Marisa sat on the sofa, her feet tucked beneath her, a pillow clutched to her chest. Earlier, they had all gone out to find Edward a room. Tomorrow, the two men would spend the day there, waiting for Antoinette. Edward had muttered something derogatory under his breath about sharing a room with a corpse. Grigori had grimaced, but let it pass. Upon returning to her apartment, Edward had gone to bed, pleading a headache, though Marisa suspected it was just an excuse not to stay in the same room with the vampire.

"What if it is Antoinette?" Marisa asked after a while. "What then?"

Grigori had been standing at the window, staring out into the darkness. She watched him take a deep breath, and then slowly turn to face her.

"It is her," he replied quietly. "I'm sure of it."

"What will you do?"

"Destroy her."

Marisa stared at him in amazement. She heard the torment in his voice. The determination. How could he even think of doing such a thing to the woman he loved?

Grigori let out a soft sigh. "I'll do it because I love her," he said with quiet conviction. "It's the only way to free her soul from the hell she's living in."

"I wish you'd stop reading my mind."

"Forgive me."

His voice, low and deep, moved over her like rich black velvet, making every nerve ending in her body tingle. She gazed into his eyes, and then, remembering how she had held him in her arms, how good it had felt to hold him, she quickly looked away, afraid he would see more of her feelings than she wished him to, afraid he would know that he had filled her every waking thought, her every dream, good and bad, since the night they'd met.

"Come to me, Marisa."

Trapped in the silken web of his voice, she rose to her feet, her heart pounding. She could feel his power drawing her across the floor, feel herself yearning to be in his embrace.

His arms folded around her, lightly, carefully. He placed his finger under her chin, tilting her head up until their gazes met, and she felt herself sinking, drowning, in the midnight depths of his eyes.

Feeling as though she were moving in slow motion, she wrapped her arms around his waist and waited for his kiss. His lips were cool as they slanted over hers, yet heat spiraled through her. A little thrill of excitement uncurled in her belly as his hand flattened against her back, drawing her body closer to his. He was hard and strong, yet he held her as if she were made of spun glass. His tongue was like a flame teasing her lower lip, and she opened to him without a qualm, savoring the taste of him. Time slowed, stopped, and she was aware of nothing but the wonder of his kiss, the welcome touch of his hands stroking her back, threading through her hair, the husky tremor in his voice as he whispered her name.

It was like being in another world, a place where time had ceased to exist, where there was no night or day, no wrong or right. Caught up in the wonder of his kisses, she clung to him, reveling in the feel of his hands gliding over her skin, his long fingers awakening a hunger deep within her soul, a need to be held and touched, to feel his hands upon her. Tremors of delight rippled through her. Her hands roamed over his back and shoulders, restless, eager to explore, to touch and be touched in return.

She was breathless when he took his mouth from hers. Slowly, she felt the earth stop spinning, felt time slip back into place.

Confused, she looked up at him, her gaze searching his. "Am I here because I want to be, or because you've... you've mesmerized me?"

Grigori smiled down at her, his expression infinitely tender, infinitely sad.

"Ah, Marisa," he murmured softly. "If you were under my power, you would not think such a thing, let alone ask it." He brushed a lock of hair away from her face, caressed the curve of her cheek. "Do you think to deny the attraction between us?"

"No, I don't deny it, but I don't intend to let it go any further, either."

"Because I am Vampyre?"

Heart pounding, she nodded, wondering if he would exert his power and take her against her will.

His arms fell away from her, and he took a step backward. "Do you think I would take you that way? Want you that way?"

"I don't know."

He wanted to tell her he would never do such a thing, but he couldn't. There had been times when the desire of the flesh could not be denied, times when he had used the glamour of being Vampyre to seduce a woman he fancied. But he had never employed such tactics on a woman he cared for, and he had not truly cared for a mortal woman for more than two hundred years. Not since Antoinette...

He turned away from Marisa. Thinking of Antoinette filled him with a bitter rage, and rage fueled the Hunger, a Hunger that had not been fed for several days.

Without a word, he left the apartment.

Marisa blinked in astonishment. One minute Grigori had been there; the next he was gone. Maybe he really was a magician, she thought with a wry grin. And then a voice inside her head whispered, No, he's a vampire.

