Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

EPILOGUE

Teaser chapter

Praise for Drawn into Darkness

“Lachlan MacGregor looks like a rather hunky priest, but the 400-year-old undead hero of McCleave’s entertaining paranormal romance debut is actually serving penance by gathering souls destined for Heaven, saving them from demons.... Readers will hope for sequels in which Emily grows up to be as feisty as Rachel and as powerful as Lachlan.”

—Publishers Weekly

“This is a fabulously entertaining tale of demons, angels, and beings in between. The world building is unique and detailed, drawing the reader into an age-old battle between good and evil. The next installment will be eagerly anticipated.”

—Romantic Times

“Fast-paced, dangerously sexy, and full of fun! Annette McCleave has created a world where good and evil fight for the possession of human souls, and love is found despite seemingly unbeatable odds. Drawn into Darkness will keep you turning pages and anxious for more!”

—USA Today bestselling author Kathryn Smith

“Deliciously dark and spellbinding! Annette McCleave weaves magic so powerful, you’ll believe in immortals. Drawn into Darkness is sexy, fast-paced, and intense. Readers be warned—the Soul Gatherers sizzle on the page.”

—Allie Mackay

“A phenomenal debut! A refreshingly unique and vividly realized world with dark dangers and richly drawn characters. I loved every word. McCleave more than delivers!”

—National bestselling author Sylvia Day

“Her intriguing blend of dark fantasy and romance has created an engrossing story that keeps the reader turning pages.”

—Katherine Kerr

ALSO BY ANNETTE McCLEAVE

Drawn into Darkness

SIGNET ECLIPSE
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,
Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2,
Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124,
Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,
New Delhi - 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632,
New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,
Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, May 2010

Copyright © Annette McCleave, 2010

eISBN: 9781101433492

All rights reserved

SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

http://us.penguingroup.com

To Dad,
who taught me to love the written word

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book wouldn’t have been possible without the wonderful support of my editor, Kerry Donovan, and the entire team at NAL. I must also thank my agent, Laurie McLean, for her spot-on advice in shaping the character of Lena Sharpe.

Over the past two years, I’ve been privileged to be part of a talented group of writers who, like me, were finalists in RWA’s 2008 Golden Heart contest. The spirited enthusiasm of this group—known as the Pixie Chicks—has brightened my life in unimaginable ways, and I owe them a huge debt of gratitude. Pixies rule!

My family and friends, who’ve been there for me day in and day out, continue to amaze me with their generosity, praise, and flagrant hand selling. Thank you, one and all.

1

No one expects Saks Fifth Avenue to blow up under their feet.

Yet, as Brian Webster weighed the pros of a blue-on-blue-striped Gucci versus a classic white Zegna dress shirt, the famous store did exactly that. With very little warning, a low boom rose through the carpeted floor, vibrating his shoes and rattling the windows. Before he could leap, the chilling shriek of bending metal accompanied a four-inch drop in the floor.

Only his Soul Gatherer reflexes kept him upright.

Instantly, panicked screams, warbling alarms, and heavy crashes of crumbling infrastructure replaced the moneyed hush of the posh emporium. An etched-glass chandelier crashed to the ground, strafing two fallen customers with shattered remnants. Several brass-and-wood displays toppled, knocking a suit-clad salesman to the ground.

A thin tendril of smoke and the smell of burned matches curled up from a gaping hole in the floor, but it was the oily aftertaste of charcoal that connected all the dots for him. With his pulse surging, Brian tossed the shirts onto a mahogany table now littered with glass and raced for the elevators. That blend of odors was all too familiar.

Brimstone.

Somewhere below him, a demon had popped in from hell.

At the elevator lobby, the scene was a mess. The marble flooring had shifted like tectonic plates. Dust and fragmented glass coated every surface. People hugged the walls, dazed or crying, a few of them praying. Brian paused. The creature wreaking havoc on the floors below needed to be stopped—no doubt about that. But one of the elevator cars, jarred by the explosion, had slid several feet with the doors still open. Three women and a toddler screamed for help from its depths, terrified they would plummet to the ground floor.

And there was no way to be sure they wouldn’t.

A very large man in a yellow golf shirt bravely lay on his stomach, reaching his plump arm into the gap between the floor and the top of the car. Choosing lives he could see over those he could not, Brian dove to the uneven floor beside him.

“Come on, ladies,” he coaxed urgently. “Let’s get you out of there.”

Even as he spoke, another explosion shuddered through the building, heaving the floor beneath their bellies and bringing ceiling tiles down on their heads. The elevator gave a deep metallic sigh and scraped a few inches lower, sparks flying. The women’s screams rose another octave, and the man beside him jerked. To give the guy credit, though, he didn’t pull away.

Two of the trapped women, spurred by the realization that they were about to die, latched onto their arms. Brian easily tugged his elderly victim clear of the car, then helped his corescuer free the other. Only the woman with the child remained inside. Between the terror wringing their faces and the constant streams of tears, he doubted they could see straight.

“Give him the baby,” Brian told the frantic woman, holding her watery gaze. “You take my hand.”

She responded well to his firm voice. Crossing the car with hesitant steps, she handed off her young son. Once the boy was safe, however, everything seemed to overwhelm her. Shock took hold. Her arms and legs trembled violently and her breathing became labored. She grabbed at his hand several times, but fell back into the car.

The elevator car shuddered with every attempt.

Brian hooked a foot around a heavy potted palm. Leaning in farther, he wrapped an arm around the frightened woman’s waist. Her shirt was damp with cold sweat, and the shudders racking her body echoed through his own. As another grind of metal presaged disaster, he clenched his stomach muscles, pulled up sharply, and hauled her out. Trading her tearful words of gratitude for a quick hug, he gently guided the woman toward her son, who clutched his savior’s shirt with balled fists.

“Head for the opposite side of the building,” he advised his fellow rescuer. “Get everyone out, quick as you can.”

Taking a deep breath to prepare for what lay ahead, he ran for the red EXIT light.

In the dim stairwell, he pulled his sword out from under his suit jacket. Freed of its mystical scabbard, the fifteenth-century Oakeshott replica became visible, but witnesses were the least of his worries. A solitary explosion would have meant he was dealing with a havoc demon. But a havoc demon broke through the barrier into this realm only to cause random accidents, and it had just moments to execute its sorry-assed deed before it was snuffed out like a spark of hellfire. It didn’t have the juice to hit a joint twice.

This was something else.

He murmured a quick shield spell and then slowly descended to the fifth-floor landing. His feet crunched on the debris littering the stairs—chunks of concrete, crumbled mortar, a fallen sign, and a thick layer of gray dust. Every step echoed eerily against the walls and eliminated all hope of a stealthy approach. Not that covertness mattered to the victim sprawled on the landing. He was beyond help.

Brian scanned the man’s lifeless figure, taking in the scorched black suit and the rose quartz rosary entwined in his burned fingers. A cold sense of dread settled in his belly. He knew without turning the body over who it was. Father O’Shaunessy. The man he’d arranged to meet here in the store in less than an hour.

This was no random demon attack.

His gaze traveled outward, over the numerous scuffle marks in the dust to the gray-painted cinder-block walls, where a series of large scorches marked the pitted concrete. A brutal battle had been waged here with bolts of supernatural energy pitched by both sides, every returned blast a valiant attempt by the priest to defend himself and ...

Brian frowned. Not all the dark stains were soot. There was blood, too. A lot of it.

Yet O’Shaunessy’s body showed no sign of an open injury, only the searing wounds consistent with fending off firebombs. Had someone else been here? Was someone left alive?

Brian quickly put a hand to the priest’s throat. Soothing warmth flowed into his fingertips, fluttered up his arm, and wrapped around his heart—the telltale transition of a soul destined for heaven.

Another explosion hit the building. The walls of the stairwell vibrated, and mortar dust and a piece of concrete the size of a bread loaf dislodged from somewhere above, smashing to the ground a half inch from his toes. Screams floated up from the floors below and curled in his gut. Whether the priest had been alone was irrelevant. Whatever was down there needed to be destroyed.

Leaping over the metal handrail, he dropped four floors in a blur. He landed at the bottom in an easy crouch, then sprang to his feet.

Sword in hand, he strode through the smoke and into the shattered ruin that had once been Ladies Cosmetics. His stomach knotted. The first floor tended to be one of the busiest spots in the store, filled with gawking tourists and trend-worshiping teens. Tonight was no exception. At least two dozen bodies lay strewn about like crumpled garbage, dampened by a barely functioning sprinkler system. Men, women, and ... at least one child. Several alive, some not.

Brian tore his gaze away from the human devastation, searching the hazy interior for the demon. Dealing with the painful toll would have to wait. Right now, stopping the carnage took priority.

A thin wail of sirens rose and fell in the distance, growing steadily closer. Reassuring, but not his focus. Filtering out emergency vehicles, electric crackles, and low moans of the injured, he homed in on the sounds that haunted a Soul Gatherer’s nightmares: the raspy murmur of hellish incantations and the whoosh of firebombs in the air.

And he found the bastard.

Left. About a hundred yards through the haze.

Most of Satan’s henchies wore a glamour to disguise their presence among humans. But not this one. It was a mottled red-and-gray colossus, twice Brian’s height and probably three times his weight, horns and talons everywhere. A long, ooze-dripping tail whipped back and forth, writhing with a life of its own. As demons went, it was easily the most imposing creature Brian had ever run across. But he dared not think about that.

Giving the flexible appendage a wide berth, he advanced through the rubble, visualizing his attack. The monstrosity conveniently had its back to him, so he leapt atop the remnants of a display counter and dove at the hulking figure from behind. His target was the heavily muscled neck. The Oakeshott was a very fast blade and the element of surprise would work in his favor.

Unfortunately, the remaining glass in the display chose that moment to fall to the floor, smashing on the tiles with a wince-worthy crescendo.

The demon pivoted just as the arc of Brian’s swing gained full momentum. Red eyes glaring, it raised a platter-sized palm, muttered a single word, and blasted Brian in the chest with a fat glob of red-hot lava. The missile sent him flying, and he landed on a display case in a splash of splintered wood and shattered glass. Worse, the lava bomb ate right through his shield, gnawed through his Jay Kos jacket, and drilled deep into muscle. Breathing became a serious chore.

What was this thing?

He surged to his feet, conjured a fresh shield, and brandished his sword, prepared to fend off another fireball. But nothing came at him. The behemoth demon had turned away, wading through the rubble toward the Fiftieth Street doors. It wasn’t interested in him, couldn’t care less about the angry Soul Gatherer determined to send its ass back to hell.

And that made Brian’s heart skip a beat. What demon could resist an opportunity to steal a soul now that it was collected and available for the taking? Especially when the odds appeared to be in its favor? If it wasn’t interested in snatching the priest’s soul, what was it interested in?

He peered through the smoke, past the demon’s massive frame, and frowned. The surprisingly intact door to the outside world was swinging shut. Someone had just left the building. Judging by the smear of bright red blood on the glass, an injured someone. Perhaps the someone from the stairwell.

Not pausing to sort out the whys, Brian put on a burst of speed. He dashed around the demon, narrowly dodged a vicious stab of its tail, and pushed through the door into the late May evening. The sun was setting, leaving thin ribbons of tawny light falling between buildings. The traffic on the busy street had slowed to a crawl—heads popped out of car windows; wide eyes locked on the wafting smoke several floors above.

Brian scanned the gawking bystanders, looking for his wounded escapee.

There. Across the street, a bloodstained T-shirt on a figure limping up the stairs of St. Pat’s Cathedral.

The door at his back exploded in a thick moil of fire and greasy black smoke, pitching Brian and a million shards of glass and metal halfway across the street. He rolled over the hood of a Yellow Cab, bounced to his feet, and raced for the church entrance. New screams rose into the air and then were abruptly silenced as the demon swept aside a parked car and seared everything within a fifty-foot radius with a mouthful of furnace-hot heat. Brian shoved the ugly thought of fried bodies to the back of his mind and kept running. The demon never varied its pace, but every step gained it fifteen feet. It wouldn’t be far behind him.

Brian’s eyes adjusted instantly to the dim interior of the church.

The last afternoon Mass was over, but a few map-carrying tourists lingered in the pews and in the gift shop. Spotting his fugitive was easy. A bone-thin blond girl, no more than twenty, dragged a stiff leg up the nave toward the altar, one arm hanging by her side, the other clutched to her chest. It was a testament to the awe-inspiring beauty of the cathedral’s arches that no one noticed the blood trail she left behind on the marble floor.

Brian leapt over two rows of pews and sprinted.

He reached his target just as the demon hit the church with a masonry-crushing blast. The girl was on the verge of collapse. Deep cuts laced her arms and neck. The front of her threadbare Old Navy T-shirt was soaked with blood, and her lips were chalky white.

Each passing minute was killing her.

Behind him, the heavy bronze doors exploded inward, sailing twenty feet before landing on pews that buckled under the weight. The tourists ran blindly for the main entrance, far less interested in what had caused the explosion than in escaping the mayhem. Not bothering with introductions, Brian scooped the girl up in one arm and dashed for the Forty-ninth Street door.

She didn’t make things easy. Despite her weakened state, the girl flailed.

“No,” she said as she pummeled him with her fist. “I can’t leave.”

“Honey, if we don’t leave, we’re going to die,” he told her grimly, his fingers struggling to keep their hold on her blood-slicked skin.

“Let me go.”

A fireball hit him in the lower back—a teeth-rattling jolt of energy that disintegrated his new shield as easily as the last. He stumbled, but kept running. Conjuring up another shield, he leapt left, over a pew and behind a fluted column. Just in time. The wrought-iron chandelier above his last position crashed to the floor, sending a spray of fine glass and chipped tile in all directions.

But the dive allowed the girl to slip free of his hold. She slithered under the nearest bench and peered out at him from her dim hideout. Her face was ashen, her eyes dark and wide. And it stirred memories. Memories of another time and another desperate girl. Brian shook his head to regain his focus.

“This is a church,” she whispered. “This is sanctuary. It can’t hurt me here.”

He stared at her. Damn. She believed that shit. She had no idea that hallowed ground did little more than inflict a slow burn on a demon’s flesh.

The column protecting them took an indirect hit, cracked, and partially crumbled. There wasn’t enough time to explain how things really worked, so he reached for her again.

She flinched away.

“Sweetheart, please,” he begged. The marble floor trembled under the advancing steps of the demon. “This whole place is about to fall around our ears.”

But she withdrew into the shadows and shook her head, refusing to be swayed.

Which left him with only one option: his original choice—fight.

He closed his eyes, finding and focusing on the throb of power that lay deep in his chest. Drawing hard on the cool white energy, he shoved off the floor. His muscular legs flexed with practiced ease and he flipped over ten pews, landing in the nave with his sword ready for action. The demon again ignored him, maintaining its relentless pursuit of the girl.

Perfect.

Brian ducked under the creature’s long, whipping tail and went for its Achilles’ tendons.

Were they still called that if the creature had cloven hooves?

The mystical enhancements on his blade cut through the demon’s shield, and he sliced deep. Unfortunately, the demon’s thick, scaly hide served its purpose and his swing fell short of success, unable to sever the tendons completely.

The demon issued an angry roar that blew out every stained-glass window in the cathedral. It spun around, splintering a dozen pews into matchsticks with its tail, and released a gust of thousand-degree breath in Brian’s direction. Benches all around him licked into a fiery blaze, then disintegrated into ash. But Brian’s shield survived the attack, and so did he. Dripping with sweat but still vigorously alive, he rushed the demon again, leaping high and scoring two slices—one across the beast’s massive chest and the other across its biceps.

Before he could regroup and deal another blow, however, the demon’s tail slipped around his waist. With anaconda strength, it flicked him aside, tossing him a hundred feet with incredible ease. Brian smacked into a wall, the air in his lungs expelling in a sharp huff. He slid to the floor, dazed, an easy target for the huge chunk of masonry the demon tore from a wall and flung atop him. His shield repelled the worst of the blow, but Brian’s sternum took the rest, cracking and bruising. He heaved to his feet, sucking in a pinched breath.

Shunting his misery aside, burying his pain beneath a layer of fierce resolve, he sped back toward the demon. He zigzagged around several pillars to present a more erratic target, but the demon managed to lock onto him in spite of his defensive maneuvers. Molten lava hit him at the hip, tore through his shield as if it were made of tissue paper, and burrowed into his skin. Brian staggered.

A dozen hot, hungry worms chewed through his flesh, right to the bone. Every nerve ending howled. Black spots crowded his vision—a vain attempt by his mind to shut out the pain. Nausea clawed at his belly, and his arms and legs turned to rubber. He might well have fallen to his knees were it not for the feeble words that filtered through his agony-induced haze.

“Hail Mary ... full of grace ...”

The girl was praying, using her last breaths to beg forgiveness for her sins.

Damn it. No. He couldn’t let her die here, not like this. There hadn’t been a mark on her cheek, no sign that she was destined to die today. And she was just a kid, barely a woman. She was a lot like—too much like—Melanie. He’d screwed up with his sister, but this girl he could help. All he had to do was keep his shit together.

Brian reached deeper, found a last reserve of strength, and forced his legs to move. This fucking demon had to go down. Now.

He pumped his legs again and again, each step firmer than the last, each step taking him closer to his quarry. Another fireball hit him, but he kept going, the pain an ever-tightening cinch around his chest and yet, somehow, hollow and distant. As if it tore through the guts of someone else. Adjusting his hold on the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword, he envisioned his attack, right through to a successful conclusion.

Then he leapt.

Using the creature’s flexed knee for leverage, he launched himself upward, ducking around its massive arm, swinging at the bulging cords of its neck. His Oakeshott-style blade, forged by a very talented mage, had gained new energy from the drips of demon gore sliding down its length. It hummed with supernatural strength, and the glowing blue edge broke through the demon’s shield with reassuring ease. Out of the corner of his eye, Brian saw the angry, undulating tail lash in his direction, but his attention remained locked on his target—the base of the neck, where a fat jugular vein pulsed with undead life.

The cutting edge of the sword bit deep into the demon’s flesh, carving through hide and sinew and nerves alike. Thick, crimson blood sprayed everywhere. Success. Sort of. The demon’s tail whipped around his torso, circling. It slithered all the way up to his shoulder and then ... squeezed. Ribs, collarbone, shoulder blade—a dozen bones snapped under the relentless choking, the sound a sickening series of crunches. Only when a death-throes shudder racked the demon from head to toe did the pressure ease. Thrashing wildly, the tail flung Brian into the air.

The demon lurched, fell to its knees, and collapsed face-first in the rubble.

Brian only vaguely noted the fall. Agony had him firmly in its grip. He’d ended his flight thirty pews to the left, atop his mangled shoulder. His immortal body, aware that the battle was over, was threatening to shut down for repair, but he fought the siren call of blackout. The job wasn’t done. He had to reach the girl.

Bile in his mouth, vision distorted by a red film, he pushed unsteadily to his feet.

Every part of his pulverized body howled. His blood pounded in protest, filling his ears with an angry rush. Forcing the pain to recede, he dragged himself across the floor, where he found her still huddled beneath a pew near the doors. Pale and bloodless. Her eyes were closed, her prayers silenced. He knew long before he grasped her slender hand that she was dead; he just didn’t want to believe.

Gently, he tugged her out of her cave and into his arms. The movement jarred his ravaged shoulder, sending an agonizing stab in the direction of his lungs, but the pain felt right and just. He let his chin sink to his chest. He’d failed her.

The sudden crackle of electricity didn’t rouse him. Nor did the pop of his ears, or the light scent of lemons. His body clamored for sleep, and he almost gave in to the demand.

“I came as soon as I heard her prayer,” a quiet male voice said. “But I see I’m too late.”

Fueled by a wave of bitter frustration, Brian lifted his head to glare at the angel—a lean, casually dressed young man with a cascade of light brown curls falling to his shoulders. For someone so pretty, he exuded a robust intensity. “You guys are always too late.”

The angel crouched beside him. “Not true. I’ve battled my share of demons.”

“Since when? I thought psychopomps only collected souls?”

A half smile curved the angel’s lips. “I’m no psycho-pomp. My name is Uriel.”

Brian frowned. “As in Archangel Uriel?”

His visitor nodded offhandedly, as if archangels dropped in on Soul Gatherers every day—a casual attitude matched by his baggy blue jeans and skater-boy sneakers. His gaze wandered to the fallen demon.

“Congratulations on your victory. It couldn’t have been easy.”

Yeah, Brian was reminded of how not easy it had been every time he took a breath. His body would heal with immortal speed, but he was still in for several hours of wicked pain. “What is that thing? Bastard ate through my shield with one blow.”

Uriel stood. “A martial demon. You’re lucky to still be around. Only a handful of Gatherers have survived an encounter with one.”

Brian blinked. Rumor had it his buddy MacGregor had once battled and defeated two martial demons single-handedly. His estimation of the guy just went up twenty points.

“I’d best get rid of our large friend,” the archangel said. “He’ll be a little difficult to explain to the authorities. When you’re ready, I’ll collect your souls.”

Brian’s gaze dropped to the limp girl in his arms and his gut knotted. Brushing a blood-crusted lock of hair away from her face, he studied the keen angles and sunken eyes of an unhappy life ended way too soon. “Sometimes I hate this damn job.”

Uriel’s voice deepened with sympathy. “We’ll take good care of her—I promise.”

Then the angel left him to his thoughts.

Brian gently laid the girl’s body out on the broken tiles. Barely weighs anything, poor kid. About to put his hand on her throat and collect her soul, he paused. A martial demon. One of Satan’s most able-bodied warriors, sent to snuff this little slip of a girl, a ninety-pound threat. How did that make any sense?

He explored her face again, taking in the big eyes and sharp cheekbones. Was she someone important? Someone powerful? The cheap clothing hanging off her starved frame said otherwise. His gaze slid to her fisted left hand. Seemed unlikely a street kid would own a keepsake the devil himself desired, but she’d clutched that hand tight, never once loosening her grip, right up to the moment of her demise.

He uncurled her fingers.

In the center of her palm lay a dull silver coin. Uneven edges, stamped with the image of some curly-haired guy, no date that he could see. It looked old.

A ripple of unease swept through him as he stared at the coin. He had the sense it was familiar, and yet he was equally convinced he’d never seen it before. Laughing at himself for being superstitious, he picked the coin up with the edge of his shirtsleeve. The back had an engraving of some kind of weird bird.

“Uriel.”

In the midst of working some heavenly magic on the demon’s body, white sparkles dripping off both hands, the angel glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?”

“This look familiar?” Brian held up the coin.

Uriel narrowed his eyes. “It’s a Tyrian shekel, once used to pay temple taxes in Jerusalem.”

“Any chance it’s what the demon was after?”

The archangel turned back to the creature’s corpse. A casual flick of long fingers, a brilliant flash of white light, and all that remained of the beast was a tidy pile of red sand. Releasing a heavy sigh, Uriel faced Brian once more. “Is there a tiny star stamped on the back?”

Brian looked closer. “Yeah.”

“Then it’s possible, yes. Peter marked all thirty coins with a star when he retrieved them from the potter.” He seemed a little disappointed that Brian didn’t immediately understand the reference. “It’s one of the silver pieces Judas received for selling out the Son of God.”

“Okay.” Ancient, not just old. And likely very valuable. “Does that make it yours?”

“No, I dare not even touch it.” Uriel raked a hand through his long curls, a crease marring his perfect brow. “The Judas coins are one of a handful of artifacts tainted by a dark evil. The villainy inherent in the coins was so great that they were divided into two separate collections only months after the Crucifixion and sent to opposite ends of the earth. Discovering one in this child’s hand is very unsettling. Seventeen of the coins were under the care of a noble Protector here in New York.”

A Protector? As in a priest, like Father O’Shaunessy? Shit. “You’re saying the coins are another Pontius Pilate Linen,” he said flatly.

“Yes.”

Brian sighed. “All right, hit me with it. The coins have their own special brand of nastiness, right? What do they do?”

“A true expert in middle-plane artifacts could provide more detail, but if I recall correctly, each coin enhances the holder’s ability to sway those around him. It happens in an unconscious manner, which the holder often interprets as luck. The power of the coins eventually corrupts the holder’s soul, inciting him to commit betrayal on a grand scale. History has also proven that the more coins held, the stronger the influence and the more rapid the decline.”

“Nice.” Brian did some quick math. “If seventeen coins were here in New York, where are the other thirteen?”

“That’s uncertain. They were lost during the fall of the Knights Templar in the fourteenth century.”

“Is it possible Satan already has them?”

“Unlikely.”

“Why?”

“Things are too calm. But if he acquired sixteen today, as we must assume he did, that will change. A wave of corruption and scandal will soon sweep the globe. Jobs will be lost, savings will be wiped out, and as the profiteering spreads, people will lose faith in their leaders to right the wrongs. They will become frightened. And frightened people do desperate and foolish things.” Uriel frowned. “Fear is Satan’s most powerful weapon. If he manages to locate the missing thirteen, the turmoil will worsen. He’ll topple governments and fling major corporations into chaos. The fear will escalate. There will be riots and possibly wars. And if he gains the last coin ... Well, I’m sure I don’t need to fill in all the details.”

An invisible weight settled on Brian’s shoulders. “So, let me see if I have this straight. This little piece of silver in my hand may be the only thing standing between the devil and a cataclysmic butt-fuck of humankind.”

The angel’s brows soared, but a glimmer of amusement shone in his eyes. “Those wouldn’t be the words I’d use, but yes. That’s the gist of it.”

“Great, thanks.”

Brian tucked the coin in his pants pocket. The minute he got back to San Jose, this damned thing was getting dumped into MacGregor’s lap. The last thing the world needed was to be relying on Brian Webster to save the day.

“Let’s finish up,” the angel urged. “We have less than a minute left before the New York City Fire Department comes charging through the door.”

Brian nodded.

His gaze dropped back to the lifeless girl. How wrong was it that he didn’t even know her name? Hell, she was the hero in all this. Maybe she understood what she was doing, and maybe she didn’t—but she gave her life to protect the coin. And no one would ever know it but him. No statue would be erected in her honor; no speech would ever credit her incredible bravery.

Damn it.

If a fragile little girl could make that kind of sacrifice, the least he could do was make sure it wasn’t for nothing. Protecting this coin meant something to her. Abandoning it to MacGregor’s care without a second thought would be a slap in the face of her devotion.

Life had kicked this poor kid in the teeth—repeatedly, by the look of her. She’d spent months, maybe years on the streets—lost, starved, and needy. And in all that time, no one had come to her rescue. No one had saved her.

Not even him.

Which meant he now had the deaths of two girls on his conscience.

Putting a hand on her pale throat, he gathered her soul.

2

A flock of sparrows whirled and spun overhead, chirping with every gambol of the capricious wind. Lena eyed the flawless blue sky from the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, her heart clenched at the blazing normalcy of the beautiful spring morning. It should be raining. Or at least cloudy. Something that acknowledged this world was a lesser place upon the passing of a young girl.

Or was God that cavalier about Amanda’s loss?

Continuing her climb, she nodded to the balding Catholic priest standing before a column at the front entrance. He smiled in return, reassuring her that no traces of tears lingered on her face. Makeup covered the purple smudges beneath her weary eyes, and a crisp white shirt and khaki slacks did an admirable job of convincing casual passersby of her serenity.

But serenity was a state she’d never enjoy again.

She paid her entrance fee, then made her way to the Egyptian collection in the Sackler Wing. The Temple of Dendur had been her choice of a meeting place. The soothing familiarity gave her strength. It was also immensely popular and busy, often welcoming busloads of children along with a steady stream of visitors to the city. In fact, a horde of uniformed schoolgirls were currently oohing and aahing over the reliefs carved into the worn sandstone walls.

Aware that the exact timing of the meeting was out of her control, she walked slowly around the exhibit, recalling the breathless excitement in her father’s voice the first time she’d heard him mention the temple. A level of interest he seldom displayed after the death of her mother, except when discussing his artifacts.

“Excuse me?”

She spun on her heel.

Standing behind her was a dark-haired man in a plaid shirt, maybe thirty-five. His arm was hooked over the shoulders of a young girl with glasses. He smiled and held out his Nikon camera. “I wonder if you’d be willing to take a picture of my daughter and me in front of the temple?”

She peered deep into his blue eyes before responding. He seemed genuine.

“I’d be happy to.”

They got into position, beamed into the camera lens, and remained pleasantly patient as she snapped a couple of photos. Family photos. Cheery mementos of happy times. Her hand trembled as she passed the camera back to him.

“Thanks,” the man said. His daughter tugged on his arm, stage-whispering a plea to go throw a coin in the huge L-shaped reflecting pool. He handed her a pocketful of change, watched her wander off for a moment, then favored Lena with another smile, this one laced with warm interest. “I really appreciate your help. It’s always hard to get shots of the two of us.”

Lena racked her brain for the right words to discourage her new admirer. Before she could speak, however, a frumpy woman with gray hair and a wooden walking cane bumped his arm. Her admirer gasped. A perfectly natural response to a sudden jarring, one that would have gone unnoticed by someone less attuned to the sound of a thrall demon passing from one host into the next.

The ancient gold amulet around her throat began to pulse, and her gaze zeroed in on his eyes again. Yes, there it was: the inky stain of evil. The demon Malumos had made his entrance.

Nausea cramped her belly.

The man’s lips curled in a replica of a smile, the warm admiration now replaced by demonic purpose. “You’re looking quite well, Ms. Sharpe. No one spying your beautiful face would ever guess that a martial demon broke almost every bone in your body two days ago.”

She said nothing.

“We’re still baffled as to why you bothered to attack him. It was a pointless gesture.”

“He was going after Amanda.”

“Of course he was. The wretched brat dared to pocket one of the coins that spilled from the Protector’s coat lining when I tore it open.” He studied her thoughtfully. “She died in spite of your efforts. All you gained her was a few extra minutes.”

“I’m aware of that.” She pivoted away. A tight swallow did nothing to ease the dryness in her throat. The reminder of her failure stabbed deeper than she thought possible. “Why did you insist on meeting?”

“You didn’t uphold your end of the bargain, my dear.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “You got what you wanted. You have the coins.”

“What we wanted? Hardly. The Covenant is very clear on the definition of acceptable presence on the middle plane, and the high level of destruction caused my lord Beelzebub no end of grief.”

“You’re the one who brought the martial demon to the party, not I.”

“What can I say? My brothers were otherwise engaged. Besides,had you kept to the plan—had you simply led the priest to his doom in the stairwell, as arranged—calling the martial up from hell wouldn’t have been necessary. Instead, you plotted with O’Shaunessy behind my back and tried to hoodwink me with fake coins. What choice did I have but to guarantee my success?”

“You had other options. Amanda was no match for a martial.”

“Are you suggesting I should have chased her myself? Please. She was a devout Anglican. I couldn’t enter her body any more than I could enter your soulless husk. My priority was defeating O’Shaunessy and collecting the bulk of the coins.”

“She was just trying to do the right thing.”

“Nonsense. She didn’t even understand the true value of the Judas coins. She simply assumed that since you tried so hard to weasel out of stealing them for us, they must be worth preserving.” He pointed to the glyphetched wall before him. “While we’re on the subject of family, did you choose this location because it reminded you of home? You must have robbed several temples similar to this one in your previous life.”

Although touching Malumos sent a shudder of revulsion through her body, she grabbed his arm and dragged him away from the crowd around the temple, closer to the edge of the reflecting pool. Fewer memories there. The demon might scoff at Amanda’s ill-fated theft, but her courage and conviction were undeniable. Somehow, she’d resisted the evil lure of the coin and stayed true to her cause. “You still haven’t explained why we’re meeting.”

“Surely it’s obvious? We want you to recover the coin Amanda stole.”

“You don’t have it?” She frowned. “But it was gone when I reached the church.”

“We believe her Soul Gatherer took it.”

“Why didn’t the martial demon pick it up?”

“He was slain.”

“Oh.” By the Gatherer? Lena stretched the fingers of her right hand as wide as they would go, releasing the tension built up there. If so, he had succeeded where she had not. Dear God. That meant if she’d been just a little stronger, she might have saved Amanda. Her chest ached. But at least her death hadn’t been pointless. The coin she’d struggled so hard to save was free of Satan’s clutches. “You should consider that coin lost. Robbing a Gatherer would be next to impossible.”

“Surely all you’d need to do is befriend the fellow?”

Get close to a Gatherer bent on redemption? What an uncomfortable thought.

“In hindsight,” Malumos added, “it’s a shame he didn’t stumble over your bleeding body in the stairwell that day. Attempting to save a beautiful woman like yourself would surely have delayed him long enough for my martial to win the day. Unfortunately, you dragged yourself out of sight before he arrived.” He shrugged. “But the past is irrelevant. What matters is the present. Beelzebub demands you bring us the rest of the coins. All of them.”

She thumbed the blue sapphires embedded in the gold amulet. The ten small but perfect stones warmed to her touch. “Wouldn’t it be faster for you to collect Duverger’s thirteen?”

“Normally, yes,” said Malumos. “But we’ve run into a little snag. The usual madness has begun to claim the wretch. He’s become a paranoid recluse, fearing betrayal at the same level as he deals it. He’s hired a bunch of religious zealots as bodyguards.”

“And since you can’t possess the devout, you can’t get to him. How unfortunate.”

“Careful, Ms. Sharpe,” he said, pinning Lena with his gaze. “You still have a great deal to lose.”

The threat settled like a hot coal in her belly. “If you dare to—”

“To what? Hurt Heather? Please. Posturing is beneath you. We know you’ll do anything to save her.”

She pressed her lips tight. It was true. Hadn’t she already proven she was willing to sell her soul to protect the girls? Empty protests were all that remained of her honor.

Malumos smiled again. “Once we have the remaining fourteen coins in our possession, we’ll set her free.”

“No deal.” Lena treated her demon-possessed companion to a confident stare. It was as fake as the coins she and O’Shaunessy had tried to pawn off on the demon two days ago, but she played it to the hilt. Malumos would never leave Heather alone so long as he knew he could use her to control Lena. This simply had to work. “You can’t possibly expect me to trust you to release her. That would be insane. I can’t trust you any more than you can trust me. A direct exchange is the only workable option.”

“Unacceptable. We agreed to a direct exchange for Amanda, and look how that turned out.”

His words hit her like a physical blow. Every attempt to best Malumos thus far had failed. But she couldn’t lose hope. Not now. Heather was still alive and she still needed help. Hide your fear. Be aggressive. Lena leaned closer. “Amanda believed in God. Heather does not. You already know the power you hold over her. I’ll need three weeks to collect Duverger’s coins and then track down the last coin. We can meet in L.A. on June seventeenth.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head. “Finding the missing coin won’t take long, not with the amulet. You have until the tenth.”

“Two weeks? That’s not enough! I normally spend half that just preparing for a heist.”

“It’s all you get. Our brother Mestitio is not known for his patience. Too much time on his hands and he gets unruly. We won’t be able to guarantee Heather’s safety. Understand?”

Lena absorbed that information without blinking. “Perfectly.”

“Good.” He slowly scanned the throng of people in the room. “Cooperate and this will all end well.” His gaze halted on the sylphlike figure of his adolescent daughter, who’d wandered over to study the two colossi of Amenhotep III. He smiled. “Off you go, then. The clock is ticking. It’s time for us to play the loving daddy.”

Disgust rose in her chest like a bubble of scalding steam.

Sick, sick bastard.

“Sounds like fun,” she managed somehow. Her fingers itched to draw her Bible out of her purse, to recite the holy words written on the pages until he writhed with inescapable agony inside his claimed body. Punishing him visibly, in public, would have been so wonderfully satisfying. But such an obvious attack would only make the situation worse. Taking a deep breath, she turned and headed for the entrance. Even what she was about to do was risky. But she needed her pound of flesh. She could not let Amanda’s death go unpunished.

As she passed a group of chattering third graders, she purposely caught the eye of their chaperone and nodded.

The woman, an operative provided by Lena’s friend Kiyoko Ashida, nodded back with a faintly satisfied smile, acknowledging the go-ahead. Then she called out to her students, gathering them together in an authoritative voice.

Lena never actually saw what happened next, only heard the children move as a group toward the reflecting pool, laughing, giggling, talking. And the big splash when Malumos was accidentally jostled into the water. She definitely heard that. Some coughing and sputtering, a host of girlish apologies, and several offers to help the man up. Other than those innocuous noises, there was nothing to indicate that the thrall demon inside the dark-haired man had departed.

But the filthy wretch had gotten his ass kicked back to hell. Guaranteed. Falling into a huge pool of water blessed by a priest would do that—a blessing a colleague had been only too happy to make. It was a brief and temporary comeuppance, but Malumos would be forced to recuperate in the underworld for a while before attempting to return. That would have to be vengeance enough.

For now.

For Amanda.

Brian handed his credit card to the harried French-woman behind the car rental counter. Catching her eyes, he smiled. Several delayed arrivals had resulted in the line of customers behind him snaking twenty feet into the airport concourse, and the previous client had been anything but polite.

The rental agent offered a tremulous smile in return.

Carlos slumped against the bright green Formica counter, staring at the toes of his black combat boots. It was impossible to read the young man’s lean face behind his curtain of long dark hair, but the droop of his shoulders said plenty.

“Okay, spill,” Brian said. “What happened? She dump you?”

Carlos glanced up. “No.”

“Then what?”

The young Gatherer shoved his hands into the pockets of his floor-length black trench coat. “It’s complicated.”

“Of course it is. Life with women is always complicated.”

“Nah, it’s more than that. She says I’m different now.”

Brian arched a brow. “You mean, since Drusus ... ?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Exactly. What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Of course I’m different. Hello? I was tortured by a goddamned demon. How could I not be different? She says I need to—”

“She?” Jamie Murdoch returned from the washroom, his curly beard glistening and the tip of his long nose red from a fresh scrub. The Scottish Soul Gatherer muscled his way to the front of the line, oblivious to the irritated stares he engendered. “You’re not taking dating advice from Webster, are you, lad? Judging from the number of women I’ve seen on his arm, that’d be foolish.”

Carlos grinned.

“You know ...” Brian scrawled his signature on the rental contract the agent slid in front of him and flashed her a genuine smile of thanks. “Coming from a guy whose idea of a long-term relationship is a second date, that’s actually funny. Let’s go.”

“You had your opportunity to be team leader and you declined, Webster.” Murdoch snatched the contract out of his hands, glanced at the information, then led them out to a parked BMW X5. A thick fog shrouded the entire Cote d’Azur coastline in salty dampness, reminiscent of San Francisco. “Give me the bloody keys.”

Brian dangled them in front of the Scot’s face. “Annoying, isn’t it? The way power follows money?”

Just as the other man’s hand fisted and his arm drew back to deck him, Brian handed over the keys and slid into the SUV’s backseat.

“Has everyone boned up on the estate layout?” he asked, leaning against the leather headrest and closing his eyes. The Gatherer database held more information than a person could possibly peruse in a mortal lifetime, including floor plans and security maps. Wasn’t always a hundred percent up-to-date, but Brian had yet to meet a building he couldn’t collect a soul from, no matter how twitchy the owner.

“Yeah,” Carlos replied, playing with the stereo controls. “Getting into the house’ll be a snap. But what about the vault? Cracking safes isn’t our usual gig.”

“It’s a lock, just like any other.”

As Murdoch left the Nice airport and merged with the steady traffic on the A8, the rhythmic beat of the latest Black Eyed Peas chart-topper filled the car cabin.

Perhaps because of the vibrant music, Murdoch said very little, and Brian took the opportunity to walk through their mission in his head. The fog was thinning, but it was almost midnight and Duverger’s house backed onto a heavily wooded park, so that shouldn’t be a problem. Alarms, lights, and locks were all easy enough to deal with. The only variable he couldn’t predict was human intervention.

The car slowed and Brian sat up. Huge whitewashed villas, walled lots, and meticulous landscaping lent the darkened neighborhood a wealthy, indulgent air.

“Park there,” he said, pointing to a dirt lot under some hydro wires. “We can hoof it the rest of the way.”

The big Scot flung him an irritated glance via the rearview mirror but didn’t argue.

Keeping to the trees that lined the promenade, the three men silently approached Duverger’s estate. Even among the other jewels of the neighborhood, this mansion stood out. The lot was twice the size of most, and the house had an old-world elegance that was difficult to match. An ivy-covered cream exterior, sweeping Mediterranean archways, two swimming pools, a tennis court, and an eight-car garage.

Tough life, but someone had to live it.

“Webster, you kill the perimeter security,” Murdoch said. “Rodriguez, take care of the dog.”

The young man nodded.

“Let’s get in and out with a minimum of blather.”

They waited for a lone car—a sleek silver Maybach 62—to pass on the road, then jogged across. Brian cast a deaden primal to knock out the motion sensors, gave the thumbs-up to the others, and leapt the stone wall with an easy bound. Being a Gatherer had its advantages.

Wending through a forest of olive, pine, and oleander trees, the three men reached the slate patio. That was when things got a little weird. Just inside the shadowed woods, they stumbled across the guard dog, a big, brawny Bordeaux mastiff lying on its side. Snoring.

“Wasn’t me,” whispered Carlos. “It was already asleep.”

Not just asleep. Brian watched the steady rise and fall of the animal’s chest. Out for the count.

“Keep your eyes open,” he advised.

High-wattage floodlights dotted the grounds, creating an atmospheric display of the rectangular pool and ubiquitous potted palms. Using a focused version of the deaden spell, Brian shut down the two bulbs that lit up the path to the poolside patio doors and waved the other Gatherers onward. Several lights blazed in the upstairs rooms, but with any luck, the vault was on a lower floor.

Murdoch entered first, remarkably soft-shoed for a man of his size. When all three had slipped inside the large blue-and-white-tiled kitchen, he tossed a frown over his shoulder.

“The alarms are off.”

There were a dozen good explanations for why that might be the case, but Brian’s hackles went up. First the dog, now the alarms. If it weren’t the most unlikely coincidence in the world, he’d swear Duverger was in the process of being robbed.

“I say we stick to the plan,” he said. “Find the vault, grab the coins, and get out quick.”

“Assuming the coins are truly here,” Murdoch said.

Brian met the man’s bold gaze. The Scot had been riding his ass for months, ever since he stepped off the plane from Glasgow. The itch to deal him a physical smack-down was fierce. But better left for another day. “My inside man at Sotheby’s says they are, and my research backs him up. That was good enough for MacGregor; it should be good enough for you.”

“Coming after the coins was your idea, not his.”

“I happen to think Satan looking for two dark relics in the space of six months sounds like a ticking bomb. So sue me.”

Carlos stepped between the two bristling men. “What do I do if I run into trouble with the vault?”

“Come get me,” Brian said, ratcheting his anger down a notch.

The young Gatherer nodded and disappeared into the dark dining room.

Murdoch pointed to the other door. “This way.”

They navigated around a kitchen island hung with beaten-copper pots and crept down a wide hall that opened into the main foyer. Scenic tapestries, heavy wood furniture, and glazed pottery filled every corner of the huge house. Murdoch paused before crossing the hall to the staircase, holding up a warning hand.

The tap of shoes on tile, muted at first, grew louder. Likely someone headed to the kitchen for a late-night snack. Someone not relaxed enough to be wearing slippers or socks, which probably meant a guard.

Moments later, a suit-clad man appeared on the second-floor landing and jogged down the stairs toward them. His unbuttoned jacket provided a glimpse of the pistol holster under his arm. A nine-millimeter Beretta. Brian was about to signal Murdoch to hold off when the man on the stairs collapsed. Every muscle suddenly loose, he thumped down the remaining stairs to the tile floor like a bag of bowling balls.

Both Gatherers pulled sharply into the shadows. Long, heart-pounding seconds ticked by. When no one new appeared at the top of the stairs, Brian breathed a sigh of relief.

“Nice takeout,” he said to Murdoch sarcastically.

The Scot shrugged. “He won’t wake up for a while.”

As the big Gatherer dragged the guard’s body around the corner and stuffed him into an armoire, Brian climbed the stairs to the second floor. He paused and glanced up. The bedrooms were on the top level. More people, more risk. “On second thought, maybe I should take the third floor. Sometimes your control ain’t what it ought to be.”

Murdoch sent him a cold stare. “We stick to the plan.”

Since Brian had drafted said plan, based on data he himself had dug up, he could hardly argue. He nodded, then strode down the second-floor hallway in search of the vault.

Every Soul Gatherer was handed a toolbox of primal spells on his first day, some of them more useful than others. Deaden and unlock always came in handy, as did speed. But enhanced senses were a double-edged sword. Not remotely convenient when stuck in an elevator with a guy who hadn’t showered recently, but a veritable godsend when hunting.

Even when the prey was an inanimate object.

Metal had a very distinctive smell. Most vaults were made of steel-reinforced concrete, so he was seeking a large deposit of steel, hidden behind a panel of some sort. For a discerning nose, no problem.

Checking for occupants before he unlocked each door, Brian searched the rooms one by one. An art gallery, a home theater, a library. The gym, filled with metal weights and equipment, took him the longest. When he reached the last door on the left side of the hallway, he stopped.

People.

One, two ... he sniffed a little deeper ... three.

The breathing noises sounded slow and even, but there was no way to know whether the folks inside were awake or asleep, not without cracking open the door. The odds favored their being awake; these weren’t bedrooms. But the gain outweighed the risk—according to the floor plans, this was Duverger’s office.

Praying the group inside was seated, Brian zapped the room with a sleep spell. Then he opened the door and slipped inside.

The boot heel that connected with his jaw came out of nowhere. Had he been a regular guy, the powerful, well-aimed blow would have knocked him out cold, guaranteed. Even so, the unexpected attack rocked him off balance, and he was headed for a face-plant in the colorful Moroccan carpet when his attacker kindly snagged his arm and eased his fall.

With a small hand, he noted. A kid, maybe.

There was no time to be offended. He grabbed an ankle and yanked his attacker to the ground. A little twist of his hand and the body fell atop a nearby leather armchair with a soft grunt. No attention-calling crash or bang, he noted with pride. Bounding to his feet, his hand still latched onto a slim ankle, he glanced around the room, verifying the slumbering state of two guards on the sofa before turning to his captive.

His breath snagged.

Not a kid, a woman.

To be more precise, an elegant woman with killer brown eyes and masses of gleaming dark hair pulled into a tight knot. Her black military-type outfit was boring, but the body inside was anything but. An endless cascade of long limbs and lush curves, it triggered the floodgates on his hormones and he got swept away like a drowning man. About a mile downstream, he realized his fingers were digging into the soft skin above her boot and he loosened his grip.

A quick snap of her leg against the man’s relaxed thumb and Lena cleared his grasp. A miracle, really, considering her heart was ricocheting around in her chest and her muscles barely had the sense to do her bidding. Her first kick should have been followed by a prompt second. Instead, she’d hesitated. Why? Was she really that easily undone by a handsome face?

A heart-stoppingly handsome face, to be fair, but still...

Punishing him for her brief enthrallment, she delivered an uncompromising kick to the intruder’s crown jewels. His eyes rolled back in his head and he slid to his knees with a faint moan. Lena wasted no time. Leaping from the chair, she dove over the big teak desk and snatched the coin box from the open vault. Any normal man would have succumbed to her sleep spell. The fact that this one hadn’t spoke volumes.

Get out, get out, get out.

There was no time to finish the job, no time to clean up, no time to collect her knapsack. In a brief, thoughtless moment, this fool had ruined all her carefully laid plans. And it wasn’t just her reputation on the line this time.

Get out now.

Box clutched to her chest, she sprang for the huge picture window overlooking the gardens. Headfirst, she smashed through the leaded glass, then rolled in midair to drop to the ground on her feet amid the shards. She shook her head to rid her ponytail of glass, then ran. The breaking glass should rouse the household, but Lena took the added precaution of flinging an enliven spell back at the house.

The alarms immediately sprang back to life, and seconds later she felt the motion sensors pulse a silent message to Duverger’s guardhouse. Her intruder had been in stealth mode, slinking about the room like a panther on the prowl. He didn’t work for Duverger. Chances were very good his intent had been the same as hers—to steal the coins—and the Frenchman’s army of bodyguards would be all over him in minutes.

Deal with that, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Annoying.

Batting away a twinge of guilt, she cleared the wall and veered left, keeping to the shadows as she sprinted for the car park. Ridiculous. Why was she feeling bad for a stranger? He’d be fine. In fact, judging by how easily he’d thrown her into that chair, he’d probably be back on her tail in a heartbeat, hell-bent on getting the coins.

That would be a disaster.

Ruthlessly gagging her conscience, she reactivated the perimeter alarms.

Murdoch thrust the BMW into drive, hammered the accelerator with his big foot, and sped out of the parking lot, gravel flying. His cheeks were flushed and his hands squeezed the steering wheel with barely contained fury. Blood dripped off his jaw from a graze above his right ear. “Tell me I didn’t get shot for nothing, Webster. Tell me you got the coins.”

Brian dug a bullet out of his thigh with his pocket-knife. Not the most graceful exit he’d ever made. “Sorry, no. She beat me to them.”

“She?”

“Keep your eyes on the road, dickwad.”

“You let a lass get the better of you?”

Yeah, he’d been stupid. He shouldn’t have assumed she was mortal, nor should he have softened his stance because she was a woman. But, frankly, he’d been caught off guard. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d experienced such a wicked-hot lick of attraction. “Obviously not a human woman. Demon, maybe.”

“Christ, you’d better hope not.”

Ignoring him, Brian pulled his BlackBerry from his pocket and speed-dialed MacGregor’s number. When the phone was answered by a woman, he said, “Hey, Mrs. L, is the big guy around?”

“He’s in the training arena with Em.”

“It’s important.” A glance out the rear window told him there were no headlights in pursuit. They were home free. Which, given that he’d just lost a hugely valuable relic with the power to sucker punch the world, felt wrong. “He’ll forgive you for interrupting, I promise.”

As Rachel fetched her husband, Brian peered at Carlos, who sat in the backseat, head propped against the door, one foot on the leather upholstery. His eyes were closed and deep creases framed his mouth. Brian put a hand over the phone mouthpiece and asked, “You didn’t get hit, did you?”

“No.” The teen cracked one eye open. “Unlike you old geezers, I can run.”

Brian flipped him the finger.

“Webster?” MacGregor’s displeasure rippled over the phone line. “What happened?”

“I screwed up,” Brian confessed without preamble. His shoulders were broad; he could take the fallout. “I lost the coins. To a woman who was impervious to my sleep spell and who managed to drop me with a kick that’d put Bruce Lee to shame.”

“She was immortal?”

“Pretty sure, yeah.”

“Did she escape through a rift in the barrier?”

“No,” Brian said, the pinch in his chest easing a bit. Good point. That meant she wasn’t a demon and Satan didn’t have the coins. “Through a window.”

“So she’s a Gatherer.”

“A what?” Brian blinked. He knew female Soul Gatherers existed, but in six long years of serving Death, he’d never run across a single one. Shouldn’t a woman capable of delivering the beat-down to a demon be bigger and less ... soft? “Really?”

“Let me check the database.” A brief pause, then, “Aye, here it is. The system has a tag on a female Gatherer no’ far from your position. Lena Sharpe. She’s in a car, about to pass through the tollbooth on the A8, headed toward Nice.”

“What’s another Gatherer doing stealing from Duverger?” His question instantly earned him the attention of the two men in the car. Brian offered them a shrug. “Is she in on the plan?”

“No, according to her record, that’s what she does. She’s a thief.”

“Huh? Isn’t she supposed to be earning her way out of purgatory like the rest of us?”

“Her eternal reward isn’t our problem, Webster,” MacGregor reminded him. “Just get the coins.”

“No problem. I’m on it. Does the database happen to say where she’s staying?”

“Aye,” his friend said. “A hotel off Rue Jean Allègre. Here’s the address....”

Brian memorized the street number, then hung up.

Lena Sharpe. Sounded British or something, but the woman hadn’t looked like your typical English rose. Dark hair and smoky, tilted eyes gave her a more exotic allure. Not that it mattered what her background was or what she looked like. The woman had his coins, and she was damned well going to cough them up.

“Time to do a little coin collecting, boys.”

3

Tariq was waiting exactly where he said he’d be.

When Lena paused at the street corner in old Nice a few minutes after one in the morning, the Egyptian man hopped into the passenger seat of her little Peugeot, the hood of a burgundy sweatshirt pulled low over his head. Only his thin beak of a nose was visible. “Go left here,” he murmured. “Drive two blocks, and then make a right turn.”

She drove around the corner. “You have the address in Los Angeles?”

“Yes.”

With a deep breath, she slid an envelope and the ebony coin box onto his lap. “Your ticket is in the envelope. Meet me there in three days.”

His slim hands held the box for a moment before tucking it in the wide front pocket of his sweatshirt. They were an artist’s hands, capable of creating great beauty, but Tariq rarely indulged his gift for sculpting. Fast money had far more appeal. He was the best fence Lena had ever worked with, swiftly locating an eager buyer for any artifact, no matter how unusual or hot, and intuitively sensing just how far he could push without losing the deal.

“Is it true that making skin contact with the coins will curse you?” he asked.

“Yes, you risk your soul by carrying them.” It bothered her to ask it of him, but she could think of no one else she trusted enough. He’d handled many sales for her over the years and never once robbed her. Taken his agreed share and no more.

“It’s a fair trade. You saved my soul the day you spirited me out of Egypt, right from under Reyhan’s nose. He would have killed me.”

“Carrying the coins is almost as dangerous as your cousin.”

He smiled. “You can salve your conscience by depositing thirty percent of their sale value in my Swiss account.”

They had agreed on twenty-five. So much for owing her his life. “That’s outrageous. You know I’m not selling them.”

He nodded. “But they’re extremely valuable. And I know you’ll pay.”

“Do you?” She skewed him a serious look. “Then you must also know your life will be forfeit should you betray my faith. I will not give up until I find you.” She smiled to soften the threat. “Of course, our long and profitable history makes that unlikely.”

His dark eyes met hers.

The business talk was always of dollars, but pain and death were the true currencies of the black market and Tariq understood that. He knew nothing of her role as a Soul Gatherer, but he’d witnessed her combat skills the day she’d robbed his cousin of a jeweled collar, impulsively saving Tariq in the process. He’d babbled about her speed and agility for weeks afterward.

He sat a little taller. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there.”

Lena pulled the tiny car to the curb. The instant the vehicle stopped, the Egyptian leapt out and ducked down an unlit corridor between two ancient, crumbling brick buildings. In the blink of an eye, he vanished, lost amid the shadows spilling from wrought-iron balconies and faded awnings.

She sped off, back toward the center of town.

The handoff had taken less than five minutes. If she’d done her job right, no one would ever know they had met.

Brian stared at the brightly lit entrance to the hotel. His lovely little coin thief had chosen a busy, modern Novotel where she could come and go with ease, even in the middle of the night. Exactly the sort of place he would have selected himself.

For some reason, that bothered him.

Not nearly as much as it bothered him to enter Lena Sharpe’s small hotel room a few moments later and find her absent, though. She had a ten-minute lead on them. The only good news was that her stuff was still here—a laptop on the desk, a battered old steamer trunk under the window, toiletries in the bathroom—which meant she was coming back. Eventually.

“Watch the door, Webster,” Murdoch said. “The lad and I’ll search her belongings.”

The Scot immediately kicked open the lid of the trunk and began pawing, but Carlos displayed far less enthusiasm. Pressing his fingers to his eyes, the young man trudged over to the tiled bathroom.

Brian followed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” The teen caught Brian’s skeptical look, then shrugged and amended, “Craptacular headache, that’s all.”

“Are you sure you didn’t get nicked by a bullet?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. This”—he pointed to his head—“started on the plane. Thought it’d go away, but it’s getting worse.”

“Take a pill or something. I need you at full steam.”

“ ’Kay.” Carlos picked up Lena’s makeup bag and peered inside. “She’s got Tylenol.”

Satisfied, Brian returned to the main room. He stood by the door, listening for the sound of the elevator.

“What do you make of this?” Murdoch asked.

Brian glanced over.

The big Scot held up a wooden cross, a well-thumbed Bible, and a big glass bottle filled with a clear liquid. He unscrewed the cap and took a sniff. “No garlic in sight, but I’m betting this water is blessed.”

“She hunts vampires?” asked Carlos, peering around the door of the bathroom, his brown eyes wide.

“Don’t be a dolt. Vampires aren’t real.” Brian shrugged at Murdoch. “Odds are she’s a typical lone Gatherer, just doing her best with the mediocre tools Death provides. Without Romany magic or the benefit of a sword, she’d resort to the traditional stuff. Ignore it and keep looking for the coins.”

Just as he resumed his vigil at the door, the elevator chimed and light footsteps trod down the carpeted corridor toward them. Brian signaled to the others to get out of sight and hugged the wall as tightly as he could. If she swept the room with her senses before she entered, they wouldn’t have a prayer. But hopefully the lack of obvious pursuit after her getaway had eased her wariness.

The footsteps paused in front of the room and a key card snicked in the lock. The instant she shoved the door, he leapt. He took her smoothly to the hallway floor, pinning her arms to her sides and using his superior size to hold her in place.

Lena did not go down easily, however.

First, she bloodied his nose with a quick head butt. Then she kicked him in the shins. Bigger and stronger than she, he easily maintained his hold, but her hands remained free to inflict damage. She dug her fingers into his leg muscles, pinching and twisting with everything she had. His gonads still throbbed from the kick she’d delivered a half hour before, so he settled his full weight on her and wrapped his legs around her to minimize her struggles.

Nothing he did took the fight out of her. She continued to pinch, bash, and wrench every available part of his body.

“Stop,” he said hoarsely into her ear. Blood dripped from his battered nose. “We’re not the enemy. We’re Soul Gatherers, like you.”

Another head butt, this one to the mouth.

“Need some help, Webster?” Murdoch asked from the doorway, amused.

Brian ignored the comment.

“How do you think we found you so quickly?” he asked her, mashing her face into the garish carpet with his upper body. “We have access to the Gatherer database.”

Her fingernails found the bullet wound on his thigh and dug in. The healing process was already well under way, but her attack ripped the scab off.

“Fuck!

Down the hall, a door creaked.

“Guys,” said Carlos, his voice low. “Can we take this inside?”

Brian made one last attempt to get through to her. “Think about it, Lena. If I were a demon, I’d be pelting you with fire right now, not rolling around on the ground, taking a shit-kicking for no reason.”

Her struggles abruptly ceased.

His heartbeat sped up the instant she relaxed. Partly because her perfumed scent finally navigated the swollen tissues of his nose, but mostly because he discovered one of his arms was pressed against a pair of very nice breasts. Only a rat-faced guy would even notice something like that at a moment like this, but there you had it. He was a rat-faced guy.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“To talk.”

“I doubt that’s all you want.”

Hell, no. His blood was howling at him to exchange a lot more than words. But talk was the only acceptable item on the agenda. “You’re right. I want something else.”

Brian released her, and they both got to their feet, eyeing each other as they adjusted their clothes. He pointed to the open door and, after a moment’s silent debate, she entered the hotel room. Inside, she seated herself on the big double bed, legs crossed at the ankles, back straight. Very Princess Diana.

He arched a brow at Murdoch, who shrugged. Apparently the big warrior had no objection to him doing the interrogation.

Brian closed the door. “The coins you stole from Duverger. Hand ’em over.”

