Immortals: The Awakening
by Joy Nash

CHAPTER ONE

There was one big problem with practicing magic naked,

Christine Lachlan thought sourly.

It made her horny.

And not just an “it would be nice to get some action tonight” kind of horny. No, skyclad-induced lust, at least for Christine, was more along the lines of “Goddess, I need it so bad I’m gonna go crazy if I don’t get it right now.” In other words, the kind of lust she hadn’t felt in two years.

Since the last time she’d done this.

Starlight cast a sharp, sweet thrill through the high branches of the Roman pines, piercing the night shadows. Inside the circle of crushed sea salt Christine had sprinkled in the ancient dirt of Rome’s Palatine Hill, she knelt with head bowed, palms upraised.

The night breeze raised goose bumps on her bare arms and sent an all-too-vulnerable shiver down her naked spine. Her baggy jeans and oversized sweater lay in a heap a few yards away, but they might as well have been two miles away on the floor of her cramped, rented room—on top of the rest of her dirty laundry—for all the good they did her.

Right now, Christine’s entire world existed inside her circle, where she knelt before the Goddess with no covering on her body, no deception on her soul.

Pin-sharp pine needles and fragments of crushed marble bit into her knees. Her hair, freed from its braid, brushed the length of her spine. In the distance, the water-rush of traffic, punctuated by staccato splashes of horn, flowed along the Via dei Fori Imperiali, circled the Colosseum, and faded into the distance.

The prickle of restless desire tickled her thighs.

Goddess, how she loathed this.

She hated practicing magic while skyclad—the sensations it roused were too vivid, too real. Too dangerous. After Shaun’s death, she’d sworn she’d never attempt it again, no matter what was at stake. Turned out she’d lied.

It hardly mattered that she didn’t want to be here. That she’d rather be home, kneeling before a wobbly table spread with the beautiful square of indigo silk that had cost more than she’d earned in two weeks of hawking watercolors to stingy tourists. Within walls, protected by rune sigils, she could claim a small amount of safety. Here, amid Rome’s most ancient ruins, naked under the sky, she was defenseless against her own magic.

The sensual lick of her power was as seductive as a man’s tongue on her bare skin. Christine could do nothing but endure it. Her breasts grew heavy, the tips hardening. Her belly tightened with sweet fire.

If an Old One found her like this, she’d be in big trouble.

There was a very real possibility that could happen, despite the wards and the carefully drawn circle. An ancient vampire would have no trouble breaking her protections. Even the weaker undead—zombies, golems, and the like— were stronger and bolder than they’d been a few months ago. Not to mention more numerous. It seemed everywhere she looked, she saw another newly made vamp or recently resurrected zombie lurking in the shadows. And while she could defeat Young Ones singly, or even in pairs, she didn’t want to think about what could happen if a horde attacked.

And then there were the demons.

She shut her eyes. Oh, Goddess. The demons. Tonight could end like the last time....

She was insane to attempt this. No, not insane, just out of options. For Christine, skyclad magic was the strongest she could summon. Tonight, she needed every last drop of her power.

The thin breeze stirred again, rustling dry branches. Italy was caught in the grip of the worst drought in its long history; the profusion of spring flowers that normally blanketed the Eternal City this time of year had died on the vine. Even the ancient pines and hardy olive trees were withering. Perversely, in the north, England and Scotland were enduring record rainfall. Their farms were drowning.

It was yet another sign death magic had gained frightening dominance over life magic. Christine had been watching the grim, inexorable tide advance for almost a year now. Drought in some places, floods in others. Famine and anguish everywhere. Death magic creatures were multiplying with alarming alacrity. Violence and vandalism were rampant. Even museums had been attacked, priceless works of art destroyed.

There was no end in sight—the living earth was fading, shriveling before a fierce, unrelenting onslaught of soul-withering darkness. Life magic—the source of all goodness— was draining from the world like water from a cracked sieve. Witches of the Light, like Christine, were trying to stem the tide, but it was a frantic, futile endeavor. Too many holes to plug, too many fissures to seal.

