Etta backed up a step. Graceful, light-footed in black ballet flats. The woman felt like an exploding train wreck in comparison. She watched the old lady leave the kitchen and wanted to follow her with questions.

Instead she dug into the cabinets and found mixing bowls. A kettle was on the stove. She filled it with water and set it to boil. Then got down and began removing Lannes' clothes. Starting with the belt around his chest.

She could not see it, and feeling one thing while seeing another was too disconcerting. Especially when she noticed that the very tips of her fingers disappeared out of sight when they touched his skin.

She shut her eyes. Her fingers found the belt loop and she undid it, blind. But she was nervous. She was afraid he had it there for a good reason, and so left it on, but loose.

Lannes made a small sound. She whispered his name but got no response.

Her hands fluttered over his chest, searching for wounds. Every time she found one, she laid a towel over the spot, but some of the injuries were too ma.s.sive. His chest was a mess. Her eyes burned with unshed tears.

You should be dead, she thought, and then, Don't. Don't die. Don't leave me.

Her mantra. Her prayer over him as she worked. Don't leave me. Don't. Please. You're all I know. My biggest memory. My only friend. Don't leave me. Don't die. Don't.

She found a hole in his upper thigh. She had to cut away his jeans. Used a towel to make him decent once she had him fully disrobed. She had no idea what he really looked like-which was an odd thought in itself-but she supposed whatever his appearance, it must be radical. Truly wild.

The kettle whistled. The woman poured the steaming water into one of the mixing bowls, then set more to boil. She dumped two small towels into the hot water and, when it cooled, began washing Lannes' body. Most of the bleeding appeared to have stopped on its own, if the blanket he lay on was any indication. Stains, yes. But not the soaking that had occurred in the Impala. Incredible, miraculous.

Not human.

Maybe you're not human, she told herself. Maybe her entire definition of humanity was nothing but a joke. Perhaps her mind was so messed up she had forgotten the existence of men with wings or folks who had the power to control minds and turn normal women like herself into a.s.sa.s.sins. Maybe the world was strange, had always been strange, and amnesia had turned her into such a square peg she had forgotten it all.

Maybe all of this is one big hallucination.

Maybe you should be afraid of him.

Maybe be afraid of yourself.

All kinds of maybes. She hated every single one.

She listened for Etta as she worked but heard nothing in the rest of the house. It was like she and Lannes were alone. She wondered if the Impala's tires had already been slashed. She wondered if men with guns were coming.

The woman could not be certain how well she was washing the blood from him, but four bowls of hot water later, she called it quits. All she could ask for was a heartbeat and working lungs, and Lannes was giving her both. She cleared away the dirty towels and his ruined jeans and leaned up hard against the kitchen cabinet near his head. She smelled like blood. She had a feeling she had more of it on her than he had on him.

The woman drank some water. Poured a little down his throat. Somewhere, a clock ticked. It matched time to her heart and to the words in her head.

Don't. Don't. Don't.

The woman sank closer to Lannes and curled into a tight ball. She reached out just slightly and let her pinky rest on the invisible edge of something soft that was not a blanket, and not her imagination.

A wing, she told herself, chilled to the bone.

But she did not stop touching him. She lay very still and waited for Lannes to wake.

Chapter Ten.

Waking was the hard part. Dreaming, unfortunately, was not.

Lannes lost himself in dreams. Part of him knew he was hurt, but it was a small thing, insignificant, compared to the visions inside his head.

He saw the witch who'd captured him and his brothers. He saw her for the first time, small and redheaded, a sultry smile that seemed to cut right through him. She wanted him to restore a book, a seventeenth-century grimoire that she claimed to have purchased at auction.

He knew it was a lie. But it was a rare book, a decaying relic of some human's attempt at magic, successful or not. He could not help himself.

And so, he lost himself.

"Magic is a tricky thing," he heard his father whisper, as he drifted in darkness. "We have never cultivated it for attack or for the harm of others. Not for thousands of years. And so we have lost the seeds of such abilities. But there are others, Lanny. There are others who have no such compunctions. And the seeds of their darkness are strong, as well."

