Page 62 of Poison Sun

“Did he touch you?” he asks. “Did he…”

“Feed from me?” I ask, and he nods. “No. He almost did, but then you were there, and then…”

I don’t have to complete the sentence. We both know what happened after that.

Relief washes over me at the fact that he didn’t hear what the shadow soul said to me.

At the same time, part of me wonders if I should say something. After all, I promised to be transparent with him. But something about that message, combined with my dreams about the Shadow Lord, makes me hold back.

I don’t want Damien to know about the Shadow Lord’s appearances in my dreams.

It’s too personal. Too intimate.

Especially because I’m starting to wonder if they’re truly just dreams.

And the last thing I want is for the man I think I’m falling in love with to know I’m having sensual dreams about our enemy.

Morgan

I’m not sure what I expected from the Valley of the Vanished, but after a few hours of hiking, it doesn’t feel that different from what I imagined a trek through the Alps might entail. Sure, there are the occasional cries of creatures hidden in the distance, but they could just be regular animals, right?

If they’re not, I hope they’re ready to burn.

And, given that night is quickly approaching, I hope they’re not simply waiting to show themselves until it’s dark.

“We need to get as far as possible while we can,” I say, walking faster. “We’ll set up camp after the sun sets.”

Blaze matches my pace, and he keeps watching me, studying me.

“What?” I finally ask.

“Speaking of the sun, we’ve talked about everything under the sun today except for you,” he says. “So, who is Morgan Hawthorne, really?”

I turn all my focus to the compass in my hand, as if it’s suddenly going to change its mind about which way is southeast.

I need to redirect the conversation away from myself, like I’ve been doing all afternoon.

“I guess I’m just not all that interesting,” I say with a shrug. “I like reading. Not just about history, but fiction, too. I like practicing using my magic. I play piano, but not nearly as well as my sister, Willow. I’m decent at cooking, but still have a lot to learn when it comes to baking.”

“And for work?” he asks.

“My sisters and I run an online business,” I say. “Selling homemade jewelry and stuff.”

“And stuff?” he repeats, laughing a bit.

“Candles. Soaps. Etcetera.”

His laughter fades into a more contemplative look, his eyes still fixed on me as we walk, as if trying to decipher an unsolved puzzle.

“What?” I finally ask, unable to hide my annoyance.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” he says. “Everyone has a story—a past that shapes them. What’s yours?”

I’m a blood witch. Just like you.

The words are on the tip of my tongue. Maybe I should just tell him. After all, he saved me back on that bridge. Near-death experiences change people. They bond you with the ones who were by your side when it happened. I’ve watched enough episodes of Walking Dead to know that.

Those who fight zombies together stay together.

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