“Oh, Jesus Christ on Sunday.”

Julius had the mother of all headaches. Not that he minded. Anything was better than the nightmare.

In the dream, he had murdered everyone who came too close. He hadn’t even finished off one victim before moving to the next, leaving the wounded behind to be picked off by one of his monstrous cohorts or to go through transformation on their own.

It had only been a dream and yet he still smelled their blood. Felt the warm, sticky liquid cooling and congealing on his skin, stiffening his clothes. A shiver raced up his spine. What the hell had caused such a violent dream?

He was clean and warm, tucked into a soft bed with sweet-scented sheets. He raised his hands to his temples and froze. Something was wrapped around his face.

Not the goddamn hood.

He grabbed at the material. Clawed his face until he got it off. He sat up. Opened his eyes and quickly wished he hadn’t.

“Ah, fuck.” Pain shot through his skull when his eyelids moved. Bent him over with its intensity.

He had no sight.

Even if the lights were out, he should be able to see—he was a vampire, for Christ’s sake.

His breathing kicked up a notch as he searched his memories for an answer. The only thing he recalled was the dream:

He’d been in the middle of a battle where daemons fought horrible creatures—the same as those that’d helped him kill humans earlier. Something had plucked him off the ground and flung him through the air.

When he landed he was no longer amid the battle, but in a house. Disoriented, but fine. The smell of ash and blood lingered. He looked at himself to check for injuries. He was covered in blood, his skin and clothing caked with dark splotches of the stuff.

He shifted on the bed. Struggled to make sense out of the dream. It was a dream, wasn’t it? Uncertainty ate at him.

He hung his head and clutched fists of hair in his hands. There had been a voice. A deep voice demanding he destroy himself.

And a knife. How could he forget the sharp point disappearing as it neared his iris?

Even now, he didn’t recall making a conscious decision to follow the insistent voice, but he must have. What other reason explained his blindness?

He drew in a deep, shuddering breath. If half that dream was real, there must be a contract out on him. The mass killing of humans had been outlawed centuries ago.

Guardians would come for him. Maybe one already had. A Guardian with a mesmerist talent, perhaps? He could’ve mesmerized him and left him for ash.

Except someone must have found him. Helped him. He was clean and tended. He must be safe for the moment.

Safe. The word sounded so foreign in his mind, struck such longing in him, he paused.

He didn’t remember anything else. There was nothing, no images, no snippets of conversation, nothing but a void where his memories should be and a sickening dread weighing heavy in his mind—as if he’d done something awful and had gotten caught.

First rule of survival, boss. Don’t stay in one place too long.

Yeah, he had to get out of here. The best way to repay his mysterious benefactor would be to leave before the voice came back and before the Guardians found him. They would give no quarter, not to him and not to anyone who helped him.

He flung aside the covers and eased his legs over the edge of the bed. Cool air raised gooseflesh on his skin. Well, hell, he was bare-assed naked.

Clothes. He needed clothes.

He stood, holding one arm out to the side and one in front of him to alert him to obstacles in his path. Next to the bed there was a nightstand, and on it a box and a lamp . . . . Shit!

The lamp shattered on the floor and he froze. Listened, holding his breath.

No footsteps approached. No cry of alarm rang out.

Continuing on, he came to an open area, then a dresser. He sighed when his fingers met a small pile of clothing. Some kind of heavy cloth. Silky. Elastic waist. Basketball shorts! Not his first choice, but hell, at least his cock wouldn’t be waving in the wind.

He pulled on the shorts, the task more difficult than expected without the use of his eyes. He fingered around for the tag to indicate front and back and tried to keep his balance while slipping them on. They fit. Feeling around the dresser again, he found nothing else. He tried the drawers. The clothes in the first drawer were too damn small to squeeze his shoulders into. The second one too. He’d been rescued by a fucking Hobbit.

In the next drawer, he thrust his hands into a cloud of soft material.

