Kat sat cross-legged on the couch and propped open her laptop. She wanted to get some research done before Julius woke.

Last night had been nice. Calm. She’d told him stories about her and her coven sisters when they were growing up—though she’d had to be careful not to mention anyone by name—she didn’t want to rush his memories. She’d read to him for a while—The Man in the Iron Mask—until he admitted he knew the book well. He’d ended up telling her a condensed version of the story. They’d talked about movies; it bothered her a bit that he seemed to have seen every movie ever made.

It made sense that he was remembering inconsequential things like movies first. The Watcher probably focused the memory spell on preventing him from remembering real events that took place during the possession. She was starting to think the Watcher had used movies as a distraction. The Watcher could see everything everywhere, after all. So why not distract Julius with pop-culture while he was watching more important events he didn’t want his host to notice? The fact that Julius remembered all those movies concerned her, though. When his memories returned, would he recall everything the Watcher had seen while possessed, too? She was starting to think he would and that might not be a good thing.

At sunrise, the curse had taken over. She’d yelled “Watcher” and like last time, the memory curse overrode the felo-de-se hex. The seizure had lasted longer, which was another concern. By the time he’d stopped shaking, the sun had been well over the horizon. She’d taken him upstairs to bed and sometime during the day, he’d wrapped himself right around her to sleep.

She shifted uncomfortably, covering her warm cheeks with her hands. She’d lain there with all that hard muscle and warm male snuggled between her thighs and woken restless, wanting. Needing to arch up into him. To pull his face to her breast. To lick every inch of his yummy body. She wouldn’t make it through another day sharing the same bed with him without embarrassing herself.

Quit daydreaming!

Her desktop was up, waiting for her to do something. She pulled up her browser and typed in Mary Jane Kelly.

The search results told her everything she needed to know—Mary Jane Kelly was one of Jack the Ripper’s victims. She didn’t click on any of the results. Didn’t need to know more. Didn’t want to see the pictures or read the police reports. Those murders had happened after the Clearances, in 1587. After he was possessed. As had the rape. What else would he remember?

Gaia, help him.

Kat glanced up from her computer, everything was still quiet upstairs. Good. He needed the rest to heal.

She went to the news. A pencil-sketch of her mate took up most of the space on the front page. The headline read The Harbinger — $1,000,000,000 For Capture or Information Leading to Capture.

Everyone must be searching for Julius. How were Lilith and Trina managing? Were they having to send out scouts to look for him in order to keep up the ruse? Her face heated. What if someone they sent got hurt? With the Nephilim still active, it was a definite possibility.

She shook her head. Julius was innocent. He deserved a chance to prove it. She focused on the article.

---

Julius Crowley, as the suspect is now known, is wanted for creating Nephilim in collaboration with Revelations Industries. U.S. intelligence agencies, in cooperation with allied daemons, have determined Crowley’s direct collusion with Revelations Industries. The initial objective of the experimentation appears to be curing the fifteen infected U.S. soldiers of symptoms caused by one of RI’s bio-weapons. Post-treatment, the soldiers transformed into the creatures we now call Nephilim and attacked RI employees, as well as naval personnel stationed on Smyrna Island, where RI’s facilities are located. RI’s director, Dr. Edwin Moss, was found dead at the scene, as were twelve others. All other personnel are assumed to have been transformed. Within hours of the failed experiment, reports of Nephilim came in from Russia, Hungry, Greece, and later that day, in the U.S.

---

Even if everything worked out, how would they ever convince the humans he was innocent? How would they prove that he’d been possessed by a being far more powerful? Most humans hadn’t believed in daemons before last week. They were stretched to the limits of their understanding right now and terrified on top of that.

Kat pressed her hand to her roiling belly and shook her head. Vampires were empty except for the darkness keeping them alive. She shouldn’t feel sick to her stomach over this—she didn’t have a stomach anymore—but she did.

Footsteps approached and her gaze flicked up. She forced herself to smile. “I thought you were sleeping.”

He looked lost. “I feel like I should be doing something.”

“Resting. Healing. That’s all you need to worry about right now.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “What are you doing? I could help.”

She lowered the lid to her laptop. “Just a little research into the felo-de-se curse. No help needed.”

For a moment he held her gaze. Then he shook his head and went upstairs.

Kat opened her computer and scrolled to the next article.

---

---

With reports of Nephilim assaults coming in worldwide, the U.S. government, for the first time ever, has issued a “dusk ’til dawn” curfew. While this is an effort to protect U.S. citizens, billions of dollars of revenue have been lost due to the curfew. Loss of life in the U.S. has entered the hundred-thousand mark with almost a million unaccounted for. We can only assume at this time that those missing can now be counted among the Nephilim that the daemons have agreed to fight on our behalf.

The government has pulled all police and emergency personnel from nightshift operations as they are unable to effectively combat the Nephilim. Instead, daemon patrols will respond to night emergencies.

