It was so silent that Mikki imagined a soundless bubble had been formed around her made of roses and cool

October air.

The silence lent itself to listening, so Mikki noticed the noise immediately. It began as a strange, shattering

sound, and it came from somewhere behind her—somewhere on the third tier. The sound made her jump in

surprise. It reminded her of the crack of faraway thunder. She even glanced up at the sky, half expecting to

see clouds announcing the coming of a storm.

No, the night was clear. Thousands of stars spattered the thick ink of the sky; there was not even a hint of

clouds above her. Mikki stopped and listened carefully. When she heard nothing more she decided the sound

must have been caused by a rabbit or maybe a wandering cat.

“Probably knocking over some of the construction workers’ garbage,” she told the rosebush nearest to her.

Mikki walked on, ignoring the fact that her feet were carrying her forward more quickly and the hair on the

back of her neck felt prickly and on edge.

The other noise started as soon as she reached the middle of the second tier. At first she thought it was the

echo of her boots bouncing back from the rock wall that framed one tier from the next. Two more steps

forward were enough to assure her that she wasn’t hearing an echo. She was hearing independent footsteps.

file:///C:/DOCUME~1/Mary/LOCALS~1/Temp/Rar$EX00.281/P%20C...

41 of 181 1/14/2009 9:43 PM

They crunched on the pathway with a decidedly heavier tread than her neat little boot taps.

But it wasn’t the footsteps themselves that were odd. Lots of people liked to walk the rose garden paths, even

after nine o’ of‘fter nineclock on a cool fall night. It was the distinctive noise that went along with the steps

that caught Mikki’s attention. She heard it once and discounted it.

She heard it a second time and halted, pretending to stop and smell a particularly lovely Princesse de Monaco.

Actually, she was listening with every fiber of her being.

The third time she heard it she was sure. It was an achingly familiar grunt . . . a deep, rumbling exhalation that

was somewhere between a growl and a snarl. It passed through her body in an intimate wave that caused her

to shiver. Mikki’s eyes widened in shock. There could be no other noise like that, and no other being could

make such a sound except the creature from her dreams. And it was coming closer to her with every heavy

step.

No fucking way! her rational mind screamed. That’s utterly impossible.

It’s just a delusion, she reminded herself firmly. Nothing more than a symptom of my overactive imagination.

But no matter what common sense told her, Mikki knew that what she was hearing was real—at least to her.

At this moment what was happening had become her reality.

Her heart was beating erratically. Get out of the gardens and into the park where I’ ll be surrounded by

lights and people! Her mind nagged at her, belying the rush of sexual excitement that stirred low in the pit of

her stomach.

She wasn’t dreaming. She was not safely asleep in her apartment or retelling an erotic fantasy to her

girlfriend, or even mixing up lines on a script because of nervousness and too much chianti. Something out

there was stalking her. She had to get to safety. As soon as she left the rose gardens, she would be away from

the shadowed darkness of their paths and the night-shrouded privacy they afforded. Then she could scream

for help. Even if the actors and stagehands had all packed up for the night, someone was always within

hearing range in Woodward Park. Plus, she would be well illuminated within the park’s free-standing light

fixtures. Easy for rescuers to see her.

And easy for him to see, too, that “other” part of her whispered seductively.

Mikki quickened her pace.

A muffled grunt—a mighty burst of breath that sounded as if it came from a blacksmith’s bellows rather than

a living being—came from the path that ran parallel to the one on which she was walking. Separating them

was only a neat bed of profusely blooming Tiffany roses. Mikki sent a furtive look across the pink-faced

flowers.

She wasn’t close enough to the park for the city lights to help her see him very well. She only caught the flash

of glowing eyes before he spun away from her. Size—she gasped—the creature was immense. Against her

will, her body flushed with a wild rush of excitement.

A sudden, violent snarl made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. He was flanking her. He meant to

cut her off from the lights of the park.

Faster! her rational mind warned. Get out of the gardens and into the light of the park and then scream for

help!oo,‘or help!< Fear overshadowed excitement, and in a frightening parody of her dream, Mikki ran.

