Prologue

1944

Her body shaking and her nose so cold she could barely feel the brutal wind, Leah tugged the metal straps from her back pocket to attach the Composition C explosives to the bridge's central supports, her knees tight against the frozen metal as freezing flakes drifted down to cover her shoulders. Gulping, she edged her way down the abutment, careful to avoid looking at the frozen ground below. While she lacked a fear of heights, she had a very healthy terror of death. If she fell from this distance, she'd be lucky if she broke her neck and the end arrived quickly.

Her high-waisted, wool trousers kept her legs warm, and she'd tucked the silly, flared bottoms into men's combat boots. An old military friend had loaned them to her, and if she wore three pairs of socks, they almost fit.

Finally, her body barely functioning, she reached the bottom of the support beam and dropped to the ground, ducking her head against the storm as she ran toward a forested area below the bridge.

John and Peter were still installing their explosives and would follow soon.

A rumble echoed, and she paused. "What in the world?" Fear grabbed her around the throat, and she turned just as the universe silenced. The explosion was thundering, and she screamed, but the blast picked her up and threw her yards into the forest, where she hit a tree.

Heat flared along her entire left side, and she screamed in agony, landing on the snowy ground and rolling in an effort to extinguish the flames. Unbelievable pain flashed through her brain, and her ears felt as if they'd melted. She tried to cling to consciousness, but more snowy flakes fell into her eyes, and then she saw darkness.

Slowly, she came to, the pain ebbing, and warmth—the comforting kind—surrounding her. Was she dead? She didn't know. At the moment, she didn't care. Pain still echoed in her flesh, sinking deep into her organs, and she marveled that she was still alive.

But she wouldn't survive out in the wilderness like this. Even now, she felt a pang at the loss of John and Peter. There was no way they'd made it off that bridge before it exploded.

"Wake up, lass. You need to awaken." Like smooth velvet over roughened steel, the voice caressed her wounded body.

She tried to blink, but her entire face felt paralyzed. "No," she whispered and then let unconsciousness take her again.

The next time she woke, she forced her eyelids to open but remained still. Where was she? For a moment, she couldn't remember who she might be. She whimpered, realizing she lay on something soft, and the wind had quit whistling. Groaning, she forced feeling into her face, trying to see. The crackle of a fire made her stiffen, but then she realized it was a campfire keeping her warm. She forced herself to sit, finding herself almost immediately leaning against a pine tree devoid of snow.

A form sat close to her, facing her. She blinked several times as a man—a large one—came into focus. Glancing up, she noted a makeshift roof of branches, the boughs and needles protecting them in an awning-type roof. The design allowed smoke to rise through the canopy. Quite clever, actually.

She stretched out her fingers, noting the remaining pain in her flesh. How in the world was she still alive? She cleared her vision, hoping to see Peter or John but knowing she would never laugh, joke, or plot with them again.

"Who are you?" she croaked, her voice barely audible.

"You don't know me," the mysterious man answered, also leaning against a tree. His legs were almost long enough to reach hers as they stretched out and crossed at the ankles.

Her vision finally cleared, and the ultimate in migraines ripped through her skull. Perhaps she'd sustained eye damage, because there was no way she was seeing a man like him. His jet-black hair was swept back from his face while odd blue-and-green eyes studied her.

She'd known many people in her young life, and eyes were not made of those colors. Not electric. Not wild. Not animalistic. His shoulders were broad, his chest wide, and those legs were incredibly long, leading to feet captured in gigantic boots. His bone structure was sharp and edged, unrealistically perfect.

"Are you an angel?" she asked quietly.

His quick smile transformed his beauty even more. There was no way he existed on this dangerous planet. Perhaps she was in a dreamland, still unconscious, hopefully on her way to heaven—although that was certainly in doubt.

"I'm no angel, lass." Scottish? His brogue was full-on Scotsman, and it fit him—his wildness. But those eyes…

"You're not real." She longed for a weapon. Without being obvious, she reached down to her pants leg to look for her Welrod pistol.

"I have your gun," he said quietly. "You may have it back." Reaching to the side, he claimed her weapon and tossed it to her. The metal landed hard near her knee.

"You're not afraid of me," she said.

"Not in the slightest," he agreed.

Should she reach for the gun? "I asked you before, am I dead?"

"You didn't ask me that. You asked me if I was an angel, which I'm not." Amusement danced in his unreal eyes. "You aren't dead."

"I should be," she whispered, noting that while the clothing on her left arm had burned away, her skin was merely red and blistered. Her flesh should've melted. "I don't understand."

One of his dark eyebrows rose. "Why did you blow up a bridge?"

"It's my job."

"Ah, you're with the SOE," he said. "You sound British."

She'd been a special operations executive for four years. In other words, a spy for Britain. "We meant to blow up the bridge to sabotage the German railway line so they couldn't receive additional supplies."

"That's what I figured."

She knew for a fact that she didn't look like a spy. A shiver of awareness filtered through her. He was handsome, much like a wild panther. Or a lion. She had to think of him as the enemy. "Are you with the Germans?"

"Not in the slightest. I found your skis about a mile down that way." He pointed.

She blinked at the change in subject. "Yes. After this, we planned to ski to Poland. They need help there with the war effort."

"From here in Hungary to Poland? That's quite the jaunt."

"Who are you?" she asked again. If he wanted her dead, he could have killed her while she lay unconscious.

"I'm called Jasper Maxwell." He studied her and waited.

She'd never heard of him. "What a lovely name. I'm Leah Ferry. Why am I not dead?"

"I gave you some of my blood."