While many citizens are against the alliance, the government says at this time the daemons are the only hope we have. Senator Keen [D-WA] pointed out, “They [the daemons] don’t have to help us. That they’re offering is a testament to their spirit of goodwill toward humans.” He went on to say, “I don’t understand why the community is upset with our alliance. It’s in our best interests. The daemons have been here as long as we have, longer maybe. The fact that we now know about them—why is that a cause for concern?”

---

Gaia, help them both. She’d have to keep her phone and computer on lockdown. If he saw this before he recovered his memories . . . . Her gaze caught on the next article. “That doesn’t sound good.”

---

---

Senator Dorset [R-MS], a steadfast opponent of a human-daemon alliance, has agreed to head the oversight committee for the DDC, Department of Daemonic Control. In an interview, Dorset said, “I will do everything in my power to ensure federal funds are not squandered within the new department.” He’s also proposed an Internal Review Agency specific to the DDC, headed by humans to make certain there are no abuses by or within the organization.

The DDC will be headquartered in Seattle, WA where the old Supreme Court building resides. Seattle’s Mayor says he “. . . believes the transition will be smooth and the DDC will become an asset to their community.” Satellite offices are being proposed in Colorado, New York, and Pennsylvania, with other cities waiting to see how the DDC fares before extending their welcome.

---

She snorted. “Smooth?”

“Did you say something?”

Julius stood at the top of the stairs.

“Mumbling to myself. That’s all.”

“You need anything?”

“Yes. I need you to rest. That includes sleeping, painting, sitting on the couch, and . . . .” And what? He couldn’t watch TV. Couldn’t read. He wouldn’t take that bandage off and really, did she want him to? “Let me finish up and I’ll read to you for a while.”

He disappeared back into the bedroom. Poor guy. He didn’t seem the type to do idle well. He must be crawling out of his skin.

He was trying not to be impatient. He really was.

Yesterday, after the meditation fiasco, Kat had played the part of a charming hostess. They’d spent the remainder of the night chatting about nothing at all. It had been pleasant. No. That wasn’t right. It would’ve been pleasant, if not for the underlying tension.

His mind had been full of what ifs and whys and his anxiety had manifested in the feeling of thousands of spiders crawling under his skin. Maybe it was the knowledge there was something awful in him. Maybe he was really, truly losing his mind. Oh, he’d smiled and done his best to be charming in return—but it wasn’t his forte. He was a fighter. A merc for hire. He always had been.

Which also weighed on his mind. Along with the spiders came increased tremors. At first he’d tried to ignore it. Then Kat had asked if he was cold—she’d noticed his hands shaking.

Who the hell would hire a merc with the shakes?

How the hell was he going to make a living? What was he going to do for the rest of eternity? He sure as shit couldn’t sit around here much longer. This wasn’t his house. Nothing here belonged to him. He was an interloper. A burden on Kat. She wouldn’t even let him do anything for her and the longer he hung around, the less time he had to clear his name. The more chance they’d get caught. The more risk she’d get hurt.

Except he couldn’t remember anything. Even if he got out of here, he didn’t know where to start asking questions, much less who to avoid. The not knowing was killing him. The fact that Kat could tell him and refused to was infuriating.

Today, he’d woken up in bed with no memory of how he’d ended up there. He must’ve had another episode when the sun had risen this morning, but she wouldn’t tell him about it. She didn’t want him to worry.

He was fucking worried. What if he hurt her one of these mornings?

She’d spent the morning “researching” on her laptop, but she wouldn’t let him see. If not for the change in her colors, he’d have assumed he was being paranoid. Those bright colors of hers had dimmed. Ripples of energy disrupted the calm, steady pulse. She was upset about whatever she was reading.

He rubbed his hand over his chest. He couldn’t blame her. The more he remembered, the more certain he became that he had no business anywhere near her. No business being in her bright, happy little house.

With nothing to do, he wandered. He sat in the living room for a while. He went upstairs and lay down. Then he wandered some more. The whole while spiders crawled under his skin. Something was inside him. Something bad.

Maybe whatever had clawed his chest? He rubbed his palm over his bicep and when that didn’t still the prickly feeling under his skin, he set his shorn nails to the task. He remembered seeing something in the dark corner of a dank basement during the meditation. He remembered it was something awful, but he couldn’t recall what.

Maybe whatever had made him hurt Mary Jane Kelly?

Or maybe Kat was correct and what he’d seen had been the embodiment of the felo-de-se curse.

Either way, he wanted it out of him.

As the flesh under the skin on his arm began to settle, his attention refocused on a spot on his belly. He rubbed. He scratched. He dug. Those fucking spiders seemed to scurry away to a new spot.

Jesus Christ, he was a mess. This . . . the spiders . . . he couldn’t decide if this was a new issue or an old one. As much as it sucked, it felt familiar. When his hands were busy rubbing and scratching, they didn’t have time to shake anymore. The only other time he stopped shaking was when he was painting. Another weakness to add to a growing list. He walked into the bedroom. Into the bathroom. And back out again. He paced around the bed and back out into the hall. What was he supposed to do for all eternity? Sit around here? Paint stupid pictures?

