Shift Storm Scared Shiftless Book 2

Scared Shiftless Series 1st Edition

Bond Collins Margo Dawn Ariel
Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmeta.com/product/shift-storm-scared-shiftless-book-2-scared-shiftless-s
eries-1st-edition-bond-collins-margo-dawn-ariel/
More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant
download maybe you interests ...

Deep Shift Scared Shiftless Series Book 1 1st Edition

Ariel Dawn Margo Bond Collins

https://ebookmeta.com/product/deep-shift-scared-shiftless-series-
book-1-1st-edition-ariel-dawn-margo-bond-collins-2/

Deep Shift Scared Shiftless Series Book 1 1st Edition

Ariel Dawn Margo Bond Collins

https://ebookmeta.com/product/deep-shift-scared-shiftless-series-
book-1-1st-edition-ariel-dawn-margo-bond-collins/

Flightless Fairy Texas Book 2 1st Edition Margo Bond

Collins

https://ebookmeta.com/product/flightless-fairy-texas-book-2-1st-
edition-margo-bond-collins/

Thin Skinned 1st Edition Margo Bond Collins Collins

Margo Bond

https://ebookmeta.com/product/thin-skinned-1st-edition-margo-
bond-collins-collins-margo-bond/
Worried by Werewolves Midlife Monsters Book 2 1st
Edition Margo Bond Collins

https://ebookmeta.com/product/worried-by-werewolves-midlife-
monsters-book-2-1st-edition-margo-bond-collins/

In Someone Else s Skin 1st Edition Margo Bond Collins

Bond Collins Margo

https://ebookmeta.com/product/in-someone-else-s-skin-1st-edition-
margo-bond-collins-bond-collins-margo/

Ryker 1st Edition Margo Bond Collins

https://ebookmeta.com/product/ryker-1st-edition-margo-bond-
collins/

Bronx 1st Edition Margo Bond Collins

https://ebookmeta.com/product/bronx-1st-edition-margo-bond-
collins/

Ryker 1st Edition Margo Bond Collins

https://ebookmeta.com/product/ryker-1st-edition-margo-bond-
collins-2/
 SHIFT STORM
SCARED SHIFTLESS
BOOK TWO

ARIEL DAWN
MARGO BOND COLLINS
 Shift Storm
Copyright © 2023 by Ariel Dawn & Margo Bond Collins

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or
by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by
any information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission of
the author except where permitted by law.

Cover by No Wasted Words Covers

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to
real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Created with Vellum
 CONTENTS

About Shift Storm

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
About the Authors
Join The Authors Online
More Books by Margo & Ariel
 ABOUT SHIFT STORM

A deadly experiment. A bond forged in captivity. A

dangerous truth.
After a nightmarish experiment goes awry, witch Evie Balfour and
hybrid shifter Angel Rodriguez are left to grapple with the sinister
truth of their sins: Ivan Cambridge’s wickedness wasn’t buried with
him.
As shift hits the fan, Angel knows time is of the essence. He will
either be stamped out like Cambridge and the rest of the hybrids, or
he will have to learn to live with a savage beast whose directive to
find his mate is more than desire. It’s instinct.
Driven by magic, love, and an unbreakable bond, Evie refuses to let
the man she loves die. Her need to find Angel and perfect
Cambridge’s unstable serum, preventing Angel from succumbing to a
deadly madness, drives her to question just how far she will go in
the name of love.
Will magic and love overcome the battle that awaits them? Or will
the bond they share save them and the rest of the hybrids? If Angel
can't wrest control from his beast and Evie's magic falls short,
they're both headed for one cataclysmic shift storm.
 CHAPTER 1

EVIE BALFOUR

T
he hybrid shifter bite mark under my sleeve itches like crazy,
but I can’t do anything about it—not until after I finish drawing
my spell circle in chalk on the floor of my garage.
I could set the circle in my kitchen—or even my carpeted living
room, for that matter. Technically, I don’t have to physically draw it
at all. I could simply trace it out with my athame, my ceremonial
spell knife.
But I don't want to damage my home.
And I never know when the spell is going to go awry. The first time I
ended up with a blue-gray potion dripping from my kitchen ceiling
and burning through the tile floor, I shifted my entire brew-making
endeavor out to my two-car garage.
And the chalk makes it easier to create a clearly defined spell circle.
Otherwise, I’m just as likely to wind up not connecting the two ends
of the circle together, and an open loop is...
Well, let’s just say it can create some bad juju.
My cousin Cynthia has accused me of not being a very good witch.
Maybe she’s right.
I know I’m not a typical witch, anyway. Despite my bloodlines, which
stretch back to 1500s Scotland in an unbroken line of witches, spells
have never come easy for me.
There’s always been something different about me. Marigold, the
leader of the coven I was born into, tells me she suspects I’m a
throwback—genetically more connected to the original witches in my
family line than to my more recent ancestresses.
Like those long-ago magic-users, I will have to learn to do magic
from scratch.
She might be right. But to be honest, I’m just glad to have someone
who believes in me and my abilities—despite all evidence to the
contrary.
At the ripe old age of twenty-five, I’ve finally figured out that I can’t
do spells the way they’ve always been done. I can’t make them work
using the instructions left behind by my forebears.
Give me one of their spells, and it will almost certainly blow up in my
face—sometimes literally.
No, I have to work out my own special variations on those ancient
spells.
That means a lot of trial and error and the occasional exploding
potion.
It also means that I haven’t been able to track down Angel using
any of the standard locating spells.
I met Angel Rodriguez when we were both employees of WolfBane,
Inc.—allegedly a company engaged in biochemical research, among
other endeavors.
But the company was doing much more than it publicly claimed,
because it was owned by Ivan Cambridge, an alpha hybrid shifter
monster who wanted to take over all the shifter packs in the world—
and then possibly take over the rest of the world, too.
So when both Angel and I tried to leave, Cambridge tossed us in
cages. And while he held us, Angel and I were forced to do the
alpha hybrid’s bidding.
He turned Angel into a hybrid werewolf monster, just like him.
Now, it’s been ten days since the man I love shifted and fled the
warehouse where we were imprisoned.
Ten days since Detective Wesley Anne Kane rescued me from Ivan
Cambridge, since my captor had died.
Ten days since my heart shattered into pieces when Angel didn’t
seem to recognize me.
And I had spent every waking moment since then trying to learn
where Angel is hiding.
So now I am trying to teach myself the best way to track down
Angel.
I’ll keep doing it, too—until I find him or die trying, I vow to myself.
I finish the circle and push up the sleeve of my knit shirt high
enough to look at the bite. Slowly, I unwind the bandage I keep
loosely wrapped around it.
It should have started healing up by now. Instead, it’s still red and
raw.
I slide my fingers over it, trying to rub away some of the itch without
once again breaking open the barely closed skin.
Nothing I’ve done has helped heal the damn thing.
I’d had some hope that the potion I’d given Reed Owens would help
me too.
But it didn’t.
As far as I know, I’m the only witch who’s ever been bitten by a
hybrid shifter.
And I have no idea what it’s doing to me.
I haven’t shifted into a beast form.
But I suspect I’m changing in other ways.
For one thing, the pre-bite tweaks I made to various spells to make
them my own are no longer working. I can feel the magic inside me,
and with enough work, I can still cast minor spells, but something
is… off.
I shake my head and wrap the bandage back around the wound,
then pull my sleeve down.
Quickly, I sketch a pentagram inside the circle, then set my items at
the points—incense for air, a candle for fire, and bowl of water, a
chunk of rock for earth, and my cauldron at the top point to
represent the spirit that animates all things.
Then I sit down cross-legged in the center and close my eyes,
centering myself.
This time it’s going to work, I tell myself. This time, I’m going to find
Angel.
I close my eyes and begin chanting, calling on the forces of magic all
around me, breathing them in and allowing them to move through
me.
And when I find him, I will never let him go.
 CHAPTER 2

ANGEL RODRIGUEZ

M
y legs are tense and sore, my muscles throbbing with fire, but
I can’t stop running. I’ve always known I was meant for better
things, but my exposure—my lot in life—has me at a
disadvantage. But never in my life did I think I would end up here,
running from the woman I love, running from the life I once knew
and the mistakes I have made like a coward.
Like a monster.
The word reverberates in my brain as the torrid memory replays on
an awful loop. The serum Ivan had given me… it hadn’t worked the
first time.
But because Evie and I were held against our will, threatened with
our love for one another… we’d have to make sure this batch was
viable.
And it was viable, all right. I’m not sure what I expected; after all,
I’d seen the results of the shifting serum in action before Evie had
isolated the proteins to make the berserk factor disappear, so I
understood better than most, as Cambridge’s security detail, what
the serum does.
Hell, that’s how I got into this mess. Because of my friend, Que,
who’d taken the serum and stroked out. It killed him. Boiled him
from the inside out because his body wasn’t strong enough, in
Cambridge’s opinion, to hold the hybrid serum, to hold the beast.
I was apparently strong enough to hold the beast, but not strong
enough to ground myself. It all happened in the blink of an eye. The
screams and sounds around me were like white noise as my body
transformed, my bones breaking like Que’s had, my entire frame
contorting within seconds into that of a visceral predator. My insides
heated like molten lava, and my brain was adjusting at the speed of
light, making way for a new control system, a new… person? No,
person wasn’t the right word, because the creature inside of me, the
one who I shared a body with, was anything but human.
The daily struggle to regain control over my body is daunting, on top
of the non-stop running, only stopping for a moment to pass out and
refuel my human body, which my beast protests.
According to him, we don’t need sleep.
We only need to find her, my mate.
But I can’t go back to Evie Balfour even if I wanted to. Not after I’d
snapped and almost…
I force my thoughts down, because the moment I think of her, of her
terrified eyes when I saw the blood dripping from her, from where
Ivan sank his teeth into her…
Trying to take what was mine…
I see red. Everything is a blur after that and…
The last thing I ever want is to hurt anyone, especially Evie. And the
look of terror on her face when she saw me, the animal I had
become…
I could have killed her, too, and that violated every ounce of hope, of
wishful thinking that somehow we’d come out of this alive.
I was wrong. So fucking wrong.
Which is why I need to stay as far away from Evie as possible and
give her the best chance she has at living the life she deserves. And
she doesn’t deserve to pay for my mistakes.
The beast inside me pushes against its human cage, as usual,
incensed by the thought of our mate. His jaws snap, and he growls
as he tries to propel me, forcing me to turn around and give this up.
But Evie isn’t the only thing I’m running from.
Ivan Cambridge’s death wasn’t bound to go unnoticed, nor was the
explosion or the discovery of his mad scientist lab. I’ve kept a low
profile, but I’ve seen the news. The news that spread my picture all
over the media as the man who murdered Ivan Cambridge. Who was
at large, armed, and dangerous.
I’m not armed, but they were right. I am dangerous.
I’ve managed to evade the cops thus far, by a hair, but I know if I
stop, if I turn around to hightail my hybrid ass back to Evie and what
I’ve left behind, I will put us both in danger, again.
I can’t do that. Not after I’ve already fucked everything up. Which is
why when I see a familiar suit flash their badge at the waitress
behind the Red Corvette diner, I know I’ve overstayed my welcome
in this town. I know it’s time to run again.
Slipping out the back is easier now, with my beast. While I’m about
as noticeable as The Hulk in the middle of New York City with my
added muscle and structure—from the serum, no less—the beast
inside of me was bred, created to be the ultimate predator. Ivan’s
former goons don’t have the ability to go full on stealth, another
anomaly in my serum, and that’s the one thing that keeps me safe.
Though I guess safe is complicated when you are a hybrid wolf who
escaped from a top-secret lab aiding a literal mad scientist whose
death you are being framed for.
My blood heats, almost as if it is being jolted by electricity. Tiny
sparks, impulses flutter through me, like two opposite ends of wires
do just before the hot wire takes.
What the fuck? That’s certainly new…
But I don’t have time to mull over new problems. So instead, I slip
around the side, my hands in my pockets as I head to the side door,
walking casually, slowly as if I’m not terrified they would somehow
see through my stealth. And maybe a part of me wants them to. The
human part of me, who wants to be brought to justice for what I’ve
done. Punished as I deserve for hurting her. My little bruja.
The animal in me won out though, as he always does now.
So I casually stroll over to my beat up ’96 Buick, the most
inconspicuous car I could manage to hot wire from the impound lot.
I open the door, and I turn the key in the ignition, the sounds of the
radio filling the empty space as they drone on and on about catching
the killer at large, the one who was responsible for killing Ivan
Cambridge and leaving a trail of disaster in his wake.
And as I pull out of the parking lot, my heart thudding in my chest,
my blood heating with tiny jolts of electricity, I focus on the one
thing I now know.
That I am alive. And for now, this would have to be enough to get
me to the next town, the next bed.
Because I am no longer Angel Rodriguez.
I am a monster, and that is all I’ll ever be.
 CHAPTER 3

