Although the shack lacks most of your basic amenities, there's a cozy fire in the crumbling hearth and a checkered picnic blanket beside it.

In the center of the blanket, there's a plate of cheese, cured meat, nuts and dried fruit, green and red grapes. And two open bottles of wine, one of which is already kicked.

It's goddamn homey in here.

And no one seems to be in peril. In fact, the wayward witch, the sly shifter, and their dainty vampire companion are gathered round, laughing too hard to acknowledge the male intrusion.

Blaise is the first to simmer down and raise her glass to us. "Surprise! It's a fuck Ishmael party."

In the one breath I let out, I dial down the tension a few notches. It's still medium-high, but it's the lowest it's probably been in weeks. "Had I known, I would have brought beer." I force a half-hearted grin, feeling suddenly on display.

The dark, curly-haired vampire has a mischievous smile with my name on it. She's looking at me like I'm a blood snack or her next sexual conquest. This is very strange on both counts. It's a scent thing. A flavor thing for them. And a lifestyle thing for us both. They're not known for their fidelity to anything but themselves and their ever-changing whims, most of which I'd find distasteful on a good day. And this aversion tends to be mutual. Even the "friendly" ones will insult a shifter at every opportunity. Both entities have their pros and cons. A fight could go either way, but because of their immortality, assuming they can outmaneuver their enemies, they act like they're higher in the pecking order.

While Shilo is filling two additional wine glasses, the vampire gets up, dainty and human-like, but then she's in my personal space a millisecond later.

"So this is your Romeo?" With wide silver eyes and little couth, she loops around me, and gives me more than just a once over. She ends her probe about a foot in front of me, her gaze dipping uncomfortably low and slow. "Your machismo is the talk of the town. I don't usually crave a taste of that..." She sets both hands on my chest, and with her fangs out and alarmingly close to my neck, she adds, "But for you, I'd make an exception."

Faolan's sigh is not subtle. It sets his eyes into a fluttering roll.

The whole situation makes my eyes flare and every muscle clench. If it's the attention Faolan wants, he can have it. I want me gone more than he does. I am done being everyone's favorite tool. It makes me want to . . . bite a vampire's head off!

There's one right in front of me, and she's in the lightweight division...

Why am I so agitated? I'm not in danger. The vampire would technically be "hot" to any straight male with eyes. There's booze and treats, enough to share. The tres amigas may even be here to help me. But it's all too little, too late. Regardless of what's accomplished here, there will always be too much Ishmael.

"Calm down, Jay." Shilo gets up and approaches tentatively, like I'm about to explode and send shrapnel everywhere. "She's just messing with you, right Nicola? She's the reason you're here. Who do you think made the phone call?"

"Get her away from me," I growl, my chest heaving, the wolf about to come out.

"Nicola..." Blaise calls out in a tone of warning. And command. In that one word, she asserts her dominance here. "Back off. I wouldn't test him in his current state. He's not himself."

Truer words were never said.

A note of challenge lingers in those stormy vampire eyes. Nicola's gaze then breaks, and she slinks off like a bored cat. "You're no fun," she snarls, like clockwork, and it makes my world spin again on an axis I understand. "I thought it would be your scent to turn me off of you—and truly, it's like a corpse took a shit—but really, it's your personality."

Likewise, I want to say, and fuck off, but I keep my jaw clenched shut, challenging as it may be. It's for the best if she's even remotely on my team.

Blaise, apparently in charge here and able to read the room, sends Nicola off on an errand that doesn't need doing. Firewood, when there's still a short pile of logs, and more wine, when there's half a bottle left and four full glasses. Vampires don't drink the stuff anyway.

I wish she'd send Faolan off too, but Blaise apparently trusts him more than she does Nicola, or trusts Shilo who trusts him, enough for them to believe he'll keep this ruse afloat through the night.

That makes two out of three of us...

"Do you have the gold?" Shilo asks him.

Faolan lifts the bag that I almost forgot about.

Blaise invites us both to sit with a hand gesture. "It'll fund this operation."

Operation, what? Free Sam?

What's in it for everyone else? Even if they have "good" intentions, it's a lot of risk for little reward, even if the gold is in play on "our" side.

"He wants it back, you know," Faolan feels the need to mention, taking the seat beside Shilo, and digging right into the food without asking first.

