Hunter had survived—and his blood had never been tampered with by the Guild. Something in it had given Nathaniel a different sort of life.

Life. Could a vampire be alive? Her gut said no. Screamed it, even. Her mother had instilled principles in her from the time she was old enough to walk. Prejudices. Vampires were evil, whether they stole across the border or not. They preyed on the innocent, killed without feeling and had no soul.

They’d never been Nathaniel before.

Satira eased around the table and laid a hand on his arm. “Look at me. Please.”

“No, because I know what you’re thinking.” His shoulders hunched, stiffened. Shook.

Telepathy. Satira closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against his arm, a meaningless, impersonal touch when she wanted to throw her arms around him. “I’m thinking all the things a girl raised by Ada and Levi is supposed to think. And I’m thinking they wouldn’t care a damn about how I’m thinking they might have been wrong, because it’s you. I don’t care what you are, Nathaniel, as long as you’re you.” His shaking intensified, and his arm slid around her, steely hard instead of comforting. “I’m sorry, Satira.”

At first she thought he was apologizing for not believing she’d believe in him. Then his arm tightened, jerking her back against his chest with enough force she’d have bruises across her midsection. “Nathaniel?”

“I can’t fight him,” he grated out harshly. “Not when he commands me to obey.” Him. Thaddeus Lowe.

Damn it all, Wilder was going to throttle her for getting herself killed.


The residents of Clear Springs hadn’t been run out.

They’d been enslaved.

Another ghoul leapt at Wilder and locked grasping, uncoordinated hands around his neck as the one he’d been fighting scrambled to drag himself away with one arm broken.

Fending them off was easy. It always was, provided the ghouls didn’t outnumber you too drastically, which was why most vampires needed an army of them. His instincts had been right—alone, he would have been hard-pressed not to exhaust himself. He might even have fallen. But with Archer and Hunter fighting alongside him, the ghouls stood no chance.

Especially with the way Hunter fought, as if the violence had only been waiting for a chance to spill free. It wasn’t training or intent, just feral, brutal instinct, and all the more vicious for it.

Archer slammed two of his opponents together and took a moment to glance around. “We’re getting close to the ballroom. Damn ghouls are thick as flies up here.” Hunter let out a roar and dove past them, slamming into a fresh wave of bodies. Three hit the ground in a tangle of limbs, but two more scrambled over him and jumped at Wilder. One had a knife gripped in one hand, and he swung it toward Wilder’s throat.

Wilder shoved the one wielding the knife into the other, the blade sinking deep into sallow flesh as the ghoul howled. He could see the door they struggled to protect, a heavy wooden thing that hung there like a shield, barring him from his goal.

He fought harder.

It became more difficult to maneuver, with bodies crowding the narrow passage. Hunter caught one ghoul by the back of the shirt and sent him skidding down the rough wooden floor until he crashed into the bottom of a staircase. Fewer were appearing at their backs now, and the ghouls left protecting the door turned and began scrambling for the knob.

One of them found it. The door flew open and the remaining ghouls fled inside, whether through some lingering instinct to survive or at their master’s command, it was impossible to tell.

Hunter panted for breath and braced his hands on his knees. “I can hold the hall.”

“You sure?” Archer asked.

One of the forms on the floor dragged itself to its knees. Hunter slapped his hands on either side of the ghoul’s head and twisted sharply, cracking its neck. “Yes.”

The hound’s recent change of heart aside, Wilder wasn’t fully comfortable only having Archer at his back. He’d proven inconstant, and facing Lowe with someone he couldn’t trust beside him was worse than going it alone.

Still, he wasn’t ready to challenge Archer, fight him, so he had no choice. “Break it down, Arch.” The ghouls had slammed the door shut again, but whatever attempts they’d made to block it wasn’t enough to stop a hound. Archer lifted his foot and drove one heel just below the knob. Wood shattered, sending splinters flying as a cry of pain rose from the opposite side.

Archer grinned and pulled his gun. “Just plain old silver, but it’ll hurt ’em, at least.” Wilder strode into the ballroom, two of his own guns drawn. He barely paid attention to the ghouls that rushed forward, the brunt of his focus on locating Lowe. If he could kill the vampire, the ghouls would scatter. They wouldn’t recover, but at least the thrall, the command, would dissipate.

