The possible loss of the bushes tugged at her heart. Mikki knew most people wouldn’t understand her love of roses—her girlfriends had certainly told her enough times that they were only plants, not people or even pets. But whenever Mikki touched a rose or breathed in the heady fragrance of the gardens, she was reminded of her mother and her grandmother; through the roses, if only for a moment, she could feel their love again. Mikki was tired of losing those she loved.

  She had to do something. She stopped and looked around her. The tier was empty. Nothing stirred except the water and the wind. Absently, Mikki picked at her already chipped fingernail polish.

  Just do it! she told herself. No one will know.

  The empty cooler beckoned. Mikki made her decision.

  “Okay!” she said to the nearest wilting bush. “Just don’t tell anyone.”

  She grabbed the cooler, ducked back under the construction tape, and walked quickly to the fountain. She dipped the empty cooler in the water, and with a grunt, pulled it out. Filled with water it was heavy, and she had to strain to lift it. Water sloshed around her feet when she set it awkwardly on the ground beside her.

  It only took a second for her to work the Band-Aid free from her left palm. The cut was already scabbing over, but her flesh was still pink and tender from the knife wound. Mikki rested her right thumbnail against the little slash line. Holding her breath, she closed her eyes and pressed her nail into the wound, forcing it open again.

  Mikki sucked her breath in at the sudden pain. But when she opened her eyes, she was relieved to see the darkness of fresh blood flowing into her palm. With a grimace, she dunked her hand into the pool of water held by the cooler.

  She certainly had a lot of disinfecting to do when she got home.

  Trying not to think about how much her palm ached, she began dragging the full cooler across the stony path back to the bed of sick roses. Once inside the construction area, she straightened, unsure of her next move.

  “There are so many of you,” she told the bushes. It was obvious that she couldn’t pour the usual amount of blood-tinged water on each bush. She felt her lips twitch in a sarcastic smile. She’d have to open a damn vein for that—and that was probably not a very good idea.

  Assuming a businesslike stance, Mikki put her hands on her hips and addressed the roses. “How about I just sprinkle you guys with some of this water?” The bushes didn’t answer, so Mikki counted that as a yes. Bending, she used both hands and began scattering the blush-colored water over the roses that surrounded her. Snapping her wrists and flicking the liquid off her fingers soon became a game. The cool evening breeze mixed with the darkness and the sweet scent of roses and earth. Mikki laughed and sprinkled the blood-kissed water all over, pretending she was a garden fairy raining magic on sleeping children.

  Mikki was breathless and smiling by the time she had finished. She studied the damp bushes. It might just be her overactive imagination, but she was sure they were responding already. In the dim, watery light, she swore she could see the limp leaves straightening and the wilting blooms healing. There was more water in the cooler than she had anticipated, and she bent to pour it out onto the nearest bush when a flicker of light caught the corner of her eye as it danced over the guardian statue.

  Why not? Mikki thought. Glancing around to make sure she was still alone, she carried the almost-empty cooler quickly to the marble statue.

  “Your roses deserve a little extra boost, too,” she told the silent beast. “After all, you’ve been watching over them a lot longer than I have.”

  Grinning, she dunked her still bleeding hand into what wathe‘into whats left of the pink water. With practiced motions she rained drops over the roses that surrounded the statue. When she was finished she stashed the cooler near the wall next to where she had left the full bag of garbage. Noticing that she had inadvertently sprayed some of the water on the statue, she patted one of the creature’s big hands.

  “Oops, I didn’t mean to get you wet,” she said fondly. “But I’m pretty sure you understand. I mean, please. We, more or less, have the same job. You watch ’em—I watch ’em.”

  Digging into her purse, she retrieved a Kleenex, which she wrapped around her left palm, wincing at the tenderness of the reopened cut. She didn’t really care about the pain. It had been worth it. She was certain now the roses would survive the winter to thrive and bloom again next spring.

