“No.” A soft sound. A plea. My father’s voice. Too late.
The stone in my hand blazed hot, too hot to hold. My fingers clenched around it and I could not let it go.
The heat rolled into a vibration, a thrumming of music that poured over me, too loud, too strong, plucking me like a string against a sounding board.
It wasn’t god power. I knew those songs, knew the dizzying sensation of god power loose and wild and fierce. Knew how to hold it, how to carry it across my nerves and muscles and skin, knew how to direct it to a place of holding, away from the god’s body, but never far from their reach.
But this song, this roar was bone-deep and tore into me with teeth and fang. I’d never felt this power before.
It was darkness.
It was heat.
It was desire.
I couldn’t force my hand to drop the stone, couldn’t move, couldn’t even blink. My body was not my own.
Cue the fear.
The room around me fogged out, going green at the edges. There was someone yelling, there were hands on me, but I sensed that at a distance.
All I could hear were the churning tones, all I could feel was the heat tearing through me.
And then everything went cold.
My father stood in front of me, solid and tangible and breathing, every detail clear. He was wearing his uniform, and look a little rumpled, his hair sticking up at the crown like it did when he rubbed his palm over the back of it or when he pulled all-nighters at the station.
I could smell the spice of his cologne, the slight hint of tobacco and coffee that was so familiar, so him.
But his eyes, oh, how I’d missed them. Not the color, which was a soft blue that tended toward gray, but the kindness, the intelligence, the light of the man who had known me and loved me and protected me for my entire life. Right there. Right there in front of me close enough to touch.
When I’d never thought I’d see him again.
“Dad?”
“Delaney, you need to step back. Drop the stone. Run.”
I tried. Really I did. I struggled to open my fingers, turn my hand over, lift my feet.
Didn’t get anywhere.
“I. Can’t.” Even my words were strangled, locked down. Impossible to push through my lips.
“Well, well. Delaney Reed. All tied up with a bow. I like what I see.”
I couldn’t turn my head to see who was talking but I had never heard that voice before. It was smooth, low, like honey and whiskey.
A man walked into my line of vision, coming out of the green foggy edges to stand beside my father.
Dad’s eyes went hard, his jaw set. Whoever, or really knowing my life,whatever that was, Dad didn’t like him.
“Demon,” Dad said.
Oh.
Oh, shit.
The man—demon—was taller than my dad and wide enough in the shoulder, it made the rest of his body look lean, even though he appeared muscled under the lightweight button-down shirt and business slacks he wore. His tie was loosened at the neck, and matched his eyes, which were a stunning green, almost as light as the green fog around us.
