The French Quarter, New Orleans

Present day

“SHE’S . . . near. ”

At his brother’s weak and broken words, Murdoch Wroth’s eyes narrowed in anger toward the one who’d brought the proud Nikolai so low.

Myst the Coveted, a female immortal with a vicious heart.

And Nikolai’s fated Bride.

“How can you tell?” Murdoch asked.

“Because I can feelher,” Nikolai said.

Murdoch adjusted Nikolai’s arm, which he’d slung across his shoulders to help his brother walk as they searched. The humans milling all around them merely assumed Nikolai was another drunk. Proud Nikolai. He was exhausted from consuming too little blood, his body racked with never-ending need for a mad Valkyrie who delighted in his pain. Nikolai had lost weight,

his face turning gaunt, his muscles flagging.

“Murdoch, when I find her . . . I want you to trace from here.” He shook his head. “I’ll stay until you’ve secured her—”

“No. Don’t want you to . . . see me.” Nikolai’s weary gaze darted away from Murdoch’s. “I will lose control.” Which would shame his stalwart older brother as little else could. Murdoch couldn’t imagine how Nikolai would react when he found Myst. Five years ago, she had bloodedNikolai, as only a Bride could, bringing to life his dead vampire’s body. She’d made him breathe, made his heart beat, and stoked his newly reawakened lust with no intention of slaking it.

That same night, another Valkyrie had shot him through with arrows and still another had mocked his desires. Myst had fled with the two, dooming Nikolai.

A blooded vampire could only take release for the first time

while touching his Bride in some way. If she wasn’t

available, then he would remain in a state of constant

sexual readiness, aching indefinitely.

Which she well knew.

“Promise me you’ll leave,” Nikolai grated.

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At length, Murdoch said, “I will.” If Myst was indeed here

tonight, it would make sense that there’d be more Valkyrie

out on these very streets. More of their deceiving,

manipulative, violent kind. “But only to find another one,”

he added.

He could capture one and interrogate her about the Lore,

the world of not-so-mythical beings he and his brother were

now a part of.

Murdoch’s knowledge of the Lore was as limited as that of

any of the vampires in their warrior order of Forbearers.

Their army consisted mostly of turned humans, and the

Lore creatures kept their secrets well guarded from them.

“Don’t underestimate the Valkyrie as I did,” Nikolai rasped.

“Else suffer as I have.”

He suffered because fate had forced this blooding on

Nikolai. As if Nikolai needed another burden.

The blooding process was what Murdoch detested most

about being a vampire, even more than never seeing the sun

again.

Though he’d once been a rake, bedding a new woman each

night, Murdoch hoped it never happened to him. To be

mystically tied to a single woman sounded hellish,

especially to a woman he didn’t choose, and one who could

spurn him, as Myst had Nikolai.

The pain had rendered his brother nearly mindless in his

pursuit of her. Nikolai wanted retribution, but Murdoch

suspected he also simply wanted her. Even after all that

she’d done to him.

“Where will you take her this night?” Murdoch asked. “The

mill?” They’d secured an old renovated sugar mill outside

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the city, staying there instead of the Forbearer castle while

they’d scoured these streets.

Nikolai shook his head.

“Then back to the castle?”

When Nikolai didn’t answer, Murdoch said, “You wouldn’t

take her to Blachmount?” The ancient Wroth estate—where

most of their family had died in a single night of sickness

and murder. “Why?”

“Because that’s where my Bride belongs.”

Before Murdoch could question his meaning, Nikolai went

still, his eyes briefly sliding shut. Then his head swung up

toward a rooftop. “It’s her.”

Above them, a redhead stood frozen, her lips parting in

shock.

Murdoch had only briefly seen her all those years before,

and now he studied the details of her Valkyrie appearance.

She had delicate fey features—pointed ears and high

cheekbones—but he also spied the tell-tale claws and small

fangs.

At the sight of her, Nikolai stood fully, no longer needing

Murdoch’s aid. “My Myst. ”

Her face paled, no doubt at the sight of Nikolai, who now

looked like the monster she’d sought to make him. His

irises had turned completely black, his fangs descending in

his mouth, dripping from thirst.

Her horrified expression almost made Murdoch pity her,

but she deserved no mercy. Which was good, because

Nikolai would show her none this night.

Their pursuit of half a decade was . . . over. At last.

Just as Nikolai tensed to trace to her, Murdoch slapped him

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on the back, then teleported away as he’d promised,

disappearing so quickly he went unnoticed in the morass of

drunken tourists. Even if they had seen him vanish, the

humans would think they’d imagined it.

Murdoch materialized in a back alley several blocks away,

then walked to the Quarter’s main thoroughfare, Bourbon

street. As he moved among the crowds, a warm breeze

tripped down the street, dissipating the swampy haze and

the fumes from food vendor stands.

Warm. In February. Good hunting weather.

Yes, Nikolai would be merciless tonight, as would

Murdoch. Now all he needed was to find his prey.

The hunt is on.

I’m being followed.

Daniela the Ice Maiden furtively glanced over her shoulder

once more. Again she spied nothing out of the ordinary—

tourists milling, witches catcalling to human males—but

Danii couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being stalked.

Which begged the question: what creature would be stupid

enough to court a Valkyrie’s wrath?