  With feet that felt light, she retraced her path out of the third tier, passing under the stone arch and climbing up the stairs. With languid, lazy steps, she walked through the second tier, staying close to the side of the path so she could occasionally reach out and brush her uninjured hand gently over a delicate bloom.

  The gardens were absolutely deserted, and Mikki imagined that they were hers—that she was a great lady who lived in a huge mansion and whose only job was to tend to and enjoy her roses.

  The night seemed to agree with her. There was no noise at all, not even any echoes of the actresses from Woodward Park, which relieved her because it meant they must have finished and gone home. Thankfully, she wouldn’t have to face them again.

  It was so silent that Mikki imagined a soundless bubble had been formed around her made of roses and cool October air.

  The silence lent itself to listening, so Mikki noticed the noise immediately. It began as a strange, shattering sound, and it came from somewhere behind her—somewhere on the third tier. The sound made her jump in surprise. It reminded her of the crack of faraway thunder. She even glanced up at the sky, half expecting to see clouds announcing the coming of a storm.

  No, the night was clear. Thousands of stars spattered the thick ink of the sky; there was not even a hint of clouds above her. Mikki stopped and listened carefully. When she heard nothing more she decided the sound must have been caused by a rabbit or maybe a wandering cat.

  “Probably knocking over some of the construction workers’ garbage,” she told the rosebush nearest to her.

  Mikki walked on, ignoring the fact that her feet were carrying her forward more quickly and the hair on the back of her neck felt prickly and on edge.

  The other noise started as soon as she reached the middle of the second tier. At first she thought it was the echo of her boots bouncing back from the rock wall that framed one tier from the next. Two more steps forward were enough to assure her that she wasn’t hearing an echo. She was hearing independent footsteps. They crunched on the pathway with a decidedly heavier tread than her neat little boot taps.

  But it wasn’t the footsteps themselves that were odd. Lots of people liked to walk the rose garden paths, even after nine o’ of‘fter nineclock on a cool fall night. It was the distinctive noise that went along with the steps that caught Mikki’s attention. She heard it once and discounted it.

  She heard it a second time and halted, pretending to stop and smell a particularly lovely Princesse de Monaco. Actually, she was listening with every fiber of her being.

  The third time she heard it she was sure. It was an achingly familiar grunt... a deep, rumbling exhalation that was somewhere between a growl and a snarl. It passed through her body in an intimate wave that caused her to shiver. Mikki’s eyes widened in shock. There could be no other noise like that, and no other being could make such a sound except the creature from her dreams. And it was coming closer to her with every heavy step.

  No fucking way! her rational mind screamed. That’s utterly impossible.

  It’s just a delusion, she reminded herself firmly. Nothing more than a symptom of my overactive imagination.

  But no matter what common sense told her, Mikki knew that what she was hearing was real—at least to her. At this moment what was happening had become her reality.

  Her heart was beating erratically. Get out of the gardens and into the park where I’ ll be surrounded by lights and people! Her mind nagged at her, belying the rush of sexual excitement that stirred low in the pit of her stomach.

  She wasn’t dreaming. She was not safely asleep in her apartment or retelling an erotic fantasy to her girlfriend, or even mixing up lines on a script because of nervousness and too much chianti. Something out there was stalking her. She had to get to safety. As soon as she left the rose gardens, she would be away from the shadowed darkness of their paths and the night-shrouded privacy they afforded. Then she could scream for help. Even if the actors and stagehands had all packed up for the night, someone was always within hearing range in Woodward Park. Plus, she would be well illuminated within the park’s free-standing light fixtures. Easy for rescuers to see her.

  And easy for him to see, too, that “other” part of her whispered seductively.

  Mikki quickened her pace.

  A muffled grunt—a mighty burst of breath that sounded as if it came from a blacksmith’s bellows rather than a living being—came from the path that ran parallel to the one on which she was walking. Separating them was only a neat bed of profusely blooming Tiffany roses. Mikki sent a furtive look across the pink-faced flowers.

