 
# Tame the Spark

### a Mirrorside prequel

## Jessica Lynch
Copyright © 2019 by Jessica Lynch

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover by Jessica Lynch

### Contents

Foreword

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Stalk the Moon

Noelle

Hunter

Noelle

Start the Series today!

About the Author

Also by Jessica Lynch

# Foreword

This novelette (approximately 14k words) is an introduction to the _Mirrorside_ series, my Greek mythology retellings that take ancient myths and give them both a romantic and fantastical twist.

In the first full-length novel, we learn all about the Other from the perspective of Noelle, the reincarnation of the Greek goddess Artemis. Her story begins when she meets a strange silver-haired man at a flea market and makes a deal that will change her life forever.

When _Stalk the Moon_ begins, Zeus and Hera are already pulling at strings behind the scenes. They also make a prominent appearance in the third _Mirrorside_ book, _The Witch in the Woods_. In this story, we learn about the two of them and why they're so insistent on meddling in the lives of the other reborn gods and goddesses.

Enjoy!

_xoxo,_

_Jessica_

# 1

### Present Day

I've learned over the many years that, when I'm in search of my husband, all I must do is follow the sound of feminine laughter. He'll inevitably be the cause behind it.

Whether it's coy, enticing, amused, thrilled, or—on the rare occasion—a touch uncomfortable, most women eventually laugh, giggle, and chuckle whenever he turns his attention their way. It's either that or invite him to bed because, honestly, some of these modern women have no shame.

When did the age of modesty disappear? Where a lady let her gentleman know she was interested with a coquettish look before hoping she could slip away from her chaperone?

In the case of my too-charming-for-his-own-good husband, I suppose _I_ am the chaperone.

Should I have left him alone at the stall? Probably not. But despite the fact that this is another one of _his_ brilliant schemes, another way to make sure the balance is maintained and chaos doesn't overwhelm the poor mortals mirrorside, someone needed to check in with the market organizers. That was my job.

He was supposed to be unpacking the useless trinkets, setting up another one of his godsforsaken mirrors. He's _not_ supposed to be wasting time flirting.

Which he obviously is.

Hmm.

Our stall is nearly ready. I can see the boxes stacked to the side, the mirror standing toward the back with the fleece covering the glass. Knickknacks are scattered on the tables we bought for this affair, but there's more empty space than trinkets out for sale. I know they're a prop, that we need them to complete our act. Even so, why are they missing?

Because my husband is too busy flirting with the woman in the next stall.

She's pretty, too, which is bothersome. It's easier for me to stomach it when they're homely, but the woman with the red hair and the slender frame is lovely. She's older than I appear, so that's something, but Zeus is a stately gentleman. He attracts young and old and, from the way she's beaming up at him as she laughs, he's got this woman on the hook.

I march toward them, sparing a snooty look at the woman before boring my gaze into my husband's profile.

"I signed in like you asked me to."

His pale eyes light up as they always do when they see me. Affable as ever, he doesn't seem to care—or notice—that I snapped at him.

"Thank you," he says absently before gesturing at the redhead watching him with absolute interest in her gaze. "We're right on schedule, so that was a big help. And look! I've already made acquaintances with our lovely neighbor for the weekend. This is Marianne. She's offered to watch our stall for us if we want to go sightseeing on our own later."

"Hello, sweetheart." She's a matronly sort, with a warm smile. I immediately dislike her, and though that's cruel of me, I can't help it, especially when she coos at me like I'm a child. Clicking her tongue, she adds, "Oh, honey, do you need to borrow a coat? New Jersey winters can be brutal sometimes, and the way they sneak up on you? Pays to be prepared. Now, I'm sure I've got an extra around here somewhere. Let me look."

The friendly Marianne starts looting around her boxes. For the first time, I notice the snow on the ground. It's melting, but it's there, and all the mortals milling about this morning are bundled up.

I glance down at my dark jeans, my thin peasant blouse, my bare hands. I should be cold.

I'm not.

My eyes dart over to my husband. He's wearing less than I am, though I'm willing to bet this woman never offered to cover up his muscular forearms, his wide chest, his solid waist. Why would she? He's a god reborn and, so help me, he looks it.

I forgot it was winter here. With our constant travels through the portals, I lose track of time. The cold doesn't bother me, neither does the heat, but I know it's essential that we pass among the mortals. I should have brought a coat.

"Don't worry about me. I have my own." With a pointed glare, I nod at Zeus. "Husband. I'll see if I can fetch a coat for you as well. Please finish setting up the stall. I'll return before the market opens." Then, before he can answer me—before I can give in to my urge to shove the redhead away from him—I turn my back on them both.

The smallest of smiles curves my lips as I storm away. On the early morning wind, I hear the woman echo, "Husband?" and I know that I made my point.

Zeus is my husband. And if I have to ward off every female who looks at him twice, that's exactly what I'll do.

"Hera. There you are."

With a sigh, I look up from my nails and throw a wary glance over at my husband.

He found me.

Of course, he did.

I could run halfway around the world and there would never be enough space between us. He always finds me. It doesn't matter that this open tract of land behind a New Jersey high school isn't very big. I could be hidden in a labyrinth and, as if he held Ariadne's string, he'd know right where I am.

That's what happens when the Fates decree that you're to be married to the most powerful god in our world. And when he's insistent that the two of you are meant to be for an eternity, even though you're not his first wife or even his second. I'm his last, though, and I try to remember that.

But it's tough.

We all have our habits, and Olympus knows they're damn near impossible to break. He flirts with women. Me? I hate them, and while seething on my own, I plot ways to keep him for myself.

It works for us.

"Took you long enough," I mutter.

Not really. Five minutes maybe? It might've been even less. Doesn't matter.

He's standing there with his shirtsleeves rolled up, his forearms on display as he settles his hands on his hips. A whisper of a grin makes his handsome face even more stunning.

Zeus.

_My_ Zeus.

He looks exactly the same as he did the day we met all those years ago. So do I. Our clothes change as the styles change. That's all. Otherwise, he's the same man I met when I was still a mortal.

When I was still Elisabeth Morgan.

It's the magic. He's the only one strong enough to cross back and forth through the years without the time or the magic affecting him. He shields me, covering me with his power, keeping me exactly as I was since the day we met.

In this incarnation, at least. In this life.

Now that I've acknowledged him and I'm not yelling at him—and, all right, I do tend to yell a bit—Zeus moves so that he's standing behind me. Throwing his arms over my shoulders, he pulls me back, tucking me against his chest as he nuzzles my cheek, mussing my braid.

"You know I love you," he murmurs.

I do. Gods help me, I do. I lean back into his chest, closing my eyes for a moment as I soak in his warmth, his strength, his power. Zeus loves me, like he's always loved me, only this time? I made it clear a long, long time ago. He can look, but he can never touch. It was my condition when we last met, and it's my condition today. I'm a jealous bitch. It's how I was made—it's how _he_ made me. Back when he was promiscuous and I did everything I could to keep him loyal.

It's easier now because he does love me. We're partners in this life; I'm his consort and his queen, no matter how many mortal women might turn his head. So his eye might wander. I'm the only one who warms his bed these days—the only woman he's been with in more than a century.

And I know that for sure. He promised me, on the day that I followed him into this madness, that he wouldn't be unfaithful. He had enough of that in his previous lives, in the countless stories where he fathered thousands of children. He's the king of the gods, the lord of our mythos, and the single man who is devoted to keeping the pantheon alive.

Because if he doesn't? This world will self-destruct, too.

I _know_ that. That's why we're here. It's certainly not because visiting New Jersey is my first choice—it's too close to Manhattan, too close to my memories—and pretending to be a tacky flea market salesperson is so far down on my list of things I'd choose to be doing this Saturday morning.

But I've already caught him staring at a handful of female vendors this morning, not to mention the redhead whose stall is next to ours. They mean nothing to him, and I shouldn't let it bother me.

It does, though. It always does.

He wants to stare? I get to pout.

It's better than turning the mortals into cows or chasing them when they're ready to give birth. Hera did all of that and more once upon a time. I'm sure I could do it again.

And then Zeus has to go on and be so gods damn noble, reminding me of our higher purpose.

"You know why we're doing this, don't you?"

I exhale softly. "I'm here, aren't I?"

His daughter will be arriving soon. Zeus's daughter.

It's taken me decades to separate the idea that, as Zeus, he considers any of the reborn gods and goddesses, heroes, nymphs, and demigods... they're all his responsibility, but a few of them are his _children_.

We've been tracking Artemis these last few years. Zeus could tell when she was born again in this world, but apart from a vague location—the east coast of the United States—it was hard to discover the identity of her newest incarnation while the goddess slumbered inside of her mortal host. Until some sliver of Artemis's power was let loose mirrorside, we had to wait.

Oh, there were others that Zeus tracked down and helped cross over during that time. Small actors in the grand scheme of things: those demigods, former kings, their consorts, and the heroes.

One of the Twelve—like me, like Zeus, like Artemis—always has priority, though. Whenever one of the favored is back in the Other, we stabilize it, and bring some balance to the mirrorside. I understand our purpose. I've long resigned myself to playing my role, out of a sense of love and duty.

The old ways were dying until Zeus decided to save both worlds.

And, as his wife and his queen, I'm the only one who can help him.

# 2

### Manhattan, 1892

There's that man again.

In a crowded city of thousands, it's a surprise to me that I keep finding him, but I do.

There's something about him. His silver hair? Pale eyes? His size?

Probably that one most of all. He looms over the men around him, more than a head taller than most, and so big and strong, his expensively tailored coat seems to be bursting at the seams. He doesn't wear a hat—which makes his light hair all the more noticeable—though he carries himself as a gentleman.

Something else warns me that he's a brute even so.

His darker complexion also gives me pause. The bronze is such a stark difference to my lily white skin. A foreigner perhaps? It would explain how much he stands out in New York's upper-class society. Despite his silver coloring, he doesn't appear elderly or frail; this is a man in the prime of his life and, unless I'm mistaken, he's been following me all afternoon.

I don't know why I keep finding him. All the same, when I look off to my left, dare a glance behind me, sometimes even peek ahead of my path, there he is. And, no matter what, he's inevitably waiting for me to lock eyes with him before he smiles.

My stomach twists. I've had hundreds of men smile at me before. Some friendly, some kind, most automatic as they lift their hats and bid me a good day. Since my engagement, the smiles have lost some of their edge, but I've never been unaware of how attractive I am.

I'm the first daughter of a wealthy man. I've been educated—even _too_ educated if you ask my father—and my mother has worked very hard for me to be so lovely. My engagement made the society pages, my wedding next spring will be the gala of the season. I'm used to men watching me, too, which is why I was rarely allowed out without a chaperone. Since I accepted his proposal, I spend most of my free time with Charles as my companion.

And, yet, there's a reckless and contrary streak inside of me that has me searching for the silver-haired man, too.

"Elisabeth? Elisabeth!"

I'm not even being subtle. Only when I hear the exasperation in Charles's clipped voice do I realize that I've turned in the direction of the stranger, almost as if I'm about to approach him.

I... I think I was.

Giving my head a small shake, I adjust my evening jacket, making sure the hem falls right at my cinched waist. "Hmm? Were you saying something, Charles?"

"Are you feeling well? I've been trying to catch your attention for some time, but you seem distracted. Maybe we should return to your father's house."

Maybe we should. I've seen the other man in the distance all afternoon, and I have to wonder: if he's following me, why? Or am I being overly sensitive? I'm not sure, but there's no denying that he's always just out of my reach. In the last hour or so, he's closed the gap, too. We should head back before he gets any closer.

"I suppose so. It's getting late and you know how they fret if I'm not home before dark. It'll be a relief when we're married. No more chaperones, no more silly rules. I can hardly wait."

Charles pauses. From beneath his mustache, I can see the edge of his lips turn down into a discouraged frown. "I'm certain that's not the only reason to look forward to our wedding, darling."

"What? Oh, yes. Of course not."

"Then what is?"

I should've known better than to say anything in front of Charles. I try, really I do, but I've often thought that marrying the son of my father's business partner is just something expected of me. I'll trade one master for the other, though no man will ever really be able to tame Elisabeth Morgan. I have every intention of going through with it, and hopefully some day I'll grow to care for him, but it's my duty. Nothing more.

Unfortunately, from the day he proposed marriage, Charles has made it clear that this is more than a business arrangement to him. He loves me, and I try to respond in kind, but sometimes I forget about the act. And then I'm left to answer his ridiculous questions.

I don't answer questions. I'm usually the one who _asks_ them.

Luckily for me, in this instance, I'm saved from having to placate my fiancé when we're interrupted by a simple statement.

"The old ways are dying."

Both Charles and I look up. The voice is soft and smooth, with a hint of an accent. It's the silver-haired man. Of course.

Charles bristles next to me. Forgive me, but he's almost immediately forgotten when I come face to face with the other man.

