Kresley Cole: MacRieve

When she’d gotten her period at thirteen, he’d given her a copy of The Care and Keeping of You. He’d been red-faced, gruffly saying, “Here. I’m sure you’ll put all this together.”

So what kind of life transition was she undergoing now? Instead of being red-faced, he was pale.

He handed the tome to her; a chill took her, and the tiny hairs on her nape stood up. The Living Book of Lore?

“What is this?” A slip of paper jutted from its edge, so she opened the book there. The pages were filled with archaic text, but the paper marking the spot was ruled, with her father’s handwriting on it:

The Order will stop the abominations walking among humans, the detrus—those immortal creatures of darkness filled with untold malice toward mankind. Detrus are a perversion of the natural order, spreading their deathless numbers uncontrollably, a foul plague upon man that must be eradicated through any means necessary.

Capture them, study them, exterminate them. . . .

“Dad, I-I don’t understand. Are you part of this Order? Do you believe creatures of darkness exist?” Like werewolves? Had one of them made that animal roar? This was so insane! She flipped through the book, spying countless entries, all bogeymen and myths. Some she recognized, most she didn’t.

When his phone buzzed yet again, Dad collected his bag, still seeming dazed. Ex-mil and old-school, her father was usually a master of self-control. He of the stiff upper lip. Dad simply didn’t demonstrate raw emotions, yet right now, he looked like he’d been coldcocked.

“For twenty-four years, I’ve debated with myself whether or not you would ever see this book. You’re such a tomboy, well, I’d really thought we were home free.” He placed his palm on her head. But when she looked up, he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Each blood test that came back, I held my breath. For so long, I . . . believed.”

“My blood was tested for cancer. That’s what you told me!”

As if he couldn’t hear her, he said, “Just know that you’re my daughter. No matter what you are—I’ll always love and protect you.” Then he turned toward the door.

“Wait! You can’t leave like this!” Book in hand, she hobbled after him, but he kept walking. “What am I? What’s happening to me? Am I a . . . detrus?”

“I’m not prepared to discuss this tonight.” His voice was shaky. She’d never heard him like this, had never seen Dustin Todd losing it. “I won’t be until I return.”

“If you think I’m a detrus, then what does that make you? Are you even my real father?” she demanded, though they had too much in common for him not to be.

Over his shoulder, he said, “You know I am, Chlo.”

Her eyes went wide. “Then you think Mom was one of those things?”

Had his step faltered slightly? “There won’t be more changes in you without a . . . triggering event. Just hold tight. Stick to your normal routine. I’ll be back soon.” He opened the front door. A tinted-window sedan awaited him in the drive. “If for some reason I’m not back in two weeks, do not go to the authorities.”

“What is this?” she cried. “What’s happening?”

“It’s secret. And you must keep it that way.”

She grabbed his arm. “Dad, I’m about to freak out here.”

His brows drew together. “Are you scared?”

With all his wilderness survival trips, shooting lessons, and self-defense camps, her fear response had been numbed. Staring down bigger players for almost two decades had nearly stamped it out. In fact, she had only one fear, an irrational one: dating. “No. I just need to know, but I’m not scared.”

“After you read that book, I’ll expect you to be.”

He was truly going to leave her like this, leave her in turmoil. “Daddy, please. ”

Finally he met her gaze, staring at her like he was memorizing her face. “Ah, Chlo, I really thought we were home free. . . .”

Glenrial, the Lykae compound outside of New Orleans

SEVERAL WEEKS LATER

Will was asleep, knew he was, but he dreamed lifelike scenes, all his senses engaged. The sounds of screams in the Order’s prison, the scent of death, the bloodcurdling sight of five starving succubae stalking him through wards filled with fire and dismembered corpses . . .

He wore a mystical collar that deadened his strength and speed to those of a mere mortal, and he was still weak from Dixon’s experiments, but the succubae were desperate to feed.

If they caught him, he wouldn’t be able to defend himself like this. As he loped down winding corridors, he tore at the collar, even knowing it was indestructible.

He prayed for his Instinct to guide him. But since his capture, that comforting force had gone from quiet—to silent.

Losing one’s Instinct was like losing one’s soul.

The five drew closer, need making them swift. He took off in a sprint, felt like he was running through mud, so slow. So human.

And still he was surprised that they caught him, stunned when numerous hands seized his limbs. With their unfettered strength, they threw him against the wall, bringing him to the ground. They easily shook off his blows, soon pinning him.

In their frenzy to claw off his clothes, they tore at his flesh, bombarding him with their strew. They flailed atop him, their limbs tangled, their dresses smothering him like a shroud.

He was suffocating, as if there were no air left on earth because only their scent remained. He fought them bitterly, but they were too frantic, too strong.

Succubae coaxed and poisoned, never attacking, yet these were mindless with hunger. Though their eyes glowed jade green, their gazes were vacant.

And at that moment when he knew they would win, the strongest one looked exactly like . . .

Ruelle.

She gripped his face, murmuring down at him, “Just look at you. Can you blame us, my love?”

His eyes shot open; he jerked upright from a spot on his bedroom floor, and promptly vomited the whiskey he’d imbibed before passing out.

A pair of fifths. What a waste.

There he sat on the cold wooden floor, covered in sweat, shuddering next to a pool of his own sick.

This should disgust him, the squalor of his suite should, but he was too far gone to care. He rubbed his palm over his bare chest, could still feel their claws ripping through his skin. Their scent lingered in his consciousness.

This was his worst nightmare—and over the weeks since he’d escaped the Order, he’d had it whenever he slept.

Another half-empty bottle on his desk called to him. He rose unsteadily, shuffling through the layer of clothes and trash covering his floor to reach it.

Also calling to him? In the top drawer was his open-ended ticket to Hungary. There, in a hidden pocket of forest, was the lair of the Fyre Dragán, a pit of unnatural flames hot enough to kill even a Lorean.

Otherwise known in the Lore as Where Immortals Go to Die. For Will, no other option was as tempting.

When a Lykae’s Instinct grew silent, it was time for him to take a bow. A pack was only as strong as its weakest member.

Me.

Will knew his brother sensed he wasn’t long for this world. Munro was out doggedly chasing down former Order prisoners—captives at the same time Will had been taken—to learn more about his brother’s ordeal and help him “beat” it. Fuckin’ fixer.

Will had refused to talk about what happened to him, saying only, “The last three weeks ripped the scab off a festering wound.” For all these centuries, he’d been riddled with guilt and self-hatred. Now he’d comprehended that only the hottest of flames could scour him clean.