"Well, he's not getting it back." Blaise's tone overpowers his grumbling. "Shit went sour, and we were lucky to get out alive. Can you handle that tomorrow? They need me home, for appearances, and won't ask too many questions. I promise."

Faolan lowers his head, suddenly remembering his place, and manages a nod that almost looks sincere.

"Good." Blaise gives me her full regard—an obvious labyrinth of pretense and contradiction. And then I wander over, surrendering to the situation—what choice do I have? And she crinkles her nose as I draw near. Her revulsion is like the Fowler anthem, a song I know by heart. "Nicola was right about one thing. We intend for you to play dead for the night, but you don't have to take your role so seriously."

I pull out my collar, take a whiff, and I'm just as repulsed. I haven't had a real shower in forever—not since my liaison with Sam—and other circumstances, beyond my control, aren't easing the stench, either. "It's that damn potion Rosemary had me drink. Impression. I thought it was finally starting to wear off, but with basic hygiene out the window, it's stronger than ever. And by the way, I'm grateful and all, for this night off, but if I smell like the dead, it means you don't have a whole lot of faith in whatever plan you've hatched."

Blaise has Ivy and Rosemary's eyes, I notice, as she takes that in with a thoughtful nod. "There's an antidote we could look into. Maybe at a later date..."

Besides the eyes, Blaise is all her own. Ivy is shorter and curvy, Rosemary is tall and thin as a rail, and Blaise is an athletic in-between and chooses to go "bold" rather than "pretty." It's her tough, biker-girl style and wild hair. It's hacked fairly short and has bright red and white highlights that only she could make work.

"Until then, maybe we can use it to our advantage," Blaise continues. "We'll get to that..."

"All right, so . . . I'm about to die. I think I've known that for a while. Please, make it painless."

Blaise looks at me blankly, unmoved by my sense of humor, which I admit, has seen better days. "Faolan is going to 'rescue' us. Great news. You're the hero," she swivels toward him to say, and he absorbs it with a smirk, a cynical headshake, and a half-glass of wine. "And you." Blaise turns back to me. "Will get lost in the shuffle. But no body. You fell off a cliff or something. We'll all corroborate this. You'll be assumed dead, but we'll leave room for doubt, though not enough for Ishmael to revise tomorrow's agenda."

"What's happening tomorrow?" My gaze sweeps from Blaise to Faolan.

The three of them exchange looks, seemingly reluctant to answer. I pop a stack of pepperoni into my mouth and take a sip of wine while I wait. I'm so thirsty and on edge, but it's the only alcohol I'll allow myself tonight, just enough to wet my palette.

"The good news is," Blaise is the first to speak up. "It's the perfect storm for our purposes. The bad news is..."

"If we fail, Sam dies," Shilo concludes for her, picking out an apricot and a few nuts from the plate. "This is our first and only chance to get her out of there in time. The final ceremony begins at sundown."

The lump that's permanently lodged in my throat swells to the point it's hard to breathe. "It's sweet that you two are concerned," I choke out, "but she's one girl and I'm just a wolf with few friends. Everyone has an agenda and favors like this come at a cost. Isn't that right?" I look to Blaise.

"We're going to blame everything on you no matter what," she responds, unruffled, "and if you fail in your part, we can't necessarily help you. We can't go down with you. I'm sorry. It just has to be that way. If you do manage to escape—and we'll do everything we can to subtly sabotage their efforts to find you—I just ask for your future support."

"Support for what?" I'm closest to the fire and add another log to keep it robust and bright.

"I intend to kill Ishmael," Blaise reveals, like it would be easy and no big deal. "Or at least get him off the property . . . for good. A curse, maybe, if I find one that's feasible. And when the time comes, I'd like you to ensure its success. You make new friends, as many as you can gather, and I'll work my magic and come up with a plan. I'm not the amateur they've made me out to be. If we prevail, Shilo will retire, and I'll make you head of security. Sam is welcome to stay with you. We could rehab the barn or give you a decent room in the house. Is that something you think she'd agree to?"

I cough up a weak laugh. "I'm not so sure." For a whole lot of reasons I'd rather not get into. No matter what, I'd make sure she's safe somewhere, and wouldn't blame her at all if she never wants to see me or that house ever again. "That's all well and good, but what about the rest of the family? Aren't they loyal to Ishmael? Last I knew, you were, too."

