Chapter 2

TWO

Paris was lost.

Wherever he was, it didn't look like any part of Yerba Buena he knew. Not Sunset Hill where he lived, not the Lakeside apartments where his best friends, Kai and Jason, stayed. Not Sutro Hill, the Lost Valley, the Manor, the Canyon Lands or anywhere in between. He'd been raised in YB, was familiar with every nook and cranny of his hometown. He was as much a child of YB's mist and hills as he was the only son of Vincent Cirillo.

This tree-lined street of single-family cottages did not exist in YB. And nowhere in his world was the sky above, the buildings around him, and the ground beneath his feet varying shades of violet.

Violet .

Something clicked. Like that instant in his favorite jazz tune when the first instrument on stage made itself known. A single spotlight on the piano, its notes high and lilting, calling to him.

For what, he wasn't sure yet.

He followed the street to the next intersection and glanced right—more houses—then left, spying what looked like a strip mall just up the street. They had those—and houses like those around him—in the suburban areas outside of YB, especially south in Portola.

Was that where he was?

He picked up the pace as he approached the shopping center. It was brighter than on the tree-lined street, but the violet hues persisted. They gave the pale bearded man in the grocery store apron a pale eerie glow as he shagged carts in the parking lot.

A shiver raced up Paris's spine. Another instrument joined the piano, a bass guitar with its deep, dark rhythm—a counterpoint.

A warning.

Paris hung back at the corner of the building, watching as the bearded man initiated a conversation with one man, then another who passed him in the parking lot. When a young woman approached the car he was closest to, he didn't speak. He just glared at her, his blue eyes burning with thinly veiled malice.

Worried for the woman's safety, Paris moved to step forward.

She whipped her gaze in his direction, and the boom of drums on Paris's mental stage drowned out his gasp.

Blond hair fell around the woman's bruised and battered face—her nose broken, her lip split, one eye bloody around a brown iris.

Human, then.

Her lips moved, but no sound came out.

That didn't matter; Paris could hear her in his head. Her two words like the final instrument joining a quartet—the trumpet wailing.

Help me.

Paris woke with a start, in full-on panic mode, choking for breath, ears ringing, scrambling to push himself upright. His hand landed on something wet. Slipped. Then he slipped too, his limbs failing to hold him, the pain that shot through them too much to fight the tangled sheets and the gravity dragging him off the side of a padded table to the floor.

His elbow hit something metal on the way—a bucket that went skidding across the wooden floor—and Paris howled. Clutching his elbow, he flopped onto his back, unable to do anything else, and stared up through tears at a ceiling that wasn't his, the plain white drop tiles a far cry from the dark and starry night he'd painted above his own bed.

Footsteps rushed toward him, their vibration and sound finally cutting through the ringing in his ears. He twisted his head, found the door, and scurried as fast as he could on his back the opposite direction, grabbing the metal bucket as he went. He rammed against the far wall and twisted onto his side, clutching the bucket in front of him, the only protection he had against the bearded monster coming for him.

Only it wasn't the monster of his nightmares that appeared in the doorway. "Oh, hey!" said a stranger with tan skin and black hair. His wide eyes were black too. "You're awake." Something about him seemed familiar, the sharp nose, the thin-lipped smile, the long lanky limbs. If not for his height and black eyes, Paris might have mistaken him for Kai, but that wasn't right either. He approached cautiously, hands up, palms out. "I'm a friendly," he said as he kneeled in front of him. "How'd you get all the way over there?"

"Where am I?" Paris gritted through clenched teeth as he tried to use the wall to lever his torso upright.

The other man clasped his shoulder, steadying him and helping him the rest of the way to sitting. "I've got you."

I've got you.

"The raven," Paris croaked, the similarity clicking into place, the words reminding him of his rescuer. "Where is he?"

"He had somewhere else he needed to be." The stranger eased the bucket from Paris's white-knuckled grip. "He asked me to stay with you."

Hands free, Paris crossed his arms over his chest and came into contact with the bandages covering his arms. He glanced down at his legs peeking out from the sheets still tangled around his waist. Bandaged too.

All of it rough.

Like the woman's face from his dream.

Like the past however many hours of his life.

He wished he had the bucket back, nausea threatening. He tugged at the bandages instead, a distraction and an end to the immediate violence against his skin.

Long-fingered hands covered his. "You need to leave those on," the stranger said. "Your wounds are still healing."

He shuddered at the reminder of the searing heat. A sharp contrast to the cold floor beneath him and the cool wall at his back. He gathered more of the sheet around him, the chilly shock working its way inside.

"You're cold?"

He nodded.

The man stood and crossed the room to the cabinet that was near the door. When he returned, he carried a stack of gray clothing. "Icarus said to bring you these." He handed the soft sweats to Paris. "He said they would make you feel better."

His eyes watered again, and he clutched the clothing to his chest. The courtesan was always so good to him. Despite being a vampire, Icarus had never scared him, had never committed a single violent act against him. Unlike Paris, who had given his father's warlock Icarus's contact info, knowing nothing good could come of it, knowing their promises to keep Icarus safe were probably a lie, but having no choice, his father's knee on his neck at the time. He should've let him end it then.

A mug appeared in his periphery. "How about some tea?"

Paris accepted the cup, sniffed the drink inside, and, relatively confident it was just an herbal blend, sipped it slowly. It coated his throat and made it easier to get the words out. "Who are you?"

"Liam Kelley." He shifted out of his crouch and onto his ass, sitting cross-legged across from him. "Mac's brother."

"Mac?"

"Cormac. The raven."

The raven. The witches. More of it was coming back to him. "We're in Encinal?"

Liam nodded. "With the coven."

Paris could hear muffled voices, other movement in whatever building they were hiding in. "What are they doing?"

"Packing. They tend to stay on the move."

Paris had heard that about the witches. He recalled the map in his father's command center, little green pins identifying each coven's location. Had there been one in Encinal? He couldn't say. Everyone knew the nearby shellmound was haunted. That the area was consecrated. But did Vincent know the witches hid nearby too? Would he find him here? "Where will I go?" he asked Liam.

"With them, for now."

He held the sweats closer, his whole immediate world. But what of the rest? "Can I get a phone?"

"'Fraid not. Mac's orders."

"I need to check on my friends. If my father?—"

"Your father has his hands full right now. He probably hasn't even realized you're missing."

"But I was supposed to meet them. They'll be worried."

"It's the week before the Rift anniversary. I doubt they'll blink."

Harsh. "I like your brother better."

Liam's laugh filled the room. "You might be the first person who's ever said that." He stood and offered Paris a hand. "Think you might be able to eat something? Mac said it's probably been a while. You're human; magic will only get you so far."

The thought of food didn't turn his stomach the way it had earlier. Maybe the tea was helping. "I can try." He held the sweats in one hand and took Liam's in the other. It was warmer than Paris expected. "You're a shifter too?"

"The whole family is." Liam helped him to his feet and, once Paris was relatively steady, left him leaning against the wall. "Get changed, then give me a shout. I'll be right outside. Is there anything else you need?"

He shook his head, but just before Liam reached the door, an idea occurred to him. A distraction—an outlet—he'd welcome. "Liam," he called, and when the raven's brother turned, he added, "Paintbrushes."

Liam paused over the threshold, dark brow furrowed. "What?"

"Can I get some paintbrushes? And some paints, please. Any colors will do."

"Yeah," he said, smiling. "We can do that."

He disappeared out the door, and Paris exhaled, eyes closed, until the bruised and battered face of the woman from his dream appeared behind his eyelids again. "Purple!" he shouted, hoping it wasn't too late to amend his request. "I need purple paints."