Lena shook her head. “You’re not who you profess to be.” Her gaze drifted over Carlos and Murdoch, then returned to him. “If you were, you’d know Gatherers work alone, not in groups.”

“Soul collecting is generally a one-on-one gig,” he agreed. Her face was a shade too thin. It gave her a delicate appearance completely at odds with the don’t-fuckwith-me tilt of her head. “But Satan-pummeling tends to be more of a team sport, so we work together when it makes sense.”

She snorted. “You’re trying to tell me you take on the devil himself?”

“No,” he admitted with a smile. “We leave that to the guy upstairs. We just do our best to keep Big Red from getting a serious leg up on the middle plane. Which brings us back to the coins. Where are they?”

“Why would I give them up? What’s in it for me?”

“That’s easy. You’ll be doing your bit to save the world from evil.”

A frown wrinkled her brow. “The coins are evil?”

“A dark relic,” he confirmed with a nod. “In the wrong hands they’ll create a financial and political shitstorm. I can’t let that happen. No way, no how.”

“Admirable of you. But I’m not interested in saving the world, just my payout.”

Both the other men stiffened at her cool words, but Brian broadened his smile. “Please spare me the greedy-bitch routine. We’re in purgatory, too, remember? You’ve been offered a second chance to make it upstairs, and there’s no way you’d blow that for money. Not when you’ve seen what’s in the basement. This is not a negotiation. Just cut to the chase and give me the coins.”

“I don’t have them.”

No twitch, no hesitation, no hard, unwavering stare. She wasn’t lying. But she hadn’t sold them yet, either. Not if she was still looking for her payout. “Then you stashed them before coming back to the hotel. Where?”

She said nothing.

He closed the gap between them, crowding her, bumping her knees. “I’m a very determined guy. I will get those coins—believe that. Make things a little easier on yourself. Tell me where they are.”

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

As she lifted her chin in defiance, he spotted the pulse beating at the base of her throat. Faster than average. Worried? One would never guess by the look in those iced-coffee peepers. He snatched her purse off the bed and tossed it at Carlos. “Search it.”

Then he turned back to Lena. “Why’d you take them?”

She shrugged. “I had a million very good reasons.”

“You stole them for money? I find that hard to believe.”

She didn’t bother to answer. Just returned his stare with a faint sneer that suggested he was naive.

“It can’t have been just for the money,” he argued. “If you’re really as hard-core as you make out, you’d have gone straight to hell instead of passing through purgatory. God thinks you’re redeemable. How come?”

“I have no idea.”

Christ. She was serious. No way could she fake that open stare. Brian was still debating how to respond when Carlos pulled a piece of paper from the large pile he’d emptied onto the desk and held it up.

“Got something. FedEx receipt, one of those forms you fill out at a drop box.”

“Is it dated?” Brian asked.

The young man shook his head. “But the weight is marked as three pounds. That’d be about right.”

Brian studied Lena’s impassive face. It’d take balls of brass to send something that valuable by regular courier. “Where’s the package headed?”

“Los Angeles.” Carlos kept sifting. He found an envelope and opened it, scanning the contents. “There’s also a plane ticket in her name for an eleven a.m. flight tomorrow to ... Oh, here’s a big surprise—L.A.”

A shadow darkened Lena’s eyes—a brief flicker of emotion that might have escaped notice if Brian hadn’t been studying her. Los Angeles meant something to her. Switching tactics, he crouched beside her, caging her on the bed with his arms. Her exotic floral perfume, already becoming familiar, enveloped him. “The coins are dangerous, Lena. If Satan gets his hands on them, he’ll cause upheaval around the globe. He’ll pitch normally peaceful cities into chaos. People will get hurt.”

The shadow deepened.

“Don’t do it, Lena,” he said softly. “Don’t risk the lives of people you know and love. Tell me where they are.”

Her lids abruptly dropped to cover her eyes, and he bit back a curse.

He’d said the wrong thing.

Ducking adroitly under his arm, Lena rose from the bed. She made no attempt to bypass Murdoch at the door, but crossed to the beveled mirror hanging above the small chest of drawers. She stared into the glass, her fingers wrapped around the gold pendant she wore. Her expression was calm, almost contemplative, giving Brian hope. But in the end, cynicism tugged the corners of her mouth down.

“A million dollars buys you their location.”

“No fucking way. This is not about money. You’ll never convince me that it is.”

“If you have access to Death’s records, as you say you do, then you already know the truth. I’m a thief. I steal valuable objects for a living.” Her eyes met his in the mirror. “Believe me, I don’t do it for fun. I do it for the money.”

Brian returned her stare. If he took her at face value, Lena held a first-class ticket on the cruise ship to hell. It looked bad. He could see that. But for some reason—maybe that brief suggestion of vulnerability, or maybe the undue influence his dick was exerting—he didn’t buy it.

Either way, though, he was stuck. His only lead on the coins was a rather weak trail to Los Angeles and he had to follow it. Unfortunately, Lena wasn’t likely to play nice and let them tag along. He flicked a meaningful glance at Murdoch, who had edged closer and now stood just behind and to the left of the female Gatherer.

The big Scot happily took charge. Without further ado, he thumped Lena soundly on the head with a wrought-iron table lamp.

She jerked. Confusion softened her face and her hands fluttered briefly in the air. Then the dark wave of oblivion rolled in. With a gentle sigh and amazing grace, she slipped into Brian’s open and available arms.

Add kidnapping to his long list of crimes.

The lights were dimmed and the aircraft cabin was quiet, but as comfortable as the mammoth first-class seats were, Lena couldn’t sleep. The reason was couched next to her, all six feet and two hundred pounds of him. Brian Webster. The well-meaning wretch was both the bane of her existence and the answer to her prayers.

A tingle of awareness interrupted her thoughts, and she glanced to her left. Sure enough, he was watching her, his silver eyes steady.

Lena did her best to quell the wave of sultry heat that rolled over her body. “What?”

“Nothing.”

The long hours she’d spent in his company should have dulled the impact of his good looks. But it hadn’t. She suffered a fresh jolt every time she looked at the man. The lazy smile, the strong line of his jaw, even the sun-kissed tips of his loosely styled brown hair—all set her pulse aflutter, time and time again. Completely unfair. “Then stop staring.”

“Am I staring?”

“You know you are.” In an attempt to distract him, she pointed to the issue of GQ spread across his lap. The one splashed with hot male models Brian Webster could easily have replaced, were he not so broad of shoulder. “Do you truly wear clothes like that?”

He offered her a slow smile that told her he saw through her diversion, then obediently glanced down at the photo of a fluorescent pink jacket. “Nope. My taste runs a little on the dull side.” He flipped back a few pages, halting when he found a brooding man sporting a dark gray suit. “This is more me.”

Studying the picture, she agreed. The modern cut could be carried off only by someone with buckets of self-confidence, and the slight sheen of the anthracite-colored material matched the color of his eyes. But the price tag made her choke. “Three thousand dollars? For a suit?”

“Price you pay for sartorial excellence,” he said, shrugging. “I’ve spent more.”

“Then you should be ashamed.”

His gaze lifted. “Pardon?”

“There are better uses for your money than wrapping yourself in expensive cloth.”

Dark humor glittered in his eyes. “Excuse me? Do I have this right? The woman who would rather pocket a million dollars than save the world is calling me selfish?”

Embarrassment boiled up Lena’s neck and into her cheeks before she could stop it. Still, she did her best to save the moment. “Clothing wears quickly and is all too soon out of style. Not a wise investment. Jewels, precious metals, and real estate. That’s where I put my money.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really.” Lord. The man was too perceptive by half. He scrutinized her as if she were a mystery that required solving, and eventually he’d ferret out the truth. Which made remaining with him a risky option. But she had no choice. The amulet had confirmed he was the Gatherer who’d defeated the martial demon in the church and taken the fourteenth coin. The Gatherer who had collected Amanda’s soul. Her fingers fumbled with the seat belt clip, finally getting it open. “Step aside, please. I need to use the lavatory.”

“No.”

She blinked. “Surely you’re not denying me the right to attend to my needs?”

“Of course not. But if you need to use the can, I’m coming with you.”

“You mean inside?”

“Yup.”

The thought of the two of them pressed into that tiny space didn’t bear imagining. “Are you mad?”

“You brought this on yourself,” Brian said, turning a page of his magazine. “If you hadn’t tried to jump out of the cab on the way to the airport, I might’ve given you some leeway.”

The escape had been only a show. He’d been expecting her to make some kind of run for it, so she obliged. As long as he thought her main goal was to get away, he was unlikely to discover her real objective—the coin. Which, unfortunately, was no longer on his person. The amulet had trilled weakly back at the hotel. Enough to tell her he’d once held the coin, but not enough to point to its location.

Lena sighed. “What are you afraid of? We’re on an aircraft, thirty-six thousand feet up. Where do you think I’m going to go?”

The amusement in his eyes faded away. “Come on, Lena. We both know you could jump from the plane, hit the ocean at terminal velocity, and swim away. You’ve already proven willing to risk injury. There’s no way I’m going to leave you alone in that bathroom.”

She bit her lip. For a Soul Gatherer, peeling back the floor and punching through the cargo hold would be relatively easy. But jump from the plane? Into wide-open space? Not likely. Air travel was the one modern convenience with which she struggled. Even after she’d taken numerous uneventful flights between the continents, her steamship-era mentality remained uneasy with the concept of hurtling through the air.

That didn’t mean she should let him intimidate her.

Her gaze slipped from his, traveling down his lean throat to the wide expanse of his chest and shoulders—a purely analytical exploration of the terrain she’d have to navigate to get free. Elegant cashmere embraced his body, leaving just a suggestion of the hard, powerful muscles beneath. Muscles she knew intimately after having every solid inch of him pressed against her on the hotel floor.

“We’d fit,” he said.

Her gaze flew back up. Fit? As in together? “Pardon?”

“In the bathroom, the two of us. I’ve done it before.”

Of course he had. And it didn’t take much imagination to figure out what he’d done in there. She could think of only one reason a man and a woman might squeeze into the same aircraft lavatory.

He peered at her. “Are you blushing?”

“Stop it.” Was that an admonishment to him or to her wayward imagination? “This is beyond ridiculous. I’m going to the lavatory whether you like it or not.”

Lena reached above her head and pushed the button to summon the attendant.

“One step ahead of you, babe,” Brian said mildly.

She tossed him a confused glance.

“I deadened the call button.”

She glanced around for the flight attendant, trying to verify his claim. The woman was chatting with a man in the front row, offering him a bottle of Evian, seemingly unaware that Lena had requested her aid.

“And before you decide to do something stupid, like scream,” he added quietly, “I should tell you I know an excellent Romany voice hex. It would make for a nice quiet trip for me, but I’m told the side effects include some wicked bouts of nausea, so I’d prefer not to zap you if I don’t have to.”

A light finger of fear slid down Lena’s spine. Maybe she’d been too quick to believe his out-to-save-the-world story. “You consort with a Romany mage?”

“Sure. Stefan’s a great guy. A little odd maybe, but he comes in pretty handy. He forges our swords and augments our primal spells with serious stuff that actually works.”

“Like the dimensional shift he puts on your scabbard.”

He frowned. “It’s a perception ward.”

“Is that what he told you?” No perception ward could actually make an object vanish. How typical of a Roma mage to hide the depths of his skills even from those who benefited. “Romany magic is very effective. But you’re a fool to trust a mage when so many have—”

“Is there a problem here?” asked a cool female voice.

Lena’s eyes lifted. A flight attendant had appeared over Brian’s shoulder. Ha! His stupid deaden spell hadn’t worked after all. “Yes, I—”

“Hello, boss.” Brian glanced at the slim woman. He smiled faintly, then returned to his magazine. “Nice to see you.”

The attendant studied his face with frosty interest, folding her arms over her chest. “When I gave MacGregor access to the database, it was with the understanding that he would use it to identify candidates for training, not to track and waylay my Gatherers.”

Lena’s heart hiccupped. My Gatherers? Her gaze raked the woman a second time. A black uniform, not serge blue like the others... neatly coiffed white hair... a long white nail on her right index finger. The evidence was indisputable.

Death.

Lena slumped in her seat. All around her, the passengers had been frozen in midaction, midsentence. No one moved. Not even Webster’s two friends, seated one row behind her. The goddess hadn’t paid her a visit in over one hundred years—not since those first gathering lessons following her demise. The memories were still vivid. There’d been no coddling or comforting over the dramatic change in her circumstances. No allowance for the losses she had suffered. Just a terse explanation of her new role, a few short trials, and a mockingly delivered assessment of her survival odds. Which, fortunately, she’d beaten.

“Training,” Brian said smoothly, “is exactly what motivated us to seek Miss Sharpe out.”

Death continued speaking as if she hadn’t heard him. “And taking three of my Gatherers off the roster to send them on a mission of his own making is nothing short of abuse of my good nature.”

Brian tucked his magazine in the seat pouch. “Actually, the mission was my idea, not MacGregor’s. Satan is messing around on our turf again, stealing dark relics and trying to disrupt the flow of souls.” He shrugged with amazing nonchalance. “I’m just doing my part to make sure your business runs smoothly.”

“Your concern for the ease of my affairs is duly noted,” the goddess said. The rigid lines of her body softened, just a little. “But as of this moment, MacGregor no longer has access to the database. Nor, for that matter, do you. Any and all demands for the services of my Gatherers will come through me. As it was before MacGregor took on the role of Trainer.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“Yes, I do.” Death glared. “Skunk Works projects undermine my authority.”

“You could sanction the work and make it official,” Brian suggested nicely. “Then we’d all be happy.”

“I don’t need you to be happy. I need you to be gathering.”

“Look,” he said, sighing. “Satan is collecting these relics for a reason, and you can bet your bottomless box of souls that his plans don’t include making sure you get a piece of the afterlife pie. We need to stay on top of him.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Satan and his machinations are my concern. Not yours.”

“I work for you,” Brian pointed out. “I’m an extension of your reach. It’s in your best interest to keep Satan contained to the lower plane, so why not have us do both—gather souls and kick ass?”

Death’s thin lips curved. “By the gods, I swear you could coax a flea from a dog’s body, Webster. But you need to direct your wiles elsewhere or risk my wrath. I am no pawn to be moved about the board at your whim.”

“I get the message,” he said.

“I’m not sure that you do. I have my own plans to smite Satan, and your ham-fisted efforts will only cause me grief. Cease your plotting and concentrate on the simple task you’ve been assigned—gathering souls.”

He frowned. “I can’t do that.”

“Surely I must have misheard you.” The goddess slipped her long white fingernail under his chin, tipping his head up. “Are you refusing a direct order from your liege?”

“Interpret it any way you want,” he responded softly. “But I won’t abandon the hunt for the Judas coins.”

Lena’s gut knotted. The man had a death wish.

“Really?” The temperature of the cabin plummeted, fogging their breaths, and a drop of blood trickled down Brian’s throat to the collar of his beautiful sweater. “Why ever not?”

He didn’t flinch. Nor did he back down.

“Because I’m the first line of defense against an evil army, that’s why. Satan’s using the middle plane as a battlefield to launch a massive strike against God. If I don’t fight back, who the hell will? You may think the Judas coins don’t matter in the grand scheme of things, but every coin he gains sends my world further into chaos and hurts the people I’m committed to protecting.” He shifted her lethal nail away from his throat. “I won’t turn my back on the human race just because you order me to.”

Death stepped back. “A hero complex. How terribly unappealing.”

Brian relaxed back in his seat, a faint smile gracing his lips. “There’s actually no such thing as a hero complex.”

“You don’t really think such a foolish display of passion can sway me, do you?” Despite her sharp words, the goddess did not look angry. With one hand on her hip and the other relaxed at her side, she looked more like an icicle in the sunlight—bright, shiny, and melting. Apparently even a pitiless goddess warmed to a handsome face and a charming smile.

“No,” he said. “Nor was that the point.”

“Hmmm. Then what was the point?”

“A compromise,” he said firmly.

The goddess remained silent for a moment, and then she said, “My idea of a compromise and yours may not match, Gatherer.”

“Still, I—”

Death halted him with a raised hand. “The database will remain inaccessible to you and MacGregor, but I will permit you to seek out dark relics with the sole purpose of keeping them out of Satan’s possession.”

“You’re tying our hands by denying us the database.”

“No, I’m ensuring your loyalty remains true to me and no other.” The goddess wrinkled her nose. “The information will still be available to you on request.”

“If I have to consult you for every little detail, our progress will slow to a crawl.”

“That’s the nature of a hierarchy, I’m afraid.”

Brian looked as if he wanted to argue further, but after a moment, he nodded. “Okay. What about Lena here? You got any concerns with our plan to train her?”

For the first time, Death’s gaze slid to Lena, cool and assessing.

It was hard not to react to those pale blue eyes peering deep into her own. Death had never been enthused by Lena’s career as a thief, but so long as she did her gathers according to schedule, her extracurricular activities had been overlooked. Until now. Could the goddess sense her turmoil, or see the plan Lena had for absconding with the coins? Dear Lord, she hoped not.

“No,” Death said finally.

Lena let go of the breath she’d been holding. She had no idea what Gatherer training entailed, but if it kept her close to Brian and allowed her to locate the fourteenth coin, it would be very useful indeed.

“Then I guess we’re all good,” Brian said.

“I suppose we are.” Smiling, Death waved a hand and two milky-eyed ghouls appeared behind her, their bony stances both protective and subservient. “I’m looking forward to our chats. In the meantime, I’ve got a pressing engagement with an overweight, highly stressed aircraft captain.” She turned and, in a waft of cool scent, started up the aisle toward the cockpit, entourage in tow.

Lena stared at her departing figure. As the people around her slowly came back to life, a sinking feeling settled in her belly. “Does she mean... ?”

“Yup.” Brian shot her a reassuring smile. “Don’t sweat it. She loves to make a dramatic exit. We’re not going to crash. The first officer can land the plane.”

His explanation made perfect sense.

Still, Lena closed her eyes and crossed her fingers.

4

The massive door of the ooze-and-slime-coated castle creaked open at his back, and Malumos tracked every rafter-shaking step of Beelzebub’s three-toed feet across the wooden floor as the winged demon approached. Proper form dictated that he turn and greet his liege lord. Instead, he remained as he was, staring at Beelzebub’s fine collection of gladiator weapons on the wall. Safer to let Maleficus do the talking.

“My lord Beelzebub,” his brother said, greeting the castle owner.

“I trust you have good news.” The guttural words rumbled on the air, heavy with unspoken threat. Malumos could picture Beelzebub’s mighty green hand fisting at his side, knuckles white, wiry dark hairs standing out in relief. Patience was not one of the demon’s virtues.

Malumos glanced down at his own hands, admiring the midnight blue smoke that leached from his white skin. Here in hell, he returned to his natural gauzy form—a minimalist humanoid shape formed only by the strength of his will.

“As promised,” Maleficus said, “the female Gatherer retrieved the thirteen coins.”

“Where are they now?”

A very good question. How would his brother respond?

“Does it matter? She will deliver them in twelve days. That was the agreement.”

“It matters,” Beelzebub snapped, “because she’s trying to cheat us.”

“That’s very unlikely—”

“She has allied herself with other Gatherers. At this very moment, she sits among them on an airplane, freely sharing all that she knows.”

“No.” This husky denial from Mestitio, Malumos’s youngest brother. “She would not. She knows the price.”

“Then I suggest you make her pay. My information is impeccable.”

“My lord, Ms. Sharpe is a rather difficult—”

A strangled cry from Maleficus suggested Beelzebub had tired of diplomacy and his anger had slipped the bounds of control. It would be unwise to taunt the demon lord past the edge of reason.

Malumos pivoted to face the room.

Beelzebub’s hand was wrapped around Maleficus’s throat, his chipped and cracked talons pricking smoky blue flesh. The demon lord’s gargantuan green body, draped in a black canvas tunic, shimmered with hot waves of barely contained power. Bloodless accurately described Maleficus’s pale face as he dangled a foot off the floor. Mestitio seethed in a spot next to the fireplace, his red eyes fierce amid swaths of wispy blue hair. A feral creature whose killing abilities far outweighed his intelligence, Mestitio was difficult to control. Only his loyalty to Malumos held him back.

“I want those coins now,” Beelzebub snarled. “Fetch them.”

“My lord,” said Malumos calmly. His deferential tone was made possible by the knowledge that if all went according to plan the great demon’s downfall was only days away. “If it pleases you, we’ll attack with full force and retrieve the coins. But be forewarned: Since we cannot enter the bodies of the soulless or the devout, the battle will be waged with innocent humans.” He paused with purpose. “Such deaths will surely incur God’s wrath.”

And God’s wrath most often took the form of angels.

The demon lord released Maleficus. “Use as many humans as you like. Satan isn’t ready to show the entirety of his hand, but the Covenant will not hem us in much longer. Dally too long among the Gatherers, however, and you may find yourself facing the righteous fury of a troop of archangels. Even your trinary powers will prove no match for that.”

Not yet, perhaps. But soon. Malumos smiled and offered a faint bow. His corporeal form was already dissolving into blue-black haze when Beelzebub called out a reminder.

“Just be sure to bring back all fourteen coins.”

Their eyes met and Malumos relived the sting of his failure.

“Of course,” he said softly. Then he and his brothers departed.

Emily lay in bed, staring up at the dancing pattern of moonlight on her ceiling, a ghostly reflection from the backyard pool. The clock on the nightstand glared 2:17.

She’d been roused from her dreams by an increasingly familiar touch to her thoughts. A coil of dark, seething anger, not her own. It hovered in the ether—somewhere between the middle and lower planes—threatening to lash out and destroy everything within reach. Each time it found a conduit into her thoughts, goose bumps lifted the hairs on her arms. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could make the angry presence go away.

But wishing wouldn’t change anything.

The two of them were bonded. Linked across time and space. She wasn’t sure how she knew that, but she did. Her role as the Trinity Soul meant the barriers between the planes were practically nonexistent. Easy to breach, easy to eavesdrop on, impossible to silence.

The scary part was that the bubbling anger grew more intense by the day, and her newly discovered ability to soothe the emotions of those around her had no power to tame it. Her stepdad, Lachlan, would blame that on a lack of self-discipline, but she wasn’t so sure. Yeah, she had trouble focusing her mystical skills, but this was different. The fury and bitterness she was sensing seemed directed at her.

But that was crazy.

What had she done to incite such a burning, all-consuming rage? Emily pulled the covers over her head, shutting out the laughing sprites of moonlight on the ceiling. She had nothing to feel guilty about. Nothing.

Okay. So she’d lied to everyone about where she’d found Carlos’s soul the day she’d resurrected him. It hadn’t actually been in limbo, waiting for Satan to claim it. So what? He hadn’t deserved to be punished that way. He hadn’t even had a decent chance to earn his way into heaven. All she’d done was fetch a very worthy soul back from the depths of hell.

How could anyone fault her for that?

The taxi stopped before a bungalow in predawn suburbia. Tall birds-of-paradise and mounds of orange poppies lined the walkway, the grass was neatly trimmed, and a wrought-iron fence enclosed the backyard. The house lacked the loving upgrades of the homes around it, but still fit perfectly in the family-oriented community.

“You actually live here?” Brian asked Lena, after he paid off the cabbie. “Why?”

“I like having neighbors.” Wrapping both hands around the leather side handle, she hefted the steamer trunk and waddled past the Dodge Neon in the driveway. “Mr. Cooper next door mows my lawn when I’m away, and my friend Nancy regularly drops by with a homemade casserole. That woman can perform miracles with chicken.”

“But neighbors spy on you.” Her struggle got the better of him. He wrestled the trunk out of her hands, trading it for his little wheeled carry-on. Their fingers brushed during the exchange, and his navy V-neck sweater suddenly felt much too warm. “They tend to notice when you arrive home in the middle of the night.”

“I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own suitcase.”

“This isn’t a suitcase—it’s a warehouse. Skip the feminist bullshit and unlock the door.”

Her lips tightened. “It’s not heavy, just awkward.”

True, and the realization that he was being unnecessarily chivalrous bugged him. But not enough for him to give in. “Just open the damned door.”

Wisely, she didn’t argue further, just rolled his suitcase up the walkway, dug into her purse, and stabbed her key into the lock. Pushing open the black colonial-style door, she paused to pick up a pile of mail on the floor, then waved him into the shaded interior. “My neighbors don’t question my comings and goings. They think I’m an antiques dealer.”

“And how does that explain your middle-of-the-night excursions?” he asked, glancing around the porch for any packages before he entered. Just in case.

“I told them collections often become available when someone dies, and the first one on the scene wins.”

“They bought that?” He put the trunk down, flicked on a light, and took stock. Nice, if you liked overstuffed, flowery furniture and pewter picture frames. His gaze returned to Lena.

“Yes.”

“Huh.” Hard to imagine her at a block party, chatting up the neighbors and sipping on a glass of chardonnay. “Is that how you plan your heists? By scanning the obits?”

A pinched look came and went on her face, and she stared out the curtain-framed picture window at the joyless white house across the street. “The turmoil surrounding a death can be advantageous, but my interest lies in ancient artifacts, not the contents of your average person’s attic.”

“So you’re saying you do more research than that?”

“Yes.” Her gaze, now flat and empty, met his. “How long will you be here?”

Her emotional response to a discussion about death surprised him, given their roles in the process. Either her facade was crumbling, or his own masking skills gave him a unique ability to spot the cracks. “I’m not leaving until I get the coins.”

“That will be hours yet.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m here for the duration.”

“Breakfast for two, then.” She tossed the mail on the hall table and dropped her leather purse to the hardwood floor with a thump. “You like oatmeal?”

He followed her into the tiny L-shaped kitchen. Eyeing the pristine white countertops and lack of obvious cookware, he asked, “Are we talking the just-add-water variety?”

“Yes.”

“Then no, thanks.” He opened the fridge and peered inside. Bottles of condiments, a jug of milk, and a pair of shriveled lemons growing a layer of green fuzz. Not a surprise, more a disappointment. He couldn’t cook, either. Would’ve been nice if one of them could. “Maybe we could pretend it’s a couple of hours earlier and order Chinese.”

“Or maybe you should give up and go on to San Jose, like your friends did.”

That made him smile. He looked at her over the door. “Fat chance, sweetheart. It’s you and me until the FedEx guy gets here.”

She glanced away.

Christ, was that a blush?

“We could always skip the food,” he offered softly, closing the fridge, “and just talk. I could babble endlessly about the combat training you’ll receive at the ranch, or regale you with the impressive list of sword masters MacGregor studied under.”

Her eyes met his. “You’re not interested in talking.”

“Nope, I’m not.” He bridged the gap between them in one decisive step. Giving in to temptation, he brushed a knuckle over her flushed cheek. Surprisingly soft for such an unyielding woman. The urge to slide his fingers around to the nape of her neck and dig into her hair nearly got the better of him. “But neither are you.”

She batted his hand aside. “I’m not having sex with you just to pass the time.”

“If all I wanted was to pass the time, I’d watch TV. Less sweaty.”

Her color deepened.

Was she imagining the two of them naked and sweaty? He was. With absolutely no effort at all. “Besides, I like to think the women I make love to get more out of the experience than watching the minute hand move around the clock.”

His response tugged a reluctant smile to her lips. “Have you done a survey?”

“No point. Sample’s too small for a valid result.”

That seemed to surprise her. A faint frown creased her brow, then vanished. She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it. In the end, she pivoted and opened the cupboard door behind her. “I can make pancakes.”

He was still seeing her naked in his arms, crushed up against the door, moaning under the assault of his lips. Which was bad. Very bad. He had yet to meet his self-imposed conditions for having sex. Now was not the time to make his life complicated.

“Pancakes would be fine.”

She grabbed the box of mix and bent over to rattle about in another cupboard for a frying pan.

Brian closed his eyes to the sight of her perfectly rounded ass. Be nice if his dick were a willing participant in the program, though. ’Cause all Lena had to do to turn him on was breathe.

Why was that? He’d met plenty of attractive women over the years, including MacGregor’s lovely wife, Rachel, and none of them had given him more than a momentary pang of lust, easily tamed. Ignoring Lena was proving much more difficult. Downright impossible, actually. Even now, with zero visual support, her subtle perfume baited him—an exotic blend of sweet and spicy that slipped under his skin and left him feeling edgy and eager for ...

“Blueberries?”

He opened his eyes. “What?”

She was cooking over the stove, watching him. “Do you want frozen blueberries in your pancakes?”

No, he didn’t want blueberries. And he didn’t want pancakes. The worst part was, he was pretty sure what he really wanted was written all over his face. But he lied anyway. “Sure, love some.”

He held up a wall on the opposite side of the kitchen while she set the round oak table and served the pancakes. Something had changed since the flight from Paris. The three little lines between her brows had vanished, and the stiff bearing of her shoulders had eased. It took him a moment to figure out why: She was home. Even with him under her roof, she’d relaxed just a bit because of the familiar surroundings.

He was envious. Didn’t matter where he went, he never felt comfortable dropping his guard. Brian folded his arms over his chest. It probably wasn’t a good idea if she relaxed around him. God knew where that might lead.

“You obviously live alone,” he said. “Do you have a regular fuck buddy?”

“A what?”

Shock didn’t begin to describe the look on Lena’s face. Her beautiful brown eyes widened to twice their normal size. Brian had to bite back a smile. “You know ... someone who does you when you need it, no strings attached.”

“Who does me?”

The pan in her hands slipped to a precarious angle and he dove for it, snatching it up before any hot batter spilled onto her feet. He placed the pan back on the stove and turned off the burner, which still glowed red.

Then he faced her. “I’m not applying for the job. I’m just curious.”

The pause had given her a chance to recover her aplomb. The shock was gone, replaced by her usual bland expression.

“My sex life is none of your business.” She marched over to the table, pulled out a Shaker chair, and sat. “Your language is quite unbearable. Are you even capable of having a conversation that doesn’t include cursing?”

Cursing? He claimed the seat opposite her and picked up his fork. Did anyone use that term anymore? “Of course I am. Do it all the time. When were you born?”

She poured syrup over her pancakes. “Does it matter?”

“Hey, come on. This is me having a conversation that doesn’t include cursing. The least thing you can do is participate.”

“Eighteen seventy-three.”

“No shit.” At her grimace, he amended, “Sorry. I mean, no way.”

It never occurred to him she’d been born in a different century. Her physical age, like his, was forever locked to the time of her death, and since they seemed to be of a similar age, he just assumed ...

“That makes you a hundred and six years older than me.”

She smiled. “Don’t forget it.”

He explored her face, looking for evidence of longevity, but the only hint of hardship and experience was that wary look in her eyes. The one that never really left, even when she smiled. The one he had the craziest urge to banish, if only for a moment. “I bet you’ve got some great stories to tell.”

The smile dropped away. “Not really.”

Okay, some not-so-great stories. He took a new tack. “You’ve got a slight accent, but I can’t place it. Were you born in England?”

“No.”

Brian almost smacked himself. He knew better than to ask closed-ended questions. “I was born in Brick, New Jersey, in a little postwar house a lot like this one. My parents still live there. What about where you grew up? What was that like?”

“Different.” She picked up her plate and stood. “Are you done?”

His food sat untouched. “No.”

Faced with two choices—pursue the conversation, or eat the pancakes and avoid insulting her—he chose the latter. Why he thought it would matter to her, he didn’t know. But he ate. When he was finished, he brought his plate to the sink, where Lena was washing the rest of the dishes. He slipped it into the suds, then picked up a towel and dried the stuff in the dish rack. “Want to show me around while we wait?”

“Not really.”

He sighed. “Let me rephrase that so we’re both clear about the way this works: While we wait for Mr. FedEx to arrive, you’re going to give me a tour of the house.”

Hands deep in a sinkful of hot water, she scrubbed the bottom of the pan. “And if I refuse?”

The steam did him in. Once glance at her flushed cheeks, damp hairline, and the host of tiny curls framing her brow, and his resolve to leave her alone became a distant memory.

“There’s only one way to know what the fallout will be,” he said quietly. “Try it.”

Lena stood perfectly still.

It was surprisingly tempting to refuse. From the moment he’d entered her little house, she’d been under siege by a potent combination of intelligence, humor, and sexual charm. It didn’t help one bit that he carried off his expensive clothes with aplomb, moved with natural grace, and melted her into a puddle with the intensity of his stare. He made absolutely no attempt to disguise that he was attracted to her.

And the feeling was mutual.

In another time or place, she’d have happily pushed him over the edge. But her deadline was looming ever closer, the coins remained scattered, and Heather was in peril. Now was not the appropriate moment to indulge in a liaison, no matter how mutual and symbiotic the attraction was. No matter how spectacular the fireworks would be. No matter how hot her blood ran or how eager her skin was for his touch.

Regrettably, she was going to have to take him on a tour of the house... and forever be left wondering whether he tasted as good as he smelled.

His beautiful little felon lifted her head and looked into his eyes.

Seconds dragged by, each one heavily weighted with anticipation. Although he knew pressing her was a mistake, Brian couldn’t summon an ounce of regret for uttering the words. The air between them practically vibrated, and Brian found himself praying for the wrong answer as she considered her choices. The rapid pulse at her throat told him everything he needed to know—she wanted him.

She abruptly pulled the plug in the sink and turned away. “It’s a small house. The tour won’t take long.”

He grinned. She just didn’t want to want him. Tossing the dish towel on the countertop, he followed her down the short hallway.

“This is the laundry room.”

Not much to look at here. Washer, dryer, a stacked shelving unit containing cleaning supplies. And a neat pile of folded clothes on the counter. Mostly blues, greens, and darks. Nothing pink.

“This is the guest bedroom.”

She opened the door next to the laundry room, and he peeked inside. A single bed with ivory sheets and a quilted comforter, a small dresser, and a chair. No personal effects, just a landscape print of a windswept seaside.

“And this is my bedroom.”

Her introduction was unnecessary. He knew it was her room the instant he stepped inside. Not simply because it was larger, but because a trace of her uniquely spicy scent lingered in the air, taunting him. The bed itself was a queen-sized mattress covered in a fluffy white duvet and a million pillows. A small two-seat sofa sat between the two windows, which were hung with a gauzy set of blue drapes.

Although his eyes were naturally drawn to the enticement of the bed, curiosity tugged his gaze to the top of the mirrored chest of drawers. A carved mahogany jewelry box, a hairbrush, and a miniature brass sarcophagus. Stacked on the shelf of the nightstand were three books—two tomes on ancient hieroglyphics and a paperback novel. The large painting over the bed was very simple, just sand dunes and a cloudless blue sky. It could have been a beach scene, but somehow, he didn’t think so.

“You were born in Egypt,” he guessed.

Her brows lifted. “Do I look Egyptian?”

“Not exactly.” But those eyes definitely had a Nefertiti tilt to them. And the dark, almost black color of her hair worked with his theory. The part that didn’t really fit was the porcelain complexion. “Half-Egyptian, maybe.”

Her sudden stillness told him he was spot-on.

“My past is irrelevant.”

Oh, baby, that was so not true. One look in her eyes and he knew the past was everything. But that oddly fragile look was back on her face, and he decided not to push it. He’d already found out plenty. The technical details, like the names of her parents, could be gleaned another time.

“The living room,” he prompted.

“No, I’m done,” she said, abruptly exiting. “Explore the rest on your own.”

Since all that remained was the living room and the kitchen, he let it go. He trailed her, glancing in the bathroom as they passed. Spotless, like the rest of the house. Perfectly matched towels on a bar, liquid soap in an etched-glass jar, no goop anywhere. His Lena was a bit of a neat freak.

While she sorted through her trunk, putting items away or tossing them in the laundry, he wandered through the living room. The pewter picture frames held photos of smiling people, but when he examined them closely, he discovered they were the original glossy sample sheets. Just for show.

Bored, he appropriated the flowery sofa. Kicking off his shoes, he propped his feet on the coffee table and watched Lena work. She knelt on the hardwood floor, digging the last of her belongings out of the trunk. One shiny, dark curl of hair had escaped her tight knot, and it grazed the elegant line of her jaw, swaying with her movements. Forward to the point of her chin, lingering just for an instant, then swinging back.

There was a definite disconnect between his brain and his body. His brain kept insisting it was just a lock of hair, but his breathing grew less steady the more the damned thing swayed.

“What if the FedEx guy doesn’t come?” she asked, refastening the brass latches.

“When I called the depot, they said the package would be delivered between nine a.m. and noon.” Man. Of all the women in the world, why did he have to want this one? He checked his watch. “It’s five twenty now, so he could be here in a couple of hours.”

“Or you may end up wasting half the day.”

“In that case, I might have to resort to watching TV,” he said dryly. Watching her the entire time was out of the question.

A smile played around her lips. “That would be just awful. But certainly less sweaty than some of the other options.”

Damn. Just one tiny, teasing comment and his skin felt as if it were on fire. Having a vivid imagination had its drawbacks. “We could always get naked instead,” he offered breezily.

Her eyes lifted, and his heart stopped.

Christ. If she didn’t stop looking at him like that, he was not going to be responsible for his actions. He was way out of practice with flirting.

Lena rose to her feet in the most erotic unfolding of limbs he’d ever witnessed. Fluid, elegant, and supremely feminine. She stood there for a moment, staring at him with that openly sensual look in her eyes, and then she advanced.

His heart restarted, this time pumping blood thickly through his veins, hot and heavy, all in one direction: south. As he watched her close in on him, step by sexy step, her breasts bouncing ever so slightly, he briefly considered telling her to stop. She was dangerous, and he knew it. But he let her reach him instead. And when she bent toward him, engulfing him in her perfume, he closed his eyes and breathed her in.

The touch of her lips to his, satiny cool and honey sweet, ended all rational thought. He knew only that he wanted her. Badly. Had he really sworn off sex? God, why?

A quick grab and he had her beneath him on the sofa.

Her hand slipped under his sweater, hunting for skin, while his hand palmed her breast through her crisp cotton shirt. It overflowed his hand, the soft give of her flesh everything he had imagined and more. Groaning at the urgent scrape of her fingernails over the muscles of his back, he deepened her tentative kiss to a hungry joining of mouths, every inch of him pulsing with sudden, explosive need. He actually forgot, just for a second, about the object she’d artfully scooped off the side table.

Unfortunately, a second was all she needed to smack him on the head with it.

Only instinct saved him. When he felt the muscles in her shoulder bunch, he lifted his elbow and deflected the full force of her blow. The crystal paperweight made a lovely dent in his skull, but it didn’t knock him out.

“Goddamn it.” Pissed at his stupidity, he wrenched the heavy globe from her hand. “You’re really testing my resolve never to strike a woman.”

Dropping the paperweight onto the floor with a loud thud, he grabbed both her wrists and hauled them over her head. Then, just because he could, and because the heavy pulse of frustrated lust coursing madly through his body demanded he do so, he kissed her. Long and hard.

Just once.

“Stop trying to kill me.” He spoke quietly, looking deep into her eyes.

She was impossible to read. A slight flush colored her cheeks and her breathing was shallow—reactions he would normally attribute to arousal. But with Lena, who knew? Not trusting himself entirely, he let her go and rolled to his feet.

Really, when it came to this woman, his brain didn’t function properly. He knew she’d try to get away, knew she’d try to manipulate him, and still he’d given her an opening. Why?

She sat up. “You did strike me, you know. Back at the hotel in Nice.”

“No, I didn’t,” he said. “Murdoch did.”

“But you told him to do it.”

He nodded slowly. “I’ll accept that. I’m sorry.” But there was only so far down that road he was willing to go. “I have to warn you, though: Try to pulverize me again and the gloves are coming off. I’ll kick your ass as severely as I would any guy who did the same thing. Got it?”

Hussy that she was, she smiled. “You know I’m not going to stop trying to get away, don’t you?”

Hell, yeah, he knew. What he didn’t know was... “Why?”

Her eyelids dropped like shutters, closing him out.

“Why not just tell me the truth?” he demanded sharply, reacting to the loss. Damn it, for a brief moment, she’d been plain old Lena Sharpe, no lies, no artifice. Now she was back behind the mask. “Tell me why you stole the coins. I know there’s more to it than money, so share. Maybe I can help.”

She stood and walked over to the patch of early-morning sunlight streaming in the picture window. Staring at the run-down house across the street again, she said, “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, I told you a really good story. A touching, poignant story that convinced you I had a valid reason for taking the coins. Would you let me keep them? Be honest.”

Saving the world from Satan trumped a heartbreaking story any day. Satan and his hellish army would never let up, and he couldn’t afford to let up, either, even for a beautiful woman with the power to rock his world. Plus, the memory of the girl in the church—the starved face and bloodied clothing—still hung in the quiet spaces of his mind. “No.”

“Then I have nothing to say.” She spun around to face him. “Because the truth’s not even half that good.”

5

Lena was still dealing with Brian’s frustration when their cab pulled up in front of his elegant two-story ranch house in the hills above San Jose five hours later.

He thrust a wad of money at the cabdriver, grabbed her arm and his suitcase, and hauled them both up the steps to the wraparound porch. Hands full, he actually used a spell to shove open the door, which immediately gained him the attention of everyone inside the house.

A eans-clad man seated by the stone fireplace surged to his feet. Well built and tall. Several inches over six feet. “Webster, what in the blazes—” His gray-blue gaze fell on Lena. “Why did you bring her here?”

“Because I wanted to, that’s why.” Brian tossed his suitcase into a corner. His hold on her arm didn’t gentle. “And because I don’t have the fucking coins. They weren’t in the FedEx package. It was a goddamned chess set.”

“Brian.” One of the other occupants of the room stood up, a dark-haired woman with an easy smile. “How many times do I have to tell you to watch your language in front of Em?”

The blond teen curled up on the leather couch next to the young Hispanic Lena knew as Carlos rolled her eyes. “I hear way worse than the F-bomb at school, Mom.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to listen to it here, too.” The mother stepped forward, her hand extended. “Hi, I’m Rachel MacGregor. You must be Lena.”

Lena took her hand and immediately frowned. “You’re not a Gatherer.”

“No,” agreed Rachel, wrinkling her nose. “I still have a soul, thank goodness.”

“Rachel, love, why don’t you take Lena upstairs and settle her into a room?” suggested the big man by the fireplace. The much-discussed MacGregor, perchance? He certainly had the look of a warrior.

“Give her the room next to mine,” Brian said. “And take someone with you, in case she tries to run.”

The bearded Gatherer who’d traveled on the plane with them stood up. Murdoch. “I’ll go.”

For some reason, that offer seemed to annoy Brian. His body heat escalated dramatically. But beyond a glare, he said nothing to the other Gatherer. Instead, he tugged Lena a little closer and whispered in her ear, “Hurt Rachel and I’ll be very, very annoyed.”

“I would never—”

He cut off her protest with a kiss. A bold, full-on-the-lips buss. In front of everyone.

The public staking of claim sent a rush of heat up her throat and earned her frowns all around. Rachel recovered first. She pitched Brian a strange look, then guided Lena toward the maple stairs. Murdoch followed.

“Where’s your suitcase?” she asked.

“All I’ve got is my purse and what I’m wearing. He wasn’t in the mood to let me pack.”

“Oh. Well, you’re thinner than me but roughly the same height. A pair of my pajamas ought to do you for tonight.”

At the top of the staircase, they turned left. Rachel shook her head ruefully as she guided them down the hallway. “Gotta say, I didn’t see this coming.”

“What?”

The other woman bit her lip. “You and Brian. As an item.”

Lena was about to deny they were an item, but the clearly bemused look on Rachel’s face altered her comment. “Why is it such a surprise?”

“Because we thought he was a bloody queer,” said Murdoch.

“Gay,” Rachel said, reprimanding the bearded Scot with a frown. “We all thought he was gay. Well, all of us except Lachlan.”

Lena snorted. She couldn’t help herself. “What on earth would make you think that?”

Murdoch held up a big, square hand and counted on his fingers. “He shops incessantly, he gets his nails manicured at a damned spa, and he hasn’t dated, not once, since we’ve known him. Rather obvious, I’d say.”

“But he’s so ...”

“Big and masculine-looking?” Rachel nodded. “He put on most of that weight in the last few months, training with Lachlan. We just figured he was compensating.”

Murdoch grunted. “Admit it, lass. He’s awful pretty for a man.”

Pretty? Not in a million years. Brian’s good looks were a heady blend of sensuality, strength, and dark promise. Had they never looked into the man’s eyes? Lena couldn’t believe anyone thought, even for a moment, that he was gay.

Rachel halted before a six-paneled wooden door, turned the antique brass knob, and threw it wide. Inside was a heavy, four-poster maple bed with a lovely cedar blanket chest at the foot. The decor was classic southwestern, dominated by browns, green, oranges, and creams. A woven area rug covered the knotted pine flooring, and she even had a fireplace.

“This house is beautiful,” she said.

“I think so, too. Brian hired a wonderful designer from San Diego,” responded Rachel. “Lachlan, Emily, and I have our own cabin out back. Not as nice as this, but bright and airy, perfect for us. Stefan and Dika live in their mobile home and most of the Gatherers have a room in the bunkhouse. Only Murdoch and Carlos stay here in the main house with Brian.”

“A house full of men,” Lena said dryly.

“Yes,” Rachel said. “If that makes you feel nervous, there’s a lock on the door.”

“A lock can’t hold us off.” Murdoch leaned against the doorjamb with his arms folded over his massive chest. “Besides, the lass doesn’t qualify for privacy.”

“Why not?”

“Until we get the coins,” Murdoch said, “she’s under house arrest.”

“Oh.” This time, Rachel had trouble meeting Lena’s eyes. She flashed a weak smile. “Freshen up a bit, and then come join us downstairs. I’ll make sure you get something to eat.”

Then she left.

Lena studied Murdoch. Untrimmed beards were sadly out of fashion, but the man sported his wild scruff with a singular arrogance. And it suited him, somehow. His eyes were nice-the color of warm sherry. But retrieving the fourteenth coin was vital, and even large men with nice eyes could be brought to their knees.

“Before you consider taking me on,” he said, offering her a friendly glimpse of white teeth, “you should know who and what you’re dealing with. In my time, they called me a berserker. A bit touched in the head, ya might say. I’m already serving my second term with Death, so there’s little I would consider off-limits, action-wise. Even dropping a lass.”

She believed him.

Unlike Brian, who she instinctively knew would avoid hurting her, Murdoch had no such qualms. His resolve reflected clearly in his eyes. And while she was fully prepared to suffer injury in the fulfillment of her task, wasted effort was an entirely different matter.

“Thanks for the warning,” she said.

Lena opened the door to the bathroom and stepped inside. With Murdoch watching, she turned on the tap and washed the heat of a California spring day from her face.

When the time came to escape, she’d need to pick her moment well.

“By God, are you defending her?” MacGregor asked, leaning across the desk.

“No.” Despite the heavy scowl and menacing stance of the other man, Brian held his ground. His library, his desk, his turf. “I’m just saying I think she has her own misguided reasons for taking the coins.”

“And what would those be?”

“Don’t know. She won’t say.”

“Murdoch says she’s simply after the money.”

Brian’s hackles rose. “And you’re going to take that moron’s word over mine?”

His friend skewed him a hard stare. “I believe there’s a possibility you’re no’ seeing this woman for what she truly is. That you’re thinking with your cock instead of your brain.”

Since Brian had considered that possibility himself, he couldn’t very well fault MacGregor for thinking the same thing. “There’s a bit of that,” he admitted. “But she’s lying about the money angle. I can see it in her eyes.”

“No one else sees it. Even Carlos called her a coldhearted bitch.”

“Yeah, well, they’re wrong.”

MacGregor eased away from the big campaign desk. His elbow knocked the pull chain on the brass lamp, sending it swinging. “Murdoch’s more insightful than you give him credit for.”

“Gimme a break.” Yeah, the guy had five hundred years over him, but older did not equal smarter. “If he was that good at reading people, how’d he manage to piss off Death and earn himself a second stint in purgatory?”

“Let’s just say there were extenuating circumstances and leave it at that.”

“Bullshit.”

The other man remained silent for a moment, then asked, “Any idea what she did with the coins?”

“She doesn’t have them on her—I can promise you that. She left them in France. I snooped in her iPhone for clues, but there are no messages in there at all, new or old. Is there any way we could verify her movements after she left Duverger’s estate?”

“Without access to the database?” MacGregor shook his head. “No.”

“Damn.” Brian tapped the computer keyboard and brought up Google Maps. “There’s not a lot she could have done in fifteen minutes. Best guess is she handed them off to a courier.”

“If so, the exchange was well orchestrated.” MacGregor sighed. “Isn’t there a chance you’re wrong, Webster? Isn’t it possible she’s exactly what she appears to be, a professional thief out to make a big score?”

“Yeah, there’s a chance,” Brian said quietly. Lena was a proven liar. “But I’m going with my gut. I think there’s more to her.”

MacGregor studied the tips of his Rockports for a moment, then lifted his gaze. “I’ll leave you to handle her, then. I’ve a lot of faith in your gut.” He straightened. “Which, conveniently, brings me to my second topic.”

An ego stroke followed by a change of subject? Uh-oh. Had to be bad news. “Can’t I have a moment to savor the compliment? That was a compliment, right?”

“I’m meeting with Simon Reed tomorrow, and I’d like you to go with me.”

“The Protectorate asshat?”

“Aye.” MacGregor smiled. “But please don’t call him that to his face.”

“Why bring me? The guy’s a big gun. He won’t appreciate some no-name Gatherer listening in on the conversation.”

“Actually, he’s looking forward to meeting you.” The other man pointed to Brian’s open agenda. “Write it down. The meeting’s tomorrow at his office in San Francisco, ten a.m.”

“The North American magistrato wants to meet me? Why?”

“He wants to hear the story of how you recovered the coin, firsthand. I also told him you were replacing me as leader of our little group and you’d be his new contact.”

Brian’s blood froze. “You told him what?”

“We discussed this. I explained why I needed to step down, and you agreed.”

MacGregor had a very different recollection of the conversation than he did. “I agreed that it doesn’t make sense for a mortal man to lead a bunch of Soul Gatherers, but I never agreed to take on the job. In fact, I distinctly remember saying the idea was asinine.”

“Replacing me is no’ negotiable.”

“I get that,” Brian said. “But I’m not the guy you need. Honestly. My forte is selecting the perfect tie, not leading a bunch of badass knights into a war against Satan.”

“The other Gatherers listen to you.”

“No, they laugh at my jokes. Completely different thing, trust me.”

MacGregor didn’t rebut Brian’s comment. He simply crossed his arms and stared, letting his last words stand.

“Look,” Brian said, pimping his smile with a liberal dose of the charm that had made him a million-dollar producer at Merrill Lynch. “I’ve got no skin in this game. Murdoch has ten times more experience than I have. He’s the guy who should take over, not me.”

MacGregor’s eyes narrowed. “What is this, Webster?”

“What’s what?”

“Not five minutes ago, you tried to convince me that Murdoch was a twat. The notion of him ordering you about must make your stomach heave. And yet, you’re willing to bite the bullet and endure, rather than lead the group yourself. Why?”

Brian’s hand was halfway to his left elbow before he could stop it. To disguise the action, he scratched his forearm. “I just want what’s best for the Gatherers,” he said. “I may have my issues with Murdoch, but the guy was born to be a warrior. I can accept that he’s the better choice.”

“To borrow your terminology, bullshit.” MacGregor turned away in disgust. He paced over to the bookcase, then spun on his heels and returned to the desk. “Damn it, Webster. I’ve seen you in action. You never hesitate no matter what the odds, you never hold anything back, and you never, ever give up. I know you’re no’ a coward. Yet, you retreat with your tail between your legs every time I suggest you lead the men. Explain that to me.”

Brian bristled. He wasn’t afraid.

“I know my limits, that’s all,” he said tightly.

MacGregor was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Those limits are about to be tested. We don’t have time for a damned leadership contest. Satan is making his presence known in a very miserable way. Coups in South America, riots in Indonesia, and corporate scandals are popping up all over the bloody place. If I say you’re it, you’re it. Suck it up.”

He pushed past Brian and strode from the room. The door slammed behind him.

Brian reached out and halted the still-swaying lamp pull. Apparently Lena wasn’t the only one whose facade was crumbling. MacGregor had never completely bought his comic-sidekick routine, but he’d played along with it until now.

Until Brian started killing martial demons.

Fuck, it wasn’t as if he’d had a choice. Kind of a do-or-die thing. But there was no way he could let MacGregor put him in charge. The group wouldn’t stand a chance if that happened. Putting your life in the hands of a screwup like him was a surefire route to the morgue. All you had to do was hit the rewind button on his miserable, ugly past to know that.

He had to convince the stubborn bastard to change his mind.

But how?

By the time Lena returned to the living room, Brian had disappeared, and a brief pang of disappointment filled her chest. Even his perpetual smirk was preferable to a roomful of hardened stares. All chatter abruptly ceased when she entered, and the heaping bowls of popcorn and chicken wings on the square coffee table apparently couldn’t compete with a critical study of her face.

Murdoch led her around, introducing everyone.

“Tyrone Bale, Piers Atheborne, and Stefan Wahlberg,” he said, pausing in front of a plump man with a loose mop of black curls. From the depths of the sofa, Stefan extended his hand. But Lena didn’t shake it. In fact, she had a hard time remaining within five feet of the fellow.

“You’re the mage,” she said. Her pendant throbbed against her throat. The power of the ancient Egyptian amulet lay in its ability to sense dark Ba with uncanny ease, and its protest over Stefan Wahlberg was fierce.

He dropped his hand. “I am. How did you know?”

“You reek of dark magic. The stench of it oozes from your pores.”

There was a collective recoil from everyone in the room. Murdoch’s big hand tightened on her shoulder, but the mage merely raised a brow.

“Lena,” a male voice said coldly, “an apology is due Stefan. Around here, we don’t insult our friends.”

She spun around to face the man who’d just entered the room from the hallway. MacGregor. “It wasn’t an insult. Just the truth.”

“Words like reek and stench discredit your claim.” There was no give in those gray-blue eyes. “Apologize. Now.”

Lena debated her options. MacGregor was human—she could sense the pulse of a soul beneath his skin—but he was also very large and very powerful. And he had the support of everyone here; that much was clear. Challenging him would be foolish.

Slowly, she turned back to the mage.

“I beg your pardon for my inappropriate words,” she said carefully.

He smiled with genuine amusement. “Nicely phrased.”

Murdoch seemed to think it a good idea to move on. He steered her around the coffee table to the other sofa. “You’ve already met Rodriguez and this... this is Emily.”

He delivered the introduction as if it ought to be accompanied by a drumroll, but the significance was lost on Lena. Emily appeared to be a regular girl in her mid-teens. Slim of build, she had long blond hair with black streaks, light blue eyes, and a heart-shaped face that hinted at a family connection with Rachel.

“You’re Rachel’s daughter.”

“Yup.”

“Has anyone told you that socializing with Gatherers is dangerous?” She nodded to the young man who had his cobra-tattooed arm slung over Emily’s shoulders. “If he’s currently harboring a soul, a demon could attempt to kill him at any time.”

Emily shrugged. “The last guy I dated was a demon, so Carlos is a giant step up.”

Lena stared at her, trying to decide whether the girl was kidding.

“Did I miss anything?” asked Brian, entering the room. His silvery gaze found hers immediately. He crossed the floor to her side and, without any fanfare, knocked Murdoch’s hand off her shoulder. For some inexplicable reason, that made Lena smile.

“Nothing much,” said Carlos. “Your girlfriend is being her usual charming self.”

Brian pitched Lena a frown. “What did she say?”

“Nothing worth repeating.” MacGregor scooped Rachel out of the big armchair by the fireplace and sat down with her in his lap. Something of a ritual, it would seem, judging by the ease with which the maneuver was executed. “I’ve a new group of trainees starting on Monday. I need a volunteer to get them settled in the bunkhouse. Any takers?”

The African-American man, Tyrone, put up his hand. “Yo.”

“Thank you, Bale. I’ll also need a full-time buddy for Lena,” MacGregor said. Noting Brian’s ascending hand, he quickly added, “Someone other than Webster.”

The room fell silent.

As the silence lengthened and gazes dropped to the floor, Lena crossed her arms over her chest. No problem, she felt exactly the same way.

“Come on, people,” MacGregor prompted grimly. “Don’t make me kick your arses.”

Emily elbowed Carlos. After exchanging a pained glance with the girl, the young man reluctantly volunteered. “I’ll do it.”

Excellent. The boy couldn’t weigh more than 150 pounds soaking wet.

“Sweetheart,” Brian whispered in Lena’s ear, “don’t get your hopes up. He’s a lot stronger than he looks. He’s only eighteen, but the kid’s tough as hell.”

Maybe, but judging by the young man’s Goth-style clothing, he was new to gathering, and new meant beat-able. Besides, his motivation was merely to please his girlfriend, while hers was—

“Let’s go upstairs,” Brian added, his warm breath stirring the fine hairs around her ear. The suggestive promise in his voice evoked a tiny ripple of anticipation.

Which she ignored. “I’m not tired.”

“Who said anything about resting?” he murmured. Louder, he said to the group, “Lena and I are jet-lagged, so we’re turning in early. We’ll catch you guys in the morning.”

Then he took her hand, grabbed his suitcase, and threaded his way through the people to the stairs.

“No one is buying the jet-lagged story,” Lena said as they climbed. His thumb caressed the top of her hand in a slow, steady rhythm, spawning goose bumps on her arms. “They all know Gatherers don’t need sleep.”

He shot her a quick grin. “I know, but the truth would’ve earned me an ass-kicking from Rachel.”

Digging in her heels, she forced him to stop in front of her bedroom door. “And what exactly is the truth?”

“That we’re sleeping together.”

“No,” she said firmly, “we’re not.”

He leaned past her, twisted the knob, and opened her door. “Yes, we are. If you prefer to crash in your room instead of mine, that’s fine. But we’re sharing a bed.”

Closing her eyes, Lena breathed in the heady scent of his citrus cologne and savored the press of his muscled arm. It was all too easy to imagine getting lost in his embrace, feeling the comforting strength of his body wrapped around hers. Allowing him to coax and tease her to the pinnacle of desire. “No.”

“Babe?”

Her eyes popped open, instantly meeting his. Not surprising, since they were bare inches from her face. The surprising part? Beneath the usual lazy humor lay a raw honesty that reached deep into her chest and stole her breath.

“You’re not fooling anyone,” he said quietly. “Least of all me.”

“You think I’m attracted to you.”

He pushed her gently into the room, propped his suitcase against the dresser, then closed the door. “No, I know you’re attracted to me. The missing piece of the puzzle is how long it will take before you succumb to the pull.”

Lena pretended she didn’t see him depress the door lock.

“Really?” she scoffed. “Hate to break it to you, Webster, but that come-on back at my place? I was faking.”

Another grin, this one deep enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes. “Really? The way your breathing got all raspy and your nipple puckered in my palm, I could’ve sworn it was the real thing.”

Bastard. “I’m not sleeping with you.”

“Quit arguing.” He crossed to the bed, picked up the plaid pajama bottoms and tank top draped over the pillow, and held them up. “Cute. Wouldn’t have nailed you for a pink person, though.”

She snatched the intimate garments out of his hands. “They’re Rachel’s.”

He frowned at that. “I’m going into San Francisco tomorrow. Give me your sizes and I’ll pick you up some new clothes.”

