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  “He left no stone unturned, as it were, when he was looking for a way to set you free. But alas, gargoyles haven’t been my specialty in quite a long while.” Her gaze seems to go far away as she continues. “I did hope to change that once, but it was not to be.”

  Even though I already know that Jaxon did anything and everything he could to help me when I was trapped as a gargoyle, it still warms me to hear it—especially from this woman he very obviously respects.

  “Thank you for trying to help me,” I tell her. “I appreciate it.”

  “There wasn’t anything for me to try,” she answers. “Much to your mate’s chagrin. But I would have helped him if I could. I suggested he bring you to me, in fact. I’m glad he’s finally taken my advice.”

  She moves a few steps back, gesturing to the two red chairs before once again settling herself on the couch.

  “I always planned on bringing Grace to meet you eventually,” Jaxon says.

  Her eyes soften at that, and for the first time, I see genuine affection in her expression as she looks at Jaxon. I find myself relaxing just a little at the sight of it—not because I think she won’t hurt me but because I’m pretty sure she won’t do anything that would harm Jaxon.

  “I know.” She leans forward and pats his hand. As she does, I see a softening in Jaxon, too, a momentary dropping of his guard as he looks at this woman he obviously loves but just as obviously doesn’t trust.

  It’s such a weird dynamic that I can’t help feeling sorry for the both of them, even as I wonder what it’s like. Before their deaths, I trusted my parents implicitly—it never occurred to me not to.

  And though I’ve found out things about them since they died—things like my father was a warlock and maybe they knew about the gargoyle thing all along—at least I still know, even if they lied to me, that they would never have hurt me.

  Jaxon’s mother scarred him. His brother tried to kill him. And this woman, who obviously had a major impact on his life and who obviously loves him, has Jaxon so tense, so on edge, that I’m afraid he might shatter at the first wrong move.

  Silence stretches between us before Jaxon finally says, “I’m sorry to do this on the first night that you meet Grace, but we need your help.”

  “I know.” She looks from Jaxon to me and back again. “And I will do what I can. But there are no easy solutions to what plagues you. There are, however, many, many chances for things to go wrong.”

  32

  One Person’s Reality

  Is Another Person’s

  Total Mind F*ck

  That sounds…awful.

  I’m more than a little freaked when I turn to Jaxon, but he just gives me a reassuring look as he rubs the back of my hand with his thumb before turning back to the Bloodletter.

  He does an amazing job of relating the events since I’ve come back, so much so that the Bloodletter’s eyes glaze over only once in the telling. When it’s done, she stares at me for a few beats, then asks me to take a walk with her.

  I look to Jaxon—not for permission so much as reassurance that she’s not taking me to some inner cavern to drain my blood—and he gives me a slight nod. It’s an uneasy nod, but it’s a nod nonetheless.

  Not the most reassuring thing in the world, but it’s not like I really have a choice at this point.

  The Bloodletter smiles when I get up and beckons me closer with one beringed hand. “Don’t worry, Grace; we won’t go far. I do my best thinking while I walk.”

  The Ancient vampire leads me through a double arch into another, darker room. But the second we walk in, the room springs to life. The sun is shining, the sand beneath my boots is sparkling, and in the distance, I can see, and hear, the roar of the ocean waves.

  “How—” I stumble to a stop and stare at the familiar blue of the Pacific Ocean. And not just any part of the Pacific, but my beloved La Jolla Cove. I recognize it from the tidal pools around the sides of the relatively small beach and the way the ocean washes up on the sand and the rocks in a rhythm as familiar as my own breathing.

  “How did you do this?” I ask, blinking back the rush of homesick tears from my eyes. The Bloodletter has given me a gift beyond measure. No way am I going to waste one second of my time here crying. “How did you know?”

  “I know a lot of things, Grace, and I can do almost as many.” She shrugs delicately. “Come on. Let’s go walk by the water.”

  “Okay,” I agree, even though I know the water isn’t real. Even though I know I’m in the middle of a giant illusion. The fact that it feels real is enough for me right now.

  We don’t talk as we make our way up the beach to the slowly rolling waves.

  “If you want your mind and body back, my darling—” She stops to stare out over the vast ocean for what feels like an eternity before turning to face me, her eyes swirling that eerie electric green again. “It’s going to require sacrifice. Probably more than you’re willing to give.”

  I swallow. “What does that mean exactly?”

  But she pats my hand and simply says, “That’s something for you to learn another day. For now, why don’t you take a moment and feel the water?”

  I look down and realize we’re near where the ocean should be kissing my toes if I were to move just a few more inches to the side.

  “But it’s not real,” I tell her. “There’s nothing there.”

  “‘Real’ is in the eye of the beholder,” she answers. “Feel the water.”

  “How are you doing this?” I gasp as I let the water run through my fingers. The feel of it gets me in the gut, even though I try not to let it. But how can I not when it reminds me of all the times I was there with my parents or Heather?

  “A good illusion covers all the bases,” she tells me. “A great illusion makes it impossible to tell where reality leaves off and deception begins.”

  She waves her hand, and just like that, we’re in the middle of the desert, sand where there was only ocean before.

