“Where is she?” Ian found himself demanding.
He didn’t remember moving, but suddenly, his hands were on Crispin’s shoulders and he was shaking him as if he could rattle the truth out of him. Crispin’s eyes went wide as he stared back at where Ian had been moments before.
“You teleported!”
It took a few moments for Crispin’s stunned statement to penetrate. Then Ian scoffed, “More lies, mate?”
“That is no lie.” Crispin shoved Ian back, then gave him a look of growing expectancy. “See if you can do it again. Where do you think you should be right now?”
“Shower,” he found himself saying. I don’t need to tell you what you smell like . . .
The words had barely formed in his mind when Ian was staring at old blue tiles and grout that had seen far better days. He burst out of the bathroom into the adjoining bedroom, shouting “Crispin!” when a feminine squeal stopped him.
“Who are you? How did you get here?” the petite brunette on the bed demanded. She wasn’t alone, and her companion gave him a very annoyed look.
“Get out,” he snapped. “I paid for an hour!”
Ian ignored them as he left the bedroom. “Crispin!” he shouted again when he reached the hallway.
A whoosh of power, then Crispin flew up the stairs. Ian had started down the hallway toward him when it suddenly dissolved into the blackest of rivers. A thin boat sailed over it, its single occupant appearing out of mists made of darkness.
Crispin’s shout of “Angel of Death!” should have worried Ian. So should the cloaked skeleton turning its bony face toward him while raising its scythe. Instead, Ian found himself saying, “Don’t fret. What you’re seeing isn’t what he really looks like. On this side of the veil, you see what you fear.”
How did he know that? Were those his words? Or were they someone else’s?
The figure’s mouth stretched in a terrifying version of a smile. Then that skull dissolved into dark bronze skin, a handsome visage, hair the color of a cotton-candy mistake, and eyes that flashed with bright, silvery beams.
“You do remember,” the thing said. “I told her you would not, to ease her pain in case you cared nothing for her, but when emotions run deep, they can never be fully erased.”
Her. Someone had been stolen from him! “I don’t remember much.” Fear crept over Ian, but not fear of dying. He was afraid this creature would leave without telling him what he needed to know. “But I want to. Tell me what I lost.”
“I cannot restore all that was removed. Even the little I can restore could break your mind,” the creature said bluntly.
“Ian.” Crispin had recovered from his shock enough to start edging toward him. “Don’t. It’s too dangerous.”
His urgency skyrocketed. He needed the memories that had been taken from him. Risks didn’t matter. Crispin’s objections didn’t matter. He’d knock his mate through the wall if he tried to stop him again.
“Give them back to me,” he told the creature.
The thing put his hand on Ian’s head. Images blasted through his mind, fragmented and without context. A tiny blonde Law Guardian fighting him before changing into a statuesque woman with the same platinum, gold, and blue hair as that creature . . . flashes of a waterfall . . . then a castle . . . why was he fighting to save a flying dog? And what was this?
By my blood, you are my wife . . .
Feelings ripped through the next set of images. Her body entwined with his. Mine. Her blood on his lips. Mine. So many demons. Protect her. Blood and salt strafing the air. Must save her. Silver eyes staring in his pleadingly. “I can’t just let you die.”
Then two knives ramming into his skull, one he’d never seen, the other he’d shoved through himself. Had he . . . had he died?
That stygian river suddenly rose up and swallowed him. He screamed but nothing came out. Then he tried to run, to move, to do something. He couldn’t. He had no body. The darkness had devoured him whole, but he wasn’t alone in it. Something else was here. What was it? It came nearer . . . no. No. NO!
He came back to reality on his knees, blood pouring from his eyes, mouth, nose, and ears. After a panicked moment, he realized the other world was gone. So was the creature who’d stuffed these memory shards back into his head. Crispin was beside him, while a few prostitutes and a disgruntled client clustered at the other end of the hallway.
“Ian,” Crispin was saying. “Speak to me, mate!”
Ian wiped the blood off, endlessly relieved that he still had a body that could bleed. Then he paused, sniffing his hand. A quick lick revealed what he’d suspected. His blood now tasted like a milder form of Red Dragon. Why?
One person had the answers. He didn’t know much, but he knew that. If the little vixen thought she could run away without telling him the rest of what he’d lost, she didn’t know who she was dealing with.