Maybe she was just spooked by N?x’s cryptic remarks

tonight. Nucking Futs N?x, her half sister and the Valkyrie

soothsayer, often made off-the-wall predictions. But this

one continued to replay in Danii’s mind.

“Sad, sad Daniela, the broken doll who wants to be fixed.

Tonight she might. ”

Because of Danii’s pale, freezing skin—she was part

Icere—she was often likened to a porcelain doll. Well,

because of her icy skin and because of what would happen

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to her if she grew overheated. . . .

But a brokendoll? What did that mean? And fixed—for

good, for bad? Whatprecisely would be fixed?

She’d told N?x, “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.

I’m not broken”— my lonely existence makes me want to

tear my hair out— “and I don’t know how I could be

‘fixed.’”

Perhaps by being able to finally touch another? To feel a

man’s skin against her own without being burned, instead

of constantly fantasizing about it?

I would give anything.

Yet the only males on earth who could touch her were the

Icere. Regrettably, they also happened to want her dead.

Which meant the closest she’d ever get to having sex would

be reading about it in the many tomes of erotica she kept

hidden in her room or by indulging in her rich fantasy life.

Which also meant she was probably the world’s oldest

virgin. Merely awaiting confirmation from Guinness.

And people wonder why I prefer fantasy to reality.

Her ears twitched with awareness. No, she wasn’t simply

spooked; somethingwas happening. Her senses were alert.

Hastening her pace, she carefully wound around the people

on the street, negotiating the ninety-eight-point-six degree

gauntlet. Even the briefest contact with another’s skin

would burn her. A conundrum, because she kept cool by

baring lotsof hers.

When her frosty breath fogged in the warm night air, she

just stifled the urge to scream, and peeked over her

shoulder once more.

This time she spotted a towering male, far behind her. He

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was striking, looked to be mid-thirties. But there was

something unusual about him.

Was he even human? New Orleans was chock-full of Lore

beings. He could be an immortal, maybe even the one

trailing her.

At that moment, he wasn’t looking in her direction, so she

took the opportunity to duck into an alley beside a hotel.

Leaping up four stories to the hotel’s flat roof, she crossed

to a low ledge wall overlooking the street, then crouched

between two flags—one had a fleur-de-lis covered in beads,

and the other said Pardi Gras!

Tilting her head, she studied the male below. He had

longish dark brown hair, cut negligently, with a lock falling

over his forehead. His face was fantasy-worthy, with a

strong, masculine jaw and chin.

He wore tasteful clothes, a black button-down and jeans

with a jacket that made her feel warm just looking at it. She

herself was wearing the thinnest backless dress she could

find.

He strode with an air of confidence. The male was

gorgeous— and he knew it. How could he not, with the

women gaping at him? Then she frowned. He seemed

oblivious to the prancing coeds in low-cut tops angling for

his attention.

His body was big, muscular in a way that hinted at

immortal, but what he was exactly eluded her. Considering

his size, he was probably a demon, or even a Lykae—those

animals had begun prowling the Valkyries’ turf as bold as

they pleased.

Or could he be . . . a vampire?

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She trained her gaze on his chest, watching for the rise and

fall of breaths. Seconds passed. Historically, the vampires

had shunned Louisiana. Yet on this night her Valkyrie

coven had heard that members of both warring vampire

armies, the Horde and the Forbearers, could be out in the

Quarter.

What they didn’t know was why.

His chest is still. Bingo. Vamp.

Since his eyes were a normal gray and clear—not crazed

and red with bloodlust—that meant he was a Forbearer, one

of an army who didn’t drink blood straight from the flesh.

Vampires who didn’t kill. At least, that was their mission

statement.

The Lore was still waiting to see how that worked out for

them.

Though Danii knew she needed to report back on this

sighting, she couldn’t take her gaze off him. What was it

about this vampire? She was aware of only two Valkyrie

who’d ever been with his kind. One still lived. Danii knew

the danger; so why this attraction?

Yes, he was breathtakingly cocky, with his leading-man

face and broad shoulders, but she’d never been so absorbed

by a male. Not a real one, anyway.

Broken-doll Daniela . . . wanted. Him. A vampire.

When he was almost directly below her, she noticed that he

seemed burdened, preoccupied even. Hardly the expression

of someone who’d been stalking her.

But if he hadn’t been, then who—

The unmistakable twang of bowstrings sounded behind her.

She dove for cover, and a swarm of arrows sliced the air

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where she’d been standing. A second volley skittered

against the brick where her head had just been, ricocheting

off the low ledge wall.

She recognized the creosote-like scent of the arrowheads.

Poison on the tips, firepoison. Which could only kill ice

creatures like her. Oh, gods.

Without looking back, she vaulted over the side of the roof.

When she landed in the alley below, she tore off at a sprint.

The bows, the poisoned arrow-heads—this wasn’t a Lykae

threat. Not a vampire attacking.

Icere assassins were hunting her. My mother’s people. How

had they found her?

No choice but to flee, knew she couldn’t remain to fight.

These assassins traveled in bands, and the number of

arrows indicated at least half a dozen men.

Even as she raced directly toward the mortal gauntlet, her

mind rebelled. She hadn’t seen another of her kind in

centuries. I thought I’d be safe from them here.

Her only hope was to outrun them, yet she knew how fast

they would be. Like her, they were born of the fey—

She dashed right in front of the vampire, nearly knocking

him over.