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Milltown, South Carolina, sixteen years later

The vision rolled over Nick Wyatt like a lush, erotic storm—the richly feminine scent of a woman, the intoxicating taste of an eager mouth, the feel of rose-petal skin, delicate over long, firm muscle. He did not know her, had never met her, yet the vision branded her on his consciousness with white-hot reality. His body leaped for hers, hardened in a burning rush.

Lips like distilled sin curled into a hot smile that flashed in his mind. Her eyes blazed at him through the darkness, feral scarlet light behind the fall of her fiery hair.

She is not human.

His mind whispered it at him, the warning almost enough to chill his heat. Almost.

Then he saw the curving line from breast to hip, the sweep of long leg, the feline shift of weight as she moved. And the heat rose again. His cock lengthened, stretching, aching, as his balls tightened between his thighs. In that moment, he didn’t care whether she was human or not.

Her hair fell back, revealing her features, and he saw her clearly for the first time. An intricate tattoo in shades of red and blue curled along one side of her face.

He knew her after all. Hell, he’d never been able to forget her.

It was the girl. The girl he’d last seen when she was the twelve-year-old prisoner of a murderous alien. But like him, she was no child now.

He’d found her again.

Nick snapped out of the vision with a jerk, his body stiffening, his heart banging furiously. There was something cold and heavy in his hand. He looked down and saw the Glock. He’d been cleaning the big automatic when the vision hit. Feeling clumsy, disconnected, he put the .45 aside on the end table, barely noticing the stiff wire brush that fell from the fingers of his other hand. The air smelled of gun oil and the ghostly memory of her scent.

The Stone cast a soft green glow that danced around the room as he reeled to his feet. Its power heated the intricate silver setting that clasped his biceps like a hand. The heavily engraved metal felt almost hot enough to burn.

Definitely a vision then, not just a horny dream born of celibacy.

Sweat rolled down his naked torso into the waistband of his worn jeans as he padded barefoot across the little apartment. He heaved the window open despite the shriek of glass and the protesting creak of wood. His landlord had painted it shut. With his strength, Nick had scarcely noticed the resistance as paint ripped free.

He let his damp shoulder thump against the frame of the window as he stared out into the night, heart pounding. The headlights of passing cars swept past the apartment complex. Normal people, heading home to normal lives, never knowing what lay just beyond the edges of their worlds.

Here be monsters.

Nick knew all about monsters.

A welcome breeze poured into the room past the dingy curtains, drying the sweat that dewed his massive shoulders, the thick slabs of pecs and abdominals. The cool kiss of it drew his attention downward to his zipper, lying in an uncomfortable ridge over his aching erection.

Hunger growled through his blood, demanding release, ancient and animal. Shuddering at the touch on sensitized skin, Nick unzipped his jeans. His cock leaped out into his hand, hard and heavy.

Clenching his teeth on a rumble of hoarse need, he began to stroke the thick shaft.

Whether she’d be his destruction or his salvation, the girl—woman now—was coming. The only question was when she’d arrive.

He wished he could ask the Stone, but it no longer spoke to him with anything but visions and flashes of intuition. He suspected it had only spoken to him when he was a boy because it had known how close he was to ending his own life.

But now she was coming. At last.

He couldn’t wait.

The planet Xer, in the future

Ivar Terje strutted along the Cathedral Fortress’s dark corridors, pretending to ignore the Xerans’ contemptuous glances at his hornless head. They made a big deal out of the horns they all wore; the pattern and shape and engraving translated into social status and religious accomplishment.

Which Ivar didn’t have.

He ground his teeth in irritation. He’d sacrificed for these bastards, betrayed his own people to help the Xerans achieve their goals. You’d think that would earn him a little respect.

Now he’d been summoned like an errand boy. They’d even sent a cadre of guards to get him. All six strode along around him, impassive in their gaudy black and red armor.

Maybe they were going to give him another mission. He’d been cooling his heels here for two weeks, ever since they’d broken him out of the Outpost brig. He wanted off this planet of horned religious lunatics. Wanted it almost as much as he craved revenge on the Enforcers he’d once served beside.

Sanctimonious bastards. Especially Chief Alerio Dyami, who’d dared to lock him in that brig. Ivar was going to kill that son of a bitch first. Especially since Dyami was probably banging Ivar’s ex-lover, Dona. The two had been rutting after each other for years. They just hadn’t known Ivar knew it. But then, they hadn’t known shit, not about his treason, not about anything. Until he’d damn near beaten Dona to death a couple of weeks ago.

It hadn’t even been difficult to fool them all, because Ivar was very, very good at what he did. Anything he did. A neuronet computer wound through his cyborg brain, enhancing his reaction time just as countless nanobots reinforced every muscle fiber and bone cell in his cyborg body. All of which gave him enough strength to make him more than a match for even a Warlord like Dyami. He was looking forward to proving it by beating the fucker’s face in.

He was still smiling at the thought of Dyami’s bloody death when the guards escorted him into a room so cavernous, their armored footsteps echoed. There were no seats anywhere in the vast stone chamber—just black columns and red silk hangings. No windows either. Instead, the walls were inset with stone niches in which stood statues of people writhing in pain or ecstacy—could be both, knowing the Xerans.

Sick fucks.

