Ramsey felt the hair rise along the back of his neck as he stood in the doorway and surveyed the motel room. She hadn't made any effort to clean up this time. The sheets on the bed were soaked with blood. A broken lamp lay on the floor.

Moving cautiously, he entered the room and stared down at the sheets. So much blood. Was it hers?

He went into the bathroom, and then returned to the main room. Pulling his handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped off everything Grigori might have touched, and then left the room. He locked the door behind him, wiping off the doorknob.

Where was Grigori?

Getting into his car, he drove to Marisa's apartment.

He swore under his breath when he saw the broken window. Had Antoinette come here looking for him? He swore again as he opened the door with the key Marisa had given him.

Holding his cross tightly in his hand, he studied the broken window. Dirt and shards of crockery lay scattered over the carpet, but it was the crimson trail leading across the floor that held his attention.

Taking a deep breath, he followed the bloody path. It led into Marisa's bedroom, disappearing inside the closet.

He stood there for several minutes, his heart pounding like thunder in his ears as he contemplated who, or what, waited behind the portal.

He flicked on the light and then, taking a deep breath, he opened the door.

At first, he didn't notice anything unusual, and then he saw the blankets. Not certain he wanted to see what lay beneath, he lifted the bedding with a trembling hand, shuddered at what he saw. Grigori lay curled up on the floor, as still as death. Dried blood stained his shirt and pants, made a dark pool beneath him. His left cheek had been badly burned.

Ramsey regarded Grigori for a long moment, wondering if the vampire was capable of feeling pain when he was lost in his deathlike sleep.

For one fleeting moment, he was tempted to drive a stake through the creature's black heart, to cut off his head, then burn the body, thereby assuring that this vampire, at least, would never rise to drink human blood again.

Muttering an oath, Edward shook his head. Though he hated to admit it, he needed Chiavari's help. It was a bitter thing to admit. He had hunted vampires all over the world. None had ever eluded him, or frightened him, as did Alexi Kristov.

With a last look at the vampire, Edward replaced the covers, and closed the door.

Needing to keep busy, he went to a lumberyard and bought a sheet of plywood to cover the broken window. When that was done, he set to work scrubbing the blood out of the carpet, an impossible task, but it gave him something to do.

Time and again he considered going in search of Antoinette and Alexi, but it didn't seem wise to leave Grigori alone and unprotected. He didn't know what had happened to Antoinette, didn't know if she would strike again.

When he was finished, he sat back and surveyed the results. He didn't think Marisa would be pleased when she saw the faint brown stains. Maybe a professional carpet cleaner could get them out.

At three, he called Marisa at work.

"Yes, hello?"

"Marisa, this is Edward."

There was a moment of silence: then he heard her take a deep breath. "What's wrong?"

"Is there any chance you can leave work early? I don't think we should be out after dark."

"What's happened?"

"Grigori was attacked."

"Attacked! By who? Is he...?"

"No. He's hurt pretty bad, but I don't know what to do for him." He grunted softly. "As for who attacked him, my guess is it was Antoinette. One of the reasons vampires make revenants is because of their ability to move about during the day. How soon can you get away?"

"In about half an hour."

"Okay, I'll pick you up."

"No. I don't think you should leave him alone. I'll take a cab. I'll be home about four-thirty."

"Be careful."

"You too."

Marisa hung up the receiver, and then sat staring at the phone. Grigori was hurt. What did that mean, exactly? She knew he could be injured. She had seen the scratches inflicted by Alexi. But she'd also seen how rapidly he healed....

She turned off her computer, called for a cab, then gathered her things together and went to tell Mr. Salazar that there was an emergency at home and she had to leave. She had told Grigori, in jest, that her boss was an ogre, but it wasn't entirely true. Salazar might be a tyrant where work was concerned, but he was extremely lenient with his employees.

"Sure, Marisa," he said, "take tomorrow off, too, if you need to. Donna can fill in for you."

"Thank you, Mr. Salazar."

"Sure, sure, no problem. Did you get the Wendall deposition typed up?"

"Yes, it's on my desk, ready to go."

"Good, good. Let me know if there's anything I can do."

"I will, thank you."

The cab was waiting when she left the building. She gave the driver her address, and then climbed into the backseat, fidgeting nervously as the taxi threaded its way through the heavy traffic on the freeway. She watched the sky turn from blue to gray and wished for summer and daylight saving time.

She felt like screaming by the time they reached her apartment. She paid the driver, then ran up the stairs, her eyes widening when she saw the plywood that covered the front window.

Her heart was pounding as she opened the door. "Edward?"

"Yeah?" He stepped out of the kitchen. "I thought I'd make dinner. Hope you don't mind."

