Chapter 1

T he woman who paused on the cemetery path was illuminated with a soft, flickering glow like a candle in a very still room, wavering when first lit, and then swelling into yellow radiance.

The weak winter sunlight contributed nothing to this glow. It came from inside her.

And Nathan knew if he took her by the hand…and drew her into the shadows…she would still possess a clear, golden look that only immortals have.

He should know.

Sucking in air like he’d just held his breath for too many minutes, his eyes flashed open. He bolted upright in bed, twisting his hands in the sheets. His words were a harsh rasp, gravel and grit, hot with pain.

“The Calling.”

He stared into the darkness.

All he saw was her.

When his eyes cleared, he blinked at his surroundings. Tall armoire, hand-carved by his father centuries ago. Wash basin with porcelain pitcher, the scent of his mother’s handmade soap still clinging to it.

No glowing immortal woman.

Yet, he saw her.

His view of her was fractured, like looking through a fog or a keyhole. He needed more.

He forced the tunnel of vision upward and fixed on a white lily tucked behind the delicate shell of her ear, and a mahogany tendril of hair that lifted on the stiff wind.

Nathan ground his teeth, frustration a burning-hot coal lodged in his chest.

More, more. He needed more.

The keyhole shifted and he fixated on her lower lip as she pulled it…glistening…between her teeth.

He leaped to his feet, his forehead and neck soaked with sweat. Though his eyes focused on the soft light of dawn shimmering through his bedroom window, the images of her continued to come.

The air throbbed with them.

His heart throbbed with them.

His immortal blood throbbed with them.

When the view shifted again, he wasn’t prepared for the sight of her naked back, a rope of hair draped across one shoulder…

And the zigzagging, floral tattoo on her spine.

His fingers knotted into fists and breath exploded from his lungs. His mouth watered to press his lips to that tattoo, knowing that when he did, she would make the vital sound which would bind them—a gasp.

The sound itself was a sandpapery rasp, shredding a hole in his chest that only she could fill.

He spun toward the window. The Vermont morning light was pale, watery and yellow, not the glowing green light that had spread through his room and fallen upon the body of the woman in his vision.

But she was out there. She had Called to him, that woman with the flowering vine of a tattoo.

Nathan trapped his skull between white-knuckled fists. Where? Where would he begin tracking her? He jammed his feet into his abandoned shoes and launched himself through the open window and into the brisk morning…running.