For this was no tender, affectionate kiss, nor a passionate, crushing possession of her mouth. He neither caressed her nor devoured her, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t about their lips or their history—it was about magic. A stampede of images trampled through Ivy’s head, obliterating every other sensation. Abandoned forest villages, their simple huts collapsed in decay. Sickly children writhing on cots in dark corners, the sad, weary eyes of a young woman. “The darkness is spreading, Archer.” Dry creekbeds and blackened clearings. Redbell flowers crushed in mud, the sting of blood in eyes, the mangled head of a deer, strange symbols carved into its hide. A blood-soaked Archer lifting the head high by the antlers as viscera streamed like water from its severed neck… and the woman’s voice again. “It must be stopped, or we’ll lose them all.” Abruptly Archer pulled away from her and spat on the floor. “You taste of plastic,” he said with a grimace. Ivy stumbled backward a step, and raised her hand to cover her lips, her senses still reeling with the memories he’d shared.