This close, he's younger than I initially thought. I suppose it's the silver hair that makes him appear older, or perhaps the experienced look in his uncomfortably pale eyes. Fine wrinkles outline his strong features, but they're nothing like the deep furrows my father has. He's handsome, and he's close, and he's looking right at me.

"Excuse me?" I ask. "Did you say something, sir?"

He nods, his unblinking stare making me nervous. Which is strange because I rarely get nervous. I've no use for such a frivolous emotion. You're either frightened or you're not, and being nervous is a waste of time when you can be certain that you're right. And, I like to think, I'm usually right.

Just like when I suspected that the silver-haired, silver-eyed giant of a man was following me. I was right about that, and that his sudden nearness makes me so nervous, also makes me irritated.

"I'm sure I have no idea what you mean. Good day, sir."

Resting my hand on Charles's arm, I give him a squeeze, signaling him that I'm eager to move on from the stranger. He tucks my hand into the crook of his arm and, with a thin-lipped smile, starts to lead me away.

We hadn't gone more than a few steps when he calls after us:

"Don't you recognize me?"

There's no doubt in my mind that he's addressing me rather than Charles. From the way Charles tightens his hold on me before whirling us around to face the stranger again, I'm sure he feels the same.

With a sniff, Charles says, "You must be mistaking my fiancée for someone else. She doesn't know you. Isn't that right, darling?"

I don't even have the chance to agree before the stranger locks his pale gaze on my face. It's as if I'm the only one on the street. I'm trapped in the weight of his stare. The world doesn't exist but for the two of us and, suddenly, I have the urge to go to him.

Then he says, "She knows me far better than you. See, I'm her husband," and I'm blinking in surprise.

It breaks the stare. Because I don't want to be ensnared again, I turn toward my companion in time to watch him grit his teeth. I'm a little taken aback by it. I've known Charles since I was a girl, and as much as he professes his love for me, I've never seen the normal stoic man react in such a way in public.

"Oh?" Charles lifts his eyebrow, his friendly voice at odds with the way his jaw has tightened. "Elisabeth, my love, do introduce us. To think, my fiancée has had a husband all this time and I'm only hearing of it now. At least I've learned the truth before the wedding, don't you agree?"

My stomach roils when he calls me _my love._ Despite our engagement, it's the first time Charles has used such a term when we weren't alone, and I don't like the way it makes me feel since it's equally as obvious that he says it only to upset the silver-haired gentleman.

"Charles," I murmur, "do stop. He must be ill, and it's not kind of you to tease him so."

"Tease?" The stranger has a magical laugh, deep and resonant. "I don't blame him for trying to stake his claim. You're as lovely today as the last time we met, and he'd have to be as ill as you think I am not to notice. Not that I am ill. I assure you, I'm fit as a fiddle. I'm certainly not addled, either. I know who you are, Hera, and if you don't know the truth yet, you will soon. I promise you that."

Poor soul. If he hasn't been set loose from Bellevue Hospital, then he must have mistaken me for someone else.

I'm especially sure of that when he reaches out suddenly, taking my hand in his, pressing his palm against the silk of my evening glove. When Charles barks at him to let me go, he does, but not before he leaves something tucked in my hand.

I fold my fingers around it. Glancing up at him, he nods.

"Soon," he murmurs. "I'm sure of it."

I dream about him for three straight nights.

He never looks the same, and neither do I, but the silver eyes tell me that I'm dreaming of my stranger. I'm always with him, either standing beside him or chasing behind him, and the nights when other women flitter through my dreams, they become nightmares.

I don't understand how he's affecting me. After the confrontation in the square, I stay inside because Charles insists. At first, I want to argue since giving in to his demands this early definitely won't bode well for our marriage next spring, but I'm eager to avoid meeting the silver-eyed stranger again.

The scrap of newsprint is tucked beneath the vanity in my boudoir. I find myself returning to it frequently during the afternoons following a night full of strange dreams. There's only one line scrawled in an elaborate script: 55 West Houston Street. An address. If I want answers about why I can't forget this stranger, there's only one thing for me to do.

I shouldn't do it.

That doesn't stop me.

Now, all I have to do is figure out how to go out alone. I think of the newsprint again as I peer out of my bedroom window. There's a newsboy on the corner, waving his wares, shouting the headlines to any and all evening passersby.

Taking a penny from my vanity drawer, I tuck it in the pocket of my evening jacket. It seems as if I found my excuse.

# 3

_A single woman never addresses a gentleman without an introduction._

_A single woman never walks alone._

_A single woman would never call upon a gentleman at his home._

_A single woman should never go out with a gentleman alone at night._

So many rules. So many societal conventions. I've spent my life breaking the ones I thought I could get away with.

Tonight, I'll break even more.

I can't help it. A mixture of curiosity and... and something I can't quite describe has me slipping out after dinner. My mother thinks I'm meeting Charles for an evening at the opera. Charles thinks I'm working on my trousseau. Neither one knows that I often go out on my own, with nary a chaperone in sight. What's one more trip? One final adventure? And if anyone on the street wonders what I'm doing, I still have a penny. The city has hundreds of newsies willing to sell me a paper. I'll just say I'm looking for one.

Besides, those rules don't apply to me anymore. I'm not single; I'm engaged. And something tells me that the man I'm hoping to meet is no gentleman.

My biggest clue?

When I'm finally drawing up on West Houston Street and I arrive at Mr. Ada Blashfield's boarding house, I discover a line of young men queuing up to go inside. I stride right past them, ignoring their comments and their stares, then knock, only to be greeted by a woman with her long golden hair left to hang loosely down her back.

Her lips are painted a shocking red. They pull back in a lascivious grin when I show her the scrap of newsprint.

"Can't read," she says with a shrug. The sleeve of her chemisette—because that's all she's got on, standing there bold as brass in her chemisette—slips off her shoulder and her grin widens. "You gotta tell me who you're looking for. We get all kinds, and you ain't the first mistress come to drag her husband back by his privates, I'm sure."

"He's not my husband," I retort. It's a knee-jerk reaction. I can't help it.

"That's fine, too. Most of these fellas swear they don't have a wife, either."

I can only imagine. Though I probably should turn and walk away, I've made it this far already and I know—I _know_ —that my dreams will only be worse if I don't have it out with this strange man. So, regretting it as I do, I describe him.

It's easier than it should be, and I must be right since halfway through my description, she nods.

"It's all right, dearie, I know exactly the man you mean. He's got a room in back. You can follow me if you'd like."

I don't like her gleeful tone. It's clear she thinks I'm lying about not being his wife and she wants to see what happens when I confront him with one of her ilk.

How dare a painted lady treat me like that. She's hoping for a scene? I'll go inside. I'll find this man. And won't she be surprised when I barely bat an eye at the debauchery inside? I grew up in a home with staff. What goes on on the lower floors is probably even worse than the goings on in Mr. Blashfield's "boarding house".

Turning up my nose, grateful I changed into my rainy daisy as I'm sure I wouldn't want the filth of this house clinging to the hem of my dress, I nod and tell her to lead the way.

Of course, that's how I felt in the moment before I knocked on the door she told me was his. When an invitingly smooth voice calls out, "It's open. Come on in," recognition is deep in my gut. I know that voice. I've heard it every night for the last three nights whenever I dreamed.

Grateful I'm wearing gloves, I turn the handle and ease the door inward. The room is dark, a few candles lighting up the gloom, and it takes my eyes a second to adjust. Then a few moments more when the scene in front of me has my shoes stuck to the floor.

The silver-haired stranger is in this room—and he isn't alone. A heavyset, busty brunette is seated on his lap as he lounges royally in a high-backed wooden chair. His legs are spread, shiny boots planted on the ground. Beneath the ruffles of her nightdress, I don't see his hands, and my first impression is that they're tucked up under her skirt. My only saving grace is that he's fully dressed.

"At last," he says, his voice gone soft and alluring. "You've finally come."

Even so, his words set off a spark inside me that I didn't even know I had. It's a combination of all of it: the restless nights, the pull toward him I can't explain, the walk to the seedy side of the city, the "boarding house", the painted ladies, the woman on his lap and, now, that. The absolute entitlement, the belief that _I_ 've kept him waiting, that he _knew_ I'd be here.

The fury is sudden and fierce, making my blood boil and my whole body feel like it's been engulfed in flames. I clamp my teeth together, to keep from saying anything I'd regret, and if I see red as I purposely look past the woman cozying herself up against the stranger, I'm doing us all a favor.

As quickly as the fire comes, I work to contain it. I'm suddenly reminded of another of my mother's silly rules.

_A lady never shows her emotions in public. Rant, shout, and cry in private, but never shame yourself in society._

I'm angry? I'm jealous and furious and just so very mad? Until I understand precisely why, I won't let anyone know it. I _can't_. So I keep my face expressionless, like a good lady should, while fighting the urge to rush in there and scratch the brunette's eyes out.

With careful steps, moving as if I couldn't be bothered, I step into the room. It's... _quaint_. A dresser. A bed. The scent of rosewood mixed with a cloyingly sweet perfume fills the air. He's sitting across the room and I stop when there are about three feet separating me from the pair.

Because it's the only way to keep the lid on my bubbling fury, I ignore the woman. It's so very difficult, but I've also been trained very well.

I already noticed that he's much younger than he appears at first glance. It seems as if he acts like a reckless young man, too. If I wasn't so irrationally furious at that, I might find it amusing. He's certainly a bachelor.

And I have a betrothed.

This was a bad idea. Such a terrible, awful, bad idea. Being near him again has only confirmed it, and not only because this is a brothel disguised as a boarding house.

I've got to go before my mask cracks and I allow him to see how much this is affecting me.

"Yes," I agree, because there's certainly no denying it, "but I'm beginning to see now that I probably shouldn't have, Mister..."

That's right. Despite the way he's taken over my thoughts these last few days, I know next to nothing about this man. I don't even know his _name_.

"Dias." His tongue darts out, licking the tip of his upper lip, before he grins. "You may call me Dias."

That's not his name. Whether it's the humor tucked in his smile, or a certainty that I can't explain, I know he's being less than truthful. But I can't let that bother me. He says to call him Dias? Then that's what I'll do.

"Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Dias. You're obviously busy, so I'll leave you to it."

Damn it! I'm still seething, and the jealousy slipped out on the tail of my last comment. It was sharp, cutting like a knife, and from the way his lips twitch, I can't even pretend to believe he missed it.

"Busy? Olympus, no, I was just killing time until you finally shook your companion loose and came to find me. You're a stubborn lass, always have been, but I knew you'd come." Though he doesn't take his eyes off of me, he shifts in his seat and I can tell he's now talking to the woman draped over his lap. "Thanks, dear, but you've served your purpose. Go on."

He gooses her backside to get her to rise, and if I'm glad to realize that his hands weren't under her skirt like I feared, I'm sure it's a mild touch of hysteria. I've heard it happens. What else can explain the way this stranger makes my breath quicken, my heart race, my palms sweat in my evening gloves?

I should go. I have a fainting couch in my quarters and I should be there, resting, trying to get some sleep at last, rather than standing in this seedy bordello surrounded by these painted women. What was I thinking?

I wasn't. Reaching up, I adjust the ribbon tied beneath my chin while giving the other woman the chance to slink out of the room. She throws me a nasty look as she goes by me. I refuse to acknowledge her, keeping my eyes straight ahead. Once she's gone, I nod over at him.

"That wasn't necessary. I didn't mean to interrupt, and I should probably leave you to it. Good evening, Mr. Dias."

He rises up from his seat. I've forgotten how big and wide this muscular man is, but I'm not afraid. I've barely met him, but I feel as if I know him. He'd never hurt me, no matter how far I pushed him.

"Leaving so soon? You shouldn't. Not before you've discovered why you've come, I hope."

I'm curious. Always have been. I can never leave well enough alone. If there's a question, I won't stop until I have an answer. My parents didn't allow me to be educated because they _wanted_ to. My incessant wonderings left them no choice.

And this stranger knows it. Somehow, he knows _me_ , too.

He knows that I can't just leave without seeing if he has the answers to questions I haven't even been able to ask yet.

I say nothing, but I stay where I am. Waiting. He wants to explain? Fine. I'm listening. I've come all this way, after all, and he'll learn. Elisabeth Morgan is nothing if not stubborn.

A flash of satisfaction crosses his face, and I'm reminded again of how staggeringly handsome Mr. Dias is. He offers his arm. "Walk with me?"

And leave this boarding house? I take his arm.

The second my hand closes around his jacket, I'm shocked to feel a painful jolt at the point where we touch. It leaves me tingling, my mouth suddenly dry. I start to let go, but he stops me by wrapping his other hand over mine, keeping the connection. I can feel his warmth through my evening glove and I shiver.

Once we've made it outside, he says, "What would you say if I told you that there are two worlds?"

"Two worlds?"

"Yes. This one, and another where the old stories, the old ways continue. A world where gods and goddesses are reborn and regain their powers, finding their soulmates while fighting against the rise of chaos in the first world."

