In the morning, before leaving for work, Marisa called Mr. Abbott and let him know she had accidentally broken a window. He told her not to worry about it and assured her that he would have it fixed as soon as possible. Next, she called and made an appointment to have her carpets cleaned, wondering, as she did so, what the chances were of getting the bloodstains out of the rug.

She thought about Grigori while she showered.

She thought about him while she dressed, donning a blue jersey sheath with long sleeves and a high neck. She drew on her nylons, stepped into a pair of beige heels, and left the bedroom.

She thought about Grigori while she ate breakfast. She looked at the bowl of cereal on the table and imagined a bowl of blood. He had said consuming blood was normal for him, but the mere idea disgusted her. She lifted a hand to her neck, trying to imagine what it would be like to feel his teeth there. Was it painful, nourishing a vampire? He had said blood was sweet when offered willingly. Had there been many women who had offered him their life's essence?

She had known him such a short time, yet he had taken over her life, her thoughts, her dreams.

Her life had never been in more danger, or been more exciting.

She was wondering if she'd have to go in and wake Edward up when he entered the kitchen looking bleary eyed.

"Morning," he muttered. "Got any coffee?"

"On the stove. Are you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Just catching a cold."

"You look awful."

"I feel awful." He poured himself a cup of coffee. "You ready to go?"

"Yeah. Just let me grab my purse."

He sniffled and sneezed all the way downtown.

"You'd better stop at the drugstore and get something for that."

"Yeah, I will." He pulled up to the curb in front of her office building. "I'll see you at five."

"Right. Go get some rest."

"Yeah, I think I will."

Shaking her head, Marisa watched him pull into the flow of traffic.

Ramsey stopped at the corner drugstore and picked up his favorite brand of cold medicine. He considered driving to La Habra to see if he could find some trace of Kristov, but by the time he pulled off the freeway, he was burning up. He'd take the cold tablets, lie down for an hour or two, and then search until it was time to pick up Marisa.

When he got to Marisa's apartment, he took a couple of aspirin for his headache, swallowed two cold tablets, and drank a glass of orange juice.

Going into the living room, he turned on the TV, and then stretched out on the sofa. He'd just rest for a few minutes....

Edward came awake with a low groan. How was it possible to feel worse after a nap?

Lurching to his feet, he staggered into the kitchen and took another couple of aspirin, washing them down with a glass of juice.

He looked at the clock on the stove, blinked, looked again, and swore under his breath.

Damn, he was supposed to be picking up Marisa, and he should have left fifteen minutes ago.

Going into the bathroom, he splashed some cold water on his face, then practically ran out of the house. If he hurried, if the traffic wasn't too heavy, he could still make it on time.

Grigori rose with the setting sun, his thoughts on Marisa as he showered. She would be on her way home from work by now. Stepping from the tub, he went into the bedroom. He grunted softly when he saw the shopping bag on the floor beside the bed. Curious to see what Ramsey had picked out for him, he dumped the contents of the sack on the bed, and knew immediately that it had been Marisa who selected the bulky dark blue vee-necked sweater and stretch jeans.

He dressed quickly in the clothes she had chosen, feeling as though he were slipping into her arms as he pulled the sweater over his head.

Leaving his lair, which was located in the guest house behind a rather expensive mansion, he headed for Marisa's apartment.

He knew immediately that she wasn't there. A wave of his hand opened the door, and he stepped inside to wait for her to return from work. He wondered how Ramsey had spent the day, whether he had learned anything of where Alexi took his rest.

He wandered through the apartment, noting that the front window had been replaced. The kitchen was clean and tidy, as usual. The spare bedroom smelled strongly of Ramsey. Ramsey, who was falling in love with Marisa. He cursed softly, annoyed because the very idea filled him with jealousy, because his first urge was to kill the man for daring to care for her.

Leaving the room, he slammed the door behind him.

He went into Marisa's bedroom, and her scent wrapped around him, warm with life. He ran his fingertips over the pillow on her bed, felt his awareness of her grow sharper as he imagined her sleeping there, imagined what it would be like to lie beside her, to make love to her through the night....

His head jerked up, every sense alert, as he heard the front door open, the sound of familiar footsteps.

In the blink of an eye, he was standing in the living room.

"I must destroy you." Her voice, so different, yet the same.

"Antoinette, don't."

"I must."

"Remember, dammit! Remember who you are. Remember me."

She shook her head, the dark cloud of her hair floating over her shoulders. And then she lifted her hands. There was a pistol in the left, a very long, very sharp blade in the right.