Despite her determination not to, Lena blushed. No man except her father had ever bought her clothes. Azim had wanted to, but he’d been easily dissuaded by her gentle refusals. “No, thank you.”

“You can’t keep wearing what you’ve got on.”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you hauled me out of my home without a chance to pack,” she retorted. She laid the pajamas back on the bed, smoothing out the wrinkles.

“I was pissed.”

Annoyed that his words didn’t carry even a hint of apology, she glared at him. “I’ll just wash my clothes each night.”

“For three months?”

“I’m not stay—” She halted, catching the look in his eye. Focused completely on returning to L.A., she’d forgotten Death had approved her training with MacGregor.

Brian ran a finger lightly over her cheek.

“Tell me the truth about the coins,” he urged softly. “You know you’re going to tell me eventually. Why not get it off your chest now? You’ll feel a lot better.”

The truth? Lena’s stomach tightened into a hard knot. No, she couldn’t tell him the truth. Brian was one of the good guys, driven to save the world from disaster, and he liked to believe everyone else had the same goal. It would shock him to learn that her reasons for handing off the coins off to a demon were selfish ones. The consequences of Satan acquiring the coins were devastating. It hadn’t been easy to arrive at her decision to go through with the deal, and guilt ate at her every time she thought about it. It was clearly not the right thing to do. But this one time, in this one special case, the right thing had to be ignored. Just this once, saving the one outweighed saving the many.

But Brian would never accept that. Between his passionate justification to Death and his resolute response back in L.A., that much was certain.

If he had even an inkling of her plan, he would stop her.

So she had to act swiftly and decisively. Find the fourteenth coin and get out. Even a short delay could jeopardize Heather’s life. And Heather was all she had left. “The truth is, I’ve got a buyer for the coins and I want to leave so I can close the deal.”

Her words rang with sincerity—as they should—and Brian frowned. “Maybe you and I can make a different deal.”

“Are you offering me a million dollars?”

“Cut the crap,” he said gently. “Spin that tale for everyone else if you want, but I’m not buying it. This client of yours has something you want. Maybe I can help you get it.”

The warmth in his eyes was so real and the offer of solace was so tempting.

But the compromise he imagined wasn’t possible. The coins were the only deliverable the demons would accept, and she knew all too well what failure to fulfill their demands would mean. She’d paid too steep a price for her resistance already. She could not afford to pay any more.

“The equivalent in gold or diamonds would also be acceptable.”

Frustration flared in his eyes. His hand lifted, and she braced herself. But she misunderstood the route his punishment would take. His fingers dug roughly into the loosened knot of her hair, cupped the back of her head, and yanked her lips to his.

It was a very different kiss from the one they’d shared on her sofa back in L.A. The edgy sexual tension was still there, but it was buried beneath an obvious desire to bend her to his will. His mouth claimed hers with bruising force, his hot tongue demanding entry, and getting it. It was an unrelenting sensual siege.

She could have pushed back. She had the strength.

But not the desire.

His kiss rippled through her body like an electrical current, sending tiny ohms of pleasure in all directions. A damp heat rolled over her, down between her breasts to her belly, leaving nothing but trembling need in its wake. Her fingers splayed across his chest, savoring the soft slide of cashmere over the chiseled flesh beneath. It had been a long time since a man made her feel this way. Too long. Lena yielded to the kiss, wrapping her arms about Brian’s neck and drawing him closer.

Abruptly, he shoved her away.

“Fuck,” he said hoarsely.

“I thought that’s what you wanted,” she said, her words breathless. There was a strange look in his eyes, a gleam of something dark and raw. It was gone before she could label it. “Isn’t that why you came to my room? To have sex?”

“Actually, no.”

The emphasis he placed on no stung. “Then why come in?”

“I drew the short straw. I’m the one who has to keep an eye on you tonight.”

“Liar.”

He laughed, a heavy gust of genuine humor. “Okay, you caught me. I volunteered. But only because I wouldn’t get a wink of sleep anyway. Not with Murdoch in here.”

So, he was jealous. That took away the sting.

“And I’m going to be away tomorrow morning, so I figured I’d better take my shift now.”

Lena’s heartbeat slowed. That would be her best chance, then, while Brian was gone and she was under the watchful eye of young Carlos. Wasting it was not an option. But that meant this night with Brian would be her last, and wasting that didn’t make any sense, either.

Sex was usually something Lena could take or leave. A well-executed heist and a slab of chocolate provided the same satisfaction.

But her attraction to Brian was anything but usual. Everything about him appealed to her—his bold good looks, his sense of humor, and even his ability to stay one step ahead of her. The excitement started with a single lazy glance and rose to fever pitch with a flirtatious touch. She’d never felt so hot and so needy and ... so empty. Not even with Azim. And since everything of value in her life was measured against those precious months with Azim, that said a lot.

Yes, it was crazy to consider having sex with Brian—their relationship measured in mere hours, days if she really pushed it. But she didn’t want this to be one of those moments that clung to her with unbearable regret. Too many lost opportunities already haunted her.

Lena tugged the pins from her hair and shook the thick waves free, encouraging them to fall past her shoulders to the middle of her back.

Instantly, she had Brian’s full attention.

His gaze left her hair only when her fingers undid the first button of her collared shirt, extending the open vee another few inches downward.

“Rather than me telling you my sizes, maybe you should take some measurements,” she said, undoing another button, exposing the delicate edges of her lacy white bra. At the same time, she kicked off her ballet flats, letting them fall where they might.

His breathing had all but stopped; his broad chest was barely moving. His heartbeat, on the other hand, had apparently kicked into high gear, adding a faint suggestion of color to his cheekbones and a dark gleam to his eyes. Almost every muscle in his body clenched with spring-coil tension, telegraphing his readiness to pounce.

She undid the last two buttons and parted her shirt wide.

He swallowed.

She smiled. Dying at the tender age of twenty-three had its advantages. Her skin would forever remain smooth and unwrinkled, plump and full of youthful vitality. Her breasts and hips would stay eternally lush, waist eternally slim, belly eternally flat. This body had caused her downfall a hundred years ago—tonight it would cause Brian’s.

The shirt fell to the floor, a soft whisper of cotton on wood.

Brian stood absolutely still, caught in the eye of a storm.

“I’m betting,” he said, his voice deepening to a smoky rumble, “that bra is the most expensive item in your wardrobe. It would take a very talented designer to make something that exquisite out of what appear to be wisps of nothing.”

“I have a weakness for French lingerie,” she admitted, her fingers moving lower, to the button of her chinos. Popping it open. Watching his hands fist at his sides—recognizing it as an outlet for the mounting tension in his body—excited her. The zipper rasped downward.

“Okay, whoa.” When his strangled words failed to stop her from peeling back the top portion of her trousers, baring the unblemished skin that hugged her hip bones, he barked, “Stop.”

“Why?”

His gaze lifted, slowly, dragging up her exposed body inch by rueful inch, his expression not unlike that of a starving man who’d just refused a bread roll straight from the oven. “Because we’re not doing this.”

“Why not?”

He turned away. He actually turned away. “It’s a bad idea.”

Unable to believe she’d lost him so quickly, so decisively, in less than a heartbeat, Lena snapped, “But you said we were sharing a bed.”

“Yeah, well, I say a lot of stupid things.” He flicked the switch for the gas fireplace, settled himself in the armchair, and put his feet on the ottoman. Unfolding a copy of the Mercury News he discovered on the side table, he began to read. “Doesn’t mean I should follow through with them.”

“So sleeping with me would be stupid?”

“Completely asinine,” he confirmed.

Lena glared for a moment, then snatched the pink tank top off the bed and yanked it over her head. By God. Next time—if there ever was a next time—he would have to beg. On his knees. With words more beautiful and inspired than the finest Mikimoto pearl. She dispensed with her trousers in two sharp tugs, tossed them aside, then pulled on the plaid pajama bottoms. Throwing back the quilted duvet, she leapt on the bed.

Even then, she might deny him. Because, by all that was heaven, after leaving her this frustrated and wanting, he owed her a very large heap of groveling.

Much gnashing of teeth and churning of bedcovers later, she lay quiet, eyes closed.

“Sweet dreams,” Brian murmured.

Several colorful curses rose to her lips, but none of them did her sense of loss justice. The truth was, there’d never be a repeat performance. Her chance was gone.

“Get stuffed.”

6

MacGregor clambered out of the black Audi, waited for Brian to tuck his purchases for Lena in the trunk, then locked the car with his electronic key fob. After a quick check for morning traffic, the Gatherer Trainer led the way across the street to a sky-scraping, glass-encased office tower. “I want you to take the lead with Reed.”

“Why?”

His friend threw him a wry glance as they entered the building. “Diplomacy, thy name is not Lachlan MacGregor.”

“You pissed him off?”

“It was surprisingly easy to do.” The other man punched the elevator button. “The man has an aversion to the word no.”

“Sounds like the two of you have something in common.”

“You’re the silver-tongued salesman,” MacGregor said. “And the lad with all the questions. You do the talking.”

Brian let himself be swayed. It suited him to be the mouthpiece today. “I’d certainly like to understand how O’Shaunessy ended up in that stairwell. He was supposed to meet with me an hour later.”

“Perhaps the two events are linked.”

“Maybe.” Brian shrugged. “Hard to know when all he said was that he had vital information about a Gatherer.”

Reed’s office was on the twenty-second floor and the ride up took less than three minutes. The doors opened into a wide lobby full of modern leather and chrome furnishings scattered with a few priceless heirlooms. No sign anywhere indicating the name of the business. Just a slim, earnest young man seated behind a half-moon desk.

“Lachlan MacGregor and Brian Webster to see Simon Reed.”

“Yes, of course,” the young man said. No smile. In fact, no expression at all. A Protectorate zombie. “He’s expecting you. Right this way.”

They were escorted down a wood-paneled corridor splashed with artistic black-and-white photos of various churches around the world. Brian grimaced as he noted a wide-angle shot of St. Pat’s, probably taken from Rockefeller Center. The Gothic-style cathedral didn’t look quite as lovely now.

Their guide opened a set of double doors and ushered them inside a corner office the size of a soccer field, where a balding man with a Jay Leno chin sat behind an antique cherry desk. No clerical garb, but the ruthless cut of his gray suit combined with a stark white shirt lent him a distinctly serious air. He lifted his gaze as the two men approached.

“Gentlemen,” he acknowledged, dismissing his young employee with a cavalier wave of his hand. “Good of you to come on such short notice. Sit, please. If you don’t mind, I’ll skip the pleasantries and get right down to business. I’m sure all of us have better things to do than waste time with idle chatter.”

Brian frowned as he sank onto one of the two leather armchairs in front of the desk. Inane comments about the weather were one thing, a polite handshake and standing as a guest entered the room quite another.

“I understand you were the one to recover the coin, Mr. Webster.”

Brian met Reed’s gaze. “Yes.”

“Could you describe the culprit for me?”

“Sure. Red and gray, big as a house, nasty spiked tail.”

“No, no.” The magistrato wrinkled his nose. “I mean the one who actually stole the coin. The girl.”

Brian stiffened. “Look, Mr. Reed. I—”

“Dr. Reed.”

He accepted the silky correction with a nod. “Dr. Reed. I don’t think you quite get how this went down. The girl was not the culprit. She saved your coin from a demon.”

“With your limited view of the big picture, I can understand why you would think that.” The magistrato smiled. “Are you aware that a Protector died that same day? A very talented and honorable man who vowed to keep those coins safe even if it meant sacrificing his life?”

Condescending bastard.

“Yeah, I figured that out when Uriel mentioned there were seventeen coins in New York.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Uriel—”

“Mr. Webster,” Reed said coldly, “please stop. You do not simply toss an archangel’s name about like a dog’s bone. His Glory is so far above your station, young man, you’re lucky to have ever looked upon his hallowed person.”

“Guess I’m not up on the proper protocol,” Brian said, shrugging. “Though frankly, he didn’t seem like the stand-on-airs kinda guy.”

“He forgave your disrespect. That doesn’t mean you should continue.”

Brian forced his gaze down, studying the paisley pattern on his Brioni tie. He used to be so good at this smarmy bullshit. But somewhere along the way, he’d lost a boatload of patience. Blowing this meeting was going to be a lot easier than he thought. “Fine. His Glory. Got it. What’s your point about the girl?”

“She led Father O’Shaunessy into a demon ambush. That’s how he lost the coins.”

“Wait a sec. You’re saying she was working with the demons?” Brian snorted. She’d held on to that coin right to the end, struggled with everything she had to escape. “No way.”

“Did she have skin contact with the coin?”

“Yes.”

Reed shrugged. “Then the facts speak for themselves. Once she touched the coin, she turned on her cohorts.”

“Uh, her soul went to heaven. Not hell.”

“Only because she begged for God’s forgiveness with her dying breath.”

“Let’s assume you’re right.” Just saying that left a sour taste in his mouth. “Why are the demons so hot to collect the coins, anyway? What’s their significance?”

Reed frowned. “I thought you understood the power they possess.”

“Yeah, the betrayal thing. I got that. But there’s more to this than Satan looking to acquire a new toy. Here we are, just a few months after he nearly got his hands on the Pontius Pilate Linen, and now he’s after the Judas coins. Coincidence? I don’t think so. They’re linked somehow.”

“You mean other than that they are both items associated with the Crucifixion.”

“Maybe Satan is trying to collect all the crucifixion relics. Maybe when he gets them all, he can erase the collective human knowledge of the event and kill religion, or something.”

“That’s very creative.” The doctor sat back in his chair, the plastic casters rolling on the hardwood. “But if your theory were true, attempts would have been made on prominent crucifixion relics such as the Shroud of Turin, the Holy Coat, the Crown of Thorns, or the numerous pieces of the Holy Rood. There’s been no demon activity surrounding any of them.”

“It’s possible they’re fakes,” Brian said. A soothing tone would have taken the heat down a notch, but that wouldn’t serve his purpose. “Maybe the only real artifacts are the Linen and the Judas coins.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Reed leaned across the desk, sending his gold pen spinning. “I can assure you that although a few of the relics are questionable in origin, the majority have been authenticated by the Protectorate.”

“Okay,” Brian said. He avoided looking at MacGregor, who was frowning. “His Glory Archangel Uriel mentioned there were a number of relics that were known to be dark. Are all the dark relics connected somehow? Does Satan get some extra buzz if he manages to acquire all of them?”

“True relics cannot be dark. Anything touched by the Son of God possesses a shining virtue that cannot be shadowed.”

Brian snorted. “So the Pontius Pilate Linen is a fake?”

Reed shook his head. “Not a fake. We’ve had possession of the Linen almost consistently since the moment Pontius Pilate wiped his hands with it. It’s the real thing. But the Son of God never touched it. It is not a holy relic per se.”

“What?” MacGregor surged to his feet. “If it’s no’ a holy relic, why in the blazes don’t we destroy the damned thing?”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t significant,” Reed said, frowning. “It is part of the journey Jesus made to save our souls. We would never destroy it. The same is true for the Judas coins.” His gaze returned to Brian. “To the best of my knowledge, there are no other dark relics, so I can hardly present you with a list.”

“Are you sure?”

“Did His Glory suggest we should be looking for others?”

“No,” Brian admitted. “But he hinted there were more. Satan is up to something.”

“Be that as it may, you’re looking in the wrong place for answers.” Reed shot a hard look at MacGregor. “I understand one of your own is in possession of the other thirteen coins. A female Gatherer by the name of Lena Sharpe.”

Brian didn’t give MacGregor the opportunity to smooth things over. “Where did you hear that?”

The doctor unclipped his BlackBerry from his waist and held it up. “A man in my position must have his sources. Coincidently, Father O’Shaunessy’s journal says he was scheduled to meet with a Gatherer on the day he was slain.”

Brian blinked. Yeah. Him. “Lena was never in New York.”

“Better check your facts,” Reed said. “The blood found in the stairwell at Saks Fifth Avenue had no viable DNA. Our labs are analyzing it to be certain, but I suspect we’ll find it’s Gatherer blood. From a female.”

“What? You suggesting she’s working with the demons, too?”

“Actually, yes.”

“Oh, come on. Her job is to kill the bastards.”

“I’m sure it’s difficult for her to maintain appearances.”

Brian was on his feet before he realized he was genuinely angry. Before he had time to wonder why an insult to Lena’s honor bugged him so much. “Look, you arrogant prick. All you’ve done since we walked in is sneer. Hate to point it out, but it was a Gatherer who saved your Protectorate ass with the Linen, and I personally had to beat down a martial demon to keep another one of your precious relics safe. Show some fucking respect.”

Reed stood up, his face cold. “I think we’re done.”

“Goddamned right we’re done.” Brian tugged on his tie knot. “Maybe next time we stumble across a demon with his hands in your cookie jar, we’ll look the other way.”

“My assistant will show you out.”

On cue, the door at Brian’s back clicked open. Not waiting for zombie boy, Brian marched out of the office, down the corridor, and into the granite-tiled lobby. This time it was he who jabbed the button. The meeting had ended on a hotter note than he anticipated, but the result was exactly what he’d hoped for: Reed despised him.

The elevator arrived with a soft ding, and the doors slid open. When they were speeding toward the ground floor once more, MacGregor said quietly, “The goal was to coax information out of the man, no’ have him send us on our way with his boot up our arses.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He’d accomplished his goal. He could afford to be gracious.

“Don’t apologize. My last meeting with Reed ended on a very similar note, but I had hopes you’d do a little better.”

“I guess I’m not the smooth talker you thought I was.”

“Reed’s a simpleton.”

Brian finished removing his tie, rolled it neatly, and tucked it in his pocket. MacGregor was being far too nice. Where was the anger? Wasn’t he the least bit pissed off that Brian had screwed up the meeting? “He’s also a liar.”

“You still believe the thefts are linked?”

“Now more than ever. Did you see his face when I suggested Satan might be collecting all the crucifixion relics? I thought he was going to pop a blood vessel. He was too confident about the Shroud of Turin for my crazy-ass guess to be true, but that whole conversation about the dark relics completely freaked him out.”

They left the building and crossed the street to the car. “Unfortunately,” MacGregor said, sliding behind the wheel, “he was our only hope for official information. Most of the Protectorate hierarchy won’t give us the time of day.”

“Why not?”

“They don’t put much faith in sinners. We also supplement our primal powers with heathen magic, and as far as the Protectorate is concerned, that’s heresy.”

“Now what? There must be another way to figure out if Satan is hunting down specific relics.”

MacGregor started the S6’s powerful engine, then merged effortlessly into the city traffic. “When I asked Stefan about the relics, he said Christian lore was not his area of expertise. A carefully hedged response that suggests someone inside his organization is an expert. There’s a very good chance the Romany Council has information that can help.”

“Can Stefan do some digging for us?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” MacGregor answered. “He’s still on the sanctioned mages list, but he’s seen as a black sheep. He’d likely do us more harm than good by getting involved.”

“So we’re on our own. Any idea where we find the Romany Council?”

“This time of year? Romania.”

“Great.” Brian groaned. “Another trip to Europe.”

MacGregor nodded. “But not for you, for me. I need you to stay here and keep working on Lena Sharpe. She knows where those coins are, and your job is to find them.”

“Uh, you’ve got new trainees showing up on Monday.”

“Murdoch can look after them.”

Brian breathed a sigh of relief. For a second there, he thought his efforts had been wasted and MacGregor was going to leave him in charge.

“But if you’d prefer to assign one of the others to the task, I’m amenable.”

“What?”

MacGregor accelerated up the ramp to the highway. “I’m appointing you the leader in my absence. In addition to holding down the fort, I need you to keep an eye on Emily. I’ll be taking Rachel with me to Romania, but with Satan turning up the heat, the Trinity Soul can’t afford to break from her training.”

Brian leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Arguing would be pointless. Changing MacGregor’s mind was like trying to move the Rocky Mountains with a bulldozer.

“Sure, no problem.”

But goddamn it, the world must have flipped on its axis when he wasn’t looking. First the coins, then Lena, and now the entire Gatherer team.

He’d become a freaking magnet for responsibility.

Lena waited for just the right moment.

Just after breakfast, young Carlos took her on a tour of the ranch. They walked north, away from the long, paved driveway leading up from the main road. Beyond the brick retaining wall, the manicured lawn and green, leafy trees gave way to patches of dry scrub grasses and sporadic copses of straggly bushes. The cicadas droned their soporific song and the halo around the morning sun implied that the temperature would continue to climb, but for now, the heat was bearable.

A visit to the stables and a few minutes spent tossing bread crumbs into the well-stocked fishpond lulled Carlos into a relaxed, if somewhat somber mood. As they neared the top of the hill that overlooked the entirety of the ranch, Lena decided the time was right. She wrapped her hand around the gold amulet, murmured the search incantation under her breath, and waited for the images to flood her mind.

Which they swiftly did.

A picturesque bungalow with lots of windows. A secret room behind the pantry. A vault that shimmered with the magic of several barrier spells... and the coin. Relief softened the tight knots of her stomach muscles. It was here, in the smaller dwelling Rachel and Lachlan MacGregor claimed as theirs.

Lena dropped to her haunches and adjusted the lace of her boot. Escaping her young jailer was the next order of business.

“The weather is so much nicer here than in L.A.,” she said. “Not so hot.”

The boy paused alongside her, doing a quick scan of their surroundings. “I guess.”

While his eyes were busy searching the horizon for possible dangers, she braced both hands in the rough grass, leaned to one side, and snap-kicked his knee with every ounce of Gatherer power she could summon. It was a perfectly executed kick, directed at the weakest part of his leg. It should have taken him to the ground. At the very least, it should have knocked him off balance, and might have, if the blow had landed.

But he grabbed her foot midswing.

Accurately. Effortlessly. Without a glance in her direction.

Lena had seen her fair share of amazing moves—Gatherers had incredible reflexes—but this was something more. His hand had been a blur, latching onto her ankle with a startling mix of precision and strength. Almost like he’d known where her leg would be and simply put his hand in the right spot.

Carlos’s gaze dropped to meet hers.

“Don’t try that again,” he said quietly.

The relentless darkness in his brown eyes sent a shiver up her spine. Evil lingered there, barely leashed. Not the same evil she’d come to recognize as a thrall demon, but evil nonetheless. And if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, her amulet would have confirmed it. It vibrated against her damp skin like a tuning fork. Something was wrong with the boy. Seriously wrong. He was so far outside the norm of a teenage human, or even a Gatherer, she wasn’t sure how to label him.

She nodded.

Very few things frightened her anymore, not after the horrible death she had endured. But Carlos Rodriguez made her hands sweat.

He gently released her leg, then turned and headed up the hill. His long black trench coat grazed the tops of his combat boots as he walked. “Come on, the view of the valley from the ridge is totally awesome.”

Lena got to her feet. It must have been the mother in her that prompted her next words, because she had the sense that she risked her very existence in uttering them. “Do you think it’s wise to be dating Emily?”

He halted. For a long moment, he simply stood there, unmoving, his back to her.

“No,” he said, finally. “I don’t think it’s wise.”

“Then maybe you should walk away.”

“I can’t do that.” Carlos turned. The moil of evil had retreated from his gaze, replaced by a sad smile. “She’s the only thing stopping me from coming completely unglued. Sure, I worry that I might hurt her, but it scares me way worse to imagine going on without her. I don’t think I can do it. And I don’t think I’d be doing anyone any favors if I lost control, do you?”

She swallowed. “No.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured.” He spun on his heel and continued his upward trek.

Lena glanced down the hill toward the MacGregor bungalow. She’d gotten mixed up with a bunch of lunatics. Dangerously competent lunatics. Stealing the coin and making a smooth getaway were going to be more difficult than she had originally planned. But Tariq was due to arrive at LAX in twelve hours, which meant she was running out of time. The Egyptian man knew the value of the coins. If she didn’t meet him at the drop point, there was no telling what he would do.

Brian studied the disgruntled faces of his inherited troops, then heaved MacGregor’s last suitcase into the trunk. “When did you say you’d be back?”

“I didn’t.”

“Can’t take more than a week, can it?” He opened the passenger door for Rachel, who smiled her thanks. Once she was seated, he closed it with a light snap. “Day there, day back, a coupla days in between to powwow. Seems like that oughta do it.”

MacGregor met his gaze over the roof of the Audi. “Meeting with the council is unlikely to be that simple. They’re Gypsies—they move around. Plus, there’s protocol to be followed.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Do me and the whole world a favor—find the coins. So far the riots gathering steam in Western Europe haven’t reached Romania, but it will make my task a lot more complicated if I have to navigate angry mobs and homegrown terrorists to get my answers.”

Brian’s gaze slid left, settling on Murdoch’s huge frame and the much smaller woman standing next to him. The Scot had almost blown a gasket when MacGregor announced who would lead the group in his stead. Lena didn’t look much happier. “I’m all over it.”

“Don’t let me down, Webster.”

“Never.”

On that note, the other man slid into his car, started the engine, and sailed down the lane. Leaving Brian with a heaping plate of obligation.

“Bri?” Emily scurried to his side, beaming like a lotto winner. She was the only one happy with Lachlan and Rachel’s departure, gleefully anticipating a bout of teenage freedom. Which was why he’d insisted she pack a bag and move into the main house while her parents were gone. “Can we order pizza?”

“If you’re willing to go get it, sure.”

She pouted. “Oh, come on. It takes a half hour to drive to the pizza joint and another half hour to drive back. If we call for delivery, we can cut that time in half. It’s a silly rule, not letting us get deliveries.”

“I don’t give a shit if you think it’s silly.” He grabbed Lena’s elbow and tugged her toward the porch steps. “If you want pizza, get someone to take you into town.”

Murdoch smiled as he passed by, the smug twist of his lips suggesting Brian had bitten off more than he could chew with Emily.

Brian paused on the porch. “Murdoch, you’re in charge of the new trainees come Monday. Put together a lesson plan and show it to me in the morning.”

The big warrior stiffened at the order, but after a brief moment nodded his agreement.

Shoulders already feeling lighter, Brian added, “Atheborne, check with the cook and see if we need to order perishables from the grocery. Bale, do an inventory of the infirmary. Let’s make sure we have everything we need for minor emergencies. Carlos, you’ve got the bunkhouse. Are we ready to take in a dozen new Gatherers? If not, make it so. And Stefan, top up the armory. Guarantee me that next week will go as smoothly as possible.”

Then he dragged Lena into the house.

“You and I need to chat,” he said to Lena. The library was empty, so he drew her inside and closed the door. “I know you don’t want to spend your entire stay at the ranch locked in your room, so give them up. Where are the coins?”

“It’s not a silly rule.”

“What isn’t?”

“The one that says no one should be allowed to deliver goods to the ranch.”

Brian sighed. “I don’t really care. Can we talk about the Judas coins, please?”

“I told you, I don’t know where they are.”

“But you know who has them. This has gone way past serious, Lena. In the space of a week, the world has gone from relative peace to riots in Spain, an ousted prime minister in England, and an army rebellion in China. Satan is already kicking our asses with the coins he has—I can’t let him get hold of the others. This game you’re playing needs to stop. When are you scheduled to hook up with the courier?”

“I have no arrangement to meet with anyone.” Her gaze dropped to the desk. “You know, it will become quite tedious if you insist on asking me the same questions over and over again.”

There were several items on the desk, one of which was a digital clock. If time was a concern, maybe he should string things out a little. Turn the heat up, make her sweat. “Don’t worry, I’ve got some new ones. Starting with the FedEx package. Why bother to set that up? You must have sent the chess set before the heist, when you couldn’t have known I’d be on your tail.”

She shrugged. “Habit. I’m used to muddying my tracks.”

“And the method you used to track down the coins in the first place. How’d you do it?”

She rounded the desk, slid onto the leather office chair, and powered up the computer. “It was relatively straightforward. I began with the records of the Knights Templar and then followed the trail of wealth and betrayal right to Duverger’s door.”

Basically the same route he’d taken, although it had required a few leaps of logic to span the gaps in the records. “What about the New York coins? How did you find them?”

“Is that where the others are? New York?” She struck just the right note of interest and surprise. Eyes wide, mouth slightly parted, brows faintly knit. If she knew the location before he mentioned it, she hid the fact well.

“Were,” he corrected softly. “They’ve vanished.”

“That’s a shame. The full set would be worth a great deal more than a million dollars.”

“According to my pal at Sotheby’s, as much as five,” he agreed. It was easy to see how she’d survived this long as a Gatherer. She was damned smooth. “Which is why I’m positive you knew they were in New York.”

She shook her head. “I was only hired to snatch Duverger’s thirteen. No records of the other coins exist.”

Except inside the Protectorate. Which suggested she had an inside contact. O’Shaunessy? But then what would that say about her involvement in his death?

“I was in New York the day the coins were stolen,” he offered up. He needed to know the truth. Even if it was ugly. “Shopping at Saks.”

She went completely still. “Really?”

“On my list of worst days ever, it’s right up there. A martial demon tore up the store and the church across the street, and I had to collect the souls of way too many innocent bystanders.”

Her right hand flexed, then relaxed. “Martial demons are very large and powerful. Many a Gatherer has fallen to one.”

“The bastard almost killed me,” he agreed. “If I hadn’t been through the very same training you’re about to go through, I’m sure it would have. In the aftermath of the fight, I picked up one of the Judas coins. That’s how I got involved in all this.”

Her eyes drifted closed.

He studied the sharp angles of her beautiful face, wondering exactly what her role in the theft had been. Because as much as he wanted to believe otherwise, his gut was telling him she was involved somehow.

“Why were you in New York, Lena?”

7

Emily glared at the screen door of the ranch house.

“He treats me like a baby,” she said. Why hadn’t he given her a job? She was as capable of handling an assignment as Carlos or Bale. Maybe even more capable.

“Not a baby,” disputed Carlos, “a trainee. Which you are.”

“Yeah?” She tugged on Carlos’s hand. “Well, this trainee needs pizza. And if we don’t leave now, Murdoch will find me and drag me off to the arena.”

He held his ground, his dark stare level and firm. “As he should. You don’t need pizza. You need more practice.”

“I’m sick of training. That’s all I’ve done for seven months. Train, study. Study, train. All I want is a freakin’ slice of Meat Lover’s. That’s not asking too much, is it?”

His fingers threaded with hers, and he gently tugged her to his chest.

“Em, you need to be ready for what’s coming.” He kissed her nose. “You’re the Trinity Soul. People are counting on you. I know you’re capable of a lot more than you’re showing in practice. I can sense it. You just need to learn how to focus, how to tap into the primal energy stream.”

She grimaced. “You make it sound like I’m a Power Ranger or a Transformer or something. I’m not. I’m just me. Okay, yeah, an immortal me, but still regular old Em.”

The faintest suggestion of a smile graced his face, the little scar on his lip whitening. “If you’re a regular girl, I guess that makes me a regular guy.”

She grinned. A grin that quickly faded when she spotted Murdoch hauling her padded training gear into the arena. No one else had to wear that ridiculous outfit, just her. An immortal girl in padding. How crazy was that? “Regular girls and guys should enjoy regular activities. What’s one night out going to cost us? Please.”

“There’s plenty of frozen pizza at the bunkhouse. We can pop one of those in the oven.”

“It’s not the same. Frozen pizza tastes like cardboard.”

He stared at her, unmoved.

Emily sighed. “Fine, we’ll stay home.” Certain that Murdoch was going to turn around any second and spot her, she tugged harder on Carlos’s hand. “But I need a break, okay? Just one evening where I don’t have to train.”

With a shake of his head, he allowed her to lead him down the pea-gravel path. From here, her home was barely visible—only a couple of bleached cedar shingles from the roof peeked between the branches of a walnut tree.

“You don’t take your role seriously enough, Em.”

In the distance, Emily heard Murdoch call out her name.

She glanced over her shoulder. They were hidden behind the corner of the main house now, so even if Carlos dug in his heels, she’d get a brief reprieve. “I think the headaches are making you crusty. You used to like skipping out with me. Wasn’t all that long ago you got a thrill out of taking me to a rave or feeling me up in a dark theater.”

“I still do.” He stopped, forcing her to halt, too. The zesty scent wafting off the field of wild onions swirled around them. “But things are getting bad, Em. Satan’s starting to do some really evil shit.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“I never said it was.”

She turned back to look at Carlos. He’d grown his hair longer over the past six months, and it now hung in inky waves around his lean face. Almost as if he were trying to hide. His eyes were the same moody brown, though. The feature she’d fallen in love with and still found hard to resist.

“You expect me to fix it, though.”

“No,” he insisted. “I don’t. At least, not on your own. But you’ve been given a gift, Em. You know what you’re supposed to be. I’d give anything to have the insight you have, to have the purpose you have. I can’t understand why you don’t want to make the most of it.”

“Is that why you’re so mad at me all the time?”

“I’m not mad at you.”

“Are you kidding? I can feel the anger rolling off you. It even wakes me up in the middle of the night sometimes.”

Gravel crunched on the path, not too far behind them, but out of sight behind the myrtle hedge. “Emily?” Murdoch’s gruff voice floated on the sultry afternoon air.

She stood completely still, afraid to breathe. Soul Gatherers had superkeen hearing and they could pick up the smell of Viva La Juicy perfume even from behind closed doors. Lifting her eyes to meet Carlos’s, she sent him a silent plea not to give her away. Murdoch’s boot steps drew closer, and he called her name again. To Em’s immense relief, Carlos remained silent. They stood there, biting their lips for the long moments it took for Murdoch to wander off in the opposite direction.

“I’m not mad at you,” Carlos said quietly. “It’s—”

“Are you pissed that I spilled your name to Drusus? ’Cause that was totally an accident. I didn’t know he would do anything.”

“No. I told you before, that never bugged me.”

“Then you’re mad that I left you down there so long? Because I didn’t mean to, okay? I had no idea how to bring you back.”

His eyelids dropped over the dark pools of his eyes. “Em—”

“I did the best I could.”

“I know you did,” he said. The warm gold of his skin turned a pasty gray. “I know you tried to make things right. But you should have left my soul where you found it.”

Her stomach heaved. “As if I could—”

“Drusus broke me, Em. Long before I fried.”

Her gaze locked on his face. “What?”

“He broke me. Halfway through the night, he had me begging to serve him in hell.” Self-disgust curled his lip. “I cried like a goddamned baby and promised to do anything he asked of me. I went with him willingly, not because I was being punished.”

Gut knotted, Em grasped his arm. The muscles beneath his jacket sleeve were hard as rock. “Only because he was burning the flesh off your bones, bit by bit.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He opened his eyes. An ember of rage glowed in the inky depths. “Point is, I don’t belong here, Em. I belong down there. In hell.”

“No.” That was ridiculous. Carlos was a good guy, as different from Drusus as a person could be. He wasn’t perfect, but he wasn’t evil, either. “I don’t believe it.”

“You believe it,” he said. “You just don’t want to admit you made a mistake.”

Emily wanted to slap him. Instead, she slid her hand down his arm, over the cold silver buckle on his sleeve, and threaded her fingers with his. “Why are you doing this, Carlos? Why are you trying to push me away?”

His body remained stiff, but his fingers tightened around hers. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“From what? A broken heart?”

A harsh laugh escaped his lips. “No. A broken heart is the one thing I can’t protect you from.”

“Then what?”

“From this.” He held up their entwined hands, and almost immediately a wave of searing heat shot through her fingers. Her pale skin turned a furious crimson. Her eyes flew up to meet his, uncertain. The heat intensified until it felt as if her hand were on fire. Pain tore through her flesh, but an instant before bile rose up her throat, he released her hand and stepped away.

Em stared at her blistered hand in horror.

It throbbed, and her eyes filled with tears. “What did you do?”

“Almost nothing,” he snarled, in a voice that sounded like ripping sandpaper. His eyes couldn’t seem to leave her hand. His face was twisted with grief. “That’s just a drop of the scary fuckworks I struggle to hold in every day. You were right. I’m not the guy I was before. I’m a monster, Em.”

He turned on his heel and strode off through the field.

Stunned and angry, she let him go.

Pain radiated up her arm with every sluggish pump of her heart. Emily closed her eyes, envisioned a hand free of burns, and felt the pain slip away. The blisters soothed; the flesh mended. When she opened her eyes, her fingers were a bit swollen, but otherwise healthy and whole.

Carlos had disappeared, leaving only a trail of bent grass leading toward the bunkhouse.

She still couldn’t believe he’d burned her. Even though he knew she could heal herself, it was a really mean thing to do. But she understood why he did it.

He wanted her to believe she’d made a mistake in bringing him back. But there was no way that was true. No matter what Drusus had made him say, no matter what he’d done in his previous life, he didn’t deserve to serve an eternity in hell. That fire inside him was the very justifiable rage he felt over being tortured by Drusus, of being helpless in the demon’s power.

A feeling she knew only too well herself.

Emily shoved her hands in her jeans pockets, shoulders hunched. But she wasn’t helpless anymore; she was powerful. Quite possibly more powerful than anyone else on the ranch. And Carlos needed to see that in a tangible way. He needed to know that she could handle herself and him. No matter what that might mean.

She sucked in a deep breath.

There was at least one thing she was uniquely qualified to do. And if she succeeded, she’d instantly win everyone’s respect. No one would treat her like a baby anymore.

Feeling lighter than she had in days, she continued up the path to her mom’s house.

Lena came very close to vomiting all over Brian’s shoes.

He knew, her conscience screamed. He knew everything.

Except... he couldn’t.

Only a handful of people knew exactly what happened that day in New York. All but two of them were dead. And if Brian had real facts instead of mere speculation—if he knew she’d been the one who lured a Protector into that stairwell—he wouldn’t be wasting time asking questions. He’d simply kill her.

“I wasn’t in New York,” she lied.

It felt good to know that Brian had gathered Amanda’s soul. If someone had to do it, Brian was the best she could hope for. Honorable, competent, respectful, and... hot. Amanda would have liked the hot part. Posters of Brad Pitt and Zac Efron had decorated her bedroom walls for years.

“Interesting to hear that you were, though,” she added. To give herself a few moments to recover her composure, she opened a reputable online archive and busied herself with typing. “Being clear across the country, standing on a New York City block just as a demon attacks that very spot? That’s a rather large coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

He smiled. “It wasn’t a coincidence. I was following a lead.”

“In Saks Fifth Avenue?”

His smile deepened. “I was killing two birds with one stone. I needed a new shirt and I’d arranged to meet a contact there, a priest by the name of Graeme O’Shaunessy.”

It took every bit of self-control Lena possessed not to blanch at the mention of O’Shaunessy’s name. She concentrated on the computer screen, logging into a subscription-based historical database. Hopefully Brian wouldn’t notice that little date in the bottom of the screen—the one that said her last visit to the site was two years ago.

“Still sounds awfully convenient.”

“Not for O’Shaunessy,” Brian said dryly. “He died in the attack.”

“I’m sorry.”

And she was. More than Brian would ever know. O’Shaunessy had died a very difficult death, doing everything in his power to protect the coins. Things might have worked out better if the priest had not brought the real coins to the meeting along with the fakes, but she could hardly fault him for that. His vow had not allowed him to leave the coins unprotected, even for a few minutes.

Brian circled the desk to stand at her shoulder. “What are you doing?”

The warm scent of his lime-and-cedar cologne distracted her, and she struggled to remember what her goal had been. “You asked how I tracked down Duverger’s set of coins. I thought I’d show you where and how I got my information.”

“Very generous of you.”

It would be, if it were true. “Fortunately, more and more historical societies and academic institutions are putting their records online,” Lena said, doing an initial search on the Knights Templar. “Still, some of the best stuff remains on paper. You need to befriend the odd librarian.”

“Which you apparently do.”

She shrugged. “Most people I’ve met are thrilled to meet another history fan and they happily help me track down rare details.”

“Can we do a double-entry search?” he asked, peering over her shoulder at the screen that came up. “I have a theory that the coins are linked to other relics.”

“Of course.” She typed in Judas Iscariot coins, then paused. “What are the other relics you think may be linked?”

“I only know of one so far. The Pontius Pilate Linen.” He frowned at the screen. “But as far as I know, the Templars never had the Linen in their possession.”

“It’s cared for by the Protectorate?”

His gaze sharpened. “Yeah. You know about them?”

How much did she want to reveal? “I’ve crossed paths with the odd Protector.”

“And they just offered up information about their role, no questions asked? So much for being a secret organization.”

She met his silvery eyes. “What are you accusing me of, exactly?”

“Knowing a little too much about things you shouldn’t,” he said. The words were softly spoken, but an edge of steel lay beneath them. “The Protectorate holds its cards pretty close to its chest.”

“You know about them.”

“Only because MacGregor’s brother was one.”

Lena sat back in the chair, the leather protesting faintly. “I’m in the relic business. Does it really surprise you that I know the various groups responsible for guarding them?”

“No, but it does make me wonder if you were truly unaware the rest of the coins were in New York. They were in the care of a Protector.”

Dangerous ground.

“They’ve never given me a list of the relics they protect,” Lena said honestly. Surely the truth would sound convincing? “We’ve simply bumped heads over the odd item.”

“I want to believe you.” He reached over her, grazing her fingers with his large hands, and added Pontius Pilate Linen to the search field. Then he hit ENTER. “I have the craziest feeling that you and I were meant to be a team. Maybe even more than that. I won’t even bother denying you make my dick dance and my brain turn to mush. But there’s a small problem. We’re not working on the same side, are we, Lena?”

She tipped her head up and stared into his eyes. Eyes that were filled with an unsettling mix of hot desire and grim self-mockery. Eyes that held equal parts promise and threat, and somehow stole her breath away. Before she could come up with a coherent response, a knock sounded at the door.

“Brian?” The mage’s voice. “I think we have a problem.”

Brian stared down the driveway.

“Erickson called up from the gate and said there was a pizza delivery guy there,” Stefan explained as they waited on the front porch. “Bale told him to send the guy packing, but got no response. A moment or so later, I felt the barrier spell fall away and Bale confirmed the gate is now open.”

“I’m going to kill her,” Brian said, without heat.

What was the point in getting mad? Emily was a teenager and teenagers did stupid things. He pulled his sword free of the scabbard. If he needed someone to blame, all he had to do was look in the mirror. He should have made sure someone drove into town instead of assuming she’d follow orders.

On the horizon, a tiny white dot appeared, getting larger with every second.

“Alert the other Gatherers,” he said to Stefan. “And then find Emily and make sure she gets somewhere safe.”

“Bale already hailed them,” the mage said, “but you might need me—”

“Take care of Emily; then come back.”

Stefan might have argued further, but Lena spun around, wrinkled her nose at the man, and pointed her finger down the gravel path to the other houses. “I caught a glimpse of her through the library window, headed in that direction.”

Stefan eyed Lena’s face for a moment, then trundled off the step and around the corner of the house. “I’ll return as quickly as I can.”

The stiffness in Brian’s shoulders eased. Stefan would be a definite loss to their defense, but he needed to know that Emily would be safe. He descended the stairs to the front yard, his gaze locked on the approaching car.

A late-model Honda.

Three heads bobbed inside, but it was very unlikely any of them belonged to the two Gatherers assigned to man the gate. Only a fool would let a strange car onto the estate, and fools didn’t last long in the soul-gathering business.

“If you know anything about what’s coming up the driveway, Lena,” he said quietly, “now would be a good time to talk.”

“They could be thrall demons.”

“Those are the ones that possess humans, right? Leap into their bodies and overpower them?”

“Yes.”

Several other Gatherers arrived at a run, swords in hand, and Murdoch jogged over from the arena. They were now eight against three, not counting Lena. To be honest, he wasn’t sure he could count on Lena.

“Keep them apart,” Lena offered. “You’ll have better luck defeating them.”

He tossed her a frown.

“The power of three is as true for demons as it is for holy beings,” she added, shrugging. “They feed off one another.”

The white car didn’t slow as it neared the house. In fact, it sped up. Not bothering to follow the curve of the lane, it bounced across the grassy front lawn, narrowly missed the rock garden, and drove headlong for the house. Brian stood his ground as long as he could, then dove out of the way.

He rolled to his feet in time to see the crash.

The wraparound porch folded like an accordion under the impact of the car, but it wasn’t enough to stop the vehicle. The car slammed into the front wall next, shattering the big picture window. It likely would have collapsed the whole west side of the house if the front axle hadn’t snapped and a wheel rolled off into the rose-bushes. The car came to a grinding, groaning halt atop the big metal box that housed the central air-conditioning compressor.

“And stay away from the blue smoke,” Lena murmured.

Three humans, all college-age young men, poured out of the wreckage—bloodied, broken, but still alive. Fireballs spit from their fingers, strafing the Gatherers who surrounded the wrecked car with their swords drawn. The battle quickly dissolved into chaos as the Gatherers fought back. Deflected by mystical shields and swinging swords, fiery bombs ricocheted in all directions.

Brian didn’t have to wonder about Lena’s cryptic blue-smoke reference for long. Dark blue wisps began to seep from the three men’s clothing only moments after the fight began.

Swatting away a fireball with his sword, Brian came to the defense of one of the other Gatherers, a young man by the name of Mick Wilson. The poor kid had fallen to his knees, wreathed in midnight blue smoke. Dazed and slack jawed, the Irishman had ceased to fight, and his sword hung loosely at his side.

Brian reached for the fellow’s shirt collar, intending to haul him out of range. But before he could grab him, the swirling smoke around Wilson suddenly sparked and erupted into a fiery pyre. Hungry red flames swiftly ate his clothing and his hair, but Wilson never struggled or screamed. In less than ten seconds, the young Gatherer was completely engulfed.

The scent of burning flesh paralyzed Brian for a horrified moment. Then he shoved the event to the back of his mind. He wanted to feel more, but he had no time.

“Stay out of the fucking blue smoke,” Brian shouted to the battling Gatherers.

And he plunged back into the sea of bodies.

Eight against three should have been good odds.

But another Gatherer failed to heed Brian’s warning in time, got swallowed in smoke, and became a human torch. They were down to six and several of the others were in shock, moving like they’d been encased in Jell-O. Only Brian, Carlos, and Murdoch sliced and thrust with their usual speed and strength.

Brian advanced toward the three thralls, determined to split them up, as Lena had suggested. He dodged a writhing tendril of smoke and ducked under the mutilated limb of Rachel’s newly planted jacaranda tree. A fireball whizzed toward him, and he swung at it. The fine edge of his blade sliced the bomb in two, one piece falling harmlessly to the ground, the other spinning wildly off to the left.

It sailed through the air and landed on the roof of MacGregor’s bungalow. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the cedar shingles burst into flames, and his heart fell into his shoes.

Emily.

Set to abandon the fight and circle around to rescue her, Brian took a step back. But Carlos was already on the move. Proving that great minds often thought alike, the young man dove down the gravel path and entered the now-burning house.

Reassured, Brian focused on the attackers.

It was amazing how much damage three demons could do. They worked in perfect concert, hitting targets in quick succession, ganging up at the first sign of weakness. It was as if they knew one another’s thoughts and anticipated one another’s moves. The rapid pace of their attack made it almost impossible to breach their defenses.

And then there was that creepy blue smoke.

Curls of mist constantly leached off the three and wove through the air in search of Gatherers. If not for the easterly breeze, more of the feathery wisps might have found their way to Brian and, judging by the way those who were brushed immediately lost their agility, that wouldn’t be a good thing.

Ahead of him, Greg Hill went down under a blistering series of fireballs. Brian dashed to his aid, fending off a barrage himself. His timing was perfect—he stepped in front of Hill just as a flaming orb was lobbed at the prostrate Gatherer.

Hill regained his feet, and Brian went on the offensive. It was hard to look in the eyes of a pimple-faced pizza delivery boy and know he was killing an innocent human, but losing more men to these bastards was worse. Too many people who depended on him had died already.

He hacked and slashed at the wreckage of the porch until he gained ground on the crumpled car. He repelled every demon shot aimed his way, thankful once again for the swiftness of his blade. Murdoch spied his advance and, with a few strategic swings of his sword, pressed forward as well. The Scot’s face was red, his brow was furrowed, and his sword arm was displaying a level of power that gave Brian a moment’s pause. A full descent into berserker mode would make all those within reach of the man’s huge claymore possible targets. Including him.

But dwelling on that wouldn’t win the battle.

Brian renewed his attack. They were actually making headway when the demons suddenly changed tactics. Two of them left the relative protection of the vehicle and pounded the Gatherers with increased fury, while the third broke from the trio and raced toward MacGregor’s burning house.

Its goal was obvious.

The Judas coin.

But he was knee-deep in the wreckage, waging a difficult battle against the two remaining demons. Chasing after the coin would expose his back to attack and leave the other Gatherers in a very bad spot.

He had to pray that between Carlos and Stefan, the coin—and Emily—would be safe.

Lena stood on the edge of the battle, desperately wanting to jump into the fray. The eager pump of her heart urged her to aid the others, to lend her support with all the spells she had at her disposal.

But, fingers itching, she held back.

Malumos would not hesitate to punish the girls for her rebellion, just as he had in the past. Amanda and Heather were beaten and starved for her every indiscretion—which in the beginning had been often. In a matter of weeks, they’d dwindled from healthy, smiling young women to sunken-eyed frames of skin and bone. Simply because Lena had dared to balk at Malumos’s orders.

No, as satisfying as striking back would be, joining Brian and his colleagues in the fight was impossible.

In fact, it made sense to use this distraction to her own ends. This was the perfect opportunity to go for the coin.

Lena took a step back.

Then another.

No one noticed her retreat. Everyone was understandably focused on the demons—tossing binding spells, fending off fireballs, and trying to stay out of the smoky vapors snaking through the air.

She slowly backed her way through the rubble, keeping an eye on Brian. Hoping he would remain safe, and at the same time praying he wouldn’t turn around and notice her.

She had to go. Now. If the thralls were here, openly battling the Gatherers, they’d clearly grown too impatient to wait. They intended to take the coins by force. If she did not reinject herself into the deal, she would lose what little bargaining power she had left. Heather would become nothing more than a statistic in Malumos’s long history of corrupting souls. She needed to reach the coins before the demons did: first the coin in MacGregor’s safe, then the other thirteen.

Tariq might wait a day for her. Beyond that, she couldn’t count on his fondness for her to contain his avarice. The value of the coins would eat at him, urging him to break his faith. If she didn’t leave now, there was a very real chance she’d lose everything.

Lena took a deep breath, turned, and ran.

The cuts Brian and Murdoch scored on the two demon-possessed pizza boys did nothing to aid them—their blood was human, so the demon-blood enhancement spell on their swords was useless. And despite increasingly serious wounds, the two demons continued to fight as if they were hale and hearty.

The only way to break through the twin whirling dervishes was brute force.

Brian glanced at Murdoch.

The Scot had a glittery look in his eyes, but had not yet descended into a maniac frenzy. He nodded.

Both Gatherers stormed the duo, Murdoch with a guttural roar that sounded almost bestial. Brian was silent, but equally effective, breaking through the shield with a well-aimed and powerful thrust. His sword was about to pierce the body of the nearest demon when a rippling wave of raw energy exploded through the yard. The air bent, the scenery wobbled, and everyone—demon and Gatherer alike—was knocked off their feet.

Flattened in the dirt, his entire body tingling, Brian got a clear view of the purple plume that shot into the air above MacGregor’s house and billowed into a mushroom cloud. Not smoke from a fire. Bright, sparkling, mystically charged effluvium.

A very peculiar shade of orange-purple, the cloud stood out against the blue sky like a beacon, but he couldn’t think about that right now. He leapt back to his feet, brandishing his sword. Only to discover that the demons were no longer interested in fighting. Two sizzling red crackles of electricity shot from the ground to the mangled car as they opened a portal and escaped into hell. The two pizza delivery boys sank limply to their knees, bruised and bleeding, but alive.

The battle was over.

Brian sheathed his sword and brushed the remaining bits of dirt and grass off his ass. Under any other circumstance, he’d rejoice that they’d beaten off the demons and survived. But as his gaze found the purple cloud still hovering over the bungalow, a heavy feeling of dread swirled in his gut. Something really bad had just happened.

Guaranteed.

8

“My word, Emily, what did you do?”

Em stared at the little leather pouch, then up at Stefan’s shocked face.

Why did people think she had a clue about how any of this stuff worked? It wasn’t as if Archangel Michael had handed her the Trinity Soul instruction manual the day he branded her cheek. Lachlan had more knowledge than anyone, having read some dusty old book of ancient lore, and he admitted quite freely that trying to define her talents was hit or miss.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

He entered the pantry, pushed past the open door of the safe, and snatched the pouch out of her hands. Opening the drawstring, he peered inside. And winced.

“Oh dear.”

“What?” She asked the question, but in all honesty, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

“The Judas coin is no longer precisely what it used to be,” the Romany mage said. He lifted his gaze. “Can you tell me what you were trying to do?”

“I was using my sensing skills to find the missing coins. I figured that all thirty coins would have ties to one another in the middle plane.”

“I imagine they do,” Stefan said, giving her a weak smile. “It was an inspired idea. But something went wrong, I take it?”

“I knew I wasn’t supposed to touch the coin directly, so I just felt for it in my head. Funny thing, Brian said it was silver, but in my mind it looked black. Sticky, bubbly black. Like tar.” Em chewed her lip. She remembered that black ooze all too well. It was the same dark slime that Drew had pulled her into seven months ago. “I was going to stop.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I heard the crash up at the main house and I guessed we were under attack. I thought maybe we’d lose the coin and then we’d never get another chance.”

Stefan nodded. “Okay. What—”

“Em,” breathed Carlos, as he half fell into the pantry, jarring a shelf and sending several cans rolling. “You’re all right.”

Emily dashed to his side, spying the gray tint of his face and the scorch marks on his jacket. She grabbed his soot-blackened hand. “Of course I am. What happened to you?”

“Had to put out a fire on the roof,” he said, coughing. “And then there was this demonic pizza guy in the living room.”

“Pizza guy?” Em blinked. “What pizza guy?”

Carlos looked away. “I screwed up. I felt bad about what happened, about what I did to you. So I ordered pizza. Meat Lover’s, just like you wanted.”

“Brian’s going to kick your ass,” she said softly.

“Yeah.”

She bent and kissed him on the lips, ignoring Stefan. “I love you, you idiot.”

His gaze lifted. Serious. Intense. “Me, too.”

“Getting back to the coin,” Stefan said brusquely. “I’m still not clear on what happened.”

“Honestly?” Emily tossed a grimace over her shoulder. “Neither am I. But when I tried to follow the threads linking it to the other coins, I felt like long, black tentacles were slithering all over me, clinging to my eyes, my face, my mouth. I couldn’t breathe and I got scared. I panicked.”

“Panicked how?” Stefan asked.

“It was like this bubble rose up inside me and then popped. Next thing I knew, I was on the floor, flat on my back, feeling like mashed potatoes.” Em looked at the tan leather pouch in Stefan’s hand. “What did I do to it?”

The mage shook the tiny bag until the contents dropped out into his outstretched palm. Then he held it up for her to see.

The coin twinkled in the light.

“On the bright side, you’ve displayed a rather impressive new talent.” Stefan blew a long sigh out of his plump lips. “On the not-so-bright side, turning silver into gold has lost us our only connection to the other coins.”

Brian surveyed the scorched yard with a tight swallow.

At least two Gatherers were dead, probably more, assuming Erickson down at the gate hadn’t just opened the door and let the demons drive in. If only he’d ridden Emily harder about the pizza, none of this would have happened. And if only Lena had warned him earlier about the damned blue smoke, things would have been—

Brian spun around.

Lena.

He scanned the faces before him, searching for the dark eyes and ivory skin that had become achingly familiar in three short days. No sign of her. Lifting his gaze, he swept the horizon, his heart sinking. Ten bucks said she’d taken advantage of the battle and made a run for it.

His first thought should have been about the coins. With Lena gone, the trail of the missing thirteen coins would go cold. The risk that Satan would acquire them would increase exponentially and doom would hover that much closer to the horizon.

But he didn’t think of the coins. Not right away.

Instead, he felt a stab of emptiness—a genuine sense of lost opportunity. Crazy, really. They’d known each other only three days, but from the moment they’d met, something had clicked between them. Not something one-sided. Something mutual. Something hot. Something with staying power.

But Lena wasn’t interested in exploring it.

“Fan out,” he barked to the idle Gatherers as he leapt over the wreckage of the porch to the front door. “Find Lena Sharpe.”

Inside, he raced up the stairs and flung open the door to her room. The dresser top was empty. Nervy woman. She’d actually taken the time to grab her purse.

“Uh, Brian?”

Brian spun around. Emily and Carlos. Emily looked healthy, thank heaven, but the young Hispanic looked awful. His face was gray and deep grooves bracketed his mouth, but it was the bleak, black stare that really completed the look. If he needed proof the purple cloud spelled disaster, here it was. “What the hell happened ?”

Then he shook his head.

“On second thought, no. I haven’t got time to hear the story, and I suspect it’s a doozy. You guys sit tight until I get back. Go nowhere. Got it?”

They nodded, looking suitably chastened.

Feeling as if the entire circus tent were collapsing around him, Brian bolted for the stairs. Lena hadn’t taken a car, so he still had a chance. In her shoes, he’d have run for the west wall, and from there, down the scrub-brushed hills, through the parceled lots of suburbia, and into downtown San Jose. For a Gatherer, the entire journey would take about ten minutes.

To catch her, he’d have to make the trip in eight.

Good thing he used to be a track star.

Lena had been about to enter the bungalow when the shock wave knocked her to the ground. Although the specific cause of the mystical wave was unclear, the amulet had immediately ceased to vibrate, warning her that the coin was no longer in the bungalow. And when she tried to track it, no image came to mind at all. It didn’t seem to be anywhere. It had vanished.

So she ran.

Drawing deep on her Gatherer powers, she leapt the west wall and tore through the scrub at breakneck speed. Once she reached the relative cover of a posh garden community, she allowed herself to breathe easier. Just a little. Even as she sprinted through backyards and hopped over fences, she multitasked. She checked the map application on her iPhone, arranged a rendezvous with a cab, and booked a flight to L.A. Not a commercial flight, though, because Brian would have been onto her in seconds. A private jet would put a massive dent in her savings account, but failing to meet Tariq at the Manhattan Village mall could cost her much more.

It could cost her Heather.

Lena stumbled over a garden hose. Only a quick reflexive grab prevented her purse from sailing off her shoulder and into a boxwood hedge. She regained her balance and kept running.

Veering left to avoid a small group of chatting mothers in a yard three hundred feet ahead, Lena darted down a quiet lane. In the old days, a residential neighborhood would have been tough to navigate without being seen. Today, almost every household had two working parents and the kids remained at school from morning to evening. Sad, perhaps, but simpler.

The taxicab—assuming it was on time—should be less than a minute ahead.

How long had it taken Brian to realize she was gone? Two minutes? Ten? She refused to contemplate his being injured, or worse. Not when she’d seen the way he handled that sword. Not when she now knew he’d defeated the very same martial demon who’d come within a hair’s breadth of slaying her. He had to be safe.

Would he forgive her for running?

At the corner, she turned left. This street was busier, forcing her to slow to a jog. A woman was unloading groceries from a car, two young children chalked designs on their driveway, and an elderly man trimmed his juniper hedge with a set of shears that threatened to overwhelm him.

Lena’s palms sweated.

Ten more houses, around the next corner, and she was free.

She picked up the pace just a bit.

