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lead.”
    Mac always knew when a good story was close. When a reporter had dried blood on her clothes, it meant a very good story was close.
    “…three, two, one…”
    The camera lens fixed on her. Holly lifted her bruised chin. She could stil taste her own blood on her tongue. “I’m Holly Storm, coming to you live tonight with a plea for your help.”

    Niol stil ed in front of the television. The glass of water he’d been lifting to his mouth froze.
    Holly stared back at him. A long, angry red scratch slid down her cheek. The camera slowly pulled back, and Niol caught sight of her ful body. The ripped clothes. The blood.
    A slow fury began to burn within him.
    “Earlier today, I was the victim of a hit-and-run.”
    The glass shattered.
    “A white van, no plates, hit me on Biltmore Street just before twelve today.”

    Niol shook his hand, sending water and glass shards flying.
    “If anyone out there has information about this crime, cal the police station—”
    Niol grabbed the remote. Muted the sound. Stared at Holly.
    So weak.
    Biltmore Street. Home of hookers, drug dealers, and gang-bangers. What the hell had Holly been doing there?
    And what would he have done if she’d died there?
    Fuck.
    He reached across his desk. Picked up his phone. His call was answered on the second ring.
    “I want protection.” He didn’t bother identifying himself. Not necessary.
    A swift inhalation of air. “For yourself, sir?”
    He almost laughed. Almost, but he could still see the bruises on Holly’s skin. “For Holly Storm.”
    Niol had said that he’d leave her, that she’d be on her own.
    It looked like Holly wasn’t the only liar in town.
    Someone would fucking pay for hurting her.

    Sam Miters had been clean for exactly four weeks, two days, and sixteen hours.
    At first, he’d been counting the minutes. When little Holly Storm had held his hand in that shithole and watched him vomit his guts out, he’d counted the minutes then.
    The early days were a blur. He remembered coming to a few times and seeing her.
    Looking like some kind of avenging angel—an angel with the fires of hell around her head. Beautiful Holly Storm.
    She’d seen him through hell, all right. Offered him a second chance.
    But she didn’t know what his life was like. Didn’t understand.
    His gift…such as it was…let him see the darkness in humans. Only the darkness. He heard their painful dreams in whispers. Heard them long to kil . To torture.
    He never heard the whispers from the good people in the world. He’d never so much as caught a hint of Holly’s thoughts.
    It was the killers. The twisted souls lost long ago—they spoke to him.
    And they would never fucking shut up.

    Being clean just made their voices louder.
    One voice, one deep voice, had slipped into his head a few days ago and the damn voice had kept him awake since then, shuddering with disgust.
    The things the voice wanted—Sam choked, tasting bile. No, he couldn’t think of them.
    He’d tried to pretend the voice didn’t exist, that someone wasn’t out there, hunting—
    Then that kid had turned up dead.
    He rapped the back of his head into the brick wall of the alley. No, no, he couldn’t do this anymore, couldn’t—
    “I can make it stop.”
    His breath caught. Because, this time, the voice hadn’t come from inside him. He looked up, body shaking, and met the stare of a stranger.
    The man smiled. “Chased any dragons lately, friend?”
    Chasing the white dragon. Sam’s breath caught. Meth. Sweet white beauty. He shook his head even as his heart seemed to jump into his throat. He swallowed, trying to ease a mouth gone bone dry. He’d been so good. Stayed clean.
    For what? So that a fucking psycho could crawl into his head and he couldn’t get the bastard out?
    He kept hearing the words, over and over.
    Cut them. Slice them. Blood on the ground. The impure will die.
    Cut them. Slice them. Blood on the ground.
    “I’ve got something you might like.