She’s not my type.

She places her small hands on my face and bends over me, her mouth a few inches away. “Erase him for me, Lor. Make me forget him. Take the taste of him out of my mouth. Fill it up with you. You’ll never remember that you helped me forget. Please, Lor, make love to me.”

Ahhhh! I fucking hate that phrase. I don’t make love. I fuck. That’s it. Plain and simple. Fuck. Clearly defined. No strings attached. As in rut and grunt and get my rocks off. I’m the caveman. I’m the sexual barbarian. I open my mouth to tell her that but all the sudden she pulls back from me and yanks her shirt off over her head and these positively fucking perfect small breasts pop out.

Don’t know the last time I saw little tits. I forgot what they looked like. I stare and feel my eyes going glassy all on their own. Tiny waist, creamy skin flushed with embarrassment and desire, and pretty pink nipples that—Aw, shit, here I go.

Damn nipples. They get me every time.

“Lor, please,” she says, hot tears falling like rain on my skin. “Make love to me, make me forget.”

Slow and sweet, she bends over me and traces my lips with her tongue, breath warm, smelling faintly of peppermint.

I don’t do this kind of woman.

Never this kind of woman.

And sure as fuck not the way she wants it.

Next thing I know I’m hiking that sweet, short skirt up over her sweet round ass, breaking my own rules, gonna screw a brunette, on the highway to Hell.

20

“Mama, I’m coming home”

MAC

Situated on one thousand acres of prime farmland about two hours from Dublin, Arlington Abbey is a self-sustaining fortress with multiple artesian wells, a dairy, beef cattle, orchard, and acres of vegetable gardens.

Whether Rowena performed powerful spells to protect it or the Shades simply chose to go in another direction when they decamped the city en masse a few months ago, about thirty minutes from the ancient mother house, the countryside was left untouched by their voracious appetites.

It’s difficult to believe I haven’t been out this way since mid-May, the night we sealed the Sinsar Dubh in the vast, heavily runed underground chamber beneath the fortress.

Time flies.

Especially when you keep losing it inside the Silvers.

After we defeated the Sinsar Dubh, Barrons and I retreated to his lair beneath the garage, leaving bed only when near-starvation forced us out.

A few days later we laid his son to rest, finally freeing the father from a small eternity of torment, and began discussing plans to return to the mother house and take further measures to protect the world from the great-winged prince beneath the abbey that has stood as a prison, in one form or another, in the middle of a grassy Irish field since the unlucky day the king selected our planet for that purpose.

I’d proposed pumping the chamber full of concrete the very night the king iced Cruce. Barrons later argued for removing the prince, intact in his prison of ice, and transporting the chamber into the Hall of All Days, to dump on some other unsuspecting world.

We did neither.

Obsessed with my quest to rid the world of the other book, the next thing I knew, we were stepping from the Silver behind the bookstore into a city so heavily iced it was nearly impassable. Our new enemy wasn’t one that could be physically battled, not that I was currently effective in that department anyway. Getting involved would have turned too many eyes my way, raised questions about my stalkers, and put me in closer proximity to Dani than I was ready for. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done to trust that others would handle the problem while I attempted to handle my own.

I stare out the window, watching the scenery whiz by. What the Shades didn’t devour, the Hoar Frost King decimated. But spring has begun transforming the ice-ravaged landscape, pushing buds from skeletal limbs, and a thin carpet of grass shimmers in the moonlight. After the violent, killing frost, it may be years before the emerald isle regains its legendary green.

I sprawl in the passenger seat in the Humvee, one booted foot on the dash—Ryodan refused to let me drive, no surprise there, we’re both control freaks—bracing myself for the upcoming battle. My dark flock is hitching a ride on the roof.

I ponder the upcoming confrontation like a poker game I’m about to enter, and the various ways the cards might play out.

The metaphor is appropriate, given bluffing appears to be my strongest suit.

I love a good battle, especially on the right side, and we are. The abbey belongs to us. Assuming I go inside, what cards can I safely allow myself to play?

My spear is useless. I’ve been mulling over the two times my flock ascended to the rooftops and I drew my spear: the first against Dani, the second against the Gray Woman, trying to decide what pushed me over the edge the second time and gave the Book the leverage it needed. Until I can isolate the precise moment I lost control, the how and why, I’m not using my spear again.

I left my guns at the bookstore but have a switchblade in each boot. I won’t use those either. Violence is the door the Book kicks through, sticks in a foot, and wedges open.

Barrons keeps the amulet locked in a vault beneath the garage. I wouldn’t touch it anyway. We decided months ago that it was too risky to attempt to fool it twice the same way. Besides, I’ve thought of it so many times, I’m not certain it’s not an idea the Book keeps planting. Nearly all my mental terrain is suspect to me. On days when it hasn’t stirred much, I get worried.

You can’t seek a weapon to use against it. You must become that weapon, Barrons has said over and over.