How could she be attracted to a vampire? Why did she want to hold him and comfort him, to be held by him? Why did the thought of what he was no longer repulse her, sicken her? Why didn't she cringe at his touch? The answer was simple. She was falling in love with him. She shook the thought away, refusing to acknowledge the possibility.

She went to the window and stared out into the darkness of the night. Standing there, she reminded herself again that he was a vampire, undead. He had gone hunting, gone looking for a victim who would feed his lust for blood.... How could he drink the blood of another human? The thought died, half-finished, as she reminded herself that Grigori was no longer human, and she wondered again if he had been made into a vampire against his will. Surely no one became a vampire willingly.

She was about to go to bed when she felt the sinuous threat of evil rise up like oily black smoke. She closed the curtains with a jerk and darted away from the window, clutching the cross dangling around her neck.

Go away! Her mind screamed the words.

I will have you. She heard the vampire's voice in her mind. You cannot escape me. Do not think Grigori will keep you safe.

"Go away, damn you!" she cried. "Leave us alone!"

"Marisa!" Ramsey ran into the room, a wooden stake clutched in one hand. "What's wrong? Is  -  " He paused, felt the short hairs rise along the back of his neck. "Dammit, it's Alexi. He's here."

"Edward, no!" She grabbed his arm as he started toward the door. "You can't go out there! He'll kill you."

Ramsey hesitated. She was right. It would be the height of foolishness to stalk Alexi Kristov during the hours of darkness. And yet he could feel the vampire's presence, sliding over his skin like the papery fingers of death.

"He's gone." Marisa released her hold on Ramsey and sank down on the sofa, her whole body trembling.

Edward nodded. The night felt whole again, unsullied by evil.

Marisa pressed her hands to her temples. He had been in her mind and she felt dirty, defiled.

Ramsey went into the bedroom, returning with a blanket, which he draped over Marisa's shoulders. "I'll fix you something hot to drink," he said. "What do you want?"

"H-hot... chocolate." She couldn't stop shaking.

"Try to relax."

She nodded, wondering if she would ever feel clean again. Alexi had invaded her mind, her thoughts, threatened her....

"Here." Ramsey thrust a mug into her hands. "Drink it; you'll feel better." He glanced around the room. "Where the hell is Chiavari?"

"He... he went out."

"Was he going to look for Kristov?"

"I... I don't think so."

Edward grunted softly, his expression saying he understood where Grigori had gone.

Feeling restless, Edward walked through the apartment, checking to make sure the windows were locked, the curtains drawn.

When he returned to the living room, Grigori was sitting on the sofa beside Marisa. The vampire looked up as Edward entered the room.

"Enjoy your dinner?" Edward asked in a voice heavily laced with sarcasm.

"Tread softly, Ramsey, lest you have two vampyres seeking your destruction."

The words were spoken without malice but were no less threatening because of it. Edward's face went pale, then flushed with anger. "I'm not afraid of you, bloodsucker."

"No?" Grigori regarded him a moment. "Then you're a bigger fool than I thought. Marisa tells me Kristov was here."

Edward nodded.

"I thought I felt his presence when I returned." Grigori swore under his breath. If only he had come back sooner! "Marisa, I think you should go to bed. Ramsey will drive you to work tomorrow. Stay inside the building until he comes to pick you up."

"All right."

"I'll see you at dusk."

She nodded, too weary to speak, to think.

"Everything will be all right."

"Will it? Alexi seems very sure of himself."

"I won't let him hurt you." Effortlessly, Grigori swung her up into his arms and, in spite of her protests that she could walk, carried her down the hallway to her bedroom and tucked her into bed.

He stared down at her a moment, and she felt herself caught up in his gaze again, felt the attraction that was ever between them hum to life.

Grigori blew out a deep breath. "Sleep well, Marisa," he murmured, and, bending down, he brushed his lips across her brow.

With a contented sigh, she closed her eyes, instantly asleep.

Grigori regarded her for a long moment, admiring her quiet beauty, the sweep of her dark lashes against her cheeks, the lush fullness of her lower lip. His gaze drifted to the rise and fall of her breasts, and he felt the stir of desire, the longing to hold her in his arms, to make love to her until the sun stole the night from the sky.