"I'd say that you've either spent too much time in the opium dens or perhaps you should write an intriguing tale such as Carroll's Wonderland stories."

"You wouldn't believe me?"

"I might be a lady, sir, but I've had fantastic tutors. I've learned only to believe in things that I can see for myself."

Mr. Dias cocks his head to the side, helping me around a dip in the walkway. "That might be arranged."

"Then maybe I'll reevaluate in the future. For now, tell me more about these worlds."

"As you wish, my dear. In the Other world, there's a man. A king, as you will....

As we stroll, once again it's like we're the only two in the whole of the city. Oh, I can hear the sounds of the crowds around me, the clopping of horses as they pull carriages by us, the newsies, the peddlers, the gamblers, the night time revelers... they're there as we move past them all, but it's muffled almost. It's easy to forget them.

All I hear is his soft, smooth voice, almost hypnotic as he speaks. At first, I can't help but reaffirm my suspicions that he's been set free from an asylum; none of what he speaks about can be true. Then I change my mind. It's a story, I realize. An old myth, a tale from thousands of years ago.

And so long as it's a story, I can allow myself to listen. To pretend.

To believe.

Maybe he should write it down. It's certainly entertaining.

The night slips away. We've left the lower east side behind us, and still we're walking together. Until he stops.

I confess, I might have been marveling more about how nice it is to be strolling with a man who isn't Charles. I haven't had to slap his hands away once, or remind him that we're in public. Hearing him murmur the things he'd like to do to me while bemoaning the months between now and our wedding is tiresome; I don't miss it. Is it sad that I prefer the insane ramblings of an obvious madman?

I wonder what that says about me. And I'm sorry that this night will end and I'll never see Mr. Dias again.

When he pauses, he carefully loosens my hand from his arm before moving away. He no longer stands at my side. Rather, he's moved in front of me, settling his hands on my shoulders.

I've missed something, I realize.

"It's time."

Time?

_A lady isn't supposed to ask questions_.

I always have. I always will.

"Time? For what?"

"You'll see."

Then, to my surprise, Mr. Dias takes my chin in his hand, tilting my head back so that I'm staring right in his eyes. They're even lighter than before, a pale silver color that causes me to gasp in surprise—or maybe that's the brazen way he strokes the underside of my jaw before taking the end of my ribbon between his fingers and giving it a quick tug.

Once it's free, he brushes my bonnet back, letting it fall to the cobblestones. He's quick, so very quick for a man his size, bounding behind me, his hands reaching up to snatch at the pins holding my coif in place. My curls tumble down my back.

"There." He sounds satisfied. "Much better."

"How dare you!"

"Simple. No need to put on airs around me. Your frilly hat? Your fancy hairdo? Where we're going, you'll impress them more with what's inside you than what you look like. You're beautiful all the same, but now you look more like the woman I remember."

I'm so stunned by how familiar he's acting with me after a single evening stroll together that I don't understand what it is that he said. When I do, I start to sputter.

"Where we're going? You're mistaken, sir. _We_ are not going anywhere."

"We must. I need you, Elisabeth. Why do you think we've walked this way?"

Because I was being silly and foolish. Because I really don't want to be married—I never have—and this is my rebellion coupled with an uncanny need to see this stranger one final time.

"I can't say. Still, I need to be returning home to my fiancé." Charles. I cling to Charles like a lifeline. "He'll be missing me. So go back to your floozies if you like—"

His eyes sparkle. "You'd hate me if I did. Besides, I have no need for them any longer. Not now that I've found you."

"But you haven't, and this is goodbye. I promise you, Mr. Dias, once I've seen the back of you, I'll never think of you again."

It's a lie. I know it. I'm sure he does, too, because he moves in front again, then closes in on me. The brick wall is at my back now. My nervousness returns with a force. I open my mouth to warn him to move back and, the moment I do, he swoops in and lowers his lips to mine.

I've been kissed before. My mother would faint if she knew, but I've been kissed long before I accepted Charles's proposal even. But to be kissed like this? I've never. It's such a shock, such a surprise, that I go still and let him kiss me. It's somehow magical, a heat and a spark and a passion I never even knew existed. He kisses like a practiced man, and I let that thought rush out of my head the instant I have it. I refuse to fall into his arms while thinking about the hundreds of other women he must have seduced.

I rise up on my toes, making it easier to reach him. It feels almost as if I'm weightless, as if I've been lifted off the ground. My free hair tumbles in the wind—

—only it's a still autumn night. There was no wind. Is a storm coming in or—

# 4

### The Other

I land with a _thump_. My knees buckle and if it weren't for his arms supporting me, I might've tumbled to the ground. I find the strength to pull my lips from his, shoving at his wide chest when I see a flash of browns and greens silhouetted against his smiling face.

Browns and green, when moments ago it was dingy grey and the faded red of the brick wall. I struggle, fighting against his hold, and stumble back when he releases me. Whirling around, I gape at the trees surrounding us. I spin again, coming face to face with a tall, narrow building with two standing pillars guarding the front and a door that looks like it's been gilded.

"What do you think, my love?"

I reach up to slap him, but though he doesn't move out of the path of my strike, my palm never makes it to his stubble-covered cheek. I falter, then stare, as realization hits.

New York is gone.

The city is gone.

I take a deep breath, prepared to scream, and get a nose full of something fresh. Something muddy. Something clean. Not even the hidden depths of Central Park smell like this.

"Where am I?"

"Weren't you listening? My power is limited in your old world. Now that I've found you again, we needed to return to the Other to recharge. I've brought you home."

Home? My home is in Manhattan. This is _not_ my home.

And I'm certainly not this stranger's love. So I let him kiss me without any repercussions. The time for being an obedient lady is over and done with. I didn't slap him before. This time? I don't miss.

Mr. Dias smiles. While rubbing the red mark on his cheek, the big brute actually smiles.

"Ah, there's the feisty goddess I know and love. You shouldn't be so surprised, my love. You did tell me you'd... what was it? Ah. Reevaluate my sanity if I proved myself. Well, consider this my proof."

He doesn't allow me to strike his face again. Before I could even lift my arm, he's hoisted me up by my waist, throwing me over his shoulder. I beat on his back, fists hammering his muscular bulk, and all he does is sigh in contentment.

The house we arrived at is his. He brings me inside, carrying me up a flight of stairs before depositing me on a bed covered in a simple silver and gold-threaded blanket. The colors are offset by the pale blue sheets beneath them, and wall coverings of the same shade. They're some of my favorite colors and it bothers me that coincidence has him decorating my cage in colors that appeal to me.

And it _is_ a cage. Because the second he sets me down and makes his escape, I hear the door lock. A quick tug reveals the truth. He's thrown me in here and locked the door so that I can't run away from him.

Smart man. It doesn't matter that I haven't seen this much greenery since a late summer stroll with Charles through Central Park. I don't care that I would be lost within minutes, and who knows what kinds of creatures lurk in the depths of the trees? I'd run if only to prove that I could. He has no control over me—

And... that's another lie. The second that thought crosses my mind, I know it's a lie. Mr. Dias has far more control over me than any other man I've met. I just wish I knew _why_. I can't explain it. There's attraction, sure, and a desire to get close to him, to listen to him even when I'm sure it's all malarkey. But I followed him to a brothel and let him close enough to grab me before he brought me to this place. What was I thinking?

I don't think I was.

Mr. Dias, though, is thinking very clearly. Rather than return and face my ire, he leaves me to stew in my lovely prison the rest of the night. I refuse to remove my jacket, my gloves, my shoes, so I lie down fully clothed, bitter that my good bonnet is being trampled by hooves back in the city while I plot my revenge.

When I wake up the next morning, the door is still locked. It hadn't stayed that way all night, since there's a steaming tray of porridge waiting for me for breakfast. I refuse to eat it out of spite. He wants to lock me in here? Fine. I'd rather starve.

I search the entire room. On closer inspection, I see that the wall coverings have intricate and elaborate drawings of peacocks stitched into the material in a darker shade thread. There's nothing in the dressers, no sign of another woman staying here, though I do find a slender white shift dress hanging in a closet. A quick glance at it reveals it would be a perfect fit for me.

My skirt is rumpled, my jacket askew, but I leave them on and continue to snoop.

I do find an antique-looking tome tucked under my pillow. I open it, then close it almost immediately. I can't read it. The letters are unlike any alphabet I know.

There's a small chaise lounging in one corner of the room. Muttering under my breath, I drag it near the window. I spend the rest of the afternoon staring out at the trees, trying to convince myself that this fantastical forest is part of New York rather than being a whole other world like Mr. Dias claims.

Hours later, I hear the door open. I've grown to resent him even more after spending the evening alone. My initial burst of anger has faded some, and now I just want him to tell me what it'll take to be able to leave this room—and this place.

Only one problem.

The footsteps are light. Gentle. Too soft to belong to such a big man, which means only one thing: there's another woman in this house. And she's dared to enter my quarters.

I might not want to be in this room. But while I am, it's mine.

I spin around, ready to release my frustrations on her, then go still in the next instant. Because this isn't a woman. It's a girl.

She's young. Twelve? Thirteen? Perhaps. She has soft light brown curls she wears pulled back and out of her plain face. The dress she has on is loose, flowing down to the floor; a pair of sensible sandals and stubby toes peek out from under the hem. Her hands are folded in front of her, her head lowered in a subservient position.

The rage simmers down from a boil when I see her. Unlike the woman at the boarding house, there's no doubt in my mind that this isn't a companion for Mr. Dias. My first instinct is that she's staff, a young maid to tend to his home.

And, perhaps, she can be an accomplice.

"It's good to see you again, mistress," she says with a curtsy. "Welcome home. The master has sent me up to see if you're ready for supper."

She calls me mistress and I'm sure I'm right. Then I understand her welcome and I'm even more flabbergasted. Mr. Dias insisted we knew each other, and I brushed his insane certainties aside. Why does the girl believe the same? Unless she's referring to the breakfast I didn't eat, because I'm sure I've never seen her before.

"Welcome home? This isn't my home, child, and we've never met."

" _...never met_."

"Pardon?"

Her dark brown eyes widen. She clasps her hands over her mouth, but not before she repeats, " _...pardon_?"

Hold on one moment. Is she... is she _mocking_ me?

When I was a little girl, I had a governess who would play games with me in between lessons. One of my favorites? I loved to repeat everything she said, no matter how obnoxious it had to have been. Unless I'm mistaken, this girl is doing the same right now.

Because I might need her to aid in my escape, I decide to give her the benefit of the doubt.

"What's wrong? Why do you keep repeating what I say?"

"... _what I say_." She gulps, then adds, "It's my punishment. I'm sorry if it bothers you. I expected this when the master brought you here."

"Your punishment? Punished for what?"

"... _for what_." She shakes her head, but that's all. Eyes still wide and visibly afraid, she peeks over my shoulder at something, but she doesn't answer me. All she says is, "It's my fault. I'm sorry, mistress."

"Why? Who punished you?"

Her lips are pressed together. It doesn't matter. The mimicry has to find its way out. "... _who punished you,_ " she mumbles.

"You did."

"... _you did_."

I ignore the girl, instead focusing on the soft, smooth voice who answered my question. I know that voice. Mr. Dias is behind me. How he manages to sneak up on me so easily, I'll never know, and only years of deportment lessons keep me from revealing just how much he spooked me.

Before I can respond, Mr. Dias nods over at the girl. "Echo, dear, return to the kitchen. You've done your part. The portal will be waiting for you should you choose to go."

" _... choose to go._ " She bobs her head, curtsying again before rushing out of the room. She runs as if the hounds of hell are at her heels, and I think about what Mr. Dias said. A portal. A way back to New York? I might dash away, too.

Not that I can leave yet. He's already explained that I can't, not until the magic he used to bring me here is satisfied, and I'm so offended by his accusation that I don't even _think_ of following right behind the girl.

Hands on my hips, fire in my eyes, I tilt my head back and glare up at my tormentor. That he's even more attractive after his absence irritates me further.

"How dare you accuse me of doing anything to harm that child. I've only just met her and, I can promise, I would never punish anyone who didn't deserve it."

"You might," Mr. Dias allows. "Then again, you most definitely did to poor Echo. Didn't you, Hera?"

It's on the tip of my tongue to argue. I stop, though, the second I hear that name. It's like I know it.

_Why_ do I know it?

"What did you call me?"

"Elisabeth is a lovely name, and I've enjoyed using it, but now that we're in the Other, it's time we stopped the masquerade. Like I told you before, the old ways are dying. I can't do this on my own. It's too easy to become... _distracted_."

Mr. Dias edges closer, coming within inches of me. My head is already tilted back as I watch him approach. I can't help myself. I swallow roughly, his eyes following the line of my throat as he looms in front of me. His expression changes, going from laughing and in charge to something... _more._

I've seen that look before. When Charles thought I was occupied, or when he dared lay his hand on my skirt while we were seated next to each other at one of my mother's dinners, he'd get that same look in his eyes. I often thought of it as his ravishing expression. If he thought he could get me alone for a moment, I had his sloppy kisses and wandering hands to look forward to.