"No, I don't mind," Marisa replied. "You'll make some woman a wonderful wife." She dropped her handbag on the sofa, muttering, "What the hell?" when she saw the faint brown stains on the carpet. "Where's Grigori?"

"In the closet in your bedroom."

"What's he doing in the closet?" she asked, the answer occurring to her before she had finished asking the question.

"I don't know if you want to see him."

"Why not?"

"He's pretty badly cut up." Edward shook his head. "He looks like somebody chewed him up and spit him out."

"That's how I feel, too."

Marisa looked up to see Grigori leaning against the doorjamb. She had often heard people say someone looked like death warmed over. In this case, it was the truth. His face was beyond pale, the skin dry and brittle-looking, like scorched paper. His shirt was in shreds, the cloth stained with so much blood she couldn't tell what color the material was supposed to be. The skin on his left cheek had been badly burned.

Nausea roiled in her stomach, making her feel faint. Her first instinct was to turn and run away as fast and as far as her legs could carry her. And he knew it. She read the knowledge in his eyes, dark black eyes filled with anguish, burning with rage and agony that was far deeper than physical pain.

"Come and sit down," Marisa said. She started toward him, one hand outstretched to help him.

"Stay away from me."

His voice slammed into her, halting her in mid-stride. She glanced over at Edward, who was standing near the front door, his crucifix clutched in both hands.

"Ramsey, take Marisa and get out of here."

"You said it wasn't safe for us to be out at night," she reminded him.

"You're not safe here, either."

"What do you mean?"

"Look at him, Marisa," Edward said, coming to stand beside her. "Come on, let's go."

"Are you crazy? He needs help."

"Ramsey, get her out of here! Take her someplace crowded and well lit. The mall. Buy me a change of clothes." He didn't need a new shirt or pants, he had an extensive wardrobe at home, but he needed to get them out of the house. He hoped that the errand would give them something else to think about.

With a nod, Edward reached for Marisa's hand. "Come on, let's go."

"No." She shook off his hand. "He needs help."

"He doesn't need our help," Ramsey said. "He needs blood."

She didn't want to believe it, but the truth was staring her in the face.

"He's right," Grigori said tersely. He clenched his hands; the scent of their blood, her blood, fanning the hunger that was roaring through him, demanding to be fed, demanding that he replace what had been lost so his body could heal itself.

Marisa stared at him, seeing past the wounds that crisscrossed his body, past the pain in his eyes to the hunger growing within him. From somewhere deep inside came the urge to go to him, to offer him the sustenance he needed. The thought appalled her even as it beckoned.

"No." Grigori shook his head. "Not now, Marisa."

And before she could decipher that cryptic message, Ramsey was pulling her out of the apartment.

Clinging tightly to his self-control, Grigori watched them go, watched her go. She had wanted to help him, wanted to offer him her life's blood. And he had wanted to take it, would have taken it save for the awful fear that, once he touched her, tasted her, he wouldn't be able to stop.

But there was no need for self-control now, and he shed it like a snake shedding its skin, surrendering to the pain that hummed through every inch of his body, loosing the hunger that clawed at his vitals. He felt the sharp prick of his fangs against his tongue, knew his eyes burned red with the need pulsing through him.

Ripping off what was left of his shirt, he tossed it into the trash, then staggered into the bathroom and washed the blood from his face and chest and arms. He looked at himself in the mirror, lifted a hand to his cheek, feeling the ragged edges of charred skin. It would be weeks before the burn healed. But it would heal and there would be no scar.

Shirtless, he left the house. Resting had restored some of his strength. He masked his presence from those he passed until he found what he was looking for, a healthy young man walking alone down a deserted street. Ordinarily, he never hunted in the same city where he slept, but now need overruled caution.

He blanked the man's mind, then bent over him, taking what he needed, drinking long and deep. The temptation to take it all rose up strong within him, but he took no more than the man could safely spare. He ran his tongue over the wounds to seal them, wiping all memory of his presence from the man's mind.

He ghosted through the city streets, taking his prey unawares. How much simpler it would have been to take one mortal and drain him to the point of death, to drink not only his blood but his life as well, but he had vowed, a century ago, that he would never take a human life again unless his own life was at risk.

It was after midnight when he returned to Marisa's apartment. He had expected to find Ramsey and Marisa asleep, but they were in the living room. Dialogue from a movie they weren't watching filled the silence of the room.

He felt the censure in their eyes as they watched him close and lock the door. When he turned around, they were both looking elsewhere. It made him feel as if he didn't exist.

For stretched seconds, no one spoke. And then Ramsey stood up. "Your clothes are in a bag in the kitchen."

Grigori nodded.

"I'm going to bed."

