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“You trapped him.” His skin was even tighter across his face, his eyes sunken. “You sent him back!”
    “I know.” A hundred and fifty years of sensitivity training had made Nigel able to admit when he’d screwed up. He had no clue how that could have happened, but it had. He swore and slammed his fist into the wall. “She had to have tainted the paper. Or the markers. Or maybe it was my healing.” Christian had nearly been broken when he’d been yanked back. Not another one. Not Pascal. “I’m going in after him.”
    “You can’t go in there by yourself.” Christian gripped Pascal’s footboard, his skin undulating with metal as Christian fought to keep control. “I’m going with you.” There was agony, fury, fire, and a deep, deep terror on Christian’s face. What could bring that level of fear to a man so immortal and so fierce that even the demons ran from him?
    “No. You can’t go back in.” Nigel knew Christian was in bad shape. No way could he ask his teammate to return to the Den. It was too much, too soon. “It’s my responsibility.” Hell, yeah, it was his responsibility. He’d committed one of their own back to hell. Shit! His job was to take care of everyone, not bring them down!
    Christian shook his head. “Blaine and Jarvis won’t be back from their cruise for two weeks. You need backup, and I’m going in with you. We’re getting him back.”
    “I can handle it.” Nigel grabbed a Sharpie and a paper off the table and began to sketch Christian’s torment. He was so pissed and frustrated he couldn’t focus. Two minutes with the pen and he’d be able to create a strategy.
    “What are you doing?” Christian demanded.
    “I’m drawing. Need to clear my head.” He added the lines of strain around his teammate’s mouth—
    “Stop!” Christian ripped the sketchpad out of his hand. “I won’t let you send me back to the Den, too. Draw something else.” The tip of Christian’s sword touched his jaw. “Not me.”
    Nigel stared at Christian. “You think I drew him back into the Den.”
    “Yeah, I do.”
    Shit. Was that possible? Of course it was. Better not to take the chance. They all knew what Mari would do to have another chance at Christian. “Yeah, okay. I’ll draw something else.” Natalie’s face flashed in his mind and he smiled. Oh, yes, he knew who to draw. The delicate visage of a woman with haunted green eyes, living with a fear so deep she didn’t sleep. The passion in her eyes, the sensual way her body moved when she was doing something as simple as getting milk out of the fridge.
    A sense of peace settled over him as he began to sketch. That delicate upturned nose, those full lips—
    “Look at what you’re drawing,” Christian said quietly.
    Nigel saw that he’d drawn Christian’s face again. Not Natalie. “What the hell?” He flipped the page again, his soul getting restless. He needed to draw to pull himself together. He envisioned Natalie’s lovely energy, the sparkle in her eye when she’d been in the moment of joy, the anguish in her face when she realized she was dying. The flush of her cheeks, the way she would watch him across the room, so aware of his every move—
    Christian ripped the paper out of his hand. “Look.”
    He’d drawn Christian again. “Son of a bitch.”
    “Mari wants me, and somehow she’s compelling you to draw me, just like she did with Pascal.”
    Draw Christian.
    It was the same voice in his head as before.
    Holy shit. Christian was right. Mari was manipulating his drawing. He had to stop. But even as he thought it, a burning need seared through him at the thought of not drawing. It was his salvation. It was how he cleared his mind enough to go into battle. It was how he summoned his healing arts. He needed a clear mind to rescue Pascal, and he wouldn’t get there without his art. It was exactly as Natalie had said, that his art was a part of his soul.
    But she had no idea how truly important it was. He