With the promise in Mr. Dias's silver eyes, I'm left wondering what his lips would be like when I was expecting them.

Shaking my head, I'm the first to break the stare. Hating myself as I do, I quickly retreat, falling back on my heels as I put more than an arm's length between us. I should hate him for what he did. Hatred. That's the emotion I must cling to.

Once I feel a sense of safety in the distance, I snap. "I don't know what kind of woman you think I am—"

"You're my woman. Haven't I made that clear yet? When I called myself your husband, I meant it. You're here now. You've returned to the Other like you were supposed to. We're together again. I gave you time to adjust. Should I give you more? It's been too long since I've had you in my home again so, please, excuse me if I'm a little eager."

Is he not listening to me? This is pure madness! As if stealing me away to a house hidden amongst trees that shouldn't exist isn't enough, now he's telling me again that we're married. He must be touched in the head. We only met a few days ago, and that's not all.

"You're not my husband. I don't know you. And, even if I didn't despise you for bringing me here and locking me in this room, I'm already promised to another man," I point out. "You have to understand that."

He laughs. Strange reaction to hearing he's despised, but that's what touched people do, I guess. "Elisabeth might have been. But you are not just Elisabeth Morgan. You are Hera, as I am Zeus. And we're meant to be together. You'll see. And I'll be waiting for you when you do. I won't lock the door," he adds, "because there's nowhere for you to go while we're starting our story. But there are dangers out there until you've come to your full strength and I'd rather not lose you after I just found you again, Hera."

It's like what I imagine being struck by lightning is like, the sense of recognition I feel at that name is swift and nearly electric. It's a thousand times worse than the jolt I experienced when he first touched my skin. A shiver travels down my spine. _Hera_. He's called me that before and I pointedly ignored it.

Now?

I can't. Surrounded by these colors, hearing that name, reconciling it with the stories he told me all night long, I simply _can't_.

"Zeus? That's a silly name," I sniff, purposely hiding my reaction. I can't ignore it, but I won't allow him to know that. "What sort of Christian man would have a name like that?"

"I'm no Christian, my love. Some might refer to me as pagan, but I prefer to say I'm the reason behind Hellenism."

I like to think that, for a woman, I've had the best education I could have ever asked for. So though I'm unfamiliar with the term he used, it's similar enough to one I do know: The Hellenic Age.

Pagan.

_Zeus._

Of course. "You're referring to the ancient Greeks, aren't you?"

His silver eyes twinkle. "I _am_ an ancient Greek."

"You're mad."

"I'm Zeus."

"There's an asylum missing you, isn't there? And I'm just as mad to have let you lead me here." I fold my hands primly in front of my skirt. "I'd like you to take me back now."

"I've told you. I can't, and I must be honest. I wouldn't if I could. I've waited a lifetime— _your_ lifetime—to have you back here with me. I've told you the truth all along, Hera—"

"My name is Elisabeth."

He continues as if I never interrupted him. "—and the truth is that I need you. _We_ need you. The old ways are dying and I take the blame for that. I've changed, though, and it's important that you understand that. I've changed. I'm ready to be the best husband I can to you, and to rebuild our life together."

He sounds so earnest. That worries me. A mad man who is sure he's right can be dangerous.

"You can't expect me to believe this."

"I can. I do. You'll learn. It's like how you couldn't resist returning to me, or why you've settled in so readily in the house. Deep down, you know you belong. Did you ever feel that way back in your fancy rich people's world, with that worm who thought he deserved you? You're a queen. _My_ queen. You deserve a king. You need _me_."

For one crazy moment, I think he's right. I _do_ need him. This is right. A small voice inside my head explains that it all seems mad, but it's right, and I belong here.

The sensible part of my brain drowns that out. Falling back on years of habit, I draw away from his towering form. Men always respond to a fragile female.

"I'm feeling faint," I tell him, purposely making my voice go weak. "I need some air. Can I do that? Or am I your prisoner after all?"

"You're my queen. You may do whatever you like. In the Other, you're in control, second only to my commands."

Let him believe that. If it means that I can get away from him for only a moment, I need to go. Being this close to him clouds my judgment. Before he slipped into my room, I was prepared to stab him with the heel of my shoe if I had to. Now? I want to do other things to him—and I shouldn't. I won't.

"Then I want to go outside."

When he nods, then starts to reach for me, I hold up my hand. "I'd prefer to go without a chaperone. I'm in control here? That's what you said? Let me see for myself."

"Fair enough." Mr. Dias bows his head. "But this discussion isn't over. Remember what I said and, please, don't go too far." He pauses, a smile coming to his lips, before adding, " _Álokhos._ "

My heart skips a beat at the foreign word. Thanks to my governess and my tutor, I'm fluent in five different languages: English, French, Spanish, German, and Latin. I'm confident, from his flawless accent to the harsh syllables, that he wasn't speaking any of those languages. Still, there's no denying my reaction. It's almost if I recognized it, though I haven't a clue what he said.

"What was that?" I ask him. I don't like having to admit my ignorance to such a smarmy man, but I have no choice. Something tells me that it's important. That I have to know.

"Hmm?"

"What you said. After you warned me not to go too far as if I'm a ninny without any sense in her head. What's that word you said?"

A small smile tugs on his lips. " _Álokhos_?"

"Yes. That."

"Don't you know? I thought you were an expert on the ancient Greeks."

I huff. "I made no such claim."

Moving aside to allow me to march past him, he says, "In that case, I suggest you become one. Maybe then you'll understand why I brought you here. And why you're going to be the one who chooses to stay."

# 5

Ugh! Lifting up my skirt, kicking at the grass with the tip of my Cromwell shoe, I bite back my frustrated shout. I don't care if stomping about in the dirt isn't the least ladylike. He deserves this. That man is absolutely infuriating! To think he's so cocky, so sure that I'll fall in line exactly as he expects. He says I'm his wife and so I am? Hardly.

And what makes his gall even worse is that he knows exactly how to push me, to get me to break out of the icy shell that everyone expects of me. I've heard it all my life: good girls are quiet, they're virginal, they're fragile, they're sweet. Basically, they're the opposite of everything I am. When he asks me if I feel like I ever belonged in my old life, I know the answer to that. I never did.

I had to get away from Mr. Dias before I admitted the truth to him.

Ladies aren't supposed to argue, and my father's biggest regret is that he gave in to my pestering and allowed me an education far beyond what he believed I should have been given. Being taught while I was a child had been perfectly acceptable, though my private lessons should have transitioned to how to be a proper and respectable lady of society sooner than they had.

Perhaps, then, I would have already been married instead of continuing to string Charles along, pretending as if becoming his bride is all I ever aspired to be in life. But I'm not, and if Mr. Dias is to be believed, I never will be.

And... I'm not sorry about that. This is probably the best for us both. Charles can give up on pinning his future on me, and I can—

I can—

Well. I'm not quite sure _what_ I want to do. I thought it was learning more about the mysterious stranger and this mission of his, but now I don't know. The more I'm around Mr. Dias, the more I feel as if we have some kind of connection. I can't deny my attraction to him; he's a very handsome man. Still, I must admit that, no matter how he did it, he has definitely whisked me away from my city life. And, though I'm not so desperate to return to my humdrum life in society, that doesn't mean he's earned my forgiveness or my attention. He's trapped me here, feeding me stories and myths and his delusions as if I'll believe them without a question. Ha! Maybe he doesn't know me at all.

If I'm stuck here—and considering I don't know how to return to New York on my own, I really am—I suppose there are worse places to be. He has a house, some staff, and he believes he's a king. I'll go along with it for now. He suggests I should become an expert in regards to ancient Greece? I have every intention of doing so if it means that I'll gain an advantage in this private war between the two of us. Make no mistake, my abduction has ignited a battle that I will do my very best to win.

I've already drawn blood once. It was clear that Mr. Dias was against the idea of me taking a walk around the woods surrounding his home. How could he refuse, though? These secluded trees are as far away from the city as I could be. I have freedom here, I have space, and if that's the one good thing that came of my folly in trusting a stranger, then at least there's that.

I admit, I'm a little concerned by the way he warned me not to go too far. Apart from Mr. Dias and Echo, I haven't seen anyone—or any _thing_ else—but I'm not so naive as to believe that we're the only creatures here. Besides, he warned me. And while I don't likely trust anything he's said, I'm careful.

Just in case.

It's nighttime, and the stars are out aplenty here. They're like small, twinkling diamonds in the sky, pinpricks of light in a midnight blue sea above my head.

It's peaceful, too. I noticed that last night, even as I was fuming over being brought to this place. It's never this quiet in New York, and I don't miss the hustle and bustle of the city. If it wasn't for how I came here, I would be glad to experience this.

I go a little further, testing my boundaries. It's chilly out. I pull my jacket closer, ducking around a branch. The makeshift path through the dirt I'm taking leads into a small clearing.

There's something huddled in the grass. The moon's shining high above me, giving me enough light to see the shadowed lump. I tiptoe closer, ready to flee if I need to, only to feel my heart break when I see that it's a small bird. A cuckoo, I think, with a bent wing.

It can't fly, so it can't get away, and it looks so helpless that I have to do something for it.

"You poor thing," I coo. "Let me help you."

If I have a soft spot, it's animals. From the first stray cat I rescued to the larks I kept in my boudoir, I've always tended to any creature in need. This cuckoo bird will be no different. If I'm stuck here, at least I can have a friend. The room in Mr. Dias's golden house can be a cage for us both.

Bending low, careful not to drag my skirt against the dirt, I reach down and scoop up the bird. It doesn't resist. I shift it against my palm before bringing it close to my chest, sharing my body heat with the trembling creature.

I'm not sure exactly what happens after that.

One moment I'm cradling the softly chirping bird against my middle; in the next, _I_ 'm the one being held. There's one strapping arm wrapped around my back, the other snaking between my body and his, fingers resting possessively on my bosom.

I know in a heartbeat that it's Mr. Dias. He was the bird and now he's not, but he's holding me, touching me, and as he shifts me in his embrace, settling his hands on my shoulders, he's taking control. He's taking me over.

And then he murmurs, "You left me no choice, my love," and everything goes dark.

I blink myself awake, then close my eyes against rays of sunlight streaming in through the window.

Is it morning? Must be. How long have I been asleep? I ache as if it's been ages. What happened? The last thing I remember was taking a walk outside of my host's garish home, then coming across the grounded cuckoo bird with the crooked wing. I lifted it up, holding it against my chest—

— _and then he did it again. He tricked me again. Like a fool, I fell for his tricks once more, and now there's no escaping him._

It's a soft, clear voice that is as resigned as it is furious. I hear it inside my head, feel the words as they whisper through my body, and the strangest thing isn't how I suddenly know exactly what she means. It's that the voice is familiar—and it isn't mine.

I remember hearing that voice the entire time I dreamed. Sometimes she was crying, sometimes shouting, most of the time plotting as she showed me image after image of other women. In most of the pictures I saw, Mr. Dias was there, though he seemed different; in others, I saw animals—a swan, a bull, a _bird—_ and still I knew it was him.

Just like how, the moment I open my eyes, I know that I'm not in my room. This bed belongs to Mr. Dias.

_No_ , corrects the other voice. _Zeus_.

Throwing the blanket back, I struggle to escape the sheets. I'm still wearing the same dress I arrived here in, so that makes me feel better. There's no sign of the man, though, and I have this sudden urge to find him and to shake him and demand he tell me what he did to me.

All I know is that he touched me, and then I was asleep, and the dreams I had of him were more like nightmares. Watching him chase other women, lie with other women, have children with other women, while presenting himself as my husband... no wonder I feel the anger and the pain deep inside. He tells me that we're married. I hope I never marry a man like this if my unsettling dreams are a portent of what's to come.

I shiver, trying to push them out of my mind.

Those dreams—

_No. Those weren't dreams. They were memories. My memories—_ our _memories._

There's that little voice in my head again.

It's finally happened. I've gone mad, haven't I?

_Not mad, Elisabeth. We've become whole. My husband reached into your soul and awakened me. Hera, goddess of marriage and childbirth, queen of the gods. That's you now, child._

_That's us._

# 6

I sit in the chair opposite the bed for a long, long while and think about what Hera said to me.

She quieted down when it became clear that Mr. Dias—that Zeus was nowhere in sight. I could feel her settling deep inside of me, aware that she could come to the fore at any given moment. That doesn't bother me as much as it would've before I learned the truth.

Before I discovered that magic was real, and ancient Greek myths are more than simple stories.

Whole. It seems... it seems right almost.

It's like that night under the stars, before Zeus tricked me into letting him close by appearing as an injured cuckoo bird. As strange as everything was for me, I felt a sense of peace being in this place. Now, knowing that I've been carrying around the soul of a goddess inside of me... it seems right.

Maybe I've finally gone mad. It can happen to a young woman sometimes. But I like the idea of being Hera—even if that means I have to accept that everything Zeus told me is true, and that I really do have a history with him that I can't ignore.

