Reap the Wind

“YOU DEFINITELY NEED TO CHECK OUT THIS SERIES.”

—Literary Escapism

Praise for the Cassie Palmer Novels

Tempt the Stars

“An action-packed romp through the Cassandra Palmer universe.”

—All Things Urban Fantasy

“Stellar. . . . Chance has done a fantastic job weaving everything into a fantastic story that sucks you right in.”

—A Book Obsession

“The best of the series.”

—The Demon Librarian

“Cassie is the ultimate poster child for heroines having to learn to roll with the punches and stay on their feet. Per usual, you can count on the awesome Chance delivering a story that hits the ground running and never looks back.”

—
RT Book Reviews

Hunt the Moon

“This isn’t just urban fantasy—it’s storytelling at its best.”

—SFRevu

“I am as surprised as anyone to have book five of a series stand me on my head and dazzle me, and even more so as I realize I could pick up
Hunt the Moon
and these characters would do it again and again and again.”

—All Things Urban Fantasy

“A fascinating world. . . . The author has reinvented her writing style for the series and raised the bar of expectations high. Her story transcends mere urban fantasy and veers toward epic fantasy.”

—LoveVampires

Curse the Dawn

“A truly riotous ride. . . . Chance adds plenty of twists and obstacles to her first-person series that blends time travel, magic, vampires, and more. The pace is rapid, and the exploits are wild. Chance aces another one!”

—
RT Book Reviews

“The urban fantasy equivalent of a summer blockbuster . . . quite the satisfying urban fantasy adventure.”

—SF Site

“Outstanding. The characters pull you into their world and won’t let you go. . . . The dialog is funny, the story is fast-paced, full of intrigue with really hot sex scenes.”

—The Romance Readers Connection

“A dark theme tempered with humor, action, and romance comes alive in
Curse the Dawn
, one of the best of the Cassandra Palmer series.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“Chance is outstanding in her punchy delivery. . . . Swift action sequences, tight plotline, a memorable cast, some rather steamy and heart-thumping scenes . . . are all reasons to love this book and indeed this series.”

—The Truth About Books

Embrace the Night

“Cassie is a well-rounded character, and the intensity and complexity of the plot puts her through her paces physically, emotionally, and psychically.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“If you thought
Touch the Dark
and
Claimed by Shadow
were action-packed, well, buckle your seat belt. . . . Lara Croft would have a hard time keeping up.”

—SFRevu

“Quick pacing and imaginative use of some old mythologies blend into a captivating read that will leave readers clamoring for more.”

—Monsters and Critics

“Ms. Chance continues to expand her well-built world with time travel, fantastical beings, steamy romance, and the nonstop action her wonderful series provides. This is a fast-moving read that’s hard to set down.”

—Darque Reviews

“A wonderfully refreshing step away from the cookie-cutter regime of the usual vampire novels . . . this novel has it all. Believable characters, descriptive settings, and thrills and chills kept this reader on the edge of her seat.”

—Roundtable Reviews

Claimed by Shadow

“A nonstop thrill ride from beginning to end, a wildly entertaining romp with a strong, likable heroine.”

—Rambles

“Ms. Chance is a master. . . . [A] series well worth getting hooked on.”

—Fresh Fiction

“A great writer of supernatural fantasy that is on a par with the works of Kim Harrison, Charlaine Harris, and Kelley Armstrong.”

—
Midwest Book Review

“Magic aplenty populates this fast-moving, rather dark tale of power, corruption, double-dealings, and painful attractions as Cassie comes to grips with her new role in this follow-up to
Touch the Dark
.”

—Monsters and Critics

Touch the Dark

“A grab-you-by-the-throat-and-suck-you-in sort of book with a tough, smart heroine and sexy-scary vampires. I loved it—and I’m waiting anxiously for a sequel.”

—#1
New York Times
bestselling author Patricia Briggs

“A really exciting book with great pace and a huge cast of vivid characters. This is one of my favorite reads of the year.”

—#1
New York Times
bestselling author Charlaine Harris

“Exciting and inventive.”

—
Booklist

“Fast and heavy on the action,
Touch the Dark
packs a huge story. . . . A blend of fantasy and romance, it will satisfy readers of both genres.”

—Fresh Fiction

“A very promising start to a new series, and an exceptionally entertaining first novel.”

