Chapter One

I'm being paid to sleep; it's a dream job.

With eyes closed, savoring the last few precious moments of silence, she inhaled and exhaled slowly and deeply in a manner for which the elders who had taught her the technique would have been proud. Running her manicured hands down her silky gown doubled as a wardrobe check and a chance to smooth creases while making slight adjustments, ensuring no wardrobe malfunctions would appear in the late-night gossip shows or the morning papers.

As a habit that would appear to outsiders as a self-soothing technique to calm her nerves, she next slid her hands down her long, black hair; hair that had been blown, straightened, and lacquered to the point it wouldn't dare have a flyaway. A practiced, serene smile appeared as if by magic, a smile that bared no teeth but still made her seem approachable. Not that anyone would be allowed to approach. Security always made certain of that—and not the production company security that imagined itself having things well in hand, but private security that held her and her secrets to a much higher standard.

Eyes strained to note and remember the finite details of the moments, details that often floated away with the rising sun: the smell of the leather seats, the crisp hint of whiskey lingering in the confines of the car, and the clink of ice cubes hitting glass.

The white production company limo inched down the street before stopping in front of the Hollywood Theatre. She carefully adjusted the still-full glass of champagne on the small table. It was a prop—a prop just as much as her date, a former boy band member, who sat silently across from her, checking his phone. He did his job, just like the champagne.

A soft tap on the roof alerted them that the serenity would be broken within seconds, and the real acting would begin. When the door clicked open, without looking, she stretched out one pale, slender hand. It was immediately and gently grasped to guide her effortlessly out of the luxury car. One elegant stiletto led the way, hinting at what was to come.

For a split second, the crowd was quiet. Then, in less than a heartbeat, a roar filled Hollywood Boulevard as she seamlessly slid her small frame out of the car, her deep red gown brushing the red-carpet wrinkle-free.

A practiced smile in place and slow, steady steps took her toward the garish double doors held open by two men in dark tuxedos looking like matching bookends. Not quite matching, she noted as she drew closer, eyes focused on her goal. One looked like he had stepped out of a Norse legend with his resemblance to Thor, while the other appeared to blend more into the background as any good doorman should.

When she looked at the doorman, whose blond locks were smoothed back into an impossibly high ponytail, her breath hitched, and she avoided looking his way again.

Halfway down the carpet in rehearsed precision, she stopped to rotate toward the throngs of fans who had secured a place hours ago near the front with the paparazzi. Hand resting on hip, she appeared to peruse the crowd as her "date" slid a proprietary arm around her waist, careful not to wrinkle the dress but hinting at an intimacy that didn't and would never exist. The flashing of the cameras didn't bother her as it did some actresses; the young, pretty ones who complained that the lights hurt their eyes and washed out their complexion were utterly useless to her.

For a moment, she allowed the voices, the excitement, and the adoration to wash over her, filling her senses to the point that she tingled from head to toe.

"Ms. Sinclair, over here!"

"Is that an Amelia gown?"

"Who's the designer?"

"I love you!"

"Over here, I love you!"

"I'm your biggest fan!"

A slight sense of euphoria followed the tingle at the worship, and she mentally held it at bay, not allowing herself to bask in the temptation too much.

The wave of energy floated over her. In her. Through her. She drew deep breaths, savoring the moment, the near ecstasy enveloping her.

Focusing on her hearing allowed her to pinpoint Meghan Malone's voice, announcing to her viewers that the star had arrived. She began her preplanned critique of the elegant red gown designed by her dear friend Amelia. Critics may argue the finer points, but ultimately, the dress was perfect. The red flattered her dark skin tone and black hair—so black one could imagine blue throughout it—perfectly, while also complementing the theme of her premier movie, Vampire Nights. Amelia had sewn her into the dress and would reverse the process at night's end. Amelia was the only one permitted to dress her petite five-foot-four-inch frame, and she found it endlessly amusing that at every significant event, the first question still asked was who had dressed her. However, asking kept Amelia's name on everyone's lips and minds, which was a bonus to her dear friend's design business.

As beautiful as her gown was, it didn't allow for quick movement, so with continued slow, short steps, she floated toward the double doors, allowing the crowd and photographers a glimpse of a curved calf from the slit on the gown. Once upon a time, a bit of leg would have driven men made with desire, but now it was expected and unsurprising; however, it was still sexy as hell.

The gown swished against her calves, and the soft caress of her hair tickled her back, tantalizing her skin. The energy! The power!

With one last glance over her shoulder, she looked directly into one lucky paparazzi's camera and added a hint of tooth to her smile as her lips fell slightly open. This would be the money shot for the photographer if he caught it. If he didn't, then at least she'd tried.

As quickly as the crowd"s energy had rushed over and through her, it disappeared, and a sense of dark energy replaced it. The lights, power, and noise muted while the darkness pushed into her, down her throat, and throughout her body, an invasion that came on so quickly it choked the breath from her. The darkness slid across her bare skin, smoothing the still motionless hair, adding rough pressure as it caressed the naked skin of her shoulders and upper back. Coiling around her neck, a hot, fetid breath intimately assaulted the side of her neck, paralyzing her in front of the throngs of fans.

Fear. Heat. Immobility.

Ten seconds? Ten minutes? An eternity passed before it released her with a hiss and low laugh that curled around the back of her neck, intimately brushing her body, and then rushed away with a snap so loud her ears popped. She wrenched herself free from her startled date while simultaneously flipping her head back and forth, searching for an apparition over her shoulder, around her, anywhere!

Her escort looked at her with confusion as their carefully choreographed entrance fell apart just a few steps from the door.

Although she'd turned quickly, she couldn't quite catch the darkness that had pressed itself on her and just as promptly fled. No one stood on the carpet with her except her bewildered date, who indeed seemed to question if the paparazzi would still treat him kindly if America's Sweetheart looked afraid standing next to him.

No one could have approached her, and no one could have touched her. But the impossible had happened, and she could feel the mood change in the crowd as the roar dulled just a bit. The fans and paparazzi in the front were now frowning and shifting uneasily back and forth on their feet, trying to understand what had changed for her.

Plastering a larger-than-usual smile on her face, taking a deep breath, she waved slightly at the group while fighting the urge to spit out the arid taste of black magic that tainted her lips. Just a few steps, and she would be safe in the building. With two small steps toward the door, her ankle crumbled despite her customary finesse. With a surprised cry, she prepared to crash in front of a fickle world but before she did, hands reached out, grasping her forearms, steadying her, preventing her from face-planting into the red carpet.

One of the doormen had somehow managed to reach her and prevent the late-night gossip shows from having some tea to spill about a spill. Guiding her smoothly upright before a human eye could tell she'd stumbled was—the handsome one.

"Fenrir sends his regards. Come," the man who looked like Thor whispered in her ear, uttering the code words that marked him a member of her private security team. Words that should have given her some sense of relief from her newfound terror. And yes, after thousands of years, the feeling was nearly unrecognizable, but it was fear.

Terror. The terror and fear pushed her over the edge into the abyss.