own without saying a word.
THE SHIELDS THE DAMNED HUNTERS’ WHORES HAD put around her were strong.
Morgan fell exhausted to the ground, her sweaty hair falling into her face. She glared at the door, willing somebody to come in. Somebody a bit weaker than the ones she’d seen so far.
Too damned strong, all of them.
Even the old woman.
The old woman should have been weak, should have been an easy target. Morgan was fast; all she needed to do was lay one hand on her. One hand, and she could have drained the energy she’d lost fighting the dark-haired Hunter. She hadn’t expected that wolf to be as strong as he was.
No, she hadn’t expected it at all.
But so far, nothing about these Hunters had been what she’d expected. She’d seen darkness inside the shape-shifter, Jonathan, seen it, felt it, sensed it. Getting to that darkness should have been easy.
But he had repelled her easily, pathetically so.
The vampire—Eli. Vamps had few weaknesses, but over the past couple of years, Morgan had learned how to exploit them. They were weak when it came to blood . . . and sex. But he had looked at her with complete disinterest.
The old woman—who in the hell would have expected that frail-looking creature to move like that? To have that kind of power?
The most unexpected, though . . . the black woman. She had stared at Morgan with mocking eyes, and nothing made Morgan as mad as being laughed at. How dare that bitch laugh at her. Didn’t she see what Morgan was?
And that tattoo by her eye—Morgan knew that mark.
It was the mark of the Scythe. A woman of the Scythe, fighting with the Hunters.
No. None of this made sense.
Weary, she dropped onto the narrow bed tucked against the wall. She needed energy. She needed to get out of here.
But right now, she needed to rest. And maybe . . . just maybe, there’d be dreams.
Morgan closed her eyes and succumbed to the weariness that battered her body.
She slid into sleep quickly, and even under that heavy blanket of exhaustion, satisfaction flooded her body.
Somebody was dreaming . . .
It was the witch—the young one. She’d smelled of magick and the musk of vampires. No wonder—she was both. The dark, ripe force of vampire and the skin-buzzing electricity of a witch’s power.
In her sleep, Morgan hummed with satisfaction. Oh, yes, Leandra was dreaming. She was also very hungry—so much so that the hunger intruded on her dreams.
Those dreams were dark, tortured.
It made her vulnerable, weak.
In her greed to steal some of that power, Morgan struck blindly, unaware that she was been being watched the entire time.
“SNEAKY LITTLE BITCH,” AGNES MURMURED, UNABLE to help the small streak of astonishment that shot through her.
It had been more than a century since she’d seen this. A dream thief. A dream thief didn’t truly steal dreams but used them to slide inside the subconscious and siphon away power.
It didn’t work on everybody. They needed a weak point, and Morgan apparently knew her power well. Leandra had weaknesses that likely only showed when she slept. No other time did she let her guard down enough.
The way the dream thieves worked, ordinary shields were ineffective. It was like expecting psychic or even magickal shields to hold against a man like Malachi—operating on two totally different levels.
Leaning on her cane, Agnes made her way down the hall. She hated this blasted weakness. It was a bone-deep weariness, one that no amount of rest would ease. She had tried to rest, but it hadn’t done any good.
It didn’t matter. Agnes suspected it wouldn’t be long before she would be able to rest as much as she wanted, for as long as she wanted.
A simple cotton nightgown floated around her ankles, and she had wrapped a pale grayish-purple shawl around her shoulders. Still, she felt the cold. Agnes wasn’t sure if it was the temperature in the air or something she sensed from the dream thief. Dream thieves had a way of
THE SHIELDS THE DAMNED HUNTERS’ WHORES HAD put around her were strong.
Morgan fell exhausted to the ground, her sweaty hair falling into her face. She glared at the door, willing somebody to come in. Somebody a bit weaker than the ones she’d seen so far.
Too damned strong, all of them.
Even the old woman.
The old woman should have been weak, should have been an easy target. Morgan was fast; all she needed to do was lay one hand on her. One hand, and she could have drained the energy she’d lost fighting the dark-haired Hunter. She hadn’t expected that wolf to be as strong as he was.
No, she hadn’t expected it at all.
But so far, nothing about these Hunters had been what she’d expected. She’d seen darkness inside the shape-shifter, Jonathan, seen it, felt it, sensed it. Getting to that darkness should have been easy.
But he had repelled her easily, pathetically so.
The vampire—Eli. Vamps had few weaknesses, but over the past couple of years, Morgan had learned how to exploit them. They were weak when it came to blood . . . and sex. But he had looked at her with complete disinterest.
The old woman—who in the hell would have expected that frail-looking creature to move like that? To have that kind of power?
The most unexpected, though . . . the black woman. She had stared at Morgan with mocking eyes, and nothing made Morgan as mad as being laughed at. How dare that bitch laugh at her. Didn’t she see what Morgan was?
And that tattoo by her eye—Morgan knew that mark.
It was the mark of the Scythe. A woman of the Scythe, fighting with the Hunters.
No. None of this made sense.
Weary, she dropped onto the narrow bed tucked against the wall. She needed energy. She needed to get out of here.
But right now, she needed to rest. And maybe . . . just maybe, there’d be dreams.
Morgan closed her eyes and succumbed to the weariness that battered her body.
She slid into sleep quickly, and even under that heavy blanket of exhaustion, satisfaction flooded her body.
Somebody was dreaming . . .
It was the witch—the young one. She’d smelled of magick and the musk of vampires. No wonder—she was both. The dark, ripe force of vampire and the skin-buzzing electricity of a witch’s power.
In her sleep, Morgan hummed with satisfaction. Oh, yes, Leandra was dreaming. She was also very hungry—so much so that the hunger intruded on her dreams.
Those dreams were dark, tortured.
It made her vulnerable, weak.
In her greed to steal some of that power, Morgan struck blindly, unaware that she was been being watched the entire time.
“SNEAKY LITTLE BITCH,” AGNES MURMURED, UNABLE to help the small streak of astonishment that shot through her.
It had been more than a century since she’d seen this. A dream thief. A dream thief didn’t truly steal dreams but used them to slide inside the subconscious and siphon away power.
It didn’t work on everybody. They needed a weak point, and Morgan apparently knew her power well. Leandra had weaknesses that likely only showed when she slept. No other time did she let her guard down enough.
The way the dream thieves worked, ordinary shields were ineffective. It was like expecting psychic or even magickal shields to hold against a man like Malachi—operating on two totally different levels.
Leaning on her cane, Agnes made her way down the hall. She hated this blasted weakness. It was a bone-deep weariness, one that no amount of rest would ease. She had tried to rest, but it hadn’t done any good.
It didn’t matter. Agnes suspected it wouldn’t be long before she would be able to rest as much as she wanted, for as long as she wanted.
A simple cotton nightgown floated around her ankles, and she had wrapped a pale grayish-purple shawl around her shoulders. Still, she felt the cold. Agnes wasn’t sure if it was the temperature in the air or something she sensed from the dream thief. Dream thieves had a way of
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