Chapter One

Behind the Eight Ball

JULY 24, 4:34 A.M.
FREDERICK, MARYLAND

The saboteur had arrived.

Grayson Pierce edged his motorcycle between the dark buildings that made up the heart of Fort Detrick. He kept the bike idling. Its electric engine purred no louder than a refrigerator's motor. The black gloves he wore matched the bike's paint, a nickel-phosphorous compound called NPL Super Black. It absorbed more visible light, making ordinary black seem positively shiny. His cloth body suit and rigid helmet were equally shaded.

Hunched over the bike, he neared the end of the alley. A courtyard opened ahead, a dark chasm framed by the brick-and-mortar buildings that composed the National Cancer Institute, an adjunct to USAMRIID, the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases. Here the country's war on bioterrorism was waged across sixty thousand square feet of maximum-containment labs.

Gray cut the engine but stayed seated. His left knee rested against the satchel. It held the seventy thousand dollars. He remained in the alley, avoiding the open courtyard. He preferred the dark. The moon had long set, and the sun would not rise for another twenty-two minutes. Even the stars remained clouded by the shredding tail of last night's summer storm.

Would his ruse hold?

He subvocalized into his throat mike. "Mule to Eagle, I've reached the rendezvous. Proceeding on foot."

"Roger that. We've got you on satellite."

Gray resisted the urge to look up and wave. He hated to be watched, scrutinized, but the deal here was too big. He did manage to gain a concession: to take the meeting alone. His contact was skittish. It had taken six months to groom this contact, brokering connections in Libya and the Sudan. It hadn't been easy. Money did not buy much trust. Especially in this business.

He reached down to the satchel and shouldered the money bag. Wary, he walked his bike over to a shadowed alcove, parked it, and hooked a leg over the seat.

He crossed down the alley.

There were few eyes awake at this hour, and most of those were only electronic. All of his identification had passed inspection at the Old Farm Gate, the service entrance to the base. And now he had to trust that his subterfuge held out long enough to evade electronic surveillance.

He glanced to the glowing dial on his Breitling diver's watch: 4:45. The meeting was set for fifteen minutes from now. So much depended on his success here.

Gray reached his destination. Building 470. It was deserted at this hour, due for demolition next month. Poorly secured, the building was perfect for the rendezvous, yet the choice of venue was also oddly ironic. In the sixties, spores of anthrax had been brewed inside the building, in giant vats and tanks, fermenting strains of bacterial death, until the toxic brewery had been decommissioned back in 1971. Since then, the building had been left fallow, becoming a giant storage closet for the National Cancer Institute.

But once again, the business of anthrax would be conducted under this roof. He glanced up. The windows were all dark. He was to meet the seller on the fourth floor.

Reaching the side door, he swiped the lock with an electronic keycard supplied by his contact at the base. He carried the second half of the man's payment over his shoulder, having wired the first half a month before. Gray also bore a foot-long plastic, carbonized dagger in a concealed wrist sheath.

His only weapon.

He couldn't risk bringing anything else through the security gate.

Gray closed the door and crossed to the stairwell on the right. The only...

Chapter One

The cereal spoon stopped midair. Rina turned to her husband. "What was that?"

"I don't know." The lights flickered and died along with the TV, the refrigerator, and probably everything in the house electrical. Decker reached over and picked up the portable phone. He punched in one of the landlines but got no response.

Rina lowered the spoon into the cereal bowl. "Dead?"

"Yep." Decker flicked the light switch on and off, a futile gesture of hope. It was eight in the morning and the kitchen was bathed in eastern light that didn't require electrical augmentation. "Something blew. Probably a major transformer." He frowned. "That shouldn't affect the phone lines, though." He pulled out his cell and tried to contact someone on a landline at work. With no response coming from the other end, Decker knew that the damage was widespread.

The Los Angeles Police Department's West Valley substation—Devonshire Division in another age—was a few miles away from where Decker lived. When this kind of thing happened, the place was a madhouse, a switchboard of panicked people with emergency lines ringing off the hook. "I should go to work."

"You didn't eat," Rina said.

"I'll grab something from the machines."

"Peter, if it's just a transformer, there isn't anything you can do about it. You'll probably have a long day. I think you should fuel up."

There was logic to that. Decker sat back down and poured some skim milk into his cereal bowl, already laden with strawberries and bananas. "I suppose the squad room can wait another five minutes." They ate in silence for two bites. He noticed the wrinkle in Rina's brow. "You're concerned about Hannah."

"A little."

"I'll stop by the school on my way to work."

"I'd appreciate it." Rina tried to think of something to say to distract both of them. The default conversation was the kids. "Cindy called yesterday. She and Koby are coming over Friday night for dinner."

"Great." A pause as Decker finished his cereal. "How are the boys?"

"I talked to Sammy yesterday. He's fine. Jacob only calls before Shabbos or if he's upset. Since he hasn't called, I'm assuming everything's okay."

Decker nodded, although his mind was racing through emergency procedure. He stood and tried the land phone again. The machine was still lifeless. "Is the den computer still plugged into a battery pack?"

"I think so."

"Let me try something." Decker unplugged the small, portable, kitchen TV and lugged it into the back den. Rina followed and watched her husband drop to the floor and insert the electrical cord into one of the empty sockets. The seven-inch screen sprang to life. Decker tried one of the local stations. The TV was color but showed only images in shades of black and gray.

"What are we looking at?" Rina asked.

"A fire." As if to underscore Decker's pronouncement, a billowing cloud of orange flames materialized. His cell jumped to life. "Decker."

"Strapp here. Where are you?"

For the captain to be calling him on his cell, something was really wrong. "At home. I'm just about to leave—"

"Don't come into the station. We've got a dire situation. Plane crash on Seacrest Drive between Hobart and Macon—"

"Good Lord—"

"What?" Rina asked.

Frantically, Decker waved her off.

"Is it Hannah?"

Decker shook his head while trying to digest the captain's words. ". . . took down an apartment building. A few firefighters are already at the scene, but the local units are going to need reinforcements ASAP. All units are being directed to...

From the book

1

Demon plane of Oblivion, City of Ash
Year 192 in the Rule of the Dead

"Do we go to our death--or worse?"

Malkom Slaine gazed over at his best friend, Prince Kallen the Just, wishing he had a better answer for him, anything to ease the apprehension in Kallen's eyes.

As the vampire guards shoved them along, deeper into their stronghold, Malkom suspected death might be welcome before the night was out.

"The rumors are likely untrue," he lied, putting up a renewed resistance as the dozen guards forced them down a flight of stone steps. But his bonds were mystical; Malkom was unable to teleport or break free.

At the base of the stairs lay a subterranean chamber with an ornate throne on a dais. Though the floor was of packed earth, the walls were hung with rich silks and tapestries. Rare crystal and glass adorned the room.

At once, Malkom began analyzing every inch of the area for an escape. Ahead, a pair of winded demon slaves stood beside a freshly dug grave. More guards lined the walls, with swords at the ready. In the back, a black-robed sorcerer worked at a vial-cluttered table.

Gods, let the rumors be untrue ... those whispers of the ScÂrba--the abominations.

Kallen muttered, "Can you see a way out of this?"

Normally, Malkom could. Without fail, he figured his way out of seemingly impossible predicaments. "Not as of yet."

The guards shoved Kallen and Malkom to their knees before the grave.

"Ronath will pay for this once I get free," Kallen grated. Ronath the Armorer was a seasoned warrior, the strongest demon after Malkom. He'd once been Kallen's favored commander. "The traitor will not see another night."

'Twas Ronath who'd turned Malkom over to the vampires. Disastrous enough. But without Malkom's unwavering defense, Kallen's fortress had fallen just a week later. The Trothans' beloved prince had been captured.

Blinded by his hatred for Malkom--a slave turned commander--Ronath had unwittingly doomed Kallen and all the Trothans.

Malkom had already planned his own revenge. As he was neither noble nor good like Kallen, his retribution would be far more vicious than the prince could ever envision.

Without warning, a vampire traced into the room, teleporting directly onto the throne. Clad in costly silk robes, the male was pallid, his skin untouched by Oblivion's blistering sun. His eyes were wholly red, his visage twisted by madness.

The Viceroy.

When the vampires had conquered Oblivion and turned it into a colony, they'd dispatched the Viceroy, their most malicious leader, to act as ruler of the plane.

"Ah, my two new prisoners," he said in Anglish.

Though Malkom and Kallen both were fluent in the language, they refused to speak anything other than their native Demonish--even as the use of that tongue was now punishable by death.

The vampire rubbed his narrow, clean-shaven chin. "At last, you have both been captured."

Malkom and the prince were the leaders of the rebellion, and to break them would be to break the resistance. The vampire overlords had searched for them relentlessly.