A faint whiff of cologne blew by her on the breeze—the sharp trill of lime warmed by a hint of cedar. Lena’s heart stumbled. Oh my God. The sweet nostalgia of her feelings for Brian vanished. No.

She broke into a run. Ignoring the Gatherer code, ignoring the witnesses, she put on an inhuman burst of speed. She could see the cab and smell the exhaust of its idling engine. Freedom was only twenty yards ahead. She was so close.

White bands of magic sprouted out of thin air, roping around her body, pinning her arms to her sides, and encasing her legs. Suffering a sudden and catastrophic loss of control, she toppled. The pavement rose up to meet her, grabbing at her clothes, yanking her sharply to one side, lashing her cheek with an angry swipe. Momentum tumbled her several feet along the road before letting her flop to a halt.

Although her chest was tight with loss and her heart was heavy with failure, it was rage that spilled from her lips the moment Brian Webster’s shoes appeared in her line of sight.

“Let me go,” she snarled, thrashing against the binds. “How dare you sully me with Roma magic? Release me immediately.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” The binds were powerful, and Lena had no weapon in her pitiable toolbox of Gatherer primals to sever them. “Just recant the restraining spell, you bloody wretch.”

“Lena Sharpe,” he said, crouching beside her, “was that a curse?”

“If I decide to curse you, you’ll know it.” She made one last attempt to break free, then sagged, accepting her defeat. “Please. Couldn’t you just look the other way? Just this once?”

His gaze met hers. “No.”

She closed her eyes to the regret in his. Just because he felt bad didn’t make it okay. It wasn’t all that long ago—less than a year ago—that she had burned with the same righteous fire, brazenly confident in her ability to do the right thing. But that fire had been doused by the blood of innocent people. Standing by your principles didn’t feel quite so honorable when other people died to uphold them.

Under those circumstances, saving even one life could become a talisman.

God, how would she save Heather now?

“You should let me up,” she said. “Before someone comes over to investigate.”

“Lena—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted. The last thing she needed from him right now was a gentle voice and sympathy. She’d collapse into a blubbering baby. “I’m not interested in your platitudes.”

For a moment, it looked as if he were going to argue, but then the white bindings dissolved. He took her hand firmly in his and pulled her to her feet. “You know, things would be a lot simpler if you’d just tell me what the hell is going on.”

Lord. How much easier would this all be if she didn’t feel a comforting tug every time she looked in his eyes? If she didn’t get a warm thrill just from having his hand wrapped around hers?

“Would they? What would change, exactly? No matter what explanation I provide, you’re not going to let me walk away with the coins.”

“No, but we could work around that. There’s got to be another way to get whatever it is you’re trading them for.”

She laughed. It sounded cold and hollow, even to her. She’d had the same idealistic outlook two—no, three—deaths ago. “Trust me, there’s not.”

“Bullshit.” Brian guided Lena toward the cab, which still waited patiently for its passenger. “We’ve got a ton of resources at our disposal. We can do pretty much anything.”

“What you have is a bunch of lunatics and a mage with dubious connections.”

“Yeah? Well, that’s more than you have.” After giving the cabbie the address of the ranch house, Brian pressed Lena onto the backseat and slid in beside her. “I’m all you’ve got, babe. You need to start trusting me.”

She studied his profile.

Actually, she did trust him. She trusted him to be honorable and courageous and true to his word. She trusted him to be a competent warrior. She even trusted him to be a considerate, if somewhat arrogant lover, should that ever come to pass. It wasn’t him she didn’t trust. It was Malumos and his two brothers. Time and time again, the demon triplets had handed her defeat on a silver platter.

And Brian was wrong about one thing.

He wasn’t the only ally she had.

“Take her to the library and sit on her,” Brian said, thrusting Lena’s elbow at Carlos. “I need to talk to Emily.”

The young Gatherer, still a little wan, nodded. “If you’re planning to give Em shit about the pizza guy, don’t bother. It wasn’t her fault. I called for delivery, not her.”

“You’d say that even if it weren’t true.”

“Maybe,” the boy acknowledged. “But it’s true.”

“Okay. You and I will chat about that later.” Brian watched Carlos escort Lena inside, then crossed the yard to where Emily stood with Stefan. Behind them, hanging like a giant purple balloon in the afternoon sky, was the glittering cloud of effluvium.

“Someone want to tell me what happened?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“It was an accid—”

“Whoa.” He held up his hands. “One at a time, please. Emily, you first.”

She folded her arms over her thin chest, chin down. “I didn’t order the pizza.”

“I know. Carlos already fessed up.”

As he waited patiently for her to come back to the point, she shuffled from one foot to the other. Her twisted face was a living portrait of regret. “I’m sorry. Really, really sorry. I had a small problem with the coin you picked up in New York.”

She glanced at Stefan, took a deep breath, and blurted out the whole ugly story, ending with a weak smile. “So, anytime you need some extra cash, just bring me your silverware.”

“Can you turn it back?”

She chewed her lip. “I’m actually not sure how I turned it into gold in the first place.”

Stefan shook his head. “I doubt it can be done. A cloud such as the one overhead appears whenever a mystical relic has been destroyed. It will remain there until the last remnants of magic are reabsorbed into the plane. Several hours, at least.”

“So, you’re telling me there are now only twenty-nine coins.”

“Yes.”

He raked a hand through his already tousled hair. Lost forever. On his watch. “I don’t suppose that means the power of the Judas coins as a whole has been destroyed ? That we’ve miraculously stumbled on a way to throw a wrench in Satan’s plans?”

“I’m afraid not. The cloud is not large enough.”

“Then what does it mean?”

The mage’s gaze fell to the leather pouch in his hand. “The answer is rooted in mathematics. If the whole is now twenty-nine, then each individual coin has grown in mystical value.”

Math had always come easy to Brian and he did a quick calculation in his head. “You’re saying that Satan used to own fifty-three percent of the relic, and now he owns fifty-five percent.”

“Yes.” Stefan didn’t explain how that would impact the devil’s power. He didn’t need to. Two percent of six billion people was one hundred and twenty million.

“Find a way to fix it,” Brian said grimly. “Yesterday. And while you’re at it, put some kind of Romany hoodoo around this goddamned ranch, because I sure as hell don’t need any more magic shit to hit the fan.”

Lena was back behind the computer when Brian entered the library. The nasty road rash had all but disappeared from her cheek, leaving only a few tiny scabs. Enough to make him regret her fall. Again. Carlos leaned against the frame of the big picture window, staring into the backyard. Both of them looked up when the door clicked shut.

Brian caught Carlos’s eyes.

“You’re a smart kid,” he said. “But ordering the pizza was a fuckwit thing to do. If you ever disobey an order from me again, I’ll kick your ass to the curb and slam the gate behind you. Got it?”

Carlos nodded.

“Okay, go give your girlfriend a hug. She’s feeling pretty low.”

The young man left the room.

Lena watched him go, her hands frozen over the keyboard.

“You’ve got a funny look on your face,” Brian said, crossing the room to stand beside her chair. He ran a finger lightly over her cheek. A part of him had sorely wanted to let her keep running. Because escaping was obviously damned important to her. “What did he do?”

She batted away his hand. “He’s not a normal Gatherer.”

“How so?”

“His reflexes are unbelievable. And he senses things.”

Brian’s brows soared. “We all have those skills.”

“No, it’s more than that.” Shoving back the chair, she stood up, moving away from him. “Look in his eyes. Something’s not right inside him.”

“It’s just typical teenage angst.”

“I’m telling you—”

“Enough,” he said, suddenly weary of the battle of wills. Obviously whatever connection he thought existed between them was one-sided. She couldn’t accept anything from him, not even a gesture of sympathy. “I don’t want to talk about Carlos. I want to talk about you.”

“Me?”

The image of her just before he removed the binding spell was seared in his mind: the wounded face, the fury in every stiff angle of her body, and the desperate glitter in her eyes.

“I want to know why you find it so damned difficult to trust me. I’ve done nothing but give you the benefit of the doubt since we met. We’ve proven we’re capable of helping you work through whatever mess you’ve gotten yourself into. So why do you feel the need to keep running? Even when running might get you killed? Am I really that lousy an option?”

“You’re not a lousy option at all,” she said softly. There was no stiffness in her now. A slight sheen on her nose courtesy of the run-over air conditioner, a few loose strands of hair dangling from a weathered ponytail, and a light smile on her full lips. Nothing more. “Trust doesn’t come easily to me.”

“I can see that,” he said. “But you’ve really got to let go of the concept that I’m the enemy. I’m not.”

“I know you’re not.” Her fingers toyed with the gold pendant around her neck. “I’m very clear on who the real enemy is. I like you and respect you. I even admire your commitment to your goal. If my own goal weren’t in direct opposition to yours, we might be friends.”

“Friends help each other. Let me help you, Lena.”

She smiled sadly. “You can’t help me.”

“Bullshit.” He wanted to shake her. But touching her would be a mistake right now. So he circled the desk in the opposite direction and flopped onto the leather couch. “Want to hear my theory? I think this is a life-or-death thing for you. I think they’re threatening someone you love and demanding the coins in exchange. You are acting way too desperate for this to be about money.”

She spun to look at him, incredibly beautiful and still fluidly elegant, despite the tumble she’d taken. “For some people, money is life-or-death.”

Brian sucked in a short breath.

He knew that feeling—the cold bite of terror that started in his belly and slowly consumed his body, limb by horrified limb. He’d lived it the day he realized the smack owned him and he didn’t have the cash for his next hit. He’d lived it every day after that for a year. He also knew just how low he’d been willing to sink to get the money.

But Lena wasn’t a substance abuser. The healing function of a Gatherer’s immortal body immediately countered the effects of drugs and alcohol. No buzz allowed in purgatory. Could be a gambling problem, maybe. Or, there was the very real possibility this was just another story to throw him off the trail.

“I guess I can understand that. It’s certainly a big motivator in my life.” Pitching her a lazy smile, he added, “We need to work on the trust issue. Why don’t we start by exchanging intel about the enemy, since we seem to have some common ground there?”

“Intel?”

“Yeah. You tell me what you know and I’ll tell you what I know.” Everything she said, every word she uttered, contained clues to the essence of Lena Sharpe. If he was patient, maybe he could slowly peel away the layers until he got to the truth. “We’ll do it nice and civilized, over a cup of coffee.”

Her head tilted. “Americans don’t know the first thing about making good coffee.”

“You can’t cook, but you can make coffee?”

Shrugging, Lena led the way to the kitchen. “Priorities.”

While Lena ground the beans in an electric grinder and located a small saucepan, Brian tossed a bag of popcorn in the microwave. The popcorn was done long before the ground coffee and water had come to a soft boil, but Brian simply ate from the bowl and watched her pour the foamy coffee into two small cups.

“No sugar for you, I suppose?” she asked, stirring a generous spoonful into her own cup.

Off to a good start. She already knew who needed extra sweetening. “None,” he agreed.

They returned to the library. Convinced that sitting too close to her would tease his senses beyond tolerance, Brian took the armchair and left the sofa to Lena. He waited until she was comfortably settled on the overstuffed furniture, sipping her coffee. Then he went for the kill.

“Let’s start with our guests from today. You know a helluva lot more about those three thrall demons than you want to admit. Dish the goods.”

Lena blinked.

Wretch. He loved pulling the rug from under her feet. So much for hoping he’d forgotten about her knowledgeable warnings. “You know pretty much everything already.”

“You recommended splitting them up. Why?”

“I told you. The power of three.”

He kicked off his shoes and lifted his socked feet to the coffee table. “I’ve fought three demons before. Never saw the kind of orchestrated attack those three performed. Try again.”

By God, the man was a pit bull. Leapt for the throat, clamped on tight, and didn’t let go no matter how hard you tried to shake him off. Of course, fending him off would be a lot easier if he looked like a pit bull. Or if he’d just stop staring at her with that lightly amused, openly sensual expression on his face. It was very distracting.

“I can’t explain that. All I know is that whenever I’ve fought three demons, they’ve been immensely powerful.” It was a lie, but short of telling him she knew these three were unique, that they were triplets, that she knew precisely what they were capable of because they’d slain Amanda and her father Don and Father O’Shaunessy, what could she say? “Perhaps you’ve had more experience than I.”

His smile widened. “Wow. Are you flirting?”

She looked away, annoyed that a mere suggestion of intimacy could send such a delicious current of desire rippling through her body. “Of course not.”

“Is that blue smoke typical of thralls?”

“Yes. It acts like a will-sap spell.”

“And that flaming torch effect?”

“It only happens when the three of them work together.” Too late, she realized she’d said the three instead of any three.

Brian appeared not to notice. “In your opinion, are three thralls working in concert the worst the demon world has to offer?”

“I think three martials would give them a run for their money,” she said dryly. “And I’ve never been unlucky enough to face a throne demon or an archdemon.”

“Throne demons are Satan’s bodyguards.”

She nodded.

Brian put the bowl of popcorn on the table and picked up his coffee. “And archdemons are the equivalent of archangels.”

“The monsters of legend,” she agreed. “Lucifer, Beelzebub, Mammon, Belial, Moloch, Leviathan, Abaddon, and Astaroth. Each one reigns over his own fiefdom in hell.”

“Are they able to cross into the middle plane?”

She nodded. “As easily as an archangel does. But they don’t.”

“Can’t say I’m unhappy about that, but what stops them?”

“The Covenant.” Lena shook her head. “This should have been covered by Death in your Gatherer initiation. Were you not paying attention?”

“My first week was pretty fuzzy.”

Lena stood up and walked back to the desk. Fuzzy was exactly how she felt every moment she spent around Brian. And she was making mistakes. Eventually, he’d catch her on some carelessly discarded fact. “It’s a miracle you didn’t die shortly thereafter. A basic understanding of how the demon world operates is make-or-break information.”

“Yeah, well, Death took a shine to me.”

Using a primal spell, she deadened the sound around the keyboard and, after a quick check to ensure Brian’s head was turned away, began to type. Involving Kiyoko was a huge risk, but her options had dwindled to almost nothing. She needed someone to round up Tariq before he absconded with the coins. Someone supremely capable. Someone with a very long reach. “What does that mean? That she took pity on you?”

“Yup. Pulled my ass out of the fire a half dozen times before I got the hang of things.”

She hit SEND, then shut down the e-mail application, spun around, and stared out the window. Just in time. Brian pivoted in his seat.

“Pretty sure she set me up to bump into MacGregor, too.”

“Why?”

“I told you, she likes me.” His smile was rueful. “Not sure what I did to win her fond regard, but I’ve made every mistake a Gatherer can make and I’m still around. Go figure.”

“I guess some people are just born lucky.” Not her.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “That must be it. I’m lucky.”

Just the way he said it made her look at him. For once, he wasn’t smiling; nor was he angry. There was a furrow in his brow and a distant look in his eyes that made her think he was revisiting an unpleasant memory.

The e-mail was sent and the wheels were in motion. She should be feeling pleased. Instead, a clear view of the road ahead had settled upon her. And it was lonely. Very, very lonely. If by chance she survived the days to come, she would have 386 years left to serve as a Gatherer and not a single person she could share them with. The other Gatherers would hate her. Brian would hate her.

But he didn’t hate her right now.

She slipped her foot out of her shoe and used her toe to power down the computer.

“We almost bit the dust today,” she said quietly.

His gaze sharpened, finding her. “Yes, we did.”

“We might not always be so lucky.” She put her foot back in her shoe, then rounded the desk to Brian’s chair. Standing before him, she unbuttoned the top button on her blouse. “Since you seem to have luck to spare, how about helping me get lucky?”

He smiled.

She bent to kiss him. Hot and wet and deep.

“Should I be worried,” he asked hoarsely, when she allowed him to surface for air, “that you’ll try to brain me with a paperweight?”

“Fear not. I promise to be good.” She licked his lips, tasting coffee and a hint of buttery salt. “If you want, you can tie me up.”

His laugh was choked. “God, don’t tempt me.”

“But I want to tempt you. I want to tease you to the point of no return and let you take complete advantage of me.” She took his hand and placed it over her breast. Looking deep into his silver gaze, she said, “Please. Just for one evening, make me forget that evil really exists.”

9

Brian could barely breathe.

His hand was on her breast, her taste was on his lips, and his blood was howling with a need that almost made his eyes roll back in his head. What was his vow again?

Oh yeah. No sex until he’d completed the twelve steps.

Lena peeled off her shirt, her white bra a delightful contrast to the rich cream of her skin. Why had he chosen such a simple design? Had he really thought that replacing her French lace with boring cotton would dampen his enthusiasm? He must have been crazy. If anything, it made her smooth flesh look softer and more inviting.

She unfastened the front of her khakis, sliding the zipper open to reveal just a hint of low-slung underwear.

Brian groaned. Christ. He had miles to go. He was only on step four. Why the hell hadn’t he gone to more meetings?

Even as he wondered, he knew the answer.

He was stuck on step five. The thought of telling someone—anyone—about his past made him want to run. Fast and far, until he left it all behind him. And yet, no matter how far he ran, he never seemed to shake it entirely. Every time he paused, the past crept up on him again, like it was doing now. How the hell was he supposed to open up to another person when he had trouble admitting his crimes to himself? Looking beyond the surface image in the mirror to the self-centered bastard beneath gave him the shakes.

Everyone thought he was funny and smart and charming. Lena thought he was funny and smart and charming. But if she knew the truth, she’d spit on him. The same way his cousin Mark had spit on him at Melanie’s funeral. Not literally, of course. But his scathing comments during the eulogy amounted to the same thing.

He should walk away.

Brian forced his eyes open, made himself look at Lena’s beautiful face. Problem was, she had laid herself bare here. In more ways than one. If he pushed her aside, if he rejected her flat out with no explanation, he’d hurt her. All she was asking for was a casual roll in the hay, no strings attached. She wanted some pleasure, and it was possible to give her that without breaking his vow. Technically.

“Tell you what,” he murmured.

Her eyes popped open.

“I’ll help you get lucky, if you help me enact a little fantasy.”

She frowned, and because that was so Lena, he kissed her. “Don’t worry, I’m not a sexual deviant. I’ve always wondered whether I could make a woman come three times using only my hands and my tongue.” Her frown did not fade. “I’d love to give it a whirl. But give it serious thought, because if you agree, absolutely no part of your body will be off-limits.”

“Is that a rule or a suggestion?”

“Rule.”

She straightened, her expression easing into something less disapproving and more thoughtful. “Am I allowed to touch you?”

Oooh, boy. Good question.

“Yes,” he said, with an involuntary shiver of anticipation. This was going to be torture, any way you looked at it. “Anyplace is fair game except Mr. Billy. I have my doubts I’d be able to finish the fantasy if you go there.”

“Mr. Billy?”

“You know what I mean.”

A glimmer of a smile loosened her exotic features. “It’s called a penis.”

“No guy calls his dick a penis. Honestly, it sounds like some kind of disease, and that’s the last place we want to catch anything.”

“In your fantasy, do you come?”

Brian drew in a deep breath and slowly let it out. “No.”

“Won’t that be ... uncomfortable?”

Hell, yes. But so worth it. He shoved himself to his feet. “I’ll get a huge thrill out of watching you come.”

“Three times?”

He grinned at the catlike smile on her face. “That’s the plan.”

“Hmmm.” She trailed a finger from her navel up between her breasts, giving herself goose bumps. “Is there a lock on the door? Because the thought of being ravished on the desk with my hands tied is stuck in my mind.”

His skin suddenly felt itchy and tight.

The image was now amazingly vivid in his mind, too.

The self-discipline he’d worked so hard to develop over the past few months was about to be tested, big-time. The notion of sinking slowly into her body, of losing himself in her silky, hot embrace, was already making his mouth so dry he could barely form words.

Ah, Christ.

Who was he kidding? If he ever actually did make love to her, there would be nothing slow about it. He’d wanted her the instant he saw her, and every moment since had simply added to a very long, unbearable stretch of foreplay. Imagining the unimaginable was only going to make this harder. He shrugged out of his suit jacket and his leather baldric and tossed both on the sofa.

“The desk it is,” he said.

Crossing to the door, he depressed the lock with a definitive click. Then he strode to the desk, lifted the flat-screen computer monitor to the floor, and swept aside the tooled leather blotter, leaving the wooden surface clean. Already envisioning her spread before him—open, willing, begging—he tugged off his silk tie with a barely restrained jerk.

He met her gaze.

“Get naked, sweetheart.”

Lena’s pulse skittered madly.

This was... unexpected.

The Brian she thought she knew had been replaced by someone completely different. Lazy and charming he was not. Intensely hot? Yes. Demanding? Yes. Amusing? Not in the slightest. He looked as if he intended to devour her, a prospect she found surprisingly exciting.

Off came her shoes, both this time.

“Should I remove each item slowly?” she asked, her voice thickening as she watched him unravel the knot in his tie. “Or do it quickly?”

His eyes were locked on her. “Whichever makes you wetter.”

Oh God. That worked. She shucked her khakis and her socks and kicked the clothing aside. Standing there in only her underwear, she waited for some kind of response. Anything.

And she got it.

As his gaze drifted over the mounds of her breasts and followed the flare of her hips, his hands fisted around the narrow strip of his silk tie. His eyelids dropped to partially cover his eyes. “Turn around. Slowly.”

She did as he asked, closing her eyes as she spun around, not daring to wonder what he was thinking, but loving the smoky demand of his voice.

“Nice ass.”

She gasped. He was closer than she expected. His breath was warm on the back of her neck, sending a host of tiny shivers down her spine.

A calloused finger slid beneath the waistband of her panties. Dragging the material down a fraction as he went, he migrated over her hip and around to the front. There he paused, splaying his hand over her belly, absorbing the erratic rhythm of her pulse for a long, titillating moment.

Then he bit her neck. Firm, but not hard.

The jolt of sensation was so intense, Lena whimpered, and she let herself fall back.

He was there, right behind her, and his body took the weight of hers. Her submissive gesture invited his hand to delve deeper into her panties, and he took her up on her offer. As his fingers slid into the damp curls between her thighs, her breaths grew short and shallow, as did his. Heat bloomed all over her skin, and beads of sweat rose on her chest.

She opened her legs wider.

“I want you,” she urged.

Not that he needed the prompting—Brian’s fingers were already working magic, sliding in and out, teasing and circling. Driving her crazy. His mouth nibbled up the side of her neck, found her ear, and sucked on her lobe. Hard. It was all too easy to imagine him sucking on another part of her body with the same enthusiasm.

“Oh God.” Her knees gave out.

Brian chuckled as he bent and scooped her into his arms. “Time for the desk, I think.”

He laid her gently on the cool wood and pressed a quick kiss to her lips before standing back to admire. Taking his time, he eyed every inch of her skin from her toes to her face, his expression more serious than she’d ever seen it. “You are absolutely gorgeous,” he said.

Feeling a faint flush rise to her cheeks, Lena shoved her hands behind her back, intent on unclipping her bra. He hadn’t even seen her best assets yet.

“Whoa.” His hands grabbed for hers. “I’ll take care of that,” he promised. “These naughty hands are getting punished, remember?”

She ceased her efforts to unclip her bra and held her hands out to him. “I remember.”

Loosely but firmly, he wrapped his tie around her wrists and knotted it. Then he coaxed her arms above her head, gave her a burning hot look, and said, “Stay.”

He wasn’t finished.

Tugging her panties down her legs, he slid them off and tossed them over his shoulder. They landed on the upper corner of a bookcase behind him, and she briefly wondered how she was going to get them down. But with his hands gliding over her hips and up to her bra, that thought didn’t last long.

Instead of unfastening the bra, Brian shoved it up, exposing her breasts, but not freeing them. The rough scrape of the cotton-encased underwire, combined with the excitement of her vulnerable situation, beaded her nipples to painful hardness.

He stared.

Then he shook his head. “I knew they would be great.”

Lena frowned. He sounded almost disappointed. She glanced down her body at the twin ivory peaks. No blemishes, no unsightly creases left by her bra. The dusky pink nipples were rosier than normal, but other than that, everything appeared fine. “What wrong with them?”

“Absolutely nothing,” he said. “They’re perfect.”

His tone suggested perfect was a flaw. “But you don’t like them.”

He lifted his gaze. A banked fire burned in the sooty depths. “I like them just fine.”

“Stop saying that. It’s obvious by your tone of voice that you don’t mean it.”

A rueful smile curved his lips. “Do I sound upset? Sorry about that. But it’s hard for me to act like nothing’s happened when you just ruined me for every other woman on the planet.”

Lena blinked. And a delicious wave of damp heat stole all the tension from her body.

“Just shut up and kiss them,” she said grumpily.

He grinned. “Lena Sharpe, you’re too bossy by half. I’ll get to those beautiful breasts when I’m ready and not a second before. Lie back and take it like a woman.”

“Now who’s being boss—”

He halted her retort with a hand over her mouth. “New rule. No sound from you unless it’s a moan or a groan or a scream.” Watching her eyes closely, he let the anger die out of her before he lifted his hand. “Deal?”

She nodded.

“Good girl.” He vanished from her line of sight for a moment, then returned with two small accent pillows from the sofa. Tucking one under her tailbone and the other in the small of her back, he said, “You might as well be comfortable. You’re going to be there for a while.”

She rolled her eyes.

He caught the gesture and punished her by suckling a breast, first with delicate, wet pulls, and then with deep, rhythmic suction. The sparks that set off went all the way down to her fingers and toes. Lena mewled, squirmed, and thrust her breasts higher.

Not content with that response, he rolled the other nipple between his finger and thumb. A lick of exquisite fire ripped through her veins, dampening her hairline. She moaned.

Brian smiled against her skin. “Begging is also allowed.”

Not wanting him to see the desperate hunger for him she was sure lay in her eyes, she closed them. Had her hands been free, she would have expressed her desire by thrusting her fingers into his hair and pressing his face harder against her breast. But that option wasn’t available, and she was forced to admit her need out loud.

“More,” she demanded weakly.

But he didn’t immediately deliver. In fact, she was left alone on the desk, wanting. Lena opened one eye to figure out why.

He had attacked the buttons on his shirt. At the third one, growling with impatience, he gave up and yanked the shirt over his head. But he forgot to free his wrists. Lena grinned. Thanks to a tightly clenched jaw and the most perfectly sculpted muscles she’d ever seen on a man, even with his hands wrapped like a baby’s, Brian looked capable of slaying demons.

“Fuck me,” he snarled.

She closed her eyes and smothered her smile. “I would, but you said that was against the rules.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.”

Two sharp rips. Then his warm hands were on her breasts.

Kneading, stroking, adoring, his fingers alternately drew circles on her skin and plucked at her nipples. He pressed and rolled and massaged. Never too hard, yet never giving her a moment’s peace. He seemed to know exactly how to tease her to distraction. Lena’s belly tightened under the flood of sensation. The urge to have him inside her started as a vague itch, but grew steadily under his attentions, developing into a relentless ache that wouldn’t go away.

That was when his mouth replaced his hands on her breasts, and his hands went south. One found the round flesh of her buttock and the other ...

She hissed in a breath.

“Oh, baby, you are so wet,” he said hoarsely against her chest. The edge of desperation in his voice matched what she was feeling, so she groaned her agreement. His thumb played with her, gently flicking, pressing, and circling. “You have no idea how badly I want to be inside you.”

“Do it,” she said, her jaw tight.

“No,” he said, on a heavy sigh of regret. “Not this time.”

His finger slid in. Not too deep, just far enough to strum the chords of her desire. At the same time, he suckled first one breast, then the other, licks, nibbles, and sucks on wet, swollen flesh. The hand on her ass squeezed and kneaded. He was everywhere, serving up a buffet of delightful sensation.

Her breath came in short gasps, her toes curled, and her pulse pounded, but it wasn’t nearly enough. The ache inside her ran deeper than that, fiercer than that. She needed more. Arching her body, she thrust her hips up against his hand.

“More,” she demanded again.

One finger became two, and she writhed, feeling the tension build. “More.”

His two fingers played her with finesse, knowing precisely where and how to touch her inside, and the heel of his hand pressed against her mound, teasing and coaxing and driving her mad. Her womb clenched in anticipation and she moaned, seeing the pinnacle. So, so close.

“Imagine me inside you,” he whispered, steamy hot against her skin. “Filling you up, fucking you hard.”

Lena whimpered. In her mind’s eye, his body was completely naked and his lower half matched the upper in muscular perfection. She could feel the tautness of his buttocks as he thrust into her, smell the spice of his musky skin, taste the salt of his flesh on her lips.

“Brian,” she urged restlessly, not exactly certain what she was asking for, certain only that he could provide it.

His hand still teasing, still stroking, still coaxing her toward the brink, he joined her on the desk. His naked chest rubbed against hers, the hairs gently abrading her now sensitized breasts. He was slightly sweaty, too, and the tug of skin on skin proved a delightfully erotic addition to the overture. His lips nibbled their way up her throat to her chin.

“Open your eyes,” he said.

She did. Her focus was not what it usually was, but the intensity in his eyes was impossible to miss. The look was significant; she knew that, but what did it mean? “I—”

He kissed her. A rather rough kiss that bruised her mouth and stole her breath. It was equal parts frustration and possession, the kind of kiss a man gave a woman when drawn to her in spite of himself, when he wanted to own her, but knew he couldn’t. It was hard and deep and totally devastating.

The crush of his kiss created the perfect storm of sensation. Lena shuddered with pleasure and fell headlong into the abyss.

A sharp rap on the door forty minutes later brought Brian’s fantasy to a crashing halt.

“Webster? You said you wanted to attend Emily’s next training session. That would be now.”

Brian kissed Lena’s inner thigh. “I’ll be right there.” He waited until Murdoch’s stomp faded, then muttered, “Asshole. If he’d been stupid enough to come in, I’d have killed him.”

“You locked the door,” Lena reminded him as she lowered her feet from his shoulders and wriggled to a sitting position on the edge of the desk. She held out her tied hands in a silent request for freedom.

He obliged, running his thumb over the delicate skin of her wrists to make sure the silk hadn’t done any harm. She was softer than the tie. “Yeah, but Murdoch reminds me of that big guy in Harry Potter. One rattle of the doorknob and he probably would have torn the damned thing off.”

“He doesn’t look anything like Hagrid,” she disputed. She pulled her bra back into place, drawing his attention to the lovely post-O flush on her chest. Just a hint of girlish pink. “No potbelly, and he’s quite handsome under that beard.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said he’s actually quite handsome.”

“I heard you,” he said grimly.

“Oh, stop it. I haven’t let Murdoch kiss my hand, let alone any of the other places you’ve been permitted to go. Any chance you could get my panties down?”

Brian followed the direction of her finger and grinned. Rising to his full height, he reached for her underwear, but the top of the bookcase was nine feet up. He actually had to use his Gatherer skills to reach them. “Score.”

“You look pretty pleased with yourself, considering you failed in your mission.”

He tossed her a hard look. “We got interrupted. And I didn’t see you complaining a few minutes ago when you came for the second time. In fact, I think the double shudder you gave could technically count as two and three.”

“Nice try.” She accepted the scrap of white cotton. “But I think I’ll keep number three in reserve for when I really need it.”

He smiled. “Fair enough.”

“How’s Mr. Billy doing?”

“You need to work on your expression of sympathy. It’s not really striking the right note.” He glanced down at his tented trousers. “But since you asked, he has a wicked case of finger and tongue envy, but he’s getting over it.”

Lena scooped her shirt up from the floor in front of the couch and shoved her arms in the sleeves. Then she wrinkled her nose and sniffed the material. “I need a shower. Are you going to mention the demon attack when MacGregor calls?”

Brian raked a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I’ll tell him. Be nice to have some good news to balance out the bad, though. Want to tell me where the coins are?”

Silence.

He glanced at her.

“I hate when you do that,” she said stiffly, not meeting his eyes. She brushed past him, scooping her pants and socks from the floor.

He smiled. Guilt. He was making progress. “It’s just a matter of time before you tell me.”

The words were light, almost teasing, but Lena didn’t respond well to his humor. If anything, she grew more distant. “Can we go upstairs?” she asked, pulling on her pants. “I’d like to get cleaned up.”

“I’ve got Emily’s training to attend.”

Lena hugged her socks and shoes to her chest, staring down at her bare feet. Making her preference known without words. He was back to square one, which he probably deserved. It hadn’t exactly been the most romantic coupling on record.

“Fine,” he said on a sigh. “Gimme a sec.”

As he turned and snatched up his shirt, there was another knock on the door. Examining the ripped buttons at the cuffs with a rueful grimace, he unlocked the door.

Carlos stood there, somber and still. “I’ll take her.”

Confused, Brian frowned. “Take who?”

“I’ll take Lena upstairs while you go to the arena.”

While Brian struggled with the question of how Carlos knew Lena wanted to go upstairs, the woman in question pushed past him and out into the hall. “I told you he was strange.”

The young Hispanic frowned. “When Murdoch came to collect Emily for practice, he mentioned Lena needed watching.”

Brian arched a brow at Lena.

She shrugged and headed up the stairs.

He really didn’t get why she had such a problem with the kid. He yanked on his shirt, strapped on his sword, and headed out to the arena.

Night had fallen and, at this hour, Murdoch and Emily were the only two people training. They stood in the middle of the enclosed rectangle, both armed with swords. Murdoch wore nothing but his regular shirt and trousers, but Emily was decked in a padded suit that covered her from head to toe. Having worn one himself, he knew the damned thing was hot as hell under the arena lights.

But it wasn’t the heat Emily was complaining about when he entered.

“This isn’t my practice sword,” she insisted. Her voice wasn’t particularly loud, but inside the enclosed arena, it echoed. “If I hit you, I’ll cut you.”

“Lass, if you hit me, I’ll give you a prize. You’re blindfolded.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” Emily said, reaching a hand to the wrap over her eyes. “I can’t see.”

“Leave that bloody thing on,” roared Murdoch. “If I have to tell you one more time, lass, I’m going to take you over my knee. After today’s fiasco, it’s become damned clear you need to develop those senses of yours.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll blow you up, too?”

“No. Now concentrate.”

“But I should be using my practice sword.”

“I explained this,” Murdoch said, sighing heavily. “If you’ve no fear of striking the wrong spot, your efforts to find the correct one will be lacking. There has to be something at stake.”

“But Lachlan never lets me train with a sharp sword,” she wailed.

“That’s because he’s afraid of your mother.”

Taking a seat in the bleachers to watch, Brian grinned. Probably true. Fear took many forms. Rachel couldn’t wield a sword, but if she cut off the sex pipeline or stopped cooking, Lachlan would be finished. And she’d learned a couple of really useful spells, too.

“I’m going to stop talking now, lass. When I attack you, you must defend yourself. Your job is to find my blade with yours. Not my arm or my leg or my arse. My blade. Got it?”

“Got it,” she agreed reluctantly.

The big Scot stepped back and silently maneuvered around her. She didn’t pivot, just shuffled her feet in the sand, so he whacked her on the ass with the flat of his blade.

“Ow.”

“You’re not trying,” he goaded.

“I am.”

“Really? Are you listening, or sensing?” He stepped quickly to the right, ducked under her swinging blade, and came around to the front.

Emily stilled, allowing her sword to fall to her side. To Brian, she seemed as if she’d given up all pretense of practicing, but Murdoch continued to watch her. He slowly circled around, constantly adjusting his pace and distance. Almost eerily, Emily began to circle in perfect tandem with him, keeping him slightly to her right. Even when he abruptly switched direction, she followed, without hesitation.

Murdoch smiled.

Then he attacked.

With incredible precision, Emily whipped her blade up to meet his. Metal clanged and sparks flew. The blades slithered against each other, then drew apart. Murdoch circled again, then abruptly spun left and attacked her on her weakest side.

Emily again met his blade.

The two of them continued their dance in the sand for a good ten minutes, a brilliant duet that even Brian could not help but applaud when Murdoch finally called a halt.

“That was outstanding,” he praised, crossing the sandy floor to the couple.

Emily tugged the blindfold off and grinned like a fool.

“I did it,” she crowed. Seeming to forget that she held a lethal weapon in her hand, she threw herself at Murdoch’s chest and enveloped him in an enthusiastic hug. “Thank you.”

The big Scot grimaced and glanced at his now bleeding arm.

“Fine job, lass. Fine job indeed. Put the sword down.”

“Oh,” Emily said, jumping back. “Sorry.”

Taking a sadistic glee in Murdoch’s wound, Brian smiled. “You’ve been hanging around with immortal guys a little too long, Em. Good thing you didn’t cut his arm off.”

“Did you see that?” She flung him a beaming smile. “It was so cool. When I really tried, I could see him perfectly. Well, not him exactly, but colors all around him. Almost like I was looking at him through a weird sort of X-ray. The sword was actually pretty hard to spot, but when I concentrated, I could see the colors from his body running down the blade.”

Okay, that was just disturbing.

“Neat,” he said out loud, exchanging a look with Murdoch.

The Scot calmly returned his stare, implying that none of what Emily had revealed was a surprise to him. Bastard.

“Murdoch doesn’t have a soul, so what are you seeing, exactly?”

Emily frowned. “Well, at the center of every Gatherer, there’s a really intense white light. My mom and Lachlan have a softer, more golden glow. I dunno, maybe it’s heat?”

“Maybe.” Brian thought back to this afternoon. “What do you see when you sense demons?”

“You mean like those guys from today? I thought they were humans, at first. They had the same glow my mom and Lachlan have. But they also had this creepy blue core, kinda like the smoke that floated out from their bodies.”

“So you’d know if you saw one again?”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“That’s nice to know.” Brian glanced at Murdoch. “You done? I want Emily to try something for me.”

“It’s getting late,” she said, her shoulders slumping. “And I’m tired. It’s been a rough day. Can’t this wait until tomorrow? Carlos and I were going to watch Star Trek on DVD.”

Murdoch frowned. “Carlos is busy.”

She glared at him, her pleasure of moments ago completely gone. “Because you made him busy, and for no reason. We didn’t do anything.”

“He’s a lad,” the big warrior said with a shrug. “Put him in a room alone with a lass and that spells trouble. Make it a room with a bed and—”

“You invited Carlos into your bedroom?” Brian asked Emily, his head spinning. Ah, Christ. He’d even encouraged the kid to give her a hug. MacGregor was going to break every bone in his body.

“I was in his,” Emily explained patiently, as though that made a difference. “And nothing happened. Honestly, guys, stop acting like a bunch of old ladies. We’ve been alone plenty of times. If we wanted to have sex, we’d have done it ages ago.”

“Trust me, lass, the lad wants to have sex.”

She pitched Murdoch a scathing glance. “Like that matters. Carlos has more self-control in his baby finger than you have in your whole body.”

Murdoch’s brows knit.

“Even if that were true,” Brian said hastily, grabbing her arm and turning her toward the lockers, “Carlos doesn’t need you visiting his room, okay? Go change. You and I are going to work on swapping that coin back.”

“But—”

“No buts, just go.”

Brian and Murdoch watched her disappear into the changing rooms. An awkward silence fell between the two men as Brian tried to think of something nonconfrontational to say. It was a wasted effort, though. As usual, Murdoch opened his big, fat mouth.

“You’ve only been in charge for ten hours. Must be a record, screwing things up so badly in so little time.”

“Fuck off.” Let it go, Brian. Don’t kill him. Change the subject and play nice. “Emily’s doing pretty well.”

“Aye, but as you can see, the lass is an emotional whirligig—all over the bloody place. Very hard to get her focused.”

“Hormones. She’ll outgrow them.”

“Sooner rather than later, one hopes.” The big Scot patted him on the shoulder. “I’m off to the house, then. I’ll leave the babysitting to you. When the mantle of responsibility becomes too heavy for you to bear, as I know it eventually will, come see me.”

He strode out of the arena.

Which was a good thing, because Brian had his hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to strike.

10

Noontime sun streamed through the window, infus-ing garish brilliance into the orange threads of the Mojave blanket covering the bed. The muted sounds of male laughter, tinkling glasses, and footfalls on the wooden deck floated up from the backyard. Lena stared at the photo of Heather and Amanda in her hand, willing herself not to cry.

There’d been no word from Kiyoko.

Yesterday’s deadline to meet Tariq had come and gone, and that could mean only one thing: He’d flown.

The snapshot had been taken less than two years ago, in the backyard of her house. A wickedly hot afternoon in July, the girls sprawled across a large hammock in their shorts and bikini tops, sunglasses propped on their heads, frosty glasses of iced tea in hand. Heather looked so young, and Amanda so ... alive.

“Atheborne’s got the barbecue all fired up,” Brian said, stepping into her room.

Lena jammed the photo back into the puzzle box and slammed the lid shut. Slightly less quickly, she slid the brightly colored box back into her purse. When she looked up, Brian was frowning.

“A picture,” he said slowly. “Of who?”

“No one.”

He crossed to the bed and plucked the box out of her purse, cradling it carefully in his big hands like he knew how valuable it was to her. “A recent photograph, taken in this era and not the last, which is significant to you because ... ?”

“It’s just a picture.”

Turning the box over, admiring every detail, and testing all the corners and possible openings, he said, “No. The pictures of people on your mantel back at the house, the ones in the pewter frames? Those are just pictures. This one is special. Tell me why.”

“No.”

He sat down on the bed next to her, so close that their thighs rubbed. Today he was dressed in a lightweight gray-green suit and a silver-and-white-striped tie. The firmness of his leg muscles and the smell of his cologne sent a little thrill down her spine.

“Come on, Lena. Give a little. I know your dad was a British archeologist and your mom was his housekeeper in Cairo. MacGregor pulled that much from the database before he got cut off.”

Confident that he wouldn’t figure out how to open the box, she left it in his hands. “Then you have guessed I’m illegitimate. My father was married to another woman back in England.”

“So?” He tried pushing on some of the carved elements, diamonds and circles. The lid remained firmly shut. “That kind of thing doesn’t matter much anymore.”

“It did in 1873.”

He peered into her eyes. “Were you treated badly?”

“By the Egyptians? Not really. I developed my own circle of friends.” Thieves mostly. A few murderers, one rapist ... and Azim. Sweet, courageous Azim. “The English ignored me.”

“Where does the photo fit into the mix?”

“It doesn’t. It’s just a snapshot of my neighbors across the street in L.A.” The words were loaded with the dry dullness of truth and completely bereft of attachment. She worked hard to deliver them that way.

But the effort was wasted on Brian. He arched a brow and said, “Really? Huh.”

“Do you have a reason for being in my room?” she asked, exasperated.

“Yeah, I relieved Carlos. He’s no longer sitting outside your door. He’s downstairs putting a slab of beef on the grill. I came to see if you wanted a steak, too.”

“What about the goon outside my window? Is he still there?”

Brian grinned. “You know he is. You just checked on him five minutes ago.”

“I don’t like being a prisoner.”

“Tell me where the coins are and you can go free.” He shook the box, frowning at the soft thud it made. “What’s in here besides photos?”

“None of your business.” She held out her hand, demanding the box’s return.

He gave it to her. “Coming down?”

“No, thank you.”

“Are you sure?” He stood up. “I’m headed into San Jose after lunch, so if you want company, this is it.”

Lena straightened with anticipation. If Brian got behind the wheel of his own car, a trip into town with him would be a guaranteed opening for escape. “Are you driving or taking a cab?”

“Cab.”

Drat. Still, the distraction of a crowd might help. “Can I come with you?”

“No.” This time, it was Brian’s voice that was deadpan.

“Why?” she asked, suspicious. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” He scratched his elbow, his gaze a little unfocused. “I just have something I need to take care of, and you’d be inconvenient baggage.”

“Baggage? Did you just call me baggage?”

He smiled. “I meant that in the nicest possible way.”

“I’m tired of being cooped up,” she grumbled.

He held out his hand. “Then come downstairs with me. If you don’t like steak, I’ll find you some chicken or a hot dog.”

She stared at his hand, trying not to think about all the tantalizing and incredibly satisfying things those fingers had done to her last night. Trying not to feel bitter that she would never mean anything more to him than a casual sex partner. Because it just wasn’t in the cards for them. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Treat me like your girlfriend, when I’m actually your prisoner?”

Amusement warmed his eyes. “Are you accusing me of wishful thinking?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything. I just don’t understand you, that’s all.”

“That makes two of us.” He grew serious. “You’re among friends here, Lena. Two immortals, both playing on the same team—you’d think that would come with a basic layer of trust. But you insist on keeping the wall up. You have someone willing to stand beside you for the first time in God knows how long, yet you refuse to let me help you. I admit that’s got me baffled.”

“People who stand beside me have a horrible habit of dying,” she said quietly.

He cupped her chin in his hand, his thumb gently caressing her jaw. Soothing and stirring at the same time. “I’m already dead, babe. You can lean on me all you want, no guilt attached.”

The temptation to do exactly that—to press her face into the warm skin of his neck and spill all her secrets—almost choked her with its potency.

She had no doubt at all that he’d do everything in his power to help her—short of giving up the coins. And that was where the problem lay. Attempting a rescue without the coins just wasn’t an option. Maybe if she had met Brian last year, back when this nightmare began, things could have been different. But she hadn’t.

And now she had only one chance left. She couldn’t afford to screw it up.

“Thanks for the sweetly sympathetic offer,” she said.

“But I was talking about being immortal. Everyone around me eventually dies, but I go on and on and on. That’s why the money is so attractive. Money doesn’t die.”

He leaned his forehead against hers and sighed.

“I hope to God you’re not making a big mistake, Lena.”

Lena closed her eyes. It was easier than looking in his.

“Me, too.”

Maleficus reported the events at the ranch with factual composure, but Beelzebub responded with far less restraint. He flung an ax directly at the bearer of the bad news. Had his brother not instantly dissolved into a diaphanous figure of smoke, the razor-sharp weapon would have taken his head off. The passing blade severed several strands of Malumos’s long blue hair, but he remained in place, calmly swaying, unmoved by his liege lord’s precipitous attack.

“When we arrived, we sensed but a single coin,” he said, picking up the explanation where his brother had left off. “And the Gatherers were so determined to keep it from us, they destroyed it. I’m not certain what else we could have done.”

“That’s a pathetic excuse,” the massive demon prince roared. “The truth is, you failed.”

“Failure is a relative term, my lord. The coins we do possess are more valuable now.”

“Get me the other thirteen coins, Malumos.” The hulking red demon turned back to the large floor-length mirror and adjusted the set of his cape on his shoulders. “Fail me again and the three of you will be individually bottled and buried in different kingdoms of hell. Separated for all eternity. Understand?”

A chill ran through him. “Yes, my lord.”

“Stop coddling the female Gatherer.” Beelzebub plucked one of the wiry hairs from his chin. “Force the information from her. Break her, if necessary. But get me those coins.”

“She is protected by the other Gatherers, and a mage.”

Beelzebub spun around. “Are you admitting defeat?”

Malumos stood as still as a thrall could. “No.”

“Show your worth as a demon, for Satan’s sake. Coerce her. Manipulate her. There must be greater lengths you can go to with the girl, Heather. Drag the child into the depths of despair and show the female Gatherer the true cost of rebellion.”

Across the great hall, a hiss of glee escaped Mestitio’s twisted lips.

“My lord, the girl’s health is precarious,” Maleficus said from his new location across the room. Out of easy reach. “Beatings, starvation, and the strain of Mestitio’s numerous entries and exits from her body have already taken their toll. Torture may be too much.”

“If she dies, she dies.” Beelzebub studied the hunger in Mestitio’s feral red eyes and smiled. “The mistake would be in telling the Gatherer.” The huge archdemon gave his image one last check, then strode out of the slime-walled chamber for his war council with Satan.

The three brothers waited until his retainers had scurried out in his wake and the room was empty before speaking openly.

“Beelzebub does not appear to know that Ms. Sharpe is capable of locating other relics besides the coins,” Maleficus said, frowning.

“Because I never told him about the amulet,” Malumos responded. “Or her singular knowledge of the spell that wields it. You’ve found many an interesting fact in your searches through the ancient scrolls, brother. I share only what I must.”

“We walk a narrow and uneven path with this plan,” his brother said softly. “If we push Beelzebub too far, he will smite us.”

“He does not see us as a threat.” Malumos shrugged. Tendrils of blue smoke floated up, framing his shoulders like wings. “And by the time he determines what we are up to, it will be too late.”

“Are you certain we can succeed?”

Malumos turned a cold eye on his brother. “Of course.”

“But we’ve been unable to stir her memories. You were confident the visit to the Temple of Dendur would do the trick, and it did not. We still do not have the location of the Book of Judgment, and without that, our plan is doomed.”

“I need but one moment when the past is especially vivid to her, and the prize will be ours,” Malumos said. “If opportunity does not present us with one, we’ll make one.”

“But Beelzebub will not tolerate inaction.”

“Indeed. We’ve no choice but to give in to his demands whenever possible.”

Mestitio giggled. “Does that mean I get to play with the girl? Drag her into despair? Feed her pain? Make her weep?”

Malumos sighed. It was a risk he had to take. “Yes. Go ahead. Make Heather weep....”

Lena glanced up at the clock over the kitchen door.

Another day had passed with still no word from Kiyoko.

If she assumed the worst, which her imagination found all too easy to do, that meant Tariq was already looking for a buyer. And if he succeeded in selling the coins, Heather would pay the price. Malumos would not be lenient; mercy was beyond him. Six months ago, when she accompanied Amanda to the police station to identify the photos of her father’s body, Lena had seen firsthand the heinous torture the thrall was capable of inflicting on a human being. Don’s body had been badly flayed, the brutality so fierce the detective had been unable to meet their eyes.

Lena opened her eyes, her mouth sour.

She had to escape right now.

She had to try her luck with Murdoch. Brian had assigned the big Scot to watch her while he was away, but the situation wasn’t entirely hopeless. Yes, the Gatherer was huge, and yes, he was a self-proclaimed berserker, but he was also a man. A man of obvious passions whose gaze had lingered on her feminine assets a time or two, despite Brian’s very public claim. If she wasn’t mistaken, that was opportunity knocking.

“How did you die?” she asked him, as they stacked dirty plates in the kitchen.

“In battle.” He opened the dishwasher and thrust a handful of cutlery in the rack.

“Really? That sounds so honorable ... yet you ended up in purgatory.”

Tossing her a grimace, he added, “ ’ Twasn’t my warring that got me here. In my youth I developed a number of unsavory habits.”

“Such as?”

“Lying, cheating, and adultering.”

She smiled. Perfect. “Who did you sleep with?”

“The question might be better phrased, who didn’t I sleep with,” he admitted with a rueful grin. “But the act that assured me a place in the boiling cauldron of hell was sleeping with my brother’s wife.”

Actually scandalized, Lena took a step back. “I just lost all respect for you, Murdoch. Your brother’s wife? That’s far beyond the pale.”

Placing plates in the dishwasher one at a time, he nodded. “Aye.”

“That’s all you can say? Aye?”

“More words won’t make the truth more palatable. I could admit to being a bloody half-wit, but that’s hardly an adequate defense.”

She covered the bowl of leftover salad with plastic wrap and stuck it in the fridge. “Were you desperately in love with her? Were the two you of alone together for an extended period of time under trying circumstances? Did she arrive in your bedroom one evening clad only in her nightgown? I mean, you must have had some reason.”

Murdoch snorted. “Good God, woman, you talk as though you and I were born in a like age. Believe me, we were not. In my time, even an excellent warrior had a life expectancy of less than thirty years. I was simply making the most of the days I had. She was there, she was willing, so I tupped her. I didn’t need a reason.”

“She was your brother’s wife.”

“Aye, she was.” He sighed. “I didn’t say I didn’t have regrets.”

A sudden thought occurred to her. “Was your brother the one who killed you?”

Murdoch sent her a wry smile. “No, it took seven MacEwens to send me to my maker. To the best of my knowledge, my brother never found out.”

“Thank God for small mercies.” Lena’s eye caught the clock again. Five minutes wasted on discussing Murdoch’s past. This was taking far too long. Using a search under the sink for the dishwasher detergent to mask her actions, she undid an extra button on her shirt. Then she stood up and faced him. “You must have been quite a skilled lover back then.”

Murdoch halted midmotion, plate in the air. Almost automatically, his gaze flickered to the exposed skin above her breasts. “Back then?”

“Well, I’m sure being in purgatory has cramped your style a bit. It’s pretty hard to earn your way into heaven if you keep committing the same crimes.”

“You would know.”

“Yes,” she agreed, adding a note of wicked suggestion to her smile. “I would.”

Murdoch was a bright boy. He got the message. The look in his eyes altered almost imperceptibly, darkening to something hotter and more volatile. But he didn’t leap. Not immediately.

“Speaking of repeating the same crimes,” he said slowly, “dallying with you would definitely constitute poaching on another man’s claim. Webster hung a DO NOT TOUCH sign around your neck the minute you arrived.”

She shrugged. “He didn’t check with me first.”

Folding his arms over his chest and leaning back against the counter, Murdoch studied her. Thoroughly. From the tip of her head to the shoes on her feet, with a couple of strategic pauses in between. “There’s very little I’d like more than to piss Webster off, and making love to you would be an excellent way to toss the gauntlet in his face.”

Lena deepened her suggestive smile. The competitive nature of the two men was working to her advantage. Murdoch was about to fall victim to her wiles merely to get the best of Brian.

He smiled. “But that’s your intent, isn’t it? To stir up trouble.”

Lena blinked.

“I hate being played,” he said conversationally, taking the detergent out of her hand and pouring some into the dishwasher. “While Webster would benefit if your manipulative nature was brought to light, he seems more attached to you than is wise and I suspect he’ll have trouble dealing with the truth. So, I’ll pass on the sex.” He closed the dishwasher, punched a few buttons, then took her elbow. “I’m always up for a good game of chess, though.”

Lena allowed him to draw her into the living room, her knees weak.

Dear Lord.

It would take Tariq almost no time to find a buyer. He had an impressive web of contacts. Twenty-four hours, maybe less. Even if it took another day on top of that to arrange the transfer of funds, the extra hours were meaningless. Escape was out of her reach. Since the thrall attack, Stefan had thrown some kind of dampening spell over the ranch. Her amulet had ceased to hum and every attempt at a hex had fizzled—even a magical miracle was no longer possible.

Heather was completely at Malumos’s mercy.

The wooden door rattled shut as Brian traded the respectful silence of the old church for the traffic sounds of a busy San Jose street. He walked across the parking lot, searching for the number of the cab company on his BlackBerry. The best hours of a lovely Wednesday afternoon were gone, but he felt better than he had in months. Admitting his wrongs to a roomful of sympathetic strangers had been astonishingly easy. They’d accepted it all, even the worst.

Even the part that kept him from sleeping at night.

“Developing a fondness for churches, are you, Webster?”

Brian’s heart slammed against his rib cage, temporarily robbing him of breath. He spun around. Three cars to the left, right next to the church minivan, a bearded man leaned against a candy-apple red Mustang with tinted windows, his arms folded over his huge chest.

Murdoch.

“What can I say?” Brian said, tossing the other man an easy smile. “When you’re the boss, you occasionally need to consult with the higher powers.”

The big Scot studied the brick building at Brian’s back for a long moment, then focused his unsmiling attention on Brian. “We had an unexpected visitor not long after you left.”

“Really?” Was there a sign for the Narcotics Anonymous meeting posted on the church door? He couldn’t remember. “Who?”

“Michael.”

“The guy with the white suit and wings dropped by? Why?”

Murdoch straightened. “He came to speak with Emily.”

Ah, shit. The archangel knew about the coin. “Did you let him talk to her?”

Unlocking the car doors, Murdoch grimaced. “Could I have stopped him?”

“Why didn’t you call me right away?” Brian asked, yanking open the passenger door.

“The visit lasted only a few minutes. Calling you would have been pointless.” The big Scot slid into the car and started the engine. “Though there’s no question it should have been you who explained the loss to His Glory, not Emily. You were in charge.”

Brian had no problem with that. The blame for what happened to the coin lay with him, and taking the fallout came with the territory. The only thing that irked him was Murdoch thinking he’d ever willingly let Emily take the heat. “How did Michael react?”

The big Scot’s expression became grim. “I wasn’t privy to the conversation between Michael and Emily. I was busy minding your woman at the time.”

Your woman. Brian held back a grin. If Lena was his, someone needed to tell her. But his amusement died when the implications of Murdoch’s confession sank in. “He came and went without your knowing he was there?”

Murdoch was silent.

“Great,” Brian said sarcastically. “How did you find out?”

“Emily told me.”

There was an odd note in the Scot’s voice, and Brian peered at him. “She came looking for you after Michael left?”

Murdoch perused the road ahead with unwavering diligence. “Aye.”

Brian’s stomach sank. “What happened?”

There was a short pause, then, “He upset her a wee bit.”

Closing his eyes, Brian struggled to stay calm. “Was she crying?”

“Aye.”

Brian sat up and glared at the other Gatherer. “Spit it out. What the fuck happened?”

Murdoch’s hands tightened briefly on the steering wheel, then relaxed. “Carlos came downstairs first. He was looking for you. I’d say he was angry, but that doesn’t come close to describing his mood. When I told him you were still out, he stormed out of the house. I’ve no idea where he went. Emily came down a few minutes later, blubbering like a bairn, hiccuping, the whole nine yards. Lena got her calmed down enough to discern that Michael had visited and, apparently, had blamed her for altering the balance of the universe and handing Satan more power.”

Brian had no trouble imagining the whole screwed-up scenario in his head. Until he got to the part where ... “Hold on. If you’re here, and Carlos left the house,” he said slowly, “then who the hell is watching Lena?”

“You know,” Stefan said gently, “I’m a human, not a demon. A religious symbol can’t harm me.”

“Maybe not,” Lena agreed, lifting the big silver cross higher. “But it makes me feel better.”

They sat in the living room: Stefan in the big chair before the fireplace and Lena on the couch. The picture window had been boarded up and the air conditioner remained a twisted heap of dysfunctional metal, but at least the flies couldn’t get in. The house was quiet now that Emily’s sobs had died off, the only sound the soft ticking of the mahogany clock on the mantel.

“Why? Is it your assumption that I want to kill you? I don’t.”

“Not right now, perhaps,” allowed Lena. “But the moment I stand between you and something you want, that will change.”

Stefan sipped his cola. “You sound pretty sure. Have I given you reason to fear me?”

“You’re a mage.” Really, that said it all.

“And to your mind, all mages are evil?”

“No,” said Lena. She strained for the sound of a car outside, a rumble of deep-throated engine that might suggest Murdoch had returned, but heard nothing. “Not to begin with. But mages play with fire. You learn the dark arts, thinking to master them, and then are surprised when the darkness consumes your soul.”

The plump sorcerer frowned. “Not all Romany mages study the dark arts.”

“Enough do.” She met his gaze firmly. “You did.”

“You’re mistaken. I’ve read neither the Book of Gnills nor the Book of T’Farc.” At her arched brow, he explained, “The two grimoires of the Roma.”

Lena put a hand to the gold pendant around her neck. The memory of its frantic response to his presence was still vivid. “Am I supposed to be reassured? Those are not the only compilations of dark magic in existence. Almost every old civilization has one or two. The Egyptians have several, the Book of the Dead being one of the most famous.”

“Why would you think that I’d read any of them?” Stefan peered at her through the inky black curls that fell over his brow. “You’re not going to insist I actually smell like dark magic, are you?”

