She paused before giving a slow nod. “It should do.”

  “Why do you need her name?” He asked the question that he’d wondered about more than once.

  By law they couldn’t give details of the death in the fear that the necro might be swayed into naming a murderer even if the victim couldn’t reveal the truth.

  But a necro always asked for a name.

  “It helps me to connect with her mind.”

  He shuddered. “Christ.”

  “You asked,” she reminded him in a low voice.

  “Do you need any other details?”

  “I need to touch her.”

  “There.” He pointed toward the forearm where Frank would have prepped the victim. “It’s been sanitized.”

  She at last lifted her head. “Would you make sure—”

  “That no one enters?” he finished for her.

  “Yes.”

  He abruptly frowned. “Where’s your Sentinel?” A necro never left the compound without a guardian Sentinel. Not only were they capable of opening portals to travel from place to place (a mysterious talent that was never discussed among the mundane mortals), but they were also trained warriors who were covered in intricate tattoos. From what little Duncan had been able to learn, the ceremonial markings protected the warriors from magic as well as any attempt at mind control.

  And, oh yeah, they were capable of killing with their bare hands.

  There were also rumors that there were other Sentinels—hunters who weren’t marked and could travel among the humans unnoticed. But info on them was kept top secret.

  “I asked him to wait outside.”

  He lifted a brow. “Why?”

  “Because you take such pleasure in tormenting him and he’s too well trained to fight back.”

  “Are you saying I’m not well trained?”

  She ignored the open invitation to point out that he was barely civilized and instead returned her attention to the victim.

  “The door, please.”

  He slowly straightened, swallowing his groan as his head gave another protesting throb. Whiskey was the devil’s brew, just as his ma had always claimed.

  “No one’s coming in,” he muttered, “but I’ll keep guard at the door if it makes you feel better.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  “Duncan.” His headache forgotten, he flashed a smile of pure challenge. “One day you’ll say it. Hell, one day you might even scream it.”

  No response. With a low growl, Duncan made his way to the door, leaning on the doorjamb to make sure no one could enter, while keeping his attention on the woman kneeling beside the corpse.

  She ignored his unwavering attention, lifting a hand to remove her sunglasses and setting them aside. At the same time the slanting sunlight spilled over her, catching in the sapphire blue of her eyes.

  Duncan’s heart forgot how to beat.

  He’d seen them before. At a distance. At the time he’d thought they looked like expensive gems, perfectly faceted and shimmering with an inner light. Up close they were even more magnificent.

  Christ.

  The beauty of those eyes was hypnotizing.

  Priceless jewels that revealed this was no ordinary woman.

  Duncan would be pleased to know that it was only her years of training that allowed Callie to ignore his raw sexual magnetism.

  He was the sort of primitive male that should have infuriated her, not tantalized her deepest fantasies.

  Of course, the Mave would tell her that fantasies were meant to be filled with unsuitable desires. Why not lust after a bad boy cop? It wasn’t as if she was going to do anything about it. She didn’t know if his flirtations were a way to taunt her or if he was one of those groupies who got off on sleeping with “freaks,” but either way, it had nothing to do with her as a person.

  Still, it was only with an effort that she managed to crush the tiny tingles of excitement fluttering in the pit of her stomach and the dampness of her palms.

  Now wasn’t the time or place.

  Tonight in her dreams . . . well, that was a different story.

  Clearing her thoughts, she laid her hands on the victim’s arm and closed her eyes.

  It took a second to slip from her own mind and into the female stretched on the floor. There was always a strange sense of . . . floating. As if her consciousness was hovering between one body and the next. Then, focusing on the feel of the female’s arm beneath her fingers, she murmured her name.

  “Leah.”

  The soft word was enough.

  With a hair-raising jolt, she was sucked from her body and into Leah’s mind.

  She could easily sense the female soul, just as she could sense she was fading.

  Fast.

  Despite the ridiculous myths, a necromancer couldn’t control or raise the dead. Her only ability was to tap into the mind of the murdered victim to see the last few minutes of their life.

  And only within a very short time frame.

  Once the . . . spark, for lack of a better word . . . was extinguished and the soul moved on, the memories were lost.

  A meaningless talent for the most part. But on rare occasion it could mean the opportunity for justice.

  With a well-honed skill, Callie touched on the female’s memory center. Just being born a diviner didn’t automatically mean that a person would be capable of reading memories. There were many necromancers who were never able to do more than enter the body and hopefully catch a stray thought.

  Callie, however, was one of the most talented.

  Which was why she was always sent when there was a suspicion the death might have been caused by a high-blood, as the freaks preferred to call themselves.

  Finding the spot she was searching for, she delicately slipped into the fading memories and allowed them to flow through her.

  Suddenly she was no longer kneeling on the hard floor. Instead she was in the attached garage, stepping out of her sleek black Jag. She sensed a pleasant weariness in her limbs, as if she’d just finished a vigorous workout at the gym, a suspicion confirmed when she glanced down to see she was wearing a pair of stretchy pants and a matching sports bra.