When the Viceroy snapped his fingers, the two slaves exited the room, returning moments later with an unconscious demon boy. One of their own, handed over for a vampire's refreshment. A leisurely repast.

Malkom started sweating. He strained even harder...

Chapter One

Yarrow House,
the residence of Mrs. Mariana Daltry, her daughter Victoria,
and Miss Katherine Daltry

Miss Katherine Daltry, known to almost all as Kate, got down from her horse seething with rage.

It should be said that the condition wasn’t unfamiliar to her. Before her father died seven years earlier, she found herself sometimes irritated with her new stepmother. But it wasn’t until he was gone, and the new Mrs. Daltry – who had held that title for a matter of mere months – started ruling the roost, that Kate really learned the meaning of anger.

Anger was watching tenants on the estate be forced to pay double the rent or leave cottages where they’d lived their whole lives. Anger was watching the crops wilt and the hedges overgrow because her stepmother begrudged the money needed to maintain the estate. Anger was watching her father’s money be poured into new gowns and bonnets and frilly things…so numerous that her stepmother and stepsister couldn’t find days enough in the year to wear them all.

It was the pitying glances she had from acquaintances who never met her at dinner anymore. It was being relegated to a chamber in the attic, with faded furnishings that advertised her relative worth in the household. It was the self-loathing of someone who can’t quite bring herself to leave home and have done with it. It was fueled by humiliation, and despair, and the absolute certainty that her father must be turning in his grave.

She stomped up the front steps girding her loins for battle, as her father himself would have said. “Hello, Cherryderry,” she said, as their dear old butler opened the door. “Are you playing footman now?”

“Herself sent the footmen off to London to fetch a doctor,” Cherryderry said. “To be exact, two doctors.”

“Having a spell, is she?” Kate pulled her gloves off carefully, since the leather was separating from its lining around the wrist. Time was when she might have actually wondered if her stepmother (known to the household as Herself) was malingering, but no longer. Not after years of false alarms and voices screaming in the middle of the night about attacks…which generally turned out to be indigestion.

Though as Cherryderry had once commented, one can only hope.

“Not Herself, this time. It’s Miss Victoria’s face, I gather.”

“The bite?”

He nodded. “Dragging the lip down, so her maid told us this morning. There’s a swelling there as well.”

Sour as she felt, Kate felt a pulse of sympathy. Poor Victoria didn’t have much going for her outside of her pretty face and prettier frocks; it would break her stepsister’s heart if she were permanently disfigured.

“I have to talk to Herself about the vicar’s wife,” she said, handing her pelisse to Cherryderry. “Or rather, the former vicar’s wife. After his death, I moved the family to the far cottage.”

“Bad business,” the butler said. “Especially in a vicar. Seems that a vicar shouldn’t take his own life.”

“He left her with four children,” Kate said.

“Mind you, it’s not easy for a man to get over the loss of a limb.”

“Well, now his children have to get over the loss of him,” she said unsympathetically. “Not to mention that my stepmother sent an eviction notice to his widow yesterday.”

Cherryderry frowned. “Herself says you’re to dine with them tonight.”

Kate stopped on her way up the stairs. “She said what?”

“You’re to dine with them tonight. And Lord Dimsdale is coming.”

“You must be joking.”

But the butler was shaking his head. “She said that. What’s more, she’s decided that Miss Victoria’s rats have to go, but for some reason she banished them to your chamber.”

Kate closed her eyes for a moment. A day that had started out badly was only getting worse. She disliked her stepsister’s pack of little dogs, affectionately or not so affectionately, known to all as the rats. She also disliked Algernon Bennett, Lord Dimsdale, her stepsister’s betrothed. He smiled too easily. And she loathed even more the idea of sitting down to dinner en famille.

She generally managed to forget that she had once been mistress of the household. After all, her mother had been bedridden for years before she died, and sickly most of Kate’s life. Kate had grown up sitting opposite her father at the dining room table, going over the menus with Mrs. Swallow, the housekeeper… She had expected to debut, and marry, and raise children of her own in this very house.

But that was before her father died, and she turned into a maid-of-all-work, living in the garret.

And now she was to come to dinner, in a gown that was out of date, and endure the smirking pleasantries of Lord Dimsdale? Why?

She ran up the stairs with a sickening foreboding in her stomach. Kate’s stepmother was seated at her dressing table, examining her complexion. The afternoon light fell over her shoulder, lighting her hair. It had a glare to it, that hair, a fierce yellow tint as if the strands were made of minerals. She was wearing a morning dress with a pleated bodice of lilac net, caught under the breasts with a trailing ribbon. It was lovely…for a debutante.

But Mariana could not abide the fact that she was no longer in her thirties. In fact, she had never really accepted the loss of her twenties. And so she dressed herself to create an approximation of Mariana-at-Twenty. One thing you had to say for Kate’s stepmother: She had a reckless bravery, a kind of fierce disregard for the conventions governing women’s aging.

But of course if Mariana’s costumes were the outward expression of her ambition, they were also the refuge of the failed. For no woman yet has appeared twenty in her forties, and a deliciously sensual gown cannot restore youth.

“I gather you finished your peregrinations amongst your friends and bothered to come home,” Mariana said acidly.

Kate took one look around her stepmother’s boudoir and decided to remove a heap of clothes from what she was almost certain was a stool. The room was mounded with piles of light cottons and spangled silks; they were thrown in heaps over the chairs. Or at least where one presumed chairs to be. The room resembled a pastel snowscape, with soft mountains of fabric here and there.

“What are you doing?” her stepmother demanded as Kate hoisted the gowns in her arms.

“Sitting down,” Kate said, dropping the clothing on the floor.

Her stepmother bounded up with a screech. “Don’t treat my gowns like that, you stupid girl! The top few were delivered only a day or two ago, and they’re magnificent. I’ll have you ironing them all night if there’s the least wrinkle, even the least.”

“I don’t iron,” Kate said flatly. “Remember? I put a scorch mark on a white gown three years ago.”

“Ah, the Persian belladine!” her stepmother cried, clasping her hands together like a girlish Lady Macbeth. “I keep it… there.” She pointed a long finger to a corner where a towering mound of cloth went halfway to the ceiling. “I shall have it altered one of these days.” She sat back down.

Kate carefully pushed the stack of gowns a little further away from her foot. “I must speak to you about the Crabtrees.”

“God, I hope you managed to shovel the woman out the door,” Mariana said, lighting a cigarillo. “You know the bloody solicitor is coming next week to assess my management of the estate. If he sees that scrapheap of a cottage, he’ll make no end of fuss. Last quarter he prosed on and on till I thought I’d die of boredom.”

“It’s your responsibility to keep the cottages in good repair,” Kate said, getting up to open a window.

Mariana waved her cigarillo disdainfully. “Nonsense. Those people live on my land for practically nothing. The least they can do is keep their own houses in good nick. That Crabtree woman is living in a pigsty. I happened by the other day and I was positively horrified.”

Kate sat back down and let her eyes wander around the room. The pigsty of a room. But after a moment she realized that Mariana hadn’t noticed her silent insult, since she had opened a little jar and was painting her lips a dark shade of copper.

“Since her husband died,” Kate said, “Mrs. Crabtree is both exhausted and afraid. The house is not a pigsty; it is simply disorganized. You can’t evict her. She has nowhere to go.”

“Nonsense,” Mariana said, leaning closer to the glass to examine her lips. “I’m sure she has a bolt-hole all planned. Another man, most like. It’s been over a year since Crabtree topped himself; she’ll have a new one lined up by now. You’ll see.”

Talking to her stepmother, to Kate’s mind, was like peeing in a pitch-black outhouse. You had no idea what might come up, but you knew you wouldn’t like it.

“That is cruel,” she said, trying to pitch her words so that she sounded like the voice of authority.

“They have to go,” Mariana stated. “I can’t abide sluggards. I made a special trip over to the vicarage, you know, the morning after her husband jumped from the bridge. Bringing my condolences.”

Mariana preferred to avoid all the people working on the estate or in the village, except on the rare occasions when she developed a sudden taste for playing the lady of the manor. Then she would put on an ensemble extravagantly calculated to offend country folk, descend from her carriage, and decipher in her tenants’ startled expressions their shiftless and foolish natures. Finally she would instruct Kate to jettison them from their homes.

Luckily, she generally forgot about the demand after a week or so.

“That woman, Crabtree, was lying on the settee crying. Children all over the room, a disgusting number of children, and there she was, shoulders shaking like a bad actress. Crying. Maybe she should join a traveling theater,” Mariana said. “She’s not unattractive.”

“She –”

Mariana interrupted. “I can’t abide idlers. Do you think I lay about and wept after my first husband, the colonel, died? Did you see me shed a tear when your father died, though we had enjoyed but a few months of matrimonial bliss?”

