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  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  About Allison Pang

  To Dan. Because of reasons. :”)

  Acknowledgments

  Every time I write a book, I always feel so humbled at the people who have supported me during the creative process. (And the lists just seem to get longer as I go.)

  To my editor, Adam Wilson, and the fine folks at Pocket—I always roll a 20 to crit. Just saying.

  To my agent, Suzie Townsend—As always, thanks for all your support and continuing to believe in me.

  To Danielle Poiesz—I count myself blessed for knowing you. And there’s no one else I’d rather make unicorn poop cookies with.

  To Jess Haines for things better left unsaid. ;-) And mustaches.

  To Sarah Cannon—Beta reader and line editor and general commiserator. Also? I rescued her cat from a tree once. Because I am awesome.

  To PJ Schnyder—Thanks for all the ballet lessons. ;-)

  To Marcus Wolf, guitarist par excellence—Thanks for putting up with musical questions both serious and silly and for answering them all without missing a beat. Rock on, my friend.

  To Jeffe Kennedy, who has always been there for me during this incredible journey—and to the rest of my fellow Word Whores for all their continued support.

  To the League of Reluctant Adults—Where else can I have snarky conversations about demon peen, honestly?

  To the Chatterbox—You ladies constantly amaze me. Thank you.

  To Darchala Chaoswind—For all the pretty pictures that somehow always manage to capture my characters so perfectly.

  To Irma “Aimo” Ahmed—For secret pictures and private stories that make me smile, and for sad sausage dogs.

  Three Paths align

  When the Wild Hunt calls

  The CrossRoads will crumble

  When Eildon Tree falls.

  One

  The fog eddied from the darkness to cocoon me in a soft haze. Something niggled at the back of my mind as I glanced down at my bare feet. They were swallowed below my calves by the mist, but the crunch of sand under my toes felt familiar. The hiss of waves slapped against the edge of a nearby shore.

  The rolling scent of brine slipped past on a tattered breeze. Drawn toward the sound of water, I pressed forward, an uneasy chill sending clammy fingers skittering over my skin.

  Wrapping my arms around my shoulders, I realized I was naked.

  And yet a moment later, a silk dress draped over my limbs, falling to midcalf. It should have felt strange, to know the merest of thoughts took shape here . . . but it didn’t. My feet brushed the edges of the wet sand and I paused. I could see nothing beyond the darkness, but the warmth of the water lured me, beckoning with a soft whisper.

  Flickers of memory flared up and slid away, the barest hint of scales and a cradle of blue luminescence taking form, but I shook my head and the thought swirled out of reach. Ridiculous idea, anyway. I’d never even seen a mermaid.

  Another step and the foam crested past my ankles.

  I hesitated.

  Abby. A name, whispered upon the breeze. The waves rushed forward, the sudden undertow sucking me into the sand as though it might drag me into its depths. I stumbled, only to be pulled back by a hand upon my wrist.

  I glanced over my shoulder, frowning as I made out the features of a man. Ebony hair whipped about his pale face; he gazed down at me, eyes haunted and aching and terrible. I didn’t recognize him, and yet his presence radiated like a beacon of comfort in the darkness.

  Immediately the waves receded, leaving us in guarded silence. He stared at me a moment longer. When I said nothing, something like grief creased the corners of his mouth.

  “If you enter the sea you will be devoured,” he said finally.

  “Devoured?” I could only watch as the fog lifted at the slight motion of his hand. I saw fins cutting through the surf; the moonlight shattered the darkness to reveal the sharks, shining like living blades in the murk.

  I swallowed hard at my own folly. “Thank you,” I murmured, my fingers finding his in the shadows to squeeze them. Abruptly he pulled away, his breath hissing as though I’d burned him.

  “Who are you? Do you know where we are?”

  “You’re dreaming, Abby.” His lips pursed mockingly. “And I am but a shadow.” At my puzzled look, he sighed. “It will be safer for you away from here. Follow me.”

  Before us lay tall cliffs and a worn path of sand and sea grass, a series of rocky switchbacks leading to somewhere.

  “Do you have a name?” The words slipped out before I meant them to, but I dutifully trailed in his wake, bunching the dress at my hips to climb up the bluff.

  “If you do not know it, I cannot tell you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I know,” he muttered, a hint of irritation in his voice. “Believe me when I tell you this is not the way things were supposed to have been, but we have no other choice.” He glanced over his shoulder at me. “And we have very little time left.” As though to emphasize the point, he reached to take my hand, helping me over a piece of driftwood. Now his fingers entwined with mine. A wash of heat swept through me.

  “I don’t ever remember having such a lucid dream before,” I said.

  His grip tightened, but he said nothing in return, leading us up the cliff and down a winding path until we came to an iron gate. It was overgrown by high weeds, shut tightly with a lock.

  My inner voice was strangely silent. If it knew something, it clearly wasn’t planning on saying anything. I frowned at the gate, reaching out to stroke the rusted flakes with a curious finger. The metal chilled my hands to the bone and I got a sense of unhappiness from it.

