Chapter One

      “He is calling to you, isn’t he?”

      Trista turned from the balcony, looking back through the glass doors as the night wind fluttered her russet hair. She stared at Rin without seeing for a moment, and then shook her head, dropping her eyes to the items in her hand. In one was the brush she had been using to finish the painting she’d started, and in the other was the box holding the Amulet of Aree.

      She swallowed and raised her eyes to the full moon. “It is bad this time, Rin, really horrible. A powerful being like Balthasarr never begs, he demands. For the last month, he’s been in my head every night.”

      Trista shuddered, turned again and padded through the doorway, scarcely noting she had nothing on but a man’s white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up, a couple of buttons done at her breasts, and her panties.

      She was getting worse, losing track of hours, days, because Balthasarr was using their bond to draw her out of the mortal realm.

      Trista tossed the box down on the daybed, handy furniture used to define the space between the living area and her studio. She should have left it there. She should have never brought the amulet with her.

      It may have well belonged to Arthalon at one time, but it was Balthasarr, and the realm’s hold on her now. She had taken it in hopes that the Mage in her may manifest itself suddenly, and she could use it to keep him at bay.

      Using that free hand to smooth back her chic, chin-length hair, Trista’s tawny eyes went to her latest creation on canvas. “We can never run too far, can we?”

      Rin, having just come in from a long night at the forensic lab, laid her briefcase down on the table, then started coffee. “We are a part of them. Or, more realistically, we can never be wholly ourselves.”

      After preparing it, she leaned her hips against the counter, crossing her arms in the lab coat she wore over brown tweeds. Her short curly brown locks held off her brow by small tinted-lens glasses. She looked as ordinary as Trista if one did not notice the odd rings in her brandy eyes. Being the runt of the pack, she was just the same in a female body, a compact four-foot and eleven, petite.

      “No, never whole.” Trista went to the canvas and set the brush on the ledge, her body aching at the image she had painted. Five years had passed since she had returned to the land of Mortals, fled with Rin from Aree—and from Balthasarr, the powerful vampire Lord who had marked her. Her life, her existence here in Chicago’s artistic quarter, had never quite become authentic, in that the darkness and the haunting, the danger, was always present.

      “Do you think they are still in a blood feud?” Rin’s voice reached her again.

      She shrugged and accepted the coffee handed her, sipping before musing aloud, “I don’t know. I can’t imagine that either Arthalon or Balthasarr will ever heal their anger. Both are powerful lords and both know from their once strong friendship that the other will stand firm on principal.”

      Having gone to the daybed, Rin removed her lab coat, took off her glasses and sat down, kicking off her shoes and curling back comfortably. She rested the coffee on her thigh. “Principle.” She breathed in dryly. “It is about you, Trista, and, about Balthasarr’s disregarding Lord Arthalon’s first claim to your birthrights.”

      Shoving a hand through her hair again, Trista ended up at the open doors, leaning against them and looking out at that moon. “I am my own damn person. Neither had a right to me—not my soul.”

      “You are Arthalon’s sister, the sister of a Mage, a High Lord. And as Balthasarr is Lord over the seven covens, the most powerful vampire in Aree—or in any world for that matter—and, you became his.”

      “I didn’t know, then,” Trista said angrily. “I didn’t know what he was, any of that...” She turned and regarded her friend. “I had no clue that people like you or Hope even existed. I thought realms and portals were the stuff of fiction. How the hell could I know my brother was some High Mage that a vampire lord would…”

      “I know, my friend.” Rin’s eyes grew lighter as they always did when either spoke of Aree or any of the enchanted. “For all you knew, until you were twenty years old, you were a mortal; an introverted artist painting beautifully disturbing paintings from your dreams.” Rin smiled. “Aree must have seemed like a dream to you...”

      “More like a nightmare,” Trista muttered. “Considering the moment I stepped into it, Arthalon and Balthasarr had swords drawn. I painted the beauty, the enchantment, but didn’t see enough of those shadows apparently.”

      “He loves you. They both do.”

      Trista wanted to shut her ears to that truth. “Balthasarr lied to me. He betrayed my brother’s trust. He used me—”

      “I don’t—”

      Trista turned once more and met Rin’s gaze. “As long as I avoid getting captured by Nicu, why should I care what happens in Aree? They’re going to bloody kill each other anyway.”

      “What about Hope?”