But Ramsey waited in the other room. And Alexi stalked the streets of the city, seeking prey to quench his monstrous thirst.

And somewhere, lost in a world of endless darkness, Antoinette waited.

He drew the covers up to Marisa's chin. The simple act stirred the memory of other nights, long ago, and he felt a sharp pang as he recalled the nights he had put his children to bed, told them a story. How, before he sought his own rest, he had always gone in to make sure they were safely tucked in. Marisa was not a child, yet, compared to him, she was young, so young. And so vulnerable. The protective instincts he had harbored for his children rose up within him now, and he vowed again to keep her safe, no matter the cost.

"Rest well, cara," he murmured.

Edward glanced up from the newspaper he was reading, a flicker of unease in his eyes, as Grigori entered the room.

Reaching into his pocket, Grigori withdrew a key and tossed it to Ramsey. "I'll be waiting for you after you take Marisa to work."

Ramsey nodded uneasily, clearly not liking the idea of sharing a room with a vampire. "You really think he'll send her after me again?"

"Nothing's certain in life except death," Grigori replied. "You should know that by now."

"Did you ever stop to think that he's only using Antoinette as bait. For you?"

"Do you take me for a fool?" Grigori snapped. "Of course I have."

"Why is he doing this?"

"I told you, it's a game, one he feels certain of winning."

"A game  -  " Edward shook his head. "He's playing with people's lives."

"He has no regard for humanity," Grigori said, "or for anything else. He's existed for a thousand years, maybe more. Eternity can be very boring, even for a vampyre, and so he's devised a game, and you and Marisa are the pawns."

"And what are you?"

"I'm the prize."

"And what of Antoinette?"

"As you said, she's the bait."

"But he must care for her. He's kept her with him for two hundred years."

"He cares for nothing, and no one." Grigori lifted his head, nostrils flaring as he tested the air. He could sense the night changing to day, feel the first teasing warmth of the sun. "It's time for me to go. Don't leave Marisa alone for a moment."

Edward stared at the key in his hand. "Won't you need a coffin to rest in?"

Grigori lifted one dark brow. "You watch too many movies, Ramsey." He bared his fangs in a wolfish grin. "But I thank you for your concern."

Edward muttered something obscene under his breath.

"Take good care of Marisa," Grigori warned, and left the apartment.

Outside, the sky was turning gray. He could feel the dawn approaching, the promised heat of the sun in the sudden itching of his skin, in every nerve ending.

With preternatural speed, he traversed the city.

The door to the motel room opened at a wave of his hand. After locking the door behind him, he stripped the blankets from one of the beds and used them to cover the room's single window. He checked the bathroom, noting the bars on the narrow window over the tub.

Returning to the main room, he observed his surroundings in a long, sweeping glance. It was remarkably ugly, from the drab brown carpet to the pale beige walls and matching drapes. A cheap painting hung over the bed. There was a dresser, a chair upholstered in a hideous plaid.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he switched on the TV, turning to a local morning-news show. As he feared, another body, drained of blood, had been found near the zoo.

Sitting back, he stared, unseeing, at the television screen, his senses probing the surrounding area for some indication that Antoinette was nearby. Antoinette...

... She gazed up at him, her blue-green eyes radiant. "We're going to have a child, Grigori," she whispered tremulously. And he swept her into his arms, his heart swelling with love for his wife, for his unborn child. He was at her side when their daughter was born, humbled by the miracle of birth, by Antoinette's willingness to walk through the valley of the shadow of death to bring a new life into the world. And a year later, she gave him a son... Life was perfect, better than perfect. He adored his wife, his children, and knew their love in return, until that fateful night when he came home to find his children murdered in their beds, and his wife a mindless shell of a woman...

"Damn you, Alexi," he murmured. "I thought we were friends. You could have had any woman you wanted."

