The American priest nodded and hobbled off with his escorts, his eyes still filled with the serenity induced by his trials and the drugs Orsini had been administering to him for the last eight weeks.

Orsini was not, nor had ever been, a novitiate master. He served the Brethren as one of their chief interrogators, and thought of himself as a sculptor, with human and nonhuman beings serving as his clay. Given time and the proper facilities, he could destroy will, uncover truth, and even shape a man's soul. As he had been instructed, Orsini left the barracks to report directly to Cardinal Stoss, who was in conference with the Brethren's chief archivist, Brother Tacassi.

"Stay, Cesare," the cardinal said when Tacassi rose to leave the office. "I will need your advice on how to proceed with this American." To Orsini, he said, "I take it you have achieved your usual success, Ettore?"

"Keller is as strong as he is determined," Orsini said after reciting the results of John's training and final test. "He very nearly killed the vrykolakas today."

"The Spaniard will heal; he always does." Stoss checked his calendar. "How long will it take Keller to recover?"

"A few days, perhaps a week." Orsini shrugged. "He endured clausura for two months."

Clausura was an old practice within the realm of the Vatican. The practice, which originally involved cloistering a group and reducing the amount and quality of food provided, had helped elect more than one pope. Now the Brethren used it with great effect on reluctant subjects like John Keller, who Orsini suspected was not a stranger to starvation diets.

"Did your methods make him docile enough to be trusted," Tacassi asked, "or merely exhaust him?"

The cardinal frowned. "Yes, Ettore, what level of obedience can I expect from Brother Keller?"

Orsini disliked Tacassi for casting doubt on his abilities, but thought carefully before replying. "Had I six months to condition the man, I would say his obedience would be absolute. Eight weeks is not enough."

"This man is surely not important enough to waste any more of our time," Tacassi suggested. "Have Orsini dispose of him, Your Grace."

"I did not say I made no progress," Orsini returned sharply. "The key with Keller is his faith. After fighting the Spaniard he had the look of epiphany in his eyes. That should sustain him—and stave off any reluctance toward those duties you wish him to perform—for some time."

Tacassi rolled his eyes. "I assume you gave him the full treatment—the celestial choir, the light from above, and so forth?"

Orsini nodded. "With all the drugs in his system, he likely believes he has experienced divine approval, if not an actual visitation." He felt compelled to add, "Any other man would have dropped long before now. I think that beneath the fleece, John Keller is a bull. In a physical sense, he could prove quite useful."

"Let us hope his mind remains on a bovine level." Stoss picked up the phone and made an overseas call, putting the line on speakerphone. "I have Orsini here, and he tells me that your fledgling has done well, August. In a short time we will send him back to you."

"A true servant of God," Tacassi muttered.

"Alexandra has disappeared again," the American archbishop warned. "I will need him as soon as possible."

"Ah, that is the name he calls out in his sleep," Orsini said. He would have to review the recordings they had made of Keller during his rest periods and check for specific phrases. "A former lover?"

"His sister," Tacassi snapped.

"John still feels a strong sense of obligation toward Alexandra," Hightower said, "although we have done what we could to suppress it since his joining the priesthood."

Stoss pursed his lips. "We can certainly use that."

"Perhaps, sparingly," Orsini cautioned. "When motivation involves estranged family, particularly females, it is always a risk."

"Go carefully," Hightower said over the speaker. "John has always been hypersensitive about his sister. He has confided to me more than once that Alexandra is better off without him in her life."

The cardinal seemed surprised. "Do I sense some inappropriate feelings on his part?"

Hightower made a noncommittal sound. "I would say John Keller has never believed himself deserving of love. Not from his God or his sister."

Tacassi shook his head, his disgust plain.

"An inferiority complex, mixed perhaps with a touch of closet incest." The cardinal tapped his lips with one finger. "Interesting. Cesare, would you go and pull the files on Alexandra Keller for me?"

The archivist nodded, rose, and left the room.

"Cardinal, I want this man handled with care," Hightower said, his tone changing. "John and his sister are part of my special projects. When this is finished, you will turn them over to me."

"Of course, August," Stoss soothed. "We will advise you of when Brother Keller is able to travel back to the States. God keep you in the light."

"And you, Cardinal." There was a click, and then a flat tone.