But this morning, she’d been given an unexpected reason to hope. A sudden cloudburst had poured life-giving water onto the drought-stricken city. Christine had heard it pounding on the roof of her attic apartment. She’d run up the twisted stairs to the terrace with every container she owned to collect as much of the rainfall as she could. Every drop was precious, even more so on this particular morning. It was the first of May—a Beltane rain held deep power.

It couldn’t be a coincidence rain had fallen on the very day Christine had needed her deepest magic. The Mother Goddess blessed her mission. She was sure of it.

She splayed fingers on hard ground. The crusted surface was still damp, but underneath, the ground was as hard and unyielding as concrete. Drained of life, as the world was draining of magic. What could one witch do to stop the horror? Very little. But she wasn’t alone. Not any longer.

Christine had always been a solitary practitioner of the Craft, but in the past months panic had driven her to an Internet café to search online for other witches as disturbed as she by the rising evil. The worldwide Coven of Light had accepted Christine into their fold. She wasn’t sure she felt comfortable being part of a group—artists tended to be very independent—but what choice did she have? She had magic, strong magic, though she’d avoided using the deeper aspects of it these past two years. No more. The stakes were too high. The Coven of Light needed her. So here she was, naked, preparing to call up forces she knew damn well she couldn’t control.

She pressed her hands more firmly into the moist earth. She slowed her breathing; searched the deepest part of herself. Shifting, she nudged her knees apart. The magic of the fallen rainwater flowed into her fingertips, up her arms, and down her torso in a sparkling wave. The breeze rose again, seeking the exposed feminine flesh between her thighs. A mortifying heat rushed through her stomach... into her breasts...to her neck and face. Her nipples tingled and drew tight.

She inhaled sharply. Goddess, how she hated this.

The urge to bolt toward her clothes was strong. She wanted to cover herself with her hands, bend forward to cloak her body with her hair. Anything to stop this feeling of being so exposed and vulnerable.

She forced herself to remain motionless. She was beyond pride. There were no choices left: last night, disaster had struck the Coven. An American witch had very nearly been killed during a spell designed to bring help to the world. Christine had to achieve the failed spell’s purpose now, on her own. Because the alternative—a world ruled by demons and death magic—was a reality far too horrible to contemplate.

With a shaking hand, she reached for the wine bottle near her right knee. Every drop of Beltane rainwater she’d collected was inside. Working the cork free, she poured the precious liquid into the shallow brass bowl that lay between her spread knees.

Power rippled over her skin. Her breasts responded with an ache. A tremor coursed through her belly, pooled low. Water splashed over her fingers; her mind sank into a light trance. The city, the night, the outside world—they all faded. There was only her sacred circle, her carnal hunger, the sense of drifting, helpless, on the edge of the world.

Unsteadily, she set down the bottle. Splayed her right hand over the scrying bowl. Slowly, reverently, she dipped her finger in the water and traced a single rune.

Kenaz. Revelation.

“Uni.” She spoke the name of the Mother Goddess in her guise as Goddess Queen of the Etruscans. Uni had been the first deity recognized by humans in this ancient land. Her name meant “The One,” and Christine knelt atop the buried ruins of a temple erected long ago in her honor.

“Mother,” she prayed. “Show me.”

Power rippled across the water. It slipped into her fingers and pulsed into her veins. The consuming surge of magic released a panicked flood of adrenaline. Christine knew only too well that power this elemental, once unleashed, could not be stopped. Like any living thing, once born, it sought its end.

Power rose, demanding Christine’s complete honesty, her complete faith. Her complete submission to the will of the Goddess. Christine had thought she was prepared. But it was hard, harder than she’d remembered. Because of the past. Because of Shaun. Because the magic required she do something she’d not dared in two long years.

Feel.

An urgent whisper rippled over her soul. A tremor claimed her body in an automatic response that was stunning in its blatant sexuality. A throb sprang up between her legs. An unwanted moan escaped her throat.

She needed to move. The compulsion shamed her—she didn’t want to feel this way, needy and out of control. Didn’t want to surrender to the urge to rock her hips in a pathetic parody of the sex act. But she couldn’t stop herself from doing just that.

This was why she’d shunned her deepest magic since Shaun’s death. She couldn’t bear to remember what it had once been like, performing the sacred rituals with the only man she’d ever loved, before his greed and her own misplaced faith had destroyed him.