  Which was ridiculous. This was a dream, wasn’t it? Inanimate objects didn’t have feelings.

  “Knock it off,” I told it, blinking when the gate snapped open, letting out a long-suffering creak.

  “One problem solved.” The man’s eyes slid sideways toward me as I gazed up at the dilapidated house.

  A once-stately Victorian construct, the place had seen better days. The shutters hung haphazardly and the paint peeled from the siding like strips of tattered paper. The rotting steps made a dubious whimper as we mounted them and headed for the outer porch.

  “What a dump,” I said.

  The stranger flinched, releasing my arm, and an unexplainable sorrow lanced through me.

  “I just meant as far as dreams go,” I amended hastily, somehow wanting his approval despite myself. “I mean, I live in a friggin’ tree palace right now . . . you’d think I’d be dreaming with slightly higher standards.”

  “You’d think,” he retorted. Abruptly he turned
toward me. “Who are you?”

  “You already know my name. You said it back there. Which reminds me, how do you know who I am?” It seemed like a fair enough question for a dream.

  “Name tag.” He pointed to my chest. Sure enough, I glanced down to see it—a simple little plastic rectangle, the letters spelling out ABBY SINCLAIR in lopsided relief.

  I frowned. “That wasn’t there before.”

  He gestured about us. “Dreaming, remember? Shall we go inside?”

  I shrugged, intrigued. “I guess.” I doubted there would be anything of interest in this run-down piece of crap, but I couldn’t remember another dream taking hold of my mind so vividly. Might as well let it play out.

  The door opened beneath my touch and I crossed the threshold with a slight twitch of nervousness. For all my brave thoughts, it was still a creepy old house, not counting the stranger, who shadowed my steps with an aura of expectancy.

  Inside was nothing special—hardwood floors and dusty shelves, lights flickering as though they might go out at any moment. “I wonder if there’s a fuse box somewhere.”

  “I doubt it.” He glanced at me with a ripple of amusement and I flushed.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I muttered. Ignoring him, I continued walking until I stood in what looked like a family room. The fireplace was choked with old ashes, the dying embers banked into dull sparks. A record player perched on a narrow table in the corner, a stack of records before it. Something about them seemed so familiar, but I dismissed the albums when I read the titles. Who the hell still listened to Tom Jones anyway?

  Snorting, I circled the rest of the room, noting the tattered quilt on the faded sofa and the bowl of strawberry potpourri. The man leaned in the doorway, his arms crossed as he watched me.

  “This is all very lovely,” I said finally. “But there’s nothing here for me. It’s so . . . empty.”

  He didn’t speak, but his gaze strayed toward the mantel of the fireplace. “Who are you?”

  “I thought we already established that.”

  “I told you what your name was,” he countered. “I never heard it from you.”

  “Abby . . . Abby Sinclair.” I tugged on the name tag. “For all that this is apparently some sort of Alice in Wonderland moment.” A smile drifted over my face. “I’m a princess, you know.”

  His voice darkened. “A princess? Surely that seems like a lofty achievement.”

  He brushed past me to the mantel, taking something from the top and tossing it to me. I caught it without a second thought, staring down at the bundled pair of pointe shoes bemusedly.

  “Ballet slippers?” My brow furrowed. “What am I supposed to do with these? I’ve never danced a day in my life. Hell, even my betrothed admits I have two left feet.”

  He halted as though I’d slapped him. “Betrothed, is it?”

  “Of course. To be handfasted, anyway.” I stroked the satin of the slippers. They were no mere decoration. The well-worn toes were proof enough of that. “I’m not really a princess, though. Not yet. But I will be. A Faery princess, in fact.”

  “Oh, a fine thing, I’m sure,” he said sarcastically. “It seems your fiancé neglected to mention that particular detail when he asked me to come here. Typical elf.” He fixed me with a thin-lipped smile. “I suppose you truly have forgotten, though the Dreamer in you has not.”

  “Forgotten what? You talk in riddles.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He sighed. “I had hoped things might be different here. This complicates things immensely, but I will make the best of it.”

  I threw the slippers onto the couch. “You can try, you mean. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but I think it’s time I left or woke up or whatever.” I glanced up at the ceiling as though I might will it to happen.

  “Stop,” he whispered, taking my hand. “Don’t leave yet.”

  Slowly, I turned toward him, a flare of heat sliding up my arm like a welcome friend. I knew this touch. This feeling. His finger brushed my cheek, tipping my chin toward him. A dull thrum beat in my ears, the blood pulsing hot with sudden desire. A hint of gold encircled his pupils, flaring into a brilliant nimbus.

  “I . . . know you,” I said hoarsely, my knees going weak.

  “Yes.” And then his mouth was upon mine, and I knew I wanted him. Dream or not, stranger or not, the wanting of him burned the edges of my skin, flooding my limbs like liquid fire.