EVIE

T
wo days later, I approach the police station, my stomach
churning.
Wes called me that morning to ask me to come in, and as much as I
dread it, I know I have to see both the detective and her partner,
Shane. I need their help to save Angel from the hybrid madness,
and I fear it’s becoming a race against time.
As I push open the heavy doors of the station, the warmth inside
envelops me.
I check in with the officer at the front desk and he buzzes me
through to the back of the station. As I move into the squad room,
the familiar scent of stale coffee overwhelms me. I scan the room
for Wes and Shane—but instead of seeing them, my gaze meets
Reed’s across the bustling space, his sandy hair tousled and his
smile welcoming.
“Evie!” he calls out, making his way through the sea of officers and
personnel. He stops before me, his tall frame towering over mine.
“I’ve been hoping to have a chance to thank you properly for saving
me.”
I swallow hard and place a hand on his arm. At the memory, the
imagined scent of Angel’s blood still lingers in my nostrils, a cruel
reminder of the price I paid. I hesitate for a moment, feeling the
weight of my confession pressing down on me, before I finally
speak. “There’s something you should know about the potion.” I
pause, gathering my nerve. “It’s not as stable as I believed.”
His expression darkens, worry etching itself into the lines of his face,
and I blurt out the rest of it before I chicken out. “I think my magic
has been affected by Ivan Cambridge’s bite.”
“How do you mean?”
I glance down at my wrist, where the bite mark still festers beneath
the bandage, still not healing. “Ever since Ivan bit me, my powers
have been… even more unpredictable than usual. It’s like there’s a
storm inside me, and I can’t control it.” Fear wells up in my throat.
“I’m afraid that instability might affect the potion too.”
Reed’s hand finds mine, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll figure
this out.”
Doubt gnaws at my stomach, threatening to devour me whole, and
bile rises in my throat—but I nod, anyway.
“Let’s go wait for Wes and Shane in the back office,” Reed suggests,
leading me away from the bustling main area of the station. As we
walk, my thoughts race, chasing one another like animals hounded
by predators.
What if my magic continues to grow more unstable? What if I can’t
save Angel or the other hybrids? The thought of losing him sends a
chill through me, colder than any winter’s night.
Reed’s voice breaks through my thoughts, his gaze steady and
reassuring. “We’ll find a solution—we always do.”
A small smile tugs at my lips, despite the chaos brewing inside me.
The back office is starkly lit in bright fluorescents, the shadows dark
where two of the bulbs have burned out. The worn-out leather
couch I sink into creaks beneath me, a testament to the countless
officers who had spent their nights there, waiting for breakthroughs
in their cases.
Before I have a chance to gather my thoughts, the door swings open
with a soft thud. Wes and Shane emerge, followed by two
impeccably dressed figures—a woman with dark hair pulled back into
a braid and a tall man with a serious expression. I scramble to my
feet, wishing I hadn’t sat down in the first place.
“Evie Balfour, this is Agent Sylvia McGee and Agent Ben Roland with
the FBI,” Wes introduces them, her voice steady despite the tension
in the room. “They’ve been hunting Ivan for quite some time, and
now that he’s dead, they’re here to help us deal with the hybrids.”
“Nice to meet you, Evie,” Sylvia says, offering a reassuring smile and
holding out her hand to shake mine. She looks younger than I
suspect she has to be, given her job title, and her brown eyes are
kind. “We’ve heard a lot about your work with the potion.”
“Thanks. I’m glad I can help.” I try to sound more confident than I
feel. Ben simply nods, his hazel eyes studying me with a mix of
curiosity and caution.
“Evie has some news,” Reed says. My heart stutters in my chest.
“What is it?” Wes asks, her piercing green eyes boring into mine.
“Uh, well,” I stammer, overwhelmed by the presence of the officers.
Swallowing hard, I force myself to continue. “My magic has become
unstable—more unstable—since Ivan bit me. I can sense Angel’s
presence in the city, but every time I get close to him, it’s like he
vanishes into thin air.”
The silence that fills the room after my confession feels suffocating,
like a heavy cloud of fear has settled upon everyone present. My
heart races as I fiddle with the hem of my shirt, feeling completely
exposed under their watchful gazes.
“Interesting.” Ben speaks for the first time, breaking the silence and
furrowing his brow. “We’ll need to find a way to track him down
before things get worse.”
“Right,” I murmur. As each second ticks by, the urgency to save
Angel—and every other hybrid struggling to hold onto their sanity—
grows stronger, drowning out everything else. The room seems to
close in around me, my responsibility for saving the hybrids clogging
my throat. My love for Angel is the only thing that keeps me from
crumbling beneath the pressure, but even that feels like a fragile
thread, ready to snap at any moment.
“We’ll do everything we can to find Angel in time to save him from
the hybrid madness,” Wes says, her voice steady despite the weight
of the situation.
“Thank you,” I whisper, trying to ignore the fact that she hasn’t
promised to do anything more than try. But there’s more at play here
than just Angel’s safety.
“Actually, there’s something else.” I hesitate, swallowing the lump in
my throat. “Aside from sensing Angel, I’ve also picked up on the
presence of other hybrids through my magic. Some are here in the
city, but others... they’re much farther away.”
My words hang in the air, heavy with anticipation and dread. Sylvia’s
eyes widen, while Ben’s mouth twists in thought. Shane shifts
uncomfortably in his seat, but it’s Wes who steps forward, her face
set in a grim expression.
“We have work to do. We need to try to track down these hybrids
and help them before they succumb to the madness.”
There’s that word again—try.
“Okay,” Sylvia begins, her voice hard and authoritative. “Our first
objective is to locate all the hybrids created by Ivan, including Angel.
Then, we administer Evie’s potion to stabilize them.”
“Agreed,” Ben adds, his gaze scanning the people in the room. “We’ll
start with the local hybrids and expand our search from there.”
My heart rate quickens as they lay out their plan. A heavy knot
forms in the pit of my stomach.
“Wait,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. All eyes turn toward me,
and I swallow nervously. “There’s something you should know about
the potion.”
Wes raises an eyebrow. “What is it?”
“I...” I hesitate, my throat constricting with anxiety. “The potion isn’t
perfect—especially not the new batches. It might not work for every
hybrid. Since my magic has been so unstable since Ivan bit me, I
can’t guarantee that it will work the way it’s supposed to.”
The room falls silent again as everyone absorbs this new
information. I can see the worry flickering in their eyes, and I know
they’re wondering if we’ll be able to save any hybrids at all.
“We understand the risks,” Wes says. “For now, go home and get
some rest. We need you at your best. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Okay.” With a sigh, I turn to leave.
Reed offers to walk me out of the station, and I gratefully accept,
needing the comfort of a familiar presence. As we reach the
entrance, he turns to me, his gaze earnest. “I believe in you. You
saved me with that potion, and I know you can stabilize it for the
others.”
I nod, trying to draw strength from his confidence in me.
As I walk away from the police station, the city’s cacophony of
sounds envelops me—honking horns, chattering pedestrians, and
distant sirens. My thoughts race as I make my way toward the
subway station. The sun dips below the horizon, casting an eerie
orange glow over the city streets, and I try to shake off the heavy
sense of responsibility that grips me. My thoughts swirl like storm
clouds, darkening my mood with each step toward the station.
Why had Wes called me in at all? She could have easily discussed
their plans over the phone.
Then it hits me like a bolt of lightning. Wes had almost certainly
arranged the meeting so that the FBI agents could meet me, since I
was the key to saving any remaining hybrids. The realization both
flatters and terrifies me; it isn’t just Angel’s life that hangs in the
balance, but countless other innocents who desperately need my
help.
“Keep it together, Evie,” I mutter under my breath, clenching my fists
as I descend into the dimly lit subway station. The rancid smell of
garbage and stale urine fills my nostrils, but I barely notice it, too
consumed by my racing thoughts.
I lean against a grimy tiled wall, waiting for the train to arrive.
What can I do to stabilize the potion?
How can I save Angel and all the other hybrids?
My hand instinctively goes to my wrist, where the bite from Ivan
Cambridge still festers. I scratch at it absentmindedly, wincing as
pain shoots through my arm. The reminder of how much more
fragile and imperfect my magic has become only adds to my anxiety.
“Ugh, why can’t things just be simple for once?” I mutter, kicking a
pebble across the cracked tile floor.
The familiar rumble of an approaching train echoes through the
tunnel. As it roars into the station, I step forward.
“Evie Balfour,” a raspy voice calls out from behind me. I turn to see a
disheveled man with wild eyes staring at me intently. “You’re the
witch who’s been helping those... monsters.”
“Excuse me?” I stammer, alarm bells ringing in my head. How does
he know who I was?
“Those hybrids are abominations, and you’re just making things
worse!” he spits out, his face contorted with rage.
“Look, I don’t know who you think I am, but—” I start to protest,
but his expression darkens further, and I realize there is no
reasoning with him. Fear coils in my stomach like a snake as I back
away, unsure of what he might do next.
“Stay away from me,” I warn, my voice shaking despite my best
efforts to sound confident. The man sneers, but before he can say
anything more, the train doors slide open, providing me with a
much-needed escape.
“Leave me alone!” I shout, hurrying onto the subway car. As the
doors close behind me, I press my back against them, trembling
with a mix of fear and anger.
Who is that man? How does he know about the hybrids?
I will have to tell Wes and the rest of her team about them, of
course. But for now, he’s just another reminder of how high the
stakes are—not just for Angel and the hybrids, but for me as well.
I have to find a way to save them all.
To save us all.
No matter what it takes.
 CHAPTER 4