Perhaps smell wasn’t the best word, but it was the easiest way for Lena to visualize how her amulet recognized dark spirits. And it did recognize them. Up until a few hours ago, it had pulsed against her skin in a mimicry of moral outrage every time she came within fifty feet of the mage. The same way it reacted whenever a demon or a dark relic was present.

“I don’t know how you acquired your skills,” Lena said, “but I’m confident you possess them. Call it a smell, or call it something else—I don’t care. But I trust my senses.”

He was silent for a long moment, his gaze on his glass.

“Not everything we learn is a lesson sought,” he said finally. “Sometimes knowledge is thrust upon us by circumstance.”

Lena stiffened. Was he talking about his knowledge ... or hers?

Up to the day she died in a narrow Cairo alleyway, her knowledge had been amassed only by experience; nothing had been formally taught. Unless she counted those brief, shining moments when, lost in his love of a time long past, her father would lull her to sleep with earnest discourses on the legends of ancient Egypt. Her mother, had she lived, would have taught her the basic arts of being a woman—how to dance, how to henna her hands, how to cook bread and kushari. Instead, she had found her education on the streets, her talents as a thief honed by the persistent nagging of a hungry belly.

She understood better than most how circumstance shaped the mind. But she refused to feel even the tiniest bit of empathy for the mage.

“Every day we are faced with choices. The decisions we make belong to us.”

A faint smile rose to Stefan’s lips. “I agree.”

Lena frowned. She didn’t want him to agree. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the mage on any issue had no appeal whatsoever. Their situations were decidedly unalike. “You and you alone chose to pursue the dark arts. You cannot blame circumstances.”

“I’ve made choices,” he agreed. “But so have you.”

She could hardly dispute that. “Becoming a thief and becoming a willing slave to evil are two very different choices, mage.”

“Are they?” Stefan put his glass on the side table. The ice cubes had melted ages ago, but the tumbler continued to sweat in the heat. “When the items stolen are dark relics with the power to destroy the world, the line becomes a little blurred, does it not?”

Righteous anger bubbled up in her chest and she surged to her feet. “I do what I do to protect people, not to harm them.”

“So you’re telling me that your life of thievery has not harmed a single living soul?”

The thrust of his query went deep. Her eyes shut. How tempting it was to respond to his challenge by swearing that she’d never stolen an artifact from anyone who hadn’t acquired it by nefarious means—that she’d specifically targeted criminals. But that wouldn’t account for the innocent blood on her hands. First Don. Then Father O’Shaunessy, then Amanda. If she was completely honest, she’d shoulder the responsibility for the three Gatherers who died yesterday, as well. Because if she hadn’t chosen to use the amulet to support her life of crime, the demons would never have sought her out.

“No, I cannot say that.”

“Then we’re not as different as you’d like to believe,” he said softly.

Lena stood there, unable to move. She heard the car roar up the driveway, heard the car doors slam, and heard the front door creak open behind her. The warm swirl of Brian’s cologne should have comforted her. Instead, it made her queasy.

“What’s going on?” he asked, coming to her side.

Lena felt nothing but raw, angry disgust with herself. In that moment, she realized she was no different from the mage—a man she despised for the choices he’d made. She was trading favors with evil for personal gain, and the evil was threatening to swallow her up. If she succeeded in her goal, if she saved Heather by permitting the murder of innocents, how could she hold her head up? How could she rise every morning and live with the cost? How could she look into Heather’s eyes and know what she’d done?

The time had come to put her faith in Brian.

Pivoting slowly and avoiding Stefan’s discerning gaze, she faced Brian.

“I’ll tell you where the coins are,” she said.

11

As Lena brushed past him and headed for the stairs, Brian stared at the mage.

“Go with her, Murdoch,” he ordered. “But for God’s sake, don’t say anything that might make her change her mind. I’ll be up in a sec.”

A heavy set of boots followed Lena up the stairs.

Stefan returned his stare, completely nonchalant.

“What the hell did you say to her?” Brian demanded, raking a hand through his hair. Nothing he’d said to Lena had even come close to convincing her to give up the coins. An hour with Stefan, and presto, she cracked. That didn’t sound right at all.

“I didn’t threaten her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Did you hex her?”

The mage grimaced. “Of course not.First of all, on your instructions, I placed a mystic gap spell over the ranch, and second, I don’t use magic against Gatherers.”

“Never?”

Stefan shrugged. “The odd spell for training purposes, nothing more.”

“Then why is she suddenly ready to talk?” Brian stabbed a finger in the mage’s direction. “And don’t tell me you had nothing to do with it, ’cause I’m not buying that crap.”

Sitting back in the armchair, Stefan crossed his feet. “Just before you walked in the door, we were discussing the merits of experience over formal education—”

“Bullshit.”

“—and the consequences of the choices we make.”

Consequences. Now, there was a topic Brian could teach at university level. But hadn’t he covered that with Lena already—the cost to the world of allowing the coins to slip into Satan’s hands? “You talk specifics?”

“No. Generalities.”

“Then why does she look so upset?”

The mage scratched his ear. “I think the discussion stirred up a few bad memories.”

Brian stared at him. The little bastard was holding out on him. He knew it. But his time was probably better spent checking on Emily and listening to Lena’s story than trying to browbeat the truth out of Stefan.

“This convo ain’t over—just warning you,” he said. The mage and his wife, Dika, had their mobile home parked behind the training arena, across from the goldfish pond. Dika occasionally joined them for gettogethers, but seemed to prefer her own company. “You can go out to your caravan, but we’ll be picking this up again when I get the chance.”

Stefan stood. “I look forward to it.”

Brian had one foot on the staircase and a hand on the maple railing when he remembered one of his other problems. “Did Carlos come back to the house?”

“No.” Stefan sighed. “In fact, there was a disturbance up by the tennis courts about a half hour ago.”

Shit. He sure as hell hoped the kid hadn’t taken his rage out on the new fencing or the clay court. The house was insured, but he hadn’t upgraded the policy since the tennis courts went in. “What kind of disturbance?”

“Mystical.”

“How could it be mystical? Didn’t you just tell me that your gap spell made that impossible?”

“It’s a very complex spell. I was only able to blanket a thousand-yard radius.”

Brian glanced at Stefan’s face, but it was bland. Hard to know if a mystical disturbance was better or worse than a bent fence or graffiti spray. “Okay, I’ll check it out. Thanks.”

“Good night.”

At the top of the stairs, Brian knocked on the left-side door. He got a muffled invitation to enter, so he did. Emily lay on one of the two twin guest beds with her face buried in a pillow. For once, her iPod wasn’t hanging out of her ears. “Hey, pumpkin. I’m back.”

Nothing.

Figuring that was better than a get out, he crossed to the bed and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I heard Michael was here.”

She rolled over to look at him. Her mascara had left streaks all over her face, and her nose was red. “He says I made Satan more powerful. He says the Trinity Soul should be solving problems, not creating them.”

Brian sat on the edge of the bed. “He’s just a little cranky because he’s forced to wear that lost-in-theseventies, butt-ugly white suit all the time.”

She didn’t smile.

He brushed the hair out of her eyes. “Honey, listen. I don’t care what Michael says. We were just doing our best, and that’s all any of us can do. And just so you know, Lena’s agreed to help us find the other thirteen coins. Satan’s not going to get his hands on them, okay? We won’t let the evil guy increase his power.”

“Okay.”

“Attagirl.”

Emily wiped her nose with a crumpled tissue. “Carlos is mad.”

“I heard.” He gave her a rueful smile. “Can’t say as I blame him. I should have been here when Michael arrived. I’m sorry.”

“Carlos isn’t mad at you,” she said, hugging her pillow tighter. “He’s going through some stuff, and he’s been angry a lot lately. I’m worried about him.”

“I’ll give him another hour to get over it. Then I’ll go chat him up.” Brian stood. “We good?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve got to see Lena. Why don’t you go downstairs and grab the bucket of rocky road out of the freezer? There’s never been a problem made that doesn’t improve with ice cream.”

She smiled.

Brian left the room. One down, two to go. Rallying the troops he could do. MacGregor mistakenly equated that talent with leadership, but that was only because the man was unaware of how badly Brian had screwed up his past.

Lena’s door was open and he strode into the silent room without knocking. She stood by the window, arms crossed over her chest, staring out at the falling night. The air around her seemed vaguely sad, though Brian couldn’t put his finger on why he thought that.

Exchanging a quick nod with Brian, Murdoch exited.

“You all right?” Brian asked her.

Her pale reflection in the window smiled. Definitely sad. “Yes.”

“Do I need to kick Stefan’s ass for anything?”

The smile deepened. “No, but thank you for offering.”

Still not the peppiest smile he’d seen, but it was a start. “Least I could do. Let’s get the hard part out of the way. Sit down and tell me where the coins are.”

She ignored his request to sit and remained where she was. Shocker. “You were right about the courier. I gave them to a friend who brought them to L.A. for me.”

“When are you scheduled to meet him?”

“Two days ago.”

Brian winced. That wasn’t good. “Have you been in contact with him since?”

“No.”

“You have a secondary drop arranged, though, right?” he suggested hopefully.

“No—”

His heart sank.

“—but I did ask a friend to meet him in my stead.” She turned to face him. Thin lines of worry creased her brow. “But there’s been no news.”

“This friend normally reliable?”

“Very.”

Brian grimaced. “For the sake of my nerves, let’s hope that doesn’t mean the demons beat us to the punch. Is there any other way to reach your courier? Some kind of coded message on an Internet bulletin board, maybe?”

“Yes, but I can’t guarantee he’ll pick it up.”

He nodded. “Write it anyway. If you missed the drop, he’s probably as anxious to get hold of you as you are of him. With any luck, he’ll answer right away.” Not that luck had been riding shotgun on any part of this mission so far.

Lena crossed to the nightstand and dug in her purse for her iPhone.

He watched her type for a few moments, then asked, “Why now, Lena? You’ve been holding out for days. Why the sudden desire to give up the coins?”

She shrugged with an air of fatigue. “The usual reasons. Guilt. Shame. And it finally sank in that I was never going to get away. Not in time, anyway. I figured it was better to give the coins to you than to lose them completely.”

Made perfect sense ... but didn’t lessen the sting of knowing she’d reached that turning point with Stefan, not him. “So you’ve decided saving the world is more important than your personal goal?”

Her fingers stopped moving.

At first he thought it was his question that tripped her up. But seconds passed and she remained thoroughly engrossed by the screen of her phone—staring at it, barely blinking.

“What is it?” he asked, stepping toward her. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She shoved the phone back in her purse. “Just a text from an old friend.”

He put a hand over hers. It was trembling. “Then you won’t mind if I take a look.”

“No—”

He snatched the purse from her hands and pulled out the phone. A quick check of her incoming message list gave him nothing. Empty. “What’s your e-mail password?”

Without a fuss, she told him.

He reviewed the in-box of her e-mail app, too, but it was equally barren.

“What was it, Lena?”

She was as emotionless as glass. And judging by how stiffly she held herself, just as fragile. Despite all they’d shared, despite the steady inroads he’d made on earning her trust, she wasn’t going to tell him what had just happened. And damn it, that stung.

He handed her back the phone. “Okay, fine. Keep your goddamned secrets.”

Walking to the door, he called down the hall for Murdoch. The other Gatherer returned with two dishes of ice cream, one of which he offered to Lena. She took it, but didn’t eat. Still, the very fact that she accepted an offering from Murdoch when she wouldn’t accept a damned thing from him sent his temperature through the roof.

He didn’t trust himself to hang around.

“I’m going to round up Carlos,” he growled at both of them. “If you get another message—from anyone—I want to know about it.”

When Brian reached the top of the hill, he stopped and stared. What the hell? He closed his eyes for a moment and then looked again, just to make sure he was seeing right. His beautiful new tennis courts and the small grove of oak trees around them had been reduced to a ... crater.

“Good thing you waited a while before coming up here,” Carlos said softly.

From right behind him.

Brian whipped around and found himself looking down the steady length of the young man’s sword. Moonlight reflected off the razor-sharp edge. Although his first instinct was to draw his own weapon, Brian resisted. “Unless you’re determined to die, I’d suggest you put that away.”

Carlos smiled. “You really think you could take me?”

“I know I can take you.” It wasn’t bravado. There was a reckless quality to Carlos that would lead to mistakes in a duel. “But I don’t want to fight. I came up here to apologize.”

The tip of the sword lowered. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for, man. It’s me who screwed up.”

“What do you mean?”

The young man snorted. “Did you happen to notice the big hole in the ground over there? The one where the tennis court used to be?”

“Yeah,” Brian said, turning to look at the crater again. Damn. “What happened?”

“Me, that’s what happened.”

“You blow something up?” Even as he spoke, he remembered Stefan’s description. “Or botch a spell?”

“Neither,” Carlos said. “There’s something wrong with me. One minute I’m frustrated as hell and the next I’m standing in a hole.” He looked down at his hands. “I left the house because I could feel it bubbling up inside me. If I’d hung around, God knows what might have happened.”

The house might look like the tennis court.

“Obviously, you’re casting spells when you get mad. You’ve been through a lot, and maybe you’ve got some residual anger about what Drusus did to you.”

“I don’t think that’s it.”

“Sure it is. And it’s perfectly understandable.” Brian poked Carlos in the chest with his finger. “Here’s the thing, though. Anger-management issues aren’t a big deal when you’re mortal, but when you wield the kinda power that you do, you need to control it. You don’t get to throw up your hands and whine, ‘Not my fault.’ Not when you’re channeling nukes.”

For a long moment, Carlos simply stared back at him, impassive. Then he said, “You need to talk to Emily.”

“Why?”

“She can explain it all.”

“Explain all what?”

“I’m seriously fucked-up,” Carlos said softly.

Brian didn’t know what to say to that. His first thought was that Carlos needed to see a shrink. But a shrink for Soul Gatherers? No such thing. “Did you hurt her?”

Carlos winced. “A little. But it won’t happen again, I swear. The funny thing is, some days when I’m with her the pressure inside me goes way down—”

“Brian?”

Brian spun around.

Lena was scrambling up the hill with Murdoch in tow. “I got a message from Tariq,” she said, holding up her phone. Her gaze slid across the remnants of the tennis court, then back to his face. “But it’s not good news.”

Good news? Was there really any such thing?

“Lay it on me,” he said dryly.

“He’s in Cairo.”

“Egypt?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

The coins were halfway around the world. Marvelous. He rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. “Well, tell him to hop on a plane and come back. Now.”

“He won’t.”

“Why not?”

Her gaze flickered over the hole in the ground again. “He’s insisting that the coins are his—that he bore the risk of carrying them over here and, by failing to collect them, I gave up my rights. The strange part is, he’s not demanding I pay a scandalously large amount of money to get them back. Nor does he seem to be looking for a buyer.”

“Then why did he go to Cairo?”

“I don’t really know. He was born there, but he has numerous enemies in the city. I pulled a lot of strings to get him safely out of Egypt four years ago. It doesn’t make any sense that he’d go back.”

“He must have some reason.” Brian sighed. “Doesn’t change anything, though. We’re going to have to chase him to Egypt.”

“It’s not that simple,” Lena said slowly. “He knows how I work.”

“What does that mean?”

She hesitated. “It means he can make it very difficult for us to find him.”

“Of course he can.” Brian snorted. “I couldn’t possibly catch a break. All right. If we had access to the database, this would be a piece of cake, but since we don’t, we’ll do it the old-fashioned way.” At Lena’s arched brow he added, “Locator spells.”

He turned back to Carlos.

“Under the circumstances, I think it might be best if you come with me.”

The boy nodded.

“Murdoch,” Brian said, “I’m leaving you in charge of Emily and the new recruits. Take your eye off the ball, even for a second, and I’ll make you wish you hadn’t. Got it?” He glanced at Lena. “You know your way around the city, right?”

“Yes.”

“Great. Cairo, here we come.”

They traveled to Cairo without incident, arriving just after midday two days after leaving San Jose. Lena felt the loss of time in the pit of her stomach. The photo Malumos had e-mailed her remained vivid, even though it had vanished from her phone screen moments after it had appeared. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Heather huddled on a darkened street corner, her clothes torn and dirty, her face deathly pale. The sharp angles of her bones had been clearly visible through her skin, underscoring the raw tragedy of the needle in her arm. Malumos had moved beyond simple starvation and beatings to heartless manipulations that would have a lasting effect. With every wasted hour, Heather sank further and further into addiction.

It was tearing Lena in two.

“Nice airport,” Brian commented after they had collected their luggage. “Cairo’s hipper than I expected.”

Lena smiled crookedly. Cairo was a city of contrasts. Urban and cosmopolitan on one side, Muslim and almost medieval on the other. One ride in a Cairo taxi and he’d be wondering if they were on a different planet.

Outside, a wave of nostalgia hit her, along with a gust of searing heat. She drew in a deep breath. The dry, dusty air of the Western Desert—which these days was choked with smog—filled her nose and mouth. The raucous sounds of traffic and car horns, the loud roars of departing planes, and the voices of boys extolling the value of a limousine ride into the city wrapped around her. Familiar, and yet so very different from the Cairo she knew as a young girl.

“Let’s line up for a cab,” she said, pointing to the line of people waiting. “I’ve booked us into a hotel that’s quite popular with American tourists. It’s small, but clean and comfortable. We can drop our bags off, then start searching.”

He shook his head. “I didn’t sit for twenty hours on a plane so I could squeeze into a tiny room in a tiny hotel. I’ve been in Egypt all of five minutes and I’ve already got sand in my hair. If the hotel doesn’t have the words Four Seasons or Hyatt attached to it, I’m not staying there.”

“Expensive doesn’t mean better.”

“Well, it should. And if it doesn’t, you shoot the hotel manager.” He grabbed her arm, tugging her toward a row of limousines. “Come on. Carlos, buddy, use the magic of Google and find us a decent place to stay.”

“You’re a snob,” Lena told him, after he haggled with a man over the price of a ride into town.

“And you’re a miser.” He opened the door and waved her into the car, a cocky grin on his face. Really, he was the only man Lena knew who carried arrogance well. “Stop sweating it. I’m paying.”

Carlos slid in from the other side. “There’s a Four Seasons in Garden City.”

“Give the man the address.” Brian tossed Lena a grin. “See? Easy.”

“It probably costs upward of four hundred dollars a night,” she grumbled. For a room they’d only sleep in. Crazy.

“More, if we get a suite,” Brian agreed.

“Where do you get all this money?” she asked. “Are your parents wealthy?”

He chuckled. “No. My dad was a loan officer at a bank until he retired last year, and my mom is a nurse. No trust funds in my background, I’m afraid.”

“Yet you can afford expensive hotels and designer suits.”

“Yeah, funny thing about that. I was a stockbroker before I died. Not a bad one, either.” His smile turned wry. “But ever since I died, I’m golden. I took half the start-up money Death gave me and invested it. Started with almost nothing and turned it into a nice chunk of change. Now, it doesn’t seem to matter how much I spend—the nest egg just keeps growing.”

“Didn’t you lose a bunch when the bottom fell out of the market?” asked Carlos.

“Nope. I shorted the right stuff.”

“Cool,” the younger Gatherer said admiringly. “Remind me to hit you up for some tips when I have something to invest. First, I’ve got figure out how you survived on half the usual stipend.”

“I ate cat food for a year.”

Carlos chuckled.

The limo driver honked his horn and pulled in sharply ahead of a motorbike piled with people, several of whom hung from the sides. Lena’s shoulder pressed against Brian’s. Without batting an eye, he put his arm around her and tugged her against his chest, not too tight, just enough to make sure she didn’t slide off the seat.

It was a thoughtful gesture that made her feel guilty.

And hot.

“After we check in,” she murmured, trying her best to sound nonchalant, “we should visit the financial district. He has numerous contacts there, and we might get lucky.” Actually luck had nothing to do with it. The amulet had shown her an image of Talaat Harb Square.

“I keep telling you, we don’t need to work that hard. Finding him won’t be a problem. We’ll do a locator spell.”

Every sway of the car telegraphed the impressive details of his physique to her. The limousine was air-conditioned, but even if it hadn’t been, she’d have enjoyed the seep of his body heat. “Don’t you need some kind of connection to the person for such a spell to work? Actual memories or a personal possession?”

“Yup. Which is where you come in.” He slid her a curious glance. “You and this Tariq go back a long way?”

“Four years.”

“Why trust him with the coins?”

She smiled. “I told you: He owes me for getting him out of the country.”

“Even though you haven’t seen him since?”

“Did I imply that? We actually do business together.”

Brian frowned. “What kind of business?”

“He’s a fence.” At least, that was what he did now. Before he escaped from Egypt, he’d been the unwitting partner of Reyhan Nasser, an arms dealer with a vicious reputation and ties to numerous terrorist organizations. “He finds my buyers and handles most of the negotiations. He’s very good at reading people.”

“Good skill to have,” Carlos said, “if you want to survive on the streets.”

Lena agreed.

Tariq’s only blind spot had been with his cousin Reyhan. He’d allowed the other man to steer him along a very dangerous course, getting Tariq involved in activities that curdled his blood once he learned the truth. Which happened when Nasser came under investigation by Interpol’s Fusion Task Force.

More horn blowing, and another sudden swerve.

“Four Seasons Hotel,” the driver announced, braking before the curved frontage of a huge, modern hotel. The Nile River lay less than fifty feet away, clusters of feluccas bobbing gently on the surface of the water, lush green trees lining the street.

When the extent of Nasser’s crimes came to light, Tariq made a deal with Interpol and gave evidence against his cousin in return for freedom. Unfortunately, the information he provided was not enough to convict Nasser. The arms dealer walked out of court, vowing to get even, and Tariq was forced to flee.

Nasser’s desire for vengeance against his cousin had been deep and fierce—a blood vow. It would not have waned over the years. The arms dealer’s connections in Cairo were vast and his resources extensive, which was why she truly could not fathom Tariq’s decision to return. Reyhan Nasser would kill him without a qualm.

Finding him quickly was vital.

Had this been the Cairo she grew up in, no problem. Today? A bit more of a challenge. And, unfortunately, Tariq knew the limits of the amulet. If he kept on the move, getting an accurate read on the coins would be next to impossible—a flaw she suspected applied equally to Brian’s locator spell.

She had to hope Tariq slipped up—just not badly enough to get himself killed.

It happened fast.

Brian rolled from the limo, arguably a little buzzed from having Lena’s soft body tucked against his the entire ride. Carlos exited on the other side. Between the two men, they had the vehicle and its four doors covered. But when Brian reached back into the car to help Lena out, she wasn’t there.

The seat was empty.

He stared, his heartbeat lurching to a full stop.

How could it be empty?

Leaning in, he placed his hand on the still-warm leather. His skin tingled and somewhere in the back of his mind he identified the sensation as the residual energy of spent magic. But accepting what it meant took longer. And the reality, when it arrived, hit him in the gut like a two-by-four.

“Holy shit. They snatched her.” He spun around, quickly scanning the street. The east bank of the Nile lay on one side, the hotel on the other. No sign of Lena’s familiar figure. “How?”

“Only one hell perv I know of that’s capable of carrying a person through the barrier,” Carlos said quietly. “A lure demon.”

Like Drusus, the demon who had fried the kid. Christ.

Brian absorbed the tight look on the younger Gatherer’s face, but refused to contemplate what horrific actions the lure demon might be taking this very minute. “She’ll be putting up a fight. He won’t get far.” He thrust a handful of pound notes at the perplexed cabdriver. “Don’t worry, we’re actors. This is just an improvisation game we play from time to time. Take our bags inside.”

“Split up,” he ordered Carlos. “You go left. I’ll go right. Search every street, every alley, every corner. Use your senses. Find her.”

The younger Gatherer nodded, unable to meet Brian’s eyes.

“They won’t kill her,” Brian said. He had to believe that was true; his mind wouldn’t accept the alternative. “They want the coins.”

“Okay.”

The studied neutrality of his response gave Brian pause. Meeting another lure demon couldn’t be a comfortable notion for the kid. “Look, if you need to stay out of this, I’ll understand.”

Carlos’s chin came up, and his eyes were dark and steady. “No way. I’m in.”

“Let’s do it, then.”

Brian darted down the tree-lined side street along the north side of the hotel, sending feelers into every shadowed corner. His throat was dry and his hands were fisted. Every muscle in his body was hot and tense and pumped full of urgency. Fear for Lena’s safety splintered his thoughts, but the cool hum of the sword on his back kept him sane. There were a lot of unknowns, including who had snatched her, how she was coping, and whether she was still alive. But he was certain of one thing: If the fuckers harmed her in any way, he was going to cut their goddamned heads off.

Twice.

12

Mere seconds after the lure demon grabbed Lena, it released her and vanished. When the icy chill of transfer finally let go of her body, she opened her eyes.

She stood in an alley only a few inches wider than the reach of her arms. There were wooden crates and bikes and earthenware jugs all around her, and, above her head, drying linens hung from makeshift clotheslines. But the only person in sight was a lean man wearing a pale blue ankle-length tunic—a galabeyya—and a white turban.

“Salaam, Lena.”

She didn’t need the renewed thrum of the amulet against her throat to tell her she was in the presence of a demon. She could tell by his eyes. The evil glow of Malumos was becoming all too familiar.

“I don’t have the coins,” she said.

“You know where they are.”

Lena returned his stare. The lies came easier and easier. “Actually, I don’t. I anticipated that you might not keep your word, and made arrangements to ensure that the coins could be exchanged only on the agreed-upon date. No sooner.”

The man’s dark brows angled sharply down. “You must know where they are.”

“I don’t.”

“Do not insult me with lies.” He nodded to her purse. “You saw the picture we sent. You know the precarious situation your precious Heather is in. Why not simply give me the location of the coins and save the girl some grief?”

At the mention of Heather, Lena grew strangely calm. Ten years of watching the girls grow up, of making them meals when their father was late home from work, of trying to fill the very large gap left by the death of their mother, meant more than she could ever have imagined. She would do anything to prevent further harm from coming to Heather. But giving up Tariq would not save the girl; it would only ensure that she would be used to coerce Lena another time. The only way to save Heather was to trade the coins in an organized manner. Except, of course, she’d promised them to Brian. “No. We have an existing agreement and I intend to live by it.”

“Or die by it.”

“Go ahead. Do what you must. My shields won’t keep you back for long, but I’ll resist as fiercely as I can. Even then, you can take me to the brink of oblivion, but it won’t matter. I won’t be able to give you the location of the coins.”

His eyes narrowed. “The pain will be unbearable.”

“Difficult, yes. Unbearable, no.”

“Are you sure? There are more ways to torture you than burning your flesh, Lena.”

He waved a hand, and the crumbling clay walls shimmered and shifted. Daylight became dusk, shadows deepened, and the industrial scent of smog faded, replaced by the earthier and more pungent smells of the days before indoor plumbing.

In the gloom behind Malumos, two galabeyya-clad men walked toward her, and her heart began to race. They were men she recognized, men whose cruel faces haunted her dreams even now. Kaab and Nazr. Malumos’s body changed—the blue tunic became black, the innocuous white turban disappeared, leaving long black hair that hung to the middle of his back. His jaw sharpened and a jagged scar appeared beneath his left eye.

Dhul-Fiqaar.

She licked suddenly dry lips, and although she wanted to resist, her gaze fell to her feet and the body she knew she would see sprawled there. A man with nut brown skin, a lean, hard build, and a dagger in his belly.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she closed her eyes.

No. It was just an illusion.

This event had occurred over one hundred years ago, and the approaching men were long dead and turned to dust. Still, her mouth soured. What a fool she’d been that day. So full of herself after stealing a set of limestone canopic jars from Luxor that she’d ignored Azim’s warnings. How often had he told her that flaunting her success to Dhul-Fiqaar was unwise? Too often to count.

A rough hand grasped her chin, and her eyes flew open.

Dhul-Fiqaar stared back at her, hatred in his obsidian eyes. “He died trying to save you, Lena. Don’t you feel anything for the fool?”

Seventeen years of living on the streets had taught her to never show weakness—to always keep her fears hidden—and even with Azim’s blood seeping into her slippers, she couldn’t drop the mask. Even with her heart ripping apart inside her chest.

But her lack of emotion maddened Dhul-Fiqaar to the brink of insanity. He slapped her. So hard he nearly knocked her to her knees.

“Give me the jars.”

Lena’s hands trembled. The jars meant more to her than just money. They represented hope and freedom, and a real future for Lily. Selling them would give her enough money for three tickets to England on the next steamer. Oh God. She blinked, trying to clear her blurry vision. Only two tickets now.

“Give me the jars, or I’ll simply cut off your hands and take them.”

Buried deep in her memories, Lena almost repeated the mistake she’d made that day—of spitting in his face. But at the last second she remembered that she was not held to her actions of a century ago. This was not truly 1896.

She thrust the leather satchel into his hands.

“Take them—they’re yours.”

Dhul-Fiqaar offered her a twisted smile. “Very unlike you, Lena. But wise.” He lifted a wavy lock of her hair, rubbing it between his finger and thumb. “Will you be as smart about accepting your fate, I wonder?”

“What fate?”

He shrugged. “Azim is dead. He can no longer protect you.”

Lena’s stomach heaved, and the present folded in on the past. His words were both a warning and a promise. Three years ago, while searching for the elusive Book of Judgment in the temple ruins at Karnak, Azim had saved her from a rapist, a fellow thief. He’d taken her under his wing and together they’d hunted for and found the book—though freeing it from its encasement in hardened tar had proved impossible. Over the years, their relationship deepened and they became a couple. Her attacker never again threatened her and the incident faded into hazy memory, the way all nightmares did. But that attacker—Dhul-Fiqaar—stood before her this very moment.

“You do not want me,” she said, praying.

“It’s not a question of want, but a question of right. You are mine now.”

She bit her lip. The lines between illusion and reality were blurring. Keeping the past separate from the present grew harder with every minute that passed. She had hoped that by giving up the jars, by not spitting in his face, she could avoid reliving her brutal death. But Malumos controlled the vision, and he had no intention of letting her off so easily.

Her gaze flickered to Kaab and Nazr.

In the past, they had held her down while Dhul-Fiqaar raped her. They had sneered and jeered as he slowly cut her to ribbons and watched her blood mingle with Azim’s in the sand. But it wasn’t that horrific abuse that brought about her death. She had survived injuries far worse, and she would have gone on to live a lesser but lengthy life. She would have retold the tale of her misadventure as a warning to her grandchildren. Except he had threatened the one person more important to her than her own life—Lily. Her infant daughter. And that had triggered a terrified, uncontrollable need to fight back.

Her eyes met Dhul-Fiqaar’s.

“Take what you want from my body. I will not fight.”

Another smile, deeper this time. “Never let it be said that you don’t learn, Lena. You remain as passionate as ever, yet the rashness of your youth has been tamed. Bravo.”

The vision abruptly ended.

Her nostrils filled with the recognizable smell of car exhaust, and the walls closed in around her once more. Honking horns, rumbling buses, and the chatter of millions swallowed up the quiet of Victorian Cairo. But the man standing before her continued to stare at her through black eyes.

“Since you assure me you’re still committed to our deal, I’m going to let this drop for the moment. But don’t forget those hard-won lessons, Lena. Too much blood has already been spilled for your selfish needs. Don’t get anyone else killed. Bring me the coins.”

Then he was gone.

Relief swam in her veins, but almost of its own free will, her gaze slid down to her feet.

No body, of course. Just paving stones and a thin layer of sand blown in from the desert. But the sand was dark in an uneven circle that included the tips of her boots. Her heart thumped so heavily she could barely think, and her knees gave out. Sinking to the ground, she put a hand to the wet dirt, touched the cool surface, and lifted her fingers to look.

Sure enough, it was red.

Although she knew in her heart that it could not possibly be Azim’s blood, Lena’s head bowed. She had many regrets, but this was one of the worst. Her death that day had meant no one had grieved for him. No one had washed his body, wrapped it tenderly in shrouds, or seen him properly buried. No one had honored the passing of a truly fine man. He had died pointlessly and alone.

Because of her.

She covered her face with her hands, and she cried.

Brian entered the alley with his sword aloft and his pulse pounding, ready for anything. Ready for anything but what he found.

Lena. On her knees.

Sobbing.

After double-checking to make sure they were alone, he scanned her body for signs of injury, but found nothing. No burns, no cuts, no blood. Just some wet sand stuck to her fingers and copious amounts of tears streaming down her face. The sight was so unexpected, for a fraction of a second he simply stared at her, unsure.

Then he did the only thing he could think of—he sheathed his sword, dropped to the dirt beside her, and gathered her against his chest. Although he desperately wanted to know what had happened, for once he curbed his tongue and let Lena do what she needed to do. The instant he put his arms around her, she buried her face against his throat and sobbed even harder.

It was a strange feeling.

On one hand, her crying freaked him out. This was Lena. Tough, cold-blooded Lena, who’d cracked his skull with a crystal paperweight. On the other hand, her crying sparked protective instincts he didn’t even know he possessed. At that moment, he’d have willingly faced a thousand guys armed with salty razor blades to keep her from suffering any more pain. And his chest swelled with the knowledge that—however briefly—she needed him.

Stupid, really.

But the red nose and wet lashes were ... cute.

As the sobs subsided, he pulled out his BlackBerry and whipped off a text message to Carlos. Then he kissed the top of Lena’s head and said softly, “Okay, fess up. Who do I have to gut?”

“No one.” She sighed unevenly, her breath sultry on his skin. “He’s already dead.”

He stiffened, glancing around the alleyway again. “You killed the demon?”

“No, I mean—” Another sigh. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over.”

Brian would have pressed her further, but Carlos jogged up the alley from the street, clearly amazed to see Lena unharmed. “What happened?”

Lena wriggled in his embrace, and Brian let her go. But not until he helped her to her feet. Surprisingly, she didn’t balk at the offer. She took his hand and even remained close to him upon standing.

“A demon I’ve never seen before snatched me from the car,” she said. “But he left me here in the alley, didn’t stick around. Another demon was waiting for me, one of the three thralls from the ranch.”

“Be glad the lure demon had better things to do than toy with you.” Carlos’s eyes wandered over her unsinged clothing. “Your shield held up amazingly well.”

“He never attacked me.”

“He just wanted to talk?” Brian asked, skeptical.

“He demanded the coins, and when I couldn’t give them to him, he got angry.”

Carlos frowned. “But he still didn’t try to kill you.”

“No.”

Brian understood Carlos’s frown. He was a little confused himself. Demons weren’t known for their patience or their soft hearts. Even if they were blackmailing her and were relatively confident she’d deliver, wouldn’t they have punished her for temporarily losing sight of the coins? Why would they let her go without a scratch?

“Let’s go back to the hotel,” he said. Of course, there was the whole crying thing. That suggested pain of some sort. “We’ll eat some dinner and then do a locator spell and see if we can pinpoint Tariq’s location.”

When he got Lena alone, he’d dig for a few more details.

Brian tipped the bellboy and closed the door to the suite.

“Now, this is a hotel.”

Shaking her head, Lena skirted around Carlos, who had immediately gravitated toward the high-tech entertainment unit. Scooping a handful of dates from the impressive fruit basket supplied by the hotel management, she wandered through the huge living space and over to the glass doors leading to the tiled terrace. “Amazing. You can see the pyramids from here.”

“Rodriguez?” When Carlos looked up from his intent study of the remote control, Brian pointed to the single door next to the dining room. “You’ve got the bedroom to the right. Lena and I will share the one on the left.”

Midbite, she spun around and glared at him. “Who says we’re sharing?”

“I do.”

“Just because we had s—”

Brian abruptly raised his hand, cutting off her protest. Sharing the details of his sex life with Carlos had no appeal whatsoever. If you could call it that when Brian hadn’t actually gotten any. “I don’t trust you not to run, sorry. Same rules as San Jose apply here.”

Carlos flicked on the TV. As might be expected in an expensive suite, the channel was set to a European news program. An English reporter was standing in front of the old-world frontage of the German Reichstag, jostled by protesters and angry citizens on all sides. In the background, a raging fire was consuming the government building, and scores of people were throwing rocks at a line of armored policemen. The reporter was talking fast, as though he worried how long he’d be able to continue his feed. “Apparently, hundreds of millions of euros have gone missing and there’s no explanation from the German chancellor. Reports suggest she’s been arrested, and that the rest of the cabinet is also under investigation, but as you can see, that news has not satisfied the German public.”

Brian grimaced. Satan wasn’t letting up.

“Turn it off.”

Grabbing their two suitcases, he shouldered open the set of folding doors leading to the larger of the two bedrooms. Inside, arranged in an uninspired but spacious layout, he found a king-sized bed, a pale green chaise longue, and a desk. To the left, through another set of doors, stood a fully equipped marble bathroom. He eyed the multifunction showerhead. With his nose on fire from breathing in fine grains of sand and parched desert air, a shower would be a godsend.

“I call first dibs on the shower,” Lena said, following.

Brian heaved a regretful but understanding sigh. For her, he would wait. Besides, this was his opportunity to grill her about what had happened in the alley. Trapped in the shower stall, she wouldn’t be able to avoid his questions.

“While you’re washing up, I’ll order room service,” he murmured.

She nodded absently, tugging the elastic from her hair. The ponytail disappeared and the full weight of her wavy brown tresses cascaded down her back. She threaded her fingers into her thick hair and massaged her scalp, closing her eyes briefly in sheer pleasure.

A simple, thoughtless act, yet it turned Brian on with the ease of a light switch.

His blood seared through his veins like flaming sambuca.

Damn, he had it bad. Denying himself the first time had added a desperate edge to his need. And while abstinence had become almost second nature to him over the past few years, touching her, tasting her, and watching her face as she came—twice—had awakened his desire in a relentless, unforgiving way.

It had also reinforced the crazy notion that she was his.

Actually, crazy didn’t begin to describe the absurdity of that thought. A man who betrayed the faith of everyone who ever cared about him or counted on him deserved an eternity in hell, not a relationship with a stunner like Lena. If she knew even half of the sins he’d committed, he felt sure she wouldn’t give him the time of day.

She began to unbutton her blouse, and Brian turned away.

Room service, and then a call to San Jose.

No Lena.

When he got off the phone, her shirt and chinos were neatly folded on the bed, and clouds of steam were wafting out of the open bathroom. He rolled the desk chair over to the doorway and sat down with a bottle of Evian. The glass-walled shower stall was coated in mist and he caught only vague suggestions of her shapely body within.

“So,” he said conversationally, his voice louder to compensate for the noise of the running water. “Now that we’re alone and Carlos can’t listen in, we can skip the bullshit. What happened in the alleyway before I found you?”

Under the spray, she stilled.

“I told you. The demon demanded the coins.”

“And that made you cry?” He popped the cap on the bottle and poured ice-cold water down his dry throat. “When everything else that’s happened has barely made you flinch? Come on, Lena. You don’t really expect me to believe that.”

For a moment there was only the sound of water splashing on tiles.

Then, “Do you remember the day you died?”

His gaze dropped. Hell, yeah, he remembered. Every fucked-up thought, every signpost that flew by, and every screeching degree of the curve he didn’t quite make. His dreams never quite let him forget the horrible grind of his Lamborghini wrapping around a tree, the crunch of bone, and the stinging slice of metal on his skin. The amount of detail he could summon was amazing, considering he’d been completely wasted.

“Yes.”

“I’d conveniently forgotten most of it,” she said. “But the demon played my last few moments back for me. They weren’t pleasant.”

He pressed the cold plastic of the bottle against his forehead. Yeah, that might have been tear-worthy. “Did you die in a Cairo alleyway?”

“Yes.”

“Bastard.”

A hint of a smile warmed her voice as she said, “Could you pass me the shampoo?”

He found the Bvlgari Green Tea toiletries in a ceramic dish on the counter and, not trusting himself to venture any closer, he tossed the shampoo over the wall.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry.” He retreated to his chair. “I still can’t figure out why he didn’t try to kill you.”

“Why would he kill me?” A fat blob of suds fell to the tiles at her feet.

“Because you admitted you didn’t know where the coins were. You basically told him you were useless to him. No offense, but if I were him, I’d have taken you off the map right there and then.”

“Obviously,” she said grumpily, “he expects me to find them.”

“But why you? I mean, picking you to rob Duverger made perfect sense. But now that the coins are lost, why is he insisting that you be the one to find them?”

“He blames me for losing them,” she said. “And I know Cairo.”

“Plenty of locals here who know the city better than you,” he pointed out. “He could just enthrall one of them. No, he kept you alive for a reason.”

“Maybe”—her words were slurred a bit by sluicing water—“he needs something else stolen.”

Brian’s heart nearly stopped beating. Something else? Like another relic? “Has he asked you to steal something else?”

“No.” The last of the suds circled the drain and disappeared. She turned the water off.

“Did he mention the Pontius Pilate Linen?” he asked, getting to his feet. Her bare toes turned toward the door. Ah, shit. Leave or don’t leave? It was a human-evolution-versus-caveman-mentality moment. “Or ask you to discover the whereabouts of any other objects?”

“No.” She shoved open the glass door.

Leave.

He rolled the chair back to its spot behind the desk.

Just because the demons hadn’t asked her to steal another artifact didn’t mean that wasn’t what they had in mind. But in order to predict the where and when of another theft, he had to know how the Linen and the coins fit together. And whether there were more dark relics. Which meant he was back at square one, waiting for MacGregor to return.

“Did you perform a spell to locate Tariq?” Lena asked, following him into the bedroom.

“Not yet,” Brian said, turning slowly to face her. “We were waiting on you. The spell is only effective if the person doing it is has intimate knowledge of the person being sought.”

A thick white terry towel covered her torso but left her arms and legs completely bare. Droplets of water fell from the glistening mass of her hair and ran down her limbs, but it was the few that trickled down her slender neck and disappeared into the shadow of her cleavage that drew his attention.

“I’m not keen on performing Romany magic.”

Her words were probably English, but they might as well have been Greek. As she spoke, she tilted her head, twisted her hair into a huge knot, and wrung the excess water out onto the carpet. The movement exposed her neck and throat in an enticing, impossible-to-resist invitation.

Christ. It was crazy, the power this woman had over him. Sometimes, she felt like a drug seeping into him, sending him spiraling. The more he tasted her, the more glimpses of the real Lena she offered him, the more he wanted. Given his pledge to get clean, to free himself of any and all addiction, it was really the worst of all possible relationships for him.

But right now, he didn’t care.

He needed to touch her.

So he did.

He grabbed her arm, shoved her against the suede-covered wall, and kissed the breath out of her. Immediately, a flurry of sensations taunted him: the soft give of her lips beneath his, the plump press of her breasts against his chest, the smell of her shampoo in his nose, and the warm, wet silk of her skin. All of it delightful, none of it satisfying.

He needed more.

His hot skin ached for clothless contact.

But he forced the exhilarating need in his body to recede for a second, to judge Lena’s willingness. She’d just been through an ordeal, one he didn’t wholly under—

Her slender arm slipped around his neck, drawing him closer, tighter.

Brian groaned and deepened the kiss. At the same time, his hand dove under the edge of her towel, seeking more of her satiny flesh, gliding up the grooved arch of her back. Yes. God, yes. His tongue mated with hers, the hot duel further evidence that the desire raging inside him was mutual.

Somehow, her hand found its way under his black T-shirt to his chest, her cool fingers grazing over his steamy skin. The touch was too light, too frustrating, and Brian paused to yank the shirt over his head. He had no idea where it landed—his lips and his thoughts were completely focused on the wild pulse beating at the base of her throat.

The rasp of cotton terry eased the desperate itch of his skin temporarily.

“The door,” she whispered hoarsely.

Fuck. Carlos.

He pressed a fevered kiss to her lips. “Don’t move.”

The trip to the double doors was made in record time. There was no sign of Carlos in the living area, thank God. He closed them with a snap and then spun around to face Lena. Her hands were unraveling the towel, loosening its hold on her. Hair tousled, skin flushed, fingers trembling with desperate eagerness.

Without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he’d ever met.

But not because of what he saw on the outside.

Hell, yeah, he liked the outer stuff. He’d have to be crazy not to. But in the days since he’d met her, it was the stupid stuff that had sucked him in. The nervous flutter of the pulse at her throat, often the only fissure in her coldhearted facade. The shadows in her eyes, the ones that reminded him painfully of the darkness in his own past. The way she stood her ground, even when she shouldn’t. The crying in the alleyway that was so unlike her.

Impossibly strong and, at the same time, sweetly vulnerable.

How he could he not love—

Shit, no. Where did that come from? This swell in his chest wasn’t love. It was lust. He was just wicked horny. This was sex, not a relationship. The woman would skewer him in a heartbeat if it meant she could get away. They were just using each other. That was all.

“Did you change your mind?” she asked, a frown forming on her brow.

The problem with that theory was all on his side. The more he learned about Lena, the more he wanted to know. He wanted her to tell him all about those last ugly moments before she died; he wanted to hear all the tales of her childhood and every year since. He wanted to know what made her tick.

Dangerous stuff.

He didn’t do relationships. Not anymore. Relationships came with expectations. They thrived on respect and trust and mutual dependability. History had proven him incapable of delivering on those expectations. Not just with women—with everyone. Which was why he’d vowed to abstain from sex. A vow he was on the verge of breaking.

“No,” he answered. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

Was it fair of him to entangle Lena in his supremely messed-up existence? Hell, no. Was he selfish enough to do it anyway? If Mr. Billy got a vote, the answer would definitely be yes.

He lifted his gaze to her eyes and smiled. “I’m just taking a moment to admire the view.”

She returned his smile. “I’m not sure you’re seeing it from the best angle.”

Then she let go of the towel.

13

Lena had once believed sex was a tool men used to exert control over women. Her earliest experiences had been about dominance, not pleasure.

Even Azim, who by all standards was a generous and unselfish lover, had believed it was her duty to submit to him when and where he liked. But one hundred years of making her own way—of honing her skills and developing her personal power—had given her a new outlook.

Once she would have let Brian withdraw and walk away, leaving her unsettled and unsatisfied. Not now. Despite a thorough scrubbing in the shower, she hadn’t been able to banish the horrible memories invoked in the alley or wash away the queasy feeling left by her brief sojourn into the past. Yet she could not let the incident cripple her. For Heather’s sake, she had to put it behind her.

Sex could do that. Sex with Brian could do that.

He had an amazing ability to ground her in the here and now. The combination of his raw sensuality and quirky humor was so vivid and engaging, she couldn’t be anywhere but with him. He made her feel fresh and beautiful and ... normal. But it was more than that. No matter how much evidence stacked up against her, he remained adamant that her motives were decent. That she was decent. Right now, she needed that buoyant belief. She needed him.

Her hand nervously sought the gold pendant at her throat. She watched his eyes as the towel hit the floor. The question was, did he need her?

Brian crossed the room with easy steps, scooped her into his arms, and delivered her to the bed. Dropping her onto the white linen comforter, he gave her a wolfish grin and said, “To tell you the truth, the view doesn’t matter. I’m more of a hands-on kinda guy.”

Relief prompted a smile. “That’s convenient, because I want more touching this time.”

“More? Didn’t I find every hidden corner of you last time?”

“That was very nice,” she allowed. “But I want hot, sticky, skin-to-skin contact. All over.”

He grinned. “Ah, you want both of us naked.”

Putting a hand to his trousers, he popped the button free. The soft rasp of a zipper accelerated her pulse and shortened her breath. It was a heady sensation and she welcomed it. From the beginning, the hunt for the coins had been a nightmare, one horrific event after the next. The only moments when she hadn’t felt physically ill were the ones she’d spent with Brian. Losing herself in her dizzying desire for him was bliss.

The lightweight wool trousers slid off his narrow hips and pooled on the floor at his feet. Underneath, he wore a pair of pale gray knit boxer briefs.

“What? No silk?” she teased.

“Not my thing.” He shucked the underwear with amazing finesse for a man whose gaze never wandered from her face, and he posed for a fleeting second, brazen and proud.

“Hmmm.” She resisted praise. Men got swelled heads so easily and Brian already thought far too highly of himself. Even so, it was hard not to salivate over his flawless musculature and his impressively virile response to stimuli. “Not bad.”

He smiled, not one whit unmanned by her deadpan response. “Sweetheart, you are so going to eat those words.”

Then he joined her on the bed, sliding up her body until they were face-to-face, pelvis-to-pelvis. Drawing in a deep breath of her fragrance, he nuzzled her neck, licked his way to her ear, and nibbled on the lobe. Lena felt as if she were melting from the inside out. His erection pulsed against her hip, and the heat of her body leapt another degree.

Want was such an inadequate word for what she was feeling.

She turned toward him, her lips finding his, starved for contact. He responded with a feverish nip of her bottom lip and she opened to his demand. One of her hands grabbed his and directed it to the plump mound of her breast. With a soft moan, she arched into his touch. Her long legs entwined with his, holding him as close as she could. As close as she dared.

If only life were as simple as this: two people sharing one burning desire.

If it were possible to wipe the slate clean and start new, she’d start right here, with Brian. He was the stuff of fantasy—handsome, honorable, supremely competent. But her slate was etched with scars. She’d done things that she could not forgive, so asking him to forgive them was impossible. She was not worthy of the faith he had in her. Especially since she’d changed her mind about giving him the coins.

But she could pretend.

His touch on her body alternated between sweet reverence and wild, hungry abandon. As if he was waiting on a signal from her. So she obliged. Her fingers dug into the short waves of his silky hair, inviting him to kiss her even deeper.

Correctly interpreting her urging as consent for rougher play, he rolled her onto her back, pressing her hard into the pillows, grinding his erection against her mons. One hand tested the firm roundness of her breast and the other her buttocks, kneading and squeezing. His mouth ravaged hers, stealing her breath, bruising her lips, claiming her soul as his.

“Christ, you make me see stars,” he muttered brokenly.

The combination of his physical siege and his tortured words sent a wave of liquid need rippling through her body, and she shuddered with delight. Her hands skimmed over the hard planes of his chest and the ropy muscles of his arms. Eager for him to take the next step, she let her knees fall open and lifted her hips what little she could to increase the pressure.

He responded with a groan.

His mouth blazed a steamy hot trail down her throat, adoring every inch of her skin along the way. He took her breast into his mouth and aggressively toyed with the nipple—flicking, suckling, biting. Her fingers curled around his arm, an echo of what his caresses were doing to her toes.

“Take me,” she begged. “Please.”

“Anywhere you want to go,” he promised. The tip of his cock rocked into her wetness, in and out, teasing and tantalizing. Her body responded eagerly, quivering with excitement. Her hands gripped the bedsheets, twisting and tugging. As the restless tension in her belly increased and the sensations became nearly unbearable, a whimper escaped her lips.

It was a primitive request he immediately understood. Pulling away slightly, he knelt on the bed before her. Grasping both her ankles, he lifted her legs up, angling them toward her head, fully exposing her. He stared into her face, his eyes hooded, his cheeks flushed. “Okay?”

Although she felt open and extremely vulnerable, she was not physically uncomfortable. And she loved this view of the fierce passion in his face. “Yes.”

Then he slowly pressed deeper inside her, filling her. All the way. As far as he could go. The feeling of fullness was so rich and so heady, Lena fell partway into the abyss. Her eyes closed and her womb trembled. But she didn’t want to go alone.

Her eyes popped open, her gaze seeking his.

“Hard.” She gasped. “And fast.”

He didn’t bother with words. He just began moving, stroking deep and sure. Slowly at first, making certain she was truly ready, then picking up the pace and varying the action—sometimes a simple in and out, sometimes with an erotic swivel of his hips that drove her almost completely mad. His knowledge of what tuned her body to a fever pitch was surprising and intensely gratifying. Every withdrawal and reentry shot her to new heights.

The tension inside her grew tight as a bowstring, and her head thrashed from side to side.

Release was so close. So very, very close.

Brian grunted, sweat beading on his brow. “Lena, sweetheart, I’m dying here. You feel too good. Please tell me the dam’s about to burst.”

The pinnacle was within reach. She could feel it. “Don’t stop.”

Her urging seemed to give him new life and he pounded into her with vigor, finding and delivering a barrage of sensation to that sweet spot inside her womb. In a moment of sweaty delirium, he bit her calf, and that was all it took.

“Brian,” she said, her voice a breathless trill as the crest hit her. “Oh yes.”

Ecstasy poured through her, washing over every muscle, every nerve, every inch of her skin. Spasms racked her womb, clenching him in an intimate and unforgettable embrace. An instant later, Brian was rocked by his own release, a violent shudder that testified to the tenuous hold he’d maintained over his libido.

“Holy fuck,” he said hoarsely, as he collapsed beside her.

“Good thing I’m already dead,” he said, kissing her shoulder in a hazy state of numbed bliss, “or that would’ve killed me.”

Her fingers danced up the middle of his glistening chest. Almost playful. “What happened to the legendary Gatherer stamina?”

When she reached the very sensitive skin of his nipple, he snared her hand and flattened her palm against the beat of his heart. “You’re lucky I lasted as long as I did. I’m a little rusty.”

“Really? How long has it been?”

“Six years.”

The look on her face was comical. “What?”

“Six years,” he repeated.

“You’re kidding.”

He smiled wryly. “Nope, not kidding.”

“I don’t believe it. No guy can last six weeks without sex, let alone six years.”

“I didn’t plan to be celibate for that long,” he said, rolling to his side to look at her fully. The postcoital pink in her cheeks lent her a soft femininity she didn’t normally possess. It stole his breath away. “It just sort of happened. I needed to get my head screwed on right, and it’s taken a bit more time than I anticipated, that’s all.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Were you exploring your sexuality?”

“Exploring my what?” He grimaced. “Lemme guess. You’ve been talking to Murdoch.”

Her flush deepened.

He shook his head. “Trust me, Mr. Billy only wakes up for women. My issues have nothing to do with sorting out which sex I prefer.” He paused. “I’m a heroin addict.”

Her gaze flicked to his elbow, then back to his eyes, confused.

“No scars,” he agreed. “But only because I was very careful. I had a high-powered job and displaying track marks would’ve cut off my habit at the knees. So I used fresh, sharp needles every time. And when I got so bad that I no longer cared what shape my works were in, I started shooting between my toes and into my groin.”

“But you’re a Gatherer....”

He nodded. “I know what you’re thinking. The rapid-healing thing prevents Gatherers from getting drunk, so how can I possibly get high, right?”

She nodded.

“I can’t. Even if I spent every last dime I had and flooded my veins with smack, I wouldn’t get a buzz.” In the first few weeks after he died, he had contemplated doing that more times than not. If Death hadn’t repeatedly kicked his ass, he probably would have.

“Doesn’t that mean you’re not an addict anymore?”

“No.” He fell back against the pillows and stared up at the ceiling. The stucco swirled in an artful wave pattern. “I’m a recovering addict, but still an addict. The craving is always there in the background, quietly calling me. The only thing that makes my life bearable is the high I get battling demons. To some extent, I just traded one fix for another.”

Silence met his words, and he glanced at her.

The sight of tears pooling in her eyes made him swallow uncomfortably. Pity he didn’t need. But by some miracle, the looming hug-and-pat was averted. After a seemingly endless moment, she blinked, banished the impending waterworks, and conjured a weak smile.

“Were you addicted to sex, too?”

He chuckled. “No. I just didn’t think inflicting my screwed-up persona on unsuspecting women was a smart thing to do. I figured I’d get my act together first.”

“And here we are, six years later.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m not entirely sure why I let it go this long. But after the first two years, I stopped thinking about it.” He snorted. “Wait, that’s a lie. I never stopped thinking about it. Truth is, I never ran across a woman I wanted to fuck as badly as I wanted to fuck you.”

She wrinkled her nose. “That’s so romantic.”

He leaned over and kissed her. “Like I said, I’m rusty.”

“I guess I should be flattered that you chose to end your sexual hiatus with me,” she said, thoughtful.

His heart sank. All that effort to avoid saying something stupid, only to find his actions had spoken louder than any words. She’d seen right through him.

“Makes sense, of course,” she added. “With me, there’s no expectation of a relationship. As Gatherers, we’ve forfeited the dream of a house, kids, and marriage. We can just enjoy ourselves. Great sex whenever it’s convenient, with no strings attached.”

She was right. It made perfect sense.

So why did her very cool and logical response spark a freakin’ bonfire in his chest? Why was it okay for him to want to avoid a relationship, but not okay for Lena to want the same? Was his ego that huge that he couldn’t deal with her being less than completely enamored ? If so, he was a number-one, class-A, redneck jerk.

Either that or he really was falling in love with her.

His gaze lifted to her face. Ah, shit.

There was a sharp rap on the door, followed by the muffled sound of Carlos’s voice. “Food’s here.”

Lena sat up and swung her feet to the floor. “Well, there’s one advantage to wrapping things up quickly. Dinner will still be warm.”

“It wasn’t that quick,” he protested.

She leaned back and patted him on the arm. “You’ll improve with practice.”

In the space of a heartbeat, he had her flat on her back and pinned to the bed. Her damp hair had sprung into delicate chocolate curls and they framed her face. God, she was beautiful. “Admit it. I might be quick, but I’ve never left you hanging.”

She grinned, her brown eyes sparkling. “True.”

It was oh-so-tempting to whisper sweet nothings in her ear, to tell her how easily she made his damned heart swell. But that would take them places that were definitely off-limits. He pressed a hard kiss to her lips and then let her up. “I’m going to jump in the shower. After we eat, we’ll do the locator spell on Tariq.”

“Okay.”

As Brian watched her grin fade, his gut knotted. He’d done it on purpose, mentioning Tariq. To make the moment a little less intimate, a little less close. But putting the memory of why they were here back in her eyes sucked more than he could possibly have imagined.

The road to self-respect, it seemed, was riddled with potholes.

It made Lena’s flesh crawl to use Romany magic, but she intoned the words of the locator spell with the same care and diligence she would any other. It was that or confess the secrets of the Horus amulet, which she was not prepared to do. The moment she scattered the requisite scorched rat bones upon the suite’s lovely black-and-cream Egyptian carpet, a circle of mist appeared and a collage of city images began to layer within it. The pictures came quickly, then slowed. The last image to pop into view and hover above the bones was a busy Cairo street.

“Al-Muski?” Brian asked, as he peered over Lena’s shoulder at the mystical vision. “Is that what the sign says?”

“Yes.”

“That’s where we’re headed, then,” he said, gathering up the bones.

There was a very real possibility Tariq would swiftly change locations, but Lena didn’t argue. She grabbed up her purse and followed Brian and Carlos down to the hotel lobby. “I’m not convinced this will amount to anything,” she said as she slid into the back of a Mercedes.

“What’s the problem?” Sliding in beside her, Brian tucked his wallet in the inside breast pocket of his jacket and buttoned it down.

“Al-Muski is a market in Islamic Cairo,” she explained, glancing at him. His postshower hair care consisted of running a hand through the dampness and letting the locks fall where they might. An irresistible and charming effect, no doubt intentional. “Popular with both tourists and locals. It will be very busy.”

“I see your point. If it’s as crowded as you say, he’s going to be hard to find.”

She glanced out the tinted window at the late-afternoon sky. They’d have about two hours to search the market before sunset adhan. Finding Tariq before then was critical, because the evening call to prayer would disrupt the search. Her hand slipped into her purse, her fingers blindly seeking the hard edges of the puzzle box. Sunset would also mean another lost day.