  Rounding the car, she moved to unlock the door that led to the house. She stepped into the small laundry room and stripped off her sweaty clothes to toss them in the washing machine. Now naked, she moved into the sun-drenched kitchen.

  As she headed for the stainless steel refrigerator to pull out a bottle of water there was an ease in her steps that hinted this was a routine morning for her, and a comfort with her surroundings that said she had lived in the house for at least a few weeks.

  Callie, however, could sense a faint surge of pride as she turned to study the large kitchen that looked like a picture out of a fancy magazine.

  Leah had recently moved up in the world.

  And she was fully enjoying her elevation.

  Callie had barely managed to grasp the knowledge when Leah was stiffening, her head turning toward the French doors.

  Was there a shadow lurking by the trimmed hedges that lined the patio?

  She gave a strained laugh, lifting the bottle to drink the last of the water before tossing it into the recycle bin next to the fridge.

  The neighborhood was the safest in the city. Besides, the house was guarded by a security system.

  If there was a creep out there trying to sneak a peek through the windows, then he’d set off a hundred bells and whistles the minute he stepped on the patio.

  Brave thoughts, but a tiny shiver inched down the female’s spine as the shadow moved, stepping away from the hedges to reveal—

  Without warning the image was snatched away.

  Just like that.

  Callie blinked, expecting to have been returned to her body. When the spark left, it destroyed any connection that Callie had to the dead.

  But instead she found she remained in Leah’s body, standing in the center of the kitchen as if she were still in the memory . . . without Leah.

  What the hell?

  “I’m afraid I can’t allow you to see any more,” an unexpected male voice drawled.

  Callie turned in shock to watch the tall man with silver hair pulled from his lean, darkly bronzed face stroll through the door leading into the dining room.

  She pressed a hand to her racing heart.

  No one should be here.

  No one but her and the soul she’d connected to in the physical world.

  Unfortunately, no one had given the stranger the handbook on necromancy. Instead of disappearing, he continued forward, the muted light revealing his painfully beautiful features. His brow was high and intelligent, his nose a thin blade, and his lips carved along full lines. And his eyes . . .

  They were gemstone like hers, only instead of blue they were perfectly clear, like diamonds glittering with a cold light.

  A male necromancer? Of the few she’d met, none had those color eyes. And certainly they didn’t have the sort of bone-chilling strength she could feel swirling through the air around him.

  His muscular body was covered by a thick gray robe that covered him from neck to feet, although she caught a glimpse of slender fingers the same bronze shade as his face.

  More terrified than she’d ever been in her life, Callie struggled to speak. “Are you the one who killed Leah?”

  He halted a mere foot from her, studying her as if she were a rare bug beneath a microscope.

  “A diviner,” he at last said, his words edged with a faint accent. “And one of astonishing power.”

  “How is this possible? Are you in Leah’s mind?”

  He seemed to pause, his eyes widening before he suddenly tilted back his head to laugh with a cold amusement.

  “Callie Brown. How very ironic.” The diamond eyes glittered with a blinding light. “It must be fate that brought us here together.”

  He knew who she was? The thought disturbed her on a cellular level.

  “Who are you?” she rasped.

  A slow, mysterious smile curved his sensuous lips. “That’s not the right question.”

  Did he think this was a game?

  “Okay.” She forced herself to hold the diamond gaze. “What are you?”

  “That’s not right, either,” he warned, lifting a hand toward her face.

  Callie leaped backward, her heart slamming against her ribs with the force of a steam hammer.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  His low chuckle seemed to wrap around her like sinful magic. “The question, my beautiful Callie, is”—he deliberately paused—“who are you?”

  Her pulsing fear was disturbed by the unexpected sensation of Fane tugging her back to reality.

  “No.” She tried to fight against her Sentinel’s ruthless pull, knowing that there was more at risk than the death of one young female. “Wait. Damn you.”

  Her last sight was of the stranger blowing her a taunting kiss.

  The vampire Roke is raw, sensual, always in control. Yet somehow he’s allowed the unthinkable to happen: a nymph-like witch named Sally has used her magic to trick Roke into mating with her. The pair will remain bound for eternity unless Sally breaks the spell. The trouble is, she has no idea how . . .

  Mating with Roke was an accident; at least that’s what Sally keeps telling herself. She’s on the hunt for her demon father, whose identity holds the key to releasing the spell. The search won’t be easy with Roke shadowing Sally’s every move. As they mate with a ferocity that leaves them both aching for more, Sally isn’t sure if her world is more dangerous without Roke—or with him . . .

  Please turn the page for an exciting

  sneak peek of

  Alexandra Ivy’s

  HUNT THE DARKNESS,

  coming in June 2014!

  PROLOGUE

  Styx’s lair

  Chicago, IL

  Styx was fairly certain that hell had frozen over.

  Nothing else could explain the fact that in the past year he’d become the Anasso (King of all Vampires), moved from his dank caves into a behemoth of a mansion that contained acres of marble, crystal and gilt—gilt for Christ’s sake—and mated with a pureblooded Were who also happened to be a vegetarian.

  Then, as if fate hadn’t had enough laughs at his expense, he’d been in an epic battle against the Dark Lord which meant he’d been forced to make allies out of former enemies.