ANGEL

T
he sun peeks through the trees, golden and glittering against
the long-standing oaks and pines. Fractures of light dance along
the greenery, spattering against the dark wood of the cabin that
has likely been abandoned by the look of things.
I grew up in the city, but that doesn’t mean I was ever devoid of
country experiences. Before my mom got sick, she and my dad used
to take me up to the mountains once every fall to go on a hike, to
appreciate the balance of nature’s life and death cycles.
I always remember feeling at peace when we did that. The
mountains were such a stark contrast to the neighborhood I’d grown
up in, it was almost like traveling to another dimension. Away from
the violence, away from the darkness, away from the demons that
threatened us on a daily basis. Up in the mountains, all I had to be
was me.
We stopped going when my mom got sick, and after her death. it
just didn’t feel right to go back up there without her.
But I needed somewhere I could go, somewhere to hide out and be
inconspicuous as possible while the police chased their tails looking
for me until they’d finally given up.
But even then it wasn’t like I could go back…
I can’t afford to think that far ahead though. Right now, I just need
a bed, and shelter from the cold oncoming night. I turn off the car,
pausing for a moment as the reality of my life stares me in the face.
Maybe when all this is over, maybe I can settle down somewhere like
this-remote, quiet.
Just live off the land until…
I shove the thoughts down as I exit the car, shutting the door.
Leaves skitter over my feet as I make my way through them towards
the moss-covered steps that led to the front porch.
Slipping my hand in my pocket, I pull out a hairpin—I’d learned to
always keep one on me, especially after being locked up by Ivan.
Preventative measures and all.
I didn’t like the idea of locked doors before I’d come into
Cambridge’s employment, and I certainly don’t care for them now
given the circumstances.
Lucky for me though, the lock doesn’t take much jimmying before
opening up nice and easy. The stale, bitter scent of abandonment
wafts towards me like death, and I nearly turn away.
I know this was the best option for me at the moment. Maybe, just
maybe I can spend my time waiting out the cops fixing up the damn
place, get my mind off things. I walk in, attempting to flip the
switch. The lights flicker, only for a moment, but they come on;
whoever had this place was at least still paying the electricity, even
though they had clearly not returned in ages.
Fine by me.
Just as I turn the corner to the kitchen, a twinge of electricity stops
me in my place. My chest tightens and instantly, I put my hand over
my heart, expecting a heart attack, but all there was… was…
Peace.
The pain in my chest radiates as my beast surges forth,
understanding in that moment what I can’t.
Mate. Our mate is…
The word, the thought, the reality that somehow my connection with
Evie still exists, that it is strong enough to ping me, like some old
school dial-up computer, is both a relieving notion and a terrifying
one.
But this one word, this one truth is enough to bring my beast to the
front lines. His ferocity, his drive, his need for his mate—our mate—
is directive numero uno. The need to sink our fangs in Evie, to bury
ourselves in her wet, warm pussy until we were nothing but magic
and energy; nothing but one entity is the most insane emotional
response I’ve ever felt over anything in my life.
But my life isn’t mine anymore… not completely.
Before I knew it, I was doubled over onto my hands and knees, my
bones breaking and forging into new shapes once more, hair
sprouting all over me as I bust through my clothing like some
Universal monster movie Wolf Man.
And I can’t stop it, the transition. The beast inside of me taking over
like the true force it is reared for, until I am shoved into the corners
of my own consciousness. The wood beneath my paws causes the
floorboards to creak, and there’s only one directive, one desire, one
instinct.
Mate.
I run off like a bat out of hell through the door, my paws hitting the
dirt and trudging up leaves in their wake as I race against the
setting sun, against the chilly mountain air, towards her, or what we
perceive as her.
I can smell the faint scent of her natural scent, like cinnamon and
vanilla on the wind, and I chase after it like a dog with a bone. But
just when I think I can catch it, I arrive at a clearing, and the scent
just… fades.
Disappearing into the air like it’s never been here to begin with.
This pisses off both my beast and me. It unnerves him from the
depths of his animalistic desires, for what he longs for is a vanishing
act, likely a figment of our shared hybrid madness.
We howl, he and I, in the dying sun, our lament echoing off the
mountains as we mourn what we need but will never have again.

W hen I make my way back through the woods to the cabin , I am on

two feet. Naked and sweaty from my trek back, from the transition
back and I force myself forward to take back my body once more, I
collapse onto the couch, spent.
But more than anything, I feel hopeful, despite all the evidence
telling me I shouldn’t be. Despite that the truth tells me I need to be
practical, a part of me hopes that maybe, somehow, someway, Evie
can feel me. Even now, all these miles away.
That she knows I am alive, and that I want her against all better
efforts. I sink into the dilapidated cushions of the couch, the dusty
leather squeaking beneath me as it cups my bare ass. I am definitely
in need of a shower, but I’m not so sure about the water here just
yet. I feel like I can barely move, as is. Shifting takes a toll on me,
despite the fact that my body seems to be able to handle it. After a
shift, I always feel weak, tired, and depleted, and the only thing that
makes me feel any better is rest, and…
I close my eyes, muttering out a curse as my cock twitches, at the
very thought of her name. I groan in defeat, knowing there is no
way out but through, though I hate that this is what I have been
reduced to.
I wrap my hand around my cock, focusing on breathing as I let
Evie’s memory come to the surface. Of her soft, silky hair, of her
sweet, plush lips, of her legs wrapped around me.
There is so much I hate Ivan for.
But the truth of the matter is all of those awful things I’ve done, all
of the pain and suffering I’ve been a part of and even caused, has
led me to her.
Evie.
Having been locked in a cage should have made us hate one
another, especially when Ivan started to leverage us against one
another. But it only solidifies the bond between us. A bond that was
bred in captivity, nonetheless, but which I know to be the truest
bond of all, one created prior to me turning into a monster.
How can I hate Ivan Cambridge, but also be indebted to him for the
greatest thing he’s ever given me?
My cock aches at the memory of her warm pussy, wrapping around
me like a vice. Of the sounds that escaped her as we tried to keep
quiet, of her fingers in my hair.
Moisture pebbles at my head, and I let my mind wander down all the
dark pathways of yesterday, remembering every curve, every
movement of her body. The fire in my blood sparks with a fresh bout
of electricity, making me stop for a moment.
Have I imagined it? That sweet, electrical ping? My cock throbbing in
my hand as I squeeze myself, my thumb running through the warm,
sticky precum coating me.
On top of the need to come, my balls literally ache. Tingling,
overwhelming need echoes there, knowing what my body needs to
do, what I am made to do.
Or rather what the beast inside of me is made to do…
And sure enough as I question it, that ping is back with a
vengeance, like sonar in my blood and I breathe a sigh of relief for
the moment.
I know it’s wrong, but in a way it feels like she is somehow here.
With me.
And that’s what I hold on to, hoping she could feel me too, even if
whatever I feel is a figment of hybrid madness.
The next jolt is like a lightning bolt to my system, rocking me, my
swollen cock, and my aching body into a blinding orgasm that comes
far too fast and much too hard for my liking. I like to take my time
with things, and I’ve only just found her, a silver thread, only to lose
her again.
I cup my hand over my pulsing cock, tears pricking the edges of my
eyes. My spend fills my hand, leaking through the edges between
my fingers as I hate myself for everything that has transpired, and
equally wish it would last a moment longer.
And after I’ve gone soft, only then do I realize the electricity isn’t
coming back. I swallow harshly as a tear runs down my cheek.
My time is numbered.
Madness has surely started to set in.
But perhaps this is the fate I deserve for what I’ve done.
 CHAPTER 5

EVIE

H
ome at last.
The door clicks into place behind me, and I let out a sigh. My
eyes scan the dimly lit living room as my senses take in the familiar
scents of cinnamon and vanilla that fill the air. It’s quiet, peaceful
even, but the sudden thrumming of energy in my veins makes me
freeze.
“Angel?” I whisper softly, feeling his presence so strongly it’s like he’s
right beside me. I glance over my shoulder, almost expecting to see
him there. But of course, he isn’t.
It’s a magical connection—one that should have been growing
stronger over time, given how much power I’ve poured into it.
I close my eyes, concentrating on the warmth of our bond. He must
be thinking of me too, wherever he is. I clasp my hands together,
focusing my unpredictable magic, trying to latch onto the connection
with Angel and strengthen it.
“Come on, Evie,” I murmur, gritting my teeth. “You can do this.”
But instead of solidifying the connection, my magic glitches yet
again, the green glow behind my eyes sputtering like a faulty
lightbulb. The sensation in my chest wavers and threatens to slip
away entirely. Panic surges through me, and I fight against the urge
to lose control.
“Focus, focus,” I mutter under my breath, gathering my strength and
pouring it into the bond between Angel and me. I can feel his white
wolf-like beast lurking beneath the surface, a constant reminder of
the danger he faces and the fear that one day, it’ll overpower him.
“Damn it!” I curse as my grip on the connection weakens even more,
my frustration mounting. I can’t fail him; I won’t let him down, not
when so much is at stake.
“Evie,” a voice echoes in my mind. It’s Angel, and the sound of it
steadies me, giving me the strength I need to push forward.
The sound of my own breathing fills the room as I fight to regain
control of my emotions. Frustration boils inside me, threatening to
explode like a fireball from my fingertips. My hands tremble as I try
to focus on the remnants of the magical connection.
“Come on,” I whisper, my voice trembling with desperation. “I can’t
lose you. I need you.”
As if answering my unspoken plea, a sudden surge of energy
courses through me, its intensity nearly knocking me off my feet. It’s
as if invisible threads have woven themselves around my very soul,
drawing me closer to the man I love. I gasp, my eyes widening with
shock as the connection solidifies, allowing me to glimpse into
Angel’s life for a brief, precious moment.
He’s alone—so achingly alone—and the weight of his solitude
presses down on me like a heavy shroud. But in the midst of his
isolation, I sense his thoughts are filled with me. His longing echoes
through the bond we share, and my heart aches with the knowledge
that I’m the one he craves, even when he’s so far from my reach.
“Evie,” he murmurs again, his voice deep and rich like velvet,
sending shivers down my spine. He doesn’t know I’m here, sharing
this intimate moment with him, but his yearning is a palpable force
that sweeps me up in its current.
It happens suddenly, without warning—a crescendo of pleasure that
ripples through Angel’s body and into my own, shivering down every
nerve ending. I cry out, my fingers digging into the fabric of the
couch as I experience his orgasm as if it were my own. The
sensation is overwhelming, a tidal wave of desire and ecstasy that
leaves me breathless and trembling in its wake.
“Angel,” I gasp, my entire body quivering with an arousal I hadn’t
anticipated. The connection between us is so raw, so primal, that for
a moment, it feels as if our very souls are intertwined.
As quickly as the connection formed, it dissipates, leaving me alone
in my own living room once more and filled with confusion, longing
—and a lingering sexual arousal that threatens to consume me. My
chest heaves as I struggle to catch my breath, the lingering traces of
Angel’s presence still swirling around me like an ethereal embrace,
and my breathing comes in ragged gasps as I try to process what
just occurred, my cheeks flushed with a mixture of embarrassment
and desire.
Fuck.
Angel needs me, and I can’t afford to let my own tangled emotions
distract me from saving him.
But the remnants of the connection linger like an ember, taunting me
with memories of Angel’s touch and the taste of his lips. I clench my
fists, the frustration simmering within me as I attempt to collect
myself. It’s not fair; it’s never been fair.
I stand up from the couch, pacing around the room as I try to
formulate a plan in my mind. Though my magic has been
unpredictable lately, there must be something, anything, I can use to
my advantage.
At some point while I’ve been focusing on Angel, a storm broke
outside. The rain beats a steady rhythm against the windowpane, its
cool droplets trickling down the glass in an endless symphony. My
heart’s pounding, the magic that connected me to Angel now fading
like the last light of a long day. My frustration mounts, and I can’t
help but feel like I’m on the edge of something monumental,
something that could change our lives forever.
My gaze falls upon an old grimoire sitting on the bookshelf, its pages
filled with spells and incantations passed down through generations
of witches.
It’s never worked for me before—I’ve always had to create my own
spells.
But maybe this time will be different. “Maybe there’s something in
here that can help,” I mutter, flipping through the worn pages. My
heart races with each new spell I read, the possibility of success just
beyond my reach.
“Damn it!” I exclaim, slamming the book shut. “Why can’t I find
anything useful?”
An answer comes to me quietly, as if I were hearing someone else
whisper it in my ear.
I turn around, expecting to see someone else in the room, but
there’s no one there. My heart races, and I feel a chill run down my
spine.
“Angel?” I call out, hoping… but there’s no response.
I’m alone in the room.
Then I hear the whisper again, clearer this time. “You don’t need the
book,” it says. “You have the power within you.”
It’s the same thing my grandmother used to say to me when I was
younger, trying to learn my first spells.
And she was always right.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes, focusing on the power
within me. I feel it pulsing through my veins, a raw energy that I’ve
never fully tapped into before.
I can see it, feel it—but I still can’t reach it.
I take another deep breath, feeling the energy building up inside of
me. It's like a wildfire, spreading through my body and igniting every
nerve. I focus on the feeling, letting it consume me.
But once again, it fades.
Still, it was stronger than usual.
Wasn’t it?
I bite my lip, my determination burning bright within me. I won’t
give up on him, no matter what.
I will find a way to help you. We’ll be together again. I promise.
I hope he can hear me.
But no matter what, with or without my magic, I will save Angel.
 CHAPTER 6