      A ripple of pain crossed Trista’s brow. Hope... They had tried to bring her with them, tried to get her past the barriers and portal, but had failed. “She could be dead by now.”

      Rin showed her own pain a moment. “Let’s believe that either the vampires or the Elvin Lords have protected her. Let’s believe that maybe the Guardian, or even Arthalon, had enough sense to teach her some defensive skills.”

      At Trista’s snort she added, “I know. All that complex fighting and bloody rules against hybrids, and look at me; I’m exiled for dangerous reasons. But my guilt at leaving her behind is never assuaged.”

      “Balthasarr isn’t using her to draw me,” Trista admitted. “He’s calling for his own reasons. He always calls me....”

      Rin’s head turned to look at the six-foot painting. He always looked real and alive when Trista painted him. Even in Aree, where there were kings and Lords and princes, this ancient vampire, the oldest bloodline, was intimidating.

      As if reading her mind, Trista murmured, “It was raining that night he saved me, a kind of black rain that obscured everything and everyone. I had just gotten out my keys to lock my tiny studio when Nicu came out of nowhere. I didn’t remember much but his flame eyes and long face, the smell of fear, and his hands brutally dragging me by my hair. Then there was this growl, an eerie animal sound, and then they were fighting.

      Having landed in the gutter, I was too stunned for a moment to see who had interfered, but when it was over, their curses and howls, some kind of unearthly battle… It was Balthasarr who picked me up and took me back into the studio. His voice... that inflection, the exotic flavor, seemed to reach into my soul. Of course, there was his beauty, that fierce kind of power and dark grace...”

      Trista fell silent but added to herself mentally, ancient and mysterious, his visage was carved with high wide cheekbones, aristocratic and yet unique. Spanish blood, was what she thought, because of his dark eyes, rippling hair, that had been unbound to the nape but braided several feet with thin golden cord to the waist, lustrous blue black. His mouth was sensual, and the mystic markings across his forehead ending at the corner of each eye contrasted with his olive skin. Six feet and four inches of perfect masculine grace and strength. Yes, when they had made love: taut muscle under velvet flesh, broad shoulders, and long legs.

      His nude body and loose rippling hair had been scented with rain. His kisses were sexual, sensual, breathing something into her soul that she would never forget.

      He had appeared that night wearing black boots to the knee, snug leather trousers and a silk shirt of some wine hue, his coat was caped, reaching to the ankle. It enhanced his broad shoulders.

      Following her rescue, once she had gathered herself to ask what the hell happened, he had stood there, facing the stuffed chair she sat in—the one she had collapsed in, and spoken softly, although his eyes seemed to smolder...

      “First we, love, Trista... then we talk.”

      “Love,” she had repeated dumbly, mesmerized by his intense stare.

      He had dropped that coat, removed his shirt, and not that she hadn't painted nudes before, but dear lord, he’d peeled his clothing off to the flashes of lighting, rumbles of thunder, and swirls of electric heat in the room, before he unbound his hair, poised before her in whirl of some strange mist, and reached out his hand.

      Even had his eyes not flashed, his skin not glowed like warm fires, even had he not been chiseled and carved to perfection, she would have been tempted. She had passed temptation and had gone to him, and from the first kiss, the lave of his tongue, and the stealing of her soul, she had been his.

      He undressed her, his visual journey over her body making her glad that she had taken those martial arts classes to keep herself lithe and firm. Then he had picked her up and carried her to the chaise, and proceeded to ravish her in every delicious, incredibly mind blowing way.

      Somewhere in that haze of ecstasy, he had also bitten her—drank her blood and marked her. Considering she was in perpetual orgasm, it simply seemed another level of unbelievable eroticism.

      If only… he hadn’t turned her.

      “Trista! Trista!”

      “Sorry,” Trista blinked and regarded her friend.

      “The bond is strong,” Rin said sympathetically. “Even had you left this...” She reached for the box with the amulet. “You would feel him.”

      “I know.” Trista poured the coffee out and went over to the bed. She lifted a pair of low-rise denims off the end and slipped them on. Then she sat down, hands dangling and looked at that image—looked at the face of her soul mate. “Have you felt something happening out there?”

      “Yes. I have felt the vibrations. Not only that, in my line of work, I’ve seen some signs that Nicu is not keeping his minions in control. They’re roaming the streets, even the suburbs now. He’s preparing for something because there are strange signs and markings. Not pure breeds, some sort of mutation via magic is going on.”