One statue drew his attention: a shimmering figure of a huge man, apparently solid gold. One big foot was planted on the neck of a cowering figure who was obviously a Vardonese Warlord, judging by the long, beaded hair. Ivar grinned, reminded of Chief Dyami.

The Xerans had invaded Vardon forty years ago or so, occupying the planet for five years until the Warlords drove them off with a vicious guerrilla war. It was the first major defeat Xer had ever suffered.

Ivar wondered if the statue was supposed to represent history—or future intention. Probably the latter; the Xer still held a grudge against their Warlord enemies. They fully intended to retake Vardon and kill every last warrior.

He thoroughly approved.

When they reached the front of the room, the leader of the guards rounded on him. “On your knees! Now! He comes!”

He bristled at the command, but the guards were already kneeling, their armored shins ringing on the stone. Ivar shrugged and knelt.

On cue, sound roared over them—something somewhere between booming thunder and music, so deafening it made Ivar’s skull ring and his breastbone vibrate. Light poured from the dais at the front of the room, a searing illumination that stabbed his eyes and blinded him. For a moment he could see nothing, hear nothing.

“This is the tool thou hast brought for Me?” The voice rolled out of the glare, silken and deep, like the echo of distant thunder. Whoever it was spoke the Xeran Priest Tongue, with its elaborate syntax and rolling syllables.

“Aye, Most Glorious,” said the guard beside him.

But . . . Tool? He was no one’s tool.

He lifted his head and squinted. Something huge and glowing was moving toward them. Blinking his watering, aching eyes, Ivar managed to make out what it was.

The blazing figure was nearly three meters tall and humanoid in shape, despite the light pouring from its massive body. As he struggled to make out the details, the glow dimmed a little, until it was less like staring directly into a star.

The figure was naked—and was definitely a “he.” His sex hung thick and pendulous between brawny thighs as he stepped down off the dais and moved toward them. His body was powerful, so massively built it had to be genetically engineered. His face appeared human, with a broad jaw, nose a long, aquiline swoop, mouth wide but thin-lipped over a square chin. His smooth, bald head was crowned with horns—the primary set jutting from his temples, wickedly sharp, thick, curving upward like a bull’s, spreading out almost the width of immense shoulders; a central spiral horn thrust from his forehead. Unlike the ones everybody else had, they didn’t seem to be implants.

A big hand slammed against the back of Ivar’s head, knocking him flat on his face. “Eyes down!” the guard hissed. “You are not worthy to look upon the face of the god!”

Normally he’d have hit the fucker back, but he was too stunned. The Victor. That’s supposed to be the Victor! He’d seen intelligence reports that the Xerans’ god was a living being, but he’d never really believed them.

Surprising that a supposedly advanced, sophisticated people were taken in by a little glow and surgery. He’d seen better effects in a triddie.

Naked, shining feet stopped before his eyes. Heat rolled from them in waves he could almost see. “So thou art the traitor.”

Stung, Ivar started to rear up. Before he could rise, a massive hand closed over the back of his neck, lifted him effortlessly off the ground, and held him dangling like a puppy. The heat of those huge fingers seared his skin, but he refused to let the pain show on his face.

The Victor studied him. In contrast to the rest of that glowing face, his eyes were solid ovals of black, with no whites at all. Pinpoints of light swirled in them.

Ivar curled his lip. “Are those supposed to be stars?”

The Victor didn’t even dignify that sneer with an answer, instead looking down at his guards, who still knelt, heads deeply bowed. “I have pinpointed the Demon’s location. Police records of the time reveal he saved some female from an attacker again.” He smirked, an oddly human expression. “One would think he would learn. See to setting our trap.”

The chief guard bowed until his forehead touched the floor. “As Thou will, Most Glorious.”

“As for you . . .” The Victor turned his attention fully on Ivar. Yeah, there were stars in those eyes. Stars, nebulae. An infinite darkness, cold and inhuman.

And insane. There was nothing at all sane in the Victor’s eyes.

Suddenly all of this was a hell of a lot less funny.

“Now,” the Victor said, “we shall attend to thee. Thou must have more power, if thou wouldst go against the Demon.” He cocked his horned head, considering Ivar with chilling attention. “Thy computer system may be improved, I think. And the cybernetic enhancements thou art so proud of—they can be made more efficient to add to thy strength and speed.”

Still holding him by the scruff of the neck, the Victor reached for him with the other hand. Ivar flinched, tried to strike out with fists and feet.

He couldn’t move. The bastard had paralyzed him.

A massive finger seared the exact center of his forehead. Something pooled on his flesh like lava, seeped inside, and began to eat its way into his skull.

The pain made him want to shriek. He clenched his teeth, damned if he’d scream for this arrogant fucker.

“Pride.” The Victor smiled, cold and slight. “I do enjoy breaking the pride of my toys.”

The “god” took his finger away and dropped Ivar on the floor. He tried to catch himself, but his body still wouldn’t obey. He collapsed in a heap, the horrific burn spreading. He fought not to writhe, but each beat of his heart sent waves of acid eating through bone and blood and muscle.

Finally, unable to hold the sound back anymore, Ivar began to scream.

He had no idea how much time went by as he roasted, howling his throat raw, in that pit of agony. Minutes, hours, days—it scarcely mattered. But finally the pain bled away, and he could see again.

He flinched like a whipped dog when he registered the glowing face looming over his.

“Now,” the Victor said, crouching beside him, “let Me tell thee thy part.”