Another wave of sensation. More control lost. She closed her eyes. A mistake—with her sight gone, she felt the magic all the more acutely, in every part of her body. She forced her shoulders to relax, knowing she had no choice but to accept what she’d started. Be careful what you ask for. Her fingers sank deeper into the shallow water. She stroked a second rune on the surface of the brass bowl.

Naudhiz. Need.

She bowed her head. “Uni, show me. Show me your son.”

Opening her eyes, she lifted her hands from the bowl. Abruptly, the water’s surface went silver-still, like a mirror. She leaned forward, letting her focus go soft. A roar like ocean surf sounded in her ears. A wave of giddy delight washed over her; a surprised gasp spilled from her lips. Her body felt light, too light, as if it were floating into the sky, or falling from above. Her spirit-essence thinned, rippled almost painfully in its freedom.

The water glowed silver-bright, reflecting the spatter of stars overhead. Christine’s spirit-essence drifted toward the light. Sank into it.

Mother, show me your son.

A shiver flashed over her exposed skin. Her breasts grew heavy, weighted with need. Desire spiked, drawing another gasp from her lips as power swirled through her circle. She shuddered. The magic was strong, too strong. This aching feeling of yearning, of wanting something so bitter and so sweet—it was more than she could bear. But to stop now would mean abandoning her last chance to find him.

Kalen, Immortal Warrior.

He was one of five Immortal protectors, created from the union of an aspect of the Mother Goddess and her human priests in the years when humans had been new to the earth. The forces of death magic had been incredibly powerful in those dark years. It had been Kalen and his brothers who had guarded the infant human race, defending them against evil. Trained by their goddess mothers, gifted with godlike strength, possessed of magical weapons and powers, including immortality itself, the Immortals had been invaluable allies to those early human settlements struggling to stay alive.

The five Immortal brothers—Kalen, Adrian, Darius, Hunter, and Tain—were an enigma. Created of life magic, they meted out death. Demons, zombies, golems, vampires, sorcerers—none could stand against them. Championed by the Immortals, those first human settlements thrived. Eventually, men and women learned to fight their own battles and the Immortals appeared less frequently. Finally, during the Middle Ages, they disappeared for good.

Now they were needed again. Desperately. Just a month ago, an American witch named Amber Silverthorne had been investigating the death of her sister, a member of the Coven of Light. Dark forces had been involved. While pursuing a lead, Amber had encountered Adrian, the oldest Immortal, and together, the pair had discovered the truth behind the recent surge of death magic. The rise in evil was the work of Tain, the youngest Immortal. Insane and emotionally enslaved by an ancient and powerful demon known to Adrian as Kehksut, Tain had vowed to drain every drop of life magic from the human world.

Using death magic doorways known as demon portals, Tain was able to move freely between human and demon realms, appearing instantly in any location he desired. His spies were legion and his power vast. Demons and the undead all over the world were eager to aid Tain’s evil vision.

According to Adrian, only the other Immortals could stop their brother. And so last night, on the Eve of Beltane, the Coven of Light—witches on six continents—assembled in spirit to speak the words of the Calling, the ancient spell that summoned the Immortals to battle. But something went horribly wrong and the magic shattered, very nearly killing Amber. The missing Immortals had not appeared.

Christine had discovered that the Immortal Warrior Kalen was the son of the Mother Goddess in her guise as the Etruscan Goddess-Queen, Uni. As the only Coven witch dwelling in the Etruscans’ ancient homeland, it was up to Christine to call on Uni for help. Surely the Goddess knew where her son was.

Her gaze lost in the silver-still surface of the rainwater, Christine willed her body to go soft. She allowed the sensuality that entwined so deeply with her magic to take control of her body. “Goddess,” she whispered. “Great Mother... Uni, Queen of Etruria...Show me your son.”

The throbbing between her legs intensified, quickly becoming unbearable. The exquisite knot of desire in her belly tightened. Her lungs grabbed for oxygen, taking too much. Her head grew light. It took all her effort to focus on the bowl. On the sacred water.

“Show me. I beg you.”

A thought dropped into the still pool of Christine’s mind.

He is here, daughter.

The shimmering surface shifted. Shadows moved like clouds across its face. Silhouettes deepened, sharpened.

Images formed.