He would've known this. He _did_ know this. From the moment he brought me here, he told me I was Hera. I didn't believe it, so what did he do? He tricked me again—because it's not the first time he pulled the same trick with Hera—and now I know the truth. Whatever he did when the night went black and I fell asleep, I woke up with a second voice in my head and the understanding that if Zeus belongs in an asylum, so do I.

I hear knocking and fury washes over me. Mine, because this stranger has dared to do this to me, and _hers_ , because the idea of waking in a bed that he must have shared with his conquests makes her so viciously jealous, she could chase the other women to the ends of the world—either world—to punish them.

I want to scream, to tell him to go away, but before I can even open my mouth, the door eases open.

It's Zeus, and he looks like he hasn't slept in days. Dark, purple bruises shadow his pale eyes. Stubble covers his chin; though he's never been entirely clean shaven, it's approaching a beard at this point. He moves slowly, hesitantly, his arms folded over his chest as his eyes—the only part of him that seems alert—roam over me.

He sighs. It's a sound of relief, as if he wasn't sure what he would find when he entered the room.

"I'm glad to see you're finally awake, _álokhos._ "

_Wife_.

The translation for the ancient Greek word for wife or spouse pops into my head as if someone else has spoken it.

"I'm not your wife," I retort.

"Ah, so you've learned the meaning of the word."

Fisting my hands at my side, I nod.

"What else do you remember?"

_All of it._

"Enough to know that I must be leaving."

He recoils, like I've knocked all of the breath from him. "Leaving? No. Why?"

"I might be drawn to you," I finally admit, "but what does that mean? For Hera, trouble. Heartache. Despair. I'm very much the same woman as she is. I need stability, Zeus. Loyalty. I'm not looking for a dandy, or a... a rake. I'm looking for—"

"Forever?" he supplies.

Yes. But he can't give me that, so I say nothing.

Zeus shutters his eyes for a moment, then exhales. "Hera's always been strong, and I've had to fight for her heart in more ways than one. I guess I would expect no less with you."

"You assume that I want you to. I don't," I say truthfully. Hera agrees with me. It's not worth the trouble again, no matter what.

But Zeus is insistent. He looks down at me imploringly.

"I know you're angry. I don't blame you, but I had to do this. Listen to me. I'm stronger when I'm with you. It's taken me hundreds and hundreds of years to accept that. When you're here, by my side, I'm a better man. Spreading my seed, taking all those lovers... it was fun and, maybe you understand, it's who I am. Who I've always been. But the worlds are suffering. Look at your memories. Ask Hera. Chaos grows as the years pass. Unless we do something about it, me and you, it will only get worse. Eventually, the old ways will die. The stories will end and, with them, the last of the magic."

Elisabeth wants to scoff, retort that there's no such thing as magic. Hera knows better. And, well, I guess the Elisabeth I was knows better now, too.

I stay quiet.

Zeus takes heart in that. "Hate me if you like. I'm used to it. Our story came to a close the instant you helped me as the cuckoo bird, letting me get close enough to give you your memories. Now that you have them, though, you can see I'm right."

"That's not all I've seen," I bite out. The memories are still vivid, the pain Hera's experienced too raw and too fresh. "I've seen some of your conquests. Hera assures me there's countless more, but I couldn't take it. The few I saw are enough. And you want me to believe that you'd be a good husband to me?"

"What if I promised you they were done? I haven't touched a woman since I knew you were reborn. I've been waiting for you all this time, I swear it on the Styx."

I don't know what that means, but Hera does. I have the sudden feeling that she's taking him a lot more seriously now, so I do the same.

"But that was twenty-six years ago," I argue. "A healthy man in his prime, one who chooses to board at a brothel. You expect me to believe that?"

"I do because it's the gods damn truth. You were back. You're mine. This time, I mean to honor it. I've had my share of women in this life, and many others. I'm sure Hera's shown you—"

From the scowl that suddenly forms on my face, he knows the truth. A flash of shame twists his handsome features before he gulps, sorrow shadowing his brilliant eyes. "I've made mistakes. Many of them. This life will be different. So long as I have you in it, that's all I need. And maybe I should've waited for you to discover this all on your own time, but I can't do that. As much as I need you, the magic needs you more. I kept you out of it for as long as I could. The time for waiting is done."

"Twenty-six years," I murmur again.

Zeus nods. "I could've come for you at any time."

"Then why didn't you?"

He doesn't say anything at first. His normally expressive face closes off, but that's all right. I figure it out.

"Charles," I say, and the furrow in his dark brow confirms it. "You came because my engagement was announced."

"We've been married for thousands of years. I couldn't let another man marry my wife. So if Hera ever tries to poison you against me, remember this: I will never touch another woman so long as you're by my side. The jealousy that came over me when I found out you were promised to another man... I finally got it. I can't promise that I'll never look, but you have my word that I'll be forever faithful if you stay."

My heart begins to thump wildly at his declaration. I don't know who's more surprised by it: me, Hera, or Zeus himself. A hint of pink touches his cheeks, though he keeps his eyes locked on mine. I can sense Hera's astonishment in one second, followed by her disbelief, then the hope that fills my chest.

I'm still wary. To me, this man is little more than a stranger. He makes it seem as if he's talking about forever. I have to know what he means.

"By your side... what exactly are you proposing?"

"A partnership, at first. More, if you'll let me. With you here, in the Other with me, we can push back against the chaos that threatens to destroy us all. You might not understand now, you might not understand for seasons, but I mean it. The Twelve need to be here. You and I, we're the only ones who can fix this mess. We can save the worlds."

I always knew I was meant for more than marrying a man I didn't love, bearing his children, and devoting myself to their needs while forgetting my own. It's what was always expected of me, but now I have the chance to do something extraordinary. This man insists he needs my help to save the worlds. Not just one world, but two.

How can I refuse?

I can't. And as much as Hera wants to deny him everything, she can't, either. She wants to stay as much as I do.

"A partnership," I confirm. "That's all, though. If I stay here, I'll be no man's wife."

It's my condition. _Mine_. Because despite being told that I'm a goddess reborn, despite waking up and understanding that he might have been telling the truth all along—either that, or I've gone mad myself and I absolutely refuse to accept _that_ —I'm still contrary, independent Elisabeth Morgan. I will do this my way, or I won't do it at all.

Zeus is quiet for a moment. I see lightning in his eyes, thunder written in the lines on his face, before he gets himself under control. With a solemn shrug, he says, "You'll change your mind."

"I won't. And if you want me to help you save your old ways, you won't even attempt to get me to try."

"They're your ways, too, Hera."

Perhaps. But if I am Hera, I also have all of her memories now, hundreds of lifetimes filled with jealousy, betrayal, heartache, and despair. There's love for Zeus, love for the consort she never chose but can't live without, but there's pain. So much pain. It's how I know it must be true. I've never experienced feelings like these before. They have to be hers.

I'm a curious woman with a thirst for knowledge. Always have been. With Hera's thoughts in my head, I have so many questions. I want to know more. And while she might be the goddess of marriage and family, that's never been my goal. It was a life thrust onto me when I was a child.

If I'm going to stay here, it will be on my terms.

"Partners? Or should I go?"

Zeus takes my hand, his heat seeping in through the thin material of my now dingy gloves. "Partners. Because I need you to stay."

I nod, keeping the truth to myself.

He needs me to stay? From the moment I set foot in this place, I haven't truly wanted to leave. I just wanted to know that I could.

For once, I only wanted the _choice_.

# 7

### Present Day

So, I fell in love with him.

Of course, I did. Even with Hera's memories in my head, I couldn't help myself. Hera might hate her husband for what he put her through during countless other lifetimes, but as the seasons passed and I settled into her skin, shedding Elisabeth until I accepted I truly was Hera reborn, I realized that this Zeus was different. He was mine, just as I was his, and because he loved me in return, he didn't say "I told you so" when I finally relented and called him my husband.

I didn't want to do it. I used to like to blame the Fates that I had no choice, even though I know that free will has as much power as the sway the old ways hold over our stories and our lives, but I gave that up decades ago. Zeus is mine, just like he promised, even if his eye still wanders.

I'm still a terribly jealous bitch. It's who we are. It's who we've always been. And, gods willing, it's who we'll always be. At least I don't have to worry about him cheating on me, just like he doesn't have to worry about me torturing his mistresses.

And I would. Believe me. If Zeus ever once forgot his promises to me, I'd make them all pay—and my dear husband knows that.

Leaning against his chest, breathing in the musky, electric scent of his innate lightning power mingled with fresh air and a touch of sage, I let his strength soak into me for a few moments more before letting out a soft sigh.

Chaos in the mirrorside has only been growing in the last few decades. The world is in shambles, and part of it has everything to do with the imbalance between the two worlds. Suddenly, too many gods and goddesses, heroes and more... too much magic is being reborn in the wrong world. The old ways struggle to survive, their stories fighting to be retold.

Someone needs to keep the chaos in check. Every time a story is told in the Other, the magic grows stronger, the chaos mirrorside begins to subside. But when the magic is born in the wrong world, chaos grows. Eventually, if it becomes too much to handle, it will overtake everything.

And then there will be nothing left.

It's why we have to find the reincarnations and bring them back where they belong. Sometimes it works. And then there are times—like when Zeus pushed that poor unsuspecting maid through a portal to be his son's mate, only for Apollo to choose to return without his magic—that it fails. So long as there's balance, so long as the old ways remain, we'll keep doing this.

Zeus stiffens, his arms going tight. I focus, recognizing the sudden electricity in the air. And it's not from my god of lightning.

Its source?

The huntress is here.

"Are you ready?" Zeus asks me.

Artemis is one of the Twelve. If we can get her to go to the Other, the offset of her magic and her strength traveling from one world to the next will be huge. Imagine the amount of chaos we can get under control. The only way it could get any better would be if we convinced her to stay there, keeping Artemis in the Other rather than risk her being reborn again here.

So, even though coming face to face with the reincarnation of my husband's daughter is another of those things I really don't want to do, the sake of the worlds—both worlds—is at stake.

I nod.

"I'm always ready, husband."

# Stalk the Moon

### Mirrorside #1

**A modern retelling of the myth of Artemis and Orion—with a few twists!**

* * *

_She doesn't know she's Artemis, mythical huntress and goddess of the moon—but he does. And that's all he needs to make sure he gets his happy ending this time. Except he's expecting the Artemis he remembers. Who he gets instead is—_

* * *

**Noelle**

With a potty mouth and a Jersey attitude, I've never been the type of girl who cries when things don't go my way. I'm no damsel in distress. Whatever life throws at me, I can handle it. No matter how rough or tough or... weird?

Because falling through a full-length mirror and ending up in a forest wearing nothing but a nightgown is definitely weird. Stabbing a giant scorpion in the eye with a stick? Yup. Weird. Discovering I'm a whiz with a bow and that I can apparently communicate with animals like some grouchy Disney princess—okay, not gonna lie. That's kind of cool.

Being told that I'm supposedly the reincarnation of the Greek goddess Artemis? Super friggin' weird. How am I supposed to believe that? Or that some gorgeous hunk of a guy insists we're meant to be together?

I mean, I might not know a lot about mythology, but wasn't Artemis some kind of virgin?

* * *

**Hunter**

She's back.

After all this time, after all this waiting, she's back in my reach and nothing is going to keep me from changing the way this story ends.

Not the tragedy of our shared history, or the countless times I've already died. Not the fact that her brother has proven repeatedly that he will stop at nothing to keep us separated.

Not even the undeniable truth that Artemis doesn't remember me—or even herself.

She's back. And, this time, she's _mine_.

* * *

***** For fans of Ilona Andrews, Jeaniene Frost, and Ruby Dixon, **Stalk the Moon** —the first installment in the **Mirrorside Series** —is like _Percy Jackson_ all grown up! The first part of Noelle & Hunter's story, this book introduces the reader to the Other, an enchanted land where the reborn Greek gods and goddesses find themselves playing out their myths and stories over and over again.

# Noelle

I never hit it. I mean, not exactly. No smash, no tumble, no crash, though I'm definitely falling _somewhere_.

The mirror glass isn't glass—it's friggin' water or something, I don't know. I slip right through it, tumbling forward.

It's like I'm falling forever even if the logical part of my brain tells me it's only seconds since Dudley knocked me into the mirror. Or through it. Maybe. I'm kind of fuzzy on that point.

Before I can scream, I land on my hands and knees, letting out a soft "ooph" when I hit. I immediately roll onto my back, my chest heaving as I suck in my breath.

The air is heavy, filled with musk and moisture. Damp grass pinches my bare arms and my calves. A canopy of tree leaves stretches high over my head. Through the gaps between eerily thin branches, the night sky is purple and glitters with thousands of twinkling stars.

Holy shit.