With less drama than a cabbie but equal skill in navigating the crowded streets, their hotel driver delivered them to the corner of Al-Muski and Al-Muizz li-Din Allah. When Lena smiled and thanked him for his help, the elderly man kindly reminded her to barter for everything, handed her his business card, and left them to their own devices.

The street was choked with people, cars, and merchandise-stacked tables. Movement in any direction was a challenge. Exhaust fumes from an endless stream of vehicles, the mingled bleats of honking horns and hawking vendors, and the slow-boil heat of a spring afternoon attacked their senses.

“Oh my God,” Brian said, staring at the crush.

“Exactly.” Lena rose to her tiptoes and craned her neck for a better view of the street. “We’d cover more ground if we split up, but getting permanently separated is a real possibility.”

“You’re sticking with me,” Brian reminded her, snagging her arm as he spoke. “But Carlos can take the other side of the street.” He glanced at the young Hispanic man. “Think you can manage not to get lost?”

Carlos rolled his shoulders in a careless shrug. “Worst case, I hoof it back to the hotel on my own. No big deal. What do you want me to do if I spot the mark?”

“The mark?” Lena said, with a short laugh. “He’s a friend, not a target.”

Carlos’s eyes met hers. “You said he intends to keep the coins. And no offense, but being a friend of yours isn’t the best credential a guy could have.”

He didn’t trust her. Fair enough. She didn’t trust him, either. She nodded. “Did you download his picture to your iPhone?”

“Yeah. Won’t need it, though. I remember what he looks like.”

“Good,” said Brian. “Let’s go.”

Carlos disappeared into the thick crowd, and they pressed forward, eyeing every passerby with diligence. Tourists mingled with natives. Sellers with weary eyes and smooth tongues did their best to capture a sale, while hawkers—sometimes children—tried to entice pedestrians into the shops that lined the street. Most of the shoppers had bared heads, even the women, but their attention was often bent to the wares piled up on tables. Food, trousers, scarves, robes, leather goods. Almost everything imaginable. Garbage was strewn about, mostly wrappers discarded by vendors as they restocked the tables, but also a few plastic bags and empty food containers.

Lena drew on her heightened sense of smell, trying to wade through the mingled aromas of fried tamiya, spicy koshary, petrol fumes, and body odor. But the sheer quantity of scents overwhelmed her nose. Still, she gave every slender suspect a thorough assessment. If Tariq was here, she intended to find him.

As they neared the center of the market, she scrutinized the slow-moving stream of people and those standing about with increased care. The amulet had been more precise than the locator spell. This was where the Egyptian man should be. Her gaze slid over a very plump fellow with a shiny face, a skinny blond tourist clutching her purse to her chest, and a stocky man with large ears that stuck out from his head. The market seemed an odd place to meet a buyer, but Tariq’s decisions were anything but predictable these days.

Brian nudged her elbow. “Him?”

She glanced quickly in the direction of his subtle nod. A thin man leaned against the stone arch of a shop front, his curly hair trimmed short, his brown eyes locked on the shy girl with whom he was conversing. There was a definite similarity to Tariq’s lean face, especially in the nose and chin, but it wasn’t him.

“No.”

She returned to her perusal of the tables lining the street. A sour-faced man with gray hair accepted a bundle of woven leather belts from the traditionally garbed Muslim woman behind him. Her gaze moved on to the vendor at the next table selling red fez caps to tourists. Then it abruptly returned to the Muslim woman.

Those hands.

Not the delicate appendages of a woman, but lean and square-tipped. An artist’s hands.

Her eyes flew up, peering beneath the dark blue hijab, looking deep into the woman’s eyes—the only feature visible above the full-face niqab. Had she not viewed those eyes from beneath a burgundy hood mere days ago, she might not have recognized them. They were remarkably pretty.

“Uh-oh.” Brian stiffened beside her, his grip tightening. “That can’t be good.”

Although the warning note in his voice made her curious, Lena was afraid to look away from Tariq in case he disappeared, so she simply tugged on Brian’s hand and said, “I found him.”

But even as she spoke, Tariq’s gaze darted over her shoulder. His eyes widened at whatever he saw there, and then he turned and ran. Lena’s reflexes were much sharper than his, and she would have snagged the voluminous folds of his disguise, except that Brian reacted to a different stimulus, and he had a formidable grip on her hand. He went left, and she went right.

She missed the blue robes by an inch.

“This way,” she hissed, giving Brian’s hand a fierce yank.

He followed her gaze, spotted her fleeing target, and prodded her forward. “You lead. I’ll do my best to catch the bullets.”

“What?”

Tariq’s midnight blue robes fled down a narrow alley. Into the Khan.

“Some guy recognized you,” Brian said, as they shouldered their way through the crowd. “And I’m guessing he doesn’t like you, because he promptly whipped out a gun. A nice, shiny black nine-mil with a suppressor.”

A gun? Not a demon, then.

Running at full Gatherer speed wasn’t an option in the crowded market, and despite their best efforts Tariq remained a good twenty feet in front of them, drawing a rumble of frustration from Lena.

He sped through the medieval souks with admirable agility, shouldering past turbaned vendors, leaping over collections of brass pots, ducking under rugs. Racks of cheap souvenirs fell to the ground in his wake, forcing his pursuers to hurdle new obstacles.

Brian responded by conjuring a shield, which helped keep the debris out of their path. Lena veered left, hot on Tariq’s heels. The person behind them must be one of Nasser’s men. He would not have run otherwise.

“Throw a sleep spell at him,” Brian suggested.

“That would put everyone in the alley to sleep,” she reminded him. “It’s not a very focused spell.”

“I can live with it if you can.”

“Death will not be pleased if we cause a scene.”

“Fuck Death,” he said nicely. “Either you want to catch him, or you don’t.”

Lena needed no further prompting. As carefully as running down a narrow alley allowed, she directed a sleep spell at the flapping blue robes ahead. Her first attempt ricocheted off a shop sign and hit the people right in front of her. An elderly man crumpled to the packed dirt with a suddenness that gave Lena a sharp pang of regret. But the guilt wasn’t strong enough to stop her from aiming a second shot at the fleeing Tariq.

But again the man lucked out.

He turned a corner an instant before the spell would have hit him.

With everyone around them now snoring, Lena and Brian put on more speed and reached the corner in a split second. They entered the dead-end alley and stopped.

It was empty.

Except for tourists and shopkeepers. Not a single person garbed in blue robes. No one frowning or looking remotely disturbed. No swaying rugs, no oscillating strands of beads, no fallen racks. Tariq had simply disappeared.

Lena’s heart thudded with the slow beat of a funeral dirge.

He was gone. Vanished.

And with him had gone her last hope of saving Heather.

Wearing his blue galabeyya and a white turban, Malumos knelt beside the gunman’s sleeping body, studying his weapon with curiosity. A bullet would never stop Lena Sharpe or her companion. Only he or another demon could do that. Humans simply had no idea what walked among them on a daily basis.

His skin tingled and a hot rush of power rose up in his chest. He glanced up.

His brothers had arrived. They strode down the alley toward him—each occupying the body of some pathetic human. As they neared, the energy surging through his veins deepened to painful intensity. United, there was nothing the three of them couldn’t do, and that was an utterly rapturous feeling.

Inside the body of a suavely dressed African male, Maleficus frowned as he studied the sleeping thug. “This man sought to destroy her. Why?”

“Who knows?” Malumos stood and pocketed the gun. “And who cares? The only thing that matters is that we now know where the coins are. The fellow she was chasing through the souks has them.”

“How can you be sure?”

He fished a silver coin from the small leather purse hanging from his wrist, holding it up for his brothers to see. “As you know, the coins call to one another. As the human in the blue robes passed by, this one began to hum with excitement. I took the opportunity to read the man’s thoughts, and I know his next move.”

“Does that mean,” Mestitio asked breathlessly, the sunken eyes of the elderly female he possessed locked on the man at Malumos’s feet, “you have no higher purpose for this human? Does it mean that I can have him?”

Although his brother’s tendency to forget the task at hand annoyed him, Malumos knew the seething rage inside the other demon, if left to fester, would eventually boil over and cause far worse grief than a few lost hours. And better he expend that energy on this hapless soul than on the girl.

He nodded.

Mestitio licked his lips, bent to touch the sleeping man, and made the transfer. The body he’d previously occupied fell to the dirt, unconscious, and the gunman woke up with a soft gasp. A twisted grin spread across his mouth, and he pulled a serrated combat knife from a sheath under his shirt. “Fun, fun, fun.”

“Don’t be too long,” Malumos cautioned him.

“With recovery of the Judas coins imminent,” Maleficus said, “perhaps I should follow the lead Ms. Sharpe provided and venture to Karnak?”

An excellent call. The people in the alley began to rouse from their slumber, rolling over and grumbling. Malumos watched as his youngest brother succumbed to a primeval urge to take his meal to some hidden location before feasting and crawled into the shadow of an open doorway, blood already seeping from a dozen self-inflicted wounds. “This day shall go down in history, brother.”

“A truly momentous occasion,” said Maleficus, nodding. “If the book contains the spell we need.”

“I have great faith in your research. It will be there.” His brother glanced at the Timex on his wrist. “The train to Karnak leaves in an hour. The length of the journey is such that I will need to return to hell briefly to recuperate, but I shall endeavor to report back before midnight.”

Malumos nodded. A thrall could remain on the middle plane for up to eight hours, if the host was easy to subdue. Less, if great physical exertion was expended during the possession. “Mestitio and I will take our rest now. Once we are reunited and at full strength, the three of us will collect the coins.”

14

After questioning the people in the souk about a woman in indigo robes and getting precisely nowhere, Brian led Lena back to the spot where he’d been certain the man with the gun had fallen. But the gunman had already departed.

“What the hell?” Brian growled, as he spun around. The sun was descending toward the horizon, but even in the deepening shadows, his Gatherer vision was excellent. “First the kid. Now the guy who was chasing us. Is there a portal through the barrier here, or something?”

Lena grimaced. “I hope not. A perpetually open portal would allow creatures from the between to freely pass through.”

Brian shot her a quizzical look. “The between?”

“The space between the planes where the barriers themselves exist. A world composed completely of shadow and spirit.”

“What are we talking? Ghosts?”

“No. Gradiors and bone-sappers,” she replied, without a hint of a smile.

“What are grad—” He halted himself midword and grabbed her arm. Really, he was going to have to kick MacGregor’s ass for the huge gaps in his education. “No, on second thought, I don’t think I want to know. Let’s go find Carlos.”

They returned to Al-Muski amid a chorus of angry shouts from vendors whose goods had fallen during the chase. Lena quietly offered a handful of Egyptian pounds to anyone who displayed a broken item, but otherwise they strode on without stopping.

“If we knew what Tariq was doing here,” he said to Lena as they peered right and left for signs of their young partner, “we might be able to figure out his next step.”

“I can only assume he was meeting with a buyer. But I’ve no idea why he’d agree to meet in such a busy place. It’s hardly conducive to a negotiation involving large sums of money. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Look around. Maybe something will strike a chord.” Brian dialed Carlos’s number. When the young man picked up, he said, “We almost had him, but no go. Meet us back at the corner.”

Lena was frowning when he hung up.

“See something?” he asked.

She nodded surreptitiously at a building across the street with a shoe store on the bottom level. “If I’m not mistaken, that’s one of Reyhan Nasser’s offices.”

“Who the hell is Reyhan Nasser?”

In the middle of her explanation he held up a hand. “Okay, I get it. I think you must be nuts to hang out with this Tariq character, but I get it. So, he was staking out the joint, waiting to see if Nasser showed up? Why would he do that? The guy with the gun is proof that his cousin hasn’t forgiven him.”

“I agree. I can think of only one reason why he’d be so fearless.” Lena’s gaze fell to her shoes. “The coins.”

His chest tightened. “You think he touched them?”

“The curse is double-edged,” she said, nodding. “It grants the holder extraordinary luck and wealth while breeding betrayal and paranoia. If he touched the coins, Tariq may be feeling invincible. Capable of ending Nasser’s death threats once and for all.”

“Didn’t you warn him about the side effects?”

“Of course. In fact, I told him only the negative aspects of the coins’ power.”

“But extraordinary luck sure explains how he disappeared so neatly in the souk.” Brian spotted Carlos and waved to him. The young man had just hailed a cab.

Speakers above his head suddenly screeched to life, followed by a low, lyrical keening warbling through the air. It didn’t stay lyrical for long—a second later, several other chants from different parts of the neighborhood layered over the first, quickly becoming an irritating white noise.

“What is that?”

“Adhan, the Islamic call to prayer.” She sighed. “A single muezzin’s call is beautiful and soothing. Unfortunately, there are many mosques in the area and each does its own.”

They slid into the taxi, squeezing into the backseat. Brian’s desire not to crowd Carlos meant his thigh pressed against Lena’s soft body. There were worse fates. He glanced at Carlos, noting the deep lines etched around his mouth.

“You okay?”

“Headache,” the young man said with a shrug.

Another bad one, judging by the kid’s pale, clammy skin. He’d suggest seeing a doctor, but Bale was the closest thing to a doctor the Gatherers had, and he was really more of a Band-Aid guy. Gatherers got wounded, not sick.

“There’s no point in continuing to look for Tariq tonight,” Lena said, her voice heavy. “He’ll need to come up with a new way to approach Nasser, since we blew his cover. When we get back to the hotel, I’ll put the word out with my network. If he makes contact with any of them, we can follow up from there.”

“You have a network?” One or two friends were to be expected, even for a loner like Lena. But a network sounded organized. “Who’s in it?”

“The people who make my life easier.”

“These are people you trust?”

She smiled. “I don’t trust anyone. But my colleagues are extremely good at what they do, and as long as I keep in mind that they’ll turn on me when it suits them, they’re very useful.”

Brian gave the hotel address to the cabdriver, then sat back. He’d gone through Lena’s iPhone with a fine-toothed comb when they first nabbed her. There hadn’t been any contact information in her address book except for travel agents and take-out restaurants. No notes or text messages to or from anyone, except from the Gatherer dispatcher. Yet she’d been able to contact several people, quickly and easily, right under his nose. “How do you get in touch with them?”

“The bulletin board we discussed before, an e-mail to a multirouted mailbox, or a message at a prearranged phone number.”

“Prearranged how?”

“Does it matter?”

Hell, yeah, it mattered. It meant she was part of a well-oiled machine he knew nothing about. It turned his image of her on its goddamned ear. He’d assumed all along she had some sort of connections. It just burned him to know they weren’t casual acquaintances, that they might be people she relied on to help her out of tough spots. Because he’d cast himself in that role.

Rescuer.

But it was looking as if he’d been completely wrong about Lena. Maybe he really had read his own interpretations into her actions instead of seeing the truth. Maybe she really was the gold-digging bitch everyone else believed her to be.

He closed his eyes.

No. Those shadows in her eyes had been real. The nervous pulse had been real. Ah, fuck. Who was he kidding? He had no idea what was real anymore. He was seriously compromised in the trusting-Lena department, because he wanted that deeper side of her to be real. He needed it to be real, or else the delicious buzz he got just holding her hand was a huge pile of horseshit.

“Good,” he said with a lazy smile, dredging up a pale reflection of his good-ol’-boy charm. “You can put feelers out with your buddies while I visit the hotel spa for a massage. With any luck, we’ll get a bead on your little friend without breaking a sweat.”

After Em’s cell phone warbled for the fourth time in two minutes, she turned it off. She wasn’t in the mood to be harassed by Murdoch. Not only was she a few hours short on sleep, thanks to another one of those creepy rage dreams, but her sneakrative shopping excursion wasn’t going as well as she’d hoped.

“You know what’s crazy?” she said to her best friend, Sheila, as she pulled a green pepper out of her Subway sandwich. “I’m feeling like a shit for skipping out, which is totally ridiculous, ’cause I haven’t had a break in ages.”

“Guilt,” Sheila said with a shrug. “You got a priest for a stepdad. What do you expect?”

“He’s not—” Em broke off. Talk about your awkward conversation. Actually, he’s not a priest; he’s a four-hundred-year-old dead guy who got his soul back. Wouldn’t that go over well? “... that bad. Just kind of old-fashioned.”

“Whatever. Shake it off, chica.”

“Yeah.” If only it were that simple. But when you were the Trinity Soul carrying the fate of the world on your shoulders, nothing was that simple. All she could think about was how disappointed Michael would be if he knew she was here instead of back home trying to fix the coin.

The girls mutually agreed on Hot Topic as their next destination, and gathered their purses and shopping bags. As they cleared the tables, Sheila glanced over Em’s shoulder.

“Uh-oh.”

It didn’t take a genius to figure out who she’d spotted striding toward them across the food court. Resisting the urge to turn around, Em waited until the heavy footsteps halted.

“Emily Jane MacGregor.”

Her girlfriends broke into smiles at Murdoch’s Scottish accent. Even Sheila melted a little, flipping her long black hair back. To Em’s immense relief, none of them seemed to catch Murdoch’s use of her horrid middle name. She spun around to face her keeper. “Lewis. How many times do I have to tell you it’s Emily Lewis?”

His arms were folded over his humongo chest, his gaze squarely on her, despite Sheila’s unconscious attempt to draw his attention. His light brown hair hung past his shoulders and his beard hadn’t been trimmed in forever, but the rough-warrior look somehow worked for him. All her friends thought he was hot.

“I’m not here to debate your name.”

Emily had been about to tell him she was ready to go home, but his aggro attitude raised her hackles. The words spilled from her lips before she could give them proper thought. “Then maybe you should go home.”

Outwardly, nothing in Murdoch’s demeanor changed. But Em’s senses caught the inner escalation of his temper. It swirled like a minitornado in his gut, still under control, but fighting to be unleashed. “You would be wise,” he said softly, “not to test me.”

Realizing she’d drawn a line where she hadn’t planned to, Em heaved a sigh. “What do you want, Murdoch? As you can see, nothing bad has happened to me. I’m not injured or dead. I’m safe and sound with my friends.”

“Oh, I see, all right,” he said. “What I don’t see is a text message telling me where you are and what time you’ll be home. The sort of simple courtesy I’d expect from a responsible adult.”

That stung. “If I told you I wanted to go shopping, you’d’ve said no.”

“How you could be certain of that when you never asked?”

“I’ve asked before.” Her purse slid off her shoulder and she jerked it back up. “And the answer is always no. According to you and Lachlan, I’m supposed to come straight home from school. I have responsibilities.”

“You do,” he agreed, clearly missing the point.

“I just want a few hours to myself, okay?” Guilt-free time.

He frowned. “You have plenty of time to yourself.”

“I don’t mean study time,” she said with a huff of frustration. Why was she bothering to explain? No one understood her need for a little breathing room. No one understood what it was like to live with expectations so high you couldn’t see them, let alone reach them. “I mean goof-off time.”

“This would have been an excellent discussion to have had at the ranch house,” he said. “Now it’s moot. We’re going home. I have twelve new trainees arriving on Monday and I need to prepare.”

“No.”

The little tornado inside Murdoch spun a little faster. “What did you say?”

Her friends shifted uncomfortably, but Em held her ground. “I said no. I’m not going home.”

Murdoch didn’t argue any further. He grabbed her elbow, fingers firm but not painful. “Make your good-byes now, or we’ll do this the hard way. I’ve no qualms about tossing you over my shoulder and hauling you out to the car.”

She believed him.

“Sorry, guys,” she said to the group. “Looks like I’m going to have to bail.”

After making certain Em had all her stuff, Murdoch tugged her toward the escalator and the mall exit. His anger had settled into a minor dust storm, but he was still playing the part of aggrieved caregiver to the hilt. “We just had a major run-in with demons,” he reminded her. “When you didn’t get off the bus at the gate and didn’t answer your phone, I freely admit I panicked. The other men must think I’m a madman after the way I carried on. Be thankful it took me a while to find you.”

“How did you find me?”

“Atheborne was able to tap into the GPS in your phone.” He tossed her a hard look. “Don’t even think about leaving it behind, or I swear to God I’ll take you over my knee.”

Over his knee? Was he kidding? What was she, a baby? Why didn’t anyone trust her to spend five minutes on her own? She was invincible, for heaven’s sake. Not that you’d guess by the way everyone freaked out about her safety. Every time there was the slightest hint of danger, she got hustled offstage to hide in some closet. She was treated no better than Lena—imprisoned in her own home and tracked everywhere she went. The only saving grace was that once they got back to the ranch, the surveillance would go way down. Nobody would be following her around the house.

A fact she fully intended to take advantage of.

First chance she got, she was outta there.

Malumos waited until the flashes of red sparks had faded from the cloudy midnight sky and one of the two unconscious bodies in the valley between sand dunes had risen groggily to its feet. He knew without looking that it was Maleficus, not Mestitio who had arrived.

His voice soft in the gloom that enveloped the sand dunes west of Aswan, Malumos asked, “Did you get the book?”

His brother nodded as he climbed the slope to his side. “It was not an easy task to free it from the pool of hardened tar that has taken over that section of the chamber, but yes, it has been safely recovered.”

“Did you perchance peruse the contents?”

Maleficus smiled.

It was such a rare display of pleasure that Malumos found himself returning the expression. Finally, after a millennium of planning and searching and hoping, victory was theirs. “The spell is penned within its pages, just as you predicted.”

His brother nodded. “We are still some distance from success, however. Arcane magic is complicated to perform and will require practice to perfect. And then there is the little matter of access to the halo shard.”

“Trust me, the shard will be ours once we have the coins.” Glancing down the hill at the unconscious figure sprawled across the cold sand, Malumos said, “Which brings us to the problem of our youngest brother.”

Maleficus frowned. “He has not yet returned?”

“No.” Malumos left it at that.

His brother glanced up at the lights of the desert camp—a huddle of trucks and tents in the distance. A brisk wind blew sand over the top of the dunes, blurring the view. “Where are the coins?”

Malumos pointed to a faint white smear in the shallow valley between two dunes. “There. In the Land Cruiser with Tariq Nasser.”

“What is he doing?”

“Waiting for the right moment. He intends to attack his cousin and slay him.”

“Why?”

Malumos shrugged. He’d been standing on the dune only fifteen minutes and already grit coated his entire face. “According to his memories, which are extremely vivid and readable at the moment, his cousin has sworn vengeance against him for a past ill. There is an open contract on Tariq’s life.”

“Ah.” Maleficus scanned the horizon. “And where is the cousin?”

Annoyance bubbled up in Malumos’s chest. “The real question is, where is Mestitio?”

“Shall we wait, or begin without him?”

“We dare not attack Tariq at anything less than our full power. With the luck of the coins on his side, he might well—” Malumos broke off as several car lights bounced over the dunes just north of the tent camp, a small convoy of white four-by-fours with roof racks piled with crates.

The vehicles drove into the center of the camp and stopped. Over the dunes the sounds of voices and doors slamming floated to their ears. Figures from the tents grouped around the trucks and began unloading the crates. So engrossed in the action in the camp was he that Malumos almost missed the Land Cruiser lurch into motion, climb the dune, and head toward the camp.

Anger rose up in a huge swell and broke through the dam.

“Hell’s fury,” he snarled as fire lit the tips of his fingers. “Where is our brother? Tariq is attacking the camp. Humans are about to die, and that means at the very least Soul Gatherers and at the very worst angels. We’ll be fortunate to get a dozen minutes to retrieve the coins.”

“We’re going in?”

“We have no choice,” he snapped, even as he jogged down the slope toward the camp. Cold sand poured into his shoes, but he ignored the uncomfortable sliding sensation and kept running.

The Land Cruiser reached the camp well ahead of them, crashing right through several tents and killing at least two people before grinding to a halt. Tariq shot two more through his open window before exiting the vehicle.

A heavyset man in fatigues strode up to Tariq, knocked the pistol from his hand, and slapped his face. “Buffoon. You dare to come here and wave such a flimsy gun in my face?”

“I’ve had enough, Reyhan,” Tariq responded, not the least bit cowed. “I will not continue to live this way, with your threat hanging over my head. Tonight you will die.”

Reyhan spit on him. “You’re alone and weaponless. I have seven men with M16s. The only person who will die tonight is you, Tariq. As you should have died four years ago.”

Malumos and Maleficus entered the camp from the south just as Reyhan nodded to one of his men, encouraging him to slay Tariq. Malumos could have told him it was pointless, that the coins would lend Tariq the grace of hell, but he was not feeling magnanimous. Instead, he took his frustration out on a pair of armed guards sneaking up on Tariq. He wrapped threads of blue smoke about them, drained their will, then forced them to turn their guns on themselves.

It didn’t satisfy. Only when he saw one of the men rise from the dead an instant later and felt a familiar surge of communal power in his veins did his fury subside. Mestitio had finally shown up.

“Move swiftly,” he called to his brothers as he advanced farther into the camp. “And be sure to collect the coins. We are close to realizing our ambitions. This is not the time to fail.”

They attacked in unison, and for a time fire burned bright in the night sky.

“Uh, guys?”

Drawn by the oddly hesitant note in Carlos’s voice, Lena rolled off the bed and entered the living area of the hotel suite. She avoided looking at Brian, who lounged on the sofa in front of the TV watching Terminator Salvation on the Movie Channel. They’d barely exchanged a dozen words since they returned from the market. And those had been of the pass the salt variety.

“No word yet from any of Lena’s contacts,” Carlos said. “But I just got a message from dispatch that I think you should see.”

Lena frowned. “What kind of message?”

Brian thumbed the off switch on the TV and sat forward, elbows on his knees. “An emergency gather,” he guessed flatly. “For Tariq’s soul.”

A gather? Did that mean ... ? No. There must be a mistake. Steadying herself with a hand on the wall, she flashed Brian an aggrieved look. “Why would you assume that?”

“Because nine times out of ten, that’s what a surprise message from dispatch says. That’s what we do, remember? We gather souls.” Brian stood up and faced Carlos. “Am I right?”

The young man’s long dark hair slid forward, hiding his expression. “Yeah.”

“You’re telling me Tariq is dead?” she asked, still unable to accept what they were saying.

Brian didn’t answer her. In fact, he didn’t even look at her. He grabbed up his discarded suit jacket, shrugged it on, and addressed Carlos. “Where is it?”

“A tent camp in the desert near Aswan,” Carlos said with a nod. “There are actually eleven souls, but since they’re all going to the same place, dispatch gave ’em all to me. I’ve got the okay to hire a chopper.”

Dead. Oh God. Tariq was dead.

Lena’s knees trembled, and she quickly claimed one of the living room chairs. The sick part was, her first thought had not been for the poor man’s soul, but for the coins. She’d had to bite down on her tongue to stop herself from asking about them. More proof, if she needed it, that Brian was a far better person than she could ever hope to be.

A vision of Tariq seated in her rental car, calmly accepting the coins, surfaced in her thoughts. Her eyes stung. His death was a pointless tragedy. And yet another failing on her part.

“We’ll all go,” Brian responded. “Let’s make it quick. We don’t want to leave their souls in decaying bodies for longer than we have to.”

Lena’s stomach heaved, and she had to swallow heavily to tame her gag reflex. Most gathers were planned and occurred within a minute or so of death. But occasionally, because only a Gatherer could draw a soul from a human body, a random demon attack forced someone to wait longer. She’d picked up only a handful of souls that had been forced to wait, and none of them had been better for the delay.

A taxi met them outside and took them directly to a private airport operated by an international telecommunications company. The helicopter ride to the camp was noisy but quick.

Without the GPS position provided to Carlos in his gather assignment, they’d never have found the spot. It was a camouflaged outpost in the middle of nowhere. They landed in the pitch-black, grateful for the advantage of their Gatherer vision. The chopper blade spit sand into their faces and buried parts of the demolished camp under waves of granules. From the burned frames of several vehicles and the scorched remnants of tents, it wasn’t too difficult to determine what had happened.

Demons had attacked.

But something was odd. Tariq’s body wasn’t with the others. It lay three hundred yards to the south, next to a Land Cruiser parked with the driver’s-side door open. And he hadn’t been burned. A bullet hole gaped in the middle of his forehead.

“Gather his soul and let’s get out of here,” Brian said to Carlos.

“What about the coins?” Lena asked softly.

“We don’t have time for a thorough search. We need to be quick. It’ll be dawn in another hour and I don’t want to risk bumping into whoever Nasser was planning to sell his cargo to.”

“Tariq’s car is pointed away from the camp, like he was running.” Pressing on, she vocalized the fear that gripped her throat with increasing tightness. “It’s possible the demons got them.”

“That would suck,” Carlos said.

“Yeah, it would suck,” Brian agreed, meeting her gaze. The silver of his eyes softened. “Let’s hope that’s not the case. I’ll search the Land Cruiser. You guys do what you need to do.”

Lena had seen a lot of deaths over the years, many of them the product of murder or brutal accidents. But no matter how many deaths she attended, the loss of lives remained a heavy blow. Tariq’s hit her harder than most. He lay sprawled in the sand, a dark stain around his head. Not as much blood as she’d seen with some gathers, but it was Tariq’s and that made all the difference. On closer inspection, she saw he’d been shot three times, not just once: in the leg and arm, as well. It would seem they’d tried to convince him to give up the coins, and when that failed ...

She crouched at his side.

Although he’d been dead less than an hour, his lean face had lost its handsome vitality and now had the thin, parchment look of a soul ready to depart.

Leaning forward, she brushed Tariq’s hair away from his eyes. He hadn’t been a bad man, just a little greedy. They’d shared several hair-raising adventures, each of which he toasted with a bottle of wine and much laughter. And his sculptures, the few he’d made time for, had been exquisite. A tear escaped her eye and rolled down her cheek. The world would be a poorer place without him.

“Whoa,” said Carlos. “That’s never happened before.”

“What?” asked Brian, turning to glance at him.

“I just got a message saying Tariq’s gather has been reassigned.”

Lena wiped away the tear and stared at Tariq’s cheek. Sure enough, a white spiral rose into view—a spiral visible only to her. At the same time, her purse vibrated, the iPhone inside receiving a new message. “I got it,” she said, breathless.

The other souls Carlos had picked up were going to hell. Did that mean ... ?

Steeling herself, she placed her hand on his throat. Immediately the flutter of a migrating soul danced up her arm and into her chest. But unlike a soul bound for heaven, this one did not evoke sensations of balmy warmth and airy tranquillity—instead, a cool, empty feeling filled her chest and wrapped around her heart.

She sighed.

Purgatory for Tariq.

She stood.

A whole lot better than the alternative, of course, but it still weighed heavily on her. Had she not involved Tariq in her nightmarish deal with the demons, he’d still be alive today.

The body count laid upon her doorstep was growing too high to stomach. The thought of continuing as a Gatherer for 386 more years, constantly reminded of the lives she’d torn apart, filled her with dread.

“Everything okay?” Brian asked gently.

The genuine sympathy in his eyes almost shattered her composure. Her cordial smile of thanks wobbled and the sting of impending tears forced her to blink repeatedly. Why did he have to be so damned nice about everything?

“That’s all eleven souls,” Carlos confirmed.

“Good, help me search the Land Cruiser.”

As they turned back to the car, blue sparks crackled in the dry desert air. A swirl of sand rose up in front of them, and a dazzling young man with shoulder-length brown curls appeared at its epicenter. An angel.

“Uriel,” Brian said, clearly surprised.

The young man smiled. That was when his visual intensity hit Lena full-strength, and she realized what he was. Not just Uriel, Archangel Uriel. Brian certainly kept impressive company. How many Gatherers could say they were on speaking terms with two archangels?

“Though far from perfect, your friend was steadfastly devout,” the angel said, nodding to Lena. His voice was a rich, malty baritone. It wasn’t difficult to imagine him lending a deep melody to a heavenly choir. “He prayed and we answered. Not before he was slain, sadly. I regret that most sincerely.”

“You guys really need to work on some kind of turbo descent.” There was a thread of steel in Brian’s voice. “That’s your second late slip.”

“The battles on the middle plane are intensifying,” Uriel said grimly. “This was not our only demon confrontation tonight. We also routed a large nest of havocs from the basement of a home in Ohio. As the fear rises, so does the tide of darkness in the human heart. More and more people are inviting demons onto the middle plane.”

Brian frowned. “What are you saying? That people are worshiping Satan?”

“Yes. Suggestions are being made that these are the early stages of the Apocalypse, and it’s easy for some to find freedom from their fear in Satan’s lies. Archangel Michael is busy preparing the virtues, powers, and principalities to descend upon the earth in greater numbers. I think you’ll agree that a few miracles are needed.” He let that sink in for a moment, then added, “On a positive note, the demons did not acquire the thirteen coins. If they had, we would have felt the balance shift.”

“I did a quick search already, didn’t find them,” Brian said. “Tariq obviously put a little more effort into hiding them than stuffing them in his duffel bag.”

“He’s very careful,” Lena said. She swallowed. Was careful, not is. He’d once sewn a lovely pair of eight-carat canary diamonds into the seat of his mint-condition Fiat Spider before crossing the Italian border into Switzerland. “But dawn may not be our only concern. The demons desire the coins as badly as we do.”

The glow that was Archangel Uriel pulsed. “They fled to the lower plane when we arrived. With the amount of energy expended during the attack on the camp, we can expect them to be gone for several hours.”

True. Except the unusually deep connection between the triplets eased their passing through the barrier. If one of the three brothers had remained on the middle plane, then it would take only about ninety minutes for the others to return. Lena knew that from experiences she wouldn’t care to repeat. She glanced at her watch.

“I’ve heard of swifter turnarounds,” she said. “We should work as quickly as we can, just in case.”

“Let’s do it. Let’s rip the car apart,” Carlos said. He grinned, then winced and bent his head to rub the space between his brows with the heel of his hand. His usual robust tan paled into a sickly gray.

Brian stared at the younger Gatherer. “You okay?”

“It’s another damned headache.”

Brian patted him on the shoulder.

Again with the sympathy. Lena dug the toe of her boot into the sand. Did he really need to be so concerned about everyone? Did he need to make her last moments with him so utterly regrettable? Once she found the coins, it would all be over. One way or another. She’d have to pull out all the stops in a last-ditch attempt to break free. But stabbing Brian in the back would be a lot easier if he’d behave like a cad.

“Lena?”

Her gaze swung up to Brian’s face, memorizing it. Strong, sure, handsome. If things had been different ...

“Want to give us a hand?”

She nodded. Of course. He trusted her to help. He thought he knew her; he thought those sweet moments of intimacy back in the hotel room could mean something profound. He didn’t know the extent of her secrets or just how many moments from her past she regretted.

Unable to continue meeting Brian’s gaze, she glanced away.

Straight into the steady, thoughtful eyes of Archangel Uriel.

15

They had just begun to tear the inside door panels out of the four-by-four when the desert air around them grew oddly tight and expectant. Anticipating an electric spark—and completely prepared for it to be red—Brian was surprised when Emily popped into the narrow space between Carlos and the car.

With just a tiny stirring of sand and a blink of light.

Lena, who was standing next to Carlos at the time, stumbled and fell to her ass in the dirt. Carlos didn’t bat an eye. If Brian didn’t know how unpredictable Emily was, he’d have sworn the younger Gatherer knew she was coming.

“Emily, what the heck are you doing here?” Brian demanded, more tired than annoyed. He sheathed his sword and offered Lena a hand to help her up. A hand she refused. She scrambled to her feet and dusted off her ass, all without looking at him.

“I needed to be doing something useful.” The teen wrapped an arm around her boyfriend’s slim waist and returned Brian’s stare, defiant. “And Murdoch’s being an asshole. He’s got me chained to the ranch house.”

“I don’t care if Murdoch’s being an asshole. You’re supposed to be training, not hopping around the globe. If Lachlan knew—”

“You’re not going to tell him, are you?”

He didn’t answer. Mostly because he wasn’t sure what his answer would be. “Get on the phone right now and tell Murdoch where you are. The last thing I need is him tearing up San Jose looking for you.”

Shrugging, she tugged her phone out of her pocket and started texting. “What are you guys doing, anyway?”

“Hunting for coins,” Carlos told her. The gray pallor of his face had receded, but a slight emptiness remained in his eyes. “Wanna help?”

“Sure.”

“Uh, no.” Brian remembered the last time Emily helped with the coins. “Let’s leave Em out of this, shall we? You and Lena search the door panels and the floorboards, as you planned. I’ll look in the spare tire.”

“Waste of time,” Emily pronounced, tucking her phone back in her pocket.

“What is?”

“Looking in the doors, the floor, or the tire.”

With a sense of impending doom, Brian asked, “Why?”

“Because they’re not there.” She sent him a smug grin. “Want to know where they are?”

Brian flashed Uriel a look that he hoped said, You guys created this monster; can’t you do anything? The archangel merely shrugged, offering no help at all.

“I’m not convinced you know where they are,” Brian said. “You couldn’t find them last time.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “That’s mean.”

He waited.

“Last time I messed up because I wasn’t used to the gross way they feel,” she said. “Black and slimy, like rotting ooze. Now I’m okay with it.”

“Where are they?”

“Well, there are two in the sun visors,” she confirmed, pointing a finger. “And a bunch more sewed into the bottom of the seats.”

Lena fumbled the crowbar, almost dropping it. Brian frowned at her.

“Each coin is in a little plastic bag,” Em continued. “Those ones you pinch closed.”

“How do you know that?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. It’s like they know and they tell me.”

“By they you mean the coins?”

She nodded.

Christ, Em’s abilities had a creepy edge to them. Talking to evil coins, popping across continents in a heartbeat. He didn’t even know she could do that. Though why an ability to teleport should surprise him was anybody’s guess, since he hadn’t a clue how she brought Carlos back to life, either.

Of course, his shock didn’t compare to Lena’s. She kept staring at Em like the girl had grown horns. Maybe he should have warned her. But talking about the Trinity Soul and all the mystical baggage that went with the role was never easy. How did you explain to someone—even a fellow immortal—that God had summoned the kid into existence and given her a set of powers that were supposed to save the world?

“Okay,” he said to Carlos and Lena with a heavy sigh. “Go to town on the seats and the sun visors.”

Lena’s gaze finally swung to him. Considering Emily had just located the coins they’d been chasing for days, she didn’t seem very happy. Those little creases between her eyes said she was downright unhappy, actually. “And if they’re not there?”

Brian had no doubt that the coins were exactly where Em said they’d be, but he could understand Lena’s lack of faith. She’d never seen the kid in action.

“Then we’ll take apart the car bolt by bolt.”

Stepping into the room, Malumos got his first taste of foreboding. If he needed a reminder that he was no longer dealing with a grunting, sweating beast lord, this majestic demesne provided it. Everything was white and glass and silver. Everything sparkled.

It was hard to imagine any other place looking less like hell than Lucifer’s pristine abode.

The archdemon was draped across his glass throne, his black wings loosely spread, his crimson robes a glorious contrast to his white-blond hair and piercing blue eyes. With a sardonic smile, he raised a lean hand and waved Malumos closer.

“I trust you’ll not make me regret this obvious breach in protocol?”

Malumos sailed across the marble floor, bemused by the brilliant hue his blue smoke assumed in the dazzling light of the Cloud Castle. “I believe what I offer will benefit us both, my lord.”

“Then, by all means, speak.”

“You are aware that my lord Beelzebub is engaged in retrieving the Judas coins from the middle plane,” Malumos began.

Lucifer quirked a brow. “Indeed, I am. I’m even aware that less than an hour ago, Uriel and four of his warriors handed you your ass on a platter.”

Malumos fought to contain his anger.

The courier, Tariq Nasser, had proven to be most unpleasant. Not only had he enjoyed amazing luck in avoiding both fireballs and will-sapping smoke, he’d actually dared to keep the location of the coins a secret, even in the face of certain death. As it was, he and his brothers had still been in the desert when the angels arrived, and Malumos had been forced to end the game with a bullet to Tariq’s head. This conversation would have gone much smoother had Malumos been able to offer up the coins, but all was not lost.

“A temporary delay,” he said. “Not that my failure to retrieve the coins should bother you.”

The archdemon narrowed his eyes.

“If I never return with the coins,” Malumos continued, pleased that he’d successfully captured the notorious fallen angel’s attention—he was well aware of the bitter, age-old rivalry that existed between the two demon lords, “Beelzebub will be duly punished, and you’ll take his place at the right hand of the Great Lord.”

“But as a whole, that would not serve demonkind well,” Lucifer pointed out. “Our goal is to amass all of the Ignobles.”

Malumos bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Agreed. Which is why I and my brothers will continue to do everything possible to acquire the remaining coins. But they need not find their way into Beelzebub’s hands.”

A faint smile curved Lucifer’s lips. “You have a proposition.”

“We do. We will deliver the coins to you,” Malumos offered smoothly, “in exchange for a shard of the Shattered Halo.”

“What?” The archdemon leapt to his feet and down the three steps in a single fluid motion. His beautiful face, cold and hard, came within a hairbreadth of Malumos’s nose. “You dare to request a piece of my halo? You, a lowly thrall?”

It was very difficult to hold his ground. But Malumos knew that to back away was to lose. And he’d come too far down this path to lose now. A thousand years of plotting and planning and hunting. “My brother Maleficus believes he can harness the power within the shard and turn it upon the angels.”

Lucifer laughed, a mellifluous tumble of dangerous notes. “That story is nothing but an old wives’ tale. The legendary power of the Shattered Halo has never been channeled. Not once since the first angel fell.”

“Because no one knew the proper spell.”

Lucifer stepped back, amused. “And you claim to have that spell?”

Were it not for his faith in his brother, Malumos might have wavered in the face of such disdain. But if there was one thing Maleficus excelled at, it was following the trail of black magic. The triplets’ advancement up the ranks of thralls could largely be attributed to Maleficus’s black arts. It was his efforts that had led them to Lena Sharpe and her delightful amulet.

“It is documented in the Egyptian Book of Judgment,” he said with certainty. “Which my brothers and I now possess.”

Lucifer folded his arms. The glossy black feathers of his wings rustled, then settled. “If your theory should prove true, and you succeed in leveraging the power of the shard, what is your intent?”

“To best the angels, of course.”

“Of course.” The archdemon shook his head. “But I mean here in hell. What favor do you hope your efforts will grant you?”

Malumos smiled. “An opportunity to rise up the ladder, my lord. To gain a nobler status than lowly thrall. We seek an audience with the Great Lord himself.”

“No one speaks with Satan save the archdemons.”

“I’m aware of that.” Malumos’s smile deepened. “But surely for the honor of possessing such a magnificent weapon, you would be willing to bend the rules?”

Lena cut the seam on the leather visor with her penknife and dug her fingers into the stuffing. Sure enough, she found a small plastic bag containing something hard and circular. A discovery worthy of applause, except Emily had just complicated an otherwise unobtrusive theft.

“If Emily can pass through the barriers like you say she can,” she said quietly to Carlos, who was slicing open the driver’s seat, “then why wasn’t there an electrical charge when she showed up? There are always sparks when an entity crosses.”

Carlos yanked the leather up, exposing the seat cushion and five plastic bags. “Not sure. But the barriers don’t seem to exist for Em. She passes through like they’re not there. Stefan said it’s because the barriers are walls God set up to keep both sides true to the Covenant, but that he never intended them to stop the Trinity Soul.”

As nonchalantly as she could, Lena scooped up Carlos’s coins. The hard part wouldn’t be collecting them—it would be swapping them for the fakes in her puzzle box. The ones carefully wrapped in velvet so they didn’t make too much noise. “What exactly is the Trinity Soul?”

“According to some ancient book Lachlan found, she’s God’s ambassador.” He tackled the passenger seat.

Six more coins. “What does that mean?”

Carlos looked up. “She’s supposed to have some important role in derailing Satan’s plan to overthrow God. We’re not exactly sure what, yet.”

“She’s fifteen.”

He glanced over at the helicopter, where Emily sat with the door open. “Age isn’t everything. What happens to you in life is a better gauge of what kind of person you’ll be than how many years you’ve got under your belt. Take my word for it. Emily has depths you can’t see.”

“But she—”

The Horus amulet at her throat thrummed with sudden protest. Lena responded instinctively.

“Raise a shield,” she barked at Carlos.

Before she had a chance to say more, red sparks lit up the sky and two of the dead arms dealers in the camp behind them surged to their feet. In an incredible display of manipulation, the thralls broke into a smooth run, traversing the dunes in record time, each tossing fireballs. A third man, swathed in the voluminous garb of a desert nomad, rode in from the west on a galloping horse.

Lena murmured the necessary words to raise her own shield.

Carlos and Brian whipped out their swords and began parrying. Uriel placed his hands palm-to-palm and began to call small bolts of white lightning from the sky.

Lena’s shield took three heavy blows in the space of a few seconds, and she dodged around the Land Cruiser’s hood to avoid a fourth potentially fatal hit. Using the open truck door as extra protection, she lobbed a few basic spells in the direction of the thralls—blind, choke, and chill. They were unlikely to pierce the thralls’ powerful shields, but they might prove distracting. Lena ducked around the door to get a better view, then glanced inside the vehicle. Six coins still lay on the exposed passenger seat, temporarily forgotten. The timing was poor, but the opportunity was real—after a brief hesitation, Lena used the cover of the battle to her advantage and made the swap.

Then she gave her attention back to the battle.

Standing at the junction of both attacks, Carlos took the brunt of the thralls’ fury. A fiery bomb slipped past his defenses and pummeled him in the chest. The young man stumbled, but only for an instant. A wave of intense heat poured out of him and blasted through the air. He regained his balance, swinging with vigor.

Lena’s unaugmented Gatherer shield took another hit.

She wasn’t properly armed for this fight.

Brian and Carlos, on the other hand, painted the ultimate picture of swordfighting mastery, deflecting firebombs and slicing through the demons’ shields with swift, agile swings. Problem was, the swords did little to cause the demons grief.

The triplets synergized their shields, gaining superior protection, and pelted fireballs at their foes with wicked precision. Weapons that breached their defenses sliced into already dead flesh, not even hindering the demons with the slipperiness of spilled blood. Worse, the strong wind worked against the Gatherers, whipping tendrils of blue smoke in their direction—blue smoke that was almost impossible to see in the starless night. Hesitation and uncertainty began to take hold of them. Brian’s smooth footwork faltered and Carlos stumbled as he parried a lethal blow, a fireball searing his shield so severely that a handful of sparks penetrated the protective shroud and landed on the teen’s black trench coat.

Another wave of dark, furious heat shot through the air.

If it weren’t for Uriel’s angelic powers, Lena might have lost hope. He flung sizzling darts of white magic at the demons in rapid succession. Bolts that hit firebombs doused them into flat, gray ash, and those that hit the demons directly sliced through their shields like they weren’t there.

But the thralls didn’t take well to his success. One of them, a heavyset fellow in a white tunic, suddenly pulled back from the trio. He held out both fists, side by side, and began muttering unfamiliar words in a low, even voice. Some kind of spell.

And she didn’t need to be a seer to know that it meant bad news for Uriel.

Lena’s hand instinctively went to the gold pendant around her neck. But almost as quickly, she released it.

No. She couldn’t use the amulet.

Its creator might have intended it to have a higher purpose than object locator, but it was the tool of her trade, the key to her survival. Without it, she would have nothing. She had to trust in her spells. Not her weak Gatherer primals, but the ancient Egyptian spells her father had unwittingly taught her. The price of using them was steep, but the cost of losing this battle would be even higher.

First, she needed a better shield.

Ducking low behind the metal frame of the car, she closed her eyes and recited under her breath, “I call upon thee, Horus, son of Isis and Osiris, to protect me from the hands of evil. Keep me healthy in flesh and bones. Stand between me and any injury. Protect me from those demon curses that would cause my eyes not to see and my ears not to hear. Fill me with a strength that flourishes. Let me see these spirits as the Ba-less corpses they truly are. Grant me the power to break through the wards of evil and to deliver justice in the name of Amun-Ra”

Immediately, the arc of protection around her gained new vitality, and Lena felt lighter and more agile. Some of the lightness could be attributed to the three inches of hair claimed by the god, but most was due to increased strength. She was also able to see the tendrils of midnight blue smoke that slithered forth on the night air, encircling the men—sinuous threads of demoralizing fear that constantly leached from the demons.

That smoke had to go.

Lena desperately racked her brain for a solution. To get rid of the smoke, she needed to change the direction of the wind. To change the direction of the wind, she had to...

“Nepthys, goddess of the night, daughter of Nut, sister of Isis, wife of the great Set, I call upon thee. Deliver justice in the desert. Turn the wind upon those who would use it against us. Take their nefarious evil and scatter it upon the dunes. ”

The wind abruptly ceased its easterly drift, causing a dust storm as it spun and swirled and changed direction. The new angle didn’t interrupt the battle or disorient the demons—they continued to hammer the Gatherers with increasingly powerful bombs—but it did redirect the smoke, blowing the creeping tentacles of dark blue mist out over the endless sea of sand.

But even as she rejoiced over that small success, her shield took a potent hit from an unexpected source: Carlos had fallen to his knees, his hands clawing at his face, and another wave of dark heat rippled off him, undulating over the dunes and out into the night.

At first, Lena thought a fireball had hit him, but then she caught a glimpse of his eyes through his fingers. They glowed a hot, furious red, like deep-seated embers fanned by a breeze. A vicious curl of dread settled in her belly. Unmitigated disaster lived in those eyes.

“No,” cried a hoarse female voice. Emily.

The girl had left the relative safety of the helicopter and run to the fallen Gatherer. She cradled his head in her hands, taking a fireball in the upper arm. Brian surged toward her, but Emily ignored the flames and the black, writhing flesh of her shoulder and flung her arms around Carlos. A second later, they were both gone.

Evaporated.

All that remained was a thin ribbon of white smoke.

But Lena didn’t have time to think about what had just happened. Brian’s attempt to rescue Emily had opened him to a series of fiery missiles and he went down under the barrage. The thrall attempting to curse Uriel completed his spell and opened his hands to reveal a glowing black fragment, not unlike a piece of unholy mirror.

Uriel flew backward, smashing into the side of the Land Cruiser with enough force to crumple the door and jar the roof rack loose. The archangel’s divine luminosity flickered and dimmed to a low incandescence. He fell to the sand, limp, and the car’s side mirror landed atop his head.

The attention of all three demons turned to Brian.

Although he’d already regained his feet, Lena feared the worst. The triplets were no ordinary foes and in a focused attack they could blast him into oblivion. Instinct tugged a fresh spate of words to her lips, a rapid tumble of archaic Egyptian: “Great goddess Sekhmet, one before whom all evil trembles, wrathful avenger of wrongs, arm me with the tools of war. Lady of the Night, lioness of the desert, lend me the power granted to you by the Eye of Ra, and allow me to meet fire with fire.”

They were words she rarely dared to utter, sonants that carried a weighty consequence. But with the bitter taste of this debacle on her tongue, they were the only words that came to mind.

And they delivered.

The earth trembled, turbulent clouds formed overhead, and a sparkling silver longbow appeared in her left hand. On her back, a quiver of arrows shimmered into existence, and when she drew the first one, the pointed tip burst into flame. Inside her chest, just beneath her breastbone, a bead of rich white power burst into life, delicate as a drift of lace at first, then with increasing strength.

Buoyed by the spell, she lifted the heavy bow with ease, her arm steady. With swift, seamless motions she nocked an arrow, aimed, and shot. Again and again. Her arrows met every fireball launched by the demons, detonating them in midair.

Brian took advantage of the cover her shooting offered, pressing in close and swinging his sword with a speed that made the air hum. With repeated hits, he was able to break through the demons’ shields and strike hard. The demons’ ruthless focus finally wavered. They began to pitch their fireballs with more desperation and less efficiency. Several balls spit into the dunes and slammed the four-by-fours instead of Brian’s shield.

Every arrow Lena pulled from her quiver was replaced by another. And another. Her back remained straight and her arm strong despite repeated forceful pulls on the bowstring.

But her stance was not perfect: a livid bruise blossomed on her inner arm as the string slapped the tender flesh on release. Archery was not her forte, and she’d used this particular spell too few times to have developed real mastery.

Later she would feel numerous pains and aches, but not now. Now all she felt was the subtle pulse of white power in her chest that accompanied the spell and told her the magic was still strong.

As time progressed and the demons’ efforts continued to be thwarted, angry grimaces twisted their faces and snarls of rage rent the night air. Those responses should have lifted her spirits with the promise of success. Instead they slowed her heartbeat to a somber march of dread.

Angry demons would surely take their frustration out on a helpless girl.

Taking up arms against the thralls had not been wise when they had the power to harm Heather. Not that her thoughts could have won out over her emotions in that moment. Watching Brian fall and seeing their full attention turn on him had evoked a purely visceral reaction: to save him.

But now? With twelve of the Judas coins in her pocket, she could walk away. Malumos would not be entirely content, but he would be temporarily satisfied. The threat to Heather would ease significantly. But walking away would mean leaving Brian to fight alone.

And the odds of his survival would be low.

She couldn’t leave him.

Her arrows regained their furious pace. Perhaps it was a response to the renewed commitment in her bow arm, but the demons suddenly broke apart with an eerie howl. Two swarmed Brian with lethal intent and one crowded her, forcing her back against the hood of the car with a flurry of fireballs. Her attacker, almost assuredly Malumos, absorbed every arrow she shot, ignoring the flames licking up his clothing. Although his shoulders were not particularly wide, he successfully blocked her view of Brian, and all she could do was pray that her fierce warrior was holding his own.

Her Horus shield spell kept the blue smoke at bay.

She whipped arrow after arrow into the demon’s arms and legs, knowing that with his separation from his brothers, his ability to keep a dead body moving was limited. Each burning wound drained him of fortitude. But time worked against her. Even as Malumos displayed the first signs of weakness, Sekhmet’s battle spell began to run dry. Her aim remained true, but the bead of power in her chest shrank a little and the flame at each arrow tip burned a little less hot.

It became a question of who would fall first.

Then, just as her arm trembled with the weight of her bow, the air grew tight and suddenly popped. The scent of hot soot scorched the inside of her nose, and a bitter snarl of rage resonated in her ears.

Fear leapt into her throat.

More demons?

The leader of the demon trio pulled back sharply and spun around, his eyes wide. He ceased to pitch fireballs at her and instead tossed them at someone or something else.

Her gaze jumped over his shoulder and latched onto the black-clad figure dealing chaos. Carlos. An angry hurricane of Carlos, slicing and parrying and stabbing in defense of Brian, his long black coat and inky black hair smoking. He made a very impressive sight.

And he gave Brian the moment of grace he needed.

Swiftly and decisively, every muscle in his body an instrument of gladiatorial precision, Brian attacked. With an agile twist and a whistling swing of his blade, he breached the demons’ shields. His sharp blade sliced cleanly through bone and sinew, separating hand from limb, and the dark fragment snapped in two, falling to the ground.

The unholy spell was broken.

The demons immediately recognized their advantage was lost. The one-handed demon scooped up the fragment closest to him; then, in a brilliant flare of red light, all three bodies fell limply to the sand, empty and depleted. Only seconds after Carlos reappeared, the thralls were gone.

Rivulets of sweat trickled down Brian’s face and his chest heaved with the labored breath of lengthy exertion, but somehow he found the energy to say to the young man, “Believe me when I say I’m glad to see you, pal. But where the fuck is Emily?”

Frankly, the smoke wafting off Carlos’s coat scared the crap out of Brian. It was all too easy to picture the crater the young Gatherer had made of the tennis courts. And the kid’s inability to meet his eyes didn’t reassure him one bit.

“Carlos,” he implored softly, “please tell me Emily is okay.”

The young man’s sword arm lowered, along with his dark brown gaze. “I can’t.”

Overcome by a dozen graphic images, none of them pleasant, Brian grabbed the front of Carlos’s coat in his fist, twisted it tight, and yanked them face-to-face. “What the hell did you do?”

“Brian,” coughed out a deep voice. “She’s ... fine.”

Brian glanced at Uriel, who was dragging himself up off the ground. “Are you sure?”

The archangel rubbed the back of his neck. “She can’t die, remember?”

“There a huge difference between being alive and being fine,” Brian reminded him grimly, his gaze returning to Carlos’s bleak expression. “Where is she?”

“She knew I was going to blow,” Carlos said. “She could sense it. She took me out into the sand dunes where I couldn’t hurt anything.”

“Except her.”

Carlos winced. “I pushed her away. At least, I tried to.” His eyes met Brian’s. “You know I’d never hurt her on purpose.”

With a walnut-sized lump in his throat, Brian made himself ask, “How bad is it?”

“One whole side of her body is black,” Carlos said hoarsely, his eyes closing, his knuckles white around the hilt of his sword. “I didn’t want to leave her, but I didn’t have a choice. She flung me here, insisting you guys needed my help.”

The lump landed in his belly. “We need to find her.”

“I don’t know how. I’m not sure where I left her. Dunes pretty much all look alike.”

“I can locate her,” Uriel said firmly. “But I promise you, your worry is unnecessary. She’s fine.”

“Only in heaven can burned be equated with fine,” Brian snapped. “Stop saying that.”

“She can repair herself instantly,” the angel said gently. “She doesn’t need to heal like you or me.”

“Are you telling me she didn’t feel any pain when Carlos seared her skin? Are you telling me she’s so adept at using her powers that she fixed herself at precisely the same moment the blast ripped off her flesh?”

Uriel was silent.

“No? Then she’s not fucking fine, Uriel.” Then, recalling the force with which the archangel had hit the car, he infused a more genial tone into his voice. “Are you okay? What was that thing they hit you with?”

“A shard from the Shattered Halo.” Uriel rolled his shoulders, testing his strength. “Combined with a very potent primal spell, it vitiated my powers. I could barely breathe.”

Brian bent and picked up the remaining fragment, turning it over in his hand. Not tremendously exciting now. It looked like a piece of a broken compact disc. “Shattered Halo? Would that be one from a fallen angel?”

“Yes. The pieces of Lucifer’s halo were collected after he fell, but three were never found. It would seem that the demons located at least one.”

“And these pieces act like angel kryptonite?”

The archangel smiled faintly. “That’s a fair analogy.”

“Is this a new discovery?”

“No, but the spell required to salvage a halo’s lost divinity is very complicated,” Uriel said slowly. “And it’s been missing for centuries. To the best of my knowledge it’s never been used successfully until today.”

“Hey, how ’bout that? Today is looking more special every minute.” And judging by that hint of pink on the horizon, they still had nineteen hours left before it was over. “What you’re really saying is that the demons now have a superweapon that can floor you guys on demand, right?”

Uriel frowned. “I’m not certain what the ramifications are. I’ll need to consult with Michael.”

“You do that.” Brian handed Uriel the piece of halo and, feeling the last of the battle tension ease from his muscles, he sheathed his sword. “But find Emily first.”

The angel nodded, then winked away in a flash of blue.

Taking a deep breath, Brian turned to Lena. She stood exactly the way he’d seen her before she disappeared behind the menacing shape of the arms-dealer demon—shoulders straight, bow extended.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” he said softly. “You never told me you had that special voodoo up your sleeve.”

She lowered her arm. “You never asked.”

“Given how scathing you were about us using Romany magic, I didn’t think I had to. But it turns out you’re a hypocrite.”

The bow in her hand gave one last shimmer, then vanished. Lena wiped her palm on her pants. “My Egyptian spells are not dark magic. They do not draw power from the soul.”

“Not all Romany spells are void spells, either,” he pointed out. “The ones we use are entity spells, which are fueled only by our individual passion and commitment.”

