Howling and a deep gong-like sound jolted me from staring into the fireplace after finishing lunch with Merlin.

  He swore as we raced out of the apothecary, a heavy chest floating behind us.

  “Shield went down!”

  Crap.

  Fire dragon. Very flammable houses.

  I beat Merlin out the door.

  I shifted without thinking the second I hit the street. Taro needed a target. A big target.

  I did not expect my dragon to help in the size department.

  ‘Why the hell are we so big?’

  Pause.

  ‘How the hell do we get off the ground?’

  ‘Shadows expand and shrink,’ he sighed. ‘You have to let me be in charge to fly.’

  Fuck.

  My claws dug into the pavement.

  The street cracked.

  Control wasn’t a conscious thing.

  ‘Jack!’

  Silence.

  ‘You haven’t claimed him as hoard,’ Dragoon sighed.

  Shit.

  ‘I claim Jack Vicars as hoard! Jack! How do I fly?!’

  The magic snapped into place.

  It felt like he claimed me back.

  ‘I let Kharyx deal with that shit! I’m terrified of heights!’ he shot back.

  Yeah. Falling out of a tree and breaking your arm as a kid would do that.

  ‘Who is Kharyx?’

  ‘My dragon! Now excuse me while I weaponize shrubbery!’

  A sharp smack landed on my haunch.

  It did a few things.

  One, it startled Dragoon, who whirled and snarled at Merlin.

  Two, I lost my white-knuckle grip on control.

  Dragoon didn’t hesitate. He tore down Main Street and launched into the air.

  I found myself shoved into the back seat of my own mind with Chaos.

  ‘I don’t like this!’

  Chaos laughed outright. ‘This is what letting go feels like!’

  ‘Daniel, you use our magic. I’ll handle the body,’ Dragoon sent as we soared over town.

  I was going to be the worst sidekick ever.

  As Dragoon banked sharply in the air, I scrambled to gather my wits.

  Several houses were already on fire.

  ‘Why couldn’t we have a fire dragon on our side?’ I muttered.

  ‘We do, but he doesn’t shift,’ Chaos said. ‘Carter.’

  Fuck him for not shifting.

  ‘Dragoon—find Carter and keep an eye out for Taro.’

  We wheeled through the smoke-filled sky.

  As we flew, I found myself… enjoying it.

  So glad I only had to ride along.

  Jack had no idea what he was missing.

  A flash of red streaked past my vision, followed by an enraged roar.

  Taro drew in a breath.

  I panicked.

  The world shifted to grayscale—like an old black-and-white television.

  Taro paused midair, blinking in confusion.

  ‘Good job, Dan,’ Chaos said approvingly.

  ‘Find Carter’s shadow,’ Dragoon urged.

  Freak out later.

  Emergency now.

  Carter’s image—who he was—formed in my mind. I focused on the shadows connected to him.

  We emerged as a cat-sized dragon, surrounded by people staring down at us.

  Carter jumped back. “Daniel?”

  I glared up at him. ‘I’m not happy about any of this. Can you put out fires?’

  He started to mumble something.

  I shifted into human form and got in his face. “Carter! Buildings are in flames! I order you to put them out if you can. You’re on fire duty!”

  His body was moving before the “Yes, sir.”

  Blaine and Merlin arrived, already shouting orders and handing out potions.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Xavier showed up moments later. “The pack’s on its way.”

  “Come on!” I bolted away from the crowd and the overwhelming scents. “I guess we get to try shadow walking.”

  “You sure about this?” Xavier asked as we ran toward the able-bodied shifters gathering in the street—male and female.

  “Hell no.” I glanced at him and sent through the pack bond, ‘Too bad we’re not lions and can’t just share Guardian powers.’

  ‘Claim each other,’ Dragoon said over the bond. ‘Never know.’

  A fiercer voice—like my brother’s but edged with something older—added, ‘Might as well.’

  Xavier faltered. “Onyx?”

  The pack arrived.

  Fuck it.

  “Xavier Prince, I claim you as hoard.”

  Might as well not hide it from the pack.

  Magic snapped around me, sharp and binding. I gritted my teeth.