She leaned close, not daring to blink or hardly even to breathe. The fleeting impression of a cliff, steep and rugged, a broad, rocky island separated from a coastline by a narrow swath of angry gray sea.

Like a fairy-tale dream, a castle clung to island cliffs. Its somber gray walls and the intricate crenellations of its battlements traced a large square around a high central tower. There were several garden courtyards inside the castle, formed by the lines of lower buildings spanning the distance between the central tower and the perimeter walls. A gray shroud of rain cloaked the scene.

Her corporeal body seemed to dissolve as she slipped deeper into her trance. The castle drew closer; the walls melted away. A new scene formed in a cavernous room lit only by a large, leaping fire. Christine’s eye was drawn to movement amidst a pile of furs and cushions spread before the generous hearth. A man and woman lay there, limbs entwined.

Clothing had been discarded in a heap nearby; she caught a glimpse of tartan plaid wool, the gloss of black leather. The lovers were nude, the man clearly dominant, the woman spread beneath him. He was as dark as she was fair—the man’s tawny skin and dark hair contrasted sharply with the woman’s pale complexion and red hair. Her vivid locks were cropped short and slicked with gel around her delicately pointed ears.

She wasn’t human, Christine realized with a start. The beautiful woman was Elven. Or Sidhe, as Christine’s Scottish grandmother had called the race of sensual Celtic life magic creatures. Christine experienced a stab of something very like jealousy. Of course an Immortal would choose a magical lover. What human woman could satisfy a demigod?

She shifted her attention to Kalen. He looked like a human man, but—more, somehow, in a way that robbed Christine of breath. Normally she couldn’t see auras—she sensed magic by touch—but in this vision, aided perhaps by Uni’s grace, Kalen’s magic was boldly apparent. Living energy flickered around him, blending with the firelight to dance on his flexing muscles. A blue tattoo, a pentacle inscribed in a circle, was etched high on the back of his right thigh. Each Immortal, she knew, had a similar tattoo somewhere on his body.

Kalen’s head dipped to his lover’s generous breasts. It was impossible not to feel a pang of inadequacy as the large globes filled his hands. A smile quirked his beautiful lips as he bent his head and sucked a pink, distended nipple into his mouth.

His lover’s supple body arched upward, a deep purr of satisfaction vibrating in her throat. She flung her arms overhead, lips parted.

A sudden, sick twist wrenched Christine’s stomach. Her chest contracted so tightly she could hardly gulp her next lungful of air. When she did manage to breathe, the rise of her chest was sharp and painful.

She wanted to be that woman.

Her trance slipped, cracked by her irrational anger. Damn. This lust was just an effect of the magic—she didn’t truly want Kalen that way. All she wanted was to find him and explain the grave danger the world was in. Enlist his aid in the Coven’s fight.

And if she didn’t get hold of herself long enough to find a clue in her vision that would lead her to him, her quest would fail before it even started.

Drawing a deep, cleansing breath, she calmed her roiling emotions with a chant of the rune mysteries.

Uraz, Gebo, Isa.

Strength, Sacrifice, Challenge.

She could not fail in this.

Jera, Eihwaz, Teiwaz.

Hope, Faith, Honor.

She would find him.

Mannaz, Dagaz, Inguz.

Self, Clarity, Peace.

She would not let her irrational jealousy shatter her vision.

Thurisaz. Hagalaz.

Conflict. Destruction.

She couldn’t lie—she wanted him for herself.

Her body was on fire for him, her vagina empty and aching. Her gaze caressed him, taking in his powerful torso, lean hips, and long limbs. She saw him with her artist’s eye, as if she were preparing to capture him on canvas. His hair was dark and shining, his muscles rippling with strength, moving beneath smooth olive skin. Masculine grace, strength, sensuality—all had found a home in the body of this Immortal. But Kalen’s most sensual feature was not his strength, nor his beauty.

It was his magic. Christine could feel it, see it. A pulsing, shimmering cocoon encircled Kalen and his lover, blazing hotter as their urgency grew. His knee nudged the Sidhe’s pale, slender thighs. With a growl, she accommodated him with parted legs. Her hands clutched at shoulders, ran down his flanks in fevered urgency. Her fingers pressed into his buttocks. Their bodies weren’t joined yet, but they soon would be.