Even now, more than two hundred years later, he cursed himself for bringing Alexi home that first night. People had warned him there was something peculiar about Count Alexi Kristov, but he hadn't seen it. Maybe he hadn't wanted to see it. He had liked having Alexi Kristov for a friend. Alexi had often been a guest in their home. Always, he had been polite, well mannered. In spite of Alexi's idiosyncrasies, Grigori had never suspected him to be other than what he seemed, a gentleman from a far country who kept peculiar hours. How had he been so blind? Why hadn't Antoinette told him that Kristov had asked her to go away with him? Had she been afraid of his reaction? Afraid he wouldn't believe her? And what would he have done if she had told him? He had been a mortal man then, no match for a thousand-year-old vampire.

He remembered the first horrible days after he had buried his children. He hadn't eaten, or slept, had not been able to bring himself to leave the graveyard that held their remains, could not bear to leave his son and daughter there, alone, in the darkness of eternity.

He had been sitting there, late one foggy night, when he felt a sudden coldness creep over him. Turning, he had seen a slender figure in a dark cloak moving soundlessly among the headstones.

Grigori had gasped, certain, for one dreadful moment, that he was seeing a ghost. Only it had been far worse than a ghost. Between one blink of his eye and the next, the shadowy creature was standing before him. He saw then that it was a woman with waist-length silver-blond hair and skin as white as the shrouds that enfolded the bodies of his children.

What are you doing here? she had asked, though he had never been certain if she spoke aloud or if he heard her words in his mind.

Held captive by the twin flames that burned in her pale blue eyes, he had told her what had happened to his wife, his children.

And do you wish to join your children in death? she asked.

No! he had declared vehemently. I want to avenge them, but how can I? His voice broke as he fought back his tears. How can I?

How, indeed, she replied softly. Shall I show you how?

The tone of her voice, the gleam in her eye, had sent a shiver of unease down his spine. Only show me, he replied with a bravado he did not feel, and I will do whatever you ask.

She smiled at him then, a smile filled with compassion. Even so, he had seen the fangs she didn't bother to hide.

He recoiled in horror. You're one of them!

Will you not join me, my handsome one? It is the only way you will ever be strong enough to find the vengeance you seek.

You're asking me to become the same kind of monster he is! Grigori exclaimed.

We are not all monsters, she replied calmly. Look at me. Do I appear a monster to you?

No, he replied slowly. She didn't look like a monster. She looked like a queen, with her regal bearing and alabaster skin. Who are you? he asked.

Khira, she replied. She held out a slender, gloved hand. Will you join me? she asked again, her voice soft and gentle and filled with compassion.

And he cocked his head to one side, offering her easy access to the large vein in his neck. There was a sharp prick, a fleeting moment of pain, followed by bliss and blessed forgetfulness. And when next he woke, he was a newly made vampire with all of eternity stretching out before him.

The wonder of it had astounded him, so much so that, for the first few months, he forgot everything but the wonder of his new abilities. He saw the world through new eyes, eyes that could penetrate the darkest night, see details overlooked by mere mortals. Colors were brighter; he spent hours watching dancing flames and flickering candles. He heard sounds mortal ears never heard: a spider crawling across the floor, a leaf falling from a tree. His sense of smell was heightened, and every breath carried the rich, sweet scent of blood... ah, how he craved the taste of it, lusted for it, certain he could never drink enough.

He was never sick. He had the strength of ten strong men. He could move with incredible speed, read mortal thoughts if he put his mind to it.

And then, late one evening, he saw Khira bending over a lost child, her fangs bared, her eyes glittering with blood lust.

With a low growl, he had grabbed the boy from her grasp. No! Clutching the frightened child to his chest, he screamed the word at her, and in that terrible moment, when he saw his own death reflected in her bloodred eyes, he remembered why he had wanted to become a vampire.

That very night, after returning the boy to his home, he had gone in search of Alexi....

The past fell away as a scent he had carried with him through the centuries wafted toward him on a vagrant wisp of air.

Rising, he watched the door swing open, felt his heart turn cold at what he saw there.

She was as beautiful as he remembered. Slender as a willow, her olive-hued skin clear and unblemished. Hair as soft as eiderdown fell past her waist like a river of black silk. Her eyes, as blue-green as the sea, stared at him without recognition.

"Antoinette." Pain slashed through his heart and gouged his soul. Had he been a living man, he thought he might have died of it.

He waited, hoping that the love they had once shared would somehow bring her back to herself.