“True, but ...” She glanced at Carlos, who still reeked of smoke. “Romany spells are cascading curses, a connected set of three spells, each more potent than the last. There is a natural tendency to use stronger and stronger magic, especially when things aren’t going well. Eventually, almost all Romany sorcerers cross the line.”

Her description was a little too close to his descent into addiction to be comfortable. “And the magic you performed just now was so much better?”

She flushed. “I called upon the pagan deities—the elemental spirits, if you will. God does not approve of them, either. Mostly because they’re capricious and demand a steep price for their favors.”

“What price did you pay for the mystical bow?”

Her lips thinned. “That’s between me and Sekhmet.”

“Damn it, Lena.” He raked a hand through his hair. Every time he thought he was getting to know this woman, she proved him wrong. Every layer he peeled away revealed another mystery. “Why does everything have to be a huge secret with you? For once, couldn’t you fess up and just tell me the truth?”

“The truth wouldn’t change anything.”

“It would go a long way toward building some trust.”

She folded her arms over her chest and studied the sand.

He sighed. This wasn’t going anywhere. In more ways than one. “Did we get all the coins?”

“Almost. We got twelve.”

“Collect the last one ASAP,” he said to Carlos. “I’d rather not be here when our friends come back for seconds.”

As they crossed the sand toward the car, a large fork of blue electricity arched from the sky to the metal frame. The air dried and then snapped like a piece of Melba toast. On a lemon-scented breeze, Uriel appeared atop a nearby dune, with one arm around Emily’s shoulders.

An Emily who was whole, and healthy, and pink skinned.

But not the same Emily who’d left them a few minutes ago. This Emily had lost the baby fat that rounded her cheeks and no longer carried a defiant set to her shoulders. Her hair hung limply about her face and her eyes looked sunken and glassy. No teasing smile played around her lips. Whatever had happened to her out there in the desert had knocked the sweet teen right out of her.

Uriel caught his eye. “It’s temporary. She needs to rest a while, that’s all.”

Brian wanted to swallow Emily in a bear hug, comfort her, erase the lingering pain he saw in her eyes. Instead, he kept his distance. Apparently, when it came to teenage girls, he was the kiss of death. Melanie. The girl in New York. And now Emily. Hang around with him long enough and even immortal girls could get the life force kicked out of them.

Brian dropped his gaze. A thin layer of dust and several deep scuff marks had obliterated the shine on his Gucci loafers.

How had he let MacGregor convince him to do this? How had he fooled himself into believing, even for a second, that he was the kind of guy these women could rely on? Convenient memory loss, maybe. Because he wasn’t the savior type.

Hero?

Hell, no.

Head case.

16

When her iPhone vibrated in her pocket, Lena knew it wasn’t good news. In fact, from the moment the demons vanished, she’d been expecting a reprisal. She slid the phone out, surreptitiously peering at the screen.

It was blank.

Yet even as she stared at it, the phone vibrated again.

Confused, she glanced around the dark horizon.

To the west, about a hundred yards distant, the wide slope of a dune glistened with a silvery image. The moon had finally broken from its bed of clouds, but no glowing orb was reflected in the mirage. Nor was the helicopter or the vast expanse of rippled sand. Instead, a close-up of Heather’s gaunt face shone pale and waxy against the dark sky.

Blinking, Lena glanced around again—this time to see if anyone else had noticed the moon mirage. But apparently the image was only for her. Brian was talking quietly to Uriel, and Emily was attempting to coax a stone-faced Carlos into a conversation. No one noticed the flickering picture displayed on the dune.

Bracing herself for the worst, she turned back to the image. The still picture became a video. A smile lifted the corners of Heather’s mouth, but went no farther than that. Her hazel eyes were flat and almost lifeless. The camera zoomed out.

A street corner in a seedy neighborhood, early evening. Dressed in a short skirt and high heels, her bony hips readily apparent, Heather sauntered toward a parked car and leaned into the open window.

Lena’s stomach clenched.

It got worse. Suddenly she could hear the tinny words echoing inside her head, inescapable and cruel.

“Want some company?” Heather said coyly to the man in the car.

Nineteen. A college sophomore. Once a cheerleader and an honor-roll student. Now a drug addict and a hooker. Lena closed her eyes. Not that it saved her any anguish. The sound kept playing in her head.

“How much?”

“Fifty bucks.”

“What do I get for that?”

“Anything you want.”

Mouth sour, she turned her back on the mirage—and she was thankful when the trembling rasp of Heather’s voice died away. The ugly part of demon possession was that the person being possessed remained aware of everything that happened. There was no blissful fugue state or period of unconsciousness. The whole point was to force the possessed person into unspeakable acts that would humiliate her and destroy her self-worth. Steer her down a path of no return, then watch her self-destruct. A corrupted soul was worth more than a pure one in Satan’s world, and thralls were second only to lure demons in their ability to drive good people over the edge.

Thralls took immense pleasure from the physical nature of their work. Forcing their hosts to perform deviant sexual acts was one of their favorite tools. Up to now, Malumos had not played that particular card.

But her involvement in this battle had forced his hand.

She’d been a fool not to see this coming. A fool who—assuming the images had been sent in real time—had only a few moments to stop the demon from dealing Heather another heavy blow.

Tempering a crazy urge to look at Brian and beg his forgiveness, she pivoted, her eyes returning to the dune. Which was now a simple drift of sand, dark and expressionless in the moonlight.

“You win,” she whispered. “The moment I can get free, you’ll have the coins.”

The dune came alive again.

Lena saw Heather stumble away from the car, grasp a chain-link fence, and slowly sink to the ground, shaking. The man in the car shouted an obscenity at her, then drove away with a squeal of his tires. She was safe. Temporarily.

Now all that was left to do was to steal the last coin from Carlos. Making that switch would require a sleight of hand worthy of her years as a pickpocket on the streets of old Cairo. But it could be done.

Escaping Brian would require a little more creativity.

From the complete lack of chatter among the group on the flight home, an onlooker would have thought they were attending a funeral. Carlos stared out the window the entire time, Emily had curled into a ball in the seat next to him, and Lena was reading every magazine and newspaper on board with an inhuman attention to detail. They were returning to San Jose in triumph, coins in hand, but there wasn’t a smile or a fist pump to be had.

Brian reread the e-mail message from MacGregor, then leaned across the aisle and gently shook Emily. “Your mom and Lachlan will be home by the time we get back.”

Buried in the voluminous depths of one of Carlos’s hoodies, she barely nodded. “Do they know about the demon attack on the ranch?”

He sighed. “They know everything.”

She glanced at Carlos’s stiff profile. “Everything?”

“I left out a few details,” he admitted. “Some things play better in person. Like, say, telling a mom that her daughter got barbecued by her boyfriend.”

“I’m back to normal.”

“Yes, you are.” Except for the weird streak of blood-red hair that had appeared amid the blond and black about an hour after Uriel found her in the desert. That seemed to be permanent. “Which is one of the reasons I decided to hold back on that particular story. Your mom would worry if I told her now.”

“Do we need to tell them at all?”

“Yeah, we do,” he told her, smiling. “Your stepdad is going to kick my ass six ways from Sunday, and I’d rather get it over and done with now.”

She arched a brow. “Can he do that? Kick your ass, I mean? I’ve seen you fight and, honestly, I wonder.”

“We’ll never know the answer to that,” Brian said, sitting back. His elbow bumped Lena’s arm, and the warm contact sent a keen hum of awareness through his blood. “Because I intend to shut up and take it like a man. I deserve everything he delivers and more. I should never have let you stay.”

She snorted. “Like you could’ve made me go home.”

“Don’t kid yourself.” Brian met her eyes. Maybe it was the dimness of the cabin, but they seemed a deeper shade of blue. “Even you have a weakness, and I happen to know who he is.”

“What? You’d punish Carlos if I didn’t do what I was told?”

He nodded. “In a heartbeat.”

Her hand snaked out and wrapped around her boyfriend’s arm. “That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair.” His gaze flickered to Carlos’s face, which had remained averted the entire conversation. “Besides, he’s tough. He could handle it.”

Truthfully, the kid looked as if he’d welcome it.

Sitting back in his seat, Brian glanced at Lena. “So, what did I do to piss you off?”

“Nothing.”

“Right. We’ll be landing in”—he glanced at his watch—“less than thirty minutes and you haven’t said more than a dozen words to me the entire flight. But you’re not mad at me?”

“No.”

“You’re a crappy liar.”

Her gaze finally lifted from the magazine. Briefly. “I’m not mad at you.”

“Something’s wrong.”

“I’m just tired.”

That was almost believable. Her normally pristine ponytail was disheveled, her clothing was wrinkled, and there were dark circles under her eyes. It had been a very long day, and it wasn’t over yet. Still, tiredness didn’t account for her reluctance to meet his eyes, or the way she flinched away from his touch.

“Wanna freshen up in the ladies’ room?”

Her gaze met his and then darted away. “I hope you’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”

“I’m not suggesting at all. I’m offering.” He grinned, then leaned in and whispered in her ear, “To squeeze us both into the tiniest room ever invented and make such scorching-hot love to you that we set off the smoke detectors.”

She squirmed. “They’re about to turn on the Fasten Seat Belt sign.”

“Ever since I saw that sexy bow in your hand and that wicked war-goddess look on your face, I’ve wanted to do you so badly it’s all I can think about.”

“Stop it.”

A delightful flush rose in her cheeks, and a wave of molten need went straight to his groin. “You sure you don’t want a chance to compliment me on the sturdy length of my sword?”

The corners of her mouth lifted, but she bit her lip, quashing an all-out smile. “You do have a very nice sword,” she admitted.

Giving in to impulse, he kissed her.

Which didn’t help with the boner, but did satisfy some primitive urge deep down in his chest. She was his. As much as she could be anyone’s woman, she belonged to him.

He deepened the kiss, savoring the sweet taste of her.

A soft bell rang through the cabin.

“Too late,” murmured Lena, glancing up at the seat-belt sign.

Damn. She sounded almost regretful. “Guess we’ll have to save the rest of that conversation until we get home.”

At the word home, Lena’s eyes darkened. She closed the magazine and tucked it into the seat pocket. “That’s still hours away. We don’t fly out of LaGuardia for another two hours.”

Although he was enjoying the flirting, he let her redirect the topic to something more neutral. “Unfortunately, two hours in New York won’t be enough time to get any shopping in. A huge bummer, considering the disaster that was my last visit.”

“The martial demon didn’t destroy every shop in the city, did he?”

“I wasn’t in the mood to shop after it was over,” he said slowly. Before he went too far with Lena, he should remember just how poor a catch he was. “I tried to save a young girl’s life. But I dropped the ball.”

“A young girl?”

He recalled the day—and the girl’s pale, thin face— with painful clarity. “Yeah. A courageous kid with incredible conviction. She’s a big part of the reason I’m so determined not to let the demons get their hands on the rest of the coins. She gave everything, including her life, to protect one.”

Lena was silent for a lengthy moment. “You want to be able to say she didn’t die in vain.”

Brian nodded. “Yeah.”

The passing flight attendant asked them to bring their chairs to an upright position. Lena did so, then promptly sat back and closed her eyes. “That makes a lot of sense.”

Her complete lack of emotion bugged him.

“She was just a kid,” he said roughly. “Maybe twenty. Her death sucked, big-time.”

“I agree.”

Brian stiffened in his seat. Her cool tone annoyed him. Somewhere in the course of her travels, Lena had lost her ability to empathize with people she didn’t know. And it was a flaw he wasn’t sure he could accept.

There was so much to admire about Lena: her courage, her strength, her smarts. The newly revealed war-goddess routine. But compassion? That was a huge missing piece. If it weren’t for that momentary breakdown in the alley—when he’d actually seen her cry—he’d wonder if she had a heart.

Which really called into question his attraction to her.

He sighed. But it was undeniable. One whiff of her subtle perfume and he was dizzy with desire. What made her so damned appealing? Was it just her looks? Was he really that shallow?

No.

Looks weren’t the only thing that drew him to Lena. There was more to her than a cold, calculating bitch; he was sure of it. He didn’t have a speck of real evidence to support his theory—but he believed, deep down, that Lena did have a heart. All he had were little things, like the care she’d taken with Rachel’s pajamas, the respect she’d shown their elderly driver in Cairo, the money she’d pressed into the hands of those merchants in the souks, and the brittle look on her face when she bent over Tariq’s body.

But it was enough to convince him.

He had faith in her.

Eyeing the hand she had resting on the chair arm between them, he smiled. There was nothing to suggest she wanted his support while they landed—nothing to suggest she was even the slightest bit nervous about flying. But he wrapped his hand around hers anyway, enjoying the silky texture of her skin and the feminine delicacy of her bones.

Right or wrong, he was going with his instincts on this one.

Lena threaded her fingers tightly with Brian’s, bringing their palms flush. He had such strong, capable hands. Regular manicures hadn’t erased the calluses indicative of daily swordplay, and they definitely hadn’t softened the firm grip. His hold was gentle yet steady, a subtle invitation to close her eyes and let her worries about flying melt away. So she did.

Incredible.

Amanda had been alive when he arrived. Because he was a Gatherer, Lena had assumed he’d responded to the usual postdemise request. But he’d actually spoken to Amanda; he’d actually made a valiant attempt to keep her alive.

He’d taken on that hulk of a martial demon—the one that had broken a dozen bones in Lena’s own body, pierced her flesh with that slimy tail, and brought her within an inch of hell’s front door—in a brave effort to save Amanda. Her Amanda. And in the process of trying to save her, he’d taken up Amanda’s cause—to keep the Judas coins out of Satan’s hands.

Her eyes stung.

What would happen if she told him the truth? What would happen if she told him the coins would save another young girl’s life? He’d given his all to save one sister—wouldn’t he do the same for the other? She sighed. Yes, he would. No doubt about it. He’d go to the ends of the earth to save Heather ... as long as it didn’t mean giving Satan the coins. He’d fight hard and he’d fight gallantly.

But in the end, he would fail.

Just as she had failed. Three people were dead because she’d initially thought, as Brian did, that giving Malumos the coins was unacceptable. But when the demon slew Don, Graeme, and Amanda, one by one, she’d learned the true meaning of unacceptable. Even if she despised herself for her actions against mankind, she couldn’t stand by and watch Heather suffer and die for no other crime than that she was Lena’s flesh and blood. And Malumos would make Lena watch. Video by gruesome video.

She peeked between her lashes at their entwined hands.

Would he hate her, when all was said and done? And if he did, what would the next 386 years be like? If he gained access to the Gatherer database, he’d be able to find her whenever he liked. If he was bitter, he could extract vengeance time and time again.

But somehow, she didn’t think he’d do that.

Avoid her, yes. Punish her? No.

That wasn’t Brian’s style.

And frankly, he’d be pretty busy cleaning up the horrors the coins would create, once Satan had them all. As would she. Once Heather was safe, her entire existence would narrow to the task of stealing back those coins.

The aircraft shuddered as the wheels hit the runway.

“By the way,” Brian said quietly, “thanks for giving up the coins without a fuss and for volunteering the value of a common Tyrian shekel. A lot more palatable paying duty on eleven grand than a million bucks.”

Lena opened her eyes and looked at him. “No problem.”

One thing was certain: He’d never smile at her again.

As the engines whined in a furious rush to slow the plane, Lena turned and planted a kiss on Brian’s sinfully handsome lips. He responded with enthusiasm—returning the hot pressure, opening his mouth, and inviting her inside.

The plane turned, heading for the gate, and she pulled back to study his face.

“What?” he asked. “Was my kiss that bad?”

His eyes crinkled at the corners and intimate laughter shone from the silvery depths. His smile was crooked, and his hair was doing its usual endearing flop. Taking a mental snapshot, she nodded.

“Totally wicked.”

“You need to tell them,” Carlos said quietly.

“No.” Emily pulled free of his embrace and sank back into the swimming pool, leaving him on the side with his feet dangling in the water. She glanced up at the house, and the silhouette of her mother in the big picture window. Worry kept her there almost constantly. “I don’t.”

“Em, this is serious. I could get worse.”

She shaded her eyes with her hand and looked up at him. Droplets of water clung to his muscled chest, and his dark hair was swept off his face in long, wet waves. Wow. He was hotter than the weather. “Nothing’s going to happen. You haven’t felt a twinge since we left Cairo yesterday. Heck, it’s even possible the fiery-explosion thing was temporary.”

“Em,” he said, sighing. “No one will blame you.”

“Yeah, right. You see the nasty looks I get every time the subject of the coins comes up? Just wait till they find out that when I brought your soul back from hell, I picked up a little souvenir. They love to rag me about my obligations as the Trinity Soul.”

Feet swaying in the water, he smiled crookedly. “With great power comes great responsibility.”

“Are you quoting Spider-Man now? God, how low will you sink?” In spite of her jeering tone, she smiled back. Then she sent another glance to the house, this one including the patch of scorched cedar tiles on the roof. The fire Carlos had put out to save her, despite his very understandable issues with flames. “Honestly? My big worry is that they’ll send you away or lock you up or something. I couldn’t handle it if I got you into trouble, or if they treated you badly because of me. Let’s give Brian a chance to get over his snit about what happened in the desert first, okay?”

Carlos was silent, staring at the sparkling blue surface of the water.

“Promise not to tattle on me?” she asked, coaxing.

“You don’t need me to promise,” he said. “You know I’d never betray you that way.”

“Promise?”

He pushed off the side of the pool and swam to her side. With his gorgeous brown eyes as dark as she’d ever seen them, he whispered, “Promise.”

Although she’d been preparing herself for hours, stabbing Brian in the back was the hardest thing Lena ever had to do. And the easiest. Because he trusted her.

Not completely. But enough.

“I’m going to help Rachel make lunch,” she said to Brian, once they’d reviewed the excellent work the contractor was doing on the house repairs. Aware that it would likely be the last time, she leaned against his broad chest, tilted her head up, and offered her mouth for a kiss.

He obliged.

A short kiss, full of hot promise, accompanied by a drift of his hand up her spine, which gave her goose bumps. Then he pushed her gently away. “Just make sure you follow Rachel’s instructions to the letter. No ad-libbing. I’d rather spend the night discovering all the places on your body that are ticklish than hanging over a toilet bowl with food poisoning.”

“What? You don’t think I can cook?”

“I know you can’t.” He kissed her nose. “MacGregor’s taking a break from training the newbies, so he and I will be in the library exchanging notes. Come get us when lunch is ready.”

Lena spun on her heel and headed down the hall toward the kitchen, regret filling her boots like lead. What she wouldn’t give to stay for even one more day. But, knowing that she was going to betray him, it was already far too difficult to look Brian in the eyes. In a different time, under other circumstances, this could have ended so much sweeter. Hiking her purse up on her shoulder, she zipped past the kitchen door, shoved open a hall window, and leapt out onto the grass.

Stefan’s caravan stood directly in front of her.

Everyone routinely underestimated the little mage, but she had no intention of doing the same. He and Dika had cut short a weekend to Napa Valley at Brian’s request. He was expected in the main house momentarily to examine the coins they’d recovered in Egypt and bury them several layers deep in barrier spells—and the instant he spotted them, he’d identify the coins as fakes.

A risk Lena couldn’t afford.

She needed him out of the picture for as long as possible, and that meant using something stronger than a basic sleep spell. It would cost her another memory of Azim, but the alternative was failure, an outcome she refused to contemplate. Calling upon Sekhmet again, she buried the caravan under a mystical sand spell that would put even an immortal to sleep. She felt the pinch of a lost memory as Sekhmet took her prize, but it was over quickly, another fine moment in Azim’s arms gone like it had never been. All she was left with was a tearyeyed sadness.

Then she ran for the west fence.

She leapt the chain-link fence at a run and threaded through the low shrubs in her path. This time she’d avoid San Jose. Brian would expect her to head south, so instead she’d go north. To San Francisco. She had just more than twenty-four hours before the scheduled exchange, and she had no intention of leaving Heather to face the wrath of evil.

This time, no matter what it took, she was going to rescue her.

“According to the Romany Council, the Pontius Pilate Linen and the Judas coins are two of five relics collectively known as the Ignobles,” MacGregor explained, as he sat down on the leather couch and studied the array of plastic bags on the coffee table. “Each one represents a moment during the Crucifixion when we humans were shown in our worst light.”

“Let me guess,” Brian said grimly, “the cross is another.”

“Actually, it’s a little more complicated than that.” MacGregor lifted one of the coins and peered at it. “The Ignobles are all relics unique to the Crucifixion but never handled by the Son of God. Thus, they were blackened by human shame but never blessed by his touch.”

“And each one has a unique dark power—we know that already. Did the council mention any special connection among the five relics?”

“Aye. They are stored separate and apart from one another because together they represent the darkest day of humanity and the blackest part of the human heart. The evil brewing within them expands as more of the relics come together, but it is the grouping of all five that has the most devastating effect—if they were ever brought together, they would display mankind’s perfidies against the Son of God as stark, undeniable truth and every soul on the middle plane would be instantly blackened with shame. We’d all be doomed to hell.”

Pretty much the definition of horror.

“Didn’t God and the angels plan for this? They must have known Satan would make a grab for the Ignobles. Why didn’t they take them to the upper plane?”

“Touching the Ignobles is dangerous—for human, angel, and demon alike. To take them to the upper plane would risk widespread corruption. The angels will focus their efforts on trouncing demons and reinforcing the strength and courage of the human race.”

“Wait a sec. The Ignobles affect demons, too?”

MacGregor nodded. “The impact is directly related to the dark power the relic possesses. The Judas coins will cause betrayal, even among demons. But a relic like the Linen will have little or no impact, since it obliterates faith and demons are already faithless.”

“So Satan’s taking a big risk gathering them all together. His army might turn on him.”

“No doubt that’s why we’re seeing individual attacks and no’ an all-out war.”

Brian snorted. “Thank God for small mercies.”

“Don’t thank anyone just yet. Remember, fear is the devil’s greatest weapon. The Romany Council believes he intends to use the Ignobles to build upon the fear already arising over the coming end of the Mayan calendar and tip the scale of darkness in his favor. If he can get enough of the human race to forsake God in their frenzy of fear, the flow of souls into hell will become a torrent, and he will defeat God.”

Brian scooped up one of the small decorator pillows from the sofa and tossed it at the chair. “So you’re saying he doesn’t need to get all of the relics to win.”

MacGregor watched the pillow bounce off the chair arm and fall to the floor. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. The council was on the verge of panic when I arrived. It’s vital we keep the other relics from falling into his hands.” He waved the coin bag in his fingers. “This is an excellent start.”

“Yeah, I guess. And you took care of the Linen.”

MacGregor frowned. “There’s no guarantee the Linen will remain hidden—I gave it back to the Protectorate, and demon attacks against their priests continue. If we leave the Protectorate to its own devices, I believe it’s only a matter of time before Satan acquires another Ignoble.”

“Did the council happen to mention what the three other relics were and where we might find them?”

“A list, yes,” MacGregor said dryly. “Where to find them, no. The Proctectorate doesn’t share information with the Romany Council, either. Heathen magic, remember?”

“Morons.” Brian crossed the room and collected the pillow off the floor. He stared at it, remembering a day not too long ago when it had cradled Lena’s lovely derriere. A day when life had seemed a little bit simpler. “What are the other relics?”

“The mallet that hammered the nails into the cross, the sign that hung above Jesus on the cross, the—”

A knock sounded at the door. “Lachlan?”

“Aye.”

The door creaked open and Emily’s face appeared around the edge. “Mom says lunch is almost ready and—” Her eyes widened as she spied the item in MacGregor’s hand. “Hey, that looks just like one of the coins.”

Brian rolled his eyes. “That would be because it is one of the coins.”

“No, it’s not.”

“What do you mean, ‘No, it’s not’ ? These are the coins Carlos gave me.” Brian reached down and scooped up a handful of the little bags. “I’ve got all of them right here.”

Emily entered the room fully, walking toward them. She stared at the bags in his hand for a moment, then over at the one MacGregor held between his thumb and forefinger. “Are you sure those are the ones Carlos gave you?”

Not liking the direction of the conversation, Brian took a deep breath, forced himself to stay calm, and said quietly, “Yes, I’m sure. Are you telling me you can’t sense any of these coins?”

“Nope.”

He blinked. “Maybe they just stopped talking to you?” he asked, hopeful.

She shook her head. “They talk, but they don’t ooze. They were made by some skinny French guy with bad breath. About three weeks ago.”

Air ceased to flow in his lungs and a chill stole over his extremities. “These are fakes?”

“I guess so.”

Brian closed his eyes. Fuck.

“Webster,” MacGregor asked gently, “where is Lena?”

“In the kitchen with Rachel.”

“No, she’s not,” Emily said breezily. “I just came from there. Mom was on her own, tossing the salad. She’s putting walnuts in it. Totally gross.”

Oh Christ.

“She wouldn’t run,” he said. But even to himself his words sounded doubtful.

“I know you like her.” MacGregor’s voice was soft. “But step back from your feelings for a moment, Webster. Look at the situation objectively. She’s a gifted thief, she had access to the coins, and now she’s missing. If it wasn’t Lena we were talking about, what conclusion would you reach?”

Brian swallowed. “That she stole the coins and made a run for it.”

MacGregor sighed. “There’s one other thing. Reed left a message for you while you were gone. That blood they found in the stairwell at Saks? They confirmed that it belongs to a female Gatherer. The odds of it being anyone other than Lena are extremely small. I think there’s a very real possibility she led O’Shaunessy into a trap, just like Reed suggested. That she sold out to Satan.”

It all made perfect sense. She’d told him right from the start that she had a buyer. Why couldn’t the buyer be Satan? The devil was certainly capable of meeting the million-dollar price tag. The only problem was, he couldn’t see Lena killing an innocent man to get the coins. But what other explanation was there?

“She wouldn’t kill O’Shaunessy.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

MacGregor heaved a sigh. “Maybe she didn’t mean to kill him. Maybe he just fought so hard she was left with no other choice.”

“Maybe.” Brian gave himself full credit for not panicking. To sort this mess out, he needed to find Lena and convince her to open up. He turned to Emily. Calmly. “Is Lena on the ranch?”

Em chewed her lip, thinking. “No.”

“Can you tell me where she is?”

The teen shook her head. “She’s nowhere close, or else I’d be able to sense her. Sorry.”

Fearing it and hearing it confirmed as the truth were two completely different things. Brian found himself lost in the most irrelevant detail imaginable. “If you can’t sense people beyond a few miles, how do you manage to pop halfway across the world and end up right next to us?”

Emily’s face scrunched up. “Not really sure. I don’t try—I just go. It’s like I know where every beating heart on the planet is, but if I think too hard, I’ll lose the one I want in the crowd. So I just fold the universe up like an accordion, push myself through a couple of layers of material, and presto, I’m there. Unfortunately, the jumping thing has never worked except with Carlos.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Brian exited the room, closing the door behind him, unable to look at MacGregor, let alone address him with anything resembling coherence. Why was he so surprised? Yes, he and Lena had connected on a very intimate level over the last couple of days, and yes, she’d let her guard down a tiny bit. But she’d never really let him in, never shared anything truly personal. A few tears left on his shirt and a discussion over the photos she had hidden in that puzzle box hardly constituted defining moments.

So why did he feel so freakin’ wounded?

Because he could’ve sworn they shared more than passion, that was why. She’d come to his aid while battling the demons, for God’s sake. If she hated him and just wanted to get away, she could have let the bastards torch him. Instead, she’d saved him. So why was it so damned hard for her to reciprocate and ask for his help?

He strode past Lena’s bedroom, refusing to glance inside, and entered his own.

It wasn’t just hard. It was impossible. She would never ask for his help.

She didn’t trust him.

Shrugging out of his suit jacket, he rolled up his sleeves. If MacGregor was right about the Ignobles, the world was on the verge of spinning out of control. Lena could not be allowed to make that trade, no matter what was at stake for her personally. And no matter how much it would eat him alive to snatch away her victory.

Enough was enough.

It was time to drop the pansy-assed charade.

17

Lena didn’t attempt to go home. After the twin-engine puddle jumper she’d rented landed in Los Angeles, she went straight to the bank and opened her safety-deposit box.

With a block of cash and a new identity, she was able to stay on the move, hiring one cab after another while she plotted out the rendezvous. Using a jailbreak app, she disabled the GPS tracker in her iPhone, but she couldn’t sit still, even for a few minutes, for fear that Brian would use a locator spell to track her. That much she’d learned from Tariq’s run. Sleep was a luxury she could do without and eating a decent meal could wait until this was over.

Outsmarting Malumos was far more important.

The demon’s goal would be twofold: acquire the coins and maintain his hold over Heather. That way, he could force Lena to hunt down other dark relics. Lena’s goals, naturally, were the opposite.

Her phone vibrated, and Lena glanced at the screen.

Not Brian, thank God.

An e-mail from Kiyoko Ashida confirming everything was set. If she managed to extract Heather from Malumos’s clutches, the girl would be hastened away to begin a new life. Lena would never see her again. Small price to pay for her safety and security.

If she succeeded.

Finding the right spot for the rendezvous had been the hardest part, especially on short notice. She’d been mulling over it since they left Cairo. The optimal place would be private enough to permit negotiation, yet within shouting distance of a crowd in the event of trouble. It should also be a location she knew extremely well.

The best answer she could come up with?

The Farmers Market at Fairfax and Third.

She’d been there numerous times, and so had Heather. The Gilmore Heritage Auto Show was over for another year, but there would still be good crowds on a Thursday evening, thanks to the Summer Music Series.

Of course, she couldn’t just march up to the demons with the coins in her purse and demand a trade. That would never work. Not only would carrying all the coins on her person give the demons an opportunity to rob her, but Malumos would almost assuredly insist on taking possession of the coins before his brother vacated Heather’s body.

A no-win situation if ever there was one.

Succeeding would require a bit more finesse.

Fortunately, she knew just how to make it happen.

When Brian marched into the living room, everyone stared. Everyone except Stefan, that was. At Brian’s request, Emily had sent out a mental hail to collect everyone together, but the mage was a no-show.

“Where’s Stefan?” he demanded. When no one volunteered a location, he pointed to Bale. “Check his caravan.”

Bale hesitated.

Brian lowered the warmth of his expression a solid ten degrees. “Now.”

The Gatherer scurried from the room.

MacGregor, reclining in his armchair in front of the fire, lifted a brow. “You’re looking unusually ... casual.”

It was the shoes.

The jeans he wore fairly often. Rough-and-tumble blue with a silver Polo Ralph Lauren logo slapped on the ass. He’d even worn the white cotton T-shirt a time or two. But the scuffed sneakers were a first. At least, a first for these guys. He’d dug them out of the very back of his closet, along with his high school yearbook—memorabilia from his early life in the not-so-thriving metropolis of Brick, New Jersey, where he still held the record for most incorrigible delinquent. Come to think of it, scuffed pretty much described the first eighteen years of his life.

Years he’d worked damned hard to put behind him.

But when chasing a delinquent, it helped to think like one. Ergo, the clothes.

“We’ve got a problem,” he said, speaking to the whole group. “Lena Sharpe disappeared from the ranch a little over two hours ago, and she took the Judas coins with her. She swapped the real coins for fakes.”

“Lena took them? What a bitch.”

“Emily,” her mother snapped.

“Come on, Mom,” Emily said defensively. “She stole from people she was living with. Totally uncool.”

“Calling her ugly names,” Brian interrupted, “won’t change the facts. She’s gone and we need to get those coins back before she sells them.”

Almost in unison, the group frowned.

“Rodriguez, I need you to do a locator spell. Multiple ones, if necessary. If you need to tag-team to keep your energy up, do it. The moment you get a read on her, I want to know. Chances are she’s headed to Los Angeles. Atheborne, you do your thing with the GPS and see if you can find her that way. I doubt it, but it’s worth a shot.”

Brian turned to his nemesis. “Murdoch, I need you to go to Los Angeles. Search Lena’s house and the house across the street, the one with the crooked shutter and the overgrown wisteria. She had a snapshot of her neighbors in her purse, and I want to know why. We’re looking for any connection between Lena and that family, no matter how small.”

To his immense surprise, Murdoch simply nodded and left the room. No fuss, no muss, no questions asked.

The front door creaked open and Bale helped Stefan over the threshold. The plump mage did not look good. Green was definitely not his color. “He and Dika were sound asleep,” Bale said, as he lowered the older man onto the closest sofa. “I had to shake them hard to wake them up.”

“Some kind of sleep spell?” Brian asked Stefan.

“A very powerful one,” the mage responded, nodding.

“The magic Lena’s using comes from an Egyptian entity named Sekhmet. Do you have voodoo that can combat that?”

“Perhaps,” Stefan said, massaging his temples. “The pagan deities do have their own brand of charm. I’ll do some digging.”

“Great. I’m also betting that when we track Lena down, we’ll find those damned thrall demons right in the thick of things, and they’re a giant pain in the ass. I need some kind of plan to deal with their triple-whammy magic.”

“I found a spell that might weaken their shield,” the mage said, “but the incantations are in Sanskrit. Not my best language, I’m afraid. It will require some rehearsal.”

“Grab a coffee and get to it.”

“Want me to search her room for clues?” offered Emily.

“No point,” Brian tossed at her. “Everything she cares about she carries in that purse of hers. There won’t be anything useful in her room.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders slumped in disappointment.

“There’s something else you could do, though,” he said. “Practice popping. Just like you popped to Egypt, only aim for Lena.”

Emily grimaced. “I’m not sure that’ll work.”

“I’d be surprised if any of this works,” MacGregor said quietly. “Lena knows everything there is to know about evading capture. Every time she pulls a job, she goes to ground.”

“True,” Brian said. “But we need to cover all the bases in the hope she left a door open somewhere. Because our only other option is to anticipate her next move, and frankly, I’m not sure any of us knows her well enough to do that.”

Least of all him.

MacGregor nodded. “What do you need me to do?”

“Give me the crash course. Everything you think I need to know in half an hour or less.” He met the other man’s eyes. “I know. If I had accepted the torch a few months ago, when you first tried to pass it to me, I’d be on top of all this by now. All I can say is, better late than never. I’m in. Give me everything I should have learned in the last six months.”

The taxicab shuffle got tired very quickly.

Each cab had its own unique smell, ranging from stale body odor to piña-colada air freshener. Drinking from water bottles and snacking on corner-store goodies lost their appeal after the first day, and mapping out her approach plan as the vehicle bounced over potholes and sewer grates became downright annoying. Lena daydreamed about stretching out on clean sheets and eating in a restaurant, slowly perusing the menu, savoring every bite of delicious food. She just wanted to stop and rest.

But resting was out of the question.

Brian was searching for her, guaranteed.

She wasn’t too sure what to make of his cell phone silence. She had expected him to call her at least once. Were the dead airwaves an indication of his anger level? It was hard to picture him angry with her. For some reason she could see only the expression on his face the last time they made love—the day he’d confessed to being a heroin addict. Open, honest, and reaching out, just a little.

They’d shared something special in that moment.

No, she couldn’t believe he was too angry to call. More likely he was busy moving heaven and earth to find her. Or rather, to find the coins.

She glanced at her watch. Six hours left. Her meeting with Malumos was scheduled for seven p.m. She had a plan she hoped would work, and everything was in place. All she had to do was stay ahead of Brian for six more hours and her nightmare would all be over. One way or another.

Her phone buzzed again, and her pulse leapt expectantly.

But it was Kiyoko.

“Hi,” Lena said.

“The word on the grapevine is that you’re trading the Judas coins for Heather’s life.”

Lena tensed. Brian. Damn him. “Yes.”

“Are you crazy?”

“No, just desperate.”

“I respect you greatly, Lena. You know this. Under any other circumstances I would have happily aided your campaign to recover your granddaughter. But handing a dark relic to Satan? I can’t support that.”

The Japanese woman’s words were gentle but firm.

Kiyoko had a painful history with demons, and she understood the current turmoil in the world better than most. Knowing her chances of swaying Kiyoko were poor, yet out of options, Lena said, “Heather is an innocent in all this. Don’t back out of taking her, please. Punish me, not her.”

Kiyoko sighed. “I’m sorry, Lena. You’re on your own.”

The phone went dead.

Lena felt like her heart had flatlined with the phone. Even if she miraculously managed to free Heather, without a way to hide the girl—to keep her out of the demons’ clutches—that freedom would be temporary. For both of them. She glanced out the car window as she tucked the phone back in her purse. A posh Star-wood Hotel only a couple of blocks from the Farmers Market.

Just the sort of place she needed for stage one of her plan.

“Pull in here,” she said to the cabdriver. “I need to make a reservation. Wait for me.”

Brian was out of time.

He’d done everything in his power to track Lena down in the last two days—to no avail. She’d remained off their radar. He closed the door to the library and locked it. MacGregor had tried to talk him out of this crazy plan, warning him that it could go either way. Which was true—it could. But Brian had one thing working in his favor that MacGregor didn’t.

Death liked him.

Okay, it probably wasn’t real fondness. More like she had some ulterior motive she wasn’t sharing, but she’d saved his ass more times than he could count. And with any luck, she’d do it again today.

He picked a spot in the middle of the room, braced his feet firmly on the floor, and performed the summoning chant. Unfortunately, the softly ticking countdown of the clock on the mantel got the best of him and he mangled the phrasing. Taking a deep breath, pushing the possibility of failure clear of his mind, he murmured the words again.

An instant later, with no notice whatsoever, a gray-faced ghoul appeared beside him, blinking its milky white eyes.

“I request an audience,” Brian said. Then, because he knew how capricious and sly Death could be, he added, “Now.”

Her bony bodyguard stared at him for a long, silent moment, then nodded abruptly and disappeared.

Before he could contemplate where the creature had gone, he was yanked through the frigid barriers of time and space to the foggy caverns in Antarctica that Death called home. At least, he figured that was where he ended up, based on the ice-cold air he sucked into his lungs. It took a moment for the frost on his eyelids to melt enough for him to open his eyes.

“I hope you have good cause for this intrusion, Gatherer.”

Brian spun around. Death sat on her onyx throne, swathed in black satin, masses of loose white curls piled on her head like a debutante. At her back, icy blue walls shimmered with the flickering gold of a thousand tea lights.

“I need your help,” he confessed.

A trickle of derisive laughter slid down his spine. “Are you mad? You’ve been gallivanting all over the globe for almost two weeks, searching for those blasted coins. In that time, three of my Gatherers have been slain, and I have yet to receive one communication from you. Why would I help you?”

“Because you’ve got a soft spot for me?”

Expression unreadable, Death stood up, her black gown shimmering in the golden light. “Once, perhaps.” Giving sublime definition to the adjective pale, she descended the steps from her throne and passed by him in a cool waft of crystalline scent. “But rather than develop into the worthy warrior I had hoped for, you’ve become a lovesick do-gooder.”

Lovesick? That actually smarted. “I think if you check the Soul Gatherer manual,” he said nicely, “you’ll find I’m supposed to be doing good. That’s how I get to heaven.”

Pivoting, she stabbed him with her icy blue gaze. “Did you just admonish me?”

“Of course not. Wouldn’t dare.” As much as he enjoyed a good debate, if he wanted to find Lena before the trade was made, he needed to put this negotiation into high gear. “Look, I know you have a hate-on for Satan. You’ve as much as said he’s a two-bit soul whore. So help me out here. He’s making a grab for more of the Judas coins.”

“One of the dark relics you mentioned.” She scooped a handful of dried fruit from the large silver bowl on the side table. “And what kind of aid do you need?” A piece of candied pineapple disappeared between her ruby lips.

“I need to find Lena Sharpe.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Dangerous question. An honest answer might lose him Death’s fond regard. “She took thirteen of the Judas coins and made a run for it. I need to track her down.”

“That’s easy, then. We’ll just use the database.”

“She’s too smart for that. She won’t sit still, and the database won’t be able to get a firm lock on her.”

Death dumped the uneaten fruit back in the bowl and crossed the cavern to a misty gray wall of ice. A wave of her slim hand parted the fog to reveal a kaleidoscope of colors dancing over a map of the world. “What makes you think I can find her if the database can’t?”

“Two words: the seers.”

She tossed a smile over her shoulder. “Oh dear. You don’t believe that story, do you? The existence of my hallowed coven of seers is an amusing piece of Gatherer folklore, no more.”

“Bullshit.”

A light laugh danced its way around the room. “Do I detect a note of worry, Webster? Fear not. The psychics do not exist, but that doesn’t mean I can’t find her.”

Relief flooded him. For a second there, he thought he’d bet on the wrong horse. “Great. Show me where she is.”

“Not so fast. First, we must agree to terms.”

Brian rolled the stiffness out of his shoulders. Here we go. Negotiation time. Problem was, he didn’t have a whole lot to offer. “You have a starting price in mind?”

“Perhaps.” Another wave of her hand brought the map of California to the forefront, enlarged to fill the screen. “I understand something unique happened in your last battle with the demons.”

“Lots of interesting stuff happened,” he said dryly. “Can you be a bit more specific?”

“The demons were in possession of something that impacted Archangel Uriel’s ability to do battle.”

A heavy weight settled on his chest. “A piece of Lucifer’s Shattered Halo,” he admitted.

“Yes. And you acquired a piece yourself.” Death’s map zoomed in on the greater Los Angeles area, then closer still. “Give me that Shattered Halo fragment and I’ll give you Lena’s whereabouts.”

“No deal.”

She whirled around, her crinolines rustling, a curl of mist rising up from the floor. “Surely I misheard you.”

“No deal,” he repeated firmly, his gaze meeting hers. “I gave the shard to Uriel, so I can’t give it to you, and I need to know Lena’s location within the next few minutes or the information is worthless.”

“She’s in the process of trading the coins.”

“Yes.”

She tapped the long white nail of her right hand against her lip. “How unfortunate. The shard is the only item I’m interested in. It would seem we cannot strike a bargain.”

“What do you intend to do with it?”

Her eyes narrowed again. “You don’t really expect me to answer that.”

Expected, no. Hoped, yes. It would have made his decision a lot easier. “What if I promise to collect it later?”

She smirked. “Having seen the number of humans who make promises when faced with my mark on their cheek, only to renege, I haven’t a lot of faith in the concept. Blood oaths are more my cup of tea.”

“Okay,” he said warily. “How do I make a blood oath?”

“It’s simple. You swear to bring me back the shard or pay the penalty of death.”

He frowned. “I’m already dead.”

Her smirk became an outright smile. A cold, calculating smile. “How true. Which means all you can offer is another five-hundred-year term in my service.”

Brian’s heart pounded. A second term with Death if he failed to bring her the shard. Talk about a high-risk deal. But if he didn’t accept, he’d lose Lena ... and the coins. And this was his best hope for preventing Satan from gaining more power. He was caught between a rock and a hard place, and Death knew it.

Suddenly, he had a lot more respect for Murdoch.

“In return for Lena’s whereabouts right this second, I swear to bring you a piece of Lucifer’s halo or pay the penalty of a second term.”

“I accept.”

Death pointed her long white fingernail at the small wooden chest lying at the base of her throne, the one she used as a footstool. The lid creaked open to reveal a tiny glowing orb, gold in color and blinding in intensity. Opening her hand, she invited the orb to approach. And it did, floating across the room to settle softly on her palm.

She turned back to her ice map.

As she held the orb up before the map, a small red dot appeared on the street grid. The map then zoomed in until the image was as detailed as a satellite photo. The red dot glowed brightly atop the image of a modern high-rise.

“She’s riding the elevator in a rather lovely hotel on La Cienega Boulevard. Not her usual choice—I think you’ve been a bad influence on her, Webster.” Clearly in a magnanimous mood, she asked, “Would you like to join her?”

“Not in the elevator,” Brian said hastily. Lena couldn’t know he’d found her. Not yet. Not until he knew exactly what she was up to. “But once she’s inside her room, you could drop me in the hallway.”

A hotel room seemed a poor choice for an exchange. Privacy was highly overrated in situations like this. Out in the open, where everyone felt a little uncomfortable with the bystanders, usually worked best.

“Can you tell what she’s doing?” he asked.

Death sighed. “Give you an inch and you demand a mile.”

Holding up the golden orb a second time, she murmured something unintelligible.

The map vanished, replaced by a somewhat hazy image of a luxurious hotel room—the kind of place Brian would happily frequent. The image wasn’t static;it bobbed and swayed. It took him a moment to figure out why.

“Are we seeing this from Lena’s point of view?”

“Yes.”

As he watched, Lena opened the closet door and crouched before a small room safe. She dug into her purse, pulled out a small velvet bag, and yanked open the drawstring. Using a plastic glove—the sort you saw food handlers wearing all the time—she counted out six coins and stuffed them into the tiny cavity. Then she locked the door and turned to leave the room.

“On second thought,” Brian said, “set me down in her room the instant she leaves.”

Death’s eyes narrowed. “Be very careful. That sounded suspiciously like a directive, and I don’t take orders from minions.”

“Lucky for us both, I’m not a minion.” He leaned in and planted a kiss on her smooth, cool cheek. “Now would be a good time.”

Their eyes met for a palpable moment.

Then a bone-deep ache swallowed him whole. Every molecule of oxygen in his lungs was snatched away as his body hurtled thousands of miles around the earth in a split second.

No one ended an interview like Death.

They could have been mother and daughter: two blond women seated under a burgundy umbrella in front of the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf, sipping iced lattes. Until you looked closer. Until you noticed the teen wasn’t drinking, but sitting comatose in her chair, her bony shoulders curled like withered leaves. Or you noticed that she had the pale, bruised skin that thrived only in shadow, not under the mellow warmth of a California sun.

Lena took an instinctive step toward Heather, then halted.

From here, it was impossible to see the demonic glint in the girl’s eyes, but experience told Lena that Mestitio commanded Heather’s movements, not the teen herself.

She glanced around.

Two of the triplets were accounted for. Where was the third? Given the importance of the coins, she expected him to be somewhere close.

Blending with a chatty young family of four, Lena left the protective shade of the clock tower and circled the wooden chairs in front of the tower bookstore. As she neared the two women, she studied the faces of everyone in easy view of the coffeehouse. None of the visible faces triggered her internal alarms. Still no Maleficus.

That made her uneasy, but wasn’t enough to deter her from the meeting. Lena split from the laughing family and veered toward the two women. They sat at the table farthest from the coffeehouse, and had somehow discouraged patrons from taking the two nearby tables.

As she strode closer, the older woman looked up and smiled.

“Have a seat,” Malumos said. “And a drink, of course. Heather hasn’t touched the latte we bought her, but we can’t let something this sinful go to waste.”

Lena’s gaze roamed Heather’s face. There was no evidence she knew Lena was there. She sat still and withdrawn, like a statue in a wax museum. Her eyes were a dull and lifeless hazel, set amid purple bruises.

A burn flared in Lena’s chest. Seeing Heather’s fragile condition in person hammered the consequences home with brutal force. Six months ago, the girl had been a healthy, buoyant teen with an infectious laugh. Now, she was teetering on the edge of death. Lena almost expected to see the cruel white spiral on her cheek that foretold an imminent demise.

Her gaze swung to the older woman. Hot and angry, she said, “Let’s get this over with.”

Malumos nodded. “Give us the coins.”

Continuing to stand would draw attention, so Lena took a seat. Her knees gave out halfway, and she dropped to the chair with more momentum than she intended, the cold metal slamming into the backs of her knees. Digging into her purse, she located the velvet pouch and pulled it out.

Could she truly go through with it? Could she really trade the lives of millions for the life of just one girl? Her gaze lifted to Heather’s gaunt face, and her heart squeezed as if it were caught in a vise.

Yes, she could.

She opened the drawstring and held out the pouch. “Tell him to get out of her,” she said flatly.

The older woman peered inside. “There’re only seven coins there.”

She nodded. “I’ve hidden the other six. As soon as Mestitio vacates Heather’s body, I’ll tell you where.”

“That won’t be necessary, my dear. Any moment now, Maleficus will arrive with those six coins and your pathetic bargaining chip will be gone.”

Lena’s heart thudded. “I don’t believe you.”

The demon smiled, his evil presence an inky swirl in the woman’s brown eyes. “Then you’re a fool. The coins speak to one another. That’s how we tracked down your little cohort in the desert.”

Lena briefly closed her eyes. Poor Tariq hadn’t stood a chance. And if the coins truly did call to one another, she was lost, too. But she couldn’t let the demon see her fear.

“He’ll never find them,” she sneered. “I put a Romany blanket spell over them. Any voice they might have has been silenced.”

Malumos frowned.

Lena had no idea if there was such a spell. It didn’t matter as long as Malumos believed there was. “The advantage of communing with my fellow Gatherers these past few days has been the knowledge I’ve gained. They were quite happy to teach a colleague a few new tricks.”

“This is an all-or-nothing deal,” snapped Malumos. “Mestitio will not release the girl until we agree the time is right. And the time will not be right until we have all thirteen coins.”

Almost on cue, Heather jerked.

Lena glanced her way.

The teen’s eyes were locked on Lena’s face, her pupils mere pinpricks in a pool of hazel. “Please,” she croaked from dry lips. “It hurts so bad. I need a fix. Do what he says.”

Lena swallowed and looked away.

Oh God.

“Your move, Ms. Sharpe,” Malumos said, smiling broadly.

The late-day sun continued to beam, the smell of fresh produce hung in the air, and somewhere in the distance a brass quartet played “Hello, Dolly.” It all seemed vaguely unreal. But Heather was shaking, her shoulders hunched in suffering.

Sweat from Lena’s hand dampened the velvet bag.

What should she do?

18

Brian studied the stiff set of Lena’s shoulders, surprised by the hot wave of anger that crashed over him. He’d been so damned certain there was a core of decency in her. Swore he saw it buried there, time and again. Being that wrong about her burned, and burned badly.

He dragged his gaze away from Lena and into the goading face of the heavyset woman next to her. The angle didn’t permit a good look at the third female at the table, but it was obvious she was young. And extremely thin.

“The deal’s going down,” he said crisply into his BlackBerry. “You need to get here now.”

“Murdoch should be there already. The rest of us are still twenty minutes away,” MacGregor responded. “Stall them.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Brian hung up, glancing around for Murdoch. No sign of the huge Scot. Christ. Twenty minutes could be a really long time. He couldn’t imagine the demons sitting around chatting for that length of time.

Tugging his blue Dodgers cap down to shade his face, he darted into the bookstore behind the coffee shop terrace. Under the pretext of examining a book, he peered at the group from this new viewpoint. The older woman was possessed; he’d bet his last dime on it. His gaze shifted to the thin girl in the next chair.

His fingers tightened on the book in his hands.

Wow.

If he didn’t know better, he’d swear it was the girl from St. Pat’s. Only shorter and a whole lot worse for wear, if that were possible. She was definitely thinner and paler, but on the plus side, she was alive. Barely. She had the look of a heavy-duty user. And, sadly, he recognized the signs of an imminent crash: agitation, itching, occasional rubbing of the arms that suggested chills.

Lena put a hand on the girl’s arm, trying to calm her.

That was when a big piece of the puzzle fell into place—this girl and the one from St. Pat’s were sisters. And Lena knew them both.

Relief hit him so hard, he nearly fell on his ass. He’d been right, damn it. This had never been about money—Lena was negotiating for a girl’s life. She’d been acting under duress the whole time—even in New York. How had he ever let himself get swayed into believing anything else? On any other day, he trusted his gut above all.

Just not when it came to Lena.

As happy as he was to learn her motivations were pure, he had to admit the timing of this discovery well and truly sucked. If she’d told him a week ago, he could have worked something out, figured out how to keep the coins and rescue the girl. Especially since the kid was so frail. One wound might be enough to finish her. No doubt about it: The last inning of this game was going to be a nail-biter.

How the hell could he pull it off? Not only did he need to keep the girl alive; he needed to protect Lena and keep the demons from frying an unbearable number of innocent bystanders.

He put the book carefully back on the shelf. If he wanted answers, Lena’s table was the place to be.

Right in the thick of things.

Lena gripped the velvet bag with white-knuckled hands.

“There’s really no point in waiting for Maleficus to return,” she said, resisting the urge to look at the time displayed on her phone. How could he expect her to sit there like a tourist on vacation when every minute added to Heather’s discomfort? “He’s just going to confirm his failure to locate the coins.”

Malumos sucked the last of his latte up the straw, slurping around the remnants of ice cubes. “We can afford to wait a bit longer. It’s a very pleasant evening.”

Pleasant? Compared to the fiery tortures of hell, maybe, but not by her standards. Lena decided to brazen it out. “Why wait when I can give you the location and code to access the coins? If you trade me Heather now, you can have them in a matter of minutes.”

He shrugged. “All thirteen coins delivered to our hands or the deal is off. It’s that simple.”

“Aren’t you on some kind of deadline? You wouldn’t have attacked the ranch if your boss weren’t putting the screws to you over this deal. Tick-tock, Malumos. You have only four and a half hours until midnight. Are you sure you want to waste it all waiting for Maleficus?”

She didn’t. Not when there was a very real possibility the other demon would show up with the last six coins. Not when her bluff could be called any second. Indeed, her heart froze when Malumos’s gaze slid over her left shoulder. Sour-mouthed, she spun in her chair.

But it wasn’t Maleficus. It was—

“Brian,” she said on a gasp.

His eyes met hers for only a fraction of a second, but it was long enough to send a flood of warmth through her body. He pulled out the fourth chair and sat, looking every bit the young James Dean in his jeans and T-shirt.

“Any deal you two were working out is off, I’m afraid.” He took off the baseball cap and ran his fingers through his brown hair. Then he quirked a smile at Malumos. “I have the other six coins, and I’m not going to be as easy to please as Lena.”

Brian expected some sort of reaction. Just not from the emaciated teen. She abruptly sat up straight, her chest bones visible even beneath layers of cotton tank tops, her breasts almost nonexistent, and glared at him. “Give us the goddamned coins,” she snarled.

The fury of her response could simply have been prompted by drug-induced desperation, but her use of the word us told a different story. She was possessed.

His stomach knotted.

Any hope of saving her had just come tumbling down around his ears. He had no way of evicting the demon from her body. He didn’t know a single exorcism ritual, even if he’d had the luxury of time to perform it. Which he didn’t. In a few minutes, when MacGregor and the others arrived, the creature inside her would be fighting for its life without care for what happened to the girl. Just like the pizza delivery boys back at the ranch. The ones he’d been prepared to skewer in order to win. Her death was inevitable.

Sure, he’d do everything in his power to keep her alive, even sacrifice his own life if necessary, but bookies didn’t even have a number for odds as bad as these.

Cool fingers slipped around his elbow, and he glanced left to meet Lena’s gaze.

“You need to give him the coins,” she said.

“I can’t,” he responded softly.

She sat back in her chair. The shadows in her eyes were full-scale eclipses now. Although there was no sign of it on her smooth face, she was hurting. Deeply. And he was powerless to stop it.

“You should have told me,” he added a little desperately, willing her to understand, yet knowing that she wouldn’t. “I could have done something.”

She shook her head, the tip of her ponytail twitching. “No, you couldn’t.”

“I could have—”

“Do you think I didn’t try?” she interrupted. “Do you think that I didn’t agonize over the consequences of this arrangement? That I would agree to give Satan a powerful dark relic without any attempt to resist?”

She reached for the girl’s hand, squeezing it.

“Heather’s father is dead because I tried to secret the girls away, to keep them safe and stop the triplets from using them as weapons against me. Graeme O’Shaunessy and Amanda”—she stumbled over the name, but found her voice again—“are dead because I actually believed I could outwit Malumos and escape the nightmare. But I couldn’t. I failed them.”

Her red-rimmed gaze drilled into his.

“I know you think you could have come up with a plan that would have saved Heather and kept control of the coins. Maybe you could have. But I couldn’t take that risk. Heather is all I have left.”

A lump the size of a baseball had lodged in his throat.

How like Lena to have survived all that and still appear strong and sure. No one would ever guess the extent to which she was bleeding. Brian had never wanted to hug anyone as badly as he wanted to hug her right this moment. But she would never forgive him for weakening the walls of her defense. And this was hardly a good time.

The older woman leaned across the table and extended her hand. “In case you were wondering, I’m Malumos. We met briefly at your ranch, and again in the desert in Egypt.”

Brian ignored the outstretched hand.

“So Lena kept her deal with us a secret, did she?” Malumos said silkily. “Did she keep Heather’s true identity from you, too?”

Brian’s stomach tightened. Of course she had. Lena had never told him a damned thing. Not one personal detail.

“Heather is Lena’s granddaughter,” Malumos explained. “Actually, several generations removed from that, but you get the picture. When Lena died, she left a seven-month-old baby behind, a delightful little cherub who she named Lily. Heather is a direct descendant of her daughter, and she’s the only living relative Lena has remaining. If the girl dies, the last piece of Lily dies, too. Isn’t that so, Lena?”

Lena didn’t need to answer.

The truth was written on her face. In stark, well-defined lines around her eyes and mouth.

The last dredges of hope filtered away from him like water into sand. This was an unwinnable battle. There was no way he could let Satan get his hands on those evil coins, yet if he refused, the demons would orchestrate Heather’s death ... and Lena would never forgive him.

Hell, who was he kidding?

He’d never forgive himself.

Lena’s hand tightened around Heather’s.

The girl squeezed her hand in return, and Lena glanced at her, hopeful. But the eyes that looked back at her still held that hellish glint of possession. Almost as proof, Mestitio lifted her hand to his mouth and ran his tongue over her knuckles.

Lena shuddered, but did not let go.

Instead, she held Heather’s gaze and said softly, “I’m not giving up. Don’t you give up, either.”

Then she turned to Brian, abandoning the stiff pride that had held her erect for years. Holding nothing back, allowing her heartbreak to invade her voice, she begged him, “Please give him the coins.”

Brian didn’t answer. Not that she really expected him to.

“You’re condemning her to death,” she added, not above emotional blackmail.

He paled. But did not relent.

“There will be other chances to defeat Satan,” she pleaded. “Give him the coins. If you won’t do it for Heather, do it for me. I lived next door to her for ten years, looked after her when her mother died. I watched her grow from a chubby kid to a beautiful young woman, and now to this. Don’t make me watch her die.”

She saw the battle in his eyes and started to hope. But deep down she knew what the end result would be. Brian held his honor above everything. For good reason—he’d fought a very hard battle to win it back. He had to do the right thing, because if he let that go, he’d be admitting defeat. The self-absorbed junkie he’d once been would own him.

She understood that. Even admired him for it.

Which was why she felt like the worst person in the world for hoping he’d give in. And why she forgave him the instant he hoarsely delivered his answer.

“I can’t.”

“This is all quite touching,” Malumos said coolly, standing. “But irrelevant.” A new person joined him, crossing the paving stones at his back. A very large black man draped with gold bling. “Now that Maleficus has returned, the discussion is moot. If you hope to survive, giving us the coins is your only option.”

Brian stood up, too.

“Only if I were stupid enough to come alone. Which I wasn’t.”

From the edge of the crowd, a familiar face appeared—Murdoch. He stood in the telltale stance of a battle-seasoned warrior—shoulders back, knees slightly flexed, focus unwavering. Had Heather not been so thin and frail, Murdoch’s arrival—and the knowledge that he was a berserker—would have given her heart. But the weak were always the first to fall in a battle.

Lena closed her eyes.

Although she couldn’t name a single time when God had eased her trials courtesy of a few whispered words, she prayed.