I'm outside. And not just outside—I'm in the woods. How is that possible? There aren't any woods within ten miles of my condo and something tells me these are _real_ woods. The industrial stink of my nice, safe, recognizable __ New Jersey suburb has been replaced by something crisp and fresh and a tad bit... muddy?

Okay. If I haven't managed to fall behind my home—the stink of day-old garbage and roasted garlic is too noticeable to miss—then that leaves one question: _Where the hell am I?_

Lying on my back, lost and confused and utterly helpless... it isn't the smartest move. With a grunt, I pull myself to my feet, wiping my hands against each other and then knocking stray blades of grass from my stained knees.

I do a double-take when I see my knees.

I'm still wearing my nightgown and nothing else. Okay. That hasn't changed. My feet are bare. Cold mud squelches between my toes when I wiggle them. I jump and land in a pile of moss. I wipe my feet, though it's pointless. Patches of dirt and puddles of mud surround me.

Hey, at least there isn't any snow.

I shake my head. There's no denying this is happening. I think back to the last thing I remember. My cat was acting strangely and then I tripped on him. I fell through the mirror. Did he follow me?

I click my tongue. "Dudley? Dud, buddy?" I snap my fingers. The sound echoes in the empty forest. "Hey. I got tuna."

Nothing. That should've worked, too.

I don't know if I'm relieved or not that Dud's not here. I doubt I'd be able to hold onto my stray cat out in the woods. Still, I would've liked the company.

I turn around slowly, taking it all in. My nightgown flares out behind me as I spin. I'm definitely alone. Not to mention stranded in a forest that smells of musk and mud, with a chill breeze that reminds me I'm dressed for bed. Dandelions dot the patchy grass, bravely trying to stake their claim. Wide, arching branches shield the sky, allowing a small trickle of moonlight in for me to see by.

Something shimmers and I freeze.

Okay. Now, what was _that_?

I know it might be reckless. That doesn't stop me. I draw up close to the shimmering shape. It's a square, roughly the size of my iPad. It ripples like a pond does after you throw a lucky penny in. But that's not what catches my attention. The gloomy forest is made up of dark earthy colors: black, brown, mossy green. The pale pink definitely sticks out.

My room. My walls are that color. Squinting, I lean in and make out some details. The white blob on the floor is my new blanket. My bed is there, except it's on the wrong side. So is my desk. In the wrong corner, sitting on my dresser, I see Dudley lazily licking his paw and grooming his torn ear. It's the opposite ear.

Duh. Of course, everything is reversed. It doesn't take a genius to realize that I'm peeking into my bedroom through the other side of that damn mirror. And if bumping into the mirror brought me here, this has to be my ticket back.

My fingers pause when only an inch separates them from the wavering pink square. A shiver runs up my spine. All of my senses are suddenly on alert. Coming from my left, I hear the snapping of twigs and the trampling of scattered debris that litters the floor of this forest.

Someone is coming.

My heart starts to pound. I tune it out, tensing as I listen closely. No. Not someone. Some _thing._ There are far too many legs for it to belong to a person.

I could've touched the hazy window that shows me my bedroom. Dud is right there. Home is _right_ there. Only a couple of inches away. I could have gone home and then everything would've changed. But I'll never know if it would've worked because I don't reach for it.

Instead, I turn around.

"Holy shit," I breathe.

Legs. Big legs. Too many legs. Claws. Pointy claws. Poison.

Okay then.

I look this big ass, monster-looking _thing_ in its very hungry eyes for a single second, strangle my scream, and take off like a fucking shot. I'm gone. It doesn't matter that I'm barefoot. Sticks and pebbles, acorns and rocks—they all poke and cut my flesh and, holy shit, please don't let me be leaving a blood trail for that creature to follow.

I crash through the forest, running as fast as I can. I'm not going for grace—this is all about speed. I dodge trees, slip on damp patches of grass, and nearly face-plant when I land awkwardly in a rabbit hole. I'm so focused on running away without turning to look behind me, I'm not watching where I'm going. I ignore the slight twinge in my ankle. I refuse to be monster chow. I right myself, shake it off, and pour on the rest of my energy.

The trees start to thin out. Finally, some luck. The space makes it easier for me to navigate—only that means the monster also has some advantage now. It's catching up. I know it is. Okay. Running's out. I need a new plan.

I reach a wide clearing and stop, my hands bracing my knees as I hunch over, panting. Sweat slicks most of my hair to my forehead and my neck. The rest of it is tangled in one big, dark knot. My heart's hammering inside my chest. The stitch in my side is so sharp, I feel like I've been stabbed.

My breath comes out in a rough wheeze. It's loud as hell, and I can _still_ hear that thing coming after me.

My feet are on fire. The instep on my right foot throbs so bad, I know it's got to be worse than a tiny nick or bruise. A branch must've snagged my nightgown because there's a tear in one of the cap sleeves and a long scratch down my arm. The stitch in my side reminds me how out of shape I am. God, it hurts to breathe.

Okay. One pain at a time. I can't do anything for my feet, but I put my hand on my side and begin to rub.

Two seconds later, when my poor brain catches up to the messages my eyes are sending it, I do another double-take. Then I blink once, twice, and stare at my arm. I know I'm pale, and my white nightgown isn't doing me any favors, but this is really, really weird.

A faint silver aura clings to my skin. Holy shit. I'm _glowing_.

I stretch my other arm out, wiggling my fingers. They leave an incandescent trail against the blackness of night where I move them. As I stare in disbelief, my skin glows even brighter.

Seriously?

Well, there goes Plan A. Hiding is definitely out.

Now if only I had a Plan B.

I don't waste time worrying about my newfound sparkle. I decide it's some kind of refraction, maybe moonlight bouncing off of the trees, bathing me in this weird glow. It has to be because I don't have any other explanation. I'm still working on trying to figure out how I ended up out in the woods in the first place.

And that isn't even the biggest worry I have. Nope. That crazy thing chasing me is.

One problem at a time. First: escape the monster. Unfortunately, that's going to be pretty hard now that I'm glowing like a damn beacon for it.

On the really slim chance I survive that thing and actually make it back home, I'm smashing the mirror first chance I get. _Swear you'll use it,_ he said. Ha! Seven years bad luck would be worth it.

My mind is racing. I'm bouncing on the tips of my battered feet, adrenaline rushing through me, not quite sure what I'm going to do. That thing is getting closer. I know it. And I know I can't outrun it.

I only got one quick horrified glance at the creature before my flight instinct kicked in. It's enough. I know what it's supposed to be. It's a __ friggin' _scorpion_. So what if I'm a Jersey girl who's never gone south of Delaware? I know what a scorpion looks like and that thing, with its eight legs and a pointed stinger on its curved tail, is a scorpion.

But it's not a normal scorpion. Oh, no. Of course not. If I had shoes on, I could stomp flat a regular-sized scorpion. There aren't boots big enough for the sucker I saw. Five feet long, three feet wide and tall enough to come up to my belly button, this creepy bastard is a _giant_ scorpion.

Okay. I think I've got a backup plan. At least, I _hope_ so.

Later on, when the adrenaline worked its way out of my system and my sanity finally returned, I still didn't know where I came up with my plan. I acted on pure instinct.

Lunging forward, I grab a fallen branch sticking out of the slick grass. It's about a foot and a half long, thick and sturdy. The branch is split in two at the end, like a fondue fork. As a weapon, it's the best I got.

Spinning around, I face off against the monster as it bursts into the clearing. It hisses and rears back when it realizes that its prey has grown a spine and is playing at being a predator.

It won't stay still for long. I get a better look at the creature while I can.

The giant scorpion is a dark brownish red everywhere except its eyes, which are black, beady, and the size of an apple. A pair of claws come up from its front half; they're even darker, more discolored, like they've been dipped in blood and left to dry.

I really hope that's not what happened.

Its back half is even more dangerous. The stinger, terrifying. There's enough venom in a regular scorpion's stinger to take out a man twice my size. Considering the stinger on this monster is as long as my arm, I know I have to stay away.

The length of the branch is as near to that thing as I'm willing to get. If the scorpion gets too close, I'll have to attack whether I want to or not.

And I definitely do _not_.

I hold my breath. The scorpion lifts its tail high, aiming its stinger. Or maybe it's just showing it off. Yes, yes. Nice stinger. Now keep it the hell away from me.

It doesn't listen. How inconsiderate.

Like that, the spell is broken. Its watery black eyes burn a vivid ruby red as it comes after me again. It doesn't know what to expect from me, so its initial approach is cautious. It has only eight legs—though it seems like more—and it moves each one separately, forward and then back again, as if gauging if it really wants to come at me.

I lean forward, dancing on my tippytoes. I have to be ready to go as soon as the monster decides to make its move. Taking off too early guarantees it will chase me. I need to be able to defend myself.

Snapping its claws in warning, the scorpion lumbers forward. I know from earlier that it can go much faster than that. It's hesitating now. Something has thrown it off guard.

Maybe it's how I'm glowing like I'm my own personal nightlight. If I hadn't already used up my "holy shit" quota, I might be a little more worried about the whole glowing thing.

Oh, well. No time for that now.

Jumping to the side and out of its reach, I jab my branch at the scorpion as it passes me. The plates protecting the scorpion's sides and back are like armor. I hardly hit it when the wood snaps, leaving me with a pointed stick and no clue what to do with it.

Okay. So that's not going to work. Like running, stabbing is also out.

The scorpion takes offense to me trying to run it through with my branch. All I did was tap its side before it awkwardly wheels around and charges right back at me.

It knows better now. I'm not a threat. I'm a _snack_.

There's no going back. The monster is big and ungainly, but it's also fast. As long as I keep diving out of its way, I might be able to beat it. If it comes down to a race, I'm toast. I could never outrun it. My only chance is to keep it off balance and pray I figure out some other way to take this thing down.

Opening its maw wide, the giant scorpion lets out a hiss that puts Dud's to shame. I fall back on my hands, watching in disgust as its mouth stretches big enough to allow something pointed and dripping green slime to slip out.

Come on. Really? The bastard has pincers coming out of its mouth, too?

The front end is even worse than the back. I can't approach either side. Great. I guess that leaves me with two options: I can go under it or over it.

Taking a deep breath as I quickly get back to my feet, I realize I can do both.

Until I hit sixteen, my mom insisted I take gymnastics lessons up to four times a week. Considering how tiny I am, I have the right body frame for the sport, but none of the discipline necessary to succeed and I quit junior year. Ten years later, I tap into my rusty skills and pray like hell that I still have it.

The scorpion charges at me again. Pumping my arms and legs while holding my stick tightly against my side, I run at the monster. When it's close enough that I feel its hot breath on me, I jump like I'm doing a vault. I put as much power into it as I can, tucking my body in, knees to the chest, as I flip over the scorpion.

I know right away that it's too much. I land too low and, with an _ooph_ , I fall on my ass. Ouch. Wincing, I scramble back to my feet as the scorpion realizes I'm not in front of it any longer.

Its heavy body is bulky. The scorpion maneuvers awkwardly as it fights to turn around and come at me again.

Over? Check. Now I'm going under.

I time it perfectly, breaking into a run before the monster fully changes direction. As big and scary as it is, the scorpion's not stupid. It's learning. It lifts its head, snapping its pincers, waiting for me to flip over it again.

_Yes_. The way it's reaching up makes it easier for me to launch myself feet first at the gap between its belly and the dirt.

Rocks bite into my upper arm. Dirt rubs my bare skin like sandpaper as I slide right beneath the scorpion. My head thuds against the ground hard before I get that I need to lift my neck up. I hold my stick like it's a sword and hope like hell this works.

It does. The stick slices right through the scorpion's vulnerable underbelly. Its blood is thick, black, and hot. I know that because it sprays all over me as I roll out from under the creature, dragging my stick with me.

Rich, inky black spots dot my hands and my arms. It smears down the front of my nightgown as I roll roughly one more time before landing flat on my stomach, my nose in a patch of scratchy grass.

My head is spinning, my whole body aching, but I can't stop. I jump back to my feet. My face feels damp. I wipe my palm against my forehead, leaving dark grey streaks of scorpion blood against my skin.

I'm panting. My shoulder burns from a particularly rough tumble. The rest of me has gone numb. I'm running on pure adrenaline, my every thought devoted to my prey. I let out a loud curse, squeezing my stick so tightly it nearly snaps. Damn it! It's still coming for me. I've proven I won't go down easy. Why won't it leave me alone?

Like a broken down car, the scorpion is leaving a dark, oily trail behind it as it stumbles purposely toward me. So I didn't kill it. At least I slowed it down a little.

That's the good news.

The bad news?

Even slower, it's still faster than me.

I narrow my eyes, pouring all of my focus into the hunt. I have no choice. It's that thing or me. I can do this.

Okay. The armor plates protect most of its body. I doubt it's going to let me get another clear shot at its underside so going for the belly isn't going to work.

And then, like that, I have it.

It goes against every instinct I have. With grim determination, the scorpion keeps coming for me and, this time, I don't run. I refuse to maneuver out of its way. I stay perfectly still, presenting the biggest target possible as I let it think it has tired me out at last.