Fall in love with his mate? With Kat?

His lips twisted. Right. Then what? Not that such a thing would be a hardship. He didn’t think it would be difficult at all to love Kat. The thing was, a body could not survive on love alone. He started down the stairs but as soon as he saw her, he turned around and went back up.

This goddamned house was too small.

The spiders crawled up to his cheek. His hand followed. The thing was, he needed something to do. He needed something to focus on besides the mess that was supposed to be his life. He needed to find some use, a way to feel like he was bringing something to the table besides baggage and madness.

Back in the bedroom, his gaze shot to the bed. A lingering glow lit the sheets from where Kat had slept. And a fainter outline from where she’d lain when he’d cuddled with her yesterday afternoon. He closed his eyes and his memories brought to him the scent of cinnamon and aroused woman.

He was a bastard.

Sweet, sweet, butterfly. She’d tried to hide her body’s response. Not that he’d ever act on that. He knew all too well how easily a body could betray mind and spirit. Just because she’d had a physical response to him didn’t mean she wanted him.

He dragged his gaze from the bed and locked onto the faint spectral glow coming from one of the drawers in the dresser. He went to the dresser, glanced over his shoulder to make sure he was alone, and opened it.

There was a book inside. The Devil’s Bible. This was the book Kat had told him about. The one her mother had used to curse the little girl. He picked the creepy-ass thing up. It was almost a foot long by about eight inches across. The old, worn black leather had images burned into the cover—pentacles and horned creatures. Thick metal clasps held the book closed and the pages inside had rough edges as if they had been added individually. As he put the book back the clasps popped open.

Shit. How the hell had that happened? He tried to put the clasps back together, but there was nothing for them to hold onto. Great. He’d broken it.

Again, he glanced over his shoulder. He set the book on the dresser and dug his nails into his side where the spiders had congregated under his skin.

The handwritten pages inside were faded from age and use. Each one had pictures or charts alongside the script. Images of creatures he’d never seen. Charts of poisons and curses. He should be appalled that his mate had such a book. Then again, he wasn’t a saint himself and the book seemed to like him.

It liked him?

He slammed the thing shut and stuffed it back into the drawer, unable to leave the bedroom quick enough. He went downstairs, milled around in the dining room, taking peeks at Kat. Whatever “research” she was doing had left her bright colors muddy.

“Everything okay, butterfly?”

“Yeah.” She cleared her throat. “Fine.”

Bullshit. He walked into the living room. “Thought we were supposed to trust each other.”

She lowered the lid to her laptop.

“This has nothing to do with trust, Jules. We can’t force your memories, you might forget everything permanently and then we’d really be in trouble. They’ll come. In time. And when they do—”

“When they do, I’ll find out what I’ve done that’s so bad.” He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, trying to subdue the crawling sensation.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not your—”

“Fault.” He nodded. “Got it.” Until then, she was alone in whatever knowledge had made her colors go wonky. He went into the kitchen. Flipped on the light. Winced and turned it off again.

In the other room, Kat’s fingers tapped away at the keypad.

He stood in the middle of the room, staring at the daisies painted on the cabinets. Same as that first day, the sense that he didn’t belong here stole over him. He’d had the thought that his presence would taint this place and it had.

A sharp pain drew him out of his musings and he glanced down. Shit. He’d been scratching at his arm and had broken the skin. For a moment, the spiders settled and a small dot of blood welled on the scratch.

Christ, it’d been at least four days since he’d fed. That little dot of blood shouldn’t be there this long after . . . not unless he’d gorged.

He pressed his hand over the spot, hiding it, and pushed the thought away, focusing again on his surroundings. He’d woken up here, in this room. Why here? Why had he been covered in blood? Is that why he’d been cursed?

Maybe if he went through the motions of his first morning here, something would click. He paced the length of the kitchen. Opening the drawer with the towels and closing it. He paced. Opened another drawer. And another. Eventually he came to the drawer with the knives. The big one, the one he’d taken that morning, wasn’t there. He picked up a small paring knife—he didn’t want to give Kat a scare should she walk in—and he walked to the back door.

Nothing. At least, nothing more than he remembered before. Those invisible spiders were on the move again, racing under his skin. He tugged at his clothes. Rubbed the heel of his hand on a particularly bad spot.

Jesus, he was useless.

It was that thing from the meditation. The thing hiding in his mind. It was inside him, taking away his control. Making him forget. Making him do things he didn’t want to do. Was that why he hadn’t fought off those men in the prison?

The vision that filled his mind had his stomach churning again.

Whatever the thing inside him was, he wanted it out. Fuck waiting for the curse to wear off. He pressed the knife to his side. Immediately, his mind cleared, focusing anew on the pain.

Yes. His mind quieted. The spiders retreated. For a blessed moment his muscles relaxed and he leaned back against the counter, letting out a sigh. Better. The pain was bearable—everything else, not so much.

“What are you doing?”

He jumped, dropping the hem of his shirt. Shit. This looked bad. He put the knife in the sink, trying to ignore the heat in his cheeks. “Nothing.”