  I swallow my instinctive protest, my urge to beg her to bring the water back. To bring my home back. And instead plunge my hand into the sand right in front of me.

  I come away with a handful of it, just as I knew I would, and when I let it leak through my fist back onto the ground, some of it sticks on the wetness of my fingers so that I have to brush it off against my ski pants.

  “I don’t understand what’s happening here.”

  “Because you don’t believe what you see,” she snaps.

  “But I can’t believe it. It’s not real.”

  “It’s as real as you want it to be, Grace.” Another wave of her hand and a sandstorm kicks up, hard and fast. Grains of sand whip against my face, fill my nose and my mouth until I can barely breathe.

  “Enough,” I manage to wheeze out between coughs.

  “Is it enough?” the Bloodletter asks in a voice as cold as the Alaskan wilderness she has made her home. “Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

  No, I don’t. Not even a little bit. But I’m afraid if I tell her that, I’m going to end up buried under a thousand pounds of sand, so I just nod.

  But I do try to focus, not just on what she’s saying but on the deeper meaning of what she wants me to understand.

  Her gaze holds mine, her green eyes urging me to think beyond my simple understanding of the world. To recognize that some things have to be believed to be understood instead of the other way around.

  It’s a leap of faith, one I’m not sure I’m comfortable making after everything that’s already happened. But what other choice do I have? I can believe or I can get swept away—not just by the sand she is continuing to blow my way but by Hudson’s dark and overwhelming will.

  I swallow, knowing there really is no other option for me. And so I close my eyes, lower my defenses just a little, and let her words swirl in my mind, settle in m
y bones, become my reality.

  The moment I do, the illusion of this world fades into something that feels even more right. Something that feels like coming home.

  Suddenly, there’s another voice in my head, and it’s not the one I’m used to, the one that warns me of bad things to come. No, this voice is low and sardonic. It’s also familiar—really familiar.

  “Well, it’s about time.”

  “Oh shit.” My stomach bottoms out. “Did you hear him?” I demand of the Bloodletter. “Tell me you heard him.”

  “It’s okay, Grace,” she answers. And if she says any more, I don’t know because—just like that—the world around me goes completely black.

  33

  It’s Hard to Pick

  My Battles When

  My Battles Keep

  Picking Me

  Something isn’t right.

  It’s the first thought I have as I slowly open my eyes. My head hurts and my stomach is roiling like I’m going to throw up. I notice I’m lying on a bed, in what I think is a dimly lit bedroom. Which doesn’t make sense, because the last thing I remember is talking to the Bloodletter—right up until I heard someone in my head with a British accent.

  My eyes fly open as I remember Hudson, and I bolt upright, then wish I hadn’t as the room spins around me. I do my best to breathe through the nausea and focus on remembering what’s important. Namely, Hudson, and what he did or didn’t do.

  Did he take control of my body again?

  Did he hurt Jaxon or the Bloodletter, and is that why they’re not here?

  Worse, did I hurt them?

  I glance down at myself, checking for blood—something I’ll probably do every time I wake up for the rest of my life now, courtesy of Hudson’s little werewolf-hunting expedition. So, thanks for that, Hudson. I appreciate the mental scars.

  “Sorry, I didn’t think he’d bleed so much. It was just a little prick. Then again, so is he.”

  Oh God. I didn’t imagine it. Damn. I close my eyes and lie back down, praying that none of this is actually happening. That it’s all just a really bad dream.

  “Stop talking to me!” I order.

  “Why on earth would I do that now that you can finally hear me? Do you have any idea how boring it gets in here? Especially when you spend so much of your time mooning all over the place about my loser brother. It’s nauseating, really.”

  “Yeah, well, feel free to leave anytime you want,” I suggest.

  “What do you think I’ve been trying to do?” Exasperation colors his tone. “But you got pissed off about that, too, even though it was your idea. No offense, Grace, but you’re a hard woman to please.”

  This isn’t happening. It can’t be. The body snatching was bad enough, but now I have to deal with this disembodied voice in my head, too? And not just any disembodied voice but one that belongs to a psychopath with a full-on British accent? How is this my life?

  “Hey now, I resent that. I’m not disembodied. At least not completely.”

  “I see you’re not even going to argue about the psychopath part.” I shake my head in astonishment.

  “It’s called picking your battles. You should try it sometime. You might end up in the infirmary less. Just saying.”

  The fact that he might be right about this one specific comment only annoys me more. “Is there a point to this conversation?”

  “Grace,” he says softly. “Open your eyes.”

  I don’t want to do it. I don’t even know why, except that I really, really don’t want to.

  But at the same time, it’s sort of a compulsion. The kind that I know is going to hurt later—like when I chipped my tooth in seventh grade and couldn’t resist touching it with my tongue, even though I knew it was so sharp, it would cut me. That’s what it feels like listening to Hudson tell me to open my eyes.

  “Wow, so I’m a toothache now?” He sounds insulted. “Thaaaaanks.”

  “If you were a toothache, I’d go to the dentist and let her drill you out of my head,” I tell him, my voice filled with the frustration I can’t get away from. “Without novocaine.”

