Just north of Chicago

Sally woke with a throbbing head and a nasty premonition that she was ass-deep in trouble.

Like a coward she kept her eyes squeezed shut and tried to will herself back to sleep. If something bad was coming, why be conscious for it?

Unfortunately, she was sprawled on a hard cement floor that was giving her a cramp in the neck. And since whatever might be lurking in the dark didn’t seem to be in a hurry to kill her, she grudgingly forced her heavy lids to lift.

She grimaced. On the up side, the large unoccupied room was thankfully empty of a ravaging horde. On the down side, it was coated in a thick layer of dust that now covered her from head to toe.

Stifling a sneeze, she managed to rise to her feet, pressing a hand to her aching temple.

Where the hell was she?

And more importantly, how did she get there?

Her gaze skimmed over the brick walls and the windows that had been boarded over. The floor was cement and the lofted ceiling lined with steel beams.

A warehouse? A closed factory?

Taking a hesitant step forward, she desperately tried to remember what had happened. She’d been traveling through the tunnel with Roke, right? And then they’d come to the end of the tunnel even as her powers were running on empty.

What then? Vaguely she recalled Roke leaving to search the building overhead.

Had he abandoned her? Or had something happened to him? Was he hurt?

Or worse . . . ?

Before the disturbing thoughts could fully form, she was shaking her aching head. No. He’d come back. Yes. That was right. He’d come back and . . .

Her heart slammed painfully against her breastbone. Oh, crap.

He’d come back ready to murder her.

So had he succeeded? Was this her version of hell? An eternity alone in an empty, dusty warehouse?

It could be worse, she decided, heading toward the steel door across the barren room. She could be stuck with an arrogant bully of a vampire who had gone from loathing to downright hatred.

Almost as if the thought of Roke stirred some primitive connection to him, Sally came to a slow halt.

She sensed him. Not just physically, although she would swear she could feel the icy prickles of his power brushing over her skin.

But somewhere deep inside her.

Her mouth went dry as she glanced around the shadowed room. “Hello?” Her voice echoed eerily through the darkness, bouncing off the walls. “Is anyone there?”

There was the faintest swish of sound before a dark shape was falling from the rafters. She instinctively leaped backward as the shadow revealed itself as Roke.

Holy crap.

Had he been hanging up there like a bat?

With a chilling smile, he folded his arms over his chest. He was still wearing the black jeans and leather jacket from earlier, but his dark hair lay as smooth as polished silk framing his stark, disgustingly handsome face.

“Going somewhere, witch?” he mocked, the pale eyes glowing white in the dim light.

“Roke,” she breathed.

“Yes, Roke.” His power bit into her skin like tiny shards of ice. “Your devoted love-slave.”

She winced, rubbing her hands over her arms. “I’m sorry.”

“Not yet, but I promise you’re going to be.”

She believed him. The threat of violence was a tangible force. She shivered, hoping he would at least make her death quick.

“I . . . it wasn’t my fault.”

He curled back his lips to reveal a set of fangs that looked massive to Sally.

And deadly.

And . . . painful. Really, really painful.

“Tell me exactly what you did to me,” he snarled.

“I don’t know.”

He stepped forward, leaning down until they were nose to nose. “Try again.”

“Stop.” She stumbled back, her heart racing with a fear that threatened to consume her. “I can’t think when you’re looming over me like some avenging angel.”

“Angel?” He gave a derisive snort. “That’s a first.”

She held up a pleading hand. “Just back off and I’ll tell whatever you want to know.”

“Fine.” With a glare he took a deliberate step backward, his expression carved in granite. “Talk fast.”

She cleared the lump from her throat, struggling to think through the panic clouding her mind. “Unless it was a part of my nightmare, you already know I’m not entirely human,” she managed to rasp.

“You refused to tell me what blood runs in your veins.”

“Because I truly don’t know.”

The pale, unnerving eyes narrowed. “Convenient.”

“Convenient. Yeah, real convenient.” Her short burst of laughter echoed eerily through the room. “My mother was a witch, and before you ask, yes, she practiced black magic,” she bitterly admitted. She’d devoted a lot of energy to burying the memories of her mother. The last thing she wanted was to dig them up and relive them. “She was, in fact, everything that people fear most in witches. She was vain, selfish, and willing to sacrifice everything for power.”

“A black witch.” He shuddered in disgust.

“Yes,” she hissed, absently rubbing her inner arm. The dang thing still itched. “I knew you would be suitably horrified.”

“And your father?”

“A mystery.”

He growled in warning. “Sally.”

“I’m not done,” she snapped, her terror not enough to halt her burst of anger. Did the damned vampire want her story or not?

“Then finish,” he commanded in icy tones.

Why hadn’t she slugged him in the nose when she had him in her power?

“After decades of making enemies my mother decided she needed to expand her power base,” she said through clenched teeth. “Or at least that’s what she always claimed.”

“Didn’t she have a coven?”

“She did, but she could never really trust that they wouldn’t stage a coup d’état.” Sally grimaced. Her mother had been as paranoid as she was power hungry. No doubt because everyone hated her guts. “She wanted a partner of absolute, unquestioning loyalty.”

“A daughter.”

“Give the vampire a gold star,” she muttered.

There was another flash of fang. “This isn’t the time to be a smart-ass.”

It wasn’t. Unfortunately, the more nervous she became the more mouthy she tended to be.

“Yes, a daughter,” she forced herself to answer in reasonable tones. No sense antagonizing the already infuriated vampire. “Or more specifically, me.”

“And she chose a demon to impregnate her?”

“Good god, no.” She shook her head. “My mother had a pathological hatred of demons.”

He frowned, almost as if he were offended by her confession. “Why?”

“Maybe because demons spend a great deal of time trying to kill witches,” she pointed out.

He shrugged aside her accusation. Typical. Vampires were allowed to go around killing willy-nilly, but they weren’t so happy when they were the prey.

“Then how did a demon end up in her bed?”

“From what I could discover my mother performed a secret fertility rite that would not only make sure she would become pregnant, but would lead her to the best candidate to be the”—she felt a ridiculous blush stain her cheeks—“donor.”

His brows lifted. “And it led her to a demon?”

“So it would seem.” She shrugged. “And beyond just being a demon, it had to be skillful enough to hide the fact it wasn’t human from a very powerful witch. Not an easy task.”

He studied her for several seconds. “Didn’t your mother try to track him down after she discovered the truth?”

With an abrupt motion she turned away from his piercing gaze. Her raw sense of betrayal was something she wasn’t willing to share.

Certainly not with a vampire who wanted her dead.

“It took several years before she actually learned the truth.”

“She didn’t realize when you were born?”

“I was one of those half-breeds who didn’t start showing my demon blood until I hit puberty.” She hunched a shoulder, her stomach cramping at the agonizing memory. “Needless to say, my sweet sixteenth birthday is one I’ll never forget.”

“What happened?” His voice sounded odd. Tense.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does if it helps me determine what sort of demon you are.”

God almighty. He truly was a masochist.

“You want the gory details?” She whirled back to glare at his carefully blank face. “Okay. I was assisting my mother with a spell that demanded a blood sacrifice, so I sliced open my palm. I’d done it a hundred times, but this time . . .”

“It healed.”

“Yep, just like magic.” Her lips twisted. She could still remember every detail of that moment. The smell of smoke from the candles protecting their circle. The sound of her blood dripping on the wood floor. The hiss of horror from the woman who’d raised her as the wound had slowly sealed shut. “Only it wasn’t magic. It was a death sentence.”