Ugly retching noises echoes wetly around the swampy confines of Rogan’s impromptu dinner table, mocking him even as his aching stomach tried to turn itself inside out. His sturdy limbs trembled like the dainty legs of a newborn fawn; he shook violently, uncontrollably, as if he might suddenly fall to pieces; he’d split his jaws as wide open as they could possibly go, and yet that still didn’t feel wide enough to expel the sickening storm twisting inside his guts. All he’d done was eat part of a rabbit—not even the whole thing! The russet prince had gone as far as making an incision in his prey’s downy belly with his fangs—the “new” ones, the ones that had apparently replaced his old canines with retractable daggers—nosing around its innards . . . swallowing the liver, some bloody strips of still-hot meat . . . and it happened. A vicious cramp writhed around his organs. Squeezed. Pulled. Every part of his physique seizing up in an effort to eject what it suddenly decided was poison—attempting to save itself at the cost of permanently bruising everything tucked under his diaphragm. The meager portions of his meal spattered upon the mossy ground between his huge paws . . . a puddle of half-digested fur, tissue, blood, drool . . . a disgusting soup. Not a minute ago, Rogan had been licking his chops, slavering at the thought of having the first meal he’d dug into in days. Hunger had grown to an intolerable tormenting agony since he arrived at Caidir Olc. No—since Diosa had bitten him, and infected in with the venom coating her mouth.

Rogan understood something had changed about him. He had felt his own eyes leak out of his skull, but then they’d been replaced by BETTER eyes, portals that gleamed the same impossible ruby as those of the Vampire Queen. No longer did he wake with the sun to patrol; instead the redhead found himself waking as soon as the sun set, after its glaring golden rays faded under the jungle’s thick canopy. He preferred darkness . . . or was it that the thought of standing around during morning filled him with an unexplainable anxiety? Rogan could name the exact minute when night would overtake the land—a strange instinct he felt certain he’d never possessed before. Was this part of the poison Diosa’s family owned? They must have cracked the code of some elixir . . . some chemical compound found only in the plants of Caidir. Eventually, Rogan resolved to ask Diosa about it. As a soldier of this pack, he deserved to know what had caused his transformation. But first . . . he had to eat something.

Except Rogan had no idea what wouldn’t make him vomit.

He’d forgotten when, but a few weeks ago Rogan had stumbled upon the carcass of a deer nearly picked clean by scavengers. It must have perished from a broken leg, unable to feed itself . . . and unable to feed the maroon-hued warrior. When he bit into the old flesh, thinking he’d enjoy and easy dinner, he found that he couldn’t swallow. The same happened when he chewed down on a vole he dug out of its earthen bed. And today—with the damn rabbit! Rogan hacked out a final gurgling sound, turning his head to wipe his muzzle against one of his forelegs and glaring down at the wasted rabbit. Then he pushed its limp body away with a gigantic paw and stalked away, his tail whipping the air furiously behind him. “Hangry” didn’t even start to cover the rage and pain raking into him right now. Why couldn’t he eat? Why did he feel so sick all the time? What precisely had happened to him, and why couldn’t he wrap his damn head around it?

Daylight had long since sank into the dirt. The sky spanned indigo deep over the heavens, glittering with scattered stars. Color had mostly left Rogan’s world; he saw only this nightly dark blue, only those silver stars and the pearl moon, the black-green of the jungle and the scarlet light emitted from his lanterns. He didn’t necessarily miss the riot of colors that were only available during the day . . . but presently, driven half-mad by starvation, Rogan snapped at any reason to be pissed off. Fireflies died in the hundreds as he prowled the territory, his teeth snapping on anything that blinked, and he realized that he really wanted to talk to Diosa and see her face—

It was as if the princess heard his thoughts. Rogan had crossed over the border without consciously deciding to, already far into the grassy plains that sloped up toward the mountains. That’s when he heard the coffee-colored damsel’s voice ringing high into the atmosphere, calling him to her side. Music . . . and once Rogan heard her, he could no more ignore her lyrics than bite off his own ears. An invisible string drew him toward her, tugging him along and up the mountains until his muscles burned with exertion and his breath chopped from his lungs. Since Diosa’s sharp kiss, his heartbeat had slowed to a sleeping-speed, his pulse gentle and relaxed; the father her climbed, the more his heart pumped and his chest worked, pushing him to feel more alive than he had in weeks. At last he saw the heiress silhouetted against the obsidian sky and the jagged outline of mountains, the strawberry glow of her eyes spilling out across the snow still clinging to the rock.

He took a seat just underneath her, his once-verdant orbs scanning the endless landscape spread out below them. It would be beautiful, if he still weren’t aching from the failed hunt earlier. “Needed a break from your kingdom, princess?”