Chapter 1

ONE

Paris and pain were old friends.

His first memory was of pain, his lungs burning as his mouth and nose filled with water, as he struggled against the hands that held him under. That was the first time his father had tried to kill him.

Pain had accompanied every encounter with his father since.

The force of his closed fist, the sting of his open palm, the pointy tips of his loafers that pummeled him when he was down.

The sharper sting of his words that buried him deeper.

Why are you such a fool?

You're too soft.

Put away those stupid brushes.

I can't believe she gave her life for you.

The last was his father's favorite, a constant reminder of the guilt Paris lived with every day and that his father never let him forget.

They were also the last words Vincent had uttered when he'd shoved him into the seemingly frail arms of the small, bearded man in a waist apron. Paris tried to run but barely made it two steps before the stranger had stopped him in his tracks with nothing but his glowing red eyes.

Paris had known then that this was another of Vincent's attempts to kill him. And as he lay spread eagle on a cold hard altar, his hands and feet bound, blood seeping from searing cuts along the insides of his arms and thighs, Paris thought maybe his father had finally succeeded.

Beside the altar, the once small man stood taller than any person Paris had ever seen. No, not a person. A monster—a giant—with those same glowing red eyes, but where he'd had a coarse, curly beard before, he now had a nest of writhing snakes that feasted on Paris's open wounds. As they sank their fangs into his muscles and sucked his blood, their master sucked more of his life—his soul—to feed the shimmering orbs of magic that grew bigger and brighter in the air above his hands.

He spoke in tongues Paris didn't recognize, but as his voice escalated into louder more urgent chants, the pain escalated too, the snakes biting harder. Paris's soul cried out in his ears, joined by other souls crying out too. Each new one like a knife carving up through the altar beneath him, into his skin, creating a path for the souls to burrow inside and chilling him to his core. Magnifying the pain. All those souls being ripped through him. It was torture beyond anything his father had ever inflicted on him.

I can't believe she gave her life for you.

Except that.

He opened his eyes and blinked through the pain and tears that clouded his vision. He searched for the stars above, for that place a nanny had once told him his mother had gone to the day he'd been born. Bright, shining hope was there for one brief instant, the fog breaking long enough for him to glimpse the only love he'd ever known, the love he'd finally get to meet soon, before the dense gray clouds rolled back in and took the light away.

And brought something dark with them.

Something darker even than his father's hands holding him under the water. Something that intended to take his soul and all the other souls screaming with his. Something that intended to wreak chaos on Yerba Buena and beyond.

The orbs in the monster's hands burned so bright that Paris had to squint against their blinding glare.

New voices—words he recognized—cut through the chants.

"Does anyone see him?"

"He's on the altar!"

KRAA .

Roaring, the monster hurled the relatively dimmer of the two balls of fire the direction of the voices.

And then another, different kind of darkness flew at the altar—an undulating mass of black, the fluttering of wings sending a cool breeze wafting across Paris's prone body. The flock of black birds dive-bombed the monster, plucking away his snakes one by one. Paris shouted with each painful yank of their fangs out of his skin; the giant shouted louder with each subject ripped from his body and cast aside until none were left.

Until the biggest black bird of all, a giant raven, flew talons-first at the monster's eyes.

He howled and staggered beside the altar, trying to swat the raven away with the hand not holding the magical orb, but the raven wasn't backing down. He came at the giant, again and again, while other voices shouted in the background.

"Mac, watch the globe."

"We need to neutralize it."

"Adam, take the shot!"

KRAA .

The familiar sound of gunfire rent the air and fear rocketed up Paris's spine. He didn't want the raven to be hit. But the bullet, it turned out, was the least of their worries. Before it reached the monster, the fireball in his hand exploded, engulfing him and singeing Paris's skin.

"No!" Paris shouted, his voice rough, barely a whisper, but no less urgent, no less filled with fear for the fate of his rescuer.

He scrunched closed his eyes and screamed through the pain and fear until the heat began to recede, until cool air wafted over him once more.

A gentle weight landed on his chest, and for a moment it felt like freedom, like his soul could breathe knowing the raven had lived and would carry him to the love waiting for him above.

But then another voice called to him. Help me.

And another, then another, more and more until the cacophony of pleas were as loud as the thunderous waves that crashed against the cliffs beneath the condo he called home.

He shook his head, trying and failing to block out the noise.

KRAA!