Kate had seen no tears, but Mariana needed no confirmation from her. “Although Mrs. Crabtree may not have your fortitude, she has four small children and we have some responsibility to them—“

“I’m bored with the subject and besides, I need to speak to you about something important. Tonight Lord Dimsdale is coming to dinner and you shall join us.” Mariana blew out a puff of smoke. It looked like fog escaping from a small copper pipe.

“So Cherryderry said. Why?” She and her stepmother had long ago dispensed with pleasantries. They loathed each other, and Kate couldn’t imagine why her presence was required at the table.

“You’re going to be meeting Dimsdale’s relatives in a few days.” Mariana took another pull on her cigarillo. “Thank God, you’re slimmer than Victoria. We can have her gowns taken in quite easily. It would be harder to go the other way.”

“What are you talking about? I can’t imagine that Lord Dimsdale has the faintest interest in eating a meal with me, nor in introducing me to his relatives, and the feeling is mutual.”

Before Mariana could clarify her demand, the door was flung open. “The cream isn’t working,” Victoria wailed, hurtling toward her mother. She didn’t even see Kate, just fell to her knees and buried her face in her mother’s lap.

Instantly Mariana put down her cigarillo and wrapped her arms around her daughter’s shoulders. “Hush babykins,” she crooned. “Of course the cream will work. We just need to give it a little time. I promise you, Mother promises you, that it will work. Your face will be as beautiful as ever. And just in case, I sent off to London for two of the very best doctors.”

Kate was beginning to feel a faint interest in the matter. “What kind of cream are you using?”

Mariana threw her an unfriendly glance. “Nothing you would have heard of. It’s made from crushed pearls, among other things. It works like a charm on all sorts of facial imperfections. I use it myself, daily.”

“Just look at my lip, Kate!” Victoria said, popping her head back up. “I’m ruined for life.” Her eyes glistened with tears.

Her lower lip did look rather alarming. There was an odd violet-colored puffiness around the site that suggested infection, and her mouth had a slight, but distinct, list to the side.

Kate got to her feet and came over for a closer look. “Has Dr. Busby seen it yet?”

“He came yesterday, but he’s an old fool,” Mariana said. “He couldn’t be expected to understand how important this is. He hadn’t a single helpful potion or cream to offer. Nothing!”

Kate turned Victoria’s head to the side so that the light fell on it. “I think the bite is infected,” she said. “Are you sure this cream is hygienic?”

“Are you questioning my judgment?” Mariana shouted, standing up.

“Absolutely,” Kate retorted. “If Victoria ends up with a deformed mouth because you sloshed on some quack remedy you were swindled into buying in London, I want it clear that it’s your fault.”

“You insolent toad!” Mariana said, stepping forward.

But Victoria put out an arm. “Mother, stop. Kate, do you really think there’s something wrong with the cream? My lip throbs terribly.” Victoria was a tremendously pretty girl, with a beautiful complexion and wide, tender eyes that always looked a bit dewy, as if she had just shed a sentimental tear, or was just about to. Since she shed tears, sentimental and otherwise, throughout the day, this made sense. Now two tears rolled down her face.

“I think that there might be some infection inside the wound,” Kate said, frowning. “Your lip mended quickly, but…” She pushed gently, and Victoria cried out. “It’s going to have to be lanced.”

“Never!” Mariana roared.

“I couldn’t allow my face to be cut,” Victoria said, trembling all over.

“But you don’t want to have a disfigurement,” Kate said, schooling her tone to patience.

Victoria blinked while she thought about that.

“Nothing will happen until the London doctors arrive,” Mariana announced, sitting back down. She had a wild enthusiasm for anyone, and anything, from London. Kate suspected it was the result of a childhood spent in the country, but since Mariana never let slip even a hint about her past, it was hard to know.

“Well, let’s hope they arrive soon,” Kate said, wondering whether an infected lip created any risk of blood infection. Presumably not… “Why do you want me to join you for dinner, Mariana?”

“Because of my lip, of course,” Victoria said, snuffling, like a small pig.

“Your lip,” Kate repeated.

“I can’t go on the visit, can I?” Victoria added, with a characteristic, if maddening, lack of clarity.

“Your sister was to pay a very important visit to a member of Lord Dimsdale’s family in just a few days,” Mariana put in. “If you weren’t so busy traipsing around the estate listening to the sob stories of feckless women, you’d remember that. He’s a prince. A prince!”

Kate dropped onto her stool again and looked at her two relatives. Mariana was as hard and bright as a new ha’penny. In contrast, Victoria’s features were blurred and indistinct. Her hair was a delightful pale rose color, somewhere between blonde and red, and curled winsomely around her face. Mariana’s hair had the sharp-edged perfection of someone whose maid spent three hours with a curling iron achieving precisely the look she wanted.

“I fail to see what the postponed visit has to do with me,” Kate said, “though I am very sympathetic about your disappointment, Victoria.” And she was, too. Though she loathed her stepmother, she had never felt the same hatred for her stepsister. For one thing, Victoria was too soft-natured for anyone to dislike. And for another, she couldn’t help being fond of her. If Kate had taken a great deal of abuse from Mariana, the kind of affection that her stepmother lavished on her daughter was, to Kate’s mind, almost worse.

“Well,” Victoria said heavily, sitting down on a pile of gowns about the approximate height of a stool, “you have to be me. It took me a while to understand it, but Mother has it all cleverly planned out. And I’m sure my darling Algie will agree.”

“I couldn’t possibly be you, whatever that means,” Kate said flatly.

“Yes, you can,” Mariana said. She had finished her cigarillo and was lighting a second from the first. “And you will,” she added.

“No, I won’t. Not that I have the faintest idea what you’re talking about. Be Victoria in what context? And with whom?”

“With Lord Dimsdale’s prince, of course,” Mariana said, regarding her through a faint haze of smoke. “Haven’t you been listening?”

“You want me to pretend to be Victoria? In front of a prince? Which prince?”

“I didn’t understand at first either,” Victoria said, running her finger over her injured lip. “You see, before Algie can marry me, we need the approval of some relative of his.”

“The prince,” Mariana put in.

“He’s a prince from some little country in the back of beyond, that’s what Algie says. But he’s the only representative of Algie’s mother’s family who lives in England, and she won’t release his inheritance without the prince’s approval. His father’s will,” Victoria confided, “is most dreadfully unfair. If Algie marries before thirty years of age, without his mother’s approval, he loses part of his inheritance – and he’s not even twenty yet!”

Very smart of Papa Dimsdale, to Kate’s mind. From what she’d seen, Dimsdale Junior was about as ready to manage an estate as the rats were to learn choral music. Not that it was her business. “The doctors will take a look at you tomorrow morning,” she told Victoria, “and then you’ll be off to see the prince. Rather like the cat looking at the queen.”

“She can’t go like that!” Mariana snapped. It was the first time that Kate had ever heard that edge of disgust applied to her daughter.

Victoria turned her head and looked at her mother, but said nothing.

“Of course she can,” Kate stated. “This sounds like a fool’s game to me. No one will believe for a moment that I’m Victoria. And even if they did, don’t you think they’d remember later? What happens when this prince stands up in the church and stops the ceremony, on the grounds that the bride isn’t the bride he met?”

“That won’t happen, if only because Victoria will be married directly afterwards, by special license,” Mariana said. “This is the first time Dimsdale has been invited to the castle, and we can’t miss it. His Highness is throwing a ball to celebrate his betrothal, and you’re going as Victoria.”

“Why not just postpone your visit and go after the ball is over?”

“Because I have to get married,” Victoria piped up.

Kate’s heart sank. “You have to get married?”

Victoria nodded. Kate looked at her stepmother, who shrugged. “She’s compromised. Three months’ worth.”

“For Christ’s sake,” Kate exclaimed. “You hardly know Dimsdale, Victoria!”

“I love Algie,” Victoria said, her big eyes earnest. “I didn’t even want to debut, not after I saw him at Westminster Abbey that Sunday back in March, but Mother made me.”

“March,” Kate said. “You met him in March and now it’s June. Tell me that darling Algie proposed, oh, say three months ago, just after you fell in love, and you’ve kept it a secret?”

Victoria giggled at that. “You know exactly when he proposed, Kate! I told you first, after Mother. It was just two weeks ago.”

The lines between Mariana’s nose and mouth couldn’t be plumped by a miracle cream made of crushed pearls. “Dimsdale was slightly tardy in his attentions.”

“Not tardy in his attentions,” Kate said. “He’s seems to have been remarkably forward in that department.”

Mariana threw her a look of dislike. “Lord Dimsdale very properly proposed marriage once he understood the situation.”