  She wasn’t close enough to the park for the city lights to help her see him very well. She only caught the flash of glowing eyes before he spun away from her. Size—she gasped—the creature was immense. Against her will, her body flushed with a wild rush of excitement.

  A sudden, violent snarl made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. He was flanking her. He meant to cut her off from the lights of the park.

  Faster! her rational mind warned. Get out of the gardens and into the light of the park and then scream for help!oo,‘or help!< Fear overshadowed excitement, and in a frightening parody of her dream, Mikki ran.

  WHEN he felt her presence, he thought he was dreaming. Again. He didn’t understand them, but he welcomed the dreams as rare gifts. They relieved the unending darkness of his entombment. They almost gave him hope... almost.

  But the fabric of this dream was different. At first that didn’t surprise or alarm him. He’d been there generations and had only infrequently been allowed the wisp of a thought... the enticing aroma of the living world... any living world. Each time it had been a little different. Over the years he’d strained to hear the sound of a voice, the touch of a soft hand, the scent of roses and spice. Sometimes he’d be rewarded; most of the time he had not.

  Until recently. The dreams had come to him. That was when she had entered his prison and he had begun to live again.

  He had reveled in the dreams, inhaled her until he felt drunk on her essence. Dreams... who better than he knew what magic they held?

  Perhaps he would dream of touching her skin again. Perhaps...

  Then her blood had spattered against the cold stone that entombed him, and the pain that jolted him shattered the past two centuries like ice cast against marble.

  He hadn’t believed he had been freed. He’d thought it was just a cruel delusion. It might have taken a decade for him to attempt even a small movement of one of his massive muscles if her scent hadn’t begun to wane.

  She was leaving him. Escaping from him.

  No! Not again!

  Embracing the pain, he flexed his great muscles and broke the barrier of shrouding darkness.

  He scented the air. Yes, there, layered within night smells of roses and blood, was the anointing oil. He commanded his stiff body to move, and he followed the fragrance he knew too well through the dark, unfamiliar garden. With an enormous effort of will, he did not crash through the few rosebushes that separated them and seize her. He forced himself to wait until he was able to more carefully control the beast within him. The creature had been penned too long... his needs were too raw... too brutal. It would not do to rend her flesh with his claws. That would solve nothing. He must capture her gently, as he would a delicate bird, and then return her to the destiny she had thought to escape.

  Controlling the ferocity within him, he stalked her. He could not see her well, but he did not need to. The anointing oil drew him; she drew him. And she was aware of him. He could feel her panic. But there was something else—something unfamiliar that radiated from her. He frowned. Something was wrong. He picked up his pace as she left the rose gardens and burst into a small pool of light. He stopped abruptly.

  This was not the priestess he sought. Disappointed and confused, he stood frozen, watching as she struggled with the opening of the leather satchel she carried, clearly looking for something. A weapon? Her eyes frantically searched the dense shadows behind hll ‘ows behiner—the shadows in which he stood.

  “Come on! Where is that damn cell phone?”

  He heard her unfamiliar voice and saw that she was trembling as she searched through the satchel—trembling so badly that the slick leather of the bag slipped out of her hands and fell to the stone path with a sickening crunch.

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!” the stranger said.

  She dropped to her knees and slid her hand into the purse, and he heard her breath rush from her lips, as if in response to a sudden sharp pain. She jerked her hand back. He could see that her fingers were sticky with blood.

  The scent hit him hard in his gut—blood mixed with the anointing oil of a High Priestess. She was not the betrayer, but she had clearly been marked by the goddess. And he must obey the goddess’s will. He began moving toward her again, this time using his newly freed powers to call the darkness to thicken about him so his body would remain cloaked with night. Still, her head jerked up and she stared wide-eyed in his direction.

  “Do not fear,” he murmured, attempting to gentle his powerful voice.