"I've never been loyal to him," she affirms, quickly and grimly. "I just know how to play his game, and it's time for me to make my move and see how I fare. If I don't do something, I'll be forced to leave. We can't coexist peacefully. Although I don't agree with how she's going about it, Ivy's in the same boat. And Prue has cancer. She has a year or two, tops, and refuses to see a real doctor. Her elixirs only go so far."

"I'm sorry," I say as sympathetically as I can muster for a witch, who I've never been close to, in regard to her cunt of a mother, who deserves so much worse. "I didn't know."

"And then there's Rosemary," Blaise goes on, ignoring my half-hearted condolences. "I'll deal with her. We can't kill her or banish her if that's what you're thinking. She's more valuable, on the premises, than you know. Ishmael knows, but he takes her for granted. He treats her as a given, and I think we can steal her back. Once she's out from under his . . . control, let's say..." Blaise takes a moment to raise her eyebrows and turn to Shilo, who grasps onto her hand. They are clearly aware of what this involves, maybe more than Blaise would ever admit to anyone other than Shilo. "She'll be much better off. She may even thank us someday."

"What's so special about Rosemary?" I'm glad Faolan brought it up. I don't know either, but I didn't want to be the one to ask. It'd be wise to use my disdain sparingly, especially if there is an inkling of sisterly attachment, and Rosemary isn't worth it.

Faolan actually had a thing for her soon after he signed on for this job, not long after I started fooling around with Ivy, proving it was at least possible to gain a witch's favor in one manner, at least. But Rosemary basically told him she'd rather die, and I think, by now, Faolan's well and truly over it. I doubt Ishmael would have let that slide anyway. He has a clear favorite, and his narrow tolerance for such things was spread thin already. If Faolan had been more persistent or more successful, I seriously doubt he'd still be here.

"Nothing in particular." Blaise takes a breath, one of resignation, like she doesn't want to get into it.

We have a long night ahead of us and Rosemary, whether she's special or not and why, only seems loosely related. But, if it broadens our perspective for a better understanding, then maybe it's a story worth telling.

Blaise seems to consider this too and offers the abridged version of her sordid family history, something Ivy never bothered to do: "Long story short, the house is already cursed, and there's no known way to break it. It's supposed to be to our advantage—so no one can wipe us out and take what's ours—but in a way, it's a trap. A Fowler must be on the property at all times. Or it all goes up in flames. The trees, everything. There'd be nothing but ash and rubble. Rosemary is like the insurance policy. She'd be lost on the outside, anyway. It's how she's been raised, and I think she finds comfort in this as well—everything being provided. It's something I hope to break her of someday, as long as we can work out a schedule. I'd like to live there, too. In peace, where I'm my own keeper. It's my home. I belong there, but I don't ever want to feel stuck. And I refuse to live with Ishmael until I die. He's made it very clear he will never leave the property for more than a dark errand or two. And I'm sorry. I can't go on like that anymore. Rosemary will just have to deal, or..."

"You could give birth," I comment, considering other solutions for their dilemma, and then cringing, worried I overstepped a boundary.

"Right," Blaise scoffs in return. She's only twenty-one, and mating, especially in the conventional fashion, is not on her current agenda. "Or Rosemary could," she seems to insist. "She's been treated as the most likely candidate, assuming a healthy adult human male can be lured in and is up to the task. Then, at least, there's a fallback plan, but it's something Ishmael could exploit, too. He needs only one of us alive, technically. They're already planning Rosemary's union, despite her hysterics, every time it's mentioned. We'd all be disposable if Ishmael got his hands on a baby. Though, if I had my say, he'd never go near a child of my own blood, ever again."

This explains so much and yes, it's important. It's why Ishmael is so hard to get rid of, and why he does everything he can to ingratiate himself with more than one generation at a time. It's to be doubly sure, but it requires only one of them, and the younger the better. Blaise and Ivy don't have to like him, and at this point, Prue doesn't either. By "protecting" Rosemary, or whichever Fowler happens to be on the premises and amenable to his "good will," he's protecting his own wealth and legacy, and ensuring his personal success and happiness ...whatever that entails...