"Hold on, Ramsey. Where were you this morning?"

Edward let out a long sigh, and Marisa had the feeling that he had been waiting all night for this one question. And even as he seemed to gather the courage to answer, she wondered if things would have turned out differently if he had been at the motel that morning.

"There was a five-car pile-up on the freeway," Ramsey said, meeting Grigori's eyes for the first time. "Two fatalities. I got hung up in traffic."

Grigori nodded. "Good night."

Edward glanced at Marisa, then left the room.

"Well," Marisa said, not meeting his eyes, "I think I'll go to bed, too."

"Marisa."

"What?" She kept her head lowered, her fingers toying with the cross dangling between her breasts.

"Look at me."

She couldn't, she thought, she couldn't face him now, knowing where he had been, what he'd been doing.

"Look at me."

It was impossible to resist the power in his voice. Slowly, she lifted her head and met his gaze. "Does it hurt?" she asked, gesturing at his cheek.

"Yes. Why? Do you think me incapable of feeling pain?"

"I don't know."

"It doesn't hurt as much as the distrust in your eyes."

She glanced away, then met his gaze again. "Will I read about more dead bodies in the morning paper?"

"Not of my doing."

She said nothing, but he knew she didn't believe him.

"I haven't killed anyone, except to preserve my own existence, in over a hundred years."

She regarded him for a long moment. The hideous knife wounds were already healing. Some were no more than faint red streaks against his pale flesh. Only the burn on his cheek seemed unimproved, the flesh charred and black.

He wished suddenly that he had thought to stop at his resting place and put on a shirt, but he'd had other, more urgent matters on his mind. She was staring at his face. Seeing the revulsion in her eyes, he covered his injured cheek with his hand.

"Is there anything I can do for that?" she asked.

He shook his head. "The skin will rejuvenate, in time. Burns are always slow to heal."

"Oh."

"Marisa  -  "

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't look at me like that. Don't make me stay here."

"I'm not keeping you."

She drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, staring up at him through eyes that were wide and frightened, eyes filled with doubt and confusion. And a reluctant concern.

"Did you want to be a vampire?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I felt it was the only way I could avenge the deaths of my children."

"How old were they?"

"My daughter was five, my son a year younger."

"I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago," he murmured, "and yet the pain remains." He sank down on the floor, his back against the wall, one knee bent. He looked up at her, his expression bleak. "All these years, and still I have not been able to destroy him. I hunted him for a hundred years, and then, when I found him, it was too late. Silvano's family had interred him in the bowels of a church and I could not reach him. Now, he is here, and still I cannot find his lair, cannot get close enough to destroy him!"

His hands clenched. "In the past, I have been able to sense the presence of other vampyres, have been able to track them to their resting places. Why can't I find Alexi?"

She had no answer for him, could only stare at him, watching with disbelieving eyes as the lacerations on his chest continued to heal before her eyes, the red scars fading and then disappearing, until nothing remained but the ugly wound on his cheek.

"What is it?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head in wonder, then pointed at his chest, his arms. "They're gone. The wounds, as if they were never there at all."

Grigori glanced down, then shrugged. "I told you, we heal quickly."

"I know." But it was still an amazing thing to watch. "Isn't it lonely, being a vampire? Not being able to tell anyone who you are?" Sort of like being Superman, she thought, always pretending to be Clark Kent.

"It can be lonely, at times," he admitted. In the beginning, he had missed his home, his family, but, gradually, he had grown accustomed to his solitary life, had even come to enjoy it. He had never lacked female companionship. The Dark Gift carried an aura of power. Any woman he had desired had been his for the taking. He had seduced them, but he had loved none of them. He had traveled the world, watched the changes two centuries had wrought, seen things, done things, beyond the powers of mortal man.

"Eternity is such a long time. Doesn't life get... tiresome? How ever do you pass the time?"

He grinned at her. "Do you picture me lurking in the shadows, always on the outside looking in, wishing I could be part of humanity again?"

"Well, yeah, I guess so."

"It's not like that, Marisa. Think of people you know who work nights. What do they do?"

"I don't know. The same things I do, I guess."

He nodded. "I read. Books, newspapers, the classics, mysteries. I go to the movies. I've traveled the world. I stay at home and watch TV." He smiled at her. "All the good shows are on at night, you know?"

She couldn't help it, she smiled back.

"Not all of us are the evil monsters depicted in movies and novels."

"Like Kristov?"

Grigori nodded. "Like Kristov."

"Was he always like he is now?"

"I don't know. When I first met him, he seemed to be a fine gentleman. I couldn't understand why he wanted to spend time in our poor home."