—
Locus

“A wonderfully entertaining romp with an engaging heroine. Here’s hoping there’s a sequel in the works!”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Kelley Armstrong

“Karen Chance takes her place along with Laurell K. Hamilton, Charlaine Harris, MaryJanice Davidson, and J. D. Robb to give us a strong woman who doesn’t wait to be rescued. . . . The action never stops. . . . Engrossing.”

—SFRevu

“Combines humor, action, and the paranormal into a scintillating story that will leave readers begging for more.”

—Romance Reviews Today

Books by Karen Chance

T
HE
C
ASSIE
P
ALMER
S
ERIES

Touch the Dark

Claimed by Shadow

Embrace the Night

Curse the Dawn

Hunt the Moon

Tempt the Stars

Reap the Wind

T
HE
M
IDNIGHT’
S
D
AUGHTER
S
ERIES

Midnight’s Daughter

Death’s Mistress

Fury’s Kiss

T
HE
M
IRCEA
B
ASARAB
S
ERIES

Masks

SIGNET

Published by New American Library,

an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

This book is an original publication of New American Library.

Copyright © Karen Chance, 2015

Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

Signet and the Signet colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

For more information about Penguin Random House, visit penguin.com.

ISBN 978-1-101-61698-7

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

To the crew at Penguin—thanks for the hard work and patience as this monster came together.

Okay, this was going to be easy.

That wasn’t something I said very often, because my life is a lot of things, but easy has never been one of them. My name is Cassie Palmer, and I used to be a down-on-my-luck clairvoyant who made ends meet by reading tarot in a bar. But then stuff happened. A lot of stuff. A lot of hair-raising, spine-tingling, unbelievably crazy and potentially deadly stuff. As a result, I was now a down-on-my-luck Pythia, the chief seer of the supernatural world.

Yeah, I don’t know how that happened, either.

But my no-good luck was about to change. Because my partner, who was currently lost in time, and who I’d been searching for for what felt like
forever
, was right across the room.

And this time, nothing was going to go wrong.

“This time, nothing is going to go wrong,” I said into my beer.

The should-have-been-handsome-but-wasn’t-because-he-was-an-ass who was propping up the wall next to me didn’t answer. His shirt was open and he was poking at something on his stomach—presumably a bruise. I clenched my hand on my beer mug so I wouldn’t be tempted to add a few more.

“Did you hear me?” I demanded softly, trying not to call attention to us. Not that that seemed likely. The little dive in Amsterdam where we’d washed up was loud, and an especially raucous group had just blown in through the door. Along with a blast of cold air and icy slush that numbed my toes even through thick leather boots and added another layer of frost to my eyelashes.

Apparently, central heating was not a thing in the 1790s.

The smart people were over by the fire, which had managed to melt the slush around a small ring of chairs and a few stool-type things that I guess were supposed to be tables. Or beer holders, anyway. But we couldn’t join them and try to thaw out. Because the bar was by the fire and a half-demon war mage named Pritkin was by the bar.

He’d glanced around a few times since we’d come in, but hadn’t picked me out because my strawberry blond curls were hidden under a dark brown glamourie. The same one that had changed my tip-tilted nose into a pug and fattened my already plump cheeks into chipmunk territory. It was not a great look for me, but since my reluctant partner had provided it, I’d decided it could be worse.

I was sort of surprised he hadn’t given me warts.

I wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t bothered to answer. Rosier might be Lord of all Incubi, the demon race known for being smooth, suave, and charming, but I didn’t get to see that side of him. No, I saw this side. The side that was poking at his hairy abdomen with a frown, as if the ring of bruises there was potentially life-threatening.

If only, I thought, and kicked him.

That won me a glare out of a stranger’s black eyes, because Rosier was wearing a glamourie, too. Normally, he shared the green eye color and rugged blond good looks of his son and our elusive target. And nothing else. The stubborn sense of honor, the brutal honesty, and the iron discipline of the man I knew must have all come from Pritkin’s human side, because I’d yet to see a shred of them in his reprehensible father.

“Why are you asking me?” the creature demanded, glowering at me from under greasy dark brown bangs. “I wasn’t the one who screwed up last time.”

“You got mugged last time!”

“You shouldn’t have left me alone,” he complained. “London is a dangerous city, doubly so in the Victorian age—”

“You’re a
demon lord
! How the hell you managed to get beaten up—”

“A demon lord without magic.”

“—by a handful of street thugs who didn’t even have—wait. What?”

He scowled at me. “Why do you think I’m carrying this?” he slapped the side of the leather man purse he’d brought along, because I guess incubi are more secure in their sexuality than most guys. Or maybe there was another reason.