“I would kill the man, were I you,” Kate told her.

“Would you?” She gave an odd smile. “You always were a fool. The viscount has a title and a snug fortune, once he gets his hands on it. He’s utterly infatuated with your sister, and he’s set on marrying her.”

“Fortunate,” Kate commented. She looked back at Victoria. She was delicately patting her lip over and over again. “I told you to hire a chaperone, Mariana. She could have had anyone.”

Mariana turned back to her glass without a comment. In truth, Victoria probably wasn’t for just any man. She was too soft, too much like a soggy pudding. She cried too much.

Though she was terribly pretty and, apparently, fertile. Fertility was always a good thing in a woman. Look how much her own father had despaired over his lack of a son. Her mother’s inability to have more children apparently led to his marriage a mere fortnight after his wife’s death…he must have been that anxious to start a new family.

Presumably he thought Mariana was as fertile as her daughter had now proved to be. At any rate, he died before testing the premise.

“So you’re asking me to visit the prince and pretend to be Victoria,” Kate said.

“I’m not asking you,” Mariana said instantly. “I’m commanding you.”

“Oh, Mother,” Victoria said. “Please, Kate. Please. I want to marry Algie. And, really, I rather need to…I didn’t quite understand and well…” She smoothed her gown. “I don’t want everyone to know about the baby. And Algie doesn’t either.”

Of course Victoria hadn’t understood that she was carrying a child. Kate would be amazed to think that her stepsister had even understood the act of conception, let alone its consequences.

“You’re asking me,” Kate said to her stepmother, ignoring Victoria for the moment. “Because although you could force me into the carriage with Lord Dimsdale, you certainly couldn’t control what I said once I met this prince.”

Mariana showed her teeth.

“Even more relevant,” Kate continued, “is the fact that Victoria made a very prominent debut just a few months ago. Surely people at the ball will have met her – or even just have seen her?”

“That’s why I’m sending you rather than any girl I could find on the street,” Mariana said with her usual courtesy.

“You’ll have my little doggies with you,” Victoria said. “They made me famous, so everyone will think you’re me.” And then, as if she just remembered, another big tear rolled down her cheek. “Though Mother says that I must give them up.”

“Apparently they are in my bedchamber,” Kate said.

“They’re yours now,” Mariana said. “At least for the visit. After that we’ll –” She broke off with a glance at her daughter. “We’ll give them to some deserving orphans.”

“The poor tots will love them,” Victoria said mistily, ignoring the fact that the said orphans might not like being nipped by their new pets.

“Who would accompany me as chaperone?” Kate asked, putting the question of Victoria’s rats aside for the moment.

“You don’t need one,” Mariana said with a hard edge of scorn, “the way you careen about the countryside on your own.”

“A pity I didn’t keep Victoria with me,” Kate retorted. “I would have ensured that Dimsdale didn’t treat her like a common trollop.”

“Oh, I suppose that you’ve preserved your virtue,” Mariana snapped. “Much good may it do you. You needn’t worry about Lord Dimsdale making an attempt at that dusty asset; he’s in love with Victoria.”

“Yes, he is,” Victoria said, sniffing. “And I love him too.” Another tear slid down her cheek.

Kate sighed. “If I am pretending to be Victoria, it will create a scandal if I appear in a carriage alone with Dimsdale, and the scandal will not attach to me, but to Victoria. In short, no one will be surprised when her child appears on an abbreviated schedule after the wedding.”

There was a moment of silence. “All right,” Mariana said. “I would have accompanied Victoria, of course, but I can’t leave her, given her poor state of health. You can take Rosalie with you.”

“A maid? You’re giving me a maid as a chaperone?”
“What’s the matter with that?” Mariana demanded. “She can sit between you in case you lose your head and lunge at Lord Dimsdale. You’ll have the rats’ maid as well, of course.”

“Victoria’s dogs have their own maid?”

“Mary-Downstairs,” Victoria said. “She cleans the fireplaces, but she also gives them a bath every day, and brushes them. Pets,” Victoria added, “are a responsibility.”

“I shall not take Mary with me,” Kate stated. “How on earth do you expect Mrs. Swallow to manage without her?”

Mariana just shrugged.

“This won’t work,” Kate said, trying to drag the conversation back into some sort of sensible channel. “We don’t even look alike.”

“Of course you do!” Mariana snapped.

“Well, actually, we don’t,” Victoria said. “I – well, I look like me and Kate, well…” She floundered to a halt.

“What Victoria is trying to say is that she is remarkably beautiful,” Kate said, feeling her heart like a little stone in her chest, “and I am not. Put that together with the fact that we are stepsisters related only by marriage, and there’s no more resemblance between us than any pair of Englishwomen seen together.”

“You have the same color hair,” Mariana said, dragging on her cigarillo.

“Really?” Victoria said doubtfully.

Actually, Mariana was probably right. But Victoria’s hair was cut in pretty curls around her head, in the very newest style, and fixed with a delicate bandeau. Kate brushed hers out in the morning, twisted it about and pinned it flat to her head. She had no time for meticulous grooming. More accurately, she had no time for grooming at all.

“You’re cracked,” Kate said, staring at her stepmother. “You can’t pass me off as your daughter.”

Victoria was frowning now. “I’m afraid she’s right, Mother. I wasn’t thinking.”

Mariana had a kind of tight look about her eyes that Kate knew from long experience signaled true rage. But for once, she was rather perplexed about why.

“Kate is taller than I am,” Victoria said, counting on her fingers. “Her hair is a little more yellow, not to mention long, and we don’t have the same sort of look at all. Even if she put on my clothing—“

“She’s your sister,” Mariana said, her mouth tight, as if the copper pipe had been hammered flat.

“She’s my stepsister,” Kate said patiently. “The fact that you married my father does not make us blood relatives, and your first husband –”

“She’s your sister.”

Chapter One
Washington, D.C.

Three Weeks Later

Nervous?" asked Eddie Chase, nudging his fiancée as they approached the door.

Nina Wilde fingered the pendant around her neck, her good-luck charm. "Er, yeah. Aren't you?"

"Why? We've met the guy before."

"Yes, but he wasn't the frickin' president then, was he?"

An aide opened the door and ushered them into the Oval Office. They were greeted by applause. Waiting for them were former U.S. Navy admiral Hector Amoros, their current boss at the United Nations' International Heritage Agency; several White House officials and representatives of Congress; the First Lady . . . and Victor Dalton, the president of the United States of America.

"Dr. Wilde!" he said, stepping forward to shake her hand. "And Mr. Chase. Good to see you both again."

"Good to see you again too. Uh, Mr. President," Nina added quickly.

Chase shook hands next. "Thank you, sir."

The others took their seats while Nina, Chase and Dalton remained standing. Dalton waited for everyone to settle before speaking, half turning to face the White House photographer recording the event as much as his guests of honor. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "distinguished members of Congress, members of my cabinet. It is truly a great privilege to present this award to a woman whose unflinching bravery in the face of extreme danger has saved countless lives, both in America and elsewhere in the world. And at the same time, a woman whose dedication to science and discovery has changed our view of history forever, restoring to the world long-lost treasures that until now were thought only to be myth. In a way, she is responsible for protecting both our past and our future. I am honored today to introduce Dr. Nina Wilde, the discoverer of the lost city of Atlantis and the buried Tomb of Hercules, and also the savior of this nation from a monstrous terrorist act, and to present her with the highest accolade this office can bestow--the Presidential Medal of Freedom."

Nina blushed, simultaneously fighting the pedantic urge to correct Dalton--Atlantis was the name of the island, not the city--as he carefully took a medal attached to a blue ribbon from a velvet tray. "Dr. Wilde, this nation is in your debt. I would be honored if you would accept this symbol of our eternal gratitude."

"Thank you, Mr. President," she said, lowering her head. Dalton raised the medal and placed it around her neck. He then shook her hand once more before turning her to face the strobing flashes of the camera, leaving her momentarily dazzled. The speech she had worked out earlier melted away to nothing under the onslaught of light and renewed applause. "Thank you," she repeated, struggling to come up with something intelligent to say. "I'm . . . I'm very grateful for this award, this honor. And, um, I'd also like to thank my fiancé, Eddie--" She cringed mentally at that. I'd also like to thank? This isn't the goddamn Oscars!--"without whom I'd probably be, well, dead. Several times over. Thank you. Everyone." Cheeks now as red as her hair, she moved back.

"Dr. Wilde stepped on my toes a little there," said Dalton jovially, raising a polite laugh and making Nina wish the Oval Office had a secret trapdoor she could disappear down. "But yes, the second person we're here to honor today is Eddie Chase"--he gestured for Chase to step forward and take Nina's place--"who as a former member of the United Kingdom's elite Special Air Service has chosen to eschew public recognition for...