"My boy. My poor son."

And then, another voice in the dark, soft and broken: "Don't. Don't leave me."

The woman. Lannes struggled toward her. He had to find her. She needed to be protected...

"Please, Lannes-"

He had left her, she had no one.

"No one-"

You have me, he wanted to tell her.

"My friend-"

I'm coming, he thought. Stay alive, stay safe, I'm- "Here," he mumbled, and just like that, he felt the heat of her presence flood through his mind like a warm soft light, and it was amazing to him, amazing how good it felt, and how familiar.

His lips were cracked. His mouth was as dry as sandpaper. He tried to open his eyes, and they felt glued shut; only it was not glue, but a cold rag. He tried to move his arm to take it off his eyes, and everything-from the top of his head to the tips of his toes-felt like it was on fire. Regeneration was an awful thing when you took near lethal damage. Charlie had suffered it countless times simply to save his daughter. This was a first for Lannes. He had new admiration for his brother.

He reached along the mental chain binding him to the woman. He felt her right beside him. Her mind silent. He pulled off the rag, blinked hard and painfully, and glanced sideways.

She was asleep, curled on her side, snug against him. Touching his skin. Covered in blood.

Alarm filled him, until he realized she was unharmed. His unease, however, did not fade. Lannes was well and truly naked beneath his blanket. Even the belt was undone, though it still lay close enough to his skin to remain invisible.

The woman, he realized, must have had her hands all over him. And while some deep part of him found that rather t.i.tillating, the sensible portion of his brain was quite tempted to pull up its proverbial stakes and start running for the hills.

Calm down. She's still here. Asleep. Obviously not terrorized by anything she might have discovered about you. You'd feel that, if it were the case. Idiot.

Lannes exhaled slowly, his ribs protesting. The woman stirred slightly but did not wake. She looked exhausted and pale, her hair tangled, dirty. Dried blood smudged her cheek.

But she was lovely. So very lovely. Quite likely the dearest, most beautiful face he had ever seen. He was scared of himself for finding her so attractive-had been scared from the beginning-but he had as much choice in the matter as he had breathing. And breathing-being alive-was in his estimate a most delightful blessing.

He looked around, slightly puzzled that he was on the floor of a kitchen. The woman stirred again. He gritted his teeth against the pain and reached out to touch her hair. He was not certain how many chances he would have to do so. Might as well store up the memories like secret jewels.

Her hair was soft and fine, golden against the illusion of his human fingers. He tried to imagine how her hair would look spread across his real skin, and the quiet fantasy shot such longing through his heart that it was suddenly hard to breathe. He wanted to see it. He wanted to know what it would feel like to have her arms wrapped around his body, even in something as simple as a hug, and not be afraid of what she might discover. He wanted her to smile at him, the real him, and not this mask.

He wanted to kiss her.

Lannes closed his eyes and pressed his lips against the tip of his finger. Then, very carefully, he brushed that finger against the corner of her mouth. A ghost kiss. A phantom heart.

She opened her eyes. He had forgotten how green they were: a deep, vibrant color like malachite hewn and polished to a glowing shine.

You re awake, she breathed, and began to sit up. Lannes, unthinking, touched her arm and lightly held her still. When he remembered himself, he drew away quickly. If she noticed, she showed nothing. Her gaze remained locked on his, and he felt and saw her uncertainty-and the dizzying strength of her relief.

"I thought you were going to die," she whispered.

"I'm hard to kill," he said hoa.r.s.ely. "Where are we?"

"Near Purdue University, I think. Some woman brought me here. She said she knows your brother and Frederick, but I don't trust her. I couldn't find a phone to confirm with him, either, and I was too scared to leave you."

"My brother," Lannes said. "You talked to him?"

"You said you had been speaking to him about my situation. I called the most recent number on your cell phone." A weak smile flitted across her mouth and she pointed at her head. "Don't have all my brain, but I've got some."

