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  He ignored all the warning signals, seizing her arm tight. “Juliana, you asked me what year it is. Why don’t you answer that question?”

  She shook her head slowly. “I find it difficult to say. Eighteen ninety-four, perhaps? Ninety-five?”

  He made the sound of a game-show buzzer. “Wrong. Now for the daily double.” He was being cruel but couldn’t seem to stop himself. “Juliana, are you alive?”

  “Aristos!” Cecilia leaped to her feet. “Watch yourself. Her soul’s peace could be at stake.”

  Ari barely heard the woman’s warning; he was too focused, too far gone. “Answer the question, Jules.”

  “I’m . . . not sure. I persist. I wait for you. . . .” Tears filled her eyes. “I always wait.”

  “You are dead. You’ve been dead for more than a hundred years. That’s your clue.”

  She worked a hand at her brow, appearing troubled, but said nothing.

  “What—you forgot?” he said loudly. “Gee, here you stand in someone else’s body, wearing clothes you’ve never seen before”—he reached in his back pocket and whipped out his cell phone, shoving it into her palm—“holding technology you never knew existed.” He hit his forehead with the heel of his palm. “But, yeah, I guess it really is good ole 1893—huh, Jules?”

  The phone fell from her grasp, clattering on the hardwood floor. She wavered on her feet, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Yes, yes, of course, you’re right.” She swiped at the dampness on her face, staring down at the carpet. “I know you’re right. I shouldn’t have become so carried away.”

  Ari nodded vigorously. “Damn straight, woman. Glad you’re catching on to current events. Next thing we know, you’ll be on Twitter.”

  “Twitter? Like a bird?” she asked in a soft voice. “Like a little bird?”

  The question killed him, nailed him right between the eyes. So did the rush of her tears. “No, Jules,” he murmured, ashamed. “Not like a bird.”

  He caught a glimpse of memory then, of her pure joy when a robin had made a nest outside her front door. She’d shown him, childlike wonder on her face and in her eyes as she’d leaned over the railing to watch.

  He reached for her cheek. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”

  Those tears kept washing over her face like a slow, depressing rain.

  And he felt just as depressed, like a real shit. What sort of man bullied a ghost to the point of tears?

  But she had always, always given as good as she got. She slapped his hand away, her voice stronger, her posture resolute. “You must have always hated me,” she declared harshly. “I must have completely misunderstood your feelings. You were certainly no little bird, were you?”

  His wings had been mammoth, dark, threatening. What must she have thought the moment she’d first glimpsed them?

  He took several steps back, smarting. “Oh, I think you understood my feelings very well—no wonder you ended things. And, hey, not like I can blame you.” He shrugged sarcastically. “I’ve always been a jackass, in love or out. Just ask any of my brothers.”

  “I never met your family. You told me nothing of them. Yes, surely I was deceived as to the depth of your affections.”

  River moved into his peripheral vision. Only then did Ari realize the erratic way he’d begun walking the floor, in a kind of zigzag, jerking pattern. River, on the other hand, hadn’t missed a thing. He stepped in front of Juliana, forming a barricade of sorts with his own broad-shouldered, sinewy form. Ari wondered whether his friend had begun to fear for Emma’s safety. “I’m okay. She’s okay,” he muttered.

  “It’s all my fault,” Juliana said, leaning around River. “I had thought you would be happy to see me once again after our long separation.”

  “Happy? Did death make you crazy, woman?” Ari jabbed a finger in the air. “I stayed behind. I had to mourn. Now I’m supposed to be thrilled that you’ve come popping back into my life like something from a bad episode of I Dream of Jeannie? Well, keep dreaming.” Then he growled in frustration, turning toward Cecilia. “Now do you understand why I kept ignoring your calls? This little reunion was never gonna go down well.”

  “I don’t understand,” Juliana argued, still leaning around River. “I would never have left you.”

  River lodged a palm on his shoulder. “Take it down a few notches,” he cautioned. “Come on, brother, ease off.”