The realization put a bitter, metallic taste in the back of Christine’s throat.

“Greas ort.” The Sidhe’s voice was low and inexplicably angry, as if the words had been torn from her unwillingly. “Tromhad a-steach.”

Christine’s heart thudded. Kalen’s lover was speaking Scots Gaelic. Christine had learned snatches of the language from her grandmother. Hurry. Come inside.

“An-drŕsta!”

Now.

But Kalen didn’t seem in a hurry to oblige. He lingered at his lover’s full breasts, sucking and kneading while the Sidhe’s expression darkened like thunder. She twisted her fingers in his hair and gave a savage jerk. She arched her hips, trying to draw him in. He shifted languidly, accommodating her only slightly as he continued to lavish attention on her breasts. But the foreplay couldn’t last much longer. Soon enough he’d slide inside.

Lust and jealousy, twin edges of a merciless sword, knifed through Christine’s chest. She felt as though someone had sliced her open and ripped out her heart. The savage pain brought a rushing sound to her ears. Her breath went; the ground under her knees seemed to dissolve. She scrabbled to brace herself with her hands, but her palms met...nothing. Pitching forward, she tumbled into a dark void.

And then, suddenly, she was there.

No longer a spectator. She was the woman stretched out on the furs before the fire. It was her body caged by hard, male limbs, her legs held open by powerful masculine thighs. Kalen’s dark head was bent over her breast, his lips pulling rhythmically on her nipple.

Streaks of fire raced through her body like stars shooting through a night sky. Magic and lust—opening her, claiming her, rendering her helpless. Her fingers entwined the silken locks of his hair. Her hips arched. Tears sprang to her eyes— if he didn’t enter her now, she was sure she would die.

Heat consumed her. She was wet and ready, dying for him, but still he tortured her, the rough hair on his legs scraping the inside of her thighs as he nudged her legs wider. She squirmed, panting, the musk and sweat of his body in her nostrils. She wanted to lick his skin, taste him, but she couldn’t reach him with her tongue. So she shut her eyes and concentrated on his touch, squeezing every drop of bliss from the sensation of his damp, slick skin sliding over hers.

His lips left her breast, traveled in a slow, hot line up her body, to her neck, her jaw. His weight pressed down, his body covering hers, the broad, hot head of his erection prodding her slick, swollen folds. His power flared, enveloping her. Yearning burned a path into her soul. Her hips arched in supplication.

“Kalen...”

At the sound of his whispered name, his head lifted. Christine stared up at him, drinking in his features. His eyes were the deepest charcoal gray, his hair even a darker black. His forehead was high and proud, his cheeks sharp and angled. He possessed a bold, slashing nose and firm, mobile lips.

He was vital, supreme, Immortal. And Christine knew the deepest magic she possessed was nothing compared to the magic he was.

The corners of his beautiful mouth tugged downward as he stared at her. His body went still; his brows drew together. His eyes captured hers and did not let go.

A frisson of unease shot through her—like she’d been caught in a lie. He felt it; she could tell in the sudden sheen of moisture that appeared on his brow. His eyes glinted like chips of onyx, his breath came on a sharp inhale.

“What the—”

She gripped his shoulders.

“Kalen... please...” But she didn’t quite know what it was she was asking.

Confusion played across his features. His body went rigid, as if he was struggling with some inner question. With a muttered curse, he seemed to resolve the dilemma. He lifted his hips and positioned himself for the joining thrust.

Christine hung, suspended in time, rigid with anticipation. One heartbeat passed...two...three...

Crack!

With a sound like a firecracker snap, the scene collapsed. Kalen, the hearth, the castle—it was all, abruptly, simply, gone. As if it had never existed.

And Christine was left kneeling under the night sky on the hard-packed dirt—naked, cold, alone, and wanting.

*****


“By all the magic in Annwyn, Kalen, get on with it!”

Kalen came back to himself, a sound like a thunderclap ringing in his ears, his body taut, his cock poised at the entrance to Leanna’s body.

Bloody hell. What in Hades had happened?