He frowned. Hooked a scrap of something on his finger and pulled it from the rest. Elastic. Lace. Satin. Shit. Not a Hobbit, a woman. He rubbed the shorts he’d put on as if he could tell by touch if they were pink or black.

Hobbit? Basketball? Yes, he recalled the game played with an orange and black ball. He remembered Middle Earth, the White and Grey wizards. He remembered . . . .

Nothing else. What was wrong with him?

Abandoning his quest for a shirt in favor of the possibility of shoes, he knelt, skimming a hand across the floor and came up with a pair of beaded sandals half the size of his foot.

At least he wasn’t bare-assed.

Warm air pushed across the hardwoods. He crawled across the floor, following the air flow to a door. The knob turned with ease. The door opened. Somehow, he hadn’t expected it to—thought he might be a prisoner.

With one hand on the wall, he eased down the hall, trying to quiet his breathing as he listened. Maybe he was alone and getting out of here would be a cake-walk. Hope lit a fire under his ass and he increased his pace.

There was another door on his right, this one cracked open. Tiny little hearts thrummed away. Animals. Several of them, but no humans.

He moved on. There was a wall in front of him, so he turned. His hand glided against the flat, rough texture of wall paper, his bare feet padded along hardwood flooring until the floor disappeared and he fell ass over tit.

He tumbled down the stairs in a fit of curses, landing in a heap at the bottom. For a moment, he lay still, his head at an awkward angle, throbbing, and took inventory of his limbs as everything around him spun. His eyes ached as if they’d swollen to ten times their normal size, despite the fact he was pretty sure they weren’t there at all.

Moaning, he stretched the soreness away and waited for his equilibrium to return. His head felt fit to split itself in half but urgency pushed him to keep going. This time he was more cautious. He slid on his ass in case there were more stairs. Sure enough, he sat on a landing. He made his way toddler-style—scooting on his ass—he sure as shit wasn’t going to risk standing until he reached the ground.

At the bottom, he followed another wall, took a couple steps, and bumped into something else. What the hell, did he wake up in an obstacle course? He reached out to steady it, and for a moment, thought he’d bumped into a woman draped in a silk robe. With no head? No, it was an old sewing mannequin like the one Katherine used to have.

Katherine. Yes, he remembered Katherine the Great. James had introduced them and he’d fallen hard and fast in lust with her. But Katherine was dead. She . . . .

He couldn’t remember.

He walked around the mannequin and stubbed his toe on another object—a chair. Growling, he kept going, replacing his hand on the wall until he located another closed door.

This one wasn’t smooth like the others, but carved with layered rectangles, suggesting a main entrance. The knob turned in his hand, but he hesitated.

What if the sun was up?

When he cracked the door and stuck his hand in the slot, a cold, sharp breeze brushed his skin. He opened it wider. Light rain pattered against the roof. The wind ruffled his hair and his skin broke out in gooseflesh, making him a little less appreciative of the shorts he’d found. Something creaked rhythmically to his right.

Taking a tentative step outside, he paused, the frigid slats beneath his feet making him reevaluate the situation. He didn’t have a full set of clothes. Or a weapon. He couldn’t see. Hell, didn’t even know what time it was. For all his bravado, he was standing at the edge of a yawning abyss with unknown, unseen obstacles littering his path, all compelling reasons to stay put, but doing so would put whoever helped him in danger. Staying would make him easier to find.

You’re better off alone, boss.

To his left, the creaking stopped. “You’re up.”

Even though the woman had spoken softly, he almost crawled out of his own skin. He curled his hand around the door jamb and nodded. Unsure if this was friend or foe, he fisted his other hand as soft footsteps approached.

The scent of cinnamon rode in on his next breath. Calmed him the way familiar things do. The scent, her voice—he recognized both and yet couldn’t place them.

“Your eyes.”

He felt her hand move—the disturbance in the air—or maybe her clothes had scraped together. He lifted his own arm and grabbed her wrist.

She gasped. Tried to pull away.

He tightened his hold. “Who are you?”

“A friend.”

He laughed. 

“What’s funny?”

