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.”