John hit the floor with Murhder on top of him, the breath exploding out of his lungs … at the same time the shadow blew apart, a black wash, part tar, part congealed blood, spackling the previously perfect wall behind it as well as the rug, a painting, a sofa.

It was like sewer sludge had been blown out of a cannon.

John could only stare at the spectacle. And it was as his brain replayed frame by frame what had gone down that he recalled seeing another shadow coming at him from the side.

Murhder had undoubtedly saved his life.

For the second time.

Standing on the far side of the parlor, next to the guns and knives he had discreetly stashed in a bookcase, Throe had been ready to arm himself to defend his guests against the “threat.” But just as he was about to reach for the weapons, he heard the sound of breaking glass—at the exact moment one of his shadows attacked Altamere.

He could not comprehend what had shattered and why such a thing would occur.

And then it was all too clear.

His plan, to be the “defender” of the aristocrats in the face of the shadows, to be the one to save these useless members of the glymera so they would back him, to set the stage for an overthrow of the King after the Brotherhood had not rescued their targeted sons, was utterly shattered—just like the glass of the windows the Brothers and fighters broke through to jump into the room from the outside.

Throe hit the ground so he didn’t get struck by the cross fire, and he watched with stunned disbelief as the Brotherhood took over the attack, protecting the civilians, engaging the shadows … saving lives.

Throe didn’t stick around for more than a minute.

Scrambling across the carpet on his belly, he pushed with his slippery tuxedo shoes and dragged himself forward with his bare palms to go around the corner and get away from the chaos. As soon as he was in the foyer, he jumped up into a crouch, put his arms over his head, and ran for the stairs. Taking them two at a time, the gunfire, the screams, the squeals, receded some as he made it to the second story.

When he got to the master bedroom, he took out his key. Vampires could unlock anything but copper with their minds which was why the master of the house had made sure his suite was properly protected.

Throe dropped his keys. Fumbled them again—

Finally, he was through the door and he wheeled around to slam the heavy oak panels shut with his palms—

Throe froze as a strange breeze brushed over his hair.

A breeze that had a pull to it.

As his instincts pricked in alarm, a nauseous fear goosebumped his skin and his breath got short.

Don’t look behind yourself, a voice deep inside his head ordered him. Get out of here, now!

Throe didn’t waste a heartbeat. He didn’t care what was on the other side, he grabbed for the doorknob—

“Ow!” Retracting his palm, he shook out a sensation of burning. “What the hell?”

Ripping off his tuxedo jacket, he wrapped his hand up and—

A hollow moaning sound rippled through the room, and the lights flickered. And even though he knew he should not look, should never look, he found his head cranking to the side.

When he saw what was behind him, Throe screamed.

Murhder didn’t jump off of John, even though he knew damn well he was crushing the male. With this many guns being discharged? You made any quick vertical moves and you lost your fucking head.

Bullets whistled by, taking out lamps, turning oil paintings to sieves, blowing up porcelain bowls and gold-speckled plates. Grabbing John by the shoulder, he rolled the two of them out of the way, taking cover behind a sofa the color of a buttercup.

Jesus, it was like Die Hard only shot in a museum instead of a high-rise. And what the fuck were those shadow things?

Murhder took aim at the nearest one, which was lashing out at Rhage, and as he pulled the trigger on a gun for the first time in twenty years, his aim was really fucking bad. He ended up drilling a crystal sconce to the left of the fireplace, the lightbulbs exploding into sparks as they vaporized.

He didn’t make that mistake twice.

Finding a groove, he squeezed off multiple rounds, and thus gave Rhage the chance to rescue two females who were holding each other and cowering behind a silk armchair. With the brother as protection, they ran off, high heels twisting ankles, their gowns held up to their waists, their once-neat chignons now birds’ nests full of tangles.

John swung his own muzzle around, and doubled down on the shadow that Murhder was working on, discharging his own bullets—

There was an unholy squeal, a sound higher than a piccolo’s best note and louder than a jet engine. And then the entity blew apart like the first one had, oily mud flying out and hitting the mantelpiece as well as what was left of the window Murhder had broken with his own body.

It was like someone slinging fresh cow flops around.

Two more to go.

