Amy couldn’t stop the man from dragging her into another room. She fumbled for her phone, hoping to signal Spencer because a clammy hand was still slapped over her mouth. The man wrenched the phone from her and threw it across the room.

Amy thrashed, then bit his hand. She tasted blood. The man screamed and let her go. She attempted to bolt toward the door, but the room was pitch black, and she couldn’t find her way. She ended up crashing into an end table, hitting her thighs hard. She groaned, then a crashing sound filled the room. Whatever had been on that table toppled off and hit a hardwood floor. A vase, perhaps.

Amy heard something slam shut, then another hand grabbed her arm. His grip was hard enough to make her cry out. He dug hard fingers into her arm.

“Let me go!” she cried.

“Sit down!” he growled, throwing her into a chair. The chair was far more comfortable than she expected. It was large and plush. Despite this, Amy didn’t want to be in it. She lurched forward, but a foot hit her stomach. She groaned and sank back.

“Shut the hell up, bitch,” the European voice called through the darkness. Italian, Amy thought. Finally, a light flickered on from a lamp on the other side of the room.

She blinked. The room was small but cozy. A four-poster bed was pushed against one wall with a chest at its end. A deep maroon rug ran the width of the room and matched long, floor-to-ceiling curtains. The chair she occupied was the same color.

Where the hell am I? she wondered. Then, she remembered she was in a hotel. This must be one of the rooms.

The man who had grabbed her in the bathroom was red-faced, wrapping white cloth around his bleeding hand. He seethed at her from beside the bed. If it wasn’t for his companion, he would have launched at his captive with a vengeance. The second man held Amy’s attention. He was easily over six feet tall with broad shoulders and corded arms. He wore all black and an unpleasant smile. He pointed a gun at her head.

Spencer, where are you?

The sounds of the gala continuing below echoed through the floor, which told Amy she’d been dragged upstairs. She did not remember that part, but everything had happened so fast. She only remembered a hand over her mouth and thrashing against her attacker through long, dark spaces until they entered this room. She imagined writing an article about it.

Journalist Abducted at Corbinelli Event

It was a stellar headline. Amy began to fear what the rest of the article would detail if she got the chance to write it.

The man with the gun waved it in her face. “If your witch friend doesn’t show up, you’re going to pay.”

Amy spat. It was half saliva, half blood from biting the first man. The word “witch” caught her attention. Victor and his cronies knew what Stacy was. What did that mean about Victor, then?

As long as he’s not a fucking werewolf, Amy thought. One consolation was that their plan was working. She stamped down her fear, trying to quell the rising panic. She had to find a way out of here. She thought about all her self-defense training and wondered how she could put it to use.

“Where is she?” the first man snarled, getting in her face.

“I don’t know,” Amy shot back.

The man slapped her.

Amy’s face stung. Blood dribbled from her nose.

The second man demanded something else, but she couldn’t make out the words. She wasn’t sure he had finished his sentence before the door to the bedroom crashed open.

Spencer’s fist connected with the European man’s jaw. A cracking sound followed, and the man stumbled. Spencer hit him again, this time in the eye. He spun on the second man before he could think to shoot. A swift kick to the stomach and a twist of the arm, and the taller man dropped the gun.

Amy kicked it under the bed before springing to Spencer’s aid. The first man had composed himself, but not in time to defend himself against Amy’s grappling. Two maneuvers, and he was laid flat on the rug, Amy’s foot on his neck, pressing his face into the pattern of the woven fabric.

Grunts followed Spencer’s struggle against the second man, but soon, he had the man lying on his stomach, unconscious.

Amy was breathing hard. “Thank God for you, Spencer.”

“How did this happen?” he asked, spinning to her.

Quickly, Amy told him what went down. “We need to get the hell out of here,” she added. Spencer knelt to ensure the guy she’d taken down was unconscious and unable to hear what Amy said next. “Before Victor finds out Stacy isn’t showing up here tonight.”

Rowan parked along a path in a clump of trees where they were out of sight from the estate, then signaled for Stacy and Kiera to exit the van.

The trio was quiet as they fought brambles and other foliage up a steep incline, going ankle-deep in thick mud in several spots. Stacy was glad she’d worn clothes she could get dirty. Finally, she spied a slice of dark night sky through the trees, a peppering of stars, and the moon lifting above the trees in all her silver glory.

Stacy’s veins thrummed with magic. She felt it all around her. This land was rich with raw magic. She wondered how long Victor’s house had been here and how long he had lived in it. She saw why he’d want a place like this. The magic was strong beneath the land, making it easy to defend.

If she could access the magic herself, assaulting it would be easier, too.

What is he? she wondered. When would the Titan show his true colors?

They reached the tree line, but Rowan held Stacy back with a hand on her arm. The warning look in his eye told her he wanted to check for magical barriers and defenses before they moved a step further. It was better that she stopped, anyway.

She inspected the sprawling estate. She’d gained somewhat of an idea of the grounds from Amy’s research, but seeing it in person had a different effect.

The house was large and rectangular, with spirals forming towers and a roof that reminded her of a castle. She half expected to see guards roaming its top like knights on a battlement. No one was there, though. Whoever was guarding this place was inside.

Victor’s home was less manor house and more fortress. It was built of stone and appeared very old. An iron gate was closed to a courtyard and the entrance to the house beyond.

She remembered the maps and the servants’ quarters, another way in without dealing with the gate. She and Rowan had discussed entering that way, but she soon realized this was not their best option. Magical defenses trailed to that location, as Rowan pointed out after he felt around for a while.

“But I don’t sense anything here,” he added in the lowest voice possible, gesturing at the dense surroundings of trees.

Stacy thought it odd that Victor didn’t have the borders of his grounds warded. She returned her attention to the house. It reminded her of her current home as well as the Drakethorn estate, but only in its sprawling size and age. Everything else about it was different.

Victor Corbinelli didn’t seem to appreciate beauty, only cold, calculated order. The paved driveway cast a straight line to the house. The grounds were well kept but with no sign of gardens, flowers, or nice trees. The porch had no seating.

Does the guy ever enjoy being outdoors? Stacy wondered. Probably not, she decided. He was too busy ruining everyone else’s lives and sending werewolves to destroy their homes. She hoped to anything divine watching over her that she wouldn’t have to deal with werewolves tonight.

She nodded to her companions. Now was as good a time as any to go ahead. The sooner they got this over with, the better. Victor would eventually realize she was not at his event and didn’t plan on showing up. Be safe, Amy, was the last thing she thought before Kiera became the first to step past the tree line.

She barely made it a few inches past the farthest-reaching branch before she flew back. She would have hit a tree if Rowan had not shot out a shield of magic to catch her. Smoke rippled from Kiera’s dark clothing.

“Holy shit,” Stacy breathed. “Are you all right?”

Kiera straightened, her face contorted in wrath. She dusted off her clothes, bringing more smoke out of them. “There are wards, and they fucking hurt.”

Rowan winced. “I’m sorry. I truly didn’t sense them. They must…” He trailed off, blanching.

“Be hidden with muffling magic,” Kiera finished.

“Do you sense it now?” Stacy asked the dryad.

He nodded. “Now that they’ve been tripped. I’ll undo them as fast as I can, but odds are, whoever controls them inside knows someone is here.”