  Town to save.

  “Daniel Vicars, I claim you as hoard!” Xavier’s voice carried more confidence than mine.

  His magic snapped around me.

  Dragoon roared in my head with wild excitement. ‘Yes! We can share the Guardianship of Shadows!’

  That would be useful on a battlefield.

  A flash of red overhead.

  I turned to Xavier, “You lead the pack into the Shadow realm and help the fight! I'll deal with Taro.”

  He nodded and turned toward them.

  I shifted back into a more mid-range size.

  Thank God.

  Dragoon shot toward Taro, who barely had time to look startled.

  We blinked out of the regular world, darted behind him, then snapped back into reality.

  I belched black-and-brown flames across his flank.

  He roared in fury.

  “Your reactions are stabilizing,” he snarled, his long serpentine body flowing around to face me. “There are still improvements that could be made to you.”

  “I’m not curled in a fetal position, so that’s progress enough for today,” I shot back as I banked hard.

  He faltered midair. “How did you gain psychic abilities? That was not in the equation!”

  “Aww… did your experiment go off the rails?” I taunted.

  I needed a plan. Not just snappy comebacks.

  As we streaked away, I formed several small shadow dragons and sent them dive-bombing him at random, trailing streaks of shadow fire.

  “What is shadow fire?” I asked Dragoon.

  It looked like it hurt like Hell.

  “Oh… it doesn’t hurt the body,” he said casually. “Just the soul.”

  A tormented scream came from Taro.

  I flinched.

  Deep breaths.

  Taro would kill or imprison me.

  Deep breaths.

  Not Barton.

  Not if you’re trying to survive.

  Taro’s flame struck my flank.

  Heat punched through scale and into flesh.

  Motherfucker.

  I spun on him, shadows rising without thought—shaping into vague, reaching forms.

  He recoiled midair.

  “Mei? …Aiko?”

  The names broke from him.

  I froze.

  I hadn’t shaped faces.

  Hadn’t chosen names.

  The shadows were only silhouettes.

  The pain in his voice—

  Nope.

  I tore the forms apart.

  They unraveled into nothing.

  I dove into the nearest shadow with one thought—

  Away.

  I emerged in a forest far—far—from the sounds of battle.

  Smoke and flame were gone.

  Pine and damp earth filled the air instead.

  I shifted back to human and wrapped my arms tightly around myself.

  “I can’t do this,” I whispered. “I can’t fight like this.”

  I pressed my forehead to my knees.

  Shut out the bond voices.

  Dragoon purred anxiously inside me.

  Chaos prowled, alert.

  I ignored them both.

  Lost in the echo of what I’d done.

  Then—

  A sharp blow cracked against the back of my head.

  The world tilted.

  I crumpled as darkness swallowed my vision.

  “Odin, it seems correct that this more… direct method works best with these Vicars,” an educated, almost jolly voice remarked as reality slipped away.

  I woke to a faint fuzziness in my head.

  White walls.

  White bed.

  Dressed in white—down to the slipper socks.

  A window overlooked nothing but blue sky.

  It reminded me of one of those movies set in a psychiatric ward.

  I could play along. Figure this out.

  “Chaos. Dragoon.”

  Silence.

  The hairs on the back of my neck rose.

  Mental ward.

  Voices in my head—gone.

  Whoever set this up thought I was born yesterday.

  Blank neutrality slid into place as I rolled upright.

  Feet planted firmly on the floor.

  Back straight.

  Eyes forward.

  Hands resting on my thighs.

  I turned inward—the way I always did when I stepped into a role for a mission.

  It was simply what I did.

  I let my surface thoughts become what they expected me to be.

  Beneath that was where my real self stayed.

  Carl came to mind, and I shaped myself into how he would react.

  Calm.

  Emotionally suppressed.

  Paranoid.

  Confused.

  I paused.

  Memories surfaced as I worked.

  All the times I’d done this on mission.

  All the times I’d forced belief into the mask I wore.

  How insurgents believed me for no clear reason.

  How I heard things no one else could.

  How my instincts were always unnervingly precise.

  How I could look at someone and know exactly what mattered to them.

