In a scrabbling of claws on stone and with a bone-chilling howl, it attacked. Feeders converged in its wake, leaping and darting through the shadows in a wave of yellow eyes. Nest had only a moment to react, and she did so. She locked eyes with the demon and threw out the magic she had been born with, her legacy from the Freemark women, thinking to stun it, to throw it off stride, to cause it to falter. She need only delay it long enough for John Ross to reach her. He would be coming; the demon was clearly in flight from him. A few moments was all she needed, and her magic would give her that. She had used it on Simon Lawrence and the security guards at the museum not two hours earlier. It was an old and familiar companion, and she could feel its presence stir deep inside even before she called it forth.

Even so, she wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

The magic she had called upon did not respond.

Another magic did.

It came from the same place as the magic she had been born to, from inside, where her soul resided in a conjoining of heart and mind and body. It exploded out of her in a rush of dark energy, taking its own distinctive form, unleashed by instincts that demanded she survive at any cost. Its power was raw and terrifying, and she could not control it. It did not release from her as she had expected, but swept her along, borne within its storm-racked center, and it was as if she were caught inside a whirlwind.

She was seeing the demon now through darker, more primitive eyes, and she realized suddenly, shockingly, that those eyes belonged to Wraith. She was trapped inside the ghost wolf. She had become a part of him.

Then she was hurtling into the demon, with no time left to think. Claws and teeth ripped and tore, and snarls filled the air, and she was fighting the demon as if become Wraith, herself grown massive through the shoulders and torso, rough-coated with fur, gimlet-eyed and lupine.

Back against the rocks she drove the demon, steeped in the ghost wolf’s strength and swift reactions. The demon twisted and fought, intertwined so closely with her she could feel the bunching of its muscles and hear the hissing of its breath. The demon tried to gain a grip on her throat, failed, and leaped away. She gave pursuit, a red veil of hot rage and killing need blinding her to everything else. They rolled and tumbled through the wrought-iron furniture, against the maze of rocks and fountains, and she no longer thought to wonder what was happening or why, but only to gain an advantage over a foe she knew she must destroy.

Perhaps she would have succeeded. Perhaps she would have prevailed. But then she heard her name called. A sharp cry, it was filled with despair and anguish.