Chapter One

      Arazael—known as Raze the Ruiner to the rightfully wary inhabitants of the phaedrealii, the court of the magical phae—braced his back against the cold marble wall, staring at the iron door in front of him.

      “It is over at last,” he murmured. “After all the battles we survived together, I am done.” As he sank wearily to his haunches, the athame belted at his side clacked against the floor. The pristine white stone made the black iron even darker.

      Raze was close enough that the cold-wrought metal bit at him, though he was not technically on the barricaded side and could have dragged his sorry ass down the corridor to escape the painful burn. In the sunlit realm, iron had given way to steel as the humans forgot the vicious wars that had decimated the phae. But here in the Queen’s dungeon, the torture of black iron was never forgotten.

      He was the thrice-damned bastard who made sure of that.

      A vein of darkness stained the white marble floor in a rough circle around the iron: the remnant of a ruined gateway that had once connected the phaedrealii to the human world. Two phae had escaped the court through that portal and now lived in the sunlight, their rebellion feeding a troubling restlessness in the court.

      A rebellion that had to be crushed.

      As if in answer to his thoughts, a crack appeared in the marble and traced the circular vestige of the portal, spreading in both directions, seeking an out. But the fissure found only itself as it reached the opposite side of the ring. Frost flowers bloomed in the wake. The delicate silvery tendrils of ice sparkled with poison salt.

      “There is no out,” Raze said to the black iron. As if either of them needed the reminder.

      The frost curdled, streaking the marble with improbable drops of crimson as it melted.

      Averting his gaze from the iron and its caged fury, Raze drew his athame. The geas symbols carved into the steel refracted the flitting lights of the few will-o’-the-wisps who had followed him this far. He stripped off his gray gloves and pushed back his gray sleeve to bare his muscled forearm, revealing more geasa carved into his skin.

      A few of the wounds were still raw. It had taken even longer than he’d feared and it was almost too late, but he’d finally marked every portal in the phaedrealii where the dangers of the sunlit realm might seep in—and where the even more dangerous phae might sneak out. His long-wrought spell needed only one last element: him.

      “I’m sorry, my King. There was—there is no other way to save the phae.”

      As the pool of blood and saltwater tears seeped toward him, he set the blade against the tangle of geasa scarred into his wrist.

      * * *

      Yelena Morozova counted the empty shot glasses in front of her. There were a lot. Or she was seeing double. Either was a bad sign since for all the best, fiery efforts of the high-powered home-distilled whiskey, she still felt the cold knot deep inside her. Maybe another shot. Or seven...

      “Party’s over.” A hand reached over her shoulder to pluck up the bottle.

      She whirled to set her back against the bar, her pulse pounding.

      Beck straightened slowly, his palm held out in an appeasing gesture. “Sorry. Too fast.”

      Behind him, Merrilee bustled past the pool table with a tub of rattling tall boys. “Silly Alpha, you should know better.”

      Yelena let out a hitching breath. When she’d emailed Beck Villanova to see how he was recovering from his injuries, he’d talked about the peace he’d found back in his small Eastern Oregon hometown with his new girlfriend. He’d lured Yelena with the promise of long winter nights, much like her motherland, where she might find her idealistic dreams again. She’d gone, hoping he’d be right, knowing he wasn’t.

      Instead, for the past week, she’d imbibed too much at Beck’s Sun-Down Tavern—as an NGO volunteer, she’d learned to drink army boys like him under the table—then spent the rest of her sleepless hours wandering around the chilled forest, the November wind nipping at her skin.

      But no matter how much skin she exposed, no matter how the cold chomped down, still the verita luna—the Second Truth that was her wereling heritage—evaded her.

      She’d been at the same hospital where they’d brought Beck with the wounds that had ended his military days, but she’d known even then his injuries weren’t as bad as hers. Shredded muscle and broken bones would heal, especially for a strong Alpha wolf like Beck, but her damage, though unseen, went deeper.

      That cold at her heart sapped even a hint of hope. “If I fall to the il-luna, you’ll stop