Vampires expect loyalty and practice promiscuity. Torture and death are optional, but they're sometimes desirable. In other words, Ishmael satisfies every dark craving, and any objection has consequences. The Fowlers, even if they had the inclination or power to remove him, they'd think twice. He's made himself indispensable.

In a house where darkness tends to reign anyway, or has until now, where Blaise is finally calling foul, then perhaps Ishmael's conduct wouldn't seem so awful to the mistress of the era, especially if she gets something in return. In Prue's case, it might be money. Security, perhaps, too. She's known to hate everyone, and Ishmael would both feed and alleviate this compulsion.

As far as I'm aware, Ishmael swooped in to save the day with impeccable timing. Funds were low. Local suspicion was high. And to Prue, a daughter—or two or three? At what age? I'd rather not even speculate. In any case, whatever he desired, it would be a fair exchange.

"Where does Ivy fit into all this?" I make sure to ask now that the time seems right. "And why Sam? And why now?"

"Those are good questions," Blaise answers. "Ivy doesn't want to be anywhere near here. She's always had this chip on her shoulder, like she's better than everyone and has somehow earned the right to go anywhere and do anything. Early on, Prue and Ishmael tried to break her of this tendency, but it backfired. Over time, Ivy won them over. She's unfortunately but undeniably the most gifted witch in our region. And Prue is both vengeful and proud. Every naysayer, she needs them to know how great Ivy is doing. For Ivy, it's a golden ticket out of here. I don't hold that against her. It's just..."

"Who she's aligning herself with to get there." Shilo finishes another one of Blaise's sentences and does so while she's tinkering with a strand of Blaise's hair.

They're a more functional couple than Ivy and I ever were. There is affection, respect, and balance. I'm surprised I never noticed before. I guess Ivy was too all-consuming. I couldn't see beyond the length of my own dick.

The sneaking around. The urgency and depravity. It was never honorable, but at least I got something out of my relationship with her . . . in the beginning. But, it didn't take long for that dirty well of water to dry into a plot of caked mud.

I hate to admit this, but yes, as far as relationships go, I've done worse, in almost every example. It's why Ivy was so appealing in the first place...

"And who's Ivy in with now?" Faolan turns to Blaise while I'm still dwelling on my many regrets. "I thought it was Rollin."

"Nope. He was yesterday's news. You know how witches can't give birth to a male unless she mates with a warlock?" she prompts the two of us.

Faolan and I exchange glances. "Yes?" I question rather than answer. I knew that, but I'm not sure Faolan does. He didn't exactly absorb the nuances of their breeding while he was bedding a witch, well aware of the limitations. Ivy and I weren't compatible in that way, something that was always pretty safe to assume. I may be half human, but still, a pregnancy never happened, not even a scare—as far as I'm aware—and no precautions were ever taken.

"And you know how rare they are?" she inquires further.

"Very," I reply, firmly this time. "Ivy used to complain. Humans are her only feasible option for mating and they don't appeal to her, whatsoever. I suppose that's why she stooped to my level for more than ten minutes."

"Right, well . . . sorry to say, she was always holding out for something. . ."

"Better?" I fill in.

What a bitch. Ivy was warlock-hunting while she was still screwing me, using me, and telling me what to do. I was securing her future with some other male, and she had the nerve to make me feel guilty about Sam, like I did something wrong. By design, I was supposed to end up alone and heartbroken no matter what, and with an innocent girl's death on my conscience, because, yes, I actually have one.

How did she ever trick me into agreeing to this? Was I really that blind? Or weak? Or stupid?

Blaise peaks an eyebrow at my tone, the downward shift of my mood, as well as the interruption, and it reminds me so much of Ivy that I almost gag.

"I was going to say excessively rich and powerful," she corrects me, fortunately just annoyed. "A prominent witch-warlock family in Prague. The Maleceks have made an appeal for apprentices. It's the first time in over half a century. They have five sons—the eldest is mated, with an heir on the way, the second is newly promised—to an American witch. That's why Ivy and my mother are in Pennsylvania right now—some congratulatory farmhouse soiree. Ivy is high up in the application process and scored herself an invitation.