"Antoinette, it's me, Grigori. Remember me, love," he begged. "Please remember."

She stared at him for a long moment while he hoped, prayed, for some glimpse of humanity. And then she raised her arm, and he saw the long, slender blade of the knife she held. A ray of sunlight crept through the open door, glinting off the finely honed silver blade, illuminating the large crucifix that nestled between her breasts, shimmering like moonlight on the silver. She wore wide silver bracelets on her wrists; a thick silver collar protected her throat.

Summoning all his power, Grigori caught her gaze, but he could not touch her mind, could not influence her thoughts, for she had none of her own. Mindless, soulless, she belonged to Alexi, heard no voice but his.

She took a step toward him and he looked past her, wondering if he could make it out the door before she struck him down. The sunlight seared his eyes, momentarily blinding him.

A thin, humorless smile pulled at her lips as, seeing his distress, she kicked the door wider.

Grigori swore under his breath. What the hell was keeping Ramsey? He felt the sun's heat penetrate his clothing and he took a step backward, seeking the darkest corner of the room.

Wondering which would be worse, the shock of silver slicing into his heart or the burning rays of the sun igniting his skin and turning him to ashes, he stared at her, watching, waiting.

She moved with a quickness that startled him, lunging across the floor, her lips peeled back in a horrible grin as she struck out at him with the knife. He jerked to the side, and the blade, meant for his heart, pierced his right shoulder, then sliced across his chest, leaving a long, bloody furrow that oozed dark blood. She struck out at him again and again, and each time the blade found its mark.

In desperation, he grabbed for her knife hand, his fingers burning as they closed over the silver bracelet on her wrist. Grimacing with pain, he tried to wrest the blade from her grasp.

With a feral growl, she grabbed the crucifix and thrust it into his face. The silver burned through his left cheek like the fires of hell, and he stumbled backward, his nostrils filling with the scent of his own burning flesh.

She was on him again, the knife flashing in the sunlight. He had not expected her to be so fierce, or so strong. They toppled backward onto the bed, and his mind filled with a sudden image of the two of them lying in each other's arms on a wintry morning long ago, and then he looked into her eyes and knew that the woman he had held and loved no longer existed.

She thrashed wildly beneath him, upsetting the lamp on the bedside table, as she stabbed him again and yet again.

Teeth clenched against the pain that engulfed him, he drew back his fist and drove it into her face. Blood spurted from her nose, spraying over him like drops of crimson rain.

With a cry that could only be called a snarl, she lashed out at him with the knife, and he struck her again, and then again, until she lay still beneath him, her clothing and the bedding awash in his blood.

It was an effort to stand up. He could feel the sun climbing in the sky, feel the darkness probing at the edges of his consciousness as he stared down at the woman who had been his wife. He needed blood, but could not bring himself to take hers, knew he should kill her now and knew, just as surely, that he could not do it.

Going to the closet, he reached for the blankets folded on the shelf. With hands that trembled, he shrouded himself in the smothering folds of the thick wool, then staggered outside. It took every ounce of his rapidly waning strength to propel himself across town. Had the sun been higher in the sky, he knew he never would have made it. Even so, he could feel the sunlight seeking his flesh through the heavy cloth. In spite of the heat that engulfed him, fear that he would not reach her house in time chilled him to the core of his being.

It seemed as though hours passed before he reached Marisa's apartment. Barely able to stand, lacking the strength to break down the door and unable to summon the concentration needed to open it with the power of his mind, he threw a flower pot through the window, then leaned forward and let himself go limp so that he fell across the sill onto the floor, hardly aware of the shards of broken glass that nicked his skin.

He lay there a long moment, while the pure white heat of the sun burned through his clothing and scorched the preternatural flesh of his back and legs. He lay there for a long moment, watching his blood seep onto the carpet, leaving a dark, ugly stain on the blue rug.

The instinct to survive, the need to see Marisa one last time, provided one last burst of energy. Dragging himself across the floor, he made his way into her bedroom. It was an effort to open the closet door, to crawl inside, to close the door behind him.

Racked with pain, he huddled under the blankets, wondering, in a distant part of his mind, if there would be anything left for Marisa to find when she got home.