  Ari nodded obligingly, dragging in deep breaths and releasing physical tension until River seemed satisfied and backed away. Then, turning to Juliana, Ari moved much closer. Until he could feel the heat radiating off her human body. See the lifting arch of her auburn eyebrows, the flecks of unexpected gold in her blue eyes, the occasional blond strands in her otherwise russet hair.

  “Well, Miss Juliana Tiades,” he said. “If you want to put a fine point on it, you left me by dying. You couldn’t get away fast enough once you saw what I was. I revolted you,” he told her in a seething voice.

  How dare she fucking forget the way they’d ended? How dare she not understand his pain?

  “No, sir. No, indeed. I always found you overwhelmingly handsome, more beautiful and fine than any other man in Savannah.” She smiled despite their angry exchange, as if their past was suddenly immediate, right before her eyes, no passage of time separating events. “The way you dressed, you were so proud. All the ladies watched you, and you knew it. You drank it in. But you only had eyes for me,” she added dreamily, looking up at him. “And I, sir, was most fully consumed by you.”

  “How can you not remember? Not our courting, not the parties. Not this room.” He waved a hand all about them, and then he slammed a fist against his chest. “But me. Juliana, you saw me.” In reaction, he felt an itchy, burning sensation crawl along his spine, the first prickle of feathers piercing his skin, and prayed he could stave off his transformation. “My . . . wings,” he gasped. “I allowed you to see my wings.”

  “Because you were an angel,” she murmured, eyes widening in memory; then that blush hit her cheeks again, a reaction he didn’t bother trying to understand. “So beautiful. So exotic. Oh, I wanted to touch your wings; that was my very first thought. ‘Will he let me touch them if I promise to be gentle?’ ”

  “You’re lying. The moment you saw my changed nature, you turned away.”

  She shook her head. “That’s not true! Something happened.” She pressed fingertips against her forehead. “Something . . . someone. I don’t know. Why can’t I recall what it was?”

  “I bet you’ll remember this.” He yanked her flush against his chest, lowering his head; he wanted to be cruel, wanted to force her to recall how she’d hurt him.

  He covered her mouth with his, thrusting his tongue past her lips aggressively. Punishing her for his own years of grief by taking something she wasn’t ready or able to give. He plunged his tongue deep into the warmth of her mouth, wrapping his arms about her back.

  He would teach her, show her all that he’d suffered. Only he’d forgotten the most crucial lesson of all: how just one kiss with Juliana Tiades could level him. The moment she wound her hands through his hair, opening her mouth completely to him, he knew that he was free-falling straight into hell.

  His hair was as silky and thick to the touch as she remembered—only he wore it longer and there was more of it to run her hands through. And Juliana could feel him, truly feel him; the warmth of his flesh, the heat of his skin.

  She was alive! She was actually in Aristos’s arms, touching him again after so long.

  She moved her fingertips across his jaw, stroking that familiar bristle of beard growth. His mouth tasted like fine red wine: She could get drunk on him, just as she always had. She moved in his embrace, slid closer, pressing her breasts against his muscular chest. Was it even broader, thicker than before? The strength of it caused a warm, tingling sensation between her legs, a feeling she’d not had in a long time. Dampness grew there the longer he kissed and held her.

  His hands were in her hair, too, wi
nding all through it. His tongue moved into her mouth, pushing against hers. Angry? No, needing. They had always needed each other; she had never stopped needing . . . this. She wrapped her arms about his neck, drawing him even closer.

  Ari’s tongue swirled deeper, teasing her, tempting her. She kept her eyes closed, lost in him. In the sensation of being alive. She had always believed he would come back for her, and maybe it had taken a few more years than she would have liked, but he finally had.

  She clung to Ari even harder, tears burning beneath her closed lids as he kissed her with increasing ardor, one hand sliding along her lower back, teasing. Seeking gifts she’d never given him in life.

  But this body wasn’t hers; the moment wasn’t real. A sob built inside her chest.

  She ran her hands across his shoulders, thrilling at the thick bands of muscle, powerful as always, as strong as oak. She’d always known this man would protect her from any destructive force, any soul that sought to harm her.

