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flickering with candles. The sight of his fingers against her dark blue sweater injected a shot of adrenaline to Nathan’s system. When he reached Lillian, he would physically remove John LeClair from her life.
    “Thank you,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I’m fine.” He took a swig from the plastic cup, wincing at the taste of flat soda. He longed for a bottle of Grey Goose and a bucket of ice.
    Maybe it would help him sleep. How many days had it been? Two? Three? Before he received The Calling, he had been on a carving bender. At times, he couldn’t put down the hammer and chisel, working through the night and into the morning, stopping only for coffee and to trade a dull tooth chisel, which he used to refine the form and smooth the gouges left by the steel chisels he roughed out the basic shape with. When the muse struck, he cranked on his favorite heavy metal music and worked.
    His latest sculpture stood draped beneath a sheet in his workroom, and he still felt gritty with carving dust and the lack of a shower. His mental eye critiqued his completed work, recalling the twist and flow of granite made to look like cloth. The figure’s hands were upraised, cupping a puffy bird. Her head bowed over the creature, a long braid over one shoulder. He sucked in a sharp breath, mind racing over the granite carving. The stone mouth was full-lipped and slightly parted. He could nearly see that lower lip caught between square, white teeth. He had spent hours taking tiny, precise nicks out of the stone to create a pointed chin, high cheekbones and wide-set eyes. A broader forehead completed a heart-shaped face—the face of his heart.
    I’ve carved Lillian , he thought, dropping his head into his shaking hands. Through the keyhole of vision, he had never seen all of her features, but he knew in his gut that he had carved her likeness.
    He also knew she was in Seattle, and his flight was half a day behind hers. He burned to catch up to her. He was maddened by the shaking caused by The Calling, by the idea of her in another man’s arms, by following her blindly. If only there was a way to contact her, make her wait for him to catch up.
    He plugged his new earbuds into his ears, chose a playlist on his iPod and settled against the seat. The music brought to mind the weight of a one pound hammer in his grip—which he used to complete small details—and carving dust dancing in the air. Sometimes before sleep claimed him, Nathan sculpted in his mind. It was an artist’s way of counting sheep and a practice which calmed him. Here he could contemplate each cut and hammer blow. Often he would rise from his bed and go to his workroom, too inspired to rest.
    If he had tools at hand right now, what would he create? His day held more torment than he cared to recall. It was deep night, and he knew Lillian was in a Seattle hotel, tucked against John LeClair’s side. He struggled against the seething rage, some of which was directed at Lillian. Why had she Called to him, binding them across space and time while she was attached to another man?
    I’ll have her, he thought. After we’re bound, my blood will throb in her veins.The thought soothed him, and he forgot about John LeClair’s fingertips against Lillian’s spine and Robert Albright and the unsolved mystery of her disappearance. Even the mental carving stopped as Nathan gave himself up to sleep, content in the knowledge that he would be with his immortal mate within hours.

Chapter Six

    Seattle pulsed around Lillian. Sirens blared, a saxophone wailed and the streets crawled with people. She shrank into her thick sweater and stared at the mayhem. This adored city suddenly seemed too loud and raucous, leaving her raw all over.
    The fistfight at the airport had left a pall over her and John. They circled each other like silent moons, afraid that a single touch would cause an explosion. She knew she was at fault. For the past two days she had been enthralled with another man—two