  “You’ve got quite the mean streak in you, Grace. Does it make me a masochist if I admit that I like it?”

  Ugh. Seriously? I can stand the voice in my head. I can maybe even put up with the fact that that voice belongs to Hudson. But the sexual innuendo is going to make me vomit.

  I finally stop fighting myself and decide to open my eyes if it means it will shut him up, even for a second. Then really wish I hadn’t because—

  Holy hell. He’s right there, one wide shoulder resting against the icy wall near a lamp, long legs crossed at the ankle, obnoxious smirk on his ridiculously pretty face. He’s got the signature Vega high cheekbones and strong jawline, but that’s where the similarity to Jaxon ends. For where Jaxon’s eyes may be as black as a starless night, Hudson’s are an endless blue sky. Thick eyebrows, the same shade of rich dark brown as his short hair, slant downward, his gorgeous eyes narrowing as he takes in every detail of my reaction. And that’s when I realize, Jaxon might ooze power and danger in his every movement, but Hudson has always been the real one to fear. Jaxon was a blunt weapon next to his brother, who seems to be cataloging my every weakness, every nuance and emotion, with surgical precision. This guy would know exactly how to hurt you the most—and you’d never see it coming.

  Nothing in the world could have stopped the shiver that slides down my spine.

  I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned around and there was a sign plastered across the back of his silver-gray dress shirt spelling out villain in huge black letters.

  That’s how perfect he is at looking bad. At being bad. And that’s before I even notice that his free hand is shoved negligently into the pocket of a pair of expensive-looking black dress pants.

  Because of course it is. Looks like the devil really does wear Gucci…

  “These are Versace,” he answers, indignation ripe in his tone.

  “Who cares?” I demand as my brain finally catches up with my observational skills. “Have you been standing there all along?”

  “Yes, Grace, I’ve been here all along,” he tells me with a long-suffering sigh. “No offense, but where else would I be? We’re kind of attached, in case you didn’t notice.”

  “Believe me, I’ve noticed.”

  “Then why ask a silly question?”

  I roll my eyes at him. “I’m so sorry. I’ll stop asking silly questions if you stop—oh, I don’t know—hijacking my body to try to kill people.”

  “I already told you, it was just supposed to be a little prick. It is not my fault werewolves have such abysmal tempers.” He lifts one dark, perfect brow. “But I’ve got to say, you are a feisty one. Do you really think Jaxon can handle you?”

  “It’s none of your business what Jaxon can and can’t handle.”

  “So that’s a solid no, then?” This time, he flashes a sly little smile that should be obnoxious but somehow only ends up making his already perfect face look even more perfect.

  “Aww, you think I have a perfect face?” He turns his head to the side to emphasize his sky-high cheekbones and chiseled jaw. “What’s your favorite feature?”

  “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

  “I’m in your head, Grace. I hear everything.”

  “But I see you over there, and your lips are moving.” All of a sudden, his words register. “Everything?”

  He holds up one finger. “First, only you can see me. Your mind is manifesting me. And two…” His smile gets even slyer. “Everything.”

  I duck my head so he can’t see the heat scorching my cheeks. “I have no idea how to respond to that.”

  “No worries.” Hudson winks at me. “I’m used to girls being speechless around me.”

  I groan. “I wasn’t worried.” And are
you really going to keep doing this?

  “Doing what?” He pastes a mock-innocent look on his face.

  “Commenting on my thoughts, even when I’m not talking to you.” I groan again and flop back onto the bed.

  He grins. “Consider it extra motivation.”

  “For what?” I demand.

  “I don’t know.” He pretends to study his nails. “Getting me out of your head, maybe?”

  “Believe me, I don’t need any extra motivation. The sooner I get you gone, the sooner I never have to see you again.”

  I brace myself for his next sarcastic remark, figuring it will be a doozy. But for long seconds, he doesn’t say anything at all. Instead, he pulls a ball out of thin air and starts tossing it up in front of his face and then catching it again.

  Once, twice, then again and again. At first, I’m grateful for the silence—and the peace that comes with it. But the longer it goes on, the more antsy I become. Because the only thing worse than knowing everything Hudson is thinking is knowing nothing that he’s thinking. I can’t help but guess he’s plotting to murder me like I’m plotting to murder him right now.

  Eventually, though, he turns his attention back to me. “See,” he says with another of those deadpan looks of his, “I told you, you had a mean streak.”

  Then he tosses the ball up in the air yet again.

  “Yeah, well, I’d rather have a mean streak than an asshole streak,” I tell him.

  “Everyone has an asshole streak, Grace.” He looks me straight in the eyes when he says this, and for the first time, it feels sincere. He feels sincere. “The only difference is whether or not they’re honest enough to let you see it. And those who aren’t? Those are the ones you need to watch out for.”

  “Why does that feel like a warning?” I wonder aloud.

  “Because you’re not some pathetic little human anymore. You’re a gargoyle, and when it comes to how people feel about gargoyles—knowing one, owning one, possessing one—nothing and nobody is quite what they seem.”