After his pulse settled and his breathing returned to normal, Quentin stood up and stalked around to the porch. His anger was simmering just below the surface, partly at Farnsworth for running out before they could figure out their next steps, and partly at himself for behaving like an entitled asshole.

Grandmother would have my guts for her viola strings. Pauline Bertrand-Harrington was a firm believer in maintaining the social hierarchy, but she was also a stickler for proper etiquette. And Quentin shouldn’t have allowed his own panic to goad him into being rude—or rather, downright nasty—to Farnsworth. He might be an unsophisticated, unconnected bear shifter, but he seemed like a reasonably nice man. Like any decent person, he deserved no less than common courtesy and consideration, and certainly didn’t deserve to have his unexpected husband kill him with sex.

However, a generous part of Quentin’s anger was directed at Supernatural Selection. How the devil had they made such an enormous mistake? The error was theirs, so remediation should be theirs as well, or Quentin’s lawyers would have a bloody field day.

Except I can’t tell the lawyers where I am yet. They’d tell Grandmother, and she’d use this to push through her own agenda. The whole point of Quentin’s decision to use Supernatural Selection was to avoid that agenda. He was a three-hundred-year-old incubus. Surely he could figure this out on his own.

First, he’d contact Supernatural Selection, demand that they send the driver back to pick him up and take him to a cushy hotel in downtown Portland at their expense. Then he’d figure out his next move far, far away from the temptation of Ted Farnsworth’s ridiculously large body.

He dug his cell phone out of his bag and peered at the screen in the failing light. The battery had a seventy-five percent charge—which was good—but he had no bars, of course. He climbed down off the porch and eyed the roof. He’d been on the suppressant for so long that his wings had drawn back into his body, possibly never to see the light of day again. They’d probably atrophied by now—he hadn’t used them since 1973, when he’d flown Rory to the supe ICU. And considering his weakened physical state, he could hardly climb up. He flexed his hands, but his claws didn’t extend. Just as he thought—useless.

He quartered the meadow and skirted the lake shore, angling his phone toward a gap in the mountains and finally, finally managed to pick up a signal.

Over the last two weeks, he’d spoken to the Supernatural Selection staff enough that the office was at the top of his contact favorites. He started a FaceTime session—he needed to be able to look the counselor in the eye, to make certain they knew exactly how they’d fucked up.

The call connected, but the person on the other end wasn’t anyone Quentin recognized: a young-appearing man with dark curly hair, round spectacles, and a vague air of desperation. That’s about to get worse, my friend.

“Supernatural Selection, this is Zeke. How may I help you, Mr.”—his eyes flicked down to the bottom of his screen—“Bertrand-Harrington? Didn’t our driver pick you up in a timely fashion?”

“Yes. That’s not why I’m calling. Who was responsible for preparing my final marriage contracts?”

“Um . . . that would be me. I prepare all the contracts.”

Quentin narrowed his eyes. “Indeed. In that case, would you mind telling me how, instead of being married to vampire Casimir Moreau, I find myself mated to bear shifter Ted Farnsworth?”

Zeke blinked rapidly, gold flashing in his dark eyes. “Ted— But that’s impossible. Mr. Farnsworth is to be married to Mr. Johnson. Mr. Farnsworth signed his contract yesterday evening, although Mr. Johnson had to delay until next week.”

“Check your copies please. I’ll hold.”

Zeke nodded, his curls bobbing wildly, and Quentin caught the telltale glint of a vision spell overlaying his glasses. A demon? Outside of Sheol? How—

Zeke looked up at someone out of sight of the call. “Could you please pull the contracts for Farnsworth–Johnson and Moreau–Bertrand-Harrington?” He smiled uncertainly at the screen. “It will be just a moment. The AI is collecting the documents for me.”

“AI?” Quentin pushed his demon logistics questions aside for the moment. “You have an angel interface—and they deign to work with a demon? In a matchmaking agency?”

Zeke licked his lips, darting a glance to the side where apparently the AI lurked. “It’s a . . . requirement of the Sheol work-release program. No demon can remain in the Upper World without guaranteed employment and an AI observer.”

“In that case, how the devil could such an error occur? Aren’t AIs there to ensure that protocol is followed to the letter? They’re doubly vigilant with demons, so I can’t imagine one allowing you to cut any corners.”