ANGEL

T
here’s a sense of peace in the woods that is somehow both
eerie and serene at the same time. I line up my log on the
oversized tree trunk on the side of the cabin, my hands on my
knees as I take in its sight, figuring out just how many cracks it’ll
probably take to split it. The person who must’ve owned this place
left wood under a tarp on the side of the cabin, but it’s seen better
days. Some of it is pretty moist and dense, and while it works okay
enough, I know fresh wood will provide me with more warmth, not
to mention it’ll burn a hell of a lot longer.
Still, I haven’t split a log since I was a teen, and a part of me is
concerned I’ll somehow hack my hand off.
The beast inside me grunts, clearly incensed by such mundane
tasks, but I digress.
“One.” I step back, lining my sight up on the log, picking up the axe.
It’s still relatively sharp, sharp enough it will do the job for the time
being, anyway.
“Two.” I grip the axe, planting my feet firmly on the ground, taking
in a breath, evening out my breathing.
“Three,” I bring the axe down with a deadening crack, and the split
of the first strike echoes in the wood, causing some stray birds to
flutter off.
My beast's inner ears perk up, causing goosebumps to spread along
my arms. The strangest feeling, as if something or someone is
watching me, pours over me, but I try to shrug it off. My beast is
likely just antsy because it’s been days since we felt that electricity,
since we felt her in our connection, and he’s growing more impatient
by the minute.
Besides, it isn’t like anyone else is out this far in the mountains. I’ve
run the perimeter of these woods for the last two nights, hunting to
sate my beast’s desire, to keep us both well fed during these trying
times. While we wait for the cops, wait for them to drop this case.
And then what? What will you do once the storm has blown over?
It’s not like you can go back to the life you had before…
I shrug off the weird vibes, deciding instead to take another crack at
the wood, this time hitting it much harder than the first. My hands
burn from the friction of the axe’s handle, gripping it so tightly.
Just as the wood splits, I get a whiff of something that makes both
my beast and me stiffen.
Since my… transition… I’ve noticed my sense of smell has become a
bit more… sophisticated. I can pick up the scent of a deer, miles
away, or the exact notes of a waitress’s drugstore perfume in a way
I haven’t been able to previously discern.
And part of that is the ability to scent prey. But this, this scent…
tangy and sharp… is of something I’ve not smelled before, but it’s a
scent that my beast understands in the utmost animalistic way
possible.
Predator.
We are being hunted.
I grip my axe tighter, my inner beast snarling beneath my skin,
begging to shift. But I’m not about to give up control so easily, not if
there really is some sort of animal in the wings. I’m more dangerous
to a damn animal with my axe at the moment, than I would be as a
wolf stricken with madness.
I step cautiously on the dead leaves on the ground, careful to avoid
snapping any twigs or branches. My eyes peeled, my senses all alert
and processing information faster than I can blink. There’s nothing
before me, beside me, or behind me. I turn around, my gaze sliding
from tree to tree as I sniff the air, the scent of predator faint on the
wind.
Whoever or whatever it was has gone, disappeared.
Like it’s just… vanished into thin air.
“Fucking madness,” I say as I lower my axe, feeling like an idiot.
“Starting to take its toll, I guess,” I mutter as my beast growls
beneath my skin, in the crevices of my brain.
“Clearly, you are loco en la cabeza,” I say, even though I know I
must look insane doing so. But how else am I supposed to
communicate with an insane beast that lives inside my body? Talking
in my head actually makes me feel more nuts.
Like a psychopath.
Because that’s what I am. That’s what Ivan Cambridge bred.
Psychopathic hybrids he could control.
Ivan Cambridge is no more, but I know enough shady businessmen
to know that they usually have several arms of operations, like a
damn octopus. Cut one arm off, and another will eventually grow
back.
But who in their right mind would rise up to be the ringleader of an
army of mentally unstable hybrid shifter beings? Even the good guys
aren’t always noble. What would they do if they caught the hybrids?
Probably the same thing Ivan did, experiment. In the name of
science.
They are just trading one prison for another.
I casually stroll back to my cabin, grabbing my split wood. Whatever
has happened left enough of an impact, I want to forget about it. I
really want to forget about everything.
Clear my mind, and just rest. To dream.
The radio is still on, just as I left it, all static and grumbles as the DJ
on air jabbers on about the manhunt for Ivan Cambridge’s killer.
“Here we have FBI Special Agents Sylvia McGee and Ben Roland,
leads on this case. The public appreciates you taking time out of this
investigation to speak with us today,” the DJ says, and I freeze.
“Thank you, thank you. Catching Mr. Cambridge’s killer is our highest
priority, but the public should know that this killer is not the only
danger,” Sylvia says.
Her partner picks up the story. “Agent McGee is correct. While Ivan’s
murderer is at large, there is another problem this investigation
faces, and that is the fact that it seems Mr. Cambridge’s operations
wide-ranging, and his list of criminal employees is extensive. In the
event of his death, these criminals are believed to have fled their
employer’s compound, which means they could be anywhere within
a hundred-mile radius—maybe even farther.”
“If you notice any newcomers or any suspicious activity in your
neighborhood, please do not hesitate to call this number—” Sylvia
continues, rattling off some tip-line number, but I can barely make it
out through the rage flying through my blood.
My rage, and my beast.
I scoff at the obvious cover-up. While I didn’t expect the cops or the
feds to tell the public the truth about shifters and what Ivan was
really up to, it hurts to hear the tale they’ve spun, how they refer to
the hybrids—me included—as criminals.
Not all of us are criminals… some of us are casualties.
I turn the radio off, deciding instead to focus on the things I can
control. Like stocking the furnace with fresh wood and hunting down
dinner.

W ith my belly full and the cabin warming up , I feel myself ease up the
slightest bit. I settle in on the couch, wrapping myself in the flannel
blanket that is draped over the back. And as I drift off to sleep, I
dream.
I dream of Evie, of her bright energy, of her soft lips.
“Angel…” She leans into my space, her fingernails trailing over my
rough facial hair, which seems to be growing at a faster rate than
what I’m used to.
Her nails scratch me under my chin like a dog, and she giggles.
The sound is like wind chimes, like bells in the distance. Soft,
beautiful.
“You do not like this?” I tease as I lean in, planting the ghost of a
kiss against her lips, brushing my bristly beard against her.
Evie melts in my arms like butter, a contented sound leaving her
throat.
“It’s… different, but not a bad different…” she whispers, her gaze
flashing to me with heat and love. So much love…
My beast lurches beneath my skin, his desire prevalent in my brain.
To bite, to mark.
To mate.
I slide my hands through her silky hair, taking her lips once again as
the wolf in me lunges forth, tasting her sweetness.
I take her bottom lip between my teeth, nibbling just a bit, and the
sound she makes causes my cock to ache, my wolf to salivate.
“Angel, I….”
“Shhh,” I whisper, letting my hands slide down her back, over her
curves, resting my warm hands against the small of her back.
“I know, bruja, I know,” I whisper, pulling her closer against me. My
cock throbs, and I have the distinct feeling this perfect moment, this
perfect dream will end soon, and I want to hold onto it, hold onto
her as long as possible.
And when Evie kisses me, running her hands through my hair, over
my chest and my aching hardness, for a moment, I’m content to
never wake up again, as long as I have her in my arms.
But fate is a cruel mistress indeed, and as soon as I taste her, as
soon as I feel her delicious curves and soft skin, her hair in my palm,
her lips against mine… the daylight returns, taking with it all my
hopes and dreams once more.
 CHAPTER 7