She winced. "You what?" That made no sense. While she'd heard the Nazis conducted experiments that nobody understood, healing blood seemed too good to be true. Impossible, really.

"I'm a vampire, Leah, with a hint of demon thrown in." He looked deadly serious.

"Ah," she said. "Of course you are." She had to get away from this man. While he had saved her life, he apparently had serious mental problems. She needed to get on those skis. "Peter and John…" she started.

Jasper shook his head. "They blew up with the bridge. There was no way to save either of them."

It hurt. They'd been good friends and even better spies. Pain filled her chest. Yet another agonizing loss to add to her list. Soon, she'd have no one left. "I understand."

His gaze narrowed. "You accept reality quickly, don't you?"

"One has to as a spy."

"Have you always been a spy?"

She tried not to cough because her chest felt tight. "I spent four years as a housewife wearing dresses and pearls while vacuuming." She often missed the person she had once been. Even if the world centered itself, she'd never be that carefree girl again.

"Four whole years?" he asked. "Are you still married?"

The pain of the first of her many losses still echoed inside her. "My husband died two years ago, almost right after we joined the war effort." She missed him; they'd been great pals. Never again would she allow herself to get that close to another person.

"So now you're a spy by yourself?"

She looked toward where the bridge had been. "I had friends, but now I'm on my own."

"I could get you to safety."

"I don't want safety." For some reason, she'd been given a second chance, and she was going to fetch those skis and find her way into Poland to aid the resistance. "Do you want to help us?" She didn't know him, and he seemed unhinged, but he had saved her life, and they needed all the help they could get.

A veil drew down over his eyes. "Sorry, I'm on my own path right now. There are wars you don't know about."

"I can only handle one," she said. "A vampire war, huh?" She tried not to sound terrified.

In answer, fangs dropped in his mouth. His eyes swirled an unreal silver through the blue and green and then returned to normal.

Her body hurt too much for her to feel true shock. So, it was true. Was she concussed? "Oh," she said lamely. "I've heard stories. Whispers, really. But I didn't believe them."

"You should have."

Why would an immortal care about her life? "Why did you save me?"

"You're not completely saved. You have internal wounds. You must feel the destruction inside you, right?"

Truth be told, her energy seemed to be ebbing. She struggled to breathe, and blood no doubt filtered into her lungs by the spoonful. "What do I have? Maybe a day left?"

"Not that long."

Then she wouldn't make it into Poland on time. "Would more of your blood help?"

Now, both of his eyebrows rose. "I gave you more blood than I should, and it would've killed you if you were anybody but who you are."

Who else would she be? "I have no idea what that means."

"I know." His gaze intensified. "It's not a coincidence that I'm here, near you."

She'd never truly believed in coincidences, so she just waited.

He looked away and then back at her. "Immortals have mates, and many of my people believe in soulmates. The men in my family? We definitely only have one mate, and if we don't find her by the time we're around four hundred years old, we slowly go mad and die."

"That's quite a story." She had no chance in a fight against him, so why the tall tale? If he wanted to take her, he could have. "You want me."

"Desperately." He cocked his head. "I felt you, the being of you, two countries away from here. Like a beacon across a stormy sea."

Poetic, that. "I don't believe you."

"Doesn't matter. My blood saved you. If you want more of it, if you want to live, then we have to mate. You'll get stronger than ever before, to the point of being immortal. Except for a good beheading, of course." He sounded matter-of-fact, except tension rolled off him—hot, wild, dangerous. Raw and violent.

Instead of jerking in fear, her body warmed. From head to toe. Craving something in his voice. In him. "I take it mating requires sexual congress?"

He flashed her a grin. "You could say that. Plus, a brand—my mark that you'll wear on your flesh for all eternity." He held up his right palm, showing the figure of a deadly-looking M with jagged metal barbs all around it. "M, for my surname. Maxwell."

She gulped. "Why me?"

"You're an enhanced human female, and we're fated. It's that easy."

Nothing was that easy. "Enhanced?"

"Psychic, empathic, magic—I don't know. You're beyond a normal human."

Her skills lay in strategy, but she often felt what others did. Empathy? "What if I say no?" Although, what did a word mean? They were in the middle of nowhere, and she could barely breathe.

"Then you'll die, I'll live until I'm around four hundred years old, and then maybe I'll see you in the afterlife." He brushed snow off his dark pants. "There's more."

"Of course there is," she said dryly, pressing a hand to her aching abdomen. Her organs felt liquified. That blast should've killed her. Still would. "What is it?"

"My family is cursed, like I said. Mates have to meet up and exchange blood. I'll need yours to survive, and you'll need me even more. Terribly. Your body will crave me."

Arrogant words, yet she believed them. Her body already reacted to just his voice. "I want to live. I won't crave you." Was she really considering this? The good she could do in Poland, to help the war effort, as an immortal? It was unthinkable. She'd taken an oath, and she'd do her duty. "I'll get blood to you. Somehow. Save my life now, and I'll ensure you have blood when you need it." Was any of this real? Her brain even felt burned.

This could all be an illusion.

His chin lifted, and swear to the saints, need pounded through her body. Top to bottom, hitting every feminine spot on the way. His voice deepened when he spoke again. "We can live that way for a while, especially since we both have missions right now, but not forever. That kind of life isn't sustainable. At some point, Leah, I will come for you."

She reached for the buttons on her coat. Might as well leave this world with passion under a snowy sky. Unless he'd issued the truth. Then? She'd be unstoppable—and alone with no risk to her heart. She was finished loving people and watching them die. "Only if you can find me, Jasper."