Zeke flinched. “No, of course not, but I checked those contracts myself thrice, as required. They were perfectly executed.”

“Check. Again,” Quentin said through clenched teeth.

Zeke extended his hand above the screen and retrieved a sheaf of paper. “Thank you, AI.” He set the papers in front of him, separating them into two piles. “Here’s your contract, Mr. Bertrand-Harrington, and as I expect, it says here that you’re . . . Wait . . . that can’t be.”

“Let me guess. My ‘party of the second part’ is Ted Farnsworth.”

“Yes, but there’s no way that could have happened. Your match and Mr. Farnsworth’s match didn’t overlap in any way whatsoever. The only thing you had in common was that you both signed your contracts on the same day, and your prospective spouses—your intended prospective spouses—did not.”

“So it’s a clerical error on the part of Supernatural Selection. How soon will you correct it?”

Zeke’s eyes widened and his air of panic increased. “I . . . uh . . . can’t.”

“What do you mean? You made the mistake. Fix it.”

“You signed it, sir. In blood. Didn’t you read it at the signing?”

“No. I read each of the draft copies of course.” Because it would have been stupid not to. “But there were . . . extenuating circumstances during the ceremony itself.” He rubbed his eyes under his glasses. I was a supe advocate, for years, for pity’s sake. I’m trained to evaluate contracts. Why did I have to let my stupid flag fly at that particular moment?

“I’m sorry, Mr. Bertrand-Harrington, but that’s why we recommend that all our clients attend the signing with a witness. Did you?”

“No. There were—”

“Extenuating circumstances? But surely Mr. Farnsworth—” He glanced up, presumably at where the AI was hovering out of sight. “He didn’t either? Oh my stars. Well. This is unfortunate.”

“I want to terminate this contract. Immediately. There must be a way.”

“I’m afraid there’s not much I can do personally.” Zeke riffled through his papers, a worried frown pleating his forehead. “I know I checked these,” he muttered. “Even though it was executed by proxy, it’s a magically enforced mating contract. You agreed to the terms when the witch officiant outlined them, didn’t you?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“So when you signed in blood—”

“I wish you would stop saying that.”

“Sorry. But it’s a good idea to be really careful about anything you sign in blood.” His face took on a haunted expression. “Believe me. I know.”

“You aren’t telling me anything new. All this is moot because the deed is done, and the past can’t be changed. Unless . . .” A tiny seed of hope took root in Quentin’s chest. “You don’t happen to have a time-surfer on staff, do you?”

“No. I’m afraid the witches who run the agency are strong believers in natural consequences. There’s actually a clause in the contract preventing interference from third parties.”

Quentin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have to understand. I am an incubus. Do you know what that means?”

“Of course, sir. You’re a parasitic demonic entity who feeds on the sexual energies of—”

“Stop.” He breathed slowly until his cresting anger receded. Everyone assumed all ’cubi were still relegated to the demon realm by the outdated laws of the Upper World supe councils. His family was one of the exceptions, and the surest way to call down their wrath was to refer to them as parasites. “I belong to a dynastic ’cubi family. The oldest one in North America.”

Zeke blinked. “Oh.”

“Do you do your homework? My family name isn’t exactly obscure.”

“I’m only a counselor-in-training. I don’t have access to the private data about any of our clients. Only their public profiles.” He glanced at the corner of the screen again. “You’re a single white incubus in his fourth century, seeking a permanent partner who—”

“Who can’t be killed by meta-demonic sex. I’m aware.”

“But incubi can kill anyone.”

“Except someone who’s already dead. My perfect match—guaranteed by your agency—is a vampire.”

“Yes, I know. But the spells that govern the guarantee are global, not simply match-by-match specific. They shouldn’t have allowed a clerical error that violates a perfect match. They can’t. It’s impossible.”

Quentin counted backward from ten. “All the more reason for me to be really fucking angry, don’t you think?”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“I wish to lodge a complaint. Let me speak to your supervisor.”

Zeke’s Sheol-pale skin turned gray. “My . . . supervisor? Which one?”

“How can you work in an office environment and be unaware of corporate bureaucracy? The person who writes your evaluations, who docks your pay when you’re late, who can fire you for bloody incompetence. That supervisor.”

Zeke’s shoulders slumped in what looked like relief, and he regained some of his color. “Oh, that supervisor.”

