“What should I call you? Trueborn?”

“How about your worst nightmare?”

“How about no? Because that would be a lie, darlin’. In reality, I’m your worst nightmare.”

I was suddenly released, and I staggered forward before catching myself. My grace flared from my palm, the handle forming as my fingers curled around the weight. Flames licked down the length of the blade, spilling a golden glow into the tunnel.

I saw enough of him.

Standing across from me, dressed in all black, hair so blond it appeared white and skin an alabaster shade that was near translucent. There was just a glimpse of his face, but I saw that his features were all perfect angles, although the sardonic twist to his lips turned the asymmetric beauty into something far too cruel and cold, like a young man carved from ice and snow.

The Sword of Michael spit fire as I lifted it high, more than prepared to end his life without hesitation.

“Cool toy,” he quipped, extending his right arm. “I got one myself.”

The shock of what I saw caused me to lose control of my grace. It pulsed brightly and then exploded into sparking ash.

“Impossible,” I whispered.

Golden light tinged in blue had powered down his arm, taking the shape of a long, narrow spear of fire.

Grace. He had a grace.

“Does this look impossible to you?” he asked, his tone almost teasing. “You thought you were the only one, didn’t you? Your shock is damn near palpable.” He made that tsking sound again, and then his grace retracted, throwing the tunnel into darkness once more. “Darlin’, there’s a lot you don’t know.”

The rush of air was the only warning before his hands clapped down on either side of my head. “But you’ll learn soon enough.”

There was no time to brace or prepare. Shocking pain exploded along the back of my skull as my head slammed into the wall, and then there was nothing.

Nothing at all.

A soft, warm touch to my cheek led me out of the darkness. I came to, gasping for air in a brightly lit room that hurt my eyes. I started to sit up, blinking the burn from my eyes until buttery-yellow walls with dark molding came into view.

“Trin.” Zayne was suddenly there, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. “You need to lie still. Jasmine will be back soon.”

I went to speak, but my tongue felt heavy and woolly as he eased me back down on a thick pad or pillow.

“Please just keep still,” he said.

Zayne’s features were a little blurry as my eyes worked to adjust to the brightness. Damp strands of hair clung to pale cheeks, and the shirt he’d worn was shredded and hanging from his shoulders. He’d shifted at some point into his true form and his pupils were still stretched vertically.

“Where...?” The back of my head throbbed, causing me to draw in a shallow breath. “Where am I?”