"Keller is not the only one with attachments." Orsini regarded the cardinal steadily.

"The archbishop serves his purpose. As do we all." Stoss sat back in his chair. "For now, you will assign someone to nurse our fledgling back to health. Someone who understands his weaknesses."

Orsini knew exactly whom to choose. "And when Brother Keller and his sister have served their purpose?"

Stoss simply smiled.

Chapter Thirteen

A man who had been alive since the Dark Ages had probably had plenty of time to make and lose and remake a hundred fortunes, Alex decided. Given the fact that he had dropped four million dollars in her lap, he evidently had enough bucks to buy and sell the city.

So why did he have such a dinky mansion?

Maybe he likes small houses. Try as she might, Alex couldn't imagine Cyprien living in a condo or a modest ranch house in the suburbs. Vampires in the movies never did.

That reminded her. "Do you have one of those high-collared black silk, floor-length capes, lined in red?" she asked as Phillipe drove them up to the mansion.

"No." He gave her a puzzled glance.

"Pity. Would liven you up a bit." She looked out the window, unable to keep from gawking a little. On her last visit she hadn't been in the mood to appreciate the old Cyprien homestead, but now it was in her face.

Perfectly manicured hedges of white tea roses boxed the property and disguised the brick of the privacy wall behind them. As Phillipe opened the driveway gate with a remote, Alex studied the front of the house. She was sure the architecture had some pretentious name borrowed from some country's dead monarch, but it was undeniably handsome. It looked a bit like a little castle with its twin towers flanking the high walls, painted a soft, unassuming silvery gray with accents of white on the trim and shutters.

Where is the room he locked me in? Alex turned to look at the right side of the house, which had windows on the first floor but one missing in the center of the second. Bingo.

My angel.

Alex looked at Cyprien, but he obviously hadn't said anything. Phillipe was likewise silent. I must have imagined it.

The fountain in the front of the house had been carved out of solid white marble, and had a basin large enough for six people to bathe in. A pair of angelfish spouted water from their pouting mouths as they entwined their long, flowing marble fins around each other. The stone used for the fish sculptures was different, a soft ivory marble shot through with gold.

"Mansion, sweet mansion," Alex said. It made her a little curious about Cyprien, too. "Why do you live in New Orleans? Wouldn't Paris be more the thing for an immortal billionaire artist?"

"I lived in Paris for three hundred years. New Orleans has a subculture devoted to vampirism, thanks to the resident lady author who popularized the myths in her novels. Besides, America always intrigued me." As Phillipe got out of the limo, Cyprien gave her a sideways look. "As you do, Alexandra."

Alex wasn't falling this time for that haunted, pulling thing he did with his voice. "I'm not here to play doctor with you, Cyprien." She slid on her sunglasses. "Let's keep it that way."

Angel, no. Black sorrow, red rage. Tears. Angel.

The thoughts were different this time. A silent voice, and violent emotions, but no images. It felt less organized and much darker. If she was picking up someone's thoughts of rage, and killing, then it was possible that was all she could pick up. There might be someone like Dermont here. She looked up at the windows of the mansion. But who, and where?

Éliane Selvais waited just inside as they walked in. The sight of Alex made her look as if she'd just been handed a maggoty lemon to suck on. Alex couldn't be sure, though, and decided to test her theory by finding a piece of rotten citrus and shoving it down the blonde's throat the first chance she had.

She hadn't forgotten Éliane, or how she had contributed to Alex's fun with fangs.

"Good morning, Dr. Keller." She inclined her head, showing off the smooth twisty thing she'd done to her pale hair.

As soon as Alex was sure the dark thoughts weren't coming from her, she breezed by. "How's tricks, Blondie?"

The Frenchwoman looked down her long nose. "I don't know what you mean."

"I mean, try to feed anyone else to the master?" Maybe Éliane was thinking of killing her. Alex could hope.

"That was an unfortunate accident. I felt so terrible about it." So terrible that she immediately had to brush some lint off the sleeve of her immaculate navy blue suit. "I see you are well."

"No thanks to you." Alex eyed all the new guards. There were about a dozen of them manning the entrances and exits, and they were all carrying large-caliber weapons. They all looked like killers, so the thoughts could have come from any of them. "What's with the National Guard detachment, Mike? I haven't seen this many guns since I last changed planes in D.C."