      Chewing her lip, not taking her eyes from those dark ones, Trista murmured, “I am five years older than when I left him. That’s probably no time at all in Aree, yet he is ancient. I understand the power balance must be kept. I even realize that when I left, I once again because hunted by Nicu. But if Balthasarr and Arthalon do not heal their feud in Aree, nothing that happens out here, in the world of mortals can change.”

      “You can unite them, Trista.”

      Her head whipped round, eyes meeting Rin’s. “You’re telling me to go to him, go there, when—”

      “Something is wrong. And if we don’t know what it is, we’re trapped between the two.” Rin stood and disposed of her coffee and cup too. Leaning her hands on the sink, head slightly down, she said gruffly, “I don’t want to go back anymore than you do. I have an entire pack who would love to see me dead, and they are the good guys. I have the Guardian—who will sure as hell require some groveling—because I ran off after she succored me; you know, that Guardian, the pissed off Fairy queen who barely has tolerance for Lupines, vampires, or any of the beings who blood feud. And, then there is this human hunk of man, I have been dating, trying to make a life here.”

      Trista laughed and waited for her to turn, but they both knew it was a sour chuckle. Destiny seemed to have marked them long ago for endless struggle.

      When her friend met her gaze she said, “I’ll go through on my own. You don’t have to come.”

      “I have to,” Rin said simply.

      Trista didn’t argue. She stayed silent but restless, while Rin went to her small room and then exited to get her bath. Afterwards she was back to her private space, with the door closed, likely making phone calls to cover ever how long an absence it would be.

      For herself, Trista paced the balcony under that moon, thankful that Rin had kept her in blood supply since their return, more so to keep Nicu from knowing where she was and seeing her marks, or sensing them. 

      In Aree there were feeders who could not be turned, and who were of an ancient sect. it was more of a ritual because of order in Aree. What she understood of it was, that though Balthasarr had his palace and principality, his covens were warriors and guards, since Nicu had done his ill magic order was necessary, despite the fact that it kept the covens small in number.

      Placing her hands on the balcony rail, she mulled over the layers of her life, before Balthasarr, during her time in Aree, and now. It was too ironic that a woman who had been near reclusive, an introvert, would turn out to be the catalyst for a blood feud. At one time, what she thought were demons, but now knew were dreams, real memories, drove her until she’d spend days bringing colors on canvas to life—it had been that way when Balthasarr appeared, and it was still like that. She could never run too far.

      Arthalon’s image floated in her mind too. He had told her what happened, whom she really was, and why Nicu had tried to capture her. Balthasarr too had tried to explain the complex realm they called Aree—a land of present time that was as an ancient world, one in which her destiny had always been tied. It existed in duality with other, newer worlds, but was a place, until ill magic entered, only for those with some pure ability or power.

      Nicu had gone into the world of Mortals with the outlawed from packs, covens, and those the Guardian and lords had banished to the black forest—a stretch of territory, dark and dangerous, ruled by Bloodryn of the BlackWolf Clan. He had used his exile to make more alliances, to strengthen ill magic, and to get himself into the world of Mortals. Here, he wrecked the same havoc as he had in the realm of Aree.

      He had particularly hated, Chaloner, High Mage, and Lord, because they wanted the same woman. Nicu had been obsessed with Lina from her birth. He had tried to take her by force from her father’s stronghold several times and failed. Before Lana’s father died of some mortal virus, contracted while outside the portal, trying to learn its naissance, he had consented to the union with Chaloner, who deeply loved Lina, and was able to protect her...or so he thought. 

      Because of the blood feuds between the Lupines and the vampires at that time—a feud that involved Rin’s father too, Chaloner had been drawn away from his stronghold. In his absence, Nicu had used a witches conjuring, to enter the realm undetected and to carry Lina and Trista away.

      Once captive, and for her defiance, which lasted until the bitter end, Nicu had taken Lina’s abilities away—which was that of a spell speaker, for her people were descended from Mavereen, Queen of female wizards. He’d had the aid of the same witches, who had their own grudge against the Guardian and Chaloner. Because Mavereens’ seed were the fated mates of Mages, they possessed diverse powers in spell speak, but not equal to Mages. Most could duel with warlocks equally, but Nicu was evil, and used the babe to greatly disarm, Lina.

