LITMIR.BIZ

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to face me, wench?” Laren glided forward, his steps silent. His intent, predatory posture reminded her of the velociraptor’s.

      “The name’s Clary. I’d stay and brawl, but my calendar’s full.”

      She spun and ran, pumping her legs for all she was worth. She’d made it past a row of garbage cans before Laren tackled her to the ground, his arms wrapped around her waist. Apparently, the fae were as fast as they were strong.

      Clary’s knees exploded with pain as she fell, the fae’s weight driving her into the ground. She raised her arms to protect her face, but not before a blur of gravel and straggling weeds filled her view. Her lungs emptied in a rush. Stunned, she lay helpless as Laren flipped her over and straddled her waist.

      It was then she met his eyes. They were green like her own, but a vibrant shade unlike any mortal’s. And they were utterly, chillingly void of feeling. The loss of his soul had turned him into something alien. She might as well have been pinned by a shark.

      Terror flooded her, robbing the last shreds of her strength. She had no magic and no weapon. She drew in a shaking breath, fighting down the urge to wail.

      His lips drew back from his teeth in a mockery of a smile. “What a pretty thing you are.” He placed a fingertip between her eyes and traced downward, over the tip of her nose and the bow of her lips. “You will be delicious.”

      Clary shuddered at the naked hunger in his face. It promised a brutal end, and a primitive instinct to live took over. She twisted beneath him, arching her back against his weight. Laren pushed her down again, but not before the knife in his belt caught her eye, its silver hilt gleaming in the alley’s muted sunlight. A fae hunter would need such a thing to finish his victims. It taunted her, promising death or just maybe deliverance.

      She widened her eyes, letting all her fear show. Laren’s nostrils flared as if scenting her distress. His knees tightened against her hips and he grabbed her jaw, using one hand to pin her head in place. That was all he needed to control her. Compared with his strength, her arms might have been helplessly beating wings.

      Or not. Clary plucked the knife from its scabbard with a quick hiss of steel on leather and drove it toward his ribs. It would have worked, if not for fae reflexes. He twisted with the agility of a cat, his free hand clamping around her wrist in an iron grip.

      A chilling sound of regret escaped his lips. “Very good. I see I’m growing careless.” He peeled the knife from her fingers and tossed it just out of reach. Clary heard it fall with a ping of metal on stone. Clearly, he wasn’t a warrior obsessed with keeping his blades in perfect condition.

      Then he bent over her again, the smell of his skin and sweat far too intimate. He grabbed her jaw once more, forcing her mouth open with bruising insistence. “Give yourself to me,” he whispered. “Give me your joy and tears and hope.” His lips sealed over hers.

      The assault on her soul was far, far worse than she had ever imagined. It felt as if her insides were being torn through her throat, leaving an icy vacuum behind. She pushed against his chest, but he was solid as granite. Her hands fumbled to his face, poking and clawing and finally to his hair, but nothing made him flinch. Sight and sound vanished, leaving only an unholy pain. Finally, Clary screamed, but Laren drank that down along with everything else.

      Then something hurled him back. Clary collapsed backward, hitting her head on a sharp rock. The universe swam for an instant before she rolled to her side to see Merlin standing over Laren. She expected Merlin to pound the fae into a pulp, shock him with thunderbolts—something—but the enchanter stood poised and unmoving, a look of naked curiosity on his face.

      Then she realized that the fae writhed on the ground in agony, his grinding moans like nothing she’d ever heard. Taking no chances, Clary fumbled for the knife he’d thrown aside and staggered to her feet, using the filthy wall for support. Slowly she approached, the long blade gripped in one hand.

      Laren’s eyes had rolled back into his head until only the whites showed. Foam coated his lips and he trembled with long, violent spasms. Merlin’s face was grim as he took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him, scanning her slowly from head to the scuffed toes of her shoes. He squeezed her gently, angling his arms as if for a reckless moment he might decide to pull her close. After an odd hesitation, he let his hands fall away. “Thank the gods you’re all right,” he said quietly.

      For an instant, she saw possessive anger storm over Merlin’s face, lighting his odd amber eyes. The primitive heat stirred an answering call deep in her core. Her response was as inevitable as the autumn flight of birds—or perhaps the rage of earthquakes. It was that deep and mesmerizing.

      And then the heat in Merlin’s eyes was gone, buried again—but this time she saw the effort it took him to hide it, as if it was growing harder to smother. But why does he care about me, especially after the trouble I’ve caused? Not that she’d let him see her doubt. That would leave her cracked open like an egg dropped from its nest to the pavement below. And this wasn’t the time for confessions, anyway. She’d just about had her soul snatched. After a long moment, she stepped back, heaving a long breath. She was grateful he’d come and angry he’d stolen her power, and she didn’t have the strength to deal with either of those things right then.

      Instead, she pointed at the fae writhing at their feet. “What happened to him?”

      “I’m not certain, but my first guess would be indigestion,” Merlin replied drily.

      A slightly hysterical laugh escaped Clary. Her world wavered and she gripped Merlin’s arm. Humor aside, the enchanter’s remark made no sense, but the evidence was before her eyes. Still, how could her life energy be toxic to a fae? It was ludicrous, and just a little embarrassing.

      She opened her mouth to say so just as she passed out.

      * * *

      Clary woke up in an unfamiliar bedroom. After jerking into a sitting position, she pressed a hand to her aching head and found a lump where she’d hit the pavement. An involuntary groan escaped her as she blinked the room into focus. She was clothed and lying on a king-size bed. One wall of the room was exposed brick, the floor wide planks of hardwood sanded to a soft sheen. Another wall was a balcony with a view of the sun fading over the distant hills. This had to be one of those trendy lofts in the downtown’s converted warehouses. The furniture was plain but top quality, the bed linens definitely not from a big box store. Whose place was this?

      She swung her feet off the bed and took a second look around. The room was nice, but the clutter said a real person lived there. A bookshelf spawned stacks of books around it, like seedlings around a tree. Unfolded laundry was heaped in a chair and spilled over onto the floor.

      Slowly, Clary bent and pulled on her shoes, which someone had removed and left beside the bed. Her head throbbed with the change in angle, but it was manageable. When she stood, she caught sight of the T-shirt on the floor by the closet. It was black with a faded logo of a metal rock band, and she’d last seen it stretched over Merlin’s chest. Was this his place? It looked too—she searched for the word—normal.

      She left the bedroom, curiosity in full flood. The room opened directly into the main living area, and she caught an impression of more wood, brick and large windows hung with plants. “Anybody home?” Clary called.

      Merlin appeared around the corner. “Ah, you’re up.” His usual mask was firmly in place—cool and slightly amused, as if the world were a movie and he’d already seen the credits. The only clue to his mood was the vertical pleat between his brows.

      “Do you live here?” she asked.

      He nodded, sipping from a glass of something green. “How are you feeling?”

      “Not sure yet.” She wrinkled her nose. His drink smelled like lawn clippings. “Is that brew from the Fabrien Spell Scrolls?”

      One corner of his mouth quirked. “It’s wheat grass from my juicer. Want some?”

      Clary shuddered. “Not unless we’re going for a true exorcism. Why

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