EVIE

T
he glow surrounding my hands intensifies as I concentrate on
calling the magical energy from inside me. My heart races as I
reach out through the astral plane, searching for Angel.
As the tendrils of my magic stretch forward, I feel a connection
forming, like an invisible thread drawing us together.
“Angel,” I whisper into the void, hoping he hears me.
“Evie?” The sound of his voice sends shivers down my spine. “Is that
you?”
“Yes,” I say, relief flooding through me. “I’m here.”
I float in the dream-state, surrounded by an ethereal haze.
An image begins to take shape before me, blurry at first but
gradually growing clearer. Before me, Angel’s figure materializes, his
dark eyes locking onto mine as if he’s searching for a piece of my
soul.
He’s standing in a small cabin, surrounded by the darkness of the
woods outside. His muscular figure is bathed in the soft light of a
lamp, making his dark brown eyes seem even deeper than usual.
“Where are you?” I ask, trying to discern anything that might give
away his location. But the cabin is messy, filled with clutter and
debris, making it impossible to pinpoint any specific details.
“I’m safe for now.”
As we stand there in this dream-like state, our surroundings
wavering between reality and illusion, the intensity of my emotions
grows stronger.
“Tell me where you are?” I plead again, trying to keep my voice
steady.
He hesitates for a moment before replying, “I can’t tell you. It’s not
safe.”
“Safe? Nothing about this is safe,” I say, frustration bubbling up
inside me. “I need to know where you are so I can help you.”
“I don’t want to put you in danger.” His eyes flicker with worry, dark
brown pools reflecting the weight of his fear for me.
“We’ve already been in danger, remember?” My words come out
harsher than I intend, but I need him to understand. I roll up my
sleeve, revealing the bite mark on my arm from Ivan’s attack. “Ivan
already hurt us both.”
Angel’s gaze falls upon the still-oozing bite mark, and his jaw
clenches. “I remember. I should’ve been able to protect you.”
“This isn’t your fault,” I say, my heart aching at the guilt etched
across his face. I reach out to touch his cheek, feeling the warmth of
his skin even within the dream. “We’re in this together, and we’ll
figure it out.”
“Let me see your arm again,” Angel says.
I hesitantly extend my arm, revealing the ugly mark marring my pale
skin. A chorus of emotions flicker across Angel’s face, his eyes
darkening as he examines the bite mark left by Ivan—with pain,
anger, and something more tender that makes my heart swell.
The anger radiating from him is palpable, and I can sense his beast
stirring within, outraged by the violation.
“It’s okay. I’m fine,” I try to reassure him, but his gaze remains
locked on the wound, a growl rumbling low in his chest.
“Fine? He bit you,” he snarls, his voice strained with barely contained
fury. Angel takes a deep breath, visibly struggling to rein in his
beast. His brown eyes soften as he gazes into mine, and I feel the
warmth of his love seep through the cold tendrils of fear that cling to
my heart. “You’re right,” he murmurs, reaching up to cup my cheek.
“I’m just so worried about you. The bite should have healed by
now.”
“I know,” I whisper, leaning into his touch. “I think it’s interacting
with my magic.”
His fingers trace the curve of my jaw, teasing strands of my blonde
hair away from my face. As if guided by instinct, he presses his lips
to my forehead, leaving a tender kiss that sends chills running
through my body. But even in this moment of connection, the
urgency of our situation gnaws at me.
“I don’t know if it’s safe for us to be this close,” I whisper, my heart
hammering in my chest as his dark eyes lock with mine. The beast
within him is simmering with fury, and though he’s managed to keep
it under control so far, I dread the thought of what might happen if
its rage boils over.
“Mi vida, I promise you I won’t let anything happen to you.” His
voice is low and reassuring, but still tinged with a growl that betrays
his struggle to contain the beast. “I need you to trust me,” he
murmurs, his warm breath ghosting over my arm as he lowers his
lips to the bite. The softness of his kiss sends shivers down my
spine. “I will protect you.”
His kisses trail up my arm, featherlight touches that leave a blazing
path in their wake. When he reaches my shoulder, his fingers deftly
unbutton my shirt, exposing my chest to his heated gaze. Anxiety
and desire clash within me, making it difficult to focus on anything
other than the intensity of his touch.
“Are you okay with this?” he asks, his voice barely audible.
I nod, entrusting myself to him completely as he removes my shirt,
leaving me vulnerable before him.
“Always,” I breathe, the word a prayer on my lips as Angel presses
his lips to my breasts. The sensation of his mouth on me—gentle
and reverent—sends sparks of pleasure coursing through my veins.
My fingers tangle in his jet-black hair, urging him closer.
“Your heart is racing,” he murmurs between kisses, his breath hot
against my skin. “Is it fear or desire?”
“Both,” I confess, unable to hide the truth from him. “But I trust
you.”
As his tongue flicks over my nipples, I gasp at the jolt of pleasure
that courses through me. It’s a heady mix of passion and power, an
intoxicating feeling.
He pulls me—my astral self, anyway—down onto the sofa behind
him, rolling me under his body. The heat of Angel’s mouth on my
sensitive flesh sends a shiver down my spine, and I cannot help but
arch my back, writhing beneath him. My body responds to his touch
with a fervor I’ve never known before. Each caress feels like a
promise, an unspoken vow that binds us together.
“Evie,” he breathes against my skin, his voice husky with desire as
he moves further down my body. His fingers find the hem of my
skirt, lifting it slowly, deliberately. “I need to taste you.”
My heart pounds in my chest as he slips my underwear off, leaving
me exposed to his burning gaze. The air between us seems charged
with electricity.
The sensation of Angel’s warm breath on my inner thigh sets my
body ablaze with anticipation, and I can hardly believe this moment
is happening in a dream-state.
As Angel lowers his head between my legs, his tongue tenderly
brushes against my most sensitive flesh. A jolt of pleasure surges
through me, and I gasp at the intensity of it. The connection
between us deepens, every nerve in my body coming alive under his
touch.
“Angel...” I moan, my fingers curling into his shoulder. He responds
to my plea by increasing the pressure and pace of his tongue,
sending heat rushing through me. My thoughts are consumed by the
sensations he elicits, the outside world fading away until there is
only him and me.
My hips undulate involuntarily, urging him closer, seeking more of
the pleasure he gives so willingly. As the intensity builds, I feel as if
I’m teetering on the edge of a precipice, one breath away from
tumbling over into blissful oblivion.
“Don’t stop,” I beg, the urgency in my voice betraying how close I
am.
“Never,” he vows, his hot breath fanning across my wetness as his
tongue swirls around my clit. The combination of his words and
actions sends me spiraling into ecstasy, my body shuddering with
the force of my orgasm.
“Angel!” I cry out, my voice echoing in the dream-world as waves of
pleasure wash over me. He continues to gently lap at me, drawing
out every last shiver until I’m left panting and spent.
“Are you okay, mi amor?” Angel asks softly.
“More than okay,” I respond breathlessly, a smile tugging at my lips.
“Anything for you,” he says, pressing a tender kiss to my inner thigh
before meeting my eyes once more.
“I love you,” I whisper, my voice trembling with the weight of my
confession.
My heart races in anticipation of his response, but before he can
reply, a sudden heaviness pulls me away from him.
“Evie!” Angel’s voice fades as the dream world dissolves around us.
My eyes snap open and I find myself back in my own body, lying on
the floor of my living room. The rug beneath me is rough against my
skin, grounding me to reality. Panic rises in me as I scramble to
remember every detail of Angel’s location—the cabin, the woods, the
blurred landscape.
“Think, think,” I mutter under my breath, grasping at the fleeting
memories. The images slip through my fingers like water, but I
refuse to let them go.
With shaky hands, I reach for a pen and paper on the coffee table,
scribbling down everything I can recall. A cabin, hidden deep within
the woods. Trees, tall and imposing, their branches swaying in the
breeze. The air, heavy with the scent of damp earth and pine
needles. I sketch the exterior of the cabin as best I can, the lines
messy and jagged, just like the image in my mind.
I bite my lip as I strain to remember more. I close my eyes, trying to
center myself amidst the chaos of my thoughts. “You’re a witch. You
can do this.”
Taking a deep breath, I allow my mind to drift back to the dream.
This time, instead of focusing on the physical details, I concentrate
on the emotional connection between Angel and me and I add more
details to my sketch. It’s far from perfect, but it’s a start. A clue to
finding Angel and bringing him home.
I clutch the sketch of the blurry cabin in my trembling hands, my
heart pounding. I need to figure out where Angel is, and Wes might
have an idea or at least know someone who can help. Swiping
through my phone contacts, I find her name and hit the call button.
“Evie?” Wes’s voice rings through the phone after a few tense
seconds. “What’s up?”
“Hey, Wes,” I say, trying to sound calm despite my racing thoughts.
“I... I think I found something. Can I come to the station?”
“Actually, I’m at my place right now,” she replies. “Reed’s here too.
You can just tell us on speaker-phone.”
“Okay.” I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of their expectant
gazes even though I can’t see them. “So, I’ve still been trying to
locate Angel, and I managed to reach him in a dream-state. It was...
intense.”
“Wait,” Reed cuts in, his voice filled with curiosity. “You two
communicated in dreams? That’s rare.”
“Only true mates can do that,” Wes adds. “Did he give you a mate-
bite?”
I pause, staring down at Ivan’s bite on my arm. “A mate-bite?”
“Yeah,” Reed says. “It’s how shifters become mates.”
“Right, about that...” I hesitate, then plunge on. “Angel didn’t bite
me, but Ivan did.”
They fall silent at my revelation. I can feel their confusion, their
thoughts swirling with questions they don’t dare ask. I can’t blame
them; I’m still trying to make sense of it all myself.
“So Ivan was your mate?” Wes finally breaks the silence. Her voice
was steady, but I could sense that Ivan was a touchy subject at
best, given she’d spent so much of her professional career chasing
him.
I huff out a short laugh. “God, I hope not. But it’s definitely
complicated things with Angel. And his beast is furious that I’m
carrying another shifter’s bite—even if that shifter is dead.”
Reed says thoughtfully, “I can see why. Mate-bites are a very
intimate thing for shifters.”
“So, what are you going to do?” Wes asks.
“I don’t know,” I admit, running a hand through my hair. “Angel and
I have a connection, but Ivan’s mark is a constant reminder of
what’s happened. And the longer I stay away from Angel, the more I
fear his beast is going to drive him crazy.” I rub at the bite mark on
my arm. It’s been itching something fierce lately, a constant
reminder of the tangled web I’ve woven for myself.
“Angel’s beast is going to be even more difficult to handle now,” Wes
says, her voice heavy with concern. “The presence of another
shifter’s bite could trigger it.”
I nod. “That’s what I’m afraid of. And on top of that, Ivan’s hybrids
are still out there—could they sense his bite on me?”
“I don’t know. But even if they can, we’ll keep you safe,” Wes says
firmly.
I swallow hard, feeling a lump form in my throat at her words.
Despite the chaos that surrounds me, I feel a sense of comfort in
knowing that I have these two on my side. “Anyway,” I continue, “I
called because I saw a cabin in the woods in our dream. It’s where
Angel is being held, but everything was blurry and distorted. I
couldn’t pinpoint the exact location. But I wanted to see if you had
any ideas about it.”
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
sufferings must have been before the evening when, in the middle of the
play, he rushed through the stage door, clad as an abbé, to be seen no more
at his beloved Comédie française. In an amusing account published in a
leading Paris paper of a visit to see Robertson's comedy, School, he wrote:

"Les décors sont executés de main de maître. C'est le triomphe de

l'exactitude. Les comédiens sont excellents. M. Bancroft joue dans la pièce
un rôle de grand gommeux à monocle, et rien n'égale son élégance et sa
stupidité. Madame Bancroft joue la pensionnaire gaie: cette petite femme
est un mélange d'Alphonsine et de Chaumont—gaie, pimpante, mordante et
d'une adresse! ... C'est la great attraction du Théâtre de Haymarket.

"Après je reviens rapidement en cab ("hansom") à mon hôtel, et je me

demande en chemin pourquoi les cabs vont si vite? C'est tout simple; les
cabs vont très vite parce que les cochers les poussent derrière."

No less an authority than David Garrick once said to an ambitious stage

aspirant who sought his advice, that he might humbug the public in tragedy,
but warned him not to try to do so in comedy, for that was a serious thing.
This opinion was borne out by Voltaire, who, in his anxiety not to imperil
the success he had achieved in tragedy, when he wrote his first comedy did
so anonymously.