“You don’t want to battle here,” Malumos said. “Too many witnesses.”

“I don’t want to battle at all,” Brian amended honestly. If he pulled out his sword, the situation would get very messy very quickly. “So how ’bout you guys jump ship and leave us with the coins? That way everybody walks away in one piece.”

The demon’s eyes narrowed. “Not an option.”

Brian scanned the little courtyard. Not as hectic as a Saturday afternoon, but the flow of people was steady and a small crowd had gathered twenty feet away, eager to board the trolley. The only saving grace was that this table was off to one side. They might be able to put a perception ward over it and block it from view. But that wouldn’t stop innocent people from getting hurt.

“Webster.”

He lifted his gaze to Murdoch’s calm face. The big warrior nodded to the left, drawing Brian’s attention to the glass exterior of the shop next to the coffeehouse—the location targeted by a high-end fashion boutique but not yet occupied. The interior was under construction, gutted to make room for signature white walls and chrome furnishings. Its grungy emptiness would make for a perfect battlefield, especially if a barrier spell kept the rest of the world at bay.

“Get up,” he told Malumos.

The demon frowned. “Why?”

“You’re going to get your chance at the coins. In there.” He nodded to the shop.

“And if we prefer to remain here?”

“Not an option,” he said, borrowing the demon’s phrase. “Either you toddle over there under your own steam, or I haul your ass into the store. Your choice.”

Malumos smiled. “That assumes you’re capable.”

“Want to test me?” His hand went behind his head, reaching for the hilt of his sword. He stopped short of pulling it free and sent a bold dare into Malumos’s eyes.

A fat drop of rain landed on his cheek.

That drop was quickly followed by a splash on his sleeve and another on his shoulder. Heavy raindrops smacked the pavement and the umbrella with loud thwaps, sending the sweet summer scent of wet dust into the air. A gentle sigh of wind delivered a wave of new drops and in seconds the rainfall changed from a staccato anthem to an allegro march. Colors sprang to fresh life under a shiny, wet coat of water.

The group positioned around the table never lost focus, but the shoppers in the market suddenly galvanized, running for cover—hands, bags, and purses over their heads—hoping to avoid a soaking. A crest of shrieks, giggles, and feet slapping puddles rose and then fell away.

The rain did not ease with the vanishing crowds.

In a rare summer tempest, the handful of droplets became sheets of water tossed in their direction, then yanked away. Gentle wafts of wind became stinging gusts. Rivulets ran down their faces, streamed off their chins, and weighed down their clothing.

Brian repositioned his hand on the hilt of his sword to compensate for the wet texture of the leather wrap.

In the same instant, a faint snap in the air announced the advent of a very powerful perception ward around the group. Brian glanced up and smiled. Stefan had arrived, along with reinforcements: MacGregor, Carlos, Bale, and Atheborne.

“Last chance,” he told Malumos, drawing his blade.

“Really?”

In a dazzling display of coordinated strength, the three brothers backflipped clear of the table and formed a rough circle, facing out at their opponents. A silvery trail of water rose from the ground and swirled around them, drawn in by the first spins of their rapidly intensifying supershield. As the sizzling hum of the triplets’ aligned efforts grew, Malumos grinned.

“We brought friends along, too.”

On cue, the ground rumbled with a teeth-rattling fury and three knobby projectiles pierced the pavement between the demons and the Gatherers, pushing through from the depths below. As chunks of concrete fell away and rain sluiced over red, leathery surfaces and thick yellow talons, the identity of the hulking new arrivals became clear. Martial demons.

The muscles in Brian’s shoulder did an involuntary dance.

Three bone-crushing bastards.

The number wouldn’t have been a big deal if MacGregor had still been immortal. He’d previously downed two of the house-sized horrors on his own. Unfortunately, the rest of the team had no idea what they were in for. Brian edged closer to Lena.

“Watch the tails,” he shouted to the group.

The martial nearest him opened his mouth and a wave of furnace-hot heat blasted Brian’s shield. Sweat mingled with the rain on his body, engulfing him in an unbearable steam bath. His clothing stuck to him in clumps.

Not that he had time to dwell on it. From the furious rush of air and water surrounding the thralls, a series of white-hot flame balls shot out, unimpeded by the rain. They struck the shields erected by the Gatherers with impressive accuracy and velocity, forcing the Gatherers back.

Having gained a little breathing room, the thralls then concentrated the bulk of their attack on Lena and Brian, leaving two martials to fend off the other Gatherers. The third martial continued to focus on Brian.

Forced to dodge a series of rapid jabs from its spiked tail, Brian almost forgot about the sapping blue smoke exuded by the triplets. Pressed low by the rain, the whisper-thin tentacles crept along the ground, nearly slipping around his feet before he leapt out of the way.

He risked a glance back at Lena. Asking her to distance herself from him—and his protection—totally went against the grain, but staying together made them an easy target. If he kept the martial’s attack centered on him, she had a better-than-average chance of survival.

“Split up,” he ordered.

He expected her to argue, but she didn’t. A quick nod, and she was gone.

There was no time to ponder her docility. The martial advanced toward him at a slow, ground-trembling pace, unrelenting in its pursuit. A lava bomb hit his shield and ripped it away, allowing one of the thralls’ fireballs to ricochet off the edge of his sword and strike his shoulder.

Pain clawed down his arm.

Roasted by the flames, his blackened flesh writhed as minute fragments of the orb dug deep, driving toward the bone. A ragged gasp escaped Brian’s lips.

“Give us the coins, and we’ll spare you,” Malumos said.

“Fuck you,” Brian responded grimly. Fueled by the demon’s goading, he dove in for a lightning attack on the martial demon. Using one of the tables for leverage and aiming for the bastard’s neck, which he knew from experience was vulnerable, he struck hard.

And scored.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t deep enough. Blood spurted, but not in the quantities needed to fell the huge creature. He did succeed in angering it, though. Another bellow of white-hot rage spewed from its mouth, and its tail whipped around like the tip of a pinned snake. The oozing spike pierced the metal table Brian had been standing on only moments before, then flicked left and drove through Carlos’s shield. The young Gatherer’s shield must have already been weakened, because the spike went right through his arm.

Carlos said nothing—didn’t even flinch—but Emily screamed. Although the young Gatherer immediately strove to free himself of the oozing spike, time was not on his side. The martial’s tail flung him into the air, and as he sailed off the barbed tip, he narrowly missed taking out the historic clock tower, landing somewhere out of view.

Fearing the worst, Brian gave a furious roar and kicked off a chair to spring at the martial’s neck again, intending to deal the killing blow.

But he’d remained in one spot too long.

The blue smoke had seeped through his shield and curled around his thigh. Midswing, Brian hesitated, suddenly unable to make his body do his bidding. Frustrated, he watched his blade hit its target, but only at half speed. He struggled against the will-sap, gritting his teeth and trying desperately to keep fighting. But his efforts were fruitless—he dropped to the ground with a low growl, weak limbed and helpless. The demon’s tail, now dripping with Carlos’s blood, whipped toward him, the spike targeted directly at his chest.

This time, Sekhmet demanded an unbearable prize for her support: the memory of Lena’s first kiss with Brian. It was almost as if the goddess guessed his importance.

But as painful as the bargain was to make, the price was a fair one—the powers granted to her by the Egyptian goddess allowed her to save Brian’s life. The shimmering bow returned to her hand, the inexhaustible leather quiver to her back. With a gifted aim, she fired an arrow at the spike of the martial’s tail, blasting the gory appendage even as it whipped through the air at a blurring speed.

The fleshy stump still hit Brian in the chest, knocking him back a good twenty yards, but the blow did little more than break a rib or two. And it freed Brian of the sapping blue smoke.

Of course, her active participation drew the thrall demons’ attention and they pelted her with a flurry of missiles. Without a sword to parry their fireballs, Lena could only hope her shield could withstand the blistering siege. She kept firing.

The Gatherers, though bold and competent, were overwhelmed.

The thralls’ offensive focus might have narrowed to her, but their back-to-back stance and linked mental powers provided them with a panoramic view of the entire battlefield. They effortlessly provided aerial support to the martial demons’ ground attack, raining fireballs on their opponents with strategic and devastating impact.

Few of the Gatherers escaped injury. Even with the mage’s supplemental shielding and occasional mystical strikes, Atheborne and Bale both sustained multiple burns. MacGregor was favoring his right leg, a surprisingly minor impairment, considering he had only magic and regular human strength at his disposal. Magnus, the blond warrior from Prussia, had fallen to one knee, and Hill was desperately trying to beat off his attacker, despite a bleeding chest wound. Only Murdoch looked relatively unscathed. Judging by the snarl of rage on his face, the ruthless fury in his eyes, and the raw power in his sword arm, the huge Scot had slipped into full berserker mode.

Fortunately, he was in a section of the courtyard free of other Gatherers, and the chances of him harming colleagues in his mindless rage were small.

Each arrow Lena shot at the martial demons caused them to stumble, but the defense level of their thick red hides was high and no single wound proved enough to flatten them.

When the angels arrived, Lena nearly rejoiced.

Michael and Uriel descended in a storm of blue lightning, each accompanied by a squad of warrior angels. Glowing with heavenly brightness and righteous rage, they rapidly spread out and bombarded the martial demons with bolts of raw energy from all sides. One of the three monstrosities dropped to its knees, roaring in pain, and another stumbled back, falling into the glass of the nearby storefront.

But Lena’s euphoria was short-lived.

No sooner had the angels appeared than Maleficus extended his hand and began to chant. Although the words were unintelligible, they also rang with a familiar, deadly intent. The demon was reciting the spell that tapped into the Shattered Halo. The weapon that had neutralized Uriel in Cairo.

Would it have the same effect on all the angels?

She prayed not.

On her left side, Brian rejoined the battle, now fully recovered from the debilitating effects of the blue smoke. He leapt and sliced and thrust in a merciless siege against the thralls, his goal clear—to once again part Maleficus from the shard. Uriel, too, understood the significance of the chant and aimed his white magic at the thralls, exhorting his celestial colleagues to do the same.

The opportunity was there, and Lena took it. She swung her bow left and aimed at Malencus’s outstretched hand.

But just as her bowstring propelled the arrow into the air, the thralls began to spin inside their powerful shield. It was an obvious effort to protect Maleficus, and it worked. Lena’s arrow pierced the protection ward and struck a target, but it was Heather who took the blow, not Maleficus.

The girl staggered.

Had the arrow struck higher, Lena’s regret would have known no bounds. As it was, she reeled with horror at the sight of Heather’s arm lit up like a torch. Fortunately, the thralls continued to spin and flames were soon smothered by their rapid movements. But the scorched sleeve was a grim reminder of how dangerous a game she and the Gatherers played. One false move and every effort she’d made to save Heather, every sacrifice she’d made these past six months would be for naught.

Lena lifted the bow and sighted again, but she couldn’t find the courage to loose another arrow.

Sadly, neither Uriel’s magic nor Brian’s aggressive sword attack was able to derail the Shattered Halo spell. Just as the angels unleashed the whole of their divine powers on the thralls, Maleficus completed his chant and opened his hand.

Blinding black light shot from his palm in all directions, and the warrior angels crumpled into moaning heaps.

Every last one.

And Lena’s heart fell with them.

19

Carlos stood in the parking lot—head down, shoulders hunched, defeated. He looked so little like the swaggering, self-assured teen Emily knew and loved that she actually stopped short of touching him, even though his arm still dripped blood and her instincts clamored at her to comfort him.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “Why aren’t you fighting? Lachlan and Brian need you.”

“Because I won’t be any help.”

His voice was strangely hoarse, and Em circled around, trying to peer through his hair at his face. “Of course you will. You’re totally awesome.” Knowing he needed something from her, but not certain what, she added, “One stab by a demon isn’t enough to drop you; I know that much.”

“No,” he agreed with a short laugh. “It’ll take more than that.”

“So come on,” she said, coaxing. “Let’s go back.”

When he didn’t immediately respond, she touched his sleeve. And pulled back sharply with a yelp. “Oh my God, you’re burning up.”

“Yeah.” He lifted his head. “That pretty much nails it. ”

Em swallowed. His brown eyes were completely gone, replaced by brilliant red orbs that radiated a strange combination of heat and intelligence. After all she’d been through in the last year, red eyes weren’t enough to shock her. But knowing what they represented sent a nervous shiver up her spine.

“You’re a demon,” she said softly.

“I don’t know what I am.” He closed his eyes. “You should never have brought me back, Em. You should have left me there.”

She shook her head. Impossible.

“Does this mean you suddenly want to help Satan get the coins?” she asked, hesitant. “That you need to fight for the other side now?”

His shoulders stiffened. “No.”

“Then what does it mean?”

“I don’t know,” he said angrily. “But, God help me, this heat is unbearable. It’s eating me up inside. And the rage ... I can’t control it, Em. I just want to blow something up.”

“Then come back with me.” She reached out and fingered his wavy black hair. “I know some bad guys in need of a good explosion.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

He opened his eyes again, staring at her with those burning eyes. “I told you: I can’t control it.”

“You’re holding it in right now,” she pointed out.

“Only because you’re here,” he said softly. “It won’t last.”

“It doesn’t need to. The demons are kicking our asses, Carlos. Go send a few of them back to hell.”

He looked at her for a long moment. Then he sighed.

“Okay. For you, I’ll do it.”

Thanks in part to the dissolve spell Stefan kept slinging at the triplets, Brian broke through their shield several satisfying times. The fine edge of his sword scored victories against their arms, chests, and legs, and effectively slowed their spinning.

The only problem was, despite his every effort not to, some of the cuts struck Heather’s body. Each one felt like a blow against Lena. Each one reminded him that he was not solely attacking demons; he was killing a young girl. Each one soured his mouth and imbued him with remorse.

How was he expected to defeat the thralls when they hid behind innocent humans?

“Stefan,” he roared, furious with himself and with the world at large. “For God’s sake, do something.”

But the answer didn’t come from Stefan.

It came from Carlos.

The young Gatherer strode around the corner of the clock tower and into the center of the battle, oblivious to the waves of heat shot at him from the martial demons, absorbing fireballs and lava bombs without flinching. He crossed his hands over his chest, pulsed with visible power, and then without further ado, everything exploded in a searing flash of white-hot light.

It was like nothing Brian had ever felt before.

The heat wave tossed him into the air like a feather on a breeze, snatching the oxygen from his lungs with a scorching rasp. He landed on his back with a heavy grunt, unable to see anything but bright red spots for almost a minute, and feeling nothing but relief over being alive. Then he remembered Lena. And the coins.

And he surged to his feet.

He was lying on the pavement over one hundred yards away from where he’d been. A blackened crater the size of a swimming pool had replaced the small courtyard, and the tip of the clock tower was now a charred ruin.

Brian jogged back.

Three fried martial demons littered the crater, and a couple of scorched bodies lay heaped at Carlos’s feet: Maleficus’s big tank of a host and another man. Not Heather, thank heaven. And not Lena.

One of the two bodies groaned, still alive. Shocked, Brian realized it was a very burned MacGregor. He scrambled to reach his friend. “Christ. Are you okay?”

It was a stupid question. An umbrella pole had pierced MacGregor’s shoulder, pinning him to the pavement, and he was bleeding profusely. The canvas of the umbrella had been seared clean away by the blast—its momentary protection perhaps the reason MacGregor was still alive.

“No,” MacGregor admitted through clenched teeth.

“Bale?” Brian glanced around.

“I’m here.” The black man shook off the splintered remnants of a designer-sunglasses booth and stood up. Murdoch sat on his ass about ten feet farther back, a little pale and shaky. Several white-suited angels, looking less than pristine, were also getting to their feet. Everyone had taken a wicked beating and was exhausted from the heavy use of magic.

“MacGregor needs a medic. Help him out.”

“I’ll help,” said Stefan, stepping forward. “Healing spells are ineffective on complicated injuries, but I know one that can relieve these burns.”

“I tried to contain it,” said a grim male voice. “I really did. I’m sorry.”

Brian spun around to face Carlos, who was gazing morosely at MacGregor. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“Em said you guys were losing.”

Which, strictly speaking, was true. But this? Brian’s gaze raked the devastation, the injured, the empty hole. This was not a solution; it was a nightmare. “Since you mentioned Em, where is she?”

“Here,” piped up Emily, racing toward them. Her face looked freshly pink again, but Brian hoped that was his imagination.

“Maleficus is gone, but has anyone seen Lena or the other two thralls?” Brian asked.

Murdoch fingered the singed remnants of his beard and pointed down the street. “I’m fairly certain the thralls went that way. I expect Lena followed them.”

Yeah, that was a safe bet. She wouldn’t give up Heather without a fight.

Brian surveyed the damage once more. Then he turned to Uriel, who had appeared at his elbow, weary and clearly still feeling the aftereffects of the Shattered Halo spell. “Any way you can help with all this?”

“We’ll see to the bodies,” the archangel offered. “If someone collects this poor fellow’s soul.” He nodded to the unfortunate man who’d housed Maleficus.

“I’ll take care of it,” Murdoch said, crouching beside the ash-covered body. “But we’ll have to be quick to avoid the police.”

“Think the cops will buy the story of a really big lightning strike?”

Murdoch smiled. “Will they have a choice?”

Brian returned the grin.

“Emily,” he said, turning to the girl. “Call your mom and tell her to meet you at the hospital with your stepdad.”

She nodded.

“But I need a favor first. Can you still sense Lena?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you pop me over there, right next to her?”

Emily frowned. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t wonder,” he said. “Just do.”

He got his wish.

Lena halted abruptly in the alley, staring.

The older blond woman had collapsed next to a large white Dumpster, badly injured by the blast. She was still breathing, but since she wasn’t moving, Lena assumed she was no longer possessed.

Heather was hunkered down next to the injured woman, covered head to toe in soot. She paid no attention to Lena. She was too busy sliding a needle into her thin arm. It was a miracle of sorts—after all that had happened, the weakest of the three humans was the only one left standing.

Or, more accurately, sitting.

“Heather?”

The girl looked up. And smiled.

“I thought in the end it would come back to just you and me,” she said.

The faint hope that all the demons had returned to hell vanished.

“Malumos,” Lena guessed. She glanced again at the unconscious older woman. “What happened to Mestitio?”

“I sent him home. He doesn’t have the finesse for a negotiation of this sort,” Malumos replied, a shaky finger on the plunger of the needle.

“I only have seven coins,” she reminded him.

“We’ll take whatever you have,” the demon said.

Lena shook her head. “You made a mistake sending Mestitio back. We’re one-on-one now, and I have the power of Sekhmet behind me.”

“What do you intend to do?” asked Malumos. “Kill us?”

Lena opened her purse and drew out her vial of holy water. “No, just pour this down your throat.”

“I’ll inject the contents of this needle into her arm long before you get close enough to do that,” he sneered. “Not heroin, by the way. Potassium chloride. Once it’s in the girl’s bloodstream, she’ll have only minutes before her organs start shutting down. It won’t be a pleasant death.”

Lena’s heart flipped in protest. “You wouldn’t do that. If you kill her, you lose your leverage over me.”

Heather’s face twisted. “You think we care about that now? If we don’t return with all thirteen coins as promised, we will be punished in unimaginable ways. The hope that your seven will appease my liege lord is slim, but it is all we cling to.”

Lena’s gaze fell to the hand clasping the needle. As the heroin in her body continued to wane, Heather’s hand trembled. Even if Malumos remained calm, dribbles of poison could well be entering her body with each shudder. It would not be wise to drag this out.

She did not want to give the demon the coins, especially not after the brutality she’d just witnessed in the market. But did she really have a choice?

Her hand wrapped around the Horus amulet.

“Give them to me,” rasped Malumos through Heather’s dry lips. His eyes flared with desperate rage. “Now. Or I’ll pump your granddaughter full of poison and she’ll die before your eyes.”

The moment she began the incantation, he would know. And he would react by killing Heather.

A hot burn of frustration ran through her body. Foiled at every turn. Could nothing go her way, even once? Her hand fell away from the amulet. With a sense of inescapable doom, she reached into her purse for the coins.

The air around them thrummed like a guitar string, and just like that, Brian and Emily appeared at her side—both singed, sooty, but reassuringly alive.

Malumos jerked with surprise.

The plunger of the needle dipped and panic bubbled up inside Lena, raw terror seizing all the strength from her legs. Dizzy with thoughts of caustic poison ripping through Heather’s veins, she sank toward the ground, only one word able to breach her numbed lips.

“No.”

Although completely unprepared for Lena’s collapse, Brian caught her before she hit the ground. He hauled her against his chest, frightened by the icy chill of her arms.

The demon-possessed Heather eased back against the Dumpster and smiled faintly. “Well, this just got a lot more promising.”

“Let the girl go,” Brian said. “You’re clearly outnumbered.”

The words came out strong and sure. A remarkable feat, considering that the sight of a hollow-cheeked Heather stabbed him with memories so vicious they nearly ripped his heart out. The bluish skin, the sunken eyes. They were so damned familiar.

Melanie.

He hadn’t actually seen his sister the day she died, but he’d seen pictures. His dad had thrust police photos of her body under his nose, and in that voice only a father raging with grief could summon, ordered him to look at them. And look he had. Until hot tears had blinded him. She’d looked just like this, right down to the syringe in her arm.

“The only numbers that need concern you are the minutes remaining in this girl’s life.” Malumos licked his cracked lips. “Your arrival, while welcome, startled us. We couldn’t help but release a few drops.”

Brian met the demon’s gaze over Lena’s head.

“Potassium chloride. Deadly stuff. She really needs a doctor,” Malumos said calmly. “But first, you’ll need to give us the coins.”

God help him He actually considered doing it.

He hadn’t saved Melanie. Screwup that he’d been, he’d been too high to understand the importance of her call, too wrapped up in his own drug-induced pleasure to hear the note of despair in her voice. He’d hung up the phone with some vague promise to visit her and then continued to party. He’d let her down in the most abysmal way possible. She died. Because of him.

But Heather didn’t have to die.

He could save her.

Just by handing over the coins in his pocket. One simple gesture and Heather could recover, Lena could be happy, and some part of his heart would lighten under its unbearable load.

But the need to save Heather was a selfish one.

Yes, she was a kid worth saving. No doubt about that. God, he just had to look at that hint of youthful rebellion in her eyes to know she had potential. But if Satan got his hands on all twenty-nine coins, more good people like Heather would die. Riots and wars would break out all over the world, and those deaths would be laid on his doorstep, too.

Damn it.

It would kill him. And every time he looked in Lena’s eyes, he’d die a little more. But he had to hold on to the coins. It was his duty—and it was the right thing to do.

“Go to hell.”

Brian’s arrival was a godsend.

Tucked against his broad chest, wrapped in his sturdy arms, Lena quickly regained her strength. And her resolve.

She knew what she had to do.

In its current undamaged state, the amulet was worth over half a million dollars. A genuine artifact excavated from the tomb of a royal priest in the Valley of the Kings, it had been her safety net since her father collapsed over her mother’s grave. He’d left it on his desk the day he returned to his dig, a lost and broken man. It was the one artifact she had never sold, never parted with. Dhul-Fiqaar had taken it from her dead body, but his ownership of the pendant had been brief. As his life had been.

Since then, it had helped her find a certain level of peace.

All the money she earned from her artifact thefts had been donated anonymously to her family. She’d supported her eccentric father until his death, paid the taxes on his estate, bought a house in California for Lily and her husband. She’d put her grandchildren and her great-grandchildren through college. They had never wanted, not once, not even through the Great Depression.

Parting with the amulet to save Heather’s life would be bittersweet.

With her face pressed against Brian’s comforting warmth and one hand splayed over the reassuring thud of his heart, she began the incantation.

The amulet, already pulsing in protest at the demon’s presence, heated to a scalding temperature. But Lena refused to let go. Nor did she slow the flow of words or hesitate, even for a second. She had one chance. She wasn’t going to waste it.

The muscles underneath her hand grew taut as Brian became aware that her lips were moving, but he didn’t react in any other way. As she continued to mouth the ancient Egyptian words, the top layer of the amulet in her hand lifted a fraction and gave off a faint hiss, breaking a seal made more than four thousand years ago.

“Go to hell.”

As Brian told Malumos what he thought of the demon’s offer, the top of the amulet slid sideways. Instantly, loose wisps of dark blue smoke were sucked into the open cavity. Controlled by the ancient demon-banishing spell, the smoke threads entered the amulet without seeping into her skin. Heartened, Lena muttered faster, still under her breath.

The draw of smoke into the demon trap deepened, becoming a steady stream of midnight blue, no longer possible to disguise. But Malumos did not go easily.

“No,” he roared. Instead of resisting the pull, he dropped Heather’s body and swam out into the open, an ill-defined, ghostly shape formed entirely of smoke.

Lena spun around in Brian’s arms, smiling.

A thrall could survive only a few moments outside of its host. She’d won. Even if the trap failed, Malumos was going back to hell.

But her smile quickly froze on her face.

Malumos descended upon her in full demon force, a deadly blue storm determined to wrest the amulet from her hands.

Lena was left with a nightmarish choice—halt the spell to cast a shield over herself, or keep going. She closed her eyes and kept going. She braced herself for the incoming fireballs and spoke out loud, firmly intoning the demon exorcism. Heather could not withstand another possession.

The hot whoosh of a fireball passing a hairbreadth from her ear made her jump, but did not make her stop. And after that first one, no others came close.

When she opened her eyes, the reason became clear.

Brian stood between her and Malumos, his sword swinging with heart-pounding speed, parrying every shot from the demon with power and precision. His rain-soaked shirt clung to him, displaying every angle of his hard body in sharp relief. His arms twisted like thick ropes, and his shoulders bunched and flexed with a smoothness that belied the effort he must be exerting. To Lena’s eyes, he was a king among warriors.

Blue smoke continued to stream into the amulet, drawing strength and shape from Malumos. Although he raged and spit and fought to the end, he was no match for the ancient Egyptian spell.

In less than two minutes, it was all over. The lid to the amulet slid shut, and the thin line that marked its existence vanished. The amulet once again looked like a solid gold pendant.

But the spell was only one-half of the exorcism.

Lena’s hand trembled as she unhooked the pendant from around her neck and placed it on the paved ground. The temptation to keep the amulet, to use it as she had for the past century—to locate salable antiquities—was high. But if Malumos ever got free, he would seek out Heather and kill her.

It was a risk Lena could not afford to take.

Her gaze met Emily’s and the teenager nodded. Lifting her foot, Lena stomped on the pendant, crushing the soft gold with her boot heel. The magic of the amulet drew in on itself, collapsing like a mystical black hole, sending the demon’s evil Ba into oblivion. An echo of a scream resounded in her ears, then faded into silence.

A brief pang of loss filled her chest. But it washed away the moment she tugged the needle free of Heather’s arm and Brian folded all three women into his strong, dependable arms.

20

“We need a mystical vault to keep the coins in,” Brian said to MacGregor, as Rachel adjusted the hospital pillows behind the other man’s back. Thanks to the mage, the Gatherer Trainer’s horrible blisters had all but disappeared. “Someplace we can feel confident they’ll stay out of Satan’s reach.”

His friend grimaced. “Is there such a place?”

“Stefan and I will figure something out.” Brian pointed to the heavy bandage on MacGregor’s shoulder. “How long before you can get back to work?”

“The doctor said six weeks, but I think—” The other man glanced at Rachel, who did nothing more than narrow her eyes. MacGregor subsided against the pillow. “Six weeks.”

“Being human sucks, huh?”

“No’ entirely.” MacGregor tossed another look at Rachel. “Can I tell him?”

She nodded.

MacGregor grinned. “I’m going to be a father.”

“Bullshit.” Brian’s gaze swung to Rachel, who was now smiling serenely, and then over to Emily, who was shoveling MacGregor’s cup of lime Jell-O into her mouth. “Really?”

“Apparently,” Emily said, licking the plastic spoon. “Not that I asked for details.”

Brian had never even thought about becoming a father, but the knowledge that he would never share the experience with the woman of his dreams suddenly struck him hard. Gatherers were dead, and so was their sperm. No kids in his future. Not ever. He’d have to be satisfied playing uncle to MacGregor’s brood.

“Congratulations,” he offered the couple sincerely. “When are we expecting the new addition?”

“December.” Rachel beamed. Then she seemed to remember that not everyone’s life was rosy. “How’s Heather doing?”

“Good,” Brian responded, happy to change the subject. “Despite the demon’s threats to the contrary, hardly any potassium chloride ended up inside her. The doctors gave her some stuff to counteract the effects and, physically, she’s going to make a full recovery.”

Rachel’s face darkened. “Mentally?”

“Less of a sure bet,” he admitted. “She’s having a hard time living with all the things she did while she was possessed.”

“But it wasn’t really her doing that stuff,” Emily said.

“We’ve told her that a thousand times. Problem is, she remembers it all.” He sighed. “I should go check on them.”

There was pity on their faces as he backed out of the room. Some for Heather, which he understood. And some for him. They knew without being told how attached he’d gotten to Lena. They also knew where that relationship was headed. Nowhere. Lena just wasn’t the trusting type. She didn’t share anything, she didn’t let herself depend on anyone, and she didn’t ask for help. Ever. And that wasn’t a foundation you could build a future on.

He entered Heather’s hospital room, a private bed courtesy of Brian’s substantial bank balance. Least he could do after abandoning the kid to what could have been a grisly death. Lena looked up as he approached, her eyes red rimmed.

Uh-oh.

That meant Heather was talking about suicide again. Which was the reason she hadn’t been released yet. They were waiting on a psych consult.

“Hey,” he said to the teen as he crossed the spotless but well-worn linoleum floor. “Did you eat some lunch?”

Heather shrugged. “Nothing tasted good.”

That was junkie code for, If it isn’t laced with heroin, don’t bother. Brian pulled up a chair and sat down. None of this shit was a mystery to him. He’d been here, too. In the days after Melanie died.

“Listen up,” he said to Heather. “I’m going to tell you a story.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, I know. You don’t want to hear it. But I’m going to tell you anyway, because I need to.”

Lena frowned at him, but he didn’t meet her eyes. There was no way he’d be able to say everything he had to say if he looked at her. The shame would eat him whole.

“Seven years ago, I hit what I thought was the absolute bottom of the barrel,” he said. “I was a stockbroker pulling down two hundred grand a year and wasting it all on smack. My heroin addiction got so out of control that I started stealing money from my investment clients. Little bits at first. Then more and more. My boss—the guy who hired me and gave me every opportunity to make something of myself, the guy who nicely turned a blind eye to a couple of days when I simply didn’t show up for work—found out.”

Brian caught Heather’s eye. “Think I’m going to tell you I considered ending it then? Nope. I was a bigger idiot than that. My boss was a saint. He risked his own career by offering to cover my shortfall. He said if I agreed to pay him back within three months, he wouldn’t press charges. Did I fall to my knees and kiss his shoes like I should have? No. I refused his offer. I figured there was no way I could maintain my habit and make up the money, so why even try?”

Heather looked away.

“Ring any bells?”

She nodded.

“You know what I did next? I did what any messed-up junkie would do—I went out partying. I got totally high so I didn’t have to think about the guilt and the future or how it was all going to work out.”

Heather nodded again.

“Here comes the best part,” he warned her. “By Saturday night I’ve hocked my TV and my Rolex, and I’m completely zoned out. My little sister calls me. She’s seventeen, and the crazy kid has looked up to me my whole life. She’s even followed in my footsteps, hanging out with my old high school buddies and doing drugs.”

The memory of Melanie’s smile flashed in his mind. Painfully bright.

“She’s calling me to say she’s tired of everything. The bullshit, the guilt, the unquenchable need. She begs me to come home, to spend a day in Brick, to talk to her.” He barely remembered the call itself. Mostly, he remembered what came after. “I say, ‘Sure, be there tomorrow.’ But I never went. I was too wasted.”

His shoulders felt unbearably heavy, and he tried to straighten them to ease the pressure. “The next thing I know, I’m getting a phone call from my dad saying my sister is dead, that she died of an overdose on Sunday around noon.”

He smiled ruefully. “I know a thing or two about guilt. I know a whole lot more about being a useless piece of shit.”

Lena stood up.

Afraid that she’d come to his side or ask him to stop, Brian stood, too. “To make a long story short, I lost my job. My parents coughed up the money to keep me out of jail, but they had to put a second mortgage on their house to do it. My sister left a note, saying that she called me but I didn’t come, and my dad never spoke to me again.”

He picked up Heather’s thin hand and gently squeezed.

His eyes were itchy.

“At that point, I was convinced dirt was worth more than I was. When I tell you I understand what it’s like to want to opt out, I do, believe me. I didn’t commit suicide, but I gave up in a different way. Right after completing the very expensive rehab program my parents checked me into, I went right back to the drugs and booze. Three days later, I wrapped my car around a tree. It was going to be repossessed the next day, so I took it for one last spin.”

Heather’s eyes were wide.

“Yeah, in the dictionary under loser, they have a picture of me.” He tried for a smile, but couldn’t quite pull it off. “So, why am I telling you all this, other than to tell you I get it?”

She stared back at him.

“Because I know firsthand what will happen if you kill yourself. And here’s the part you don’t want to hear. The pain will be over for you, but the pain won’t be close to over for the people who love you. My parents are good folks, Heather. But between my sister and me, we beat ’em up bad. My dad said he blamed me for Melanie’s death, but you know what? He didn’t. Not really. He blamed himself. How do I know that? He’s still in therapy seven years later.”

The girl pulled her hand free.

“My sister’s best friend, Carla? She beat the drugs. Went into rehab, got clean, and now she’s a librarian. Hard for me to imagine, but it’s true. It won’t be easy to move on, but moving on is possible, if you want it badly enough.”

Heather chewed her lip. “Did you move on?”

He smiled. “What do you think?”

“But... how?”

“With help.” He lifted his gaze to meet Lena’s. “Every day is a hard, uphill climb, but then at some point you realize six years have gone by, and you’re still okay. Still sane.”

“I don’t think I can be me anymore.”

He looked at her, serious. “I’m not going to lie to you. You can’t be the Heather you were before this all started. That person isn’t who you are now. But the person you are now is already way stronger. And she can be a better person than she was before. If you give up now, if you end it here, she’ll never get that chance. And take my word for it: It’s worth the effort it takes to get here.”

Her eyes softened a little. “But how do you forget?”

He shook his head. “You don’t. You just learn to accept. None of us is perfect—we’re all flawed. Some of us worse than others.”

“Did you forgive yourself?”

Brian took a deep breath. “Not for a very long time. But I have now. Now that I’m doing something better with my life. You can turn the corner, too, Heather. Lena and I will make sure you get the help you need. We’ll be around if you need someone to lean on, or just to talk to.” He wasn’t sure Lena would want him to stay that close, but what the hell. She’d have to deal with it. “We’ll do whatever it takes, if you’re willing to make a go of it. Are you?”

Heather looked at Lena, then back at Brian.

She nodded.

“Good,” he said, smiling. “First step, you need to talk to someone with no stake in the game. A doctor.” He waved a hand at the door and Dr. Edwards, the hospital’s resident psychiatrist, came in. “Lena and I will be waiting outside.”

Lena trailed Brian out of the room, not certain what to say. Her hand instinctively went to the gold pendant, but it wasn’t there. “You never told me any of that when we talked about your addiction.”

“I’ve never told anyone until today.”

He sat on a plastic chair in the hallway and propped his elbows on his knees.

Lena slid onto the seat next to him. “Have you really forgiven yourself? Or did you just say that to make Heather feel better?”

“It’s true.”

“Have you had any contact with your parents?”

He snorted. “How can I? I’m dead, remember? I paid back every dime they wasted on me by sending them a check from a phony life insurance policy, but I can hardly walk up to them and say, ‘Dad, Mom, I’m so sorry I hurt you. I screwed up big-time. Can you forgive me?”’

She sat back, leaning her head against the wall, thinking.

“Can you forgive me?” he asked.

“That’s easy,” she said. “There’s nothing to forgive. The Brian Webster I know is the most honorable person I’ve ever met. Whatever he was like in the past, today he’d do the right thing, no matter what.”

“I let my sister die.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “you did. And I never heard you make one attempt to shift the blame to the drugs or the pressure you were under. You accepted complete responsibility for your actions, and there’s nothing more honorable than that.”

“I would’ve let Heather die, too.”

“Only to save millions more.”

“You would have hated me.”

“Maybe,” she said, sighing. But maybe not. Brian’s decision had never really been a question mark in her mind. After all, this was a man who, in addition to being smart, amusing, and absolutely wicked in bed, was also ruthlessly honorable. Still, he’d managed to surprise her. She never expected the painful secrets, never expected that they’d have so much in common—that they might be dealing with the same darkness inside, consumed by the same feelings of guilt. The mask he wore might actually be better than hers.

She smiled.

She liked a man who wasn’t all he seemed on the surface.

He’d done a very brave thing in there, confessing his past to help Heather see her way into the future. Was she willing to be as courageous? To see if they had a future?

“Lena, I—”

“Wait,” she interrupted. “You’ve done a lot of talking. I think it’s my turn.”

He arched a brow, but remained silent, waiting.

Lena opened her purse and pulled out the puzzle box. She placed it in his hands, then coaxed his fingers to the four spots that needed to be pressed simultaneously for it to open.

The lid popped up, revealing the contents.

“This,” she said, picking up a curled yellow snapshot, “is a picture of my father. His name was Russell Sharpe and he was a British archeologist who came to Cairo in 1871....”

Brian sat there, stunned, and listened as Lena told him how her mother died of malaria when she was six, and how her father would get so wrapped up in his excavations, he’d disappear for days at a time, leaving her completely on her own.

“At six?” he asked. “He left you on your own at six?”

“He didn’t mean to,” she said dismissively. “He thought the housekeeper was looking after me. But she just took his money and did her own thing. My father was never the same after my mother died.”

No bitterness edged her words when discussing her father, even when she spoke of how he’d turned his back on her when she got pregnant. Her gratitude over his decision to raise Lily as his own after Lena died was sincere. Her heartbreak over missing out on one last chance to hug her infant daughter was palpable, yet tempered with the knowledge that Lily lived to the ripe old age of ninety-eight. It wasn’t until she got to the part about Azim, the father of her child, that her voice cracked. “I loved him, as much as I was capable of loving anyone then. But I never told him. In hindsight, I can see that I was afraid of loving him too much. Everyone I ever cared about left me.”

It was on the tip of Brian’s tongue to declare that he’d never leave her, but he caught himself in time. How could he make a promise like that?

“I don’t remember as much about Azim as I would like,” she confessed. “To gain the pagan gods’ favor, I must trade items I value. Horus claims lengths of my hair, Nepthys takes dreams, and Sekhmet demands memories.”

Horrified, he stared at her. Memories? There were some he wished he could banish and others he’d be happy to never revisit, but most of his memories were precious. “Don’t you ever do that again. We’ll train you. You don’t need to give up something that important to get help.”

She flushed. “Today, I had to give up the memory of our first kiss. I’m sorry, but I truly needed Sekhmet’s support.”

He blinked. Were those tears in her eyes? Was she really crying because she couldn’t remember their first kiss? “You mean you don’t remember smacking me on the head with a crystal paperweight?” he teased.

The tears fell in earnest.

“No.”

He kissed away the tears on one cheek, and then kissed away the tears on the other. “We’ll just have to make a new memory to replace that one,” he said softly.

Then he took her mouth. Hard and hungry, in tempo with the hopeful beat of his heart. She’d told him more in the last five minutes than she had in the entire ten days he’d known her. And all on her own, without a single prompt from him.

What it meant, he wasn’t sure.

It was too early to tell her he loved her, and much too early to ask if she could ever love him in return. But for the first time, he actually felt a happy ending was possible. Taking her hand in his, he tugged her to her feet.

“I’m thinking now is a really good time to create that memory,” he said, leading her down the hall to the elevators. “Come on.”

“Now?”

“Trust me,” he assured her. At the front entrance, he waved to a waiting cab, opened the door, and hustled her inside. “With everyone here at the hospital, we’ll have the ranch house to ourselves. This is the perfect time.”

Lena raised an eyebrow, but didn’t resist.

They rode to the ranch in silence, entwined on the backseat of the cab, her head resting on his chest, her exotic floral scent in his nose, their heartbeats slow and steady. Brian would have lost himself in the moment, but his thoughts were already racing ahead.

When they arrived at the house and paid off the cabbie, he tugged her up the stairs to her bedroom door. There were no lights on in the house, and the only sound came from the faint hum of the brand-new air conditioner.

“Change into whatever you want. Give me ten minutes; then come to my room.”

“Your room?”

He smiled. “You’ve never been in my bedroom, have you?”

“No.”

“Ten minutes,” he reiterated, then pushed her into her room and shut the door behind her. Ten minutes wasn’t a lot of time, but he used it effectively, and managed to gather everything he needed with a couple of moments to spare. When Lena knocked, he was ready.

He opened the door.

And sucked in a sharp breath. Scrap that.

He wasn’t ready. Not for the view that greeted him—Lena standing in his hallway clad only in her French-lace bra and panties, a delicate froth of white and silver material that almost stopped his heart. It barely covered the important bits and teased him unmercifully about all the rest.

He swallowed. Hard.

It was oh-so-tempting to dive on her right then and there. But he was supposed to be creating a memory. And hardwood floors and rug burns didn’t make for great memories. So instead, he swung the door wide to invite her in.

As her gaze flicked to the scene behind him, her gorgeous brown eyes grew round and her mouth fell open. “You did all this in ten minutes?”

He pulled her into the room and shut the door.

“The lights were already here.”

By lights, he meant the dozen aimable halogen lights on the ceiling. The ones currently directed toward the thirty or so Swarovski crystal figurines scattered around the room. He’d been collecting the silly things for years, burying them in the back of the china cabinet in the dining room. All because Melanie had once admired the big bear in a Manhattan store. On the first anniversary of her death, he’d bought it, not entirely sure why. And then, piece by piece, he’d added to the collection until he had this rather ridiculous menagerie: seals, horses, whales, owls, lions, elephants, turtles, bears ... and more. Much more.

Tonight they lit up his bedroom in a glorious rainbow of tiny reflected lights.

Brian grabbed Lena’s hand and slid a large, rounded candleholder into her palm, remarkably similar to the paperweight back at her house in L.A. “You don’t have to use it,” he said, smiling. “But if you feel the need, it’s there.” Then he pulled her to his chest, reveled in the crush of her plump breasts against his pecs, and kissed her, long and slow and deep. He kissed her as if it were the first time, and maybe the only time. Hungry, yet restrained. Sweet, yet hot and spicy. He put all of himself into that kiss—the good, the bad, the ugly, and the incredible way she made him feel when she shared even the tiniest parts of herself. Everything.

And she reciprocated with an open enthusiasm he didn’t recognize.

He caught the candleholder before it hit the floor. “Denting my head is one thing,” he murmured against her lips. “Denting the hardwood quite another.”

Lena’s fingers attacked the mother-of-pearl buttons of his Gucci shirt. “Have any of your previous women ever mentioned that you talk too much?” She peeled back the material and stared at his chest. “Ah, probably not. It’s far too easy to forgive you.”

He chuckled. “God, you are so good for my ego.”

“I seem to recall you owe me one free orgasm,” she said, trailing a fingernail down his body to his belly, connecting dots of light on his skin. He shuddered. Every overexcited nerve ending in his body wanted to be under that finger. “Anytime you want to get started, go ahead.”

Brian scooped her up and carried her to his big four-poster bed. “Save your voucher for when you really need it, babe. Tonight is special. You and I are doing each other. At the same time.”

She stared up at him from the navy blue duvet. “Exactly the same time?”

“As close as we can manage.”

Bending, he nuzzled the tender skin of her neck, his lips gently gliding over the supersensitive spot beneath her ear.

Her breath came shorter. “That will require ... coordination.”

“Mmmm,” he agreed. “And mutual awareness, a willingness to experiment, and a healthy dose of selflessness.” His teeth caught her lobe and he nibbled.

She squirmed, but when he went to pull away, her arm folded around his neck and held him close. “I’m not very good at doing things together.”

“Me, either.” Kicking off his shoes, he crawled up her body and onto the bed. He rolled to the side, pulling her with him. His hand couldn’t resist sliding along the ultrafeminine slope of her hip and down to her narrow waist. “I figure that’s a good thing. No danger that one of us will show the other up. You’re crazy beautiful—you know that?”

The faint furrows in her brow disappeared.

“I like you,” she pronounced.

He snorted. “You like being complimented. That’s not the same thing.”

“No, I mean it. I really do like you.”

His brow lifted. “Oh yeah? Name one thing about me that you think is terrific—and not something physical.”

She stilled.

“Can’t think of anything, huh?” he teased.

Her hand grazed over his cheek, her eyes as serious as he’d ever seen them. “What you did for Amanda, risking your life to try to save her from the martial demon, was one of the finest things anyone has ever done for someone I know.”

Amanda? Brian blinked. Ah, hell. “The girl in the church,” he said hoarsely. “Her name was Amanda?”

Lena nodded.

She leaned toward him, pressed her lips to his, and kissed him. For a moment, it was a thank-you kiss—sweet and cool and graceful. Then he felt her lips curve, and her hands dove under his shirt, roving over the muscles of his back.

“We may have to practice this together thing a few times,” she whispered, wriggling alongside him until their entire bodies were entwined. “It may take us a while to get it right.”

Her boldly flirtatious movements sent blood pumping through his veins like a molten river, and his skin grew hot and tight. He had a smart-ass quip on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back. Instead, he looked her in the eye. No mask, no secrets, just open, honest truth. “I’m good with that. I’m in this for the long haul.”

Amazingly, she didn’t look away.

“Me, too,” she said softly.

That was the last coherent word either of them spoke for quite some time. Or at least the last one he remembered. The night was memorable. That was all that mattered.

EPILOGUE

Brian plucked his BlackBerry out of the holster at his waist and put it to his ear. His gaze remained locked on Lena, who stood on the front step of his parents’ house, ringing the doorbell. “Yeah, MacGregor, what’s up?”

“Bad news.”

He grimaced. “Is there any other kind?”

Someone came to the door. A sandy-haired woman wearing a red sweatshirt splashed with the New Jersey Devils logo. His mother. She opened the white screen door he’d slammed a thousand times as a kid and accepted the box Lena held out, smiling tentatively. She looked the same as the last time he saw her, the day before he died, maybe slightly more gray in her hair.

“Simon Reed just called. The Linen has gone missing.”

“Fuck.”

“Aye.” There was a pause. “He wants to meet with you.”

The two women shook hands; the door closed; then Lena descended the steps and strode down the sidewalk toward the car.

“I wonder if he’ll be any friendlier this time,” Brian said. His gaze wandered to the big oak tree in the backyard, a couple of rotting boards from an old tree house hanging in its branches. How many peanut-butter sandwiches had he and Melanie eaten in there? Hundreds.

“I think he’s going to ask for your help,” MacGregor said dryly.

“Better late than never, I guess.” He pushed the driver’s-side door open and let Lena slip into the seat. She was smiling, deeply, and his heart thudded.

“Are you headed back?” MacGregor asked.

“Soon. Why?”

“Carlos has disappeared. Apparently, he left Emily a note begging her not to follow him, insisting he needs some time to sort things out. She found it on her pillow this afternoon. That’s when she broke down and confessed to her mother that she brought the lad’s soul back from hell.”

“What?”

“Hell.”

“Christ. That explains a lot.”

“Aye. Emily feels like shite. She’s in the arena right now, bawling her eyes out and trying everything she can think of to turn that gold coin back into silver. And Uriel stopped by to give us the latest tallies on the souls. We’ve gained some ground, but the loss of the Linen will undoubtedly erode our advance.” MacGregor sighed. “Am I ever glad you’re in charge now and no’ me.”

Brian grunted. “I should be back tomorrow. The planning committee for the Amanda Currie Drug Rehab Center is meeting to discuss the blueprints in the afternoon and, as I’m the primary sponsor, they really want me to be there.”

“Great. See you then.”

“Yeah.” He hung up, then arched a brow at Lena. “So?”

“She bought it, hook, line, and sinker. Never questioned that I was your girlfriend in New York, or that you might have left a box of your stuff in my basement.”

He nodded. “Did she say anything?”

“She cried. And thanked me so profusely I actually felt bad about lying.” Lena brushed a lock of hair away from his forehead. “She was really sweet. She’ll read the letter—I know it.”

The letter. The one he’d written this past week. Or more accurately, written and rewritten a thousand times this past week. The one telling his parents everything he would have liked them to know before he died, apologizing for being a difficult son, begging their forgiveness.

The letter had been Lena’s idea.

In fact, this whole visit had been her idea. Her way of helping him move on, like they were helping Heather move on. And it had worked. The hole in his chest, the one he had endured for six years, was finally filled.

“I’ve decided this is as good a time as any to tell you.” She fastened her seat belt, then started the car, checked her mirror, and pulled out onto the road.

He smiled. New drivers were always so careful. “Tell me what?”

“That I love you.”

He stared at her profile. “I beg your pardon?”

“I love you.” She glanced at him, then back at the road. “From what I heard of MacGregor’s phone call, it seems things aren’t going too well. I thought it might not be wise to wait too long to tell you. You know, in case the world ends.”

“So you tell me while we’re driving?”

She glanced at him again. “Should I have waited until we got to the hotel?”

“Hell, yes.”

As she stopped at a red light, she asked tentatively, “Didn’t you want to say something to me in return?”

“You mean something other than what I whispered to you in bed last night when you were pretending to be asleep?”

She smiled. “You could say it out loud. Make it official.”

“If you want, I’ll climb to the roof of the hotel and shout it to the world.”

“That’s not necessary. No one needs to know but me.”

Still private, still reserved, still tough as nails. That was his Lena. She’d come a long way in the sharing department these past couple of weeks, but she was definitely a work in progress. Oh well. He found watching her wield a sword with finesse was a huge turn-on, and the new muscles she had developed in her thighs had come in handy on more than one occasion already.

He grinned. In all honesty, if he had to confront Armageddon, he couldn’t imagine a better person to face it with. Every day with Lena felt fresh and fun. Even the ones when Satan kicked their asses. Even the ones like today.

“I love you, too,” he said. “And, babe, I intend to show you just how much when we get to the hotel.”

Read on for a preview of
Annette McCleave’s next exciting book
in the Soul Gatherers series,

SURRENDER TO DARKNESS

Available from Signet Eclipse in January 2011

Waiting was not Murdoch’s strong suit.

Yet here he was, voluntarily twiddling his thumbs as he endured the hours until Kiyoko Ashida was done with her very long workday. Because the alternative—waiting until tomorrow—was worse.

He stood across the street from the shiny glass edifice of the Ashida building and carefully studied every car that left the underground parking lot. Unfortunately, Sapporo was not the bustling metropolis of Tokyo and his large size drew attention on the quiet, tree-lined avenue. But he maintained his vigilant stance in spite of the curious looks. As the hours passed and night fell around him, however, he grew increasingly impatient. The trip from San Jose had been very long, and he had yet to eat, or imbibe a decent pint of ale.

It was nearing seven p.m. when the wide garage door finally rattled up and a sleek, dark American-made limousine eased onto the street, headed north.

Had it not been for his Soul Gatherer’s enhanced night vision, identifying the occupants through the smoky gray windows would have been impossible. But he was able to spot three people in the back of the car—Watanabe, a young woman he knew was Kiyoko from the photo Lena had given him, and an elderly man with white hair.

The irritating wait was over.

He slid into the tiny rental car he’d acquired at the airport and followed. The cramped interior stifled him, but his discomfort was secondary, as the low profile the car provided made it easier to follow the limo on unfamiliar streets.

After crossing the city in a baffling series of direction changes and nearly losing his quarry at several traffic lights, he pulled next to the curb, behind the limousine. It had stopped before a seven-story brown-and-white building. Murdoch couldn’t read Kanji, but the giant 3-D crab hanging over the main entrance marked the place as a seafood restaurant.

The three passengers disembarked and entered the building.

As the limo drove off, Murdoch found himself scrambling for a parking spot, with none in sight. When he returned to the restaurant five minutes later, he was greeted by soothing koto music and a smiling young woman attired in a navy blue kimono with a bright yellow obi.

“I’m looking for another guest,” he told her, speaking slowly in hopes of bridging the language barrier.

“His name, sir?” the hostess asked, glancing down at her reservation list. In English, God love her. Despite the overwhelming number of Japanese faces he could see, the restaurant clearly entertained tourists as well.

“Watanabe. He’s here with Miss Kiyoko Ashida.”

Her face remained pleasant, but her voice subtly cooled. “Mr. Watanabe and his two guests are seated in a private dining room made for three.”

In other words, No way are you expected.

“Just tell me where they’re seated,” he said, smiling deeply, leveraging every ounce of his personal charm. “I’ll stop by, say hello, and maybe Mr. Watanabe will ask you to get him a bigger table.”

Any hint of friendliness left the hostess’s face, leaving only a suggestion of dismissal. Not aggressive, though. The tilt of her head remained remarkably demure. “That would be irregular, sir. If you give me your name, I will make an enquiry of Mr. Watanabe. You can enjoy a complimentary glass of sake while you wait.”

For such a tiny thing, she was an effective gatekeeper.

If he were any less determined, she’d have won.

He leaned over her console, using his broad-shouldered, six-foot-three frame to emphasize his words. “Here’s the truth, lass. I’m going to storm the castle. Either you tell me where Mr. Watanabe and his party are seated and save yourself the embarrassment of having a big Scot peer into every private room, or I go in hard, spilling a lot of green tea. Your choice.”

Her gaze dropped. “I will get the manager.”

And off she ran.

Murdoch glanced at the intricate electronic seating chart on the console, but it was a blur of incomprehensible Japanese symbols to him. The only promising clues were the stars marking two rooms—one on the second floor, and another on the fourth. Were Watanabe and Kiyoko starred guests? He was about to find out.

Conveniently, with the restaurant only half full due to ongoing protests in and around the Hokkaido Government Building, he found them on the first try.

As he slid back the rice-paper door of a little room next to an elaborate rock garden, he met Watanabe’s gaze over a smoke-stained bamboo table. All three kneeled on cushions, sampling sashimi. Raw seafood. Ugh.

“Mr. Murdoch,” said Watanabe, surging to his feet, his eyes widening with outrage. “This is highly inappropriate. You are interrupting a private dinner.”

Murdoch gave the company president only a cursory glance. His attention settled on the woman at the table, a slim young lass in a bright pink sweater set that offset her dark hair and eyes. Much prettier in person. “Did Mr. Watanabe happen to mention that I tried a more traditional approach at your office earlier today?”

The woman placed her little teacup on the table. “He did not need to tell me,” she said quietly, only a trace of accent in her perfectly enunciated English. “It was I who asked him to get rid of you.”

She rose to her feet in a fluid, seemingly effortless lift of her knees. Her posture was all loose, easy elegance. The kind one gets only from complete mastery over her physical form.

“Please leave, Mr. Murdoch. I have nothing to say to you.”

“I can’t do that,” he said, strangely unable to take his eyes off her. “I’m on a mission. You may not like the person who sent me, but she assured me you understood the critical nature of my task.”

Her brown eyes met his. “I cannot help you.”

“I haven’t told you what I’m looking for yet.”

Watanabe slid the phone he’d just been mumbling into back in his pocket. He said something softly in Japanese to Kiyoko, then addressed Murdoch. “The police are on their way, Mr. Murdoch. If you want to avoid a night in jail, I suggest you leave now.”

“I’m not going anywhere until Ms. Ashida agrees to give me five minutes. Alone.”

“Impossible,” Watanabe protested.

The elderly man, who was still seated, quietly drank his tea, seemingly oblivious to the conversation. Kiyoko touched his arm, encouraging him to rise, but the man ignored her.

Out of the corner of his eye, Murdoch noted the arrival of two robust youths, both wearing black robes similar to those worn by the placid, tea-drinking elder. Japanese bouncers. A bubble of heat rose in Murdoch’s chest, a mild response to possible danger.

“In any case,” Watanabe added, guiding Ms. Ashida toward the door with his hand on her elbow, “we won’t be continuing the conversation. We’re departing.”

“Not until I get my five minutes.”

Watanabe frowned. “Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be. These men”—he pointed to the two standing just behind Murdoch—“are here to ensure Ms. Ashida and I depart without incident.”

“If they touch me,” Murdoch said softly, “they risk their lives.”

The elder finally got to his feet, brushing imaginary wrinkles from his robes and smiling faintly. He obviously spoke no English.

“Threats are unnecessary,” Watanabe responded.

“It wasn’t a threat—it was a warning.” Murdoch didn’t have time to explain. He again tried to connect with Kiyoko, facing her squarely. “Five minutes. That’s all I ask.”

She didn’t respond. She just kept walking.

The two men at his back stepped closer, clearly intending to prevent Murdoch from interfering with her exit, and the warmth in his chest sprouted into a small fire. Only two men, so the fire was containable.

But there was no way Murdoch could allow Kiyoko to leave without a chance to discuss the collection of relics she’d recently inherited from her father. If the weapon he sought was among them, it could save the world much grief. As she passed by, he extended a hand, intending to snag her sleeve.

But her reflexes were excellent, and she yanked her arm away. In the process, her fingers grazed lightly along his.

Murdoch’s eyes rolled back in his head.

An exquisite wave of pleasure raced up his arm and burst into his chest, nearly taking him to his knees. He swam in it. Blood pounding. Breath short. Senses excruciatingly alive. The fiercest desire he’d ever felt in his entire eight-hundred-year existence licked across every inch of his skin, thrilled every nerve ending, and sent every drop of blood rushing to his groin. The urge to sink into Kiyoko Ashida’s warm female embrace was so keen and unrelenting that goose bumps sprang to his skin and saliva pooled in his mouth. He wanted her as he had never wanted any woman before. It was both utterly delicious and horribly terrifying.

Terrifying, because his berserker nature rejoiced at the sudden lack of restraint. It rose up in a hot funnel of fury, filled every empty thought, and swallowed him whole.

At precisely the same moment, the two young warriors tasked with protecting Ms. Ashida made the error of grabbing his arms and dragging him backward.

Lost in a haze of bloodlust, Murdoch knew only one thing—he could not let Kiyoko Ashida leave. A vague memory of his mission lingered in his berserker-controlled thoughts, but the dominant motivation for all that followed was a primitive, almost bestial certainty that the female in the pink top belonged to him and no one could be allowed to take her away.

He yanked his arms forward.

The first guard sailed through the paper door enclosing the room across the hall and landed atop a variety of fine crab dishes. Rice flew everywhere and the couple inside jumped up and flattened themselves against the wall. The second guard held to Murdoch’s arm with an admirable grip, but he was no match for the berserker power that fueled Murdoch’s every action. A heavy fist to the face sent him flying, too.

But the two bouncers had succeeded in their primary goal—slowing Murdoch down. By the time he freed himself, Kiyoko and her two male escorts had reached the stairs.

As they disappeared from view, he released a bellow of rage and dove for the stairwell, pulling his sword free of the invisible scabbard on his back. Panicked diners scrambled to get out of the way. But the two young warriors were not done. Displaying unshakable calm and unwavering dedication, they attacked him again, this time with their weapons in hand. One wielded a gleaming katana, the other nunchaku.

Just short of the door, with a savage growl of frustration, Murdoch was forced to turn and face his opponents.