Hand clutching my hair, I scrambled to my feet. “Stop it! Just stop it!” I shouted, alternating my attention between his glee and the chunk he had cut from my hair. Damn it, it was at least four inches long. “Do you know how long it takes to grow my hair out!”

Al gave Ceri a sidelong glance as the scissors disappeared and he dropped my hair into the potion. “She’s worried about her hair?”

My gaze shot to the red strands floating on top of Al’s brew, and as I stood there in my soggy sweater, I went cold. That vat of potion wasn’t for Al to give me more of his aura. It was for me giving him mine. “Oh, hell no!” I exclaimed, backing up. “I’m not giving you my aura!”

Al plucked a ceramic spoon from the rack hanging over the center island counter and pushed the strands of hair down. He had a refined elegance in his velvet and lace, every inch of him as trim and debonair as inhumanly possible. “Is that a refusal, Rachel?” he murmured. “Please tell me it was?”

“No,” I whispered. There was nothing I could do. Nothing.

His smile went wider. “Now your blood to quicken it, love.”

Pulse pounding, I looked from the needle between his finger and thumb to the vat. If I ran, I was his. If I did this, he could use me through the lines. Damn, damn, and double damn.

Numbing my thoughts, I took the tarnished silver needle. My mouth went dry as its heavy weight filled my grip. It was as long as my palm and elaborately tooled. The tip was copper so the silver wouldn’t interfere with the charm. Peering closer, I felt my stomach turn. There was a naked twisted body writhing around the barrel. “God save me,” I whispered.

“He’s not listening. He’s too busy.”

I stiffened. Al had come up behind me and was whispering in my ear.

“Finish the potion, Rachel.” His breath was hot on my cheek, and I couldn’t move as he pulled my hair back. A shudder rippled through me as he tilted his head and bent closer. “Finish it …” he breathed, his lips brushing my skin. I could smell starch and lavender.

Teeth gritted, I gripped the needle and stabbed it into me. My held breath came out, and I held it again. I thought I heard Ceri crying.

“Three drops,” Al whispered, nuzzling my neck.

My head hurt. Blood pounding, I held my finger over the vat and massaged three drops into it. The scent of redwood rose, briefly overpowering the cloying stench of burnt amber.

“Mmmm, richer.” His hand wrapped around mine, taking the needle back. It vanished in a smear of ever-after, and his grip shifted to my bleeding finger. “Give me a taste?”

I jerked back as far from him as I could, my arm stretched out between us. “No.”

“Leave her alone!” Ceri pleaded.

Slowly Al’s grip loosened. He watched me, a new tension rising in him.