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They must have slain her.

His eyes slid shut, his head falling back against the cave wall. Centuries ago at a bazaar, he’d bought the stingerling on the promise that she would grow no more than fifty pounds in weight. Three thousand pounds later . . .

He’d cherished her. Now she was gone.

Silt would avenge her—and himself. Yet how? Surprisingly, his sorcery wasn’t bound in this realm, but he sensed no deposits of sand here. All he had was the handful in his pocket. When he tried to connect with those grains, his weakened magic sputtered?—

His breaths condensed again. The Gaolers were returning! Boiling with hatred, he tensed to attack . . . but was frozen in place. . . .

When his movements were restored and his breaths cleared, a female lay unconscious on the cave floor across from him. The Gaolers had entered, dumped her, then left, without Silt seeing a thing.

Fucking despise them!Impotent fury pumped inside him with the force of a drug.

Gritting his teeth, he assessed the new prisoner. The female’s long blond hair was loose, her features comely. Though she had dark circles under her eyes, she was attractive, in a pale and bloodless way. Pointed ears indicated she was fey, yet the hint of fangs he spied through her parted lips suggested vampire.

He hadn’t seen a female one in memory. He’d never felt much animosity toward that species, but now . . .

Resentment seethed.

He could easily guess what crime had landed her here. His research on this place and the Gaolers had revealed that most of their captures were immortals who hunted humans.

She moaned and rolled onto her back. She wore loose-fitting pants, sturdy boots, and a novelty T-shirt that read:Braless Babes on Bourbon Street!

A rallying cry he could get behind. He was a typical male; his resentment toward her lessened a touch, and curiosity urged him to go investigate her. His quaking body made him rethink such an ambitious plan.

He’d only ever experienced these bone-racking shudders and nausea during his sole attempt to quit dragon’s breath hundreds of years ago. So he waited for her to wake, as what must have been hours passed by. Never taking his gaze off her face, he was watching when her eyes flashed open.

Her peculiar irises shifted from violet to reddish-purple. Reddened eyes. A maneater.

“Who are you?” With full alertness, she swept to her feet. “Where am I?”

Even in his state, he noted she was fair of form, with pert breasts, a narrow waist, and shapely hips. The draped material of her pants clung to long, toned legs. “I’m Silt Harea, the King of Sand, a sorcerer without equal.” Two out of three were true.

Her gaze dipped to his tattooed chest, and her cheeks heated. “For how long was I unconscious, sorcerer?”

Her imperious tone irritated him, and her accent reminded him of something he couldn’t quite place. “Hours. Centuries. Who knows? Time doesn’t matter anymore.” He attempted to control his shaking, but shudders racked him.

Nightside.He was actually here.In hell.

“What’s nightside?”

He must’ve spoken aloud. Brain recoiling with horror, he muttered, “Immortal jail.”

“It’s always a jail, isn’t it? My uncle escaped from one not long ago. Though humans ran that one.”

“Immortals must be contained.”But notme.

“Not me,” she said, echoing his thoughts. She turned her attention to the opening of the cave. “When will the sun rise in this place?”

“It won’t.”The dead have no need of light.

“So Nightside comes by its name naturally. Well, at least there’s that.”

He started sweating as more dragon’s breath left his body; it was all but flipping tables inside him on its way out. “Can you teleport, vampire?”

She shook her head, and a tendril tumbled over her forehead. She tucked it behind a pointed ear. “I just tried. My tracing doesn’t work here.”

Of course it wouldn’t. This prison realm would be mystically protected against such an easy escape. Nightside offerednoescape. Which was why Silt had dreaded this day so much.