Keri Arthur, New York Times bestselling author of Fireborn , presents the thrilling new Souls of Fire Novel featuring Emberly Pearson, a phoenix that can transform into a human—and is haunted by the ability to foresee death.... Crimson Death, the plague like virus spawned from a failed government experiment to isolate the enzymes that make vampires immortal, continues to spread. Emberly and her partner, Jackson Miller, are desperately seeking the stolen research for a cure before the virus becomes a pandemic. But their mission is jeopardized by another threat uncovered in Emberly’s prophetic dreams. A creature of ash and shadow has been unleashed on a murdering spree. Now Emberly must summon all her gifts and investigative knowledge to put an end to this entity’s brutal rampage—even if it means placing herself in harm’s way.... Praise for Keri Arthur “Arthur is positively one of the best urban fantasy authors in print today.”—Darque Reviews “Keri Arthur’s imagination and energy infuse everything she writes with zest.”—Charlaine Harris “Keri Arthur skillfully mixes her suspenseful plot with heady romance…Sexy vampires, randy werewolves, and unabashed, unapologetic, joyful sex—you’ve gotta love it. Smart, sexy, and well-conceived.”—Kim Harrison, #1 New York Times bestselling author “Deliciously sexy…[it] pulls you in and won't let go. Keri Arthur knows how to thrill! Buckle up and get ready for a wild, cool ride!”—Shana Abé Keri Arthur , New York Times bestselling author of the Souls of Fire, Dark Angels, and Riley Jenson Guardian series, has written more than thirty books. She’s been nominated in the Best Contemporary Paranormal category of the Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Awards and has won a Romantic Times Career Achievement Award for urban fantasy. ALSO BY KERI ARTHUR SIGNET SELECT CHAPTER 1 In the still darkness of this dream, Death was hunting. Her scent filled the air, as heavy as the fog was thick. I had no sense of where I was. There were no identifiable buildings here, no street signs, nothing that could provide a clue. Not even people. Just me, the foggy darkness, and the huntress who stalked this place somewhere up ahead. The night eddied around me but brought with it no sounds. Unease swept through me. In the hundreds of years I’d been dreaming of death, there’d never been one like this—one in which there was absolutely nothing that would enable me to pin down a time or location. And while I may have very recently sworn to stop interfering with fate and just let death take its natural path, I’d made that same vow dozens of times over the centuries, and it had never resulted in a dream like this. The night continued to slide past me, gelatinous and uneasy. The sensation of Death was growing stronger, but I could neither see nor sense what form she was wearing. And I had no idea why. Usually when my prophetic dreams hit, I was not only given a clear image of the time and location, but I was also shown how that death would occur. But here, there was no such clarity. Some sorcerers and witches had the ability to hide their presence from either dreamers or astral travelers, but I was a spirit rather than a being born of flesh—even if I wore human form most of the time—and I could generally sense such magic being employed. But there was nothing here beyond the thick night and that steadily growing certainty of wrongness. It was almost as though my inner dreamer was having trouble pinning down the source of this death—and that in itself suggested whatever lay behind it was something I had never come across before. It was a scary thought, given the many years and many lives I’d had. Gradually, a sound that reminded me somewhat of the click of nails against stone began to echo through the fog. Loud at first, it grew ever softer, as if the source was moving away. And yet Death was nearer, not more distant. I frowned, confused, but I had little choice other than to keep moving. I knew from past episodes that the dream would not release me from its grip until the very end. It was an end I could stop if I chose to, but only if I was shown enough details. The soft sound of nails continued to grow fainter, until it was barely audible again. But every intake of breath was filled with the foul presence of evil, and if I could have stopped, I would have. But the dream drew me on. Ever on. Something flickered through the darkness ahead. It was little more than a deeper patch of night, but I had no doubt it was the giver of death. I drew closer. The shape of the creature was fluid and oddly disconnected; it seemed to be made of embers rather than mere shadows, and it flowed from one form to another with ease. Sometimes it looked like a cat, at other times like a large bat that made the night eddy and flow around it with every sweep of its wings. Gradually, though, it settled into the form of a monstrous black dog. A black dog whose paws were on backward. And even though I was close enough