      He’d made Lina a slave in order to use her for his dark pleasure. The only thing that saved Trista at that time was that she was so very young she’d been given into the keeping of a lesser.

      Her father Chaloner had left the realm, grief stricken, enraged, setting out to find his wife Lina and daughter. He had left Arthalon with the status of High Lord, having perceptive that a battle with Nicu and his minions could be his death too.

      It had been.

      He had managed to save Trista, by taking her to Mortals he’d been told of by that same lesser—those that were aware of the forces, who offered haven to individuals not supportive to anything evil. Thus, Trista had been raised by a mortal, Jacquelle Dufray, a famous photographer, who was able to keep her moving and hidden from Nicu.

      Though it didn’t seem significant until later to Trista, Jacquelle had died mysteriously the year Trista turned eighteen. She had known nothing of the past, of herself, and always thought Jacquelle her mother, a woman who simply was busy, chose to not marry and to live a life of a free spirited woman.

      However the story went, when Chaloner had breached the barriers of Nicu’s headquarters, they had fought with both swords and spells for three days. Chaloner eventually had the upper hand long enough to unchain his wife’s ankles and flee back to Aree. The lesser, thinking Nicu dead, was so frightened she took a bleeding and dying Chaloner to the Trista, and helped them escape the compound.  

      Nicu was not dead, only weakened by blood loss and spells. He had his demons, witches, and darker warlocks to chant and charm and infuse him to heath. 

      Subsequent to discovering that Chaloner and Lina had died at the edge of the portal, as they were both bleeding and weak, Chaloner having used his powers to try and heal Lina, to restore her mind and soul, simply could not keep his spirit in his body. He had left the sword of Aree and its healing gems with Arthalon.

      Since his beloved Lina was gone in mind and her spirit, broken by abuse, his heart and spirit shattered also. He used his last spells, his last drop of energy to toss the amulet, the talisman of protection, into the air, and the power of the portal sucked it through. It was how Arthalon discerned his parents were dead. That and the fact that two pure white roses with one red petal grew outside the portal every spring. Trista had heard from the Guardian that the blooms were not allowed to wither and die; they were taken up with the stem by Arthalon and preserved in a pearl like quality, which decorated the throne chairs in his castle.

      However, after those deaths, Nicu then became obsessed with finding Trista. Arthalon had tried since recovering and burying his parents, to find his sister too, and destroy as much of Nicu’s hold in the land as possible. Because of the barriers however, Arthalon was limited in the mortal world once he crossed the threshold.

      He and Balthasarr had been working together, before their personal feud, attempting to discover how Nicu’s minions manipulated the barriers, and how they were able to retain their full powers in the mortal world.

      The Faire queen, Aishe, who was the Guardian of Aree, was so furious with the destruction and blood feuds, she withdrew from the council, and anyone seeking her aide had to appeal to her at her palace, for she went no more out to view the land with the lords.

      Though she held herself as neutral, she withheld her power and her influence over the Elvin clans and others, who may well have joined the Lycans, Vampires, and Mages. The Guardian was married to the land, life, the elements, and her independence was absolute, in that she gave her heart and soul to no mate—thus she did not recognize the concept of life mates, and soul mates, over which the packs and covens killed each other.

      Aishe had little tolerance for human mortals, and gaining her grace was almost impossible. However, when she had banished the cults of ill magic, and many witches under the dark warlock, Nicu, she had inadvertently put herself into the battle involving Nicu, Arthalon’s father, and also those to whom Lina’s blood had belonged. 

      And that, Trista mused, brought her thinking back to severing of one of the strongest alliances, because of what Balthasarr had done, which threw her in the middle of everything.

      If Balthasarr was compelling, blew her mind, and introduced her to the world fierce—her High Lord brother wasn’t exactly small fries.

      Arthalon was a fearsome looking male, with deep wine hair to his shoulders, worn with thin braids at the front. He had a brawn-laden body, powerful with slabs of muscle, jasper eyes that shone with intensity. From his neck down, there were swirls and markings from his days as apprentice and his rise to Mage status. A warrior in every sense, his benign looking staff could transform into the powerful sword of Aree, the golden hilt shaped like the flames that forged it, the blade inlaid with the enigmatic language of spell speakers.

