With a scream of rage, she swung her arm across her marble mantle and sent crystal candlesticks and china maids crashing to the floor. Shards flew, slashing her bare feet. Mab snarled, picking her way over the mess.

Her wounds healed with a slight tingle, when hundreds of years ago, she’d not have been cut at all. Her power was fading. And plots. “So many,” she mumbled. The room was too hot. She could not breathe.

Mab glanced at the large French windows. She could open those, let the cool predawn air in. Only Augustus was out there. Plotting as well. She could feel it. His long-ago words haunted her still. “When you think you’ve finally won Aodh, you will lose him. And that will be the beginning of the end for you.”

“No!” Her shout rang out in the empty room. No. She would not fall victim to fear. Mab, of all creatures, understood the power behind fear, how it attached itself with wee hooks to the mind, the soul, tearing away at one’s strength until all that was left was weakness and doubt. She would not let Augustus win. The bastard had wanted to be rid of her for a millennium. But he could not do the deed. None of them could.

The only one capable of that feat was under her complete control. Just as she’d planned. A smile of satisfaction warmed her insides. The pleasure of seeing the hate in young St. John’s eyes while she took him was fast becoming the high point of her day. Without Aodh to play with, she had little else.

Blood pooled in her mouth, and she realized her fangs had sunk into her lip. Licking it away, Mab reached for the gold silk bell pull. From far off, she could hear the little chime, and her smile grew. It stayed in place as she arranged herself on the divan and waited – hell be to the boy if he did not hurry.

But that concern was assuaged when, a moment later, the door opened and young St. John entered. Oh, but he was a beautiful lad. Mother Nature had kissed him with tender lips when she created him, for his was a face of sculpted features: high cheeks, strong jaw, straight but masculine nose, and lips that were nearly feminine in shape, yet firm. Mab loved to bite those firm lips, to watch him wince.

Eyes of green frost swept over the mess upon the floor and then settled on her. She sucked in a delighted breath; his hate was that palpable. St. John had never tried to hide it from her; he merely could not act on it, which made their meetings all the more delicious.

“You rang?” His voice was deeper now, with a low pitch to it that one felt in the pit of one’s stomach.

Idly, Mab stroked the neckline of her dressing gown. “Strip and come to me, boy.”

He was hardly that any more, tall and broad of shoulder. But he did so hate it when she called him boy. He held her gaze as his hands went to his collar. A shiver of excitement rent through her. Yes. This is what she needed. Then she’d take care of Mellan. Yes, him next. He wanted Eliza, did he? Well, he would not have her. Mab would rather see Eliza dead.

Before her, St. John had finished unbuttoning his shirt. It slid from his body, revealing toned flesh and rippling muscle. Such a lovely display. “Mmm…” she purred. “Come here and let me stroke that glorious skin.”

He’d ducked his head to take off his shirt, and when he met her eyes again, it was from beneath a lock of his raven hair, tipped with fiery red. He walked forward, his gaze still upon her. The way he moved, like a sleek cat, held her in thrall.

“The trousers,” she rasped, as he drew near. “Off with them.”

He did not even flinch. With the flick of a wrist, the buttons came free and his trousers hissed down the long length of his powerful legs. He was growing hard. A surprise that. Usually, she had to coax and coax. Pleased, her gaze snapped back to his face, and another smile spread over her lips. Anticipation seemed to vibrate about his form, quickening his breath and parting his lips.

Mab’s own lips parted, his eagerness was unexpected but most welcome. He was almost upon her, and the fine hairs at her nape lifted. Gods, his power hummed within the room. The thought barely formed when suddenly his entire form shone blinding white, making her squint. She hadn’t time to move before he stood once more, his golden flesh now crystal clear and brilliant. With a flap, a massive set of silvery, batlike wings unfurled behind him, and a sound of shock finally escaped Mab.

Judgment. He’d become Judgment. How?

Terror arced through her, and she tried to move, to lash out, but his arms were already rising, a grin wide on his face. It was the smile Death gave just before he took. A scream of denial tore from her even as the white-hot lightning shot from his hands, slicing through her flesh and wrapping itself around her soul.

And his voice boomed, the power of the gods living within it. “You have been judged, Mab of the Fae. And found wanting.” Crystalline eyes gleamed. “Hell waits for you.”

Dawn rose, bleeding pink fingers over a pale yellow sky. Adam found himself leaving the warmth of Eliza and their bed. Foreboding and a strange, almost aching anticipation gripped him.

Searching the horizon, his hand clenched the windowpane in the parlor. Nothing moved, not even a slight breeze stirred the leaves upon the trees. And the feeling of unease grew within him. He needed Eliza. Needed to know she was within touching distance. He turned away from the window and headed for the bedroom. He had to reach her. Now. He crossed the room in two strides, but it was not fast enough for the fear that had him by the throat.

“Eliza!” Desperation tainted his tone, making it sharp and brittle.

A cold sweat broke over his skin as he wrenched the door open. He felt as though he were racing a storm, trying to get just ahead of it before it broke. She was not in the bed. “Eliza!”