Tarian drove his maroon 1972 E-Type Jaguar down the PCH, the ocean glittering to his right. Free at last after eight centuries of torment, he could finally do what he’d only dared dream of: search for Seris.
She was alive.
He knew it.
The knowledge thrummed in his chest. He couldn’t explain it to anyone else, but the same bond he’d created all those centuries ago still tied him to her—fragile yet unbreakable.
Because…he had done this to her.
She’d been human, bright and fleeting like the firelight she’d loved to watch with him in the cold nights of their Realm. But he hadn’t been able to accept her mortality, hadn’t been able to watch her age and fade while he, as a dragon-shifter, lived on. He’d become obsessed with saving her, and he knew he’d managed it.
Except for the fact that the magic he’d used was so taboo he couldn’t tell anyone else what he’d done.
Not even her.
And then when Seris had “died” and he knew in his very soul that she had not—taken from him, yes, but dead? No!—everyone else assumed he’d gone insane.
He couldn’t find her then, but he knew his magic had worked, and so he’d gone to the Sirens for answers, and been locked in with them and their shrieking shadows for what felt like an eternity—eight hundred years—until his brother saved him.
And now, in this unfamiliar Realm, he felt her again.
His Seris was here.
Somewhere.
He pulled to the side of the road, ignoring the impatient honks of passing cars. His spell stirred beneath his skin, covered as it was in Siren-given scars, and he fed it power like one might feed a fire, hoping it would burn away the darkness.
The loneliness.
The vast horror of even contemplating a life without her.
And then he felt it again.
His breath hitched and his chest ached as he yanked the car back onto the road, the tires screeching as he turned sharply onto a narrow side road.
This time, nothing would stop him. Not the Sirens. Not his guilt. Not the forces that had stolen her away.
If Seris hated him for what he’d done, he would bear it.
But he would find her.