A moment ago, Leanna had been so frantic for him to enter her that she’d cried out in Gaelic, the hated language of her childhood. That always put her in a mood. He blinked down at the Sidhe’s pale, frowning eyes. Perspiration plastered her hair to her forehead like wisps of crimson seaweed. Her black eyeliner had smeared horribly, painting dark half-moon circles above her cheekbones. Her normally pouting red lips were pressed into a thin, angry line.

And still, she managed to look alluring.

He closed his eyes and dragged in a breath, trying to recapture the sensations of a heartbeat earlier. For a single, breathless moment, he could have sworn another woman lay beneath him. A woman so unlike Leanna as to be laughable. A scrappy, sharp-angled female with small, pointed breasts and scrawny hips.

But her eyes...they had been startling. A wide, deep blue, so intense his breath stalled in his lungs. Her nose had been small, her cheeks flushed. Her hair...He frowned, trying to remember. Ah yes. Her hair had been pure black, a dark cloud sensuously framing her face. The locks had been thick, like heavy skeins of silk—and long, as a woman’s hair should be. But there had been something else about it...

His frown deepened. Blue. That was it. A single long lock of hair falling from the woman’s left temple had been colored a brilliant indigo. He gave himself a mental shake. Why would he dream such a thing? Unnatural hair dye was yet another entry on Kalen’s long list of twenty-firstcentury abominations. And it had to have been a dream. His home was far too heavily warded for the vision to have been magic.

Leanna shifted beneath him, her disapproval growing more apparent by the second. Her patience—what little she had of the commodity—was obviously almost depleted. He felt her hand reach between their bodies. Her fingers curled around his phallus. She tugged and teased like a clever milkmaid.

Tantalizing zings of electricity shot through his shaft. All thoughts of the dream woman fled.

“Now, Kalen. I want it now.”

Her breathing grew ragged as she twisted beneath him, her fingernails digging into his flesh as she tried to jerk his hips forward. No doubt such maneuverings worked with her human lovers; with Kalen the effort was useless. Her physical strength didn’t begin to equal his.

But she had other powers. Powers Kalen craved.

Her magic pulsed into his being, raw with emotion, ripe with promise. Insatiable in its demands and lush with the promise of paradise. It was part of Leanna’s unique essence— a magic human men willingly died for. Could it show him the path to salvation? Kalen wasn’t sure, but he hoped it could.

He hoped.

Leanna’s fingers tugged on his shaft, guiding him to her slick woman’s flesh. “Now, Kalen.”

And still, he hesitated, a nagging sense of disquiet again buzzing in the back of his mind. Leanna made a warning sound deep in her throat. Mentally, Kalen swatted away his vague unrest and slipped easily into her body. It was an act he’d performed a thousand times in the decade they’d been lovers. Ten years—an instant in his overlong life. He’d had countless other women, both Sidhe and human. Even so, Leanna’s magic was like nothing he’d ever felt.

He moved within her. A surge of imminent freedom overtook him, like that first glorious instant when an eagle takes flight. He drove hard; there was no need to hold back, as with a human lover. Sidhe were a hardy race, far more possessed of stamina and lust than their human cousins.

He bit back a groan as Leanna bucked beneath him, her hot sheath contracting around his rock-hard shaft. Her long nails scratched pain across his back, but he barely felt it. His pleasure, his being, his life was focused on a single, elusive spark— the magic Leanna alone could create. The magic that could open his soul, absolve his sins, make his life bearable again.

She twisted beneath him. “Turn over. I want to be on top.”

With a single smooth roll, he accommodated her. Leanna had strong preferences when it came to sex—generally, it was easier to give her what she wanted than to force his own wishes on her. And in any case, Kalen enjoyed watching a woman ride him. He steadied her hips in his hands as she flung her head back, cupping her breasts.

A sudden mental image of the woman with the blue-streaked hair, performing the same act, flashed into his brain. Her hair had been very long—he was sure it would pool in a luxurious swirl on the tops of his thighs if she were atop him, arched in just that same way. He hardened even further as he pictured it.

Leanna purred, obviously taking full credit for his phallus’s sudden increase in enthusiasm. Her writhings turned urgent, her lithe body moving in a creative combination of back-and-forth and circular motions. Her magic gathered, again crowding thoughts of the dream woman from Kalen’s mind. Green sparks showered around him—he concentrated on one, brighter than the others, zinging just beyond his reach. He saw, as he always did, how he might capture it. Make it his own. Feed upon it with his soul.

