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girded by the glow of her own windows, she took another step, trying to look unconcerned.
     
    Another shiver up her spine. Stronger this time. Her casual act was only giving her tormentor—or whatever it was—confidence; it was getting closer to her.
     
    Her front door was unlocked. She couldn’t just get into the car and go. Even if she sent Malleus, Maleficarum, or Spud—Greyson’s guards—back to lock it up, it would still be open for close to an hour. An hour in which her unknown lurker would have full access to her home. Her belongings. Everything.
     
    A scrape, the faint tinge of metal against pavement. Again she spun around. Again she saw nothing. Her head pounded almost as hard as her heart. Whoever—whatever—it was out there had to know she knew it was there. And it hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t stepped forward, even though she knew her fear was strong enough to taste, to feel. Her watcher knew she was afraid and wanted her that way.
     
    Which pissed her off, and that was a good thing. Someone wanted to lurk in the shadows as the sun went down and intimidate her? Fuck that. She straightened her spine, forced her head high. The simple act of looking unafraid grounded her.
     
    One step toward the house, and another. The air around her thickened, pressing like a hot iron against her skin. Danger. Danger. The word echoed in her head, vibrated through her body.
     
    Her flip-flops slapped impossibly loudly on the sidewalk, announcing every step she took. She tried to ignore it, just as she ignored the sweat trickling down her spine and temple. It didn’t work. Hidden in that hollow flapping sound, in the too-loud beat of her heart, were whispers and giggles, the sound of her watcher’s footsteps or breath.
     
    She stopped, spun around again. A flicker of movement this time. A shape? Or her panicked imagination? She had no idea which. All she knew was at any moment a hand would close over her arm or her mouth; any moment someone would grab her and drag her down.
     
    Pain erupted in the back of her calf, a stinging horrible pain. She stumbled. Shit, what was that? No time to look. She kept going, but her next step felt as if it was taken through seaweed, and her hands and feet tingled in a way she didn’t like.
     
    The door in front of her wavered, tilted at an odd angle. Why wasn’t it upright?
     
    Another sharp pain in her leg. She opened her mouth to try to scream, but she couldn’t seem to make any sound come out except for a queer, muted gurgle.
     
    Panic started taking over. She could feel her blood racing through her veins, faster and faster. Could feel her palms hit the hot sidewalk. She’d fallen. She’d fallen and her sweaty hair clung to her neck and her mouth wouldn’t close and something icy touched her leg where it hurt. The last thing she saw was a flash of impossibly bright light bleaching the front of her house.
     

Chapter Four
    Why did she always have to throw up?
     
    It seemed as though in every time of stress, every time of worry or fear, Megan’s overly sensitive stomach was the first thing to rebel, spilling its contents into or onto whatever happened to be handy.
     
    Worse than that, these days it seemed as if she always had a fucking audience. And worst of all, yet again it was Greyson.
     
    “I’m sorry,” she croaked. Sweat still dripped from her hair and into the toilet bowl, but not from the heat. At least not from the heat outside; they were safely insulated from that by the walls of her house and the low whirring of the air conditioning. No, this was from her internal temperature: boiling hot yet freezing, while her muscles quaked and her head threatened to split open. Why not? Her stomach already had. She would have been thankful it was empty if it had mattered even the tiniest bit.
     
    “Don’t be ridiculous.” Greyson wiped at her forehead with the cool washcloth again; it felt so good she sighed. “ Litobora venom is horribly poisonous. Anyone would be