“I’ve got no friends, sweetheart.” He shook his head at the absurdity of her statement, then, wondered at his certainty. In truth, he didn’t remember if he had friends or not. “Who else is here?”

“No one.”

Her wrists were small, the fragility of the tiny bones housed beneath her skin obvious within his tight grasp, and best he could tell the top of her head didn’t even clear his shoulders. There was no way in hell she’d carried him upstairs.

He was about to call bullshit when a low, static buzz distracted him. He tilted his head to the side. “What’s humming?”

“A protection seal. The spell runs the perimeter of the house at the bottom of the porch.”

He frowned. The seal would make it impossible for him to leave. “So, I am a prisoner.”

“You can look at it that way, if you want. I’ll not let you leave until I’ve healed you.”

“You’re a witch.” Jesus, he’d have no chance against a witch, blind as he was. He let his grip slacken, knowing it was only by her good graces that she allowed him to hold her such.

“Let me see.” The woman’s fingers brushed his temples, probing around his eyes.

While her touch didn’t hurt, it did unsettle him. He couldn’t quite decide if that unfamiliar sensation was pleasure or pain or something else.

“Almost there, I think. You’re healing well, but you’ve a way to go yet. You need to rest. You shouldn’t be out here in the cold with nothing but those shorts.”

Her palms smoothed down his cheeks before leaving his face altogether. His headache departed with her hands.

She was good. Powerful.

He had to get out of here. “I need to head out.”

“Where do half-dressed, blind vampires go with nothing but a few minutes of night left?”

Hell, he was stuck.

He was blind, didn’t know where he was, nor did he remember much of anything. His instincts screamed at him to run but he stood no chance against the sun. Or a protection seal. Or even a witch.

He was at this woman’s mercy.

Another strange sound emerged—low, flat, and staccato. A quack? Something cool and flat pressed against the top of his bare foot.

Instinctively, he looked down, despite being unable to see. “What is that? A . . . a . . . duck?”

The creature nuzzled his leg, friendly enough until it got hold of a bit of leg hair. He stepped back. “What the hell?”

The woman laughed. A husky, wonderful sound that made his insides tighten in a whole new way. “Lady nuzzled you. Tramp’s the one who bites.”

“There’s two?”

“Mm, Tramp is mute. You won’t hear him coming until it’s too late.”

He looked up, wanting to see her expression, but he couldn’t. Was she serious? “He’s aggressive?” How much damage could a duck do?

“No, not usually.” Her tone was thoughtful. “He seems jealous of the attention his mate paid you. She likes you.”

He grunted at the absurdity of her statement. “Good to know I can still make an impression with the ladies.”

She rewarded his quip with another of her enticing laughs. “Come on, Julius, let’s get you back inside where it’s warm.”

“I like it out here.” He cringed. Never show them how to hurt you, boss.

“It’s almost dawn.” Her voice gentle, she stroked her palm down his bare arm, leaving a warm trail in its wake. “We can sit out here tonight, if you like. I ordered you some clothes. They should be delivered today.”

He shrugged as if he didn’t care.

The woman laced her arm with his and entwined their fingers. The hair lifted on his arms and tingles erupted under his skin. As they walked, she pointed their joined arms in the direction they strolled, murmuring advisories about obstacles they passed. He hunched over to better hear her soft-spoken words. Concentrated more on her silken hand in his than the direction they moved.

“Are you thirsty?”

He raised an eyebrow despite the pain, hoping to make her laugh again. “You offering?”

That joyous sound bubbled out of her again chasing away the silence. And, for the first time, he noticed she didn’t have a heartbeat—she was vampire, like him. Now he understood why she didn’t answer his question earlier—she wasn’t a witch. How could she be?

“I’m offering you fine, vintage, bagged blood.”

He couldn’t help but grin a little over the haughty way she spoke, as if she were a snooty concierge. “No, thanks. I’m full.”

The light humor of the moment chilled. This woman, whoever and whatever she was, must know who he was and what he’d done. Hadn’t she even used his name earlier?