CHAPTER TWO

Fire in the Blood

One Week Later

The intent, I think, was perfectly innocent. We’d been called together, the vampires of Cadogan House, for a demonstration of self-defense techniques. It wasn’t unusual that we were training—vampires were expected to be able to fend for themselves. After all, thousands of years of living beneath the human radar tended to make them a little paranoid. And Ethan and I were enjoying our own (also perfectly innocent) training sessions as I learned to wield my vampire strength.

But Ethan decided that circumstances (i.e., Celina) necessitated more training. I hadn’t been equipped to take on Celina when she’d shown up at the House a week ago to attack me. And if I, the vampire Ethan was convinced was stronger than most, couldn’t do it, he was understandably nervous about the safety of the rest of Cadogan’s 319 vampires.

So I’d made the trek from my second-floor room to the sparring room in the basement of Cadogan House. Lindsey, a fellow House guard and my bestest vampire friend, had joined me so that we could learn how to better protect ourselves from the Chicago’s brand of vampire crazy.

Of course, we hadn’t expected to get a peep show in the bargain.

“Dear God,” Lindsey breathlessly said, as we stepped into the sparring room. We stopped at the edge of the tatami mats that covered the floor, lips parted and eyes wide as we surveyed the sight before us.

Two vampires in the prime of their immortal lives moved across the floor, muscles flexing as they grappled, bare-handed, in attempts to throw the other down. They were sparring without weapons, no swords or steel, using hands and feet, elbows and knees, and the extra physical bite of being vampire.

And they were both half-naked. Both sparring barefoot and shirtless, wearing white, martial arts-style gi pants, the gleaming gold disks of their Cadogan House medals around their necks.

Lindsey’s gaze was locked onto Luc, Captain of the Cadogan House guards. Luc was a former cowboy turned vampire soldier, complete with broad shoulders, fuzzy chest and curling, sun-streaked hair that he suddenly stopped to push out of his face, muscles tensing as he moved.

And across from Luc, his opponent: Ethan Sullivan, Master of Cadogan House and the 394 year-old vampire who’d brought me into the world of the fanged—without my consent, but admittedly because my other option had been a speedy death. He stood a little over six feet, and the top half that six feet—the long, lean line of flat stomach and high pecs, the trail of blond hair that dipped down from his navel and disappeared into the waistband of his pants—glistened as he swiveled for a roundhouse kick.

Luc, I think, was supposed to be playing the attacker, but Ethan was doing a fine job of holding him off. For all the Armani suits and supermodel-good looks, Ethan was a skilled warrior. Something I’d recently been forced to remember, when I’d swung my katana at his throat a few nights ago.

As I watched him fight, goosebumps pebbled my arms. I assumed my blue irises were shifting to silver as heat began to rise through my body, the fire fanned by the sight of Ethan in motion, dipping and weaving and spinning as he faced down his opponent. I wet my lips, suddenly blood-thirsty even though I’d had convenience blood, bagged by our supplier (Blood4You) less than twenty-four hours ago. And more importantly, I’d taken blood directly from a vampire only a week ago.

From him.

He’d fed me during the final chapter of my transition to vampire, when I’d awoken with a thirst for blood so strong I would have killed to get it. But I hadn’t needed violence. Ethan had offered his wrist willingly and I’d taken full advantage, watching his eyes silver as I took the nutrition that somehow sealed my transformation to predator. To vampire.

I smoldered as I watched him, as his muscles shifted and flexed, as he moved with the slinking grace of a panther. I could have justified the warmth in my belly, called my reaction a consequence of my now fully-functioning vampire biology, the result of watching a predator in his prime, or a Novitiate’s attraction to the Master who made her.

But that didn’t do Ethan Sullivan justice. Not even close.

He was almost too handsome to be real. Blond hair framing that gorgeous face, cheekbones that New York models would pay for, eyes that shone like chips of emerald. Six feet of golden skin stretched taut over muscle, and I could attest that all six feet were equally perfect. I’d caught an accidental glimpse of Ethan mid-satisfying his former mistress, who’d betrayed him to join Celina’s band of merry evildoers.

It wasn’t hard to imagine that he was the top of whatever chain of predators we belonged to. Not when you watched the long, lean line of him moving across the room.

Not when you watched the tiny, glossy bead of sweat that was slowly—ever so slowly—traced its way down the middle of Ethan’s flat abdomen, one brick of muscle at a time, just threatening to slip into the waistband of his pants.

Ethan felt the attraction as well. He’d offered to make me his mistress even before Amber decamped to join Team Desaulniers. We’d shared a couple of kisses, but I’d managed to resist taking him up on the rest of his offers. Ethan wanted me, without doubt. And I wasn’t stupid enough to argue his attractiveness, which was undeniable.

But Ethan was also completely infuriating—slow to trust, easy to accuse—and still not entirely sure how he felt about me. Not to mention his baggage: his smug sense of superiority and his willingness to use those around him, including me, to meet political goals. There was also the fact that our last kiss had occurred less than twenty-four hours before I’d broken off my fledging relationship with Morgan Greer, the vampire who replaced Celina as Master of Navarre House once Ethan and I managed pull out a confession. I’d walked away from that kiss with fire in my blood and guilt in my heart.

Surely I could find a relationship with a better concoction of emotions. That thought in mind, rationality returning, my blood began to cool.

“It should be illegal for smug vampires to look that good,” Lindsey said, clucking her tongue.

“That is so true,” I quietly agreed, thinking a little less hotness would make my relationship with Ethan a lot simpler. I lifted my gaze away from the fighting vampires to scan the rest of the room. The balcony that ringed the sparring room was filled with vampires, men and women. The women, and a few of the men, stared at the action below them, eyes hooded, cheeks flushed, all of them enjoying the sights below.

“On the other hand, they’re the ones creating this pec-tacle.”

I slid her a glance, arching an eyebrow. “Pec-tacle?”

“You know, like spectacle,” she paused to point at her breasts, “but with more dude nipples. Do you disagree?”

I returned my gaze to the Master vampire who was currently leaning over to pick up a bokken, a wooden practice weapon, from the mat. Muscles clenched and tensed as he moved, nipples pert on his muscular chest.

“Far be it from me to disagree,” I said. “They have created quite a pec-tacle. And when they put it out there like that, they can hardly expect us not to look.”

Lindsey gave me a nod of approval. “I don’t know where the bravado comes from, but I like it.”

“I’m trying it on,” I whispered back, which was true. The transition to vampire hadn’t been easy—psychologically or physically—but I was beginning to get the hang of it. I’d essentially gone through the physical Change twice, since the first time around hadn’t quite taken. (Ethan, in a fit of guilt, had drugged me through the first transition, which apparently forestalled the complete change.) And that was on top of the fact that I’d moved out of the Wicker Park brownstone I’d shared with my former roommate—and former best friend—Mallory, and into Cadogan House. I’d managed to hold my own when dealing with my parents and their fusty friends, a step I’d taken at Ethan’s request when we were trying to keep vampire raves out of the press. And, not counting the two times I’d faux-battled Ethan, I’d managed to subdue Celina approximately fifty percent of the times that she’d come looking for a fight, which wasn’t awful, as batting averages went.

With that excitement under my belt, here I was. A new vampire in the historic position of Sentinel, guarding the House against creatures both living and dead. I’d gone from graduate student to vampire fighter nearly overnight. And now Noah Beck wanted to be the one to capitalize on that.

“Merit. Merit.”

Although Lindsey said my name at least a couple of times, it was the jostling that finally did it, that broke me from the memory of my meeting with Noah, brought me back to the Cadogan House training room, to Lindsey, who’d nudged me with her shoulder to get my attention, and to Ethan, who stood before me, hands on his hips, shoulder-length blond hair tied back, green eyes on me, one eyebrow arched condescendingly. Luc was nowhere in sight . . . and all eyes were on me.

“Um, yes?” I asked.

The vampires snickered.

“If you’re finished with your daydreams,” Ethan said into the silence of the room, “perhaps you might consider joining me?”

“Sorry, Liege,” I muttered and stepped out of my flip-flops, then onto the mats, sheathed katana in hand. I was already in my training ensemble—a black sports-bra type top and yoga pants, no shoes.

I followed Ethan to the middle of the floor, aware that nearly seven-dozen vampires were following our movements. He stopped, stood before me, and bowed. I did the same.

“It is important,” he began, loud enough for all to hear, “that you be prepared, should the need arise, to fight. And to master that fight, you must first master the steps. As you also know, our Sentinel hasn’t yet mastered the art of sparring—”

He paused just long enough to give me a pointed look. So sparring wasn’t my thing. I was good at the katas—the building blocks of vampire swordfighting. I’d been a ballet dancer, and there was something very dancerly about the moves. They were positions, forms, steps that I could memorize and practice and, by repetition, perfect.