Lannes grinned, though it quickly faded. "What about the woman? What's her name?"

"She calls herself Etta Bredow."

"Anyone else with her?"

"Don't think so, but it's impossible to know."

"How did you get me in here?"

The woman glanced away from him. "I, um, carried you."

"Carried me," he said. "I'm...huge."

I also have wings you must have felt, he thought, alarmed. But the woman flushed a faint red and said, "I'm...not quite what I think I am."

Lannes coughed, and she sat up, reaching for a gla.s.s of water. He drained it-hardly enough to quench his thirst- in seconds, but he kept her from getting him more. He wanted to hear this.

"Tell me," he said, remembering the gunman hurled backward into his car.

Her gaze became haunted. "You first."

That was not what Lannes wanted to hear. He tried to sit up, clutching the blanket around his hips. But he forgot the belt, which had somehow loosened. It slipped totally free, clattering on the floor behind him, fully visible. He felt the size of an elephant and like he was juggling apples and standing on one leg.

He looked at the belt. So did the woman.

"Well," she said dryly, "that's interesting."

"I could use some more water," Lannes said.

"You seem to be feeling better," she remarked. "Although I wouldn't know for sure, seeing as how I can't see your wounds."

He pointed at the gla.s.s. "My throat. Burning."

The woman sighed. He tried to read her emotions, but there were so many of them, so tangled, that he could not make sense of even one. But he did not expect her to suddenly press her hands against his face. And he did not expect that she would sit up on her knees and lean in close enough to kiss. He sat, frozen. Breathless. Afraid to move. Desperate to close the distance between them. Her hands felt too good.

"Your eyes," she whispered. "Lannes. At least tell me your eyes are real."

He swallowed hard, quite certain he was plunging off a cliff. "Real as yours."

She hesitated, searching his gaze. "And the rest?"

Lannes' heart thudded like a freight train. He reached up and covered her hand with his own. Pulled it down to rest against his chest.

"What matters is real," he murmured.

She stared at their linked hands and closed her eyes. Lannes, aching, driven by everything that was wrong and foolish with his heart, also closed his eyes and brought her hand to his mouth. He kissed her palm. Poured himself into that one act, as though it would be his last. And it was, he was certain of it.

The woman made a low sound, deep in her throat. He forced himself to look at her. Found her staring at him. In his mind, her heart thundered. Or maybe that was him. A storm in his veins.

Until, quite suddenly, he sensed they were not alone.

He looked up and saw no one at all, but the woman stiffened, retreating from him. She stood on wobbly legs. Lannes also tried to stand but had to stop when bits and pieces of him pulled and tore in ways that were distinctly painful. He forced himself to breathe.

A pair of pale slender hands appeared around his arm. Lannes flinched but forced himself not to pull away. The woman tugged. He finally stood, swaying. The blanket was wrapped around his waist. His wings trailed behind him. His jeans were in tatters on the floor.

Lannes cleared his throat, distinctly uncomfortable. Even with the witch, he had never felt so vulnerable. This was either a nightmare or the best moment of his life. Maybe both. "Could you, ah, hand me that belt?"

The woman wordlessly gave it to him. Lannes knew he would never be able to bind his wings-not now-so he wrapped the belt around his forearm, his face hot, keenly aware of the woman watching. Pressed against his skin, the leather faded into the illusion of his shirt.

He could not look at her. "Did this...Etta..."

"No," she said quietly. "I made her leave. And I carried you in here myself."

His relief was overwhelming. "Thank you."

"You saved me," she said simply. "You saved me, no questions asked."

"Well," he said, smiling shakily, "maybe next time we can manage something less dramatic."

"Maybe next time," she replied slowly, "I can see what your smile really looks like."

Lannes stared. She patted his arm-so natural, so casual, as if there was nothing to it-and pointed toward the hall. "If you feel up to it."

He was forced to nod. No voice left. She led the way, limping and covered in his blood, and he followed close behind, wings loose. Everything aching. Except his heart. His heart felt good.