Little closer.

Closer.

_Now_.

I dodge to the side, allowing the scorpion to race right past me, then turn so that I'm sprinting next to it. I wait for it to start wheeling around to attack me before I ready my weapon, say another prayer, and plunge the stick in.

My aim is perfect. The beady eye pops as the stick goes right through it. Something splashes me. I hope it's just blood, though I'm pretty sure it's eyeball goo. I fight not to heave as I throw my weight behind another shove. There's got to be a brain in there. If I can hit that, I might get out of this in one piece.

The scorpion screeches in agony, tossing its head back and forth, trying to dislodge the stick. I hold on. My arm jerks in its socket but, hell, it's this thing or me and I've got a cat who needs me.

Don't worry, Dud. Mama's coming.

The scorpion's pincers come within an inch or two of grazing my bare arm. This close, I see the sawtooth jagged edges on the underside of the pincer. I have to avoid those things no matter what—even if I lose my stick.

I have one last shot. I make it count, shoving as hard as I possibly can. When the scorpion rears back and up, letting out a screech so shrill that the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight, I throw my body to the side, tucking and rolling until I'm far enough away to catch my breath before I struggle to come up with Plan C.

After a couple of seconds, I realize that might not be necessary.

Bouncing to my feet, I watch as its stinger curls up. The scorpion shudders and falls to its side with a _thud_. It gasps and twitches. It sucks its pincers in. The stinger jabs fitfully at nothing, one last ditch effort to take me down first, before its body gives a last jolt and it finally dies.

_Holy shit._

The giant scorpion is dead. And I'm the one who killed it.

Me. Noelle St. James, Ms. Five Foot Nothing. I killed that crazy thing with nothing except a stick and some old gymnastic moves.

I yank my weapon back. The stick comes free with a soft sucking noise and some resistance. A long lick of slime clings to the pointed end, gloppy and clear and thick like raw egg whites. I kind of want to yack all over the place. Since that would've ruined my newfound kickass image, I clamp my mouth shut.

Swallowing back the gorge that rises, forcing it down, I bend over and wipe my stick clean on the grass. As soon as I feel a little bit more sturdy, I start to hum _Eye of the Tiger_ under my breath.

I feel amazing.

I am invincible.

I hear a short whistle, followed by an appreciative murmur. "Sweet ambrosia. That was mighty beautiful."

A chill runs up and down my spine.

I freeze.

I'm so not alone anymore.

# Hunter

I'm restless.

It's been like this for weeks now. At least, it feels like weeks. The season hasn't changed yet, and I'm still wearing the cloak I use for the cooler months. Since I've been using it, I've felt this way.

Like something's coming. Soon.

When I get like this, I can't stand to stay in one place. I board up my cabin, load up on whatever I might need, and take to the woods. I have campsites all over, though I will always sleep under the stars if I can, with the moon as my companion.

I've got far too much energy and I attempt to burn it off by focusing all of my attention on the chase and the hunt. It's the only time I'm alive anymore. My kills bring me all I need. I eat the meat to survive, use the pelts to stay warm, and trade whatever is left for anything else I'm lacking.

It's a simple life. And if I want more? I'm content to wait.

It's all I can do.

This part of the forest is full of mirrorside game. They're easier to hunt than the monsters that claim the darker realms, but I'm not looking for a challenge today. My stores are running low. I've spent too much time trying to outrun this expectant feeling. I need meat.

Since I'm hunting deer, I trade my knives for a bow and arrow. That, at least, will make the hunt a little trickier. This particular bow isn't mine and it knows it. I'm only a guardian until it's true mistress returns. Whenever I dare remove it from its place of honor in my cabin, it makes me pay for it.

Contrary thing.

Still, even when it's sulking as I am, it allows me to shoot. I don't wear it strapped to my back, though, because it _ain't_ mine and, any time I try, it snaps its bowstring at my fingers.

Since I don't know how long I'll be away from my camp this time, I douse the fire and slip inside my tent. I go to retrieve her bow and, the second I approach it, the air thickens. A hum buzzes just out of my reach. The anticipation grows almost unbearable. I take a knee and reach for the bow, tucked securely under the hides and furs I use for a blanket.

The hum I heard? It's her bow, singing out for her. The string is vibrating in place.

My hand closes on the wood. My restlessness vanishes, absolute certainty taking its place.

"Artemis." I breathe out her name. It's the first time I've allowed myself to say it out loud in ages and it whispers on the wind like a prayer.

She's here.

And, if my sudden knowing is right, she just landed herself in the middle of a scorpion den.

* * *

I should've known better. She doesn't need my help.

After tossing the bow aside and checking to make sure I'm armed, I take off. My campsite isn't so far from the darker, more dangerous part of the woods. Long legs eat up the ground as I race to find her before the scorpions do.

I spit. Vicious dang monsters.

Besides, I know what it's like to land here, alone and afraid and unprepared for what the Other can throw at you. For many reasons—and most of them because of my memories—I've always avoided the scorpions. No point in tempting fate, yeah?

So it's almost fitting that her portal would land her in the midst of their nest. I pour on the speed, dodging past trees, almost flying with my cloak flapping out behind me. For her, I'd risk facing off against a scorpion again.

For her, I'd do _anything._

Despite my speed, despite my desire to reach her in time, I know as soon as I come upon the clearing that I'm too late. But not to save Artemis. She doesn't need my help. Damn if I didn't miss a hell of a hunt, though.

A silver glow clings to her pale skin. Dark hair is knotted out of a face that makes my blood start pumping. Or maybe that's the way she's twisting her lithe and limber body, flipping over the monster as it charges. My heart stops at one close call—I haven't forgotten the pain of its stinger—but Artemis dances away at the last second, spinning and turning to strike out at the monster.

She takes my breath away. Stunned, I stay in the shadows, watching her in action. Once, when I was a boy, a dancing troupe came to town. There was the prettiest ballerina, with dark hair like this Artemis, who moved like her feet hardly touched the ground.

Squaring off with the scorpion, Artemis's grace and movements are even more magical. If it wasn't so clear that this is a solo, I'd jump in and make it a duet.

Instead, I tug my hood closer and watch her with an unblinking stare. I don't want to miss a parry or a strike. And when she goes for the kill, stabbing the monster right through his eye and into his brain, I fold my hands into fists to keep from clapping.

Later, I swear. There will be time enough for that before—

A rough shake of my head knocks that thought right out of it. No. Not going down that road. Not yet. Not 'til I have to. After waiting all this time, doubting that this moment would ever arrive, I'm not gonna sabotage myself. It'll end differently this time.

It has to.

Moving forward, I check to make sure my hood is in place. If she recognizes me, it won't be because of this face. Besides, I'm not sure I can hide how badly I want her and we haven't even spoken yet. I tug my cloak closed. At least that should hides most of the, um, obvious evidence.

Ah, Hades. I'm blushin'.

Then the words slip out—

"Sweet ambrosia. That was _mighty_ beautiful."

—and she's gotta know.

Her immediate reaction is to freeze. From across the clearing, I can see the way she grips her stick, readying to use it on me. She turns slowly, each step exact. Precise. The strength of her aura, a silver so bright it's almost white, is blinding. When she warns me to stay back, her voice raw and strong, there's no recognition in it.

The ominous look in her dark eyes isn't the challenge I'd been hoping for. It's a warning.

Beneath the hood of my cloak, I blink in surprise.

She... she doesn't remember me at all, does she?

My heart sinks down to my boots.

Oh, _darlin'._

# Noelle

The whisper is one of reverence. One of awe.

And male. Whoa. So very, very male.

I'm super glad I already yanked my stick out of the scorpion's eye. Riding high on adrenaline, there's no doubt in my mind that I'll use my makeshift weapon in a heartbeat if I have to.

Show no fear. I don't know who's behind me or how they got there. My stomach clenches, my breath coming quick. I force myself to calm. Something tells me it's a mistake to let him see me afraid. I take my time turning to face him.

"Stay back," I warn, then blink slowly when I hear myself. Okay. That's weird. My voice has a throaty, vibrate-y quality that doesn't sound like me at all. I'm normally a dead ringer for Minnie Mouse, my voice is so high. Bad Ass Noelle sounds hoarse and raspy. I kind of like it.

Someone is standing on the edge of the clearing, hiding in the shadows of the trees. Despite my warning, he takes a few sure steps closer.

I gulp.

Holy. Shit.

Seriously? I tighten my grip on my stick until the wood bites into my fingers. Right when I think I can't be more surprised, this guy shows up.

Giant scorpions exist. Why not giant men?

I'm short. I know it. I accept it. Growing up, my friends used to call me a midget. I need a step stool to reach the top shelf of my kitchen cabinet. Most people are tall compared to me.

I'm not kidding when I say giant. This guy is _massive_. He has to be pushing six and a half feet at least. A pair of sturdy leather boots cover his feet. The rest of him is hidden in a dark leather wrap thing. A cloak? It looks like a cloak. It's wrapped around his shoulders and fastened under his chin, flowing all the way to the forest floor, hiding everything except the tips of his boots. The cloak thing is hooded, and he wears the hood pulled high so that even his face is masked in shadow.

"Don't be afraid, Artemis," he soothes. He lifts his hands, a calming gesture. His cloak falls away, separating enough to reveal his hands to his elbows while keeping the rest of him shielded. "I've come to join you on your hunt."

My jaw clenches. I can't explain why his calling me Artemis rubs me the wrong way. It does, though. So my white nightgown looks like a toga. And my, um, hunting style is rather unique. Still. I might not know anything about Greek mythology, but even I know that she's the goddess of the hunt. And I'm certainly no goddess.

"Don't call me that." I scowl at him. "I'm so not in the mood to be teased right now, pal."

"Tease? _Pal_?" There's a strange note to his voice. "Oh, darlin', no, I was bein' serious. But you..." He lowers his hands. "You really don't know. You— ah, Hades. You've just arrived, yeah?"

His voice has changed, too. It's grown softer, and what was a hint of an accent becomes a full-blown Southern drawl by the time he's finished his sentence.

"Just arrived? Yup." I glare down at the scorpion corpse at my feet. "Can't say I liked the looks of the welcoming committee, though."

"Don't blame ya. But you can best believe I'm gonna do all I can to make you feel more at home." He pauses, then takes a step forward. "Artemis. I'm so glad you're here."

Oh boy. "First off, don't call me Artemis. My name is Noelle."

"I'm sorry—"

I'm not done. "Look, I don't know who you are, or who you think I am, but this... this place ain't my home. I don't even know where I am. And you—" I wag my finger in his direction. "—you've got a real Southern thing going on. Deep South. Right?"

The hood bobs up and down. "Born and raised in Georgia."

Georgia. Okay. My geography isn't that much better than my grasp of mythology. Still, I'm pretty sure that Georgia is kind of far from New Jersey. On the plus side, at least I know I haven't left the United States. Even if this whole thing is way impossible.

"Okay. Sure. So somehow I ended up in Georgia. Perfect." I glance around. Trees, trees, and more trees. I've got to find a way out. "Now I just have to figure out how to get back home."

The hood is shaking from side to side before I even finish my thought. "We're not in Georgia."

"You just sa—"

"I said I was _from_ Georgia."

Huh. He's got me there. "So then where are we?"

"Somewhere else."

Because that's helpful. But what should I expect from a hooded stranger who pops up in the woods?

"Whatever. It doesn't matter anyway. So, hey, it's time for me to go, and—"

"Behind you! Move!"

His voice is sharp in its shouted command. It never even occurs to me to disobey. Behind me? I launch myself to the side, hoping I don't end up getting trampled by whatever he's warning me about.

I haven't lost my stick yet. It's pure friggin' luck that I don't stab myself as I roll a few feet away before landing on my belly, my nightgown hiked up so high that I feel a breeze on my buttcheeks.

I scramble onto my knees, wielding my stick like a sword. And I stare.

Inhaling sharply, I don't want to believe what I'm seeing. It's a second scorpion. This sucker is bigger and uglier than the one I already killed. Its shell is darker, more black, and those monster claws look like they could snap me right in half if I get too close. It stinks, too. My nose wrinkles. The scorpion carries a bitter scent with it, like burning paper.

I fight back my gag. No time for that. This thing is bigger which means it might be slower. I beat the last one. I still have my stick. I can—

_Whoa_.

I watch as the stranger takes three precise steps forward. Reaching beneath his cloak, he grips something shiny between his fingers. Moonlight dances across the item with a blinding flash. Ten feet separates him from the charging scorpion when he leans to his left. After taking an instant to aim, he rears his arm back and lets it fly.

A heartbeat later, a long throwing knife is buried to its hilt in the monster's right eye. Death is nearly instantaneous. The scorpion staggers, still fighting to get to us, before it drops.

It lands close enough to me that I can poke it with my stick if I reach. I don't. I clutch my weapon to my chest, my breath coming out in a rush. I'm wound up tight like a spool of thread. I was ready to fight for my life again.