Joseph Having pleasant memories of two distinguished

Jefferson American actors—one a comedian, the other a tragedian—I
will follow the high opinion held by the great Englishman of
Thalia's children, and write first of Joseph Jefferson, incomparably the
finest actor who has come to us from America, and who in his day made a
powerful impression and won enduring fame by his performance of Rip Van
Winkle and his new rendering of Bob Acres in The Rivals, which he
admitted was not free from liberties with Sheridan. I can think of no actor
who has been more beloved by audiences in his native land. I must, of
course, use that expression, although his grandfather, or perhaps great-
grandfather, was British, and an actor under David Garrick. He was, as it
were, cradled on the stage.

Jefferson might also have made fame and money by his brush. His work
was worthily hung upon the walls of the Royal Academy. I cherish two of
his paintings: one, a gift to my wife in remembrance of a happy day we all
spent together on the Thames, a charming example of one of its many
backwaters near Cookham; the other—a purchase—of Shakespeare's church
at Stratford-on-Avon—both reminiscent of Corot. The former always
suggests to me the misty Hebrides and an appropriate background for the
"Island that liked to be visited," in Barrie's Mary Rose.

Gazing, I remember, at the old Maidenhead bridge at sunset, Jefferson

murmured: "What a lovely place is this England of yours! How I should
just like to lift it in my arms and carry it right away."

When Edwin Booth, the American tragedian, came over to play in

London, Millais gave him a dinner, and invited the leading players of the
day to make his acquaintance. He was a fine actor; especially so, I thought,
in The Fool's Revenge and Richelieu. When he drew the "awful circle"
round the shrinking form of the young heroine and said to the villain of the
play: "Set but a foot within that holy ground and on thy head—yea, though
it wore a crown—I launch the curse of Rome!" you felt you were in the
presence of high dramatic art. The performance at the Lyceum Theatre, in
which he and Irving alternated the parts of Othello and Iago, created great
interest. Booth was the better Othello; Irving the more attractive and less
conventional Iago.

Booth would now and then dine with us on a Sunday evening—to help
him bear a sorrow which is, at such times, the actor's lot, and which an
extract from a letter to a close friend will best explain:

"I am tired in body and brain. The poor girl is passing away from us.
For weeks she has been failing rapidly; and the doctors tell me that she is
dying. You can imagine my condition: acting at random every evening, and
nursing a half-insane, dying wife all day, and all night too, for that matter. I
am scarce sane myself. I scribble this in haste at two in the morning, for I
know not when I will have a chance to write sensibly again."

The room in which Edwin Booth died—which I have visited—at the

Players' Club in Grammercy Park, New York, founded by himself, and
where he had been so beloved, was left untouched after he had passed away,
and, I understand, so remains.

When I was a lad of seventeen I went for a trip to New York, and during
my stay I chanced to see Edward Askew Sothern—to give him his full
name—play his world-renowned character, Lord Dundreary, for the first
time in his life. Some years later, when we met upon the stage, I gave him
my copy of the original playbill, which, of course, had great interest for
him. The eccentric nobleman drew all playgoers for years in England as
well as in America. At the time I mention I saw Sothern and Jefferson act
together in a round of old English comedies. As young men they made giant
successes in individual parts—Dundreary and Rip Van Winkle—the one a
masterpiece of caricature, the other a veritable old Dutch master.

Another of Sothern's chief parts, in those days, was David Garrick, of

which he was the original representative, long before the play was taken
over and prominently associated with the career of Charles Wyndham.

Sothern was always kind to me, whether in my early days in the

provinces or afterwards in town. He was my guest at the first dinner-party I
had the courage to give. Among those who sat with him were Dion
Boucicault, W. S. Gilbert, W. R. McConnell and Tom Hood. I was a young
host, not having struck twenty-six. He was a fearless rider and hunting man.
Once, after he had met with a bad accident, following the staghounds, I
went to see him at his charming old house, called The Cedars, in
Kensington, and found his bed placed in the middle of the room. The house,
when I last saw it, had become a home for cripples.

Sothern was the king of practical-jokers and would stop at nothing in

the way of thought, time or money, to carry out his wild projects. A poor
game at its best, I have often thought in mature age; a selfish form of
innings.

He was an intense admirer of my wife's art. Only after he had passed

away did it come to my knowledge that in some stage experiences,
published in America, with the title Birds of a Feather, he gave his
judgment of her.

"Among the actresses I should certainly place Mrs. Bancroft and Mrs.
Kendal in the foremost rank, their specialities being high comedy. Mrs.
Bancroft I consider the best actress on the English stage; in fact, I might say
on any stage."

Sam Sothern, so long a pleasant actor on our stage, is dead, so his

father's name and fame are now successfully held by his son, Edward, in
America.

Dion One of the most remarkable of Victorians in stage-land

Boucicault was Dion Boucicault, father of my life-long little friend,
"Dot," the accomplished husband of Irene Vanbrugh.
Boucicault produced his first comedy, London Assurance—a brilliant one in
its day—about the date of my birth, when he himself was not more than
twenty-one. He was a colossal worker as author, actor, and producer until
1890; a career as distinguished as it was lengthy. His delightful Irish plays,
The Colleen Bawn, Arrah-na-Pogue and The Shaughraun, were among the
joys of my youth. I first met Boucicault at Birmingham, where I was
specially engaged to act his own part, the counsel for the defence in his
drama The Trial of Effie Deans. I learnt much from him at the one rehearsal
he travelled from London to attend. When about half way through the trial
scene he took me aside and told me I was wrong in my treatment of the
part, adding: "Let me rehearse the rest of the scene for you, and I am sure
you will grasp my own idea of it directly." I saw at once how right he was,
how wrong I had been. The result was a considerable success for me. In the
early days of our managerial career we produced a comedy of his, How She
Loves Him—clever, but not one of the best. A situation at the end of an act
became very muddled, after being tried at rehearsal in several ways. An
idea struck me, which was a distinct improvement, but I hardly dared to
interfere with so great an autocrat, kind as he had always been. At last, in
despair, I suggested to Boucicault that his original ending of the act was
more effective than that he had changed it to. He said: "What was that?" I
then boldly explained my own idea as if it were his. No doubt he saw
through the strategy, but merely said: "Perhaps you're right," and rewarded
my shrewdness by adopting the suggestion.

When, years afterwards, I asked his consent to my making some

alterations in London Assurance and combining the fourth and fifth acts, he
replied from Chicago: "Your shape of London Assurance will be, like all
you have done, unexceptionable, and I wish I could be there to taste your
brew."

Rest and rust Later on, when my wife was taking only a small part in
some of our plays, he wrote:

"MY DEAR FRIEND,—Will you feel offended with an old soldier if he

intrudes on your plan of battle by a remark?

"Why are the Bancrofts taking a back seat in their own theatre; they
efface themselves! Who made the establishment? with whom is it wholly
identified? of what materials is it built? There—it's out!

"Tell Marie, with my love, that there is nothing so destructive as rest if

persisted in; you must alter the vowel—it becomes rust, and eats into life.
Hers is too precious to let her fool it away; she is looking splendid, and as
fresh as a pat of butter. Why don't you get up a version of The Country
Girl? Let her play Hoyden and you play Lord Foppington."

Boucicault was a perfect host, a brilliant talker and sympathetic listener.

I first dined with him, when a young man, in the delightful company, I
remember well, of Charles Reade, J. M. Bellew and Edmund Yates. On the
menu was printed: "The wine will be tabled. Every man his own butler.
Smiles and self-help." And there was cognac of 1803 from the cellars of
Napoleon III. I had many years of unbroken friendship with Boucicault. His
final words to me were in a letter from America, following on an illness:

"I doubt whether I shall cross the ocean again. I am rusticating at

Washington, having recovered some strength, and am waiting to know if
my lease of life is out, or is to be renewed for another term. I have had
notice to quit, but am arguing the point ('just like you,' I think I hear you
say), and nothing yet is settled between Nature and me."

He was a hard worker, and said his epitaph should be: "Dion
Boucicault; his first holiday."

Where shall my pen wander next?

Montague and I can revive memories in the old—and tell a little to the
Coghlan young—of actors who became prominent as members of our
companies at different times. Let me try to do so. First, there
was Harry Montague. Without being an actor of high rank, he had a great
value as a jeune premier. He was what I heard an American describe as "so
easy to look at." His charm of manner made him a special favourite
everywhere, and he was the original matinee idol. When in his company he
had the gift of making you believe that he had thought but of you since your
last parting, and, when he said "good-bye," that you would remain in his
memory until you met again.

He was in America, acting in Diplomacy, when he died suddenly; as

young in years as he always seemed in heart; for he was but midway
between thirty and forty, that age upon the border-land when one has to own
to being no more young, while resenting for a little while that ambiguous
epithet, "middle-aged."
 Charles Coghlan was an actor of a higher grade; gifted, cultivated and
able: his acting as Alfred Evelyn and Charles Surface in our elaborate
revivals of Money and The School for Scandal was of the highest character.
It may be interesting to note that when he first joined our company his
salary was £9 a week; during his last engagement we paid him £60, which
would be doubled now. I asked him once to accompany me on a short
holiday abroad, and found him a delightful companion. This was soon after
the siege of Paris, when many of the terrible stains left on the fair city's face
were sadly visible.

Coghlan often lived outside London, at places like Elstree and

Kingsbury, generally in picturesque old houses. My wife and I rode out to
one of them to luncheon. For a time he drove a rather ramshackle four-in-
hand, and, naturally, was in constant financial trouble. He ended his career
rather recklessly in America, at Galveston, and his body was washed out to
sea from the catacombs by a flood. It was afterwards recovered and
reburied.

The father of the happily present Dion and Donald Calthrop, a

connection of Lord Alverstone, John Clayton (Calthrop) was also a fine
actor. His performance in All for Her was of a high order, and he did some
admirable work with Irving at the Lyceum. I also recall a remarkable piece
of acting on his part in a play, adapted from the French, in which he
appeared as a father whose brain was turned by his having accidentally shot
his little son. Under our flag, he only acted in Diplomacy and Caste. He was
then growing fat, and never knew of a strong wish I had to revive the Merry
Wives of Windsor, with himself as Falstaff. He was otherwise engaged,
unfortunately. This was when that brilliant actress Mrs. John Wood was
with us, to play with my wife the two Merry Wives, supported by myself as
the jealous Mr. Ford—I always found the portrayal of jealousy very
amusing—and a troupe of able and suitable comedians.

Clayton gave remarkable performances in the joyous comedies by

Pinero at the Court Theatre. He died young.

Arthur Cecil Arthur Cecil comes next to my mind: an amiable

gentleman and companion. It was I who, when he was
"wobbling," as he did on every subject, induced him to go on the
professional stage. He seemed to me to pass a large slice of his life in the
effort—or want of effort—to make up his mind on trivial things, and so
wasted at least one half of it.

At the dress rehearsal of Diplomacy—in which he gave a fine

performance of Baron Stein—he appeared with a totally different make-up
in each act. They were all clever and appropriate, but we, not he, had to
decide for him which was to be finally adopted. He was very devoted to
what Sir James Barrie christened "Little Mary." On one occasion, after
dining at the Garrick Club, before his evening's work, having finished his
meal with a double helping of orange tart, he was leaving the coffee-room,
when he saw a friend seated near the door just beginning his dinner. Cecil
sat down opposite to him for a few minutes to exchange greetings; he
became so restless and agitated at the sight of a dish of stewed eels that at
last he dug a fork into a mouthful, saying, "I must," and so wound up his
meal. There are several similar stories extant, equally amazing, equally true.