He’d pulled the little patch out of it that had provided my glamourie earlier. I hadn’t stopped to wonder about it at the time, being too busy already wondering how to get into my multilayered Victorian outfit. But now it occurred to me that maybe a demon lord shouldn’t have to carry around his magic.

And shouldn’t have the crap beaten out of him quite so easily.

“In their infinite wisdom, the demon council decided to put a dam on my power,” he confirmed bitterly. “They worried about what I would do to some of them, back in time with both foreknowledge and magic intact. Not being able to deprive me of the former, they restricted the latter—something that becomes a problem when one is set upon by six huge brutes!”

I didn’t waste time pointing out that it had been three the first time he told that story, because deflating his ego could wait. Something else couldn’t. “Then what about the counterspell?” I hissed.

Rosier and I were putting up with each other because we had a common goal: to save his son from obliteration. Pritkin’s twenty-first-century body was back where it belonged, and in decent shape despite being hit by a deadly curse. But only because it hadn’t been the target. His soul had. The demon spell had sent his spirit sliding back through the eras of his life, and would destroy it once it reached the beginning of what had been, thankfully, a very long existence.

At least, it would unless we put the countercurse on him first.

But that wasn’t my job. I’d done my job—flipping us through time after the wildly careening soul, which didn’t have anything like a steady, predictable path. It jumped here and there, like a piece of flotsam in the rapids, catching only occasionally on some bit of time’s shoreline before being snatched off again a few minutes later.

And now the one person who could stop it was telling me he couldn’t cast the damned spell?

“Of course I can,” Rosier said acidly, when I pointed this out. “They had to leave me that much, or what’s the use in my coming?”

“Nothing as far as I can—”

“But that’s the only one.”

I stared at him as his meaning sunk in. “You mean
that’s the only spell you can do
?”

He gestured at his bruised ribs. “Obviously.”

“But . . . but what if we run into trouble?”

“Well, you’re a witch, aren’t you?”

“No! No, I am not a witch! How many times do I have to—”

A hand reached around my shoulders and clapped over my mouth. “Keep your voice down! That is not a popular word in this era.”

I shut up, because he was right. And because I didn’t have a choice. And, eventually, Rosier decided to let me breathe again, but just so he could interrogate me.

“What do you mean, you’re not a witch?”

“I mean, I don’t do witch stuff,” I whispered. “I do Pythia stuff. That’s why I have bodyguards!” Only there was a limit to how many people I could take along on my jaunts through time, since every person added to the already considerable strain. So I’d left my guards at home, assuming that a demon lord could protect me.

Only to find out that he couldn’t even do that for himself.

“What do we do if we’re attacked?” he demanded.

“That’s what I just asked you!”

“You couldn’t have mentioned this before?”

“You told me to get us here and you’d take care of the rest!”

“That was before I knew I was dealing with someone without even rudimentary—” He abruptly cut off.

“What is it?” I glanced around nervously. But it wasn’t a witch-hunting posse coming for me with torches blazing. In fact, nothing of interest appeared to be happening at all. Just the bar’s alcoholic tabby winding around a few legs, looking for handouts, more icy rain lashing the windows, and a couple guys arguing over a game of dice.

And Pritkin chatting up one of the barmaids.

I did a double take at that, because it wasn’t the sort of thing you saw every day. Or ever. The asshole beside me had seen to that.

About a century ago, Rosier had had one of his intermittent bouts of fatherly enthusiasm, during which he usually managed to screw up his son’s life in a major way. That time, he’d decided he wanted Pritkin back in hell on a permanent basis. Not so much for the pleasure of his company as to use him as a pawn in his little power games.

The fact that incubi gain power and influence through sex, and that this plan had therefore involved whoring his son out to the highest bidders, wasn’t thought of as a problem. Or probably thought of at all, since incubi have to feed to live anyway. So obliging other demons merely meant a two-way power exchange for them, with a little added influence for the pimp-in-chief.

At least, it did unless you were Pritkin. Who, as half human, could live off pizza like the rest of us. And who’d had this weird idea that there might be more to life. Long story short, he’d ended up being allowed to stay on earth, but only for as long as he could handle complete abstinence—something that, for most incubi, was considered the same as constant torture. Rosier assumed he’d have his son back inside a month.

He was still waiting.

As a result, when I met the stubborn cuss known as John Pritkin, he’d been that strangest of strange creatures: a celibate incubus. So it was more than a little odd to watch him flirting with a buxom blonde who was trying her best to fall out of a low-cut blouse. It looked like barmaids dressing for tips wasn’t a new concept, I thought, scowling.