WHEN he felt her presence, he thought he was dreaming. Again. He didn’t understand them, but he

welcomed the dreams as rare gifts. They relieved the unending darkness of his entombment. They almost gave

him hope . . . almost.

But the fabric of this dream was different. At first that didn’t surprise or alarm him. He’d been there

generations and had only infrequently been allowed the wisp of a thought . . . the enticing aroma of the living

world . . . any living world. Each time it had been a little different. Over the years he’d strained to hear the

sound of a voice, the touch of a soft hand, the scent of roses and spice. Sometimes he’d be rewarded; most of

the time he had not.

Until recently. The dreams had come to him. That was when she had entered his prison and he had begun to

live again.

He had reveled in the dreams, inhaled her until he felt drunk on her essence. Dreams . . . who better than he

file:///C:/DOCUME~1/Mary/LOCALS~1/Temp/Rar$EX00.281/P%20C...

42 of 181 1/14/2009 9:43 PM

knew what magic they held?

Perhaps he would dream of touching her skin again. Perhaps . . .

Then her blood had spattered against the cold stone that entombed him, and the pain that jolted him shattered

the past two centuries like ice cast against marble.

He hadn’t believed he had been freed. He’d thought it was just a cruel delusion. It might have taken a decade

for him to attempt even a small movement of one of his massive muscles if her scent hadn’t begun to wane.

She was leaving him. Escaping from him.

No! Not again!

Embracing the pain, he flexed his great muscles and broke the barrier of shrouding darkness.

He scented the air. Yes, there, layered within night smells of roses and blood, was the anointing oil. He

commanded his stiff body to move, and he followed the fragrance he knew too well through the dark,

unfamiliar garden. With an enormous effort of will, he did not crash through the few rosebushes that

separated them and seize her. He forced himself to wait until he was able to more carefully control the beast

within him. The creature had been penned too long . . . his needs were too raw . . . too brutal. It would not do

to rend her flesh with his claws. That would solve nothing. He must capture her gently, as he would a delicate

bird, and then return her to the destiny she had thought to escape.

Controlling the ferocity within him, he stalked her. He could not see her well, but he did not need to. The

anointing oil drew him; she drew him. And she was aware of him. He could feel her panic. But there was

something else—something unfamiliar that radiated from her. He frowned. Something was wrong. He picked

up his pace as she left the rose gardens and burst into a small pool of light. He stopped abruptly.

This was not the priestess he sought. Disappointed and confused, he stood frozen, watching as she struggled

with the opening of the leather satchel she carried, clearly looking for something. A weapon? Her eyes

frantically searched the dense shadows behind hll ‘ows behiner—the shadows in which he stood.

“Come on! Where is that damn cell phone?”

He heard her unfamiliar voice and saw that she was trembling as she searched through the satchel—trembling

so badly that the slick leather of the bag slipped out of her hands and fell to the stone path with a sickening

crunch.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!” the stranger said.

She dropped to her knees and slid her hand into the purse, and he heard her breath rush from her lips, as if in

response to a sudden sharp pain. She jerked her hand back. He could see that her fingers were sticky with

blood.

The scent hit him hard in his gut—blood mixed with the anointing oil of a High Priestess. She was not the

betrayer, but she had clearly been marked by the goddess. And he must obey the goddess’s will. He began

moving toward her again, this time using his newly freed powers to call the darkness to thicken about him so

his body would remain cloaked with night. Still, her head jerked up and she stared wide-eyed in his direction.

“Do not fear,” he murmured, attempting to gentle his powerful voice.

She gasped. “Who are you? What do you want?”

He could feel her terror, and for a moment he regretted what he must do. But only for a moment. He knew his

duty. This time he would fulfill it. Before she could dart away from him, he used his inhuman speed to reach

her where she still crouched on the leafy ground. She stared up at him, unable to see through his mantle of

darkness.

She was so small . . . so very human . . .

With a gruff command, he ordered the darkness to cover both of them, and for a single breath he wrapped his

great arms around her, engulfing her in a tide of vertigo. The cool breeze that earlier had been friendly and