Sparring was different. Having grown up with my nose in a book, I had no experience at fighting beyond a couple of experimental kickboxing classes and a few run-ins with Celina and her assorted minions. I knew my weakness—I spent too much time trying to think through the fight—trying to find an attacker’s weaknesses, to exploit them, and all the while keep from overthinking the fight. That had become even harder in the last week, as I’d worked with Luc to keep the cacophony of smells and sounds that threatened, post-Change, to overwhelm me, down to a dull roar.

“—But her work with the katas is unparalleled.” He arched an eyebrow at me—half challenge, half-insult—and took a step backward. “Sentinel,” he said, voice lower now, the order just for me, “Katas, if you please.”

“Liege,” I said, then lifted my sword in both hands, my right hand on the handle, left hand on the sheath, and moved my hands apart, unsheathing it with a quick whistle of sound, light glinting from the polished steel. I walked to the mat, and placed the lacquered sheath on the edge of it.

Then, with all the confidence and bravado I could muster—easier now that I’d been asked to join a secret corps of vampire warriors—I returned to him, faced him, and gripped the katana in both hands. “Begin,” he ordered, and took steps backward, giving me room. There were seven two-handed katas and three more single-handed moves. Those were new to me. But I’d been practicing the traditional katas since I’d become a vampire, and, frankly, I wanted to show off a little. In the week that we’d been working together, he’d only seen me practice the katas in traditional fashion—one kata at a time, my movements timed and precise. But that’s not all I could do . . .

I bladed my body, katana poised before me. “Fast or slow?”

He frowned. “Fast or slow?”

I smiled cannily beneath my fringe of bangs. “Pick your speed.”

“Vampires?” he asked aloud, but his gaze on me. “Fast or slow?”

There were “slow” stragglers, but the majority requested “Fast!”

“Fast, it seems,” he said.

I nodded, closed my eyes, centered my weight, and moved. The first kata, sword arcing across my body, then returning to the center position. The second, a downward strike. The third and fourth, combinations. The fifth, sixth and seventh, two-handed moves in combinations with spins and parries.

In traditional form, when the focus was on precision and control, each kata took ten or fifteen seconds.

But done “fast,” I could run through the entire set in twenty seconds. I’d learned my speed from my former trainer, Catcher, a sorcerer with a penchant for katanas and swordfighting. (He was also, not coincidentally, Mallory’s boyfriend and my grandfather’s employee.) Catcher demanded that I practice the moves over and over, thinking repetition would force the muscle memory. It had—and it had allowed me to use my increased vampire strength, speed, agility, to push the forms into a single dance of movement so quickly my body blurred with the speed of it.

After I’d challenged Ethan in our second duel, Ethan decided he needed to supplant Catcher as my trainer. But he didn’t know how much Catcher had taught me . . .

I finished the seventh form, spun to a stop, sword between my hands, perpendicular before my body. The lights above us caught the gentle curve of the steel, the entire room suddenly silent.

Ethan stared.

“Do it again,” he said, his words barely audible, a glint in his eyes. I didn’t mistake the glint for lust. Although the chemistry between us was keen, Ethan was unambiguously, ubiquitously political. Always maneuvering.

And I was a weapon.

I was his weapon.

That glint? Avarice, pure and simple.

“Liege,” I said, tilting my head in acknowledgment, and went back to the beginning position.

I completed the moves again, sword arcing perpendicular to the floor, slicing downward, an across-and-up combination, then the arc-and-spin combinations, the backward thrust, the overhead strike. I ended in the final position.

“Again,” he ordered a third time, and I obliged.

By the time I’d run through the katas in sequence again, and then done seven or eight repetitions of one or two favorite katas at his request, my chest was heaving with the effort, my hands slippery around the rayskin-wrapped handle of my sword. I glanced up, saw that the vampires who’d settled for space in the wooden balcony that ringed the training room were learning forward, arms on the balcony rail, curiosity in their expressions. They tended to look at me that way—either, because of my strength, as a curiosity or, because of my unfortunate habit of challenging Ethan to duels, as a freak.

For what it’s worth, I was really planning on breaking that habit.

“Well done,” he quietly said, then addressed the balcony. “I believe that answers more than a few questions about our Sentinel. And while she’s on stage,” he tilted his head toward me, “anything our new Social Chair would like to add about upcoming Cadogan events? Picnics? Mixers?”

The blush spread to the roots of my hair. Ethan had named me House Social Chair as punishment for challenging him. As punishments went, it was pretty light. But it was also mortifying, and it took me a moment to get myself together.

“I’m thinking about something for summer solstice. A barbeque, probably. I thought we’d invite vampires from the other Houses.”

The room went silent as Ethan considered the idea—and his audience waited for the verdict.

“Good,” he finally said with an authoritarian nod, then looked back at the crowd. But his expression changed to something much more serious.

“We believed, at one time, that our superiors believed as we do, had learned as we had, that assimilation was best. That staying under the radar was the best way to ensure our survival and to keep peace with the supernaturals around us.

“To some extent, Celina has made that impossible. With all due respect to our friends in Navarre House, she has sought, at every opportunity, to increase our profile, to alienate us from humans, and to alienate us from ourselves.” In a rare moment of humanity, Ethan looked down at the ground, worry furrowing a line between his eyes.

“We are on the brink,” he repeated. “The brink of what, exactly, remains to be seen. As it stands, we’ve been gifted with a time of peace and relative tranquility, a time in which the Houses have blossomed financially. Our coming out, by hook or by crook, for better or worse, has put us back in the public eye. A public that hasn’t always been kind toward us. Whether our pseudo-celebrity will last—who knows?

“As for now, and as you may have heard, the shifters are preparing to meet this week in Chicago. We’ve been informed that during this convocation, they will decide, for one and all, whether to stay in their respective territories or to remove to their ancestral home in Alaska. If they go, and the tide turns against us—Well. I don’t need to remind you about our shared historical experiences with shifters.”

There was mumbling in the crowd, a spike of discomforted magic in the air. Shifters had retreated before when vamps had been in trouble. Vamps blamed shifters for the resulting deaths, and vampires now feared that if the human tide turned against us, shifters would do it again, leaving us here holding the supernatural baggage.

“As you know, we don’t have formal allies within the Packs. They have avoided such ties. But my hope remains that should we face animosity, or anger, or fear, they will agree to help us.”

A male vampire stood up. “They’ve never helped before!” he shouted down at Ethan.

Ethan regarded him thoughtfully. “They haven’t. But suggesting that they ‘owe us’ hasn’t worked. We will do what we can to form new connections between us. And in the mean time . . .”

He paused, and the room was silent as the vampires waited for his next words. My issues with Ethan notwithstanding, he knew how to work a crowd.

“In the mean time,” he continued, “I ask you, not as your Master, but as your brother, your colleague, your friend. Be careful. Mind the company you keep. Be aware of your surroundings. And most of all, don’t be afraid to come to me. Any of you. Anytime.”

Ethan cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, his voice was crisp, clear and Master-like again. “Dismissed,” he said, and the vampires in the balcony beginning to file out of the sparring room.

Ethan walked toward us. “My apartments,” he told Luc, then glanced at me. “You, too.”

“Your apartments?” I asked, but Ethan had already turned away, smiling politely at a vampire who’d trekked down from the balcony. I didn’t know her, but her goal was obvious enough in the cant of her hip, the subtle play of her fingers as she pushed her long, dark hair behind her ears. She leaned toward him and asked something. He laughed and chuckled politely, then began explaining—with visual aids—how to correctly position her hands on the handle of her sword.

My lip curled involuntarily, but before I could get out a snarky comment, I felt a tug on my ponytail. I glanced back.

“Let’s go,” Luc said, “unless you want to keep watching?”

“Ha,” I flatly said. “What did he mean by ‘his apartments?”

“We have a meeting.”

The last time we’d had a meeting, Ethan told me about raves, mass feedings in which humans became unwilling vampire snacks. “About the raves?”

“Not today. We haven’t heard anything else about raves since the attempt to blackmail us went bad. Malik’s working up a long-term strategy. Today we’re talking shifters. Let’s go—unless you wanted to keep watching?”

I stuck out my tongue at Luc, but followed when he headed for the sparring room door.

# # #

The basement of Cadogan House was all business, most of it violent—training room, sparring room, Ops room, arsenal.. The first floor, like the second and third, was about décor. Soft lightening, French antiques, hardwoods, expensive furniture. “Five-star hotel” had been my first impression. The rest of the rooms in the House were equally fancy, from Ethan’s masculine office, to Ethan’s luxe apartments.

