Prologue

“Don’t worry, Meg.” The voice murmured low, low enough that Jase imagined he was not supposed to hear it. He could, though, almost inexplicably.

Heated fog.

Murky light.

Felicity’s voice. Felicity and Meg? How was that possible?

He could just make out the silhouette of the tall, slender woman—no longer a succubus, but a changeling, strange and unearthly as she led away Jase’s sister—his heart.

“Come with me—beyond his reach.”

Meg joined the other children—Felicity’s children? —as they faded past his vision to where he could just make out the laughter – his daughter’s laughter? - the sound of life. Not for him.

A weight pressed on his chest, burning coals, a furnace, but black and vague. Nothing to grasp. Nothing to shove away. No hope of relief.

When something cool slid into the curve of his neck, relief radiated from the spot, raising the edge of the unwieldy fire burning him to ashes.

Had she changed her mind? Had she come back?

Or maybe she would just lead him to the respite of death…

“Felicity?”

The hand on his neck trembled, and cool breath puffed out over his cheek as another hand slid under his opposite shoulder, struggling as it tugged him upward.

“One minute,” he complained, but the words came out in a slur. Still, he tightened his muscles to assist the arms that fought to bring him upright.

Finally, he sat at the edge of a bed—hadn’t he just been in Myanmar? Just outside the compound? Lying among the reeds, in a Burmese swamp?

But why would Felicity be there? The hallucination of Meg had visited him there several times, but not Felicity.

No, he hadn’t been in the swamp. He was in a hotel room.

Someone was pressing soft, cool hands against his feverish cheeks.

“Ay, mi vida, ¿qué te has hecho?”

Her life? This person called him her life?

“Bah, tu as une vie tragique !”

“A tragic life?” the voice snapped before beginning a barrage of Spanish words that Jase could have understood had he been in his right mind. “¡Idiota! Si supieras lo aterrorizada que he estado, cuánto tiempo te estuve buscando. ¿Y te pones a hacer bromas ahora? Debería atarte a la cama y a fuerza hacerte tomar la cura para la resaca de la abuela que sabe a vinagre hasta que prometas portarte bien.”

That was a lot of words in a language…he thought he spoke, but it wasn’t his normal one. He was pretty sure the tirade involved the promise to tie him to a bed and feed him vinegar. By the time she finished, she had slipped his shirt back over his head, slid his shoes on his feet and tied them, and seated herself beside him on the bed where she slung one of his arms over her shoulder so she could try to lift him to his feet.

Again, he took pity on her, and though he wobbled, he managed to stay upright with her help. “Une vie tragique…” he mumbled as he closed his eyes again to get his bearings.

All at once, the words settled in his ears, and his stomach clutched in fear—in hope, in gratitude, in horror—not the changeling, not the regret, not the proof of his failure.

The realization rushed out in a terse breath. “Nessa…”

His wife.

His life.