      In her haze of trying to comprehend what Balthasarr told her after one night of erotic mind-blowing sex, and all sorts of dark murmurings about his soul and hers… she’d hardly been prepared to be swept off to Aree, given only a sketchy explanation of why Nicu wanted her dead—while kissing Balthasarr, opening her eyes and finding herself in an enchanted land, was nothing compared to being shoved to the ground, because a big ass sword was coming at Balthasarr’s head. A sword wielded by her brother, the High Lord Arthalon.

      To put it milder than it actually was, Arthalon was enraged at Balthasarr, once his closest friend; they had fought many battles together, freed slaves and slaughtered demons. That much came out between curses, spells, and blades flashing...and it was Arthalon who gave Balthasarr the amulet to help find Trista.

      Because once they found a way to manipulate the barriers, Balthasarr had his own rouge vampires to subdue and went through whilst Arthalon was attending the Guardian, making supplication for her to come to her senses and realize the two realms were forever merged, and there had to be some contingent made of all beings, who could protect mortals and Aree from ill magic and chaos.

      Yes. Balthasarr indeed brought her back—marked, claimed, and his blood mate. Arthalon tried to break the blood bond. He dueled with Balthasarr until they nearly killed each other.

      Trista had been in shock, confused and scared out of her mind—a vampire! However, she picked up enough, soon enough, that Balthasarr could not make Arthalon see that his soul and Trista’s were one, and Arthalon, who saw his sister as a High queen, a sorceress, viewed her vampirism as a reduced status, no matter how powerful and ancient Balthasarr was—

      Trista’s abilities in magic could never be perfected or honed because such secrets were not given to the covens, or anyone outside a Mage born bond. The secret languages, the spell speak, and rules of power could not be taught to a vampire. Trista, at that time, was still trying to compute vampire—a Mage was too much.

      However, in Balthasarr’s dominion, her status was supreme, for he was the oldest and most powerful of his kind. His status through the ages had risen with his prowess in battle, his Lordship over the seven ancient covens, those who had not followed Nicu, and those who had found him, having been exiled and outlawed by predatory Vampires.

      When he began to walk in the mortal world again, and cross those barriers, he’d also grown even more powerful by vanquishing many of Nicu’s minions—and subduing those rogues who violated the guiding principles of a coven that his bloodlines established thousands of years ago.

      In the end, the Guardian had intervened.

      She had appeared and taken Trista to her palace, before her personal council, and the enlightening had begun. To say that the Fairy was pissed off, because old enemies never seem to die, was also putting it lightly—she was more furious at Nicu than anything, but she was also angry enough at her two most powerful Lords to frustrate them both by keeping Trista within her authority.

      This was also intertwined with Rin’s fate.

      Dimitris, Rin’s father, had been a true blood. A Lupine from the oldest pack who had lived in Aree. When he had no sons, only daughters, he knew his leadership over the pack would be challenged by the other males. In order to secure an alliance and his place, he had agreed to give his two older daughters to Bloodryn, the Lord of the BlackWolf Clan—powerful half-wolf/half-wizards who traveled though the portals of time. Bloodryn himself stood eight foot tall, and was as fierce as any, with his wolf skull helm and pelt cape. His clan always arrived with an ominous sound because of the chains and fetters they carried to catch humans and beings alike for slaves to sell or work for them.

      It had been a terrible mistake. Bloodryn barbaric and untamed pack had ravished and killed Dimitri’s daughters.

      His own pack turned on him, slaughtering Dimitris, and set Strohm as their alpha leader. Rin, being not only the runt but also the remaining true blood, was exiled. She was taken in, with great reluctance, by the Guardian, where Trista had met her.

      They also met Hope. Silver hair and smoke gray eyes. Hope had been rescued from a cadge trap in the woodlands surrounding the emerald valley. A traitor in the realm, loyal to Nicu, had set it, knowing the one they called Spirit child would be in the area that season.

      She was sent there every spring by the Guardian, to know her Elvin kin and learn their ways. Because she was hybrid, from the breeding of vampire and elf, she was not completely trusted. The Elvin Lord was much like the Guardian, in that he revered lifeblood. Neither would Lothane, Lord of the Dark Elves, embrace her, for the same reason—mistrust.

      They taught her healing, and the tending of woodlands and language of creatures, they taught her the arts so that she could forge the amulets and crowns for the royals, but held much of their enchantment from her. It had made her vulnerable, having no skill with bow or dagger, and an easy prey for Nicu.