We took the House’s central staircase to the third floor. When we reached Ethan’s apartments, Luc grasped the handles of the double-doors in both hands, then pushed them open.

I’d been in Ethan’s rooms before, but only briefly. As far as I could tell, Ethan’s chunk of the third floor had three rooms—the main living room, a bedroom, and presumably a bathroom somewhere in the back. It was as elegantly appointed as the rest of the House—from the hardwood floors to the warmly painted walls; from the onyx fireplace to the expensive, tailored furniture. It looked more like a suite in a fine hotel than the home of a vampire in the prime of his (immortal) life.

This trip, I gave the room a careful look, scanning for hints into the psyche of the Master of the House. And there were plenty of details to peruse; the detritus of his four hundred years of life dotted the room. A bow and arrow hung on one wall. A campaign chair and desk that looked like it would fold for travel, maybe remnants of Ethan’s time as a European soldier sat in one corner. A low buffet-style chest was centered on another wall, a spread of objects on top of it. I ambled over, hands behind my back and surveyed the goods. There were two silver trophies styled like giant cups, a picture of men in early 19th Century garb (but no Ethan among them), and a flat stone with symbols carved into the top.

I glanced up. In one corner of the room, inside a tall, glass case, sat a gleaming Faberge egg.

“Oh, wow,” I said, walking toward it to get a better look. A pendant light shone above it, illuminating the lustrous, spring green enamel and the snarling, golden dragon that wound around it.

“It was Peter’s,” Luc said.

I glanced back at him. “Peter’s?”

“Peter Cadogan.” Luc walked toward me, arms crossed, then gestured toward the glass case. “The Master vampire who founded Cadogan House. It was a gift from a member of the Russian royalty.” He leaned down, tapped a finger at the glass. “Peter was from Wales, and it’s a representation of the Welsh dragon. See the eye?”

I nodded at where he pointed. A softly-carved red gem was placed at the dragon’s eye. Six white lines radiated from its middle .

“It’s a star ruby,” he said. “Beautiful, and incredibly rare.”

“Incredibly expensive,” said a voice behind us. We both stood up and glanced behind us. Ethan walked in, still in his gi pants, but around his neck he’d added a navy towel that bore a silver, monogrammed “C.”

“Shower,” he said. “Make yourselves at home.”

Luc and I shared a glance as Ethan walked toward the double doors that led to his bedroom. He opened one, slipped inside, and closed it behind him again.

“I could have used a shower,” I pointed out.

“I know. I can smell you from here.”

I was halfway to discretely sniffing my shoulder before I realized he was just trying to rile me up. “You’re funny.”

“You’re easy.”

“You were telling me about the egg?”

“Oh,” Luc said, then scratched absently at his temple. “So Peter met this Russian duchess, and they bonded. Completely Platonic, from what I understand, but he did her a favor of some kind. She wanted to repay him, so she commissioned the egg and threw in the ruby for good measure.”

“I suppose it pays to have friends,” I concluded, then glanced over at Luc, dropping my tone to something a little more serious. “Speaking of Peters, any developments on a replacement for our former colleague?” Peter Spencer had been excommunicated from the House for betraying us to Celina, for assisting in her blackmail plans, and her ploy to create more anti-shifter fervor among vamps, and anti-Cadogan fervor among humans.

Luc busied himself by picking at something on the glass box around the egg. “Not really ready to talk about that, Sentinel.”

I nodded and trained my gaze back on the egg, not entirely surprised by Luc’s reaction. He’d punched a hole into the wall of the Ops Room when he’d discovered Peter’s treachery. The hole had been replastered, but not yet repainted. It was like a stain marking the betrayal. And it wasn’t surprising Luc wasn’t eager to invest in someone else.

A knock sounded at the hallway doors.

“Preparations for our guest,” Luc murmured, as the doors were opened by a man in a white chef’s jacket. He smiled politely at me and Luc, then moved aside so that a second chef, this time a woman in white, could wheel a cart into the room.

The cart was piled with trays, and the trays were topped by silver domes.

It was room service.

“What guest? I asked as, with hotel-like efficiency, the woman began removing the domes and stacking them one atop the other.

She’d revealed a spread of food. Crackers. Cheeses. A rainbow of fruit, from lush berries to slices of buttercup-yellow mango to spring green coins of kiwi. Tiny sausages speared by toothpicks. I had a pang—Mallory loved those things. But since we were still on the outs, thinking about her still hurt. So for now, I focused my attention back on the movable feast, and the tray of small pastries arranged around some kind of pink, poppy-seed-dotted dip.

“The guest is Gabriel Keene,” Luc said. “He’s dropping by to talk to your Liege and mine.”

I gave a soft snort. “I assume that means you’re involving me in shifter shenanigans this week?”

“I’m surprised at you, Sentinel.”

I glanced back. Ethan walked back into the sitting room, then closed his bedroom doors behind him. He was in black suit pants and a white button-up, no tie. The top button was unbuttoned, and he’d skipped the suit coat. With Luc and I still in workout gear, it was practically business casual in here today.

“We so rarely involve you in shenanigans,” he said, then nodded at the woman who’d wheeled in the car. “Thank you, Alicia. My compliments to the chef.”

Alicia smiled, then collected her stack of steel covers. She turned and left the room, and the man who’d held open the doors gave us a final smile as he walked out again, then closed the doors behind him.

“You involve me in shenanigans at every opportunity.”

“She has a point, Liege.”

Ethan clucked his tongue. “Captain of my Guards and he carries the standard of my Sentinel. Oh, how quickly they turn.”

“You’re first in my heart, Liege. You’re first in my heart.”

This time, Ethan snorted. “We’ll see. Well, at any rate, we’ll see where Gabriel’s allegiances lie.”

Ethan looked over the trays before nabbing a bottle of water, twisting off the top, and taking a drink.

“Nice spread,” I told him.

He nodded. “I thought it polite to offer him something to eat, and I assumed I’d have a greater chance of keeping your attention if I fed you first.”

I’d have to give him that one. I loved to eat, and the nonstop vampire metabolism didn’t do much to dampen the appetite. Quite the opposite. “Let’s just remember, Sullivan, that I want you for your smoked meats and your smoked meats only.”

He barked out a laugh. “Touché, Sentinel.”

I grinned at him, then plucked a piece of cheese from the tray and popped it in my mouth. It was rich and earthy, but had that weird aftertaste that fancy cheese always seemed to have. “So,” I began, when I’d nabbed a couple more chunks for good measure, “why’s Gabriel coming to the House?”

“You’ll recall that he wanted to speak about security arrangements for the convocation?”

I nodded. Gabriel had mentioned it when he’d dropped by the House a week ago.

“Well, as it turns out, you were the security arrangement.”

I blanched. “I’m the security arrangement? What does that mean?”

Ethan pulled an olive from the toothpick with his teeth. “It means, Sentinel, that we’re throwing you to the wolves.”

Chapter One

The sun shone brightly as the traveling coach with the gold Basingstoke crest discreetly painted on its doors moved away from the flagway and out into Grosvenor Square. The magnificently liveried driver, a pair of similarly clad grooms hanging onto the rear rails for dear life, deftly swung the equipage about, and the team of fine black horses and the four accompanying outriders pranced their way toward the end of the Square, to the streets of London, and off to a great wide world of excitement and newfound love. Harness jingled. The sharp sounds of iron-clad shoes striking the cobblestones sent up the message, Farewell — fare thee well.

The moment was a picture, really, a fine portrait set into motion. Adventure Awaits would make a fine title. Especially if the artist could capture the laughing Lady Nicole Daughtry, her bonnet discarded so that the sun fell fully on her face, as if the gods themselves had wished a closer look at her fresh, young beauty. Leaning rather precariously out the off-window, she continued to wave and blow exuberant kisses back toward the mansion until the coach reached the end of the Square and disappeared from sight.

And that was that. There was nothing more to see. Even the sun, that had deigned to appear amidst a Season noted most for damp and rain, withdrew behind a cloud, and the world turned grey once more.

Lady Lydia Daughtry pushed down the sash and backed away from the window on the second floor of Ashurst House, to seat herself on the tufted light blue velvet padded bench in front of her bed. She sat with her back ramrod straight, her hands, else they tremble and betray her, neatly folded in her lap. Another portrait, yes, but one entirely without the fire and light she had just witnessed. After a few minutes of thus imitating a statue, she quietly sighed, her bosom rising and falling almost dramatically, before she resumed her quiet, even breathing.

To the casual observer, she was, as always, an island of calm. No one would think that her heart was pounding furiously, or that she felt perilously close to indulging in what her former governess would have condemned as a tantrum.

Not that the Lady Lydia ever had tantrums (If you threw something fragile against, for instance, a nearby wall, and it broke, you’d only have to clean up the pieces. So, really, what was the point?).