  She gasped. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  He could feel her terror, and for a moment he regretted what he must do. But only for a moment. He knew his duty. This time he would fulfill it. Before she could dart away from him, he used his inhuman speed to reach her where she still crouched on the leafy ground. She stared up at him, unable to see through his mantle of darkness.

  She was so small... so very human...

  With a gruff command, he ordered the darkness to cover both of them, and for a single breath he wrapped his great arms around her, engulfing her in a tide of vertigo. The cool breeze that earlier had been friendly and inviting suddenly beat against them in a frenzy of scent and sound. They were caught in a vortex of confusion. The ground seemed to open to swallow them. It trembled... shifted... rocked. The world around them faded and then disappeared altogether, and the shimmering air was rent by a tremendous roar.

  Like a snake slithering into its hole, darkness and the beast retreated, carrying Mikado Empousai with it.

  Part Two

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  SOFTNESS ... she was surrounded by softness. Curled on her side, her face rested against a pillow. Mikki rubbed her cheek against its sleek surface. Silk. It had to be silk. She snuggled more deeply into the thick comforter, breathing in the rich scent of expensive, down-filled bedding.

  While she lay there, someone combed through her hair with a wide, soft-bristled brush. Mikki sighed happily and rolled over on her stomach so the someone could have better access to more of her hair. Dreaming... she had to be dreaming.

  And, she told her sleeping self, her dreams had certainly been wonderful lately. She should just relax and enjoy.

  The person hummed a wordless tune while she brushed Mikki’s hair. Her voice was a gentle waterfall of notes that blended with the soft strokes of the brush lulling Mikki into an almost hypnotically relaxed state.

  Mikki sighed with perfect contentedness.

  Somewhere in the lullaby-like humming, the whispered words Welcome, Priestess echoed in her sleep-heavy mind.

  Mikki breathed another dreamy sigh; she was definitely going to have to do more sleeping.

  Another pair of hands touched her. These new hands focused on rubbing her feet. With the confidence of a master masseuse, the hands drew firm, soothing circles across her insteps.

  Mikki felt like she was liquefying. Well, she certainly deserved an excellent dream, especially after the night she’d had. Her mind traveled languidly back. The crappy blind date... humiliating herself by screwing up the lines of that play... then being stalked by some terrible imaginary beast through the rose gardens... cutting her fingers on the broken perfume bottle... the deafening roar and the horrible sense of suffocation...

  Memory tried to break through the dam of contentment her dream had built. She had to be dreaming, but how had she gotten home? Just what exactly happened before the weird dizzy spell that had overwhelmed her in Woodward Park? A sliver of unease skittered spiderlike through her body. She needed to wake up.

  Mikki opened her eyes.

  A flutter of activity sounded behind her. Mikki spun around. Two women stood next to her bed.

  No—it wasn’t her bed.

  Mikki snapped her eyes shut.

  No. No. No. This wasn’t right. It was the bed from her dreams. The huge canopy bed in the enormous bedroom, to be precise. Mikki pressed the palms of her hands against her closed eyes. Then she rubbed her face vigorously. She could feel her body, too damn well. The feeling was distinct, not like the sweet, erotic fog that filled her dreams. With her eyes still closed, she slapped her own cheek. Hard.

  “Ow, shit.” Mikki flinched. It definitely hurt. She was certain she was awake now.

  She opened her eyes.

  Sticky tendrils of fear laced their way through her stomach. Nothing had changed. The bed was still there, as was the bedroom and the two women. They were wearing long shimmering robes that wrapped toga-like around their bodies and brushed the lushly carpeted floor. They were young and beautiful, especially silhouetted against the wall of mullioned windows behind them.

  “Shit on a shingle!” Mikki automatically used her favorite curse as her breath left her body and her heart slammed against her chest. “Who the hell are you?” she squeaked. Fear clenched her. Hai> ‘ched her.d she been attacked in the park and killed? “Am I dead? Are you ghosts?” she blurted.