      Nicu wanted her because of a fable, one vital to himself and all witches and warlocks, if believed. In their books of Immortality, there was an ancient tale, a legend of the spirit child whose bones, if ground and consumed, could turn beings into gods. However, Hope’s vampire father had turned traitor and escaped to Nicu, and was perfectly willing to hunt her down too. Her mother was never revealed. The Elves did not know which of their women violated the order. They were strictly forbidden to mate with blood drinkers, and they mated among their own kind.

      Again, it was the Guardian who likely knew the truth, but for the sake of peace, kept it to herself. She took Hope before either side could claim her, hoping to stave off a war, but even the Fairy hierarchy didn’t know what to do with her.

      It was Trista and Rin who had saved her life afterwards, and helped her from that cage, and who hid her out in one of the white cliffs, until they all could figure out what the hell to do in the realities they had found themselves facing.

      It did not take Balthasarr long to find her, though.

      Trista had been struggling after learning more from the Guardian, to decide how to escape her fate if she could, and was also fighting against the whispers in her own soul. Regardless of anything else, Balthasarr spoke to her in the night, he wooed and he touched, he reached out to her. Nevertheless, behind that was a powerful command too: Her place was with him. She was his ...On and on...

      That second night of hiding out, she’d sat by the stream eyeing the sparkles on the winding water, having recalled that the Guardian said that the gateway was at the end of the stream, the opening between realms and worlds, a circle of time that appeared when the sun rose.

      Seemingly out of nowhere came Balthasarr, until he stood behind her and barked loud enough to make her jump, “You must feed.”

      “I have eaten,” she retorted stubbornly, knowing exactly what he meant.

      He’d sat on his haunches behind her, his powerful thighs on either side of her body, and cupped her under the chin, forced her head back, so that he was looking into her eyes. “You don’t want to die, Trista. Any more than you want to be severed from me.” He had kissed her then, with that soft warm mouth, flowing out that taste of mystery and sensuality.

      When she had lifted her lashes, their mouths separated, she found herself in a castle bedchamber, some elaborate Moorish decorated room. She was nude. Balthasarr was nude. They proceeded to have the slowest, hottest most intense sex, during which…she bit him.

      Sighing Trista thought now, that had been one of her greatest mistakes. His ecstasy had doubled, and his sex had swelled inside her again, and oh God, it was like flying with him through the dark heavens, with stardust shooting through her veins, like swallowing the moon and sun at once and feeling the force of both inside.

      When she had become lucid again, he had whispered, “Your will is very potent, Trista, you have retained some semblance of your birthright. However, you must tell Arthalon you have chosen me.”

      “But I haven’t.”

      “Yes. You have,” he had stated arrogantly, and raised his head to stare down at her. His fingers went to the bite on his neck. “You are my queen, a very powerful woman. With the mingling of our blood, your birthright, and mine, we have forged a timeless bond.”   

      His hand had brushed back her hair. “If your obdurate brother would but realize it, we have within our power the tools to defeat Nicu at last. Not just that, my love. We birth something new, which will save all of us from the bane.”

      “What bane?”

      “That which has been slowly eroding and destroying Aree. Though neither your brother nor the Guardian, nor the other lords will admit it. The barrier between realms and worlds has grown weaker and weaker, as more travel through them. When Nicu used ill magic to enter, he spread poison everywhere. Moreover, the guardian in her haughtiness, or blindness, will never admit that keeping Bloodryn and his ilk here, has caused greater ill than our feuds. He’s shed more blood than covens or packs ever did over territories.”

      “Listen.” She wet her lips. “I’ve got nothing to do with this. You and Arthalon, these blood feuds, curses, ill magic, and I don’t recall consenting to become a fucking vampire—even if you are Lord of the jungle. I’m not giving birth to any—”

      He’d kissed her again. Simply kissed her, and shut her up. Then raised his head and countered, “You painted it, I saw it in your studio. You painted all those exquisite depictions of Aree, and then the one, dark and desolate, the one where there were spirits moving out through the portals. I have known this for many decades, Trista. However, because Aree succored me, gave me safely when the mortal world was filled with vampire hunters, I forged alliances here and established my coven. I could have left at any time, but for a thousand reasons I remained.”

      “That’s not my problem. This land isn’t my problem.”

      “Nicu wants you dead, destroyed. He wants us all dead. However, he will be happy with first you, then Arthalon. Then, take your pick. Why do you suppose he moved into the world of mortals? He knew that eventually Aree could be corrupted and everyone in it would be forced to exist in that world too. He’s had a long time to establish himself and to grow his power in that world—and because of their refusal to see it; everyone here will be thrust out weak and vulnerable, unless we help.”

