Sherrilyn Kenyon: Dream Chaser

Hatred is a bitter, damaging emotion. It winds itself through the blood, infecting its host and driving it forward without any reason. Its view is jaundiced and it skews even the clearest of eyesights.

Sacrifice is noble and tender. It's the action of a host who values others above himself Sacrifice is bought through love and decency. It is truly heroic.

Vengeance is an act of violence. It allows those who have been wronged to take back some of what was lost to them. Unlike sacrifice, it gives back to the one who practices it.

Love is deceitful and sublime. In its truest form, it brings out the best in all beings. At its worst, it's a tool used to manipulate and ruin anyone who is stupid enough to hold it.

Don't be stupid.

Sacrifice is for the weak. Hatred corrupts. Love destroys. Vengeance is the gift of the strong.

Move forward, not with hatred, not with love.

Move forward with purpose.

Take back what was stolen. Make those who laughed at your pain pay. Not with hatred, but with calm, cold rationale.

Hatred is your enemy. Vengeance is your friend. Hold it close and let it loose.

May the gods have mercy on those who have wronged me because I will have no mercy for them.

Xypher paused as he read the words he'd written on the floor of his cell in his own blood centuries ago. Dull and faded, they were a reminder to him of what had brought him to this time and place.

They were a sacred vow to himself

Closing his eyes, he spread his hand out and the words dissolved into a mist that lifted from the floor only to reassemble down his left arm. Symbol by symbol, word by word, the characters, still bloodied, cut themselves into his skin. He hissed at the burn of them engraving themselves into his flesh. That pain succored him. It strengthened him.

Soon he would be free for one month. One month to track and to kill. The one he'd sacrificed himself for would pay and if he earned his reprieve in the process . . . Good.

If he didn't. . .

Well, vengeance sometimes deserved a good sacrifice. At least this time, he'd die knowing no one was laughing at him anymore.

Cafe Maspero

New Orleans

February 2008

"Have you ever wanted to put your head in a blender and turn on the liquefy switch?"

Simone Dubois frowned then laughed at Tate Bennett, the parish coroner for New Orleans, as he took a seat at the dark wood table, across from her. As always, Tate was impeccably dressed in a white button-down shirt and black slacks. His skin was dark and flawless, a gift from his Creole and Haitian heritage. With sharp, sculpted features, he was extremely good-looking and those dark eyes of his never missed a detail.

His impeccable attire was a sharp contrast to her faded jeans, navy sweater and riotous mop of dark brown curls that would never obey any style Simone attempted to beat them into. The only feature she had that she considered even remotely interesting were her hazel brown eyes that turned gold whenever the sun hit them.

She wiped her mouth on her napkin. "Honestly ... I can't say that I have. But there have been a few other heads I'd like to do that to. Why?"

He chopped a folder in front of her. "How many serial killers can one city have?"

"I'm not up on those stats. Depends on the city I suppose. Are you telling me we have another one here?"

He unwrapped his silverware and placed his napkin on his lap. "I don't know. Couple of weird minders have come through my office over the last two weeks, Seemingly unrelated."

Those two words were loaded with meaning. "But..."

"But I have a gut feeling on this and it's not the oh-look-it's-a-bright-shiny-world kind."

Simone took a sip of her soda before she opened the file and grimaced at the grisly crime scene photos. As always, they were gory and detailed. "I just love the gifts you bring me for lunch. Other gills get diamonds. Me? I get mayhem and blood—and all before noon. Thanks, Tate."

He leaned over and stole a French fry from her plate. "Don't worry, boo, I'm buying. Besides, you're the only woman I know I can meet for lunch and talk business with. Everyone else gets squeamish."

She looked up. "You know, I'm not sure that's much of a compliment."

"Trust me, it is. If LaShonda ever comes to her senses and leaves me, you're the next Mrs. Tate."

"Again, not flattering to either of us. Should I tell LaShonda what her hubby thinks of her?" she teased.

"Please don't. She might poison my cush-cush ... or worse, beat my tush-tush."

Simone laughed again. "Don't worry, I'd make sure and bring her to justice for it."

"I'm sure you would." He paused to order a shrimp po'boy and fries from the waitress.

Simone continued to look at the photos while he spoke to the young Goth woman who was taking his order.

Yeah, these pictures were pretty gruesome. But then these types of photos usually were. How she hated that the world was filled with people capable of doing such horrific things to others. What people could do to each other was bad enough. What the other, nonhuman inhabitants could do was a whole other nightmare. Literally.

And she was more than just a little acquainted with both lands of monsters.

The waitress headed back toward the kitchen.

Tate leaned closer. "You getting any vibes from the other side?"

She shook her head. "You know it doesn't work that way, T. I have to be touching the body or something that belonged to the victim. Photos only give me a paper cut . . . and the willies," Shivering in sympathy for the way the poor woman had died, she closed the file and slid it back toward him.

"Want to come to the morgue with me after lunch?"

She arched one brow at his offer. "I shudder at the thought of the pickup line you must have used the night you met LaShonda. Come with me, baby, and see my collection of stiffs."

He laughed. "God, I love your sense of humor."

Too bad a married man was one of the very few people who actually got her offbeat humor. The only other person to really appreciate it was a teenaged ghost who'd been haunting her since she was ten years old.

Jesse was seated to her right, but only Simons knew that. No one else could see or hear him—oh, lucky her. Especially since Jesse was locked in a late 1980s time warp. Case in point, he was wearing a light blue blazer reminiscent of Don Johnson from Miami Vice with a curly black pompadour courtesy of Jon Cryer from the movie Pretty in Pink. Jesse was a huge John Hughes fan who made her watch way too many reruns, He completed his offbeat outfit with a skinny white keyboard satin tie and matching white checkerboard Vans.

"I don't want to go to the morgue, Simone," Jesse said from between clenched teeth. "I don't like it there,"

She could certainly understand that sentiment. It was her favorite spot to visit right after the proctologist's office.

She gave Jesse a pitying look, but they both knew that she'd have no choice except to go. There was nothing she wouldn't do to bring a killer to justice and that included hanging out in the creepy city morgue instead of her lab at Tulane.

"So what's the strangest part about these murders?" she asked, trying to distract Jesse from repeating a tirade she was more than familiar with. Besides, he could go home without her—he just didn't like being in the house when she wasn't there.

Jesse could be a very needy ghost sometimes.

Tate stole another fry before he answered. "The fact that Ms. Gloria here got up and walked off her examining table."