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There’s a light tap at the door, followed by Patrick’s servant’s cautious entry.

“Sir.”

Connall is a large man who is more intelligent than any of the others Patrick has entertained in his inner circle. He’s the son of someone long gone from his life and mind, but Patrick appreciates that he always offers the proper deference.

“Mmm.”

“Sharice Leger is here.” The man bows, remaining low, and waits for Patrick to finish the last of his black tea. He revels in making both of them wait. Power has always been Patrick’s drug of choice, and he finds immense pleasure in exerting it even in the most infinitesimal ways.

When only the dregs remain and he shows his employee and the person on the other side of the door that Patrick Carnell controls time, he nods at Connall to let the waiting oracle in.

The woman who enters is timeless and robust. She carries herself with the air of someone who knows everything about everyone.

Yet, here she is at his beck and call. It sends a thrill racing down his spine that he can make her come to him in the middle of a national holiday, dressed in her festive holiday sweater and fresh from her family.

“Sharice,” Patrick says, no respect offered, a reminder that this woman is his servant and, despite her superior demeanor, she knows it.

She nods as the ceiling fan wafts her patchouli scent his way. It’s sour with either annoyance or fear, which is even better. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Carnell. How can I be of service on this fine day? ”

Patrick leaves her standing in the center of his office and offers no refreshment while he perches on the edge of his desk.

He had a single question, and it could not wait.

“My wife would like to take my son to the mountains indefinitely. I’m inclined to…

disagree.” Disagree was an understatement, but Eleanor hasn’t asked yet; he’s only gleaned the information from a servant in her home, and although he has an affection for his fated mate, Allistair is everything.

Allistair will be the next Were King. Sharice has prophesied just that. Well, not in as many words, but Patrick is nothing if not intuitive…and ruthless in pursuit of his chosen drug.

Patrick will do whatever it takes to fulfill his destiny, despite the costs. Using Sharice Leger’s soul to pursue it is an easy choice. The human is an oracle, a magic user who uses her soul to power her visions. At his request, of course.

Soul Magic. Patrick gnashes his teeth. To have such power in the hands of the inferior race is an affront to everything Patrick stands for.

That he has to ask a human for information he should be able to obtain for himself aggravates him and kills the small surge of joy he’d initially felt at manipulating her.

It’s only made palatable by the fact that he could have her entire family decimated with a single phone call.

He might very well do it anyway. A present to himself to celebrate the holiday.

The human just nods, resigned, and centers herself.

It’s a familiar stance, and when her eyes roll back and she falls to the floor, Patrick makes no effort to catch her or ease her hard landing.

He hears her head hit the carpet and hopes this time she doesn’t bleed.

He’d had to take the cost of its cleaning out of her son’s hide the last time, and it had been inconvenient to find a time and place for the boy to recover and for Patrick to restrain himself.

Humans are so fragile, with lives so fleeting.

He receives three texts while she’s unconscious, and none of them make the burning anger cease its perpetual roiling under his skin. So when she comes to, forty minutes later, he’s already in a simmering rage.

“Yes,” she slurs, coughing over a dry throat and a thick tongue.

“Yes? Yes, I must let him go, or yes, I must make them stay. Which is it?” He’s already waited too long, and his patience has worn thin.

She blinks several times and responds, her voice stronger, more profound, and not at all her own.

One must go, and one must stay.

The Moon moves across the sky, and He will return.

Bringing vengeance and light

Infinite power, behold! Eight!

In their fates, light and dark are bound

A father’s fate sealed in shadow

One must go, and one must stay

One will die, and so, too, will you.

Patrick’s antique letter opener is in his hand and through her eye without a second thought. He cannot possibly be blamed for perceiving her words as a threat, though he does have some remorse when she hits the carpet for the second time.

After all, he will have to find another oracle and make time to see Sharice’s son again, because there’s no way the blood is coming out of his favorite carpet now.