      “Wait a moment.” She had set up, pushing him up too, and grabbing a sheet to cover her pert breasts of which she was suddenly conscious. “You have tricked me. Apparently betrayed my brother’s trust, and probably ticked off Nicu—so that he’ll really torture me now, brought me to this...land, and insisted I’m your soul mate…”

      “You are.”

      “I’m not done.” She glared at him. “You did this so we could be some kind of Moses to a bunch of beings, and a snooty fairy who ranks vampires on a lower rung with shifters. Us, leading them into the Promised Land—that even you yourself admit, dilutes their powers.”

      He smiled at her, a brilliant white one that melted her bones. “First of all. I did not betray the High Lord. I simply did not tell him what I knew. Which was, that we were destined. Secondly, I want Nicu enraged, so enraged, that he comes after me, because, I want to rip him to shreds for even touching a hair on your head.” Flames glowed behind his eyes for a second and his canines distended.

      He drew a breath, calmed himself, and added, “And thirdly, yes, we’ll have to drag the Guardian out of her palace and off her throne kicking and screaming, and it will take Arthalon and the other Lords of council to get anyone else across that portal. Nevertheless, you have lived in that world, and I have also. We know it can be done.”

      “And if they don’t...”

      “They will die here. Bloodryn is in league with Nicu. Once they destroy the realm, they can destroy the portals. Souls and beings will be trapped forever. Whole bloodlines will die out.”

      She had wiped her hands down her face and shook her head. “No. Take me back. This is my will, my wish. You take me back to that stream. I have two friends who are in need of my help. I will get us the hell out of this nightmare. Friends...whom, I might ad, want nothing from me but…”

      “You are stubborn and willful, my love.” His gaze burned into hers. “I cannot overcome your spirit if you wish to resist. But, I will haunt your dreams, make your heart and body ache as mine will, until you realize, that the same fate that preserved you, led my footsteps from here, to your door. Were there no other motive behind my actions, save that I had seen you in my own dreams for a thousand years—I would still remind you we are bound. I am a Lord, but a warrior too, and your bloodlines breed the same. Contrary to your brother’s fears, you are not lesser but more powerful.

      In the war that is coming, if they choose doom, or are thrust out into the world, you will wield both sword and power at my side. It matters not if we are driven underground or into a wilderness, we are one.”

      The kiss that followed, his hand fisted in her hair, took her back to that stream. She had cried, cursed, ranted, and spent an hour getting her emotions out. Trista had shared that visit with both Hope and Rin, and Rin, being older, had seen the truth in his words.

      None of that changed the shock and magnitude of it. “I’ll get us back to my world,” she had promised. “If these beings are so powerful, so enchanted, they can do more than I. despite what Balthasarr says, I’ve no powers. I cannot even stay alive without blood rituals now.”

      Rin said, “I’ve seen the High Lord Arthalon. Even Hope has met him at the Guardian’s palace. He is your brother. Your father was a Mage. Your mother too...”

      “I have nothing. A lifetime of strange dreams,” Trista had said. Because she was afraid, deathly afraid of her feelings for Balthasarr, of his power over her body and soul. She told herself, and her friends, whatever she needed to in order to leave. She lied to herself.

      The hardest part of recalling that time, the following week when they had made a run for it, was Hope. Her brother, Arthalon had come down that stream, he on his golden stallion and the Guardian on her white unicorn. As she and Rin made a run for it, it was Hope who got caught stumbled and fell. Hope, only fifteen summers then, that they had left behind.

* * * *

      Her decisions haunted her, just as Balthasarr hunted her. Everything he said plagued and burdened her. So that even though she went through the motions; moving to another part of the city, becoming almost a recluse again, Trista still painted that dark lord, and Aree.

      In every painting, the portal grew fainter.

      In addition, in every depiction of Balthasarr, his dark eyes made her see the truth. Her body felt him, her tongue tasted him, and her soul felt severed without him.

      And, the warlock still hunted her.

      She disagreed with Balthasarr on one point. He didn’t want her dead. He may want Hope dead and her bones crushed up. No, what she felt when she sat in a café, or walked by the river, was a stalking, a kind sinister luring. That warlock wanted her for a mate.