This time he would not fail. This time, now, he would claim the elusive prize for which Leanna’s human lovers willingly died.

The spark flared, flashing bright and new as the first instant of creation. Leanna hummed, her body drawing power from the living core of the universe—the font from which all life and all life magic sprang. She took the seed, saw it blossom, shaped it into a soul’s center flame—a hot, burning ball of creative power. And Kalen could only gaze at it in awe.

No wonder men—and some women—traded body and soul for this instant of blazing triumph. The moment of creation—who would not die for that?

His fingers dug into her flesh. He jerked her hips down, hard.

“Oh yes!” Her body jackknifed forward, her pelvis bucking against his palms.

Their combined lust exploded, its magic raining down on their joined bodies. “Yes!”

Kalen’s climax broke, and with it, the full force of his own magic. With a roar, he threw himself into the sparkling green stars. Snatched them, one by one, letting them pass through his skin and into his body. At the same time, he felt Leanna busy at her own game—soaking up Kalen’s Immortal life essence. He didn’t care. She could take what she wanted, and welcome to it. It was only fair, after all.

The sparks coalesced, emerald light contracting inside him, brightness intensifying, filling every corner of his being. A rush of elation, of power, of triumph. Inspiration, in a blinding flash. With stunning clarity, he saw the path to the heart of the universe.

It was a woman—the woman from his dream. Her features were muted, rendered in charcoal on a sepia background. Every line, every shadow, every stroke and smudge of the pencil was revealed to him. Wide eyes, delicate cheekbones, subtly pointed chin. Heavy, dark hair falling over bare shoulders. He was glad there was no color in his vision—the blue streak of the woman’s hair was barely noticeable.

She was magnificent, incredible. A goddess, a Madonna, equal to any painted by the masters. As mysterious as Leonardo’s Mona Lisa, pure as Michelangelo’s Madonna, alluring as Botticelli’s Venus. But she was to be Kalen’s own. At last.

Leanna abandoned his softening phallus. She wasn’t one for afterplay; once she had what she wanted she was quick to withdraw. Kalen didn’t care; in fact, he barely noticed. The vision of the dark-haired woman was already wavering, the soft charcoal lines blurring. As always, time was of the essence.

He shoved himself off the furs, strode to the easel he’d set up nearby. His hand shook a bit as he grasped the slender charcoal pencil. With a deep breath, he placed the tip against the virgin page.

The first strokes came easily, flowing with exquisite delight. Dimly, he was aware of Leanna padding to the cabinet where he kept his store of single-malt whiskey. The Italian marquetry door opened and closed; glass clinked against glass as she poured. Blocking the sounds, he bent his head to the easel, his hand moving across the paper with fevered urgency.

The dream woman was fading from his mind like scratches in the sand before the tide.

He was desperate to capture her features before she disappeared completely. The long, graceful line of her neck. The hollow at the base of her throat. The haze of lust in her eyes. He worked as the image faded from his memory. Finally, his hand slowed. The stump of charcoal fell from his fingers.

She was gone.

He exhaled a long breath. Suddenly, he became aware of Leanna, his muse, watching him. His gaze took in her naked hip, propped casually against his mahogany sideboard. Her palm cradling a glass—his best Macallan, he’d wager. He’d paid twenty thousand pounds sterling for a single bottle.

She could drain it, for all he cared. If only he could grasp the prize he craved.

For several seconds he stared at the Titian hanging above the sideboard, unwilling to shift his gaze the few inches to the left that would place his own finished drawing in his line of vision. Had he grasped Leanna’s magic? Had he given birth to a work of true art? Had he at last reclaimed the spark that had been taken from his soul? He’d felt nothing but glorious inspiration as the lines flowed onto the paper. But Hades himself knew Kalen had felt that way many, many times before.

Leanna cleared her throat, but didn’t speak. Even she wouldn’t dare to intrude on this moment—she, better than anyone, knew what it meant to him. Steeling himself, he turned his gaze on his creation.

Disappointment burned a rancid hole in his gut.

To use the vernacular of this gods-forsaken century—his drawing bloody sucked.

Buy Immortals: The Awakening Now