His eyes glinted dangerously at me for about three seconds before I was slammed up against his chest, his arms like iron around me. My mind was filled with his anger, his need to dominate and bend me to his will. I honestly don't know what might have happened if he had shown me the other side of his anguish, the desperate need for love and unbearable loneliness, but he didn't. Instead I was swamped with his belief that he had every right to take control of my life. "You… are… mine." His voice was like liquid metal, smooth and beautiful and hard with resolve. "You will always be mine."

He made his mistake then. He pushed me with his mind, actually tried to push me into admitting what he wanted to hear. The rebellious me screamed a war cry of defiance as I curled my fingers into a fist. His head leaned in to kiss me. I slammed my boot heel down on his foot, watching with satisfaction as he jerked back at the unexpected blow, his eyes opened wide with surprise. As I brought my foot up from his foot, I kneed him in the groin, then swung my fist forward and punched him in the nose as he doubled over in pain.

"Don't ever do that again," I yelled as he crumpled up. "My mind is my own! You are not allowed to force me to do ANYTHING!"

I stormed away from him, ignoring the stunned expressions on the faces of his staff as they watched their employer writhe on the ground, rubbing my knuckles and feeling extremely pleased with myself.

Until I remembered I wanted Christian to tackle reading Milos's mind for me.

"Well, hell," I snarled, shocking a white haired old man who had his arms full of tablecloths. "Sorry," I apologized, and did an about-face. I walked back to where Christian was being helped to his feet by the big burly guy. The guy looked like he might give me trouble until I made mean eyes at him; then he backed off enough so I could see Christian.

He wasn't clutching himself anymore, but he wasn't standing with his usual elegance, either.

"Are you going to strike me again?" he asked, his normally smooth voice a bit spiky around the edges. "If that is your intention, please allow me to send my staff out of the garden. I don't particularly wish to have them witness you repeatedly bringing me to my knees."

"I'm really sorry I hit you. And stomped on your foot. And kneed you. I hope everything is OK down there."

We both glanced at the abused spot in question. His hand twitched as if he wanted to double-check things, but instead he straightened up and waved the hovering hulk away. "I accept your apology. I will request, however, that in the future if you take issue with something I do, you alert me to your intentions to strike me. I did not find the experience one I wish to revisit."

I cocked a brow at him. Thanks to watching the master of eyebrow emoting, I was getting pretty good at it. "You mean that's the first time you've ever been punched?" I lowered my voice so no one else could hear me. I had no idea if his employees knew what he was or not, but I wasn't about to spill the beans if they didn't. "You're almost nine hundred years old, for heaven's sake. Are you telling me that in all that time, no one's ever socked you in the nose?"

His eyes were dark as they held mine. "It has been attempted once or twice."

The underlying menace in his voice was clearly a warning.

"You let me hit you," I pointed out, ignoring the warning. "I know the power you wield, Christian. You could have crushed me where I stood. At the very least you could have kept me from kneeing you or punching you in the nose, but you didn't. Why?"

"You are my Beloved," he said. "I cannot hurt you. If it is your desire to harm me, I must allow it."

"But I hurt you," I argued. "Doesn't this whole soulmate thing swing both ways? If I was truly your Beloved, wouldn't it be impossible for me to deliberately harm you?"

The corners of his lips turned up in a wry smile as he gingerly felt his nose. "I had always believed so."

I smiled and gently pushed his hand away to feel the bridge of his nose. "Nothing broken, just your pride damaged. And I'm sorry about that, although if it has made you rethink what I am to you, you won't have suffered in vain."

He gave me one of his martyred looks.

"I guess I'm really going to put our friendship to the test," I added, pulling out a tissue and dabbing at a tiny trickle of blood that seeped out of his nose. He stood perfectly still, but his eyes were dilated, black with strain. I backed off and put a little distance between us. "I wanted to ask a favor of you. If you haven't scratched me off your list of friends entirely, I'd like you to help me with a little problem concerning one of the fair people."

He considered me silently for a moment, then snapped out a few orders to his staff, and held out his arm for me. I took it and we strolled out of the temporary sanctuary of the garden, back into the noise and bustle and general madness that was the All Hallow's Eve festival.

"Why do you do this every year?" I asked, momentarily forgoing my request for his help. "It looks like it's a lot of trouble for you and your employees."

"Trouble?" He looked out at the sea of faces, people in all sorts of costumes, Goth and non-Goth, families, teenagers, adults, everyone eating and laughing and dancing, a mass of humanity whose shadows flickered and shimmered upon the white stone walls of Drahanská Castle. "It is not trouble. I do it because for a very short time, I am allowed to believe I am one with humanity." His eyes turned back to me. "Just because I am who I am does not mean I shun the company of humans. On the contrary, I quite enjoy them."

My eyes opened a bit wide at that comment.

He smiled and leaned toward me to whisper, "And not always as dinner."

He laughed at the look on my face, guiding me through the crowds.

"Um," I said, trying not to wonder about who he might have fed on that night. "Is that why you write, too?"

He nodded.

"I assumed you were using the books to find your Beloved."

He laughed again. "The books brought you here to me, did they not?"

"Yes, but I'm not your Beloved."

His smile lost a bit of its wattage. "I write because it gives me pleasure to tell the tale of my people, and because I can imagine a life that has thus far eluded me."

Talk about laying a guilt trip! Uncomfortable, I changed the subject. "About you helping me—"

"I am at your service, naturally. I can do no less for you."

I stopped and turned to face him, oblivious to the fact that we were blocking traffic. "I might as well tell you right now that I'm only doing this to help Raphael. I want you to understand my ulterior motive. I don't want you to feel like you were being used," I said with particular emphasis on the last two words. "Or exploited. Or manipulated. Or—"

He held up his hand. "I take your point. What is it exactly you wish me to do to help St. John?"

I took a deep breath and counted to five. "I want you to get proof that Milos murdered Tanya."

His eyes drifted lazily over my face. "I find myself surprised that St. John is allowing you to assist him in tracking down the murderer. Despite the obvious differences between us, I find myself in lamentable accord with him in regard to issues of your safety. I am having difficulty believing he has solicited your help in finding proof of the murderer's identity."

"That's because I haven't."

I didn't turn around. I knew full well what the expression on Raphael's face was going to be. I did, however, look at his shadow, as I nervously shifted from foot to foot.

"Traitor," I told Henri.

"He's not the one who has gone against orders."

I turned around at that, my hands on my hips, my lips thinned with annoyance. "Who died and made you God?" I de-hipped one hand long enough to poke him in the chest. "I do not take orders from you. You do not have the right to give me orders. You do not have the right to dictate my actions. Got that?"