But he knew now. It hadn't been his company Kristov had sought, but Antoinette's. And when she had refused him, he had lashed out in a rage, killing those she had held most dear. He could hear Alexi's voice screaming in his mind:... she refused... to leave you or those brats... Well, she doesn't refuse me anymore. Pain clawed at him as he imagined Antoinette sharing a bed with Alexi, helpless to resist him, compelled to surrender to his every wish.

"Grigori?"

"What?"

"Where were you?"

"Remembering."

She nodded. Judging from the look on his face, they weren't pleasant memories.

"Have you ever made anyone else a vampire?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"No one has asked, and it is not something I would force on another."

"What's it like, to drink... to drink blood?"

"It is natural for me, Marisa. It is not repulsive. The taste can be  -  " he glanced fleetingly at the slender curve of her neck  -  "sweet, especially when it is offered willingly."

"It sounds as if you like being a vampire." She shook her head, unable to accept the idea. "I can't believe you don't miss being able to go out during the day, or eating a good meal, or... or  -  "

"For me, becoming Vampyre was a blessing. I was born in a poor village in Tuscany. I couldn't read or write, and had no hope of learning to do so, nothing to look forward to but a life of hard work and an early death. When I became Vampyre, it opened up a whole new world for me. Literally, a whole new world. The vampyre who made me taught me how to hunt, how to survive. And when she'd taught me all I needed to know to survive, she taught me to read and write. She taught me how to behave as a gentleman, to appreciate art and literature. When I realized I couldn't reach Alexi, I traveled to the far corners of the world, saw places and people I had never dreamed existed."

"How did you find her, the vampire who made you?"

"She found me." His lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "I used to go to my children's graves at night because I didn't like to think of them being there, alone, in the dark." The sadness of two hundred years flickered in his eyes. "My little boy was afraid of the dark."

"Grigori, I'm so sorry." Without realizing she had moved, she was off the sofa, kneeling beside him, drawing him into her arms. "So sorry..."

She held him close, one hand sliding up and down his bare back until, gradually, she was no longer comforting him, but caressing him. His skin was cool and firm beneath her fingertips; the muscles in his back and shoulders were corded and sharply defined.

He remained unmoving in her arms, quiescent as her hands slid down his arms, over his belly, threaded through his hair. He felt the first stirring of desire unfurl within her, heard the sudden catch in her breath as she realized that his body was reacting to her touch. Did she think him incapable of desire? Her blood warmed; a flush stained her cheeks.

When she would have pulled away, he slid his arm around her waist to keep her close. "Don't stop."

"I can't  -  "

"Because I am Vampyre." he said caustically.

"No... because... because I hardly know you.

Because I  -  " The flush in her cheeks grew hotter and her gaze slid away from his. "I'm not, I don't  -  "

"You have nothing to fear from me. I don't have any diseases, Marisa," he said, reading the thoughts she couldn't put into words. "I can no longer father a child."

"Oh." She looked up at him then, and he saw the fear in her eyes.

Slowly, reluctantly, he released her. "I would not take you against your will, cara."

"You must have known a lot of women in two hundred years."

"Many," he admitted. "But when I'm with you, I can remember none of them."

"Except Antoinette."

"Yes," he said heavily. "Antoinette."

"She's still your wife, isn't she?"

He drew a deep, painful breath and let it out in a long, slow sigh. "The girl I married is dead. Nothing remains but an empty shell, a shadow of the woman I loved."

He looked past her to the window. "I must go. Be careful tomorrow. Have Ramsey drive you to work and pick you up. Don't go anywhere alone."

"Are you going to stay here again?"

"No."

"Where do you... sleep?"

"It's better if you don't know." He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand, his knuckles sliding over her skin, making her shiver with pleasure. "Be careful."

"You too."

"Always." He rose smoothly to his feet, then offered her his hand, pulling her up beside him. "Remember what I said. Don't go anywhere alone."

"I'll be all right." She smiled at him, then went into the kitchen, returning moments later with a brown shopping bag. "Don't forget your clothes."

He hefted the bag, certain he would not care for Ramsey's taste in clothing, which ran to dull browns and obnoxious plaids, "Thank Ramsey for me."

"I will. Would it have made any difference this morning, if he'd been there?"

She felt him tense as he considered her question. And then he nodded. "He would have killed her without a qualm."

"And you couldn't, could you?"

"No. Even knowing it was the only way to put her soul to rest, I couldn't do it."

"I'm glad."

"Are you? Why?"

"I just am."

"Does it make me less a monster in your eyes?"

"You're not a monster."

"You thought so not so very long ago."

She had no answer for that.

He placed his forefinger under her chin, tilted her head up, and brushed his lips across hers.

"Till tonight, cara," he whispered tenderly, and then he was gone.