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Pulling on The Plain in increments and funneling the cool light back along their bond, Nix hums in relief not long after, and eventually, Jay’s hitching breaths slow until he drifts into an exhausted sleep.

Huh. It might have been a coincidence, but the squeeze to his hand from his soulmate made Grayson think that maybe it wasn’t just his imagination.

With them finally all together, the pack follows, slipping into slumber—some from exhaustion, others lulled by the strange but welcome sense of security that Nimue’s small protections had woven around their temporary den.

***

At first, Grayson thinks it’s a memory—one of those too-bright dreams that start before you’re fully under.

And bright it is.

He’s dreaming of bright sunshine, heat, and the brilliant turquoise of a very expensive swimming pool. A table sits in front of the hedge-edged flower bed where Grayson stands—bare feet in cool black soil—and on it, there is a tea tray set. The set includes a single blue-black and gold teacup and a single raisin scone on a plate that matches the cup.

A loud splash pulls his attention away, and Grayson turns his head in time to see a pair of bony feet break the surface of the pool. He wonders if this might be another one of his dreams, but every time he’s had one in the past, his pack has always been present, at least in part.

What had he been thinking of before he’d dreamed of this place? And why is he alone?

Before, his dreams had always turned toward historical settings. Places his mind could recall through time, and he’d thought it was just his active imagination.

But in retrospect, when they’d been at the first safe house and that Arcanas—because that’s what the human man had been—had somehow been looking for them, Grayson had unknowingly been accessing The Plain. The dreams were magical, and no, that’s not hyperbole.

But this feels different.

The younger man hadn’t expected to find Grayson right there but certainly hadn’t passed up the opportunity to try to hold him immobile while Carnell sent reinforcements. Panicked, Grayson had yanked on his connection to Nix to save himself, nearly drawing too much from The Plain through their soul to do it.

It’s because Grayson doesn’t know how to regulate the flow yet. Nimue had shown him how to metaphysically tie a knot in it. (Ha, yes, she had laughed too.) It wasn’t enough to stem the flood entirely, just slow it down, so he didn’t cause irreparable harm.

So, this feels something like that, but much more controlled, more on purpose. Grayson can feel a trickle of power deep in the center of his brain. Not unlike that moment before the Arcanas had yanked on Grayson’s magic, but also different from any dream he’s had before.

The soil under his toes is cool, as if the plants had been watered recently, and the screen of bushes in front of him is perfectly trimmed. The most recent pruning is clear in the edges of raw wood in front of his nose.

“Aleksander Withers, you bring news?” a voice from his right asks, and there, in the tiniest white swimsuit Grayson has ever had the misfortune to see, is Patrick Carnell, toweling himself off. His body is lean, with olive-tonedskin revealing muscle and sinew over heavy bones. He’s almost as tall as Rowan, but it’s more than size that makes him move with the confidence of a man used to having everyone anticipate his needs.

Grayson’s heart rate spikes so sharply that he feels woozy, and he sways, nearly crashing into the bushes in front of him. Carelessly, he sticks out a hand to brace himself on the hedge, but it slides through.

Fuck, thank the Goddess.It’s a dream—just a dream.

But the waxy green leaves are cool under his fingertips, too. How is that possible? How can he be here but not here?

Slowing his panicked heart with a deep breath, he watches as Carnell throws a towel over a lounge chair. He doesn’t bat an eyelid in Grayson’s direction, and Grayson is so grateful that he hasn’t somehow teleported from the safe house to wherever Carnell has been hiding in Clearwater.

Teleportation—ha, what is his life now?

How he would explain that to Gideon does not bear thinking about.

As it turns out, Grayson’s relief is short-lived. Carnell’s visitor, Aleksander, is the magic user who had nearly killed both Grayson and Nix with his reckless attempt to restrain them.

He’s almost unrecognizable in such a short time. Where he once appeared young and healthy, that illusion is gone. Now, he’s gaunt—much like his employer—with stringy blond hair and sunken, nearly black eyes.

He’s a walking skeleton, missing two teeth, and when Grayson breathes deeply, he can smell decay beneath his father-in-law’s slimy olive oil scent. It’s as if something is devouring him from within. Even Nimue’s descriptions of the effects of drawing on The Plain with evil in your soul couldn’t possibly account for such rapid deterioration.Right?

Is Withers using dark soul magic?

That thought lands like a stone in Grayson’s gut, followed by another:this is not a dream.

There’s no way he could imagine that scent, not from the billions available to a Were’s nose. It’s pure corruption, exactly what Nimue described.

Freezing, Grayson is immobilized for an instant, wondering how he got here. Whether they can see him—smellhim—but neither man pays hishiding spot in the bushes any notice.