“Yes, that supervisor. If I have my way, you’ll never get past counselor-in-training. You’re barely qualified for filing clerk, if this performance is any indication. Now, let me speak with your supervisor.”

“Of course. I can transfer you now, but—” his eyes flicked to the left “—she’s on a conference exorcism. I can give you to her assistant, or you could hold. Or leave a voice mail and she could call you back.”

Quentin pulled his phone away from his ear and saw the battery indicator had dropped below fifty percent. So fast? “No. I don’t have the time for that.”

“I can email you a link to our survey if you like. You should have gotten one of those anyway after you signed your contract.”

“Yes. Fine. Whatever. Now tell me how to fix this.” Quentin’s panic was starting to overcome his anger. “I can’t stay married to a living man. Surely you understand that.”

“Of course. But you signed—”

“If you say ‘in blood’ one more time . . .”

“Sorry. There’s a counterspell, but I doubt you’d want to sacrifice the necessary body part. Or . . . um . . . parts.”

“No one is sacrificing any body parts.” Although Quentin wouldn’t mind hacking a few pieces off Zeke if he didn’t become more cooperative tout de suite. “Isn’t there some other way? This is a contract. Surely there are provisions for its termination.”

Zeke’s eyes widened. “That’s, um, kind of the thing. A blood contract is a terminal agreement. There is no way out other than, well, the termination of one or both parties.”

Quentin ground his teeth together. “If death is the only escape option, then I’d expect Supernatural Selection to guarantee that their paperwork is accurate. Don’t you?”

“You have to understand, witches view death a bit differently. For them, it’s merely another transition. If you—”

“Zeke. It is Zeke, isn’t it?” At the man’s nod, Quentin forced himself not to shout. “I am not a witch. For me, as for Mr. Farnsworth, death is the end of the line. And I am at the end of my rope right now. I am seriously unhappy. We’re talking my family will take down you and your progeny to the tenth generation unhappy. We’re talking zero-star review unhappy. Do you understand?”

Zeke’s tongue darted out, and he licked his lips. “Under the circumstances, perhaps we can invoke the emergency escape clause. Ordinarily, a blood contract wouldn’t be eligible, but since it seems to be the result of a clerical error—” he glanced at a flickering golden something at his shoulder “—we can make an exception in this case.”

Finally. “Very well. Invoke it.”

“You must understand, it’s an iron-clad, nonnegotiable, irreversible process.”

“Excellent. Do it.”

Zeke’s gaze dropped to the bottom of the screen, his eyes obviously scanning another document. “There are a number of requirements and consequences. First, both of you must agree to the ritual.”

“Yes, yes. I agree.” Quentin made a get-on-with-it motion with one hand. “I’m sure Mr. Farnsworth will as well.”

“You must be absolutely sure, and we’ll need to record his acceptance of the terms too. Once the escape sequence is completed, the two of you will be returned to the candidate pool and forbidden from face-to-face contact for . . . let’s see . . . Ah, here it is. For all eternity.”

Quentin tried not to roll his eyes. He failed. “Since we never intended to have face-to-face contact in the first place, that’s hardly a deterrent.” In fact, it’s an incentive on both our parts. “Go on.”

“You must indemnify Supernatural Selection of all harm and waive the right to arbitration or legal action.”

“Consider yourself indemnified. Next?”

Zeke gnawed on his bottom lip. “Are you sure you want to initiate the escape sequence? Once Mr. Farnsworth agrees and it’s begun, it can’t be aborted. And it must be completed within one solar year or . . .” Zeke’s eyes grew round behind his spectacles and his already-pale face drained of all color.

“Or what?”

“You . . . ah . . . don’t want to know.”

“It hardly matters, since we both want this over with as soon as possible.” Quentin took his fountain pen from the inside pocket of his blazer and uncapped it, preparing to take notes on the back of the useless contract. “What are the particulars of the ritual? It’s not one of those ridiculous Celtic things, is it? I don’t have to stand with one foot on a goat, at dusk, wearing nothing but a fishnet while Ted throws a spear through a hole in a rock, do I?”

“No. It’s pretty straightforward.” Zeke pulled a manila folder off his desk and sorted through it, pulling out a paper that had remarkably little writing on it. “You have to present a lock of each other’s hair, taken with a silver-bladed knife under a moonless sky, tied with a cord of braided grass.” He looked up. “You have to braid the cord together, of course.”