  In a last desperate surge, she deepened the kiss. Ari’s hands were all over her back, and he pinioned her even harder against his own body. Then, with a gasp, he tore his mouth away from hers, murmuring, “I always wanted to believe you were mine.”

  She felt his tears then, salty as she pressed her mouth closer, needing to kiss him again.

  She didn’t see the furious fist coming, not until it connected with Aristos’s jaw, knocking him back against the wall with a loud, snapping sound.

  “River!” She heard the word bubble past her own lips. “Stop it; that’s Ari you’re hitting.” Juliana touched her mouth, only to remember that it wasn’t hers at all, nor was the body. Nothing was real, not even those arousing, sensual kisses.

  Nothing was alive, or true, except one thing. Aristos—and her love for him. That had never ended, she thought, drifting out of Emma’s skin and up toward the ceiling.

  Weightless, nothing. She was nothing . . . but dead.

  Chapter 5

  For some reason, Ari thought vaguely, he was floating. One minute he’d been kissing Juliana; the next, everything had gone black. Now he seemed to be as unmoored from physical reality as Juliana had been.

  Where had the slamming pain in his head come from? He rubbed a hand across his aching jaw, unsure about the source of the godsforsaken pounding in his skull. Blinking slowly, he finally focused on a familiar, concerned face.

  Emma. Emma was leaning over him, looking into his eyes and stroking his hair. “He’s coming around,” she announced, appearing relieved.

  Someone had punched him, knocking his blasted head against the wall—hard. “Who clocked me?” Even talking was a problem, creating an answering swell of nausea in his belly.

  River appeared in his line of vision, kneeling beside Emma. “You were kissing her,” he explained guiltily. “What else was I supposed to do when my best pal had his tongue halfway down my wife’s throat?”

  Ari groaned, the room wavering like a gyroscope. “I wasn’t kissing Emma. I was holding Juliana.” He tried sitting up, but his pounding skull and the answering roll of nausea forced him back down.

  Thank God someone had thought to wedge a pillow beneath his throbbing head.

  He’d been kissing Juliana, and it had felt . . . disturbing. Arousing. As if time did not exist at all. Panicked, he glanced about the parlor for some sign of her, almost expecting to see her tall, willowy form looming over him.

  “Where is she? Where did Juliana go?” He gestured toward his chest. “I had her in my arms, damn it.”

  Emma continued stroking his hair very gently. “She was never here, sweetie. Not physically.”

  Ari sank deeper into the pillow with another groan. “I know, I know, but I need to apologize. I was such a nasty bastard. She’s got to be here still.”

  “I no longer sense her presence,” Cecilia answered, staring down at him sympathetically. “With a kiss like that, I’m amazed that you stayed away from here five minutes, much less two months. That was your proof.”

  “And you wondered why I slugged you?” River muttered.

  Ari looked up at Emma, who continued petting his hair in a soothing gesture. “Em, you knew the score, didn’t you? That I wasn’t really kissing you, right?”

  Emma’s blush told him everything; so did the way she glanced away, her hand pausing against his temple. “I . . . well, I was still in there,” she said. “It was my body, you know?”

  “I wouldn’t put the moves on my best pal’s wife.” He scrubbed a trembling hand over his eyes. “Wouldn’t do anything to hurt you, Em.”

  River folded his arms across his chest, unyielding. “From my position, can I just say that it appeared you wanted to swallow Emma whole?”

  “That wasn’t bloody well my fault, was it?” Ari shot back.

  “O-kay,” Emma said. “He’s speaking with a British accent now. That’s just . . . weird.”

  River turned to Emma. “We lived in the British Isles for years,” he explained, then bent lower, peering down into Ari’s face, concerned for real. “Seeing stars? Room spinning?”

  Ari studied the rotating ceiling, swallowing down the bile that filled his throat. “Vertigo. Really bad case of vertigo.”

  River sighed, and this time he was the one who began stroking Ari’s brow. “I’m sorry, buddy.”

  “For hitting me like I was a piñata?” Ari asked, vaguely aware that his words remained precise, accented as if he were a West Londoner.

  “No, Aristos.” River sighed again. “For giving you what appears to be a concussion.”