  “What is this?” I gasped, letting him wrap his arms around me, his hand snaking down my hips to cup my ass.

  “A gift. The last I can give you.” He kissed me again and my eyes shut against the intensity, even as his tongue swept deep. He captured my soft groan. “Look at me, Abby.”

  I blinked in surprise. We were no longer in a house at all . . . but a ballroom? I gaped as a cluster of masked dancers twirled by us in a rush of spirited laughter and hazy silks. Beneath my feet gleamed a black-and-white marble floor, tiled in a dizzying pattern. Soft light shone above us from a great crystal chandelier.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I owe you a wooing of sorts, I suspect. Consider it a parting memory.” He flicked his fingers, and the soft strains of a violin echoed from the far corner of the hall before I could ask him what he meant. I caught a dim glimpse of a cloaked player, but my would-be suitor had other plans than allowing me to discover who it was, for he turned me neatly, his hand upon my waist.

  A moment later and I was dressed the same as the other dancers, but in pastel blues and silver threads. “A corset?”

  He shrugged. “You might as well get used to it, Princess. Besides, I’ll enjoy trying to get you out of it.”

  “Easy for you to say,” I grumbled. “You’re wearing pants.” Which he was. Tight, low-slung leathers and a scarlet lawn shirt. “You look like some sort of ridiculous vampire.”

  A genuine laugh rolled from his chest. “Can’t have that, can we?” He dipped me low and I realized he was now dressed in shimmering blue to match my dress. “Better?”

  “Still cliché, but I’ll manage.”

  “That’s my girl.” He pulled me close again as the music took on a sultry tone, something slower and seductive. “There’s only time for one dance, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, then, I guess we’d better make the most of it.” His lips curled into something predatory, but he clung to me harder in a desperate motion that didn’t quite touch his eyes. Unaware of anything but the delicious way he swiveled his waist, I let my feet go where they would. Strangely, the steps flowed into each other as though I’d been doing them forever, graceful and unhesitating.

  Odd things, dreams.

  And my partner was no slouch either.

  Our skillful movements soon turned the dance into something else entirely. Fingers stroked over my neck, my shoulders, tracing down my spine. His hips ground into my mine, his mouth upon my jaw. And all of it was subtle enough to seem as though it were part of the dance itself.

  We’d done this before.

  Halfway through the piece, I realized my stays were coming undone. Struggling to keep the corset from sliding off my chest, I paused, catching a smirk upon his face.

  “Charming.” I snorted, wondering if he’d been undoing them by hand or by other means. Not that it mattered, really. Dreams were dreams and I was enjoying the hell out of this one. Immediately I stopped squirming and lowered my hands, leaving the corset to slip off as it would.

  Spinning away from him, I swayed my hips enticingly. The other dancers faded away, and even the music became nothing more than a distant echo. My bare feet touched the softest of carpets, the lights retreating to only a dim glow.

  The dream had changed again.

  I glanced demurely over my shoulder at him, one brow arched in challenge. My heart hammered in my chest at the thought of what I was about to do. Whatever was happening here felt terribly right, even if my head couldn’t quite wrap itself around the concept.

  My dance partner stood several paces behind
me, the rise and fall of his chest suggesting a severe lack of oxygen. “When you look at me like that, I forget why I’m here,” he said hoarsely.

  My breasts were about to slip free of the corset—the barest of motions would send it tumbling past my waist.

  “And why are you here exactly? Assuming you aren’t a manifestation of prewedding jitters?”

  “Hush.” His mouth compressed at my words and I arched my back in apology. His hand casually stretched up to push my hair behind my ear. His gaze became half-lidded and hot, drawn to the taut nipple that had escaped its confines.

  “Now how did that happen, I wonder?”

  “The mind boggles,” he purred. “I suppose the only thing to do is to make a matched pair.” He found the other breast, his thumb rolling it behind the corset with the faintest of pressure. “It might get lonely.”

  “Can’t have that . . .” I tipped my head as though to expose more of myself to him. Soft heat pooled at the base of my throat and I realized he was kissing me there, his tongue tracing hot circles at the pulse. Something about the gesture niggled at me, its familiarity ringing true, and I said as much.

  He grunted in reply, too caught up in my squirming reaction to care, but a moment later he had pulled away. “Change in plans, Abby.”

  My body shuddered with disappointment. “I wasn’t aware there was supposed to be an agenda. This is my dream, right?”

  He let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “As much as it ever was, I suppose. Don’t worry about it yet. I’m going to ask something of you shortly. There isn’t any time to explain, but I need your word that you will do it.”

  “Is it going to hurt?”

  “Not exactly. Not you, anyway,” he admitted. “Promise me you will do what I ask? I’m not going to get another shot at it if it doesn’t work.” The intensity of his expression became despairing and I could only nod in answer.

  “And until then?” There was nothing glib about my words, but my body continued to thrum with thwarted desire.