The cavernous room echoed with screams, snarls and gunshots. Wilder felt the anger rising, blood pounding in his ears until it almost eclipsed all those inhuman sounds.

And then the ghouls froze.

Archer put a bullet between a ghoul’s eyes, and he toppled backwards without a whimper. The others didn’t stir, all of their unnaturally focused attention fixed on a door at the back of the room.

“Never seen them do this before,” Archer murmured. “Figured we’d have to fight through them to get to Lowe.”

Repulsion washed over Wilder in a sickening wave. “They’re obeying his will. He’s—”

“Here.” The rich, melodious voice seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere as the door swung open, revealing darkness beyond. “Have you brought me a gift, Archer?” Archer shifted his weight and tossed a tense look at Wilder. “Wouldn’t say brought is ever the right word when it comes to Harding. He tramples just about anywhere he wants.”

“Levity does not become you.” A man stepped out of the shadows, tall and thin, with dark hair and piercing eyes. He was impeccably dressed in a coat and tails, and he smoothed the pinstriped fabric of his sleeve. “Wilder Harding.”

If he made his move now, without knowing where Archer stood or what tricks the vampire might have up that tailored sleeve… “Thaddeus Lowe. You have me at a disadvantage.”

“I’d hoped to not have you at all.” The vampire graced Archer with a chillingly disapproving look.

“Your colleague has underestimated you more than once. Fortunately, I am not prone to repeating the mistakes of the hired help.”

Damn straight. “Maybe my colleague wanted to get rid of you as badly as I do.” Lowe didn’t seem perturbed. In fact, he seemed almost eager. “Not as surprising a revelation as you might have hoped. He has been showing a remarkable lack of dedication of late. Or a sudden onset of complete incompetence.”

Archer spat on the floor. “Fuck you very much too.”

“As refined as ever.” Lowe strode to a throne-like chair set in the middle of the room and settled into it without any indication that the sun beating down outside had slowed his reflexes. “Almost all of us have arrived. Do you have any more pithy remarks before we begin?” As if they were there for a tea party. Wilder raised his gun, but hesitated as the full import of Lowe’s words hit him. “All of us?”

“I see what my children see, Mr. Harding. And they bend to my will, even when they don’t wish to.

That’s a child’s duty. And a woman’s. Perhaps you should have left yours at home.” They came in the door to Wilder’s right. He watched in dumb horror as Nathaniel dragged Satira toward the vampire’s chair with halting, jerky steps. Satira’s feet scraped the floor as she slumped lifelessly over the arm that held her.

“Nathaniel has been a far more dedicated servant than Archer has,” Lowe remarked, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. “I think I’ll make her one of us, to reward him for his accomplishments.” Archer said something, shouted something. Wilder moved without thinking, his peculiarly focused anger exploding in a painful rending of flesh. Changing, he thought absently, and then that too was swept away in the dull roar of rage that consumed him.


One moment, her perfect plan was falling into place.

In the next, the world went mad.

Draped over Nathaniel’s arm, she didn’t have a good view of the room. Straightening would reveal her bag, and the incriminating bulge the sun-sphere made. Instead she twisted her head and caught her first glimpse of Wilder in his other form.

It was Wilder, but if she hadn’t caught a peek at the man standing there a few moments before, she might not have recognized her lover in the monster he’d become.

He was large. Tall, towering a foot or two above the height he should have been. None of his clothing had survived the change. What hadn’t been torn, he ripped from his body with massive claws. Fur covered him from head to foot, and that head—

They called them hounds, but it looked more like the muzzle of a wolf. A growling snarl revealed teeth almost as long as her fingers. A terrifying wolfman out of legend, eyes filled with a rage that eclipsed any anger she’d ever imagined before in her short life.

This was the beast. The unfortunate side effect of a mad scientist’s wild marriage of science to magic.

For the nights around the full moon, every month, this is what all bloodhounds became.

The full moon wasn’t for two more weeks.

He charged, bounding two large steps only to be knocked off his feet by Archer, who wielded a heavy length of board like a club. “You came this far to rescue Nate,” he snapped. “I’m not going to let you kill him now.”