He muttered a curse as she fired the gun. He felt the bullet pierce his chest, tearing through flesh and muscle and tissue. He reeled backward, slamming into the wall behind him, as she squeezed the trigger again.

With a wordless cry, he lunged toward her. He knocked the gun from her hand, wrested the knife away from her and flung it across the room. She fought him wildly, her nails raking his face, biting, kicking, but she was no match for his strength this time, and he wrestled her to the floor, one of his hands imprisoning both of hers, the weight of his body pinning her to the floor beneath him.

"Antoinette." He murmured her name, and then, with a low growl, he buried his fangs in her throat.

She cried out once, a cry filled with anguish and pain, and then she went limp beneath him.

As he drank, her essence spread through him, filling him, warming him. And with the blood came the knowledge of what her existence had been like for the last two hundred years. Empty years, with no memory of her past, no recollection of who she was. That, at least, was a blessing.

His tears fell onto her face like red rain as her heartbeat grew slow, lethargic, so faint he could scarcely hear it.

When he had taken enough, but not too much, he drew her into his arms and held her against him, his hand stroking her hair. And then he sank his fangs into his own wrist. Opening a vein, he pressed her mouth to the wound, telling her to drink.

Please, he thought, please let this work.

Marisa checked her watch for the third time. She had been standing out front, waiting for Edward, for twenty minutes. She was about to go back inside and call home when she saw her car pull up to the curb.

"About time," she muttered as she opened the door and slid into the passenger seat. "What took you so... Oh, my God."

She stared at him, wondering why she hadn't sensed his presence as she had in the past.

She grabbed for the door handle as the car spun away from the curb, but the door wouldn't open. It wasn't locked, but it wouldn't open.

"Please," she whispered, her heart in her throat. "Please."

"Sit back, my dear, and enjoy the ride."

Like a mouse mesmerized by a snake, she stared at Alexi Kristov, unable to draw her gaze away, unable to believe that it was really him. His skin, so pale when last she saw him, was now rosy with the illusion of life. His reddish brown hair, no longer lank, fell past his shoulders. He wore a pair of black pants, a loose-fitting white shirt with long, full sleeves, and a black velvet vest.

"Alexi." The name slipped past her lips.

He inclined his head in her direction. "The pleasure is all mine, my dear."

"Where's Edward?"

Alexi licked his lips in a way that could only be called obscene.

"You killed him?"

"Alas, no."

"Where are you taking me?"

"Someplace where Grigori will never find you."

"Please, don't  -  "

He laughed softly. "I'm not going to kill you, my dear."

"What have you done with Antoinette?"

"I sent her to kill Grigori, of course." Alexi cocked his head to one side, as if listening to a voice only he could hear. "She has failed. I fear she will be of no further use to me now," he mused with a twinge of regret. "Either he will kill her to free her from my power, or he will bring her over. Ah, well, she no longer amused me, and I tire of the game. And of this city."

He reached toward her, his right hand sliding down her arm and over her thigh. "Antoinette is lost to me, but you will take her place very nicely. And we will start a new game, in a new place."

The thought of being like Antoinette, a soulless, mindless creature, filled Marisa with horror. She grabbed the door handle again and gave it a desperate yank, but nothing happened. With a cry, she rolled down the window, intending to jump out of the car. Better to be run over and killed than face the fate Alexi had in store for her.

"No." His voice wrapped around her, holding her in place, as the window rolled back up, seemingly of its own accord.

Grigori, help me.... She sat back in the seat, unable to move. Please hear me, Grigori, I'm so afraid....

Ramsey opened his eyes, surprised to find himself still alive. Wincing with pain, he sat up and looked around. There was nothing to see... no houses, no lights, no traffic of any kind. Where the hell was he?

Marisa!

He swore under his breath as he glanced at his watch. It was after six.

He lurched to his feet, only then realizing that the car was gone.

"Alexi, damn you!" He remembered now, remembered it all. He had been on his way to pick Marisa up from work when a cold chill had snaked its way down his spine. Knowing what he was going to see, he had risked a look in the rearview mirror.

Terror had been a cold, hard lump in the pit of his gut when he saw Alexi staring back at him. It was the last thing he remembered. "Shit!" With both hands, he examined his neck, searching for the telltale signs, but there were no bites, at least none he could see. He examined both wrists, the bend of his elbow. Nothing.

Almost sick with relief, he started walking east, toward the city.

He was a dead man, he thought glumly, as surely as if Alexi Kristov had killed him. Because there was no way Grigori would let him live after this.