Yet pretending wasn’t as good as the real thing.

Recalling the warmth of Rune’s body affected her. When she imagined sharing a blood kiss with him, she feared she’d solidify inside the woman, killing her. She swiftly disentangled.

As Jo looked on, the woman shivered, so her man drew her closer.

Jo sighed. If she had someone real of her own, he would hold her like that. He’d own her heart, and that would anchor her to him.

He’d never let her float away.

SEVEN

Expectancy.

As Rune hunted for Nïx along the most decadent street in the town of New Orleans, anticipation thrummed inside him, seeming to grow like the thickening fog.

Why? He was on a routine mission, one among thousands.

For hours he’d searched, questioning low creatures and staring down alphas of other species.

Maybe he craved a fight. He hadn’t been raised as a frontline warrior, but he’d come to enjoy a good battle with his fellow Møriør.

They warred seamlessly together. Sian would charge into the fray to massacre troops with his mighty battle-ax. Blace would use his great-sword and unmatched skill to behead waves of warriors.

Rune’s “bonedeath” arrow would explode into reverberations so violent the bones of their foes would disintegrate, never to be healed.

Darach would already have sped behind the army to track down and maul any who fled.

Allixta created shields and neutralized others’ magicks. Rune supposed her talent would be helpful if the Møriør ever faced a worthy adversary. For now, the tart looked decent in a hat.

Orion amplified all their strengths and directed them to their enemies’ vulnerabilities.

The Møriør who still slept? Well, the weakest one could consume a city.

When Orion and the Møriør offered opposition the chance to surrender, they accepted. Or died. . . .

This anticipation Rune felt could not be about the voyeur. She’d held his interest only because she was a rarity—no, a singularity.

The one woman he hadn’t been able to seduce.

Which was saying something, as his professions had always involved sex. He’d started young in the fey kingdom of Sylvan, because his queen had discovered uses for Rune, her husband’s halfling bastard.

Queen Magh the Canny had forced Rune to become an assassin.

With malice in her gleaming blue eyes, she’d explained, “Many of my foes could be tempted by a sensual creature like you. My assassins fail to get past sentinels, yet you would seduce your way into a place where no guards attend: the bedroom. Even if divested of your weapons, you’d carry death in your very blood. Your escapes would be easier still. With some help, you could pass as a full-blooded fey; who would suspect you can teleport like a demon?”

Keeping secret his potential for magicks and knowledge of runes, he’d learned fey ways and customs. He’d tapped into his demon side, learning to trace. The combination had made him unstoppable.

He’d had such success as a hitman that Magh had expanded his duties to become Sylvan’s secrets master, spying and interrogating—while still killing of course.

For all three pursuits, he’d used sex as a weapon, callously exploiting his targets’ weaknesses or perversions. There’d been little challenge.

He narrowed his eyes, scanning the streets for his voyeur. Maybe Lore females weren’t the only ones who liked a challenge.

Midnight neared. If he decided to show in that courtyard, would she be there? Perhaps she still had hopes of meeting him. His lips thinned. For coffee.

No. He refused to chase after her like some slavering lad. Captivation was as involuntary as captivity.

Remember how far you’ve come, from such humble beginnings.

With Orion’s help, he’d turned his life around. The Undoing wasn’t Rune’s friend, nor a father figure (as some supposed). Orion was . . . an idea. A feeling.

He represented triumph—something Rune hadn’t known until he’d sworn fealty to Orion.

Soon Rune would prove to be Sylvan’s undoing. How would that realm fare when he assassinated their present king, along with their entire line of succession . . . ?

Seeking focus, he reached for his most cherished possession, his talisman, a last gift from his mother. She’d been a Runic demon, one among a breed that could harness magicks through symbols. The talisman had been accompanied by a note that had raised more questions than answers. The runes themselves presented a puzzle he often contemplated.

He dug into his pocket.

Gone.

Gone? He froze. He would never have left it anywhere; had never in all these eons lost it. The nymphs wouldn’t have dared to steal it.

Realization. Only one other person had gotten close enough to him.

Under his breath, he muttered, “That beautiful little wench.” The voyeur had picked his pocket! Oh, she was good. He’d been hard as rock, stretching his trews taut—yet he’d never perceived her hand dipping beside his dick.

What a surprise.

What a bad girl.

He turned toward the courtyard. Bad girls got punished.

If she’d stolen anything but his most prized belonging, he could have grinned.

Back at her rundown motel room, Jo set Rune’s bone thingy among her other mementos. They lined the top of a picnic table she’d teleported from a park.

She’d stolen most of these items from her shells. Though she couldn’t feel through any of the people, for the most part Jo got to be them.

She’d inhabited a cellist during her concert and had received a standing ovation. She’d served coffee at Café Du Monde (and later she’d punished patrons who’d grabbed “her” ass). She’d crashed a bachelorette party and laughed with other girls, pretending they were old friends from camp.