Rebecca Zanetti: Claimed

There are so many wonderful people to thank when a book actually makes it to print.

Thank you to my terrific editor, Megan Records, whose good humor and support always brighten my day, and whose excellent advice I could not do without—and thanks to the entire team at Kensington for the incredible support.

Thank you to my amazing agent, Caitlin Blasdell, who spent much appreciated time working on character arcs, plot devices, and pacing with me.

Thank you to my excellent critique partner, Jennifer Dor-ough, whose help and friendship make this whole journey all the more wonderful.

Thank you to the very talented Cynthia Eden and Kate Douglas for their kindness, support, and advice.

And thank you to my amazing, always present, and supportive family.

She’d die if she jumped.

Probably with a great deal of pain first. The rotating hum of the helicopter blades echoed through the confined space of the aircraft as Emma Paulsen calculated her odds of a quick death—she’d likely hit a tree or two before slamming into the earth. Hmm. Not good.

Keeping her eyes closed, she lay curled on her side in the center of the beast, rocking back and forth from the movement of hurtling through the air. Dust littered the Black Hawk’s floor, but she forced herself to breathe. Was it called a floor? Was it really a Black Hawk? If so, they’d modified the crap out of it. With a mental shrug, she cleared her mind.

Nothing.

No whispers from the future.

No glimpses of how this ordeal would end.

Damn. Maybe the drugs they’d injected into her arm accomplished more than simple sedation. She’d relied on her psychic ability her whole life, and now it was gone.

Her abductors, two living horrors, sat up front as pilot and copilot—she’d have to take them out last. Two other Kurjan soldiers escorting her to their Canadian leader sat in the rear of the chopper, arguing about football scores. Seriously? Undead monsters afraid of the sun talked about the Seahawks?

Their conversation slid around her unhampered by the wind rushing outside. The restructured walls denied sun and sound from filtering inside.

She centered herself. She’d have to kill them.

The odds of being successful calculated inside her head with a nearly audible click. The result: not good.

Nausea rose in her belly, and gray murk swam across her vision until she zoned out again. Damn drugs.

She floated in the place between dreams and reality, a place she visited often. Where was he? For so long she’d been afraid of meeting him , now she feared it would never happen.

Like an antenna had been angled, a large room swam into hazy focus. A massive fire crackled beneath a stone mantel, the walls rock, the floor dirt. There he was—Dage, King of the Realm. He stood near the wall, his jaw hard, his eyes molten silver of fury.

What century was she visiting? An early one—he held a broadsword in one hand, his legs encased in coverings reminiscent of an old warrior movie she’d seen as a teenager.

He stood shoulder to shoulder with a man who had eyes the color of gold coins. Talen, his brother. Three other men, boys actually, faced them. Similar bone structure, similar stances. All huge. The oldest tightened his grip on a deadly sword. “They killed our parents.”

“Aye,” Dage agreed. “So we killed them—and their parents. Enough.” He dropped his sword to the ground. “We’re done with the killing—with the war. Right now we strive for peace.”

“I donna take orders from you, brother,” the youngest lad said, his eyes a deep burnished copper.

“Maybe not from your brother Jase, but you’ll obey your king.”

The boy shifted his stance, his eyes narrowing. “Is that who you are now?”

“Aye. Until they cut off my head, I’m your king.”

Emma started herself back into the current century, coughing out dust. Relief filled her that she could still connect with her silver-eyed savior in his past, if not her future. Her visions always predicted the future unless Dage was in them. Then she saw the trials of his long life. A highlight film of war, honor and hope.

“She’s awake,” came a hoarse voice from behind her. “Should we inject her again?”

“No,” the Seahawk fan replied. “What can she do?”

Indeed. Emma pushed to a sitting position, scooting until her back rested on the inside wall and across from the door. “I could kill you with a simple thought.” The metal chilled through her jeans and she fought to control her body. Shivering would show fear.

Their purple eyes widened in their inhuman white faces. Devils, Kurjans, the evil vampire race to be sure. One flipped his red, black-tipped hair over a shoulder. “You could not.” His tensed shoulders belied his words.

Of course she couldn’t. Dumbass. “Sure. You already know Franco wants me because of my psychic abilities. They include frying brains.” Okay, the frying part may have been too much.

The pasty-faced bloodsuckers remained silent, bizarre gazes on her. How was it possible these freaks lived among humans without being noticed? They must hide really well during the day. In fact, what genetic mutation created these guys? The urge to study their physiology nearly overpowered the urge to end their lives. Nearly.

She glanced at the door, wondering how heavy it was. The sun blazed across a blue fall sky outside—beautiful and damn deadly to the Kurjan creeps safely ensconced in the helicopter. If she opened the door, would the sun angle in the right direction?

She rapidly considered wind speed, the sun’s position, and their location. Nope. She needed the Kurjans to move.

Forcing fear down deep, forcing concern for her sister Cara down even deeper, Emma formulated a plan. Once she escaped she’d get back to Cara and rescue her from Franco’s cousin, the Kurjan soldier who’d kidnapped them both yesterday.

Emma’s plan was to lunge for the door, hoping at least one of the Kurjans went for her. If the sun hit him he’d fry like bacon. She tensed, ready to move ...

And didn’t get the chance.

Something hard slammed into the thick metal. The door creaked, the hinges twisted and peeled away. In the next second the door was gone, ripped away from the helicopter to sail through the air. A broad hand reached in, grabbed the nearest Kurjan, and sent him spiraling into the blue day. The soldier’s high-pitched scream echoed in the distance as the sun ate him alive.

In a blur of motion, a huge male form dodged inside, ducked a punch from the Seahawk fan and shot an elbow into his nose, splashing blood across the wall. The monster dropped his weapon, hands going to his face before he too was sent hurtling out the door. The Kurjan’s loud screams followed the helicopter for several moments before dying out.