fact that they so obviously spurned him—they whom he protected with his very life—might have destroyed another man. Fortunately he’d been hardened to such scorn long ago. But with the coming of this new child, he was reminded that his time as protector would one day draw to an end.
At any moment, he could be demolished by demons—like the statue that had stood for centuries before this temple, the remains of which now crunched under his boots. Then, like the statue, he would simply be swept away. In favor of the next Chosen One.
Until such time he would continue to be a repository of evil. One of a kind. The most valuable, dependable, and vicious weapon his people possessed.
And like any well-honed weapon, his thoughts now trained themselves on reaching their assigned target, the woman in the mirror. The woman whose unborn son would someday wear the glove.
His right hand clenched tight. When it uncurled, the single, fingerless glove he wore seemed to melt away, revealing a mirrored palm instead of flesh. He closed and reopened his fingers again and the slick mirror that shielded a cache of terrible evil disappeared from view as well.
He raised the disguised hand in a brief salute to a soldier he passed and received an easy wave in return. Pausing a mile or so later, he assisted a farmer in righting a wagon with a load that had slid askew and threatened to topple it. Afterward he was heartily thanked. The man even went so far as to attempt to shake the camouflaged hand, a gesture Dominic evaded.
Satisfied that it appeared to everyone save himself that he was an ordinary Satyr, he made his way toward the region just this side of the interworld gate.
His features remained undisguised. But he’d bespelled them as usual in such a way as to leave a vague impression that none who saw him would later be able to recall. So that no portrait or depiction of him could ever be created and given over to hands that would do him harm.
Within two hours, he’d located the regiment fighting closest to the gate. Within three, he’d traded his pants and jacket of black leather for their gray woolen uniform.
At sundown, he met the woman’s husband, and within the week the man was indebted to him for saving his life.
By the time Moonful neared, his new acquaintance was half besotted with him.
Though his new comrade rarely spoke of his wife, Dominic continued to carry within him the image of the tranquil scene he’d viewed in the obsidian mirror.
Emma.
She’d roused something in him he’d thought long destroyed. Something he’d pushed deep within himself where his enemies couldn’t exploit it.
A longing.
Though he knew such an emotion weakened him, the desire to view her face and her body in the flesh and to hear her voice increased by the hour. With each kill—with each battle he undertook—his anticipation of the night he would at last touch her clean, soft sweetness grew ever stronger.
She had no idea what was coming.
2
Satyr Estate in Tuscany, Italy
Earth World, 1837
“Damned beasts.”
It was Carlo.
Emma had been listening for his arrival. She’d monitored his forward progress by the staccato sound of his sneezes. He was allergic to Lyon’s panthers.
They’d never warmed to him either. Not in the entire year and a half since Nicholas had found and brought Carlo to the estate. Even now, the sleek black animals paced just behind her husband at the edge of the tree line, grumbling as if to warn her of his approach.
“Liber. Ceres. Away,” she ordered softly. At the sound of her voice, Carlo’s head lifted. His eyes narrowed on her where she stood in the doorway of their home.
The hopeful thrill that had always zinged through her when she caught sight of him was missing this time. Yet she’d waited for him tonight as anxiously as always, half fearing he wouldn’t come. Her relief now that he had shown himself was tinged with dread. It was a curious reaction, and one for which only she and he knew the reason.
Carlo stepped out of the late afternoon shadows and next to her beneath the portico of the carriage house. Adjacent to that of her sister’s lavish castello, it had been converted into their home upon their wedding. But though Emma resided here, her husband had visited only twelve times during the entire year of their marriage. Once a month, like clockwork, he’d returned to bed her. As he would do tonight.
Their eyes met—hers a wary ash brown, his a boyish, confident blue. His smile was warm, false, familiar. Frightening.
“I’ve missed you,” he said, reaching for her.
So he thought they would both pretend.
She pulled away. “Don’t touch me,” she warned coolly. “Except as necessary. Later.”
He feigned astonishment. “What’s this? Where’s my usual affectionate welcome? Do you wish me gone again? Shall I leave?” He turned on his heel as though to depart.
“No!” She took a hasty step forward and put a staying hand on his sleeve.
He smirked. “I thought not.” Dropping his bag on the porch, he snaked an arm around her, drawing her so close that she felt the hard weapon he wore at his hip.
Cupping the back of her head, he pressed her soft cheek to the coarse wool of his uniform. She inhaled the peculiar scent of that other world in which he dwelled. That world into which she could not trespass. That world she used to despise because it kept him away from her.
Now she could hardly wait for morning, when he would return there.
“Don’t.” She wedged her elbows between them, trying to nudge him away.
His grip on her tightened, and she winced as the beading along the back of her gown punished her skin.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Emma,” he murmured, refusing to release her. His breath was cool against her neck. “Can’t you let it go?”
At his words, hope tried to flicker to life within her. Had his ill treatment of her last month been an aberration? Would this sojourn from the war in Else World signal a new beginning for their marriage? Hope—foolish hope—brightened her heart, just a little. She squashed it.
Carlo drew back, and his satisfied gaze fell to her swollen waistline.
“You’ve grown fat in the past month,” he teased.
“And whose fault is that?” she told him, forcing herself to match his light tone.
An odd expression shifted in his face, gone before she could decipher it.
“Mine, I suppose. But motherhood agrees with you.” He found his usual smile once more. The one that made him so deceptively attractive and which had lured her into wedding him.
“Did you tell your sister?” he asked.
“No,