“Naturally,” Quentin said dryly.

“You each have to provide a silver coin.” He glanced up again. “Denomination doesn’t matter. And a mosquito.”

“A mosquito? It’s November. There’s snow on the ground. Where are we supposed to find a mosquito, let alone two?”

“Oh. Let me check the equivalency chart.” Zeke rummaged through a drawer at his elbow and pulled out a color-coded chart. “You can substitute a flea.”

“A flea.”

“Yes. Or . . .” He squinted at the chart, turning it sideways. “Or a tick. Insects that carry disease.” He shrugged apologetically. “It’s symbolic, you understand. All of these things are. The mosquito represents pestilence—you vowed to support each other through sickness and health. The coin—”

“Symbolic of wealth. And the hair a metaphor for our bodies. I get it.”

“You simply have to bring those to the agency during normal business hours—”

“Which are what?”

“Well, we’re kind of a 24/7 thing, because we’re global, you know.”

“We’re in Oregon. Give me the fucking time.”

“Oh. The Portland office. That’s where I’m based. In that case, it would be between noon and midnight on . . .”

“On what?” Quentin’s grip tightened on his phone. “On what, gods and devils take it?”

When Zeke didn’t respond, Quentin glanced at his phone, ready to fling it into the lake. Gah! The bloody battery was dead. How had that happened so quickly? He smacked himself in the forehead, just as Ted had done. Why didn’t I ask for the bloody car? How am I going to get out of here?

He stared out across the lake. The sun had dropped behind the hills and the shell of the abandoned lodge at his back. How likely was it that the place had electricity? Slim to when Satan slurps a snow cone.

Nevertheless, assumptions had gotten him into this mess: assuming Supernatural Selection’s staff was marginally competent, assuming the driver was taking him to downtown Portland, assuming he could manage his own affairs without relying on his family’s money and influence.

I hate the way Grandmother throws her weight around, yet here I am, acting like the privileged entitled incubus I’ve always tried not to be.

He took off his glasses and tucked them in his pocket. The suppressant dulled his night vision, but once free of the filtering lenses and bespelled frames that protected his Sheol-evolved eyes from the sunlight, he could see well enough to make his way up the path to the lodge.

He found the door where Ted had retrieved his backpack. It wasn’t locked—why would it be? There was nobody around for miles. There was barely a road. And besides, there was nothing inside. As he picked his way through the forest of wall studs and around piles of drywall and buckets of nails, his fears were confirmed: no wires or outlets, not even rudimentary ones.

“Wonderful.”

Now that his anger had dissipated along with the sunlight, he realized exactly how cold it was. This might be the Maritime Northwest—more or less—but he was in the mountains. There was snow under the trees. He couldn’t check the temperature on his phone thermometer, but the plume of his breath told him enough.

I’m going to freeze. He could try to walk down the mountain to the nearest town, but he had no idea where that was, or how far away. He had no winter coat. No blankets. His stupid space blanket wannabe was solely to block others’ sexual energy from reaching him, not for keeping him warm.

However, it would do for a start. It had to. Surely Ted would cool down enough—don’t think about cool. Or warm for that matter—to return, and he could build a fire or whatever he did. Quentin shivered, his teeth chattering. He does live here, doesn’t he? What if he didn’t come back tonight? What if he didn’t come back at all?

You can hardly blame him for abandoning you. You acted like a total asshole.

Quentin dragged his luggage in from the porch. The lodge wasn’t insulated and had no heat or electricity, but at least it had walls and a roof. He found a corner that was further blocked in by a stack of plywood and opened his suitcase. He took off his jacket and put on two more shirts. He couldn’t button the third one because they were too closely tailored to his shrunken body, so he put it on backward. He pulled his jacket back on and added a second one, then just dumped everything on the floor, mentally apologizing to his tailor for the disrespect to his bespoke suits, including his three custom tuxes. Can’t be well-dressed if I’m dead.

He settled himself into his nest, the floor still hard beneath him despite the padding of all his socks and underwear, and draped the space blanket overhead like a tent. He cursed both his demon and dragon blood—both of which required heat to survive—and settled down to wait for Ted, morning, or loss of consciousness.

At this point, he’d settle for any of them.