Prince of Twilight. Maggie Shayne

      “No,” Melina said softly. And as she said it, her eyes met Brooke’s very briefly, then slid away again. “We don’t even know if the rite exists anymore. It could easily have disintegrated, as so many pages in this journal have done.”

      “Could it be recreated?” Stormy asked.

      Melina tipped her head to one side, studying Stormy a little too closely again. “Perhaps. A talented witch or sorcerer might be able to create a spell that would work. They could certainly try, with God only knows what sort of results. And no doubt there are some stupid enough or power hungry enough to want to.” She shook her head in disgust. “Which is why we must get the ring out of circulation. It has to be secured. As long as it exists, there is the risk that an innocent life will be lost or altered beyond repair.”

      Stormy agreed. Particularly since the innocent life in question was her own. “What did that last part mean,” she asked. “That part about the Red Star of whatever?”

      “We don’t know. We have no way of knowing what modern astronomers have named whatever star those old ones were referring to. Or if it was a star at all.” Melina carried the notebook to the desk and put it into a drawer, then locked it. “That’s it,” she said. “That’s absolutely everything we know. Brooke and Lupe, because they are second in command to me, are the only two here who know all this. And now you know it, as well.” She moved across the room to Stormy. “Do you think you can find the ring and take it from whoever stole it?”

      Licking her lips nervously, Stormy nodded. “I think I have to.”

      It had been so long. Far, far too long.

      Elisabeta lived still. He sensed her, alive and aware, deep inside Tempest’s consciousness. Waiting for him to rescue her.

      And maybe the things he’d overheard while eavesdropping from deep within Tempest’s consciousness were things that required him to take action. To see her. To speak to her. Or maybe he was only allowing himself to believe they did, because he couldn’t be this close and not get a little closer. Close enough to touch.

      The one called Melina—the leader of this little coven—suggested Tempest stay there at the mansion for the night, rather than driving all the way back to the city and her hotel. When Tempest agreed, he sagged in relief, because he couldn’t wait much longer. He needed to go to her.

      But he would have to be careful. As angry as he was that she would betray him by agreeing to help the Sisterhood of Athena steal the ring, he didn’t want to traumatize her unnecessarily. He would, no doubt, be forced to do enough of that later. Soon, in fact.

      He had no idea how she felt about him now. He didn’t how she would react to seeing him again for the first time in sixteen years. But he could not leave without seeing her. So be it.

      The bedroom to which she was shown had a minuscule balcony. Vlad stood beneath it, watching her shadow play against the curtains as she moved around the room beyond them. He tried to be patient when her movements stopped, but he didn’t succeed. Instead, he leapt from the grassy lawn behind the Athena mansion, clearing the rail and landing softly on the balcony. And then he went still, listening and sensing for her in the room beyond.

      The shower was running. The bedroom lights were turned off, but a sliver of illumination came from beneath the closed door of the adjoining bathroom. And so he waited there, aching, silent and bleeding inside.

      Eventually the sound of flowing water stopped. He waited, still and alert, watching her as she stepped into the bedroom wearing only a towel. And then she dropped the towel to the floor, and he swore his body caught fire at the sight of her, nude and damp and beautiful still. So beautiful.

      She crossed the room, tugged back the covers, settled into the bed and closed her eyes.

      She was tired; he felt that in her. And then she sensed something, someone near, might even have known on some deep level that it was him, lurking in the night, hungering. But it didn’t trouble her enough to keep her from sleep. And he wondered briefly why she was so exhausted.

      He had to know what she was doing. He had to know why she was involved with the Sisterhood of Athena, and what she planned to do with the ring if and when she found it. He’d overheard enough to be fully aware she intended to search for it on behalf of the Sisterhood. Did she honestly intend to hand it over to them? What could have instigated such an idiotic, not to mention disloyal, act?

      He waited until he was certain she slept—it didn’t take long. Then he slid the glass door open and moved silently into the room, up beside her bed.

      For a long moment he stood there, just experiencing her. The scent of her, familiar and arousing, filling him. The sounds of her breath, moving softly, deeply, in and out of her lungs. The sight of her. Her once purely platinum hair had new tones, honey and gold, woven through with paler highlights. It was slightly longer than before, softer. And there were lines, tiny ones, at the corners of her eyes. He wanted to touch her, taste her, and the knowledge that the blankets and sheets were the only things covering her burned in him.

      But he wasn’t there for those things. He was there for information. And the ring.

      He lowered himself into a chair, focused on her mind and crept inside, carefully. He didn’t want her aware of his intrusion, nor did he wish to rouse Elisabeta, who still lingered. His eyes fell closed as he felt her exhaustion, and then he sank into her dreams. She was on a sailboat, lying on the deck, bathed by the light of a full moon so big it lit the entire sky and the sea beneath it. It painted her in its milky light. She wore a stretch of sheer white fabric that draped from one shoulder all the way to her feet.

      She was smiling up at someone. It was with a little rush of shock and pleasure that he realized it was him. He was in her dream. And he was moving closer to her, reaching out to her, telling her not to be afraid.

      “I’m not afraid,” she told him. “Not of you.” And she tilted her head. “She can’t get to me in my dreams. Did you know that?”

      The real Vlad was surprised, as he watched her dream image of him react with a knowing nod. “It’s the one place you’re safe from her. That’s why I come to you here.”

      Was it true? Was it real? It almost seemed as if she had dreamed of him before. Could it be true?

      He had to put it to the test. Had to. He stepped out of her consciousness, so that he was looking at her lying there in the bed, rather than looking out through her eyes within her own dream.

      “You will not wake. You will stay safe in the haven of your dream,” he told her. “Do you understand?”

      He felt her agreement, though she didn’t speak aloud. He also felt her longing for him, wanting him, craving his touch. It was almost too much to resist, and yet…

      “I have questions for you, Tempest.”

      “Yes.”

      He was sitting on the edge of his chair now, leaning closer to her. He couldn’t stop himself from touching her, just a little. He commanded her not to wake with the power of his mind as he trailed his fingertips over her cheek.

      She leaned into his touch, and she shivered a little with a rush of pure desire. So responsive to him still. Maybe even more so than she had been before.

      “Tempest, why are you looking for the ring?”

      “Have to find it. Said I would.” She spoke the words aloud, startling him. But she remained asleep, lost in the throes of her dream. When he started to move his hand away, her smaller hand closed over it to press it closer to her face. Then, slowly, she moved it downward, over her neck, her collarbone, underneath the blanket to her breast.

      He released a shuddering breath as his palm rubbed over warm, soft skin and the stiff peak pressing into its center. Softer than before, not as firm or perky, but warm and full. He told himself to take his hand away. She arched her back, and he couldn’t do it. Instead he drew his fingers together on her nipple, pressing and rolling it to give her a taste of the