"By the winter solstice, they'll have their final group together. In Prague, they're gathering the best, brightest, and most beautiful . . . in their castle. And they take only, like, ten or so, from around the world. The training will be rigorous, but it'll also be a fight, almost to the death, for a place in that family—only three official chances left. Education, training, the academy? Call it what they will, it's still a meat market for their single sons. Even the mated ones are known to dabble with the bottom tier, or higher if they prefer controversy and competition. They're selective in regard to their heirs, though—their legitimacy and how many they put out. Any undesirable aftereffects will be expunged, but it's allegedly an honor, regardless.

"The witches have to pass a series of tests before they can even walk through their door, though. It's been gradual for Ivy, over the course of a couple of years. So far, she's passing with flying colors. Sam is the final challenge. If all goes well, Ivy will probably receive her acceptance letter soon. Rosemary has expressed an interest too, but she can't get it together, no matter how hard she tries. She's a year behind, at least, and the deadline is December 1st. No one actually believes she has what it takes. She's starting to come to terms with that herself, and it's not going so well. It's probably for the best, though. She's too sheltered and out of touch with reality, and we need her to stay home."

Blaise takes a wine break. She finishes her glass and pours herself another splash.

"Is it just a demon possession? The final task?" I speak up when it appears she's ready to continue. "Is it already too late for Sam?"

"I honestly don't know." Blaise takes a long, slow gulp. I don't know if it's a thoughtful, or apprehensive, or an uncertain pause. For some reason, though, she's not very eager to answer me. "There is a 'bridge' she must form with the 'victor.'"

"Yes, I saw that."

"You were there?" When I nod, she puts away the surprise and nods once in reply. "I don't know exactly what the bridge entails . . . you may know more than I do. I think the goal, though, is a cambion."

"A what?" Shilo asks her.

I look to Blaise for an answer as well. I thought I've seen, done, and heard it all, and yet, something new manages to take hold of the conversation.

"It's a demon-human hybrid," she informs us. "For the most part, demons reside in Hell. They need some kind of portal or vessel to cross over. A cambion would look like a human, live in our world, and yet possess some of their father's powers. It's a challenging series of potions and spells, but the worst is over for Ivy. Copulation is undoubtedly a go, and fertilization is allegedly a guarantee. They're practically celebrating already. It all resumes tomorrow night. Gestation is an ugly three-day process, and Sam, I hate to say, won't survive the spawning, or so I've heard...

"It's been dinner conversation for weeks. Ivy used to be bearable, but it's all she talks about. It's who she is now. And she expects—demands, really—that we contribute to this process and show gratitude for the doors it will allegedly open for everyone involved. The Maleceks are like royalty, well known and feared in every supernatural circle."

Yes, even I have heard of them...

They have penthouses and estates all over the world, speak every reputable language, and like the cartel or Mafia, they have their tendrils infiltrating every dishonorable business in every version of the underworld that you could think of. You don't want to cross them.

And the fact that Ivy would kill an innocent girl for just a chance to associate with them...

This is all so much broader and fouler than I would have ever imagined. Sad to say, Ishmael is the least of my problems...

"According to the slew of text messages that I haven't answered," Blaise resumes. "My presence has been requested—the loyal, supportive sister, who will, according to my mother, absorb some fraction of Ivy's greatness by association. The pride of our family even hit it off with the fourth son at the party last night. He and his family were invited to my house for dinner tomorrow. And much to everyone's surprise, his mother and younger brother accepted as well, and they all plan to attend the ceremony afterwards. Assuming my mother is a reliable source, a Prince of the Inferno is something the Maleceks have never witnessed before. And I'm sure they've seen and done every diabolical thing under the sun and moon...

"There will be a lot of clout and power under our roof tomorrow, but they'll also be distracted, Ishmael included. He's the only one who can cook at the quality the Maleceks are accustomed to. The good news is, he won't be sitting by the cameras all day. Sneaking around them won't be an easy task, but . . . it's all you've got. Once that demon seed is in that clean womb . . . there's no turning back..."

I crack my knuckles and gobble down the rest of the meat and cheese, while I have the chance. It could be the last time I see prepared food for a while. If it means I've set Sam free and we're on the run, I can certainly make my peace with that.

"All right, so..." I begin again, after swallowing a hearty mouthful. "What's the plan?"