“Hello?” She shouldn’t be here. She should turn around, wrench open the door, and never come back into the forbidden chamber again. But something drew her toward him. Maybe it was his thrilling masculine allure, or maybe it was simple compassion. What if he needed her help?

She stared at the stranger’s chest. It neither rose nor fell, and the only sounds of breathing were her own anxious breaths. “Who are you?” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

Muscular arms lay crossed on his chest, and his feet were bare. He looked like an effigy carved on a medieval tomb. He wore dark jeans and a grey t-shirt. Thin iron chains snaked around his body. When she looked closer, she could see tendrils of dark air curling off him, like black smoke.

What the hell is that?

If he was dangerous, at least he was bound, but she still clutched the dagger in case he sprang to life, desperate for her blood.

Slowly, she reached for his wrist, tracing her fingers over his warm skin. As soon as she touched him, something sparked like an electrical charge. It coursed through her body—a thrilling vibration of dark and ancient power.

She exhaled, trying to focus. Definitely a magical creature. She touched his wrist again, trying to ignore that rush of magical energy. The man had no actual pulse.

You don’t feel dead, but you don’t breathe, and your heart doesn’t beat.

Her mind turned over the possibilities. He could be a fresh corpse that Kester had stored after a recent kill—but the warmth of his skin and that energy that radiated from him seemed so alive. Plus, there was a certain tautness to his muscles, a look of composure in his perfect face.

Perhaps he was a vampire? Heartless, strong, and gorgeous. With the way things were going, vampirism didn’t seem like such a stretch, but it was the middle of the night, and weren’t vampires nocturnal? Maybe he’d been subdued with some sort of sleeping spell, and he wouldn’t awake until the right person kissed him. Tempting, but if the corpse scenario turned out to be accurate, there wouldn’t be enough soap in the world to clean off her mouth.

She took another step closer, studying the man. With a burst of horror, she realized the crimson wasn’t the color of the bedspread beneath him. Her heart threatened to gallop out of her chest.

It was blood. Gallons of dried blood.

Ursula leapt back from the bed, almost tripping on the rug. The blood stained the sheets in a crimson halo. She scanned the body for wounds, but whatever had injured him had left no visible mark. Something very bad had happened to the stranger, but she didn’t know what. Maybe the Headsman had murdered him.

A terrifying reality settled over her like a burial shroud: she was in way over her head.