  Including the King of Weres, Salvatore, who was currently drinking Styx’s finest brandy as he smoothed a hand down his impeccable Gucci suit.

  Of course, if it wasn’t for the fact that their mates happened to be sisters, he would never have allowed the bastard over his doorstep, he pacified his battered pride. His own mate, Darcy, was very . . . insistent that she be allowed to spend time with Harley who was growing heavy with her first pregnancy.

  Or was it litter?

  Either way, Styx and Salvatore were forced to play nice.

  Not an easy task for two uber-alphas who’d been opponents for centuries.

  Settling his six-foot-plus frame in a chair that had a view of the moon-drenched gardens, Styx waited for his companion to finish his drink.

  As always, Salvatore looked more like a sophisticated mob boss than the King of Weres. His dark hair was pulled to a tail at his nape and his elegant features cleanly shaved. Only the feral heat that glowed in the dark eyes revealed the truth of the beast that lived inside him.

  Styx on the other hand, didn’t even try to appear civilized.

  A six-foot-five Aztec warrior, he was wearing a pair of leather pants, heavy shit-kickers, and a white silk shirt that was stretched to the limit to cover his broad chest. His long black hair was braided to hang down to his waist and threaded with tiny turquois amulets. And to complete the image, he had a huge sword strapped to his back.

  What was the point in being a badass if you couldn’t look like one?

  Setting aside his empty glass, Salvatore flashed a dazzling white smile. A sure sign he was about to be annoying.

  “Let me see if I have this right,” the wolf drawled.

  Yep. Annoying.

  Styx narrowed his dark eyes, his features that were too stark for true beauty tight with warning.

  “Do you have to?”

  “Oh, yes.” The smile widened. “You asked the clan chief of Nevada to babysit a witch you had locked in your dungeons?”

  Styx silently swore to have a chat with his mate once their guests were gone.

  He hadn’t intended Salvatore to know that one of his most powerful vampires had been magically forced into a mating.

  Hell, he’d had a hard enough time divulging the info with Jagr, his most trusted Raven. It was only because he needed the vampire to do research that he’d revealed the secret.

  A mating was the rarest, most sacred, most intimate connection a demon could experience.

  To think for a second that it could be inflicted on a vampire against his will was nothing less than . . . rape.

  You didn’t reveal that kind of weakness to your enemies. Even if you did have a peace treaty.

  Darcy, however, was a genuine optimist who blithely assumed that Salvatore would never abuse privileged information.

  Now Styx was stuck revealing the truth to the mangy mutt.

  “Sally Grace was not only a powerful witch who was capable of black magic, but she worshipped the Dark Lord,” he grudgingly explained, not about to admit that it had been more habit than fear that had led him to lock the female in his dungeons. Sally Grace was barely over five foot and weighed less than a hundred pounds. She hadn’t looked like a threat. And she probably wouldn’t have been if she hadn’t been so scared. “Of course I wasn’t going to take any chances.”

  “Why Roke?”

  Styx shrugged. “I was busy trying to deal with the ancient spirit that was trying to turn vampires into crazed killers.”

  Naturally Salvatore wasn’t satisfied.

  “And?” he prodded.

  “And the prophet had warned that Roke would be important to the future,” he muttered. He’d truly thought keeping Roke in his lair would protect him. Ah, the best laid plans of mice and vampires. “How the hell was I supposed to know Sally Grace was half-demon?”

  Salvatore grimaced. “It must have been quite a shock to poor Roke to discover himself mated to a witch.”

  Styx’s humorless laugh echoed through the library at the memory of Roke’s fury.

  “Shock isn’t the word I’d used.”

  “She’s lucky he didn’t kill her on the spot.”

  Frustration simmered deep inside Styx. Roke might be an arrogant pain-in-the-ass, but he was a brother. And more importantly, he was a clan chief who had a duty to his people. They had to find a way to break the mating.

  And how to make damned sure it never happened again.

  “He might have killed her if the magic she used didn’t feel as real as any true mating.”

  Salvatore’s amusement faded. “That bad?”

  “Worse.” Styx surged to his feet. “Without her knowing who or what fathered her, the witch doesn’t even know how to reverse the damage.”

  “You’re certain this isn’t some trick?”

  “I’m not certain of anything beyond the need to find a way to break the bond.”

  Salvatore poured another shot of brandy. “Do you have a plan?”

  Plan? Styx grimaced. The closest they’d had to a plan the past year had been to charge from one disaster to another.

  Why would this be any different?

  “Sally left almost three weeks ago to search for any clues that would reveal who her father might be,” he said.

  “And Roke?”

  “He’s trying to catch her.”

  Salvatore arched a brow. “You let him go alone?”

  “Of course not.” A slow smile curved Styx’s lips. “I allowed Levet to go with him.”

  Salvatore choked on his brandy at the mention of the tiny gargoyle who’d attached himself to both Darcy and Harley. Like a freaking barnacle that couldn’t be scrapped off.

  A three foot pest with delicate fairy wings in shades of blue and crimson and gold, Levet could drive a sane man to gargoyle-cide in three seconds flat.