Henry Kemble Our old and staunch friend, Henry Kemble, a descendant
of the illustrious stage family whose name he bore, was for
years a valued member of our company; a capable but restricted actor, from
his peculiarity of diction. My wife christened him "The Beetle," owing to a
large brown Inverness cape he wore at night. Many are the amusing stories
told of him. He fought the income tax strenuously, and on one occasion,
being brought to bay, told the collector that he belonged to a precarious
profession, and begged that Her Majesty might be asked not to look upon
him as a source of income!

Kemble was well up in Shakespeare, and had a greater knowledge of the

Bible than any actor I have known, except one.

This reminds me of a visit paid, at his instigation, on a New Year's Eve,

in the company of his close friend, Arthur Cecil, to a midnight service held
in one of the big churches. They entered reverently, just before the hour, and
were about to kneel, when a verger touched Kemble on the shoulder and
said: "I beg your pardon, gentlemen, but this is a service being held for
fallen women."
 Kemble suddenly made up his mind to retire from the stage and end his
days in Jersey, not in a cloistered cathedral city, as he said would be the
case. He, unfortunately, invested his savings in an annuity, as he only lived
a few months after doing so. He came to see my wife, to whom he was
much attached, to say good-bye, and brought her some fine Waterford glass
as a farewell gift. When fatally ill, his last words were written to her on a
telegraph form: "All over, dear, dear Lady B. Blessings on you all. Beetle."
The doctor who attended him transcribed the words, and sent my wife the
tremblingly-written farewell he had penned himself—a touching and kind
act.

Another friend and comrade of those days was the humorous Charles
Brookfield, son of Canon Brookfield, a distinguished preacher. My wife and
I gave the young undergraduate what was practically his first engagement,
and he remained a popular member of our company during the whole of our
career at the Haymarket. Several of his performances showed marked
ability, notably in Sardou's play, Odette, and Pinero's comedy, Lords and
Commons. Many amusing stories are attributed to him. Against the
accuracy of one of them I must rebel. It ran in this way: That at a time when
Charles Wyndham was appearing in his favourite part of David Garrick, for
a run, he was sitting in the club named after the great actor, just under one
of his several portraits there, when Brookfield went up to Wyndham and
said: "It really seems quite surprising, you grow more like Garrick every
day." Wyndham gave a delighted smile; when Brookfield continued, in his
peculiar cynical way: "Yes, every day, but less like him every night." A
good story; but, unfortunately, Brookfield was never a member of the
Garrick Club.

Charles I think it was Brookfield who, when a friend asked his

Brookfield advice, saying that a member of a club they frequented
having called him a "mangy ass," whether he should appeal
to the committee or consult a solicitor, quietly told him he thought it a case
for a vet to decide.

He wrote various amusing comedies, and, later on, was appointed by the
Lord Chamberlain to be joint examiner of plays.
 Brookfield had his serious side, and wrote us the following letter,
affectionately signed, when we retired from management:

"The sadness I feel at the prospect of never again working under your
management is far too genuine for me to endeavour to convey it by any
conventional expressions of regret. Although I have always appreciated
your unvarying goodness to me, it is only by the depression of spirits and
general apathy which I now experience, that I recognise how much my
enjoyment of my profession was affected by the kind auspices under which
I had the good fortune to practise it."

IX

THE STAGE

II

"Pity it is that the animated graces of the player can live no longer than the instant
breath and motion that presents them, or at best can but faintly glimmer through the
memory of a few surviving spectators."

Henry Irving I will now write of the man who was for many years the
chief of the English stage, Henry Irving. He was a born
leader and had the magnetism which compels the affection of his comrades;
he knew that to be well served meant first to be well beloved. Although
denied the advantages of early education, Irving had the learning which
colleges may fail to teach; and in his later years would have graced, in
manner and in aspect, any position in life. This personal attribute came to
him gradually, when, as it were, he had recreated himself. Truth to tell, in
the early part of his career he had none of it. In those distant days there was
a strong smack of the country actor in his appearance, and a suggestion of a
type immortalised by Dickens in Mr. Lenville and Mr. Folair.

We soon became friends and remained so throughout his remarkable

career—the most remarkable in many respects that ever befell an actor. He
told me an interesting incident of his early life. He was engaged, in the
summer of 1867, to act in Paris. The enterprise proved a failure. The little
troupe of players was disbanded and returned to London, with the exception
of Irving, who, finding himself abroad for the first time, lingered in the
bright city for a couple of months. He lived in a garret on a few francs a
day, and paid nightly visits to the cheap parts of the theatre. Although he
had no knowledge of the language, he was all the while studying the art of
acting in its different grades and kinds.

When, in later years, he entertained in his princely fashion eminent

foreign artists, in answer to compliments showered upon him in French, he
would, without the slightest affectation—a failing from which he was free
—answer simply: "I am sure all you are saying is very kind, but I don't
understand a word of it."

Soon after his success as Digby Grant in James Albery's comedy, Two
Roses, shortly before what proved to be the turning-point in his career—his
becoming a member of the Lyceum company, then under the Bateman
management—I had occasion to see a well-known dramatic agent, who, as I
was leaving his office, said: "Oh, by the way, would Henry Irving be of use
to you next season? I have reason to believe he would welcome such a
change." The question was startling. I replied that I should be delighted, but
feared it would be difficult, as Hare, Coghlan and myself would be in his
way. How possible it is that a different answer might have influenced future
events in theatre-land! Then came his memorable performance in The Bells,
which gave him fame in a single night, followed by other early triumphs,
Charles the First and Hamlet.

I once saw Irving on horseback, cantering in the Row on a Sunday

afternoon: it was a singular experience. His companion was George
Critchett, who gave up his practice one day in the week to hunt instead, and
who was as much at home on a horse as Irving was plainly uncomfortable.
 Later on, Irving was speaking to me of the success of one of our plays. I
answered that in my belief the same could be achieved at the Lyceum (the
theatre was not yet under his own management), if money were freely and
wisely spent. But wide is the difference between spending and wasting.
While the disasters which darkened his brilliant reign were sometimes, it
must be conceded, the result of errors of judgment in the choice of plays,
had he been in partnership with a capable comrade, to whose guidance he
would sometimes have submitted, he might have realised a fortune, instead
of allowing several to pass like water through his hands. As an artistic asset,
Irving was often wasted and thrown away.

Let me turn for a moment from the stage side of this extraordinary man.

A toy theatre In the gloaming of a Christmas Day, full forty years ago,
my wife and I were sitting alone, when, to our amazement,
Irving was announced. It was a bolt from the blue. After a pleasant talk, we
asked him who was to have the pleasure of giving him his pudding and
mince-pie. He answered that he should be all alone in Grafton Street with
his dog. We told him that ourselves and our son George, then a small boy,
comprised our party, and begged him to join us. Irving gladly said he
would. At the time he was acting in The Corsican Brothers, of which
famous melodrama Master George had his own version in his little model
theatre, with an elaborate scene of the duel in the snow, represented by
masses of salt smuggled from the kitchen; and this, with managerial pride,
he told Irving he would act before him after dinner. To an audience of three
the performance was solemnly gone through, being subjected to the
criticisms, seriously pronounced and respectfully received, of the great
man. I seem to hear his voice crying out: "Light not strong enough on the
prompt side, my boy." For years a broken blade of one of the rapiers used in
the duel at the Lyceum, given to him by Irving, was among the boy's proud
possessions. I daresay he has it still. A memorable Christmas evening!

The idea occurred to me to give a supper to Irving before his first visit
to America in 1883, and to let it have a distinctive character by inviting
none but actors. Feeling that nowhere could be it so appropriately given as
in the Garrick Club, I wrote to my fellow-members of the Committee to ask
if, in the special circumstances, it might take place in the dining-room.
Greatly to my delight, my request was granted, with the remark, that it was
"an honour to the Club." The attractive room, so suitable for the purpose, its
walls being lined with the portraits of those whose names recall all that is
famous in the great past of our stage, was arranged to accommodate a party
of a hundred, of whom there are but very few survivors. A humorous
drawing of a supposed wind-up to the supper—Irving, Toole and myself
staggering home, arm-in-arm—was among the early successes of Phil May.
He made two copies of it. One of the three belonged to King Edward, which
I afterwards saw at Sandringham, the others are owned by Pinero and
myself.

In acknowledgment of a little present I sent Irving at this time he wrote:

"I shall wear your gift—and a rare one it is—as I wear you, the giver, in
my heart. My regard for you is not a fading one. In this world there is not
too much fair friendship, is there? And I hope it is a gratification to you—it
is to me, old friend—to know that we can count alike upon a friend in
sorrow and in gladness."

"The Dead When Irving contemplated a production of The Dead

Heart" Heart, he flattered me by saying that unless I appeared with
him as the Abbé Latour he would not carry out the idea. I
was then free from management, and tried to persuade him to let me
undertake the part as a labour of love, but he would not listen. After a long
talk—neither of us, I remember it all so well, looking at the other, but each
gazing separately at different angles into Bond Street from the windows of
the rooms he so long occupied at the corner of Grafton Street—he said that
I must content him by being specially engaged, on terms which soon were
settled.

It was a strange experience to re-enter a theatre to serve instead of to

govern; and in one where the policy was so different. My wife and I had so
often been content to choose plays without regard to ourselves: the policy
of the Lyceum was upon another plane. The Dead Heart is a story of the
French Revolution, on the lines of A Tale of Two Cities. The best scene in
the play was between Irving and myself, in which we fought a duel to the
death. A clever drawing of the scene—I regret failing to secure it when it
was sold at Christie's—was made by Bernard Partridge. From all I have
heard said of it, the fight must have been well done—real, brief, and
determined. It was a grim business, in the sombre moonlit room, and
forcibly gave the impression that one of the two combatants would not
leave it alive. I confess that I had not the courage of Terriss, who found
himself in a similar position with Irving when they fought a duel in The
Corsican Brothers, and boldly attacked his chief by suggesting that a little
of the limelight might fall on his side of the stage, as Nature was impartial.

A tribute from One night during the hundred and sixty on which The
Irving Dead Heart was acted, when we had acknowledged the
applause which followed the duel, Irving put his arm round
me as we walked up the stage together, and said: "What a big name you
might have made for yourself had you never come across those Robertson
plays! What a pity, for your own sake; for no actor can be remembered long
who does not appear in the classical drama."

I fear egotism is getting the better of me. Irving once said:

"One point must strike all in connection with Bancroft's career—before

he left the Haymarket, at the age of forty-four, he was the senior theatrical
manager of London. In conjunction with that gifted lady who was the
genius of English comedy, he popularised a system of management which
has dominated our stage ever since, and the principle of which may be
described as the harmony of realism and art."

