I inhaled sharply. I was growing dangerously light-headed. It couldn’t be. He was not actually standing there.

Was he?

It looked like Barrons, felt like Barrons, smelled and sounded like Barrons, and certainly had his attitude.

Screw my sidhe-seer center. I needed juice. And I knew where to find it. I let my gaze drift out of focus and frantically sucked raw power from my glassy lake.

Refocusing again, I turned everything I had on the figment.

“Show me the truth,” I commanded, and blasted it to bits.

“You wouldn’t know the truth if it bit you in the ass, Ms. Lane. Case in point: It just did.” He gave me that wolf smile, but it didn’t hold an ounce of charm. It was all teeth, reminding me of fangs against my skin.

My knees gave out.

Jericho Barrons was still standing there.

Towering, naked, and pissed off as hell, hands fisted as if he was about to beat the crap out of me.

Puddled on the floor, I stared up at him. “You’re n-not d-dead.” My teeth were chattering so hard I could barely force the words past my lips.

“Sorry to disappoint.” If looks could kill, the one he shot me would have sunk me six feet deep in scorpions. “Oh, wait a minute. No, I’m not.”

It was too much. My head was spinning and my vision began to go dark.

I fainted.

16

Consciousness returned in slow degrees. I came to on the floor of the bookstore in the dark.

I always thought fainting showed an inherent weakness of character, but I understood it now. It was an act of self-preservation. Confronted by emotion too extreme to handle, the body shuts down to keep from running around like a chicken with its head cut off, potentially injuring itself.

The realization that Barrons was alive had been more than I could deal with. Too many thoughts and feelings had tried to coalesce at once. My brain had tried to process that the impossible was possible, make words for all I was feeling, and I’d silently imploded.

“Barrons?” I rolled over onto my back. There was no reply. I was gripped by the sudden fear that it had all been a dream. That he wasn’t really alive, and I was going to have to come to terms with that unbearable fact—again.

I shot up to a sitting position, and my heart sank.

I was alone. Had it all been a cruel illusion, a dream? I glanced wildly around, seeking proof of his existence.

The bookstore was a wreck. That much hadn’t been a dream. I began to stand and stopped, realizing there was a sheet of paper taped to my coat. Dazedly, I pulled it off.

If you leave this bookstore and make me track you, I will make you regret it to the end of your days. ~Z

I began to laugh and cry at the same time. I sat, clutching the paper to my chest, elated.

He was alive!

I had no idea how it was possible. I didn’t care. Jericho Barrons lived. He walked this world. That was enough for me.

I closed my eyes, shuddering as a crushing weight slipped from my soul. I breathed, really breathed for the first time in three days, filling my lungs greedily.

I hadn’t killed him.

I wasn’t to blame. I’d somehow been granted with Barrons what I’d never gotten with my sister—and I hadn’t even had to demolish the world for it: a second chance!

I opened my eyes, read the note again, and laughed.

He was alive.

He’d ruined my bookstore. He’d written me a letter. A lovely, lovely letter! Oh, happy day!

I stroked the sheet upon which he’d scrawled his threat. I loved this sheet of paper. I loved his threat. I even loved my wrecked shop. It would take time, but I would restore it. Barrons was back. I would rebuild the shelves, replace the furniture, and one day in the future I would sit on my sofa and stare into a fire and Barrons would walk in, and he wouldn’t even have to say anything. We could just sit in companionable or—who cared?—grumpy silence. Whatever bizarre scheme he came up with, I’d go along with it. We’d squabble over what car to take and who got to drive. We’d kill monsters and hunt artifacts and try to figure out how to capture the Book. It would be perfect.

He was alive!

As I moved to stand again, something slipped from my lap and I dropped back down to the floor to retrieve it.

It was the picture of Alina that I’d left in my parents’ mailbox the night V’lane had taken me to Ashford to show me that he’d restored my hometown and was keeping my family safe. The night Darroc had tracked me by the brand on my skull and later abducted my mom and dad.

This was the calling card Darroc had tacked to the front door of BB&B, demanding I come to him through the Silvers if I valued their lives.

That Barrons had left it for me now told me one thing: He had rescued my mom and dad before I’d IYD’d him into the Silvers.

But he hadn’t given me the picture as a present or to make me feel better. He’d left it for the same reason Darroc had. To make the same point.

I have your parents. Don’t fuck with me.

Okay, so he was a little pissed off at me. I could deal with that. If he’d killed me, I’d be a little pissed off, too, no matter how irrational it was. But he would get over it.

I couldn’t have asked for more. Well, I could have, like Alina back and all the Fae dead, but this was good. This was a world I wanted to live in.

My parents were safe.

I clutched the letter and photo. I hugged them to my chest. I hated that he’d stormed off and left me lying on the floor, but I had proof of his existence and I knew he’d be back.

I was the OOP detector and he was the OOP director. We were a team.

He was alive!

I wanted to stay awake all night, basking in the glow that Jericho Barrons wasn’t dead, but my body had other ideas.

The moment I stepped into my bedroom, I nearly collapsed. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since Alina’s death, it’s that grief is more physically draining than running a marathon every day. It wipes you out and leaves you bruised, body and soul.

I managed to wash my face and brush my teeth, smiling like an idiot at myself in the mirror, but flossing and moisturizing was beyond me. Too much effort. I wanted to puddle in a brainless heap, curl up in the comforting arms of the knowledge that I hadn’t killed him. I wasn’t guilty. He wasn’t dead.

I was sorry he hadn’t waited around. I wished I knew where he was. I wished I had a cell phone.

I would have told him all the things I’d never said. I would have confessed my feelings. I wouldn’t have been afraid to be tender. Losing him had clarified my emotions, and I wanted to shout them from the rooftop.