Except …

The remaining shadows weren’t attacking anything. The entities were side by side and stationary in the archway of the darkened study beyond, like smog balloons tethered to a fixed point in the floor.

He and John leveled muzzles on their direction.

Nobody moved: Not them. Not their targets.

That was not true elsewhere in the house. The other brothers and fighters were rushing to get the guests to secured locations, all kinds of shuffling feet, hushed voices full of fear, and barked orders radiating into the parlor from a distance.

“We need to kill them now,” Murhder said softly. “It’s the only—”

Poof! Poof!

The entities disappeared, one after another.

As a scream lit off somewhere on the second floor.

Throe tried for the doorknob again, but it burned through the tuxedo jacket—and then getting out of the bedroom suite was no longer an option. What started out as a breeze morphed into a vacuum, the pull dragging him away from the door—

He dropped to his knees. Grabbed onto anything that he went by: A spindly chair. The edge of a side table. The bureau. He fought and clawed, churned his legs, locked eyes on the door into the bathroom as if that would give him a redirection.

He did not want to look again. But once more, his head turned as if controlled by someone else.

The Book had opened itself on the writing desk, and the perfectly cylindrical black void had reappeared, that which Throe had witnessed previously happening anew, that which should have been no deeper than the three-foot drop to the bedroom floor under the blotter funneling into an unfathomable depth—

Something stung his hand. And then his other one.

He swung his head back around. Two of his shadows were before him, and they were lashing out, punishing his grips as he tried to keep himself in the realm of reality.

Throe screamed one last time as he lost all purchase against the powerful draw.

And then his body was sucked feet-first into the void.

Falling. He was falling, the cold damp air becoming more and more frigid. Colder, faster, colder … faster. Ice forming on his upraised hands, his eyelashes, his cheeks.

As his velocity continued to increase, his tuxedo frayed off his body, the fibers brittle from the indescribable freeze, the speed of the fall, the pressure that began to bear down on him. Naked … he was naked now, his skin frosting over, turning black.

And then fraying as his clothes had.

His flesh was next. That which had contained his insides stripped off his bones, and though his eyes disintegrated, he could somehow still see the white of his skeleton—until that turned black as well.

All of his corporeal form was torn away, nothing but his spirit remaining.

And that was when he landed at some kind of bottom, sure as if he still had a physical body, pain lancing through him as if vital organs had been pulverized and his spine destroyed from the impact.

Throe lay on his back, and stared up at a circular stone construction that glistened in torchlight. A well. He was at the bottom of a well.

And that was not torchlight. His path, his descent, had left a glow in the darkness and he traced its path until it seemed to disappear at some far-off place way up above—

Metal clanking brought his head up, and he looked down his naked body which had somehow regenerated. Shackles had clamped on his wrists and his ankles.

“What … what is this?” His voice was hoarse. “What e’er is this?”

He pulled at the metal bands and found no give in them at all. He was on some kind of ancient wooden table, the stains of which made him more than merely squeamish.

“Where am …”

He did not finish the thought.

A woman entered from the walling, as if there was a break somewhere therein. She was naked and gloriously so, her high firm breasts and perfect nipples, her flat stomach and lovely hips, her long legs and hairless sex, the very picture of beauty. And it was only after he had made his impression of her body that he looked at her face.

She had brunette hair that curled, long and luscious, around her shoulders, and her features were bold and arresting.

Her smile was paradise. And so was the sound of her voice: “Welcome.”

“Who are you?” As he felt himself harden, she looked at his erection. “Is this a dream?”

The woman came over to him and trailed her fingers up the inside of his thigh. “No, this is a trade.”

“… what?”

The female stroked his arousal, her touch going through his body, his blood thickening instantly. As he moaned, she smiled again.

“A trade,” she murmured as her hand went up and down his shaft, nice and slow.

The pleasure she called out from him seemed familiar. In fact … her scent was familiar. He knew her. Somehow, he knew—

The Book.

She was the Book.

“That’s right,” she said. “And I have enjoyed our dalliances even though I was only able to participate up to a point.”

Dread, fast and powerful as the lust, came onto him like the pall of death, but somehow did not cancel the erotic swell that was taking him to the very knife edge of release.

Throe struggled, but there was no getting free. Not of the terror that curdled his gut, not of the orgasm that was just about to explode out of him, not of his restraints.