Ian got up. “Your trousers,” he told the annoyed customer, lighting his gaze up with green. “Give them to me.”
The man took off his trousers and handed them over. Ian put them on. They didn’t fit, but it hardly mattered. He went down the stairs, ignoring Crispin’s fluttering behind him, and took a coat off one of the hooks by the door.
Crispin finally grabbed him hard enough to spin him around. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Where am I going?” he repeated, then laughed.
His memory was in pieces, his abilities might now include teleporting, his blood was wrong, and he was about to run headlong into a demon war, if he guessed rightly about the parts he could remember. But for some reason, he felt better than he ever had. In fact, if this feeling was a drug, he was never going to get clean.
“Yes, where are you going?” Crispin urged.
Ian laughed. “To get my wife.”
Acknowledgments
As always, my first thanks go to God. Fifteen years ago, I was praying to finally finish writing an entire book because I’d never been able to, at that point. Today, I’m writing the Acknowledgments page in my seventeenth published novel. You bet I still consider all this to be a real-life miracle that I will always be grateful for.
The saying “it takes a village” applies to publishing, too. Thanks so much to my wonderful editor, Erika Tsang, for your excellent work on this and all my other books. Thanks also to Pamela Jaffee, Caroline Perny, and the rest of the fabulous people at Avon Books, for everything you’ve done to get my novels into readers’ hands. Thanks of course to my amazing agent, Nancy Yost, for far too many things to list here. Thanks also to Ilona Andrews and Melissa Marr, both for your invaluable feedback on this book and for something even more invaluable—your friendship these past twelve years. Of course, I also can’t thank readers enough, either. I’m grateful to every single one of you who gave my books a chance, and I’m doubly grateful to readers who told a friend/family member/total stranger via reviews or blog posts. Reader word of mouth is the wind beneath every book’s wings. If a book flies, it’s because of you, readers.
Last, but definitely not least, I have to thank my family. Mom, I’ll always miss you. Dad, you’re still my hero. Jeanne and Jinger, other relationships might come and go, but sisters are forever. Matt . . . fifteen years ago, I was complaining that I’d never see any of my words “in print” because I’d never finish a book. You told me you’d calligraphy one of my poems onto our living room wall so I could see my words “in print” every day. You’ve probably forgotten about that. I haven’t. For that and a million other reasons, “I love you” doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Coming Summer 2019
Veritas and Ian’s story continues
in the next Night Rebel novel,
Wicked Promises
Coming Summer 2019!
About the Author
Jeaniene Frost is the New York Times, USA Today, and internationally bestselling author of the Night Huntress and Night Prince series, as well as the Night Huntress World novels. To date, foreign rights for her nov
els have sold to twenty different countries. Jeaniene lives in Florida with her husband, Matthew, rarely cooks, and always sleeps in on the weekends. Aside from writing, Jeaniene enjoys reading, poetry, watching movies with her husband, exploring old cemeteries, spelunking, and traveling—by car. Airplanes, children, and cookbooks frighten her.
To know more about Jeaniene, please visit her website at www.jeanienefrost.com.
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Praise for Jeaniene Frost
“Frost’s dazzling blend of urban fantasy action and passionate relationships makes her a true phenomenon.”
—RT Book Reviews
“A stay-up-until-sunrise read . . . There are many Draculas out there, but only one Vlad, and you owe it to yourself to meet him.”
—Ilona Andrews on Once Burned
“Passionate and tantalizing . . . filled with dark sensuality and fast-paced action.”
—Kresley Cole on First Drop of Crimson
“Sexy-hot and a thrill-ride on every page. I’m officially addicted to the series.”
—Gena Showalter on At Grave’s End
By Jeaniene Frost
Shades of Wicked
Into the Fire
Bound by Flames
Up From the Grave
Twice Tempted
Once Burned
One Grave at a Time
This Side of the Grave
Eternal Kiss of Darkness
First Drop of Crimson
Destined for an Early Grave
At Grave’s End
One Foot in the Grave
Halfway to the Grave
Coming Soon
Wicked Promises
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
shades of wicked. Copyright © 2018 by Jeaniene Frost. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
Digital Edition NOVEMBER 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-269559-8
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-269561-1
Cover illustration by Cliff Nielsen
Avon, Avon & logo, and Avon Books & logo are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America and other countries.
HarperCollins is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America and other countries.
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