He opened his eyes and locked his gaze with the violet one staring down at him. The sense of freedom was gone, but in its place was a lifeline Paris's soul grabbed onto with both hands.

The raven jumped, its giant wings fluttering.

KRAA!

Paris didn't let go, even as pain ricocheted through his head and darkness clouded the edge of his vision. The riot in his ears coalesced into those same two words, over and over, the only two he could manage before his own world went dark.

"Help me."

Paris liked soft things.

In a world that was sharp and brutal, soft was the sensory antithesis of violence. The buttery leather of his car seats, the silky bristles of fresh paint brushes, the plush warmth of cotton jersey, the delicate threads of satin and lace.

The gentle brush of skin on skin. His best friends' arms hooked through his. A courtesan's tender touch. The backs of someone's fingers stroking his temple, oh so softly, and ruffling his hair.

He moved to tilt his head, to chase after the feather-light touch, but barely managed to angle his chin before pain lanced through him. His head, his arms, his legs were all on fire.

Fire.

Like the globes that had hovered above the monster's hands.

As the horrific, terrifying past came rushing back, so did nausea and bile, rocketing up his throat. He shifted, needing to sit up before he choked on the sick, but fucking hell, the pain.

Far beyond anything his father had ever inflicted on him.

But his father had done this, hadn't he? Had offered him as some kind of sacrifice. Had almost succeeded in killing him this time.

"Fuck," he cursed, and even that hurt.

"I've got you," someone said, their voice deep and calm, soft in its own way. Like their fingers had been. "Let's get you on your side."

Gritting his teeth, Paris let the person help roll him. Just in time, the pain and his roiling stomach conspiring to expel what little was in it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. Couldn't fathom it now, the thought of food sending another wave of bile up and out and into a bucket.

Shuddering, he struggled for breath, for some relief from the anvils in his head and the needles in his limbs.

"You get it all out?" the voice asked.

He nodded weakly and—sweet mercy—was rolled onto his back again. A wet cloth was swiped over his lips then laid across his forehead, and with the soft, cool dampness came the needed respite, enough for him to breathe, to open his eyes and look up into the dark ones above him. Gone were the violet eyes, gone were the black feathers and hooked beak, gone were the talons that had scratched out the monster's eyes. But Paris was certain the man above him, with his tan skin, sharp nose, and black hair was the same as the raven who'd saved him.

"It hurts," he told the stranger.

"Where?"

Paris chuckled at the inane question, then winced when the motion brought more daggers, in his head worst of all.

"Hold on," the raven said, then, leaving the cloth on his forehead, covered his ears with his hands. "Need some help in here!" he called, his raised voice thankfully muffled.

So too was the voice of someone else who entered the room, the two of them conversing in what to Paris were nothing more than murmurs. But at least they were the only voices, the ones in his head from before blissfully quiet. Gone for good, he hoped. Now if the raven could just get rid of his pain too. More hands were laid on him, more voices in the room, then a chant began and memories of the monster returned.

He struggled where he lay, and the hands on him pressed harder, hotter, a wave of heat rolling from the tips of his toes up his body. Higher and hotter. "Help me," he pleaded with the raven.

The hand over his right ear shifted. "That's what they're trying to do. They're burning out the poison. Just hold on a little longer."

He stared up at the shifter asking for his trust. "Who are you?"

"Icarus sent us."

Guilt tore at his insides, sharper than any pain that tore at the rest of his body. "Is he?—"

"Safe," the raven said with a wry grin. "You are too."

"My father?"

"Doesn't know where you are."

He'd look around if he could, but the raven's hands held his head steady, held him just out of the lake of fire that threatened, that inched higher with each chanted syllable. "Where am I?"

"With the Redwood Coven."

"Where? How far?—"

"You're in Encinal. Near the shellmound."

Clear across Yerba Buena from the family compound of condos. Clear across the Bay too. On consecrated ground that surely his father was smart enough to avoid. He let out a relieved breath, and the ironic twist of the raven's lips smoothed into a soft curve Paris ached to paint.

Soft like the fingers that took up stroking his temples again. "Now, let the witches do their work."

"Don't leave me."

"I've got you."

As the heat rose, Paris closed his eyes and focused on the soft sheets beneath him, on the cool rag across his forehead, on the gentle fingers caressing his temples. Let the sensory anthesis carry his mind away while his body fought what he didn't fully understand yet.

The raven said he was safe.

He believed him. For now.