It is to be much regretted that no really satisfactory portrait of Irving

exists. The one painted by Millais, and given by him to the Garrick Club in
1884, is a beautiful work of art, but, to my mind, somewhat effeminate in its
beauty. A portrait by Sargent, painted when Irving was fifty, and exhibited
at the Royal Academy in 1888, was amazingly clever, but a somewhat
painful likeness. The great painter showed something in the great actor—as
he so often does in his sitters—which his gifted and searching eyes could
not help seeing, and which, once having been shown, you cannot afterwards
help seeing always. Irving hated the portrait, and when it was taken from
the walls of the Academy it was never seen again. I heard Irving, at my
table, tell Sir Edward Poynter that he hid it away in a garret, and when he
left the old Grafton Street chambers, his solitary home for many years, he
hacked the canvas to shreds with a knife. What a treasure lost!

Irving's hospitality was unbounded. At one of his many parties I

recollect his saying to Frank Lockwood, when he was Solicitor-General:
"The fortunate actor is the actor who works hard." He then pointed across
the table to me, and added: "Look at that fellow, and remember what hard
work meant in his case. 'B' is the only actor since Garrick who made a
fortune purely by management of his own theatre—I mean without the aid
of provincial tours and visits to America." After a pause he continued: "But
he has paid the penalty of leaving his best work as an actor undone."

Knighthood It will ever be remembered that Henry Irving was the

first actor to receive from his Sovereign the honour of State
recognition: so placing his calling on a level with the rest, no more to be
looked at askance, but recognised as leading to a share of the distinctions
enjoyed by his fellow-men.

For a year or more before the end it was manifest to those who loved
him that the sword had worn out the scabbard—it hung so listlessly by his
side. This I strongly realised the last time he sat at our table, and was struck
by his plaintive manner to my wife and to me. He then had a flat in Stratton
Street, and left us at midnight, saying that he must be home before the lift
ceased running or he would have to be carried upstairs.

In affectionate remembrance I close my tribute to Henry Irving. His

remarkable career has taken its place in the history of his country, for he
was one of the leaders of men who earned the privilege, given to but few, to
become the property of the world.

It may also be truly said of Irving, as of one of the most distinguished of

his predecessors: "He who has done a single thing that others never forget,
and feel ennobled whenever they think of, need not regret his having been,
and may throw aside this fleshly coil like any other worn-out part, grateful
and contented."

Although I knew and loved them from their boyhood, I find it difficult
to write of Irving's sons, being, as they were, so overpowered by the
dominant personality of the father.

"H.B." and They both went to Marlborough. "H.B." afterwards to

Laurence New College, Oxford. Laurence left school for Paris, to
perfect his knowledge of French, his ambition and
inclination being the diplomatic service. He then passed some three years in
Russia, acquiring mastery of the difficult language. Unhappily, his wished-
for career had to be abandoned for want of the imperative funds. "H.B." was
called to the Bar, but lacked the necessary patience, and so abandoned a
profession, as was thought by many competent judges, in which he was
eminently qualified to take a high position; while his "hobby" until the end
was criminology, and he wrote remarkable books on that fascinating
subject.

Both sons drifted on to the stage. Before that step was taken I had seen
"H.B." at Oxford give a striking performance, for one so young, of King
John.

Later on, I had no wish to see him act a long round of his father's old
parts.

Towards the end of the War he left his work at the Savoy Theatre and
devoted himself to hard work in the Intelligence Department at the
Admiralty, which proved to be a great strain upon him. We met frequently
at that time, by appointment, at the Athenæum, hard by, and had luncheon
together, as he did with his close friend, E. V. Lucas. It was manifest then
that his fatal illness had begun.

Laurence was a more frequent guest of ours than Harry, especially at

Christmas time, having no children to command his presence at home; he
was not so trammelled on the stage as his brother; it was easier for him to
escape from perpetual reminders. The performances I remember best on his
part are his high-class acting in Typhoon and the admirable drawing of a
character he played in The Incubus, who is, in point of fact, his mistress and
has become sadly in the way. My wife and I saw the play together from a
stage box, and were much amused at the end of it by a conversation
between what we took to be a young married couple in the stalls, just
beneath us.

The girl said: "Good play, isn't it?" The man answered: "Capital. I've
only one fault to find with it." "What's that?" "Title." "Title, why it's a
perfect title." The man: "Rotten title—it's nothing about an incubus." The
girl: "It's all about an incubus." The man: "The thing was never once
mentioned." The girl, in amazement: "What is an incubus?" The man:
"Why, one of those things in which they hatch chickens."

The sons died at an age that is not closed to hope and promise, which
now must be handed on to another generation—Laurence and Elizabeth, the
children of Harry Irving, both gifted with good looks and charm. The boy
distinguished himself during the War in the Air Force and now shows
promise as a painter. My love descends to them.

J. L. Toole Extremes meet; they always do and always will. The

closest friend Henry Irving had was J. L. Toole. The strong
affection between the two men, which lasted until the end, began when
Toole was making a name on the stage in Edinburgh and Irving only a
beginner. The famous comedian belonged, as it were, to "the City," and was
educated at the City of London School. He was a close second to Sothern in
inventing practical jokes, generally harmless, and would take as infinite
pains to carry them through. I remember a silly story he loved to tell, how,
after a bad baccarat night at Aix-les-Bains, he went to the bank to draw
money on his letter of credit. Tapping at the guichet, he inquired of the clerk
in feeble, broken English how much the bank would advance upon a gold-
headed cane which he carried. As might be expected, the little window was
slammed in his face. Nothing daunted, Toole made his way to the market-
place hard by, and bought from various stalls some small fish, a bunch of
carrots, and a child's toy; he then returned to the bank and arranged his
purchases on the counter, with the addition of his watch, a half-franc piece
and a penknife. When all was ready he again tapped at the window, and, in
a tremulous voice, implored the clerk to accept these offerings in pledge for
the small sum needed to save him from starvation. The clerk indignantly
requested Toole to leave the establishment, explaining, in the best English
at his command, that the bank only made advances upon letters of credit. At
the last-named word Toole broke into smiles, and, producing his letter of
credit, handed it to the astonished clerk, with the explanation that he would
have offered it at first had he thought the bank cared about it, but the porter
at his hotel had emphatically told him the bankers of Aix preferred fish.

Toole was never the same after the painful death of his son: he became
more and more a slave to "late hours," but was still a delightful, buoyant
companion, beloved by his comrades and friends.

Wilson Barrett was a good actor of the robust type. He had an

adventurous career: sometimes high on the wave of success, at others deep
down in the trough of the sea of failure, but always strictly honourable. At
the old Princess's Theatre, in Oxford Street, he made large sums by good
dramas like The Silver King and The Lights of London, and lost them
through the failures of ambitious efforts, which included a youthful Hamlet,
to be wiped out in turn by the enormous success of The Sign of the Cross, a
religious drama that appealed to a large public which rarely entered
theatres. The play provoked Bernard Shaw to say that Wilson Barrett could
always bring down the house with a hymn, and had so evident a desire to
personate the Messiah that we might depend upon seeing him crucified yet.

William Terriss A restless, untamable spirit was born in William Terriss.

He tried various callings before settling down to the one for
which he was so eminently fitted. He embarked in the mercantile marine,
but the craze only lasted a fortnight. Then came tea-planting in China. The
next experiment was made in medicine, to be followed by an attack upon
engineering. He then positively bluffed me into giving him an engagement,
and made his appearance on the stage. Suddenly he decided to go sheep
farming in the Falkland Islands. He made an early marriage, and his
beloved Ellaline was born there. Of course he soon came back; returned to
and left the stage again; next to Kentucky to try horse-breeding. Another
failure brought him to his senses. Five years after he had first adopted the
stage he was an actor in earnest and became one of its greatest favourites.
 His career was chiefly identified with the Lyceum and the Adelphi; but
he first became prominent by his acting as Thornhill in Olivia, under Hare's
management at the Court Theatre. His bright, breezy nature was a tonic,
and, like his daughter and her husband, Seymour Hicks, he carried sunshine
about with him and shed it on all he met. He was as brave as a lion and as
graceful as a panther.

Alas! one Saturday evening the town was horrified as the tragic news
quickly spread that Terriss had been fatally stabbed by a malignant madman
as he was entering the Adelphi Theatre to prepare for his evening's work. At
his funeral there was an extraordinary manifestation of public sympathy.

Lionel Monckton told me a curious story of how when he reached home

he found that a clock which Terriss gave him had stopped at the hour of the
murder.

However briefly, I must record grateful thanks for past enjoyment given
us by Corney Grain, as great a master in his branch of art as that friend of
my youth, John Parry. His odd name was often wrongly thought to be
assumed, as was that of a dramatist of those days, Stirling Coyne, who
rejoiced in the nickname of "Filthy Lucre."

I always remember the stifled laughter of my wife and Corney Grain,

who was present with ourselves at a dinner party, when a distinguished
foreigner, accredited by Spain to the Court of St. James, was announced by
a nervous manservant as the "Spanish Ham..."—a long pause being
followed by a trembling sotto voce—"bassador."

"Gee Gee" and George Grossmith, the elder—"Gee Gee"—is of course

"Wee Gee" best remembered by his long connection with the Gilbert
and Sullivan operas. To their great success he contributed a
share of which he was justly proud. After he left the Savoy Theatre he
toured as an entertainer, with excellent financial results, both here and from
two visits to the United States. When he returned for the second time, I
remember his saying to me, in his funny, plaintive way: "Do you know, my
dear 'B,' things are really very sad. The first time I came back from America
I found myself spoken of as 'Weedon Grossmith's brother,' and now, after
my second visit, I am only 'George Grossmith's father.'"
 I have always looked upon Weedon Grossmith—"Wee Gee"—as an
admirable actor, and his death as bringing a personal loss, having valued his
friendship and his company. On the stage I best remember him in Pinero's
comedies, The Cabinet Minister and The Amazons, in A Pantomime
Rehearsal, and, towards the end of his career, in a remarkable performance
of a demented odd creature, who believed himself to be the great Napoleon.
My wife was so impressed by the acting that she wrote to our little friend
about it in a way which delighted him beyond words. Weedon was educated
as a painter, and became an exhibitor at the Academy and other galleries. I
have two charming examples from his brush, which I bought at Christie's.

The Great War dealt severe blows to the stage, many a young life of
promise being taken. The toll was heavy; but they are honoured always by
their comrades and remembered for their valour, as are those who served so
bravely and survived. During those terrible years the stage also lost E. S.
Willard, Lewis Waller, Herbert Tree, William Kendal and George
Alexander—all men in the front rank; every one hard to replace.

I associate Willard with his success in The Silver King, and afterwards
in Henry Arthur Jones's plays, The Middleman and Judah. In these he had a
prosperous career through the United States—as in the part in which I best
remember him—the old man in Barrie's comedy, The Professor's Love
Story, a charming piece of artistic work. He owed a modest fortune to the
appreciation he met with in America.

Willard had an ambition to build a theatre at the top of Lower Regent

Street, where the County Fire Office, so long a London landmark, stood;
but, granting the site to have been available, it had no depth: the theatre
could only have been erected on a part of the Regent Palace Hotel, and
reached by burrowing under the road—so far as my architectural
knowledge serves me. With the demolition of the County Fire Office the
last fragment of the old colonnade disappeared, which, I remember, in my
boyhood extended on both sides of the Quadrant from the Circus to Vigo
Street.

Early retirement from management prevented intimacy with several

prominent actors, who otherwise might have been associated with our work.
For instance, Lewis Waller was only once our guest, as things happened. Of