the circle of vampires and stood next to Braden. “Son,” he interjected, “this might be the breakthrough we were waiting for...the significance you couldn’t quite intuit. Tell the sentinel everything.”

Braden visibly paled. “Oh…shit,” he said apologetically.

“Oh, shit, what?” Santos Olaru chimed in, appearing at Saxson’s side as if out of nowhere.

Ramsey was right on Santos’ heels, crowding the growing circle with his tense, overbearing energy.

“Oh, damn…” Braden repeated. “I didn’t think…I mean, we were paying attention, but we were never sure…we were monitoring the visions to see what happened next. I’m sorry, Saxson.”

“What visions?” Ramsey snarled, his model-fine features growing harsh.

“Shh!” Saxson held up his hand. “Everyone, just stop.” He seared his gaze into Braden’s innocent eyes and narrowed his vision like a laser. “Vampire, look at me! Tell me about these visions. Tell me about the black-and-red rose. Now.”

Braden shifted gears in a millisecond, going from apologetic youth to burgeoning seer in the powerful house of Jadon, and his voice reflected the shift. “About one week ago,” he spoke clearly, “I started getting headaches, but that’s really nothing new. I’m always picking up on emotions, controversies, you name it…things going on behind closed doors within the house of Jadon. Usually, it passes, and it doesn’t have any deep meaning.” He furrowed his brows in concentration. “Only this was kind of weird: At first, I saw—no, I didn’t actually see it; I more like felt it—a two-toned rose that was crimson and black, and the black petals were swallowing the red.”

Saxson held up one finger, needing a moment to process the fledgling vampire’s words. He ran his hand through his hair, considering the potential implications. “What do you mean by swallowing, son? The black petals swallowed the red?”

Braden shook his head. “I dunno, exactly. I mean…it was just…the black half of the rose sort of took over the entire flower. It swallowed it by eclipsing the red.”

Nachari placed his hand on Braden’s shoulder and gentled his voice. “Tell him about the other impressions, Braden, the words you also heard…or felt.”

Braden nodded, glancing at his boots for a moment, thinking it over. When he once again raised his head, his features were stark with concentration. “Again, I didn’t really hear anything, Saxson. I just…sort of felt the sounds…the syllables… It’s hard to explain.”

“Go on,” Ramsey barked.

Santos shot his younger brother a harsh look. “Ramsey…he’s trying.” He turned toward Braden and nodded. “Just take a deep breath and think things through, son. It’s important that you get this right, that you don’t leave anything out. If you can do that quickly, that’s great; but if you can’t, that’s okay, too.” He gestured with his chin toward Ramsey. “He’s fine. We all are. We just want to get this right.”

Braden nodded with understanding, then swallowed his angst. “Passion, death and foreboding,” he said bluntly. “That’s what I sort of heard. It was like the crimson rose represented passion, and the black rose—”

“Represented death and foreboding,” Saxson cut in.

“Yeah,” Braden said. “Exactly.”

Saxson felt like his world was suddenly spinning on its axis. Oh, gods—this wasn’t good. Why was this psychic kid having visions about Saxson’s rare and secret rose? “You said ‘at first’—this was the vision you saw at first—how did the vision change?”

Braden glanced at Kristina, and she flashed a tentative but reassuring smile. “Oh, hell, Bray…” She shrugged. “I’m with Nachari—tell them everything you can—every vision you’ve had.”

Braden nodded. “So, over time, the rose kind of changed. Instead of being a single flower with two-toned petals, it was a single stem that had split in two: two separate roses, each a different color—one crimson, one black—and the black rose grew stronger and took over, while the red rose wilted on the vine.”

“Son of a bitch,” Saxson muttered, turning to regard Nachari. “Wizard, what the hell does that mean? Trust me, this is very important.”

Nachari shook his head. “No idea, warrior. You tell me. What part of Braden’s words ring true…and why? Maybe we can go from there.”