  I froze.

  The psychic abilities I’d inherited from Edwin—

  I’d been using them my entire adult life.

  That was what Barton had meant.

  Not breaking me—

  Lowering my filters.

  It should have triggered me.

  But I’d used this before.

  To protect myself.

  My men.

  Civilians.

  I drew a slow breath.

  This wasn’t corruption.

  It was survival.

  It might have a fancier name now, but it was how I’d always made it through.

  And like on countless missions before, I felt my captor moving down the hall.

  He was pleased with himself.

  But something darker clung to him.

  I needed Carl right now.

  Ugh.

  Paranoid bastard.

  My spine loosened.

  The door opened.

  A dark-skinned man with white hair and a neatly trimmed beard stepped inside, smiling broadly.

  It never reached his eyes.

  Evil Santa.

  “How is my favorite patient this morning?” he asked—the same jolly, educated voice from the forest.

  “Confused,” I answered, letting my voice fall into the flat monotone Carl used when alone. “What day is it? I really need to know the date. Or at least the day of the week.”

  Carl always checked the time. The calendar.

  The man blinked, but his smile didn’t falter.

  “It’s Tuesday, Daniel.”

  “Who is Daniel?” I asked. “I’m Carl.”

  He tutted softly as he closed the door behind him. “Ah. So we’re Carl today.”

  If he wanted fractured, I could give him fractured.

  “Did John come back out?” I asked quietly, shrinking into myself. “He’s mean.”

  He paused.

  Just for a fraction of a second.

  Then he smiled wider. “Oh no. He hasn’t come out.”

  I let out a shaky breath of relief.

  “How about a simple exercise in what’s real and what’s not?”

  He pulled a small hand mirror from the pocket of his lab coat.

  Interesting.

  “You’re real,” I said as he handed it to me. I brushed his thoughts quickly.

  Nothing had been done to the mirror.

  “I’m real. The bed is real.”

  His grin widened.

  “Of course those are real. But we’ve been exploring how you perceive your reflection.”

  Fuck.

  “It’s always the same,” I said, angling the mirror toward my face.

  Except it wasn’t.

  No gray.

  No wrinkles.

  Hello, twenty-five.

  I hadn’t looked like that in decades.

  “Tell me what you see,” he purred.

  “Green eyes.” —shit— “Gray-shot beard and hair. Wrinkles around my eyes. Forehead.”

  “That’s not real, Carl,” he said gently. “Listen when Dr. Attwater tells you that you are a young man. Around twenty-five.”

  Bullshit.

  He’d done something.

  “I’m confused,” I said, staring at the mirror.

  A smudge marred the glass.

  One that would’ve driven Carl insane.

  “I need something to clean that. It’s bothering me.”

  He actually handed me a white handkerchief.

  Interesting.

  I went full Carl, carefully polishing the mirror in small, precise circles.

  He began speaking while I worked.

  “I think your reflection suggests something about you.”

  Yes. It suggests you altered it to mess with my head.

  Do not appreciate.

  “Gotta get this clean,” I muttered.

  “You see yourself as an old man,” he continued softly.

  Seasoned. Thank you very much. I earned those gray hairs. Jack personally contributed to several.

  “To give yourself a sense of maturity,” he leaned closer.

  I lifted the mirror to check for streaks and nearly smacked him in the face.

  “Because Barton made you feel so helpless,” he said carefully.

  The mirror slipped from my fingers.

  Carl curled into the fetal position beneath the bed.

  Groan.

  But I was Carl right now—and that was exactly what he would do.

  Happy, Attwater?

  I heard him chortle.

  “Come now, Carl,” he said gently. “We were making such progress.”

  Bullshit.

  He didn’t want progress.

  He wanted fracture.

  So let him think he had it.

  Also—

  why was under this bed so clean?

  “I’ll have the orderlies bring your meds,” he sighed. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

  With my back to him, I rolled my eyes.

  I listened to the door open.

  Close.

  Footsteps retreating down the hall.

  My act with the orderlies would be different.

  Especially if they left the door open.

  After all—

  a man hiding under a bed is rarely the one you should worry about.