  Ari groaned as another wave of pain rolled from his skull to his stomach. “So fix it. Do your thing.” River had healed them all of stab wounds, sword slices, and even ingrown toenails. A concussion was small-time stuff for the man.

  River leaned back on his heels, shaking his head. “Definitely a concussion. You’ve forgotten that I can’t heal you anymore. I gave my power to you, remember?”

  Ari closed his eyes. “My best friend gave me a concussion, and I have no idea how to heal myself. Bloody brilliant.”

  Emma resumed stroking his hair, her gentle touch at least somewhat comforting. “Ari, do me a favor? Please use your normal Greek accent. The whole Brit thing is starting to wig me out. I need to know that you’re all right.”

  “This from a medium who just channeled a dead woman? You’re hardly a reliable judge of the bizarre.”

  “Ari, please,” Emma tried again. “Let us know that you don’t have some kind of serious head trauma. Okay? Talk like you.”

  Ari cleared his throat and tried to think like a Greek man. All that came out of his mouth, however, was a string of atrocious Greek curses, followed by the keen desire to punch his best friend in the nose. Retaliation, Spartan style.

  River placed a comforting hand on his chest, laughing. “Thanks, Petrakos,” he said. “There are times I’d like to do the same to you myself.”

  To that smart reply, Ari only cursed more rudely, calling River every profane name in his ancient Greek dictionary. Ari noticed something then, a nifty little fact that hit his awareness on a twenty-second delay. Emma’s eyes had grown surprisingly wide, as if she actually understood his foul accusations.

  Ari sat up, swatting at the stars that swam in front of his eyes. “What?”

  “I guess you’ve forgotten that River’s been teaching me Greek.”

  River grinned. “It’s fun to coach her on the nasty bits.”

  “Fucking awesome,” Ari said, sliding back down onto the pillow.

  “Maybe Sophie can help him,” River volunteered.

  “Yeah, she fixed Sable,” he groaned. “She got rid of those spikes . . . the ones Ares put on his body.”

  “Not all of them,” Emma corrected. “And she hasn’t figured out how to use the ability again.”

  “Get . . . me . . . Sophie,” Ari ground out. “And some ibuprofen. Stat.”

  Juliana blew down the street, struggling to gain some kind of physical anchor. One moment, she�
��d been rooted inside of Emma; the next, that fist had knocked into Aristos—and she’d been released, unable to remain inside the woman. She’d been discharged against the walls of her own brownstone like inhuman scattershot.

  She’d hurled through the air and dimensions, nearly landing on the sidewalk outside, but then the wind had gusted, catching her in its tumbleweed hold. Until the low branch of a live oak had snagged her ghostly hair, capturing her like a wayward butterfly. Hers was an in-between state, not quite physical, not fully spiritual—enough that a low-borne tree could trap her, even though she wasn’t visible to passing mortals.

  She clung to that branch, which was like a protector, resisting the wind’s force lest she end up blocks away from home. She had no idea how long she’d been tangled up in the limb’s fragile grasp, and kept praying that she hadn’t lost her own hold. The one she had over Aristos, her true love.

  And still that wind blew, thrashing her thin essence, beating her against the trunk of the old live oak.

  She hated stormy nights; they brought back painful emotions. A night like this one had spelled the end of her relationship with Aristos, but she could never seem to re-create the details, only the physical sensation of the wind. And that heavy, crashing water, waves upon waves of it.

  Ari obviously knew she was dead—he’d proclaimed as much. Why was it that she so often forgot the fact? Perhaps because she did not want to accept that fate, but even so, her mind and memories fluctuated. Sometimes, as she stared about Savannah, she knew this was not her own time. The physical proof assaulted her undeniably: the very fast carriages, lit by the odd lanterns at night. The hard, darkly paved streets. The women hurrying past without proper escorts, never seeing her and dressed as Emma had been tonight, in men’s attire.

  Other times, she saw nothing, lost only in a circular maze of memory, reliving her final moments with Aristos. How could he believe that she would ever, in any lifetime or place, have left him willingly?