Saxson was almost desperate to get at the truth, though he couldn’t explain the urgency. Just the same, he searched his heart, trying to find the right way to phrase it: “In the back of my estate, I have a secret garden, something I’ve been building for centuries—it’s a rose garden, erected for my destiny, something I’ve always kept private. To me, it was sacred…special…a way to offer homage to the gods…and to my female.” He quickly pressed on—there was no time for history. “One of the blossoms in the greenhouse is from Halfeti, Turkey, fed by the river Euphrates: It’s half crimson and half black, and the natives of the small village where it grows believe the flowers represent both passion and death and foreboding, depending on its dominant shade. I showed it to Kyla the night we met.”

The room grew ghostly quiet.

“Saxson,” Nachari finally spoke, “have you had any misgivings about this mating? About your Blood Moon—the thought that something might be off?” He held up his hand to delay Saxson’s response because he wasn’t finished talking. “Braden shared his concerns with me, and I even viewed his visons, but we couldn’t make any connections. We did, however, establish a timeline: He started seeing the roses the night of your Cetus Blood Moon, maybe a couple hours earlier. It rattled me enough to say something to Ramsey and Santos.”

Santos nodded, and Ramsey grunted.

“Yeah, that’s why we’ve been stalking you like a couple of love-struck teenagers,” Ramsey said.

“Calling, or checking in, every hour, on the hour,” Santos added.

Nachari repeated his question. “Have you had any misgivings, warrior? If so, there’s no time like the present—don’t hold back.”

Saxson nodded. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “I have. Quite a bit.”

Nachari shut his forest-green eyes, and when he reopened them a few seconds later, they were glowing. “The first vision was describing the origin of your Blood Moon”—he spoke in an eerie, almost disembodied voice. “One rose is one girl—one soul, one secret—a flower with two different faces. And one of the faces, the personas, is far more deadly than passionate. The second vision describes the Blood Moon’s progression—two roses, split from a single vine. Two girls. Two souls. But only one origin. Saxson, your destiny is also a twin. One of their souls is black, filled with death and foreboding, while the other is filled with passion and love, but this one is withering on the vine.” His eyes grew murky and ominous. “Whoever she is, she’s dying.”

“He’s right,” Braden interjected. His burnt-sienna eyes flashed with knowing and he emphatically nodded his head. “Nachari nailed it, but I can take it a step further. When you claimed Kyla, you were very close to both sisters, and that’s why the rose was intertwined. But as time has ticked on, there’s more distance between you…between you and your true other half. Kyla has grown bolder, and her sister has grown weaker. I think you claimed the wrong female.”

Deanna Dubois-Silivasi sidled up behind Nachari, still holding Sebastian in one arm, as she slipped the other around Nachari’s waist, partly to provide him comfort, and partly to bring him out of the trance. “Wizard,” she whispered softly in his ear, although all the vampires could hear her, “I saw her wrist earlier; she has the markings of Lord Cetus etched into her flesh. Are you and Braden certain?”

Saxson brought his clenched fists up to his forehead and grasped at his hair in fury, his body beginning to tremble.

Saxson, can you hear me? It’s Kiera.

The memory of that dim, indistinct voice assailed his consciousness.

“She doesn’t have the markings of Cetus on her wrist!” he snarled. “It’s a fucking tattoo!”

“Nikolai!” Marquis gasped, shimmering out of view.

Deanna spun around in a panic. “Where’s Ciopori?”

Saxson sprang into action. “Santos, get the tracker to the brownstone—call Julien, now!” Saber! he shouted on a community, telepathic bandwidth. Check every door and window—don’t let Kyla leave! And then he turned to Kagen and Arielle Silivasi, who were standing in the background, next to Jocelyn and Nathaniel. “Kagen,” his voice trembled with emotion, “I have a terrible feeling we’re going to need a healer upstairs.”

He was just about to give a directive to Dario and Lily, ask them to sit down with Braden and go over each of his visions, piece by piece—see if they could garner more information—when Ciopori’s bloodcurdling scream shook the brownstone’s rafters.

Everyone froze.