Her heat traveled through his fingertips, urging him on. His face shifted and his fangs dropped. Lifting her wrist higher, he pressed his mouth to her skin and bit down.

She inhaled, a half gasp, half laugh that shot straight to his remaining humanity and reminded him what it felt like to be a breathing, daywalking, warm-blooded man who had once known the pleasure of a woman.

The voices drowned that feeling in seconds, their cries and whimpers filling his head until the chaos scratched at his skull. He sucked at the bloodstream harder, wanting this over before the inability to stop overpowered him.

As if called, the beast lifted its head. The names scrambled across his skin like rats, colliding and gnashing their teeth. Still drinking, he focused less on the blood and more on his control, but the voices began to fade and the beast’s raging grew no worse.

Before any of that changed, he released Chrysabelle. He wasn’t quite sated, but the victory of being able to stop was satisfaction enough.

He dropped her arm and pressed back into the seat as the hot-cold power of her blood struck him, shooting jolts of pain through his bones and tightening his muscles. The pain vanished seconds later, leaving him with a euphoric sense of well-being, a beating heart, and the need to breathe.

He let out a long breath. “I can’t believe I just did that.” He straightened, the pounding of his heart exaggerated by the rush of what had just happened. “How was that even possible? Could my curse be broken?”

“I don’t think so.” Chrysabelle cradled her arm to her chest. “More like it’s the ring’s power, protecting me.” She glanced at Mortalis. “As soon as we get back, you’re going to make that meeting happen, right?”

He nodded. “Amery has already agreed to help me.”

Barely listening to anything but the rush of blood in his ears, Mal rolled his shoulders as a fresh charge of power coursed through him, buoyed by the release of no longer being enslaved by the curse. The voices had gone oddly quiet. Not silent so much as hushed. As if they were trying not to be heard.

Slowly, the whispers filtered through the sound of his breathing and his pulse. He stood as comprehension struck him. He grabbed hold of the bulkhead. “I need to go lie down.” Without waiting for a response, he made his way toward the back of the jet.

He shut the bedroom door, locked it, and dropped onto the bed. The voices grew louder. He squeezed his head between his hands, trying to shut them up, but still they raged. The beast joined them and the maelstrom of mental pressure increased tenfold.

The torture seared his brain. He rocked back and forth, still holding his head, wondering if it would split in his hands from the pain.

Chrysabelle might be safe, but the next human to cross his path wouldn’t be. Drinking from her had reignited a fury in the voices unlike anything he’d experienced before. They sank their teeth into him, chewing through his resolve, weakening his control.

The question was not if he’d ever kill again, but when.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Let her go,” Creek snarled as he lunged for his grandmother. Yahla was closer, grabbing Mawmaw up and using her like a shield. Now she hung limp in Yahla’s arms, only the rise and fall of her chest an indicator that his grandmother still lived. And somewhere in the night, Annika was out there, hopefully coming up with a better plan.

“You tried to kill me.” Yahla’s eyes narrowed to slits of bottomless black.

“You used me. Took control of me. I think we’re even.” He took a step forward. “Put my grandmother down and I won’t try to kill you again.”

“You lie.” Yahla slanted her head back and coughed, expelling a raven that flew at Creek.

He grabbed the bird as it dove toward him, wrung its neck, and tossed it off the porch. In his peripheral vision, it disappeared in a cloud of dust before it touched the ground.

In the distance, a dog barked. Creek hoped it was Pip. If Yahla had done anything to that dog, Mawmaw would kill her, then find a way to bring her back from the dead just so she could kill her a second time. Yahla’s feathers flew out around her, lifted by an unseen wind. “You have no respect.”

“You’ve given me no reason to respect you.” A tiny movement near the back of the porch caught his attention. Annika. What was she planning?

Yahla tossed her feather hair. “I am done speaking to you. I only waited until you arrived to take this woman’s soul. To let you see what you had caused.” She squatted, taking Mawmaw to the porch floor; then Yahla opened her mouth in the same unnaturally wide way she had when she’d killed Argent.

With no idea what Annika was up to, Creek couldn’t wait any longer. He leaped forward, grabbing fistfuls of Yahla’s feathers and hurtling them both through the side railing. Splinters flew as wood cracked and they hit the ground.

Squawking with fury, Yahla swiped at him, slicing his cheek and forehead with a handful of talons. Blood trickled into his eye. He pulled her close enough to pin her arms and caught sight of Annika crouched against the lattice that covered the house’s stilts.

“Face her to me and shut your eyes,” Annika yelled over Yahla’s cawing.

Creek rolled onto his side, hugging the squirming Yahla tight. She was half woman, half bird now and pecking furiously at his face and chest. Each time she connected, she took a hunk of flesh. Shutting off the pain as best he could, Creek flipped over, landing hard on Yahla.

The move had the desired effect. She gasped, stunned. He quickly turned her in his arms so she faced Annika.