And then a mug was shoved in my face. “Here,” Rosier told me abruptly. “I need a refill.”

“So? What do you expect me to do about it?”

“Get me another!”

“With what? You were mugged, remember?” He’d charmed the first round out of the other barmaid somehow, but that sort of thing wasn’t in my repertoire. Besides, I still had beer.

“Do you usually pay for your own drinks?”

“No, but that’s in—what are you doing?” I demanded, as he started unbuttoning the top of my prim little shirtwaist.

“Advertising.”

I slapped his hand away. “Advertise yourself!”

“I’m not his type.”

“His—” I stopped, staring at Rosier.

“We need to get him alone,” the demon said impatiently. “And distracted. Can you think of a better way?”

“I can’t think of too many worse ones,” I said, clutching my top to stop Rosier from looking down my shirt. “And anyway, that sort of thing doesn’t work on Pritkin.”

“Doesn’t work on your version,” he corrected, wiping something off my cheek. “But this isn’t the man you know, and this one didn’t come in here for a drink. He came in for a meal.”

“But this place doesn’t serve—” I broke off at the look Rosier was sending me. “Oh.”

That type of meal.

“Hurry,” Rosier said, stealing my beer. “It looks like he’s already found the first course.”

I looked back at the bar to see that, sure enough, Pritkin was being led off somewhere by the blonde. I felt my face flush. I thought he’d have better taste.

And then Rosier gave me what could only be called a shove, sending me stumbling into the middle of the room.

I might have returned the favor, but he was right, damn him. We couldn’t just de-hex Pritkin from across the bar, however nice that sounded. That’s what had tripped us up in London.

I’d left the poor, unprotected demon lord at the mercy of the city’s murderous brutes in order to play damsel in distress. Or at least damsel in need of some directions. Pritkin had gone sauntering by the alley where we’d popped in, and I’d run after him to lure him back so Rosier could zap him, although not with the counterspell.

We’d planned to knock him out and wait—until his eyes glowed neon green with a double dose of soul energy behind them. We’d showed up in London to get ahead of the hexed spirit, because hitting him with the counterspell before it arrived wouldn’t help. And, knowing Pritkin, would probably get us hit back. So unconscious it had had to be.

Or distracted, although that sort of thing was more daunting for me than for a horny demon lord.

I looked back to see Rosier shooing at me, with an expression of utter disgust on his face. Whatever. I started winding my way through the low, bench-like tables, nervousness gnawing at my gut.

Sure, Rosier wouldn’t have a problem seducing somebody into doing what he wanted. It was practically his job description. But it wasn’t mine, and the whole thing was uncomfortable in ways I didn’t want to think about right now.

Like some of the things Pritkin had said recently, after he’d had his father’s prohibition lifted, but before he’d gotten zapped with the curse. Things I had probably misinterpreted. Things that, even if I hadn’t misinterpreted, weren’t going anywhere, because my personal life was even more complicated than my job.

And wasn’t that saying something?

I stopped in front of a tattered curtain leading to what I guessed was the back of the bar. And then just stayed there, chewing my lip and trying to come up with a better plan. Because this one wasn’t going to work.

I wasn’t one of Rosier’s succubi, some experienced femme fatale. Hell, I wasn’t even a femme slightly nauseous. I was a time-traveling, ghost-whispering, somewhat clumsy clairvoyant, with an upturned nose, too many freckles and cheeks nobody would call defined even without Rosier’s idea of a disguise. I wouldn’t have been competition for Dolly Parton in there on my best day.

But I had to come up with something. Enough to keep Pritkin in sight, at least. Otherwise, if his soul came and went while he was in the back, we might never know it. And that would be a problem, since we were fast running out of time before—

And then I
was
out.

The curtain was abruptly thrown back and the blonde emerged with a giggle and a wink, tucking something down the front of her front. Wow, I thought, faintly disappointed. That hadn’t taken long.

And then I was being jerked through the door by a furious war mage. “You!”

“What?” I asked stupidly.

And then three things happened at once. The outer room went suddenly silent, a knife blade bit into the skin of my throat, and the barmaid came back through the curtain, smirking at me. And then continued doing so as she toppled over, stiff as a blond-haired mannequin. And hit the floor, bouncing on her considerable padding off to the side.

Pritkin and I stared down at her for a moment, at her glassy eyes and messy hair and still-leering face. Which was more than a little creepy, since she was now leering at my left boot. And then we looked at each other.