Something I’ve never seen in these parts before.

Not even in the deepest depths of the Shadowland.

It grows dark.

Okay, maybe not pitch-black dark, but still dark. Or at the very least, dim.

Like the beginning of nightfall, or the gloaming as it’s called.

That eerie, gloomy moment when everything becomes a silhouette of itself.

That eerie, gloomy moment when it’s hard to distinguish individual objects from the shadows they cast.

I stop, my foot slipping, sending a flurry of rocks over the side, knowing that could’ve been me. My heart hammering furiously as I gather myself, gather my limbs, give myself a quick once-over, and ensure I’m okay.

“I don’t like this,” I say, my voice breaking the silence until it echoes all around me. Having now officially joined the ranks of all the other crazy people who talk to themselves. “Between the dark and that fog up ahead…” I frown, seeing the way the trail abruptly halts into a thick cloud of murky white mist that rises up from seemingly out of nowhere. Giving no indication of what might lie just beyond, and certainly providing no sign of the tree, no hint that I’m even on the right path. “This doesn’t look good,” I add, my voice so ominous it worsens my unease.

I glance all around, wondering what to do now. Observing the way the fog seems to grow and expand and slither straight toward me, pulsing in a way that makes it seem vital, alive. The sight of it making me wonder if I should maybe backtrack a bit, find a place where it’s clear and hang out ’til it lifts. But then I hesitate for so long the next thing I know it’s too late.

The mist is already here. Already upon me.

Having crept up so fast I’m swallowed in an instant. Lost in a swirl of white, drizzly haze as my fingers reach, grasp, and claw frantically, trying to get my bearings, to clear even a small bit out of my way.

But it’s no use. I’m drowning in a sea of white vapor that presses down all around. Stifling a scream when I lift my hands before me and realize I can’t even see my own fingers.

No longer sure which way is forward, which way is back, I reach for my flashlight and set it on low, but it doesn’t help. Doesn’t make a dent in this fog. And I’m veering dangerously close to succumbing to a raging, full-blown, meltdown panic attack, when I hear him.

A distant voice that drifts toward me, creeping up from behind. The sound of it prompting me to cry out, to shout his name as loud as I can. My tone thready, high-pitched, letting him know that I’m here, that I won’t move, that I’ll wait until he finds me.

Heaving a huge sob of relief when I feel the grab of his fingers, his hand on my sleeve, gripping tightly, pulling me to him.

I huddle deep into the curve of his arms, bury my face in his chest, and press my forehead tightly to his neck, only to discover too late that it’s not Damen who holds me.

Chapter twenty-nine

“Ever.”

His cheek presses into my hair as his lips seek my ear, and though the voice is certainly male, it’s not one I recognize.

The mist continues to gather—rendering it impossible for me to determine just who the voice belongs to. His body pressing, conforming against mine, as I squinch my eyes shut, try to peer inside his head, but get nowhere fast. Whoever this is, he’s learned to put up one heck of a shield against such attacks.

I pull back, struggle to break free, but it’s no use. He’s unfeasibly strong and continues to cling like a drowning man intent on dragging me along.

“Careful,” he says, his face shifting, allowing for a gust of cold breath to blast all the way down the length of my neck, as the push of his fingers radiates through my clothes.

Cold breath.

Colder fingers.

Unusual strength.

Thoughts I can’t hear.

Can only mean one thing.

“Marco?” I venture, wondering if it means that Misa’s here too since I rarely see them without each other.

“Hardly.” Chasing the word with a deep, scathing laugh that seems more than a little inappropriate considering the circumstances we find ourselves in.

“Then who…” I start, wondering if it’s one of the other immortals Roman might’ve turned, though it’s not long before he supplies the answer for me.

“Rafe,” he says, his voice low and deep. “You may not remember me, but we’ve met once or twice. Though always casually, never formally.”

I swallow hard, having no idea if that’s good news or bad. He’s always been a bit of an enigma, though I don’t dwell on it long. My main concern is breaking out of his grip. The rest will follow.

“I hope I didn’t scare you.” He loosens his hold just a little, but only a little, not enough to grant me my freedom. “I lost my footing. Fell deep into the canyon back there. Luckily for me, I didn’t hit bottom—assuming there is a bottom. Instead I got hung up on an outcropping of rocks, then spent what seems like just shy of forever finding my way back up the side. Which, by the way, is a lot easier said than done when you can’t see a bloody thing. Went through so many seasons, I lost track. Anyway, I was just about to give up, set up camp, or more accurately hang on to what little I could until the fog clears, when I heard footsteps, your voice, and well, it gave me just the incentive I needed to climb faster and find my way to safety. Just knowing I was no longer alone in this godforsaken place made it easier. But, I have to tell you, Ever, I’m a bit surprised to find you here on your own, I thought for sure you’d be with Damen. So who were you talking to anyway? Yourself?”