Except I don't have to. A hooded stranger sprang into action, protecting me before I even had the chance.

I don't know what to make of that.

I look over at him. He readjusts his cloak until he's completely covered, then makes a circle around the second dead scorpion. I get the impression that he's waiting for it to spring back to life and, if it does, he'll find another way to dispatch it as easily.

It's a small struggle before I eventually manage to pull myself back up again. I give my shoulder an experimental stretch. My last fall was a hard one. I'm pretty banged up all over and I know I'll be feeling it later. It could've been worse, though.

My eyes are drawn back to the scorpion's stinger.

A _lot_ worse.

"You saved my life." I swallow roughly. "I... Thank you."

"Just repayin' an old debt. Trust me. It had it comin'."

The stranger finishes his circle, satisfied that his target is sufficiently dead, before nodding at me. "I took a leaf out of your book. Straight through the eye. I've never seen one of 'em go down so quick. Nice work, darlin'."

_Darling_. I cringe. If he hadn't just saved me from that second scorpion, I would've told him where he could shove his _darling_. It's better than him calling me Artemis, but not by much.

"Thanks. I guess. I mean, I only did what I— _oh_."

I thought it was weird how he's wearing a cloak and a hood like he has something hide. After being attacked by scorpions, weird becomes a little relative. So when he shakes back his cloak and reaches up to grab his hood by the hem, I'm not really paying attention to what's he's doing.

And then I see what he _was_ hiding.

It seems I've got one more 'holy shit' left in me because _holy shit_.

Moonlight shines down through the trees, giving me just enough light to get a good look at the stranger. From his size and shape, I expect a big hulk of a man and it takes one peek to show me I was wrong. So very wrong. The only word for him is beautiful _._ Unless I go for gorgeous.

Wow.

His face is a blend of sharp angles—a sharp jaw, cheekbones that could slice through paper—and softness—plump, pink lips and a set of lovely dark lashes—that remind me of a sculpture I'd once seen in a museum in the City. His complexion is a deep tan, the sort of bronze skin you'd expect from an outdoorsman. White teeth gleam in the moonlight. I can't tell what color eyes he has except they're light and big and surrounded by those beautiful lashes.

He runs a big hand through a shaggy mane of sandy-colored hair. He ducks his head so that he's not quite towering over me. A boyish grin tugs at his lips. I get the impression he doesn't let too many people see him without his hood.

I blink. Yeah. I get the hood now. Totally understand. Seeing his face without warning is like a punch to the gut, stealing all my breath away. Oh yeah. He's got to wear that hood if only to keep hordes of lovestruck ladies from chasing after him.

I'm staring. I wouldn't be surprised to find that I'm drooling, he's that damn good looking. Maybe something positive came out of this weirdness after all. I wouldn't mind getting to know this guy better.

I run my hand down the front of my rumpled nightgown, suddenly very aware that I'm a half-naked disaster.

A desperate gleam flashes in his eyes, his lips quirked upward in a crooked smile that makes him even sexier.

"Artemis?"

His soft question puts a damper on my raging hormones. I'm not so dazzled that I forgot my own damn name. "No." Pointing to my chest, I tell him again, "Noelle."

His smile wavers. "You really don't know," he says after a moment. "Not even a clue." And he frowns.

The frown knocks some more sense into me. He looks so disappointed.

For some reason, I feel bad. It's almost as if there's something important that I'm missing here, something he's expecting from me. Which is even weirder.

I think my adrenaline and his stunning good looks are messing with me. Time to go before I do something I'll regret.

Like jumping him, for one. Bad idea. Tempting idea, yes, but very, very bad.

I bite down on my bottom lip, forcing myself to remember my three-day rule. It's a good one. No matter how much I want to, I won't sleep with anyone until I've known them at least three days and I can believe them when we have a safe sex chat pre-boning. It used to be three dates but, hey, a girl's got needs.

This guy is really making me second-guess myself. A face like that, a god of a man with reflexes like a cat, _and_ spot-on aim? Who sounds like my company is the only thing he's ever wanted? My breath quickens and my knees go a little weak. I nibble my lip a little, seriously considering going with him and letting one thing lead to another.

I know it's the adrenaline talking. Even considering seducing this guy—because, as much of a wreck as I am, I can tell he'd be totally open to it—is crazy. Actually hooking up with a stranger because I'm running high from the hunt and we've both just slaughtered impossible monsters is insane.

I mean, holy shit. The corpses are _right there_.

A shocky shiver courses through me. I let out a high-pitched, totally uncomfortable giggle, stepping away from the scorpion nearest to me.

Concern fills his soft voice. "Artemis?"

It's a sudden reminder why letting my libido take the lead is such a bad idea. This giant, beautiful stranger could be a danger to more than my self control.

I scowl. My hands curl, then find their perch on my hips. If the irritated pose thrusts out my tits, well, that's a plus. "Don't call me that."

"Sorry."

"Whatever. Besides, you're right. There's a shit ton of things I don't know." I lift my hands and start ticking things off on my fingers. "Where I am. What the hell I'm doing here. What _you're_ doing here. Why you refuse to call me by my real name."

When he opens his mouth as if to answer, I cut him off with a shake of my head. I shake some more lust off with the action. "Doesn't matter. I'm not staying long enough for any of it to. So nice to meet you, it's been fun, but I've got to be going. Dudley's probably wondering what happened to me anyway."

His lips thin. "Dudley?" he repeats, a faint grumble in his voice. "You've got a fella waitin' for you?"

I start to nod—and then something stops me. "Dud's my cat," I confess, "and he's probably peeing on everything I own at this exact moment because I disappeared without giving him his bedtime treats."

He sniffs in disapproval. Or maybe that's sympathy. Cat pee smells awful, like ammonia and vinegar mixed together. It's really gross.

"Anyway, thanks again. You know. For saving me from that thing."

"My pleasure, darlin'."

He saved my life. That's the only reason I don't say anything when he calls me _darling_ again. Instead, I wipe my face and tuck a loose strand of knotted hair behind my ear. When I realize there's a blade of grass tangled in there, I wipe my filthy hand on the skirt of my nightgown. It's already a disaster. What's one more stain?

I turn away from him, squinting into the trees. I know I have to go back that way. It's how I got to the clearing in the first place after being chased through the woods. If I want to find that shimmering patch that shows me my room, I gotta backtrack.

Without wanting to, I think about the two scorpion corpses again. I really, really hope that that's all of them.

"Where you goin'?"

Don't turn around, I order myself. Keep on walking.

"I told you already. Home. You might not believe me, but there's a..." Oh jeez. How to tell this stranger about the mirror and the fall and— "Okay, I don't really know how to explain it—"

"A portal?" he offers. "A way back for you?"

Portal. A way back. He sounds so certain. That catches my attention.

I spin around, looking up at him, at the coy expression he's got on his far too handsome face. "Exactly." Portal is the perfect word for the square-shaped thing I saw. "And I'm going to take it before anything else pops up in these woods. So..." I give him a wave. "Bye."

"Hold on there. Stop. You can't do that."

I take a step away from him, startled by his sudden vehemence. " _Excuse_ me?"

The coy look fades into one of absolute determination. "I mean it. I can't let you do that."

"You can't stop me, either."

I'm bluffing. Of course, I am. This guy is a foot and a half taller than me and outweighs me by at least a hundred pounds. Plus he's just proved he's really good with a knife. He can totally stop me if he wants to. But I won't make it easy for him. Sure, he's hot. Doesn't mean I'm okay with him telling me what to do.

"No, no, darlin'." His voice gentles. I'm not buying it. "It's not like that. Just take a second to think."

"Yeah, I'm thinking about getting out of here before I get attacked again. And stop calling me 'darling'. I told you. I have a name."

"Art—"

I scoff. "Not that one."

"Noelle," he corrects quickly. He's learning. "You don't understand. Those were children. _Young_ children."

I stop dead in my tracks. I can't help it. My imagination takes those ugly scorpion things and magnifies them by ten. Children? If those were the kids, I hate to see what Mommy looks like.

"This is their territory. I'm lucky I found you when I did. And you should be grateful you've only attracted the two so far. More will be comin', and more after that if they sense you lingerin' nearby. You can't risk it."

"I have to."

"It's suicide," he says in a flat voice. "Even now the nest is stirrin'. You can't go back."

"You don't understand. I _have_ to go back. I have to go home."

He hesitates. I see it and I'm ready to pounce when he admits, "That's not the only portal."

Why didn't he say so in the first place? Suspicion wars with relief that I don't have to go back through the trees again. "Are you sure? How do you know?"

The look he gives me is piercing. I feel it go straight through me before settling deep in my bones. "How do you think? I came here myself, a long, long while ago."

Oh. "Makes sense. Sorry."

"We're not the only ones, either. Portals spring up and disappear all the time. Sure, if you're lucky, your portal might still be there, but it won't stay for long. Is it worth venturin' back into the scorpion's nest to check? When there's always another way out if you're willin' to work for it?"

I don't want to believe him. It would be so much easier if I ran back, dove through the portal, and ended up in my room once more. Except I sense he's telling me the truth. I don't want to believe him—but, damn it, I do.

He flips his hood up. "I've a better idea. Instead of chancin' another run-in with the scorpions, you come with me. Hear me out," he says when it's clear I'm about to argue. "You can't stay here. But I know these woods. There's gotta be a safer portal for you. I'll help you find it."

He has a point. Sure, I can stay in the forest and try my luck finding my portal. Considering I'm surrounded by two dead monster corpses, odds aren't that great I'll make it home without being attacked again.

And who knows if I could even find that portal thing a second time. I get lost in my own backyard—and that's a one way alley! All these trees look the same to me. I'm kidding myself if I think it'll be as easy as that.

Then again, I can trot off with a guy who looks like he belongs on the front cover of a survivalist's magazine. Huh. I never would've guessed I'd be such a sucker for a Southern accent and some country charm. At least he put his hood back on. I so don't need the distraction.

What the hell am I supposed to do?

Gripping my stick tighter, I take a step away and frown. At least I know what I'm getting into with the scorpions: certain death when my luck finally runs out. This hooded stranger, though, he seems determined that I go with him instead. It makes no sense. He must want something. _Everyone_ wants something. But what?

I glance at my hands. The freaky glowing thing finally stopped. That's good. Something tells me that he'll chase after me like the giant scorpions did no matter what I decide. I might have a chance of getting away if I'm not shining like a flashlight out here.

I roll my shoulders experimentally. My aches and pains are fading. If I have to go another round with the scorpions, I think I can do it.

"Thanks," I tell him with a tight smile, "but no thanks. Bye."

His boot crunches on a brittle twig as he steps closer. The hood shadows his face and from the way he suddenly looms, I bet this guy is the type who doesn't accept a 'no' that easily.

"My camp ain't far from here. There's water. You can wash up, if ya like."

I don't know whether to laugh, turn tail, or be offended that he's noticed how much of a disaster I am.

I settle on a shrug. "I'm okay. A little scorpion blood never hurt no one."

Right? Oh man. I hope it's not poisoned or anything.

He slips closer, with measured steps that suggest he knows me bolting is very high on my list of options at the moment. The point of his chin drops as he lowers his gaze. Still stubborn, more persuasive. "A blanket, then? You must be gettin' cold."

I look down. My nipples are poking through my bra and nightgown. Of course, they are.

I decide to own it. "It's a little nippy out. I'll survive."

He pauses and I can almost hear the gears working in his head.

"I've got food," he offers.

As if on cue, my stomach grumbles. Ugh. Traitor.

I throw my hands up in the air. "Fine. Whatever. You win. Let's go."

I could be dirty. I could be cold. But a girl needs to eat.

# Start the Series today!

Interested in checking out the rest of Artemis's story? Check out Stalk the Moon, the first book in the **Mirrorside Series __** today!

Or, if you're ready to take the plunge, check out _The Other Duet_ , a collection featuring the first two **Mirrorside** books, plus an exclusive short story!

# About the Author

Jessica lives in New Jersey with her family, including enough pets to cement her status as the neighborhood's future Cat Lady. She spends her days working in retail, and her nights lost in whatever world the current novel she is reading or working on is set in. After writing for fun for more than a decade, she has finally decided to take some of the stories out of her head and put them out there for others who might also enjoy them!

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# Also by Jessica Lynch

**Welcome to Hamlet**

Obsession*

Devotion*

Don't Trust Me

Ophelia

Let Nothing You Dismay

I'll Never Stop

Wherever You Go

Here Comes the Bride

Gloria

Tesoro

* * *

**Mirrorside**

Tame the Spark*

Stalk the Moon

Hunt the Stars

The Witch in the Woods

Hide from the Heart

Chase the Beauty

* * *

**The Claws Clause**

Mates*

Hungry Like a Wolf

Of Mistletoe and Mating

No Way

Season of the Witch

Sunglasses at Night

Ghost of Jealousy

* * *

**Touched by the Fae**

Favor*

Asylum

Shadow

Touch

* * *

* prequel story