Her twin, however, the newly absent Lady Nicole, had manufactured any number of tantrums as a young child. The most memorable remained the last, the day their mother had wed her third husband and then immediately shuffled off her three children once more to Ashurst Hall. Children were not, it seemed, important once there was a new man in Helen Daughtry’s life. But if Nicole wasn’t to be deemed important, she would at least be noticed, most especially when she’d loosed a heavy silver vase at her new stepfather’s head.

The man really should have ducked.

Lydia smiled at the memory. Nicole did, with such marvelously dramatic flair, all the things the stick-in-the-mud, cautious Lydia only dreamt of doing.

And now Nicole was gone. Her sister, her twin, her heart-mate, was off on her way to meet the mother of her fiancé, Lucas Paine, the Marquess of Basingstoke. And life for neither Lydia nor Nicole would ever be the same.

Lydia had never in her eighteen years known a day without Nicole by her side. The laughing Nicole. The adventurous Nicole. Nicole, who could find excitement anywhere, and manufacture some on her own if none was to be found.

In the Ship of Life for the twins, Nicole had been the wind in the sails. Lydia, as she often thought of herself, had been the anchor. Her sister had pooh-poohed that, saying Lydia was the rudder, the one who steered them both along the straight and narrow and kept Nicole from making an entire cake of herself with her mad starts. But Lydia knew that Nicole was only being kind.

Because, as everyone else well knew, there wasn’t an ounce of excitement in Lady Lydia Daughtry’s entire body. She was quiet, pleasant, obeyed all the rules, never caused anyone so much as a modicum of trouble. To her own mind, she imagined doorstops were more adventuresome. And definitely more interesting, even if the only time anyone noticed one of them was when they tripped over them and stubbed their toes.

When Nicole was in the room, nobody noticed Lydia. Her sister’s wide smile, glorious dark hair, shining eyes, infectious laugh and, well, rather luscious body, drew all attention. Even her freckles were exciting. Leaving the slim, blonde, blue-eyed Lydia to rather fade into the wallpaper. And that was precisely how Lydia liked it.

But now her shield was gone.

She’d known this day would arrive at some point. But then steady, older, gentle Captain Swain Fitzgerald would have been her protector, her safe harbor.

Except that Captain Fitzgerald had perished at Quatre Bras a year earlier, his death devastating her because she’d loved Fitz with all of her young heart, yes, but also in ways her family would never understand. She’d thought that with her Captain she’d found the answer to never having to leave her cocoon of shyness to face the world alone.

Proving to herself that she was something no one had ever suspected of her. She was extremely selfish. Perhaps she hadn’t deserved the Captain’s love and devotion.

If she were a more dramatic sort, she might even believe that God had punished her selfishness by taking the Captain from her. But Lydia was also intelligent, and she knew that God would not allow one person to die in order to teach another person a lesson.

Still, as time passed, nearly a year now since the Captain’s death, doubts about her love for the man had begun to creep into her brain during quiet moments. How much had she really loved him? How much had she loved the idea of love … of being always safe, protected? She’d been only seventeen. Even the Captain, in his letters to her, had warned her of her youth, and promised that he would court her slowly once he’d “put Boney back in his cage.”

For most of her young life she and Nicole and their brother, Rafe, had been shuffled back and forth between their home at Willowbrook to the late duke of Ashurst’s estate — depending on their mother’s mood and marital status. Nicole had made her feelings plain on the subject of their nomadic existence. Rafe had gone off to fight Napoleon, kicking the dust of both estates off his boots until finally returning home to learn that his uncle and cousins had died, and he was somehow now the duke himself.

And Lydia? She had never complained. She’d hidden in books, and behind Nicole’s warming fire. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t felt the pain of being less than well-loved by her mother, and merely tolerated by her uncle and cousins.

So, yes, she had been drawn to the Captain, Rafe’s good friend and fellow soldier. He’d been older, wiser, tall and strong and solid, and he’d seen past her quiet exterior and found something about her that he’d liked. That he’d loved. It had been impossible not to love him back.

Together, they would have been happy for all of their lives.

She blinked away the tears that stung at her eyes. He’d loved her. She’d loved him. She could not, would not forget that one real truth, no matter how her mind sometimes plagued her. And she would never forget Captain Swain Fitzgerald, not ever. She may have learned to live without him over this past year, but then she’d had Nicole ever by her side, hadn’t she?

Lydia didn’t want the world the way Nicole did. She didn’t smile easily, didn’t trust often; she preferred to hide in books … and behind the effervescent Nicole, living vicariously through her outgoing twin.

Now she would face the world alone. It was a daunting, if not even terrifying thought for someone of Lydia’s quiet sensibilities.

She longed to leave London, leave the Season, to escape back to Ashurst Hall and a quiet life. But Rafe was the Duke now, and he still had business in the city, so that they would not return to his estate until after the King’s birthday in June at the earliest. He was much too busy to devote his precious free evenings squiring her about Mayfair. His wife, Charlotte, carrying their first child, did not go into Society. Lydia’s once-again widowed mother had set sail for Italy, fleeing from yet another of her romantic indiscretions … and now Nicole was lost to her.

How was she to go to balls and routs and musical evenings accompanied only by her chaperone? Mrs. Buttram would go off to natter with the other paid chaperones, and Lydia would be left to sit against the wall with all the other overlooked debutantes, all the desperate, reaching females tossed into the Marriage Mart with the mission of securing a rich or at least titled husband.

The heat, the cloying smell of too many hot-house blooms, too many unwashed or overly perfumed bodies. The ignominy of a nearly blank dance card, the occasional turn around the room with either some bored young lord on orders from his mama to squire a few of the wallflowers, or a crass inquisition from some adventurous fortune hunter who asked pointed questions about her dowry.

The thought alone was enough to make Lydia feel physically ill.

Of course, she could always count on Tanner Blake, the Duke of Malvern, to dance with her at least once an evening. It had been His Grace who had brought them the news about Captain Fitzgerald the preceding Spring. It had been His Grace whom Lydia had condemned as a liar, his broad chest the one she had beat her fists upon in a terrifying burst of raw emotion, hating him for the words he spoke, struggling to be free of his strong arms, his attempts to comfort her as her world, all her dreams, shattered.

She hadn’t been fair to the man. Lydia knew that. She had blamed him, blamed the messenger. Ever since that horrible day, ashamed of her unseemly hysterical outburst, she had tried her best to avoid the duke if at all possible. A return to Ashurst Hall had given her time and space, away from the duke. Long months during which she’d hoped he would forget her outburst, forget her.

Except that the man wouldn’t go away. Ever since they’d all come back to town for another Season, even now, as he seemed to be mere days from announcing his betrothal to his third cousin, Jasmine Harburton, he remained a frequent visitor in Grosvenor Square.

And Lydia knew why.

The Captain had been his friend; he’d said he wished for Lydia to be his friend. Tanner Blake’s persistence had won out over her embarrassment, and her normal clear-headedness had replaced her irrational dislike for the man. For that alone, she was grateful to the healing powers of time and distance. But why hadn’t he simply now told her the truth? That the Captain, as he lay dying, had asked him to “take care of my Lyddie.”

How terrible to force a man into agreeing to such an obligation. Yet how much worse it was to be that obligation. She believed the duke saw her as an object of charity, deserving of sympathy, which also forced her into the role of a young woman still daily, actively, grieving her lost love. Even as she hoped, prayed, she could leave this limbo she had existed in for the last year, with the Captain still always alive in her heart, but as a cherished memory rather than a constant ache.

The Duke of Malvern was a good man. An honorable man. But did he ever see her as anything other than an obligation? And why was it becoming increasingly important to her that he think of her only as Lydia, and not some appendage to the past? That was a question she couldn’t even have asked of her twin.

There was a knock on Lydia’s bedchamber door, and she quickly wiped at her damp cheeks as she called out, “Yes, please come in.”

Charlotte Daughtry, Duchess of Ashurst, looking young and slightly flushed in the London heat as she carried around a belly that seemed to increase daily, entered the room, her head tipped to one side as she looked at Lydia. “I thought I’d give you some time by yourself. She’s really happy, sweetheart. Be happy for her.”

“I am,” Lydia said sincerely, getting to her feet and accepting Charlotte’s hug. “Lucas adores her, and she him. But I will miss her.”

Charlotte idly rubbed at her perfectly round belly. “We’ll all miss her, but it isn’t as if she’s gone to the ends of the earth. She and Lucas will be coming to Ashurst Hall in July, to see her new niece or nephew — please, God the babe will have arrived by then — and also so that we can make plans for the wedding. By the way, it will be your job to talk her out of arriving at the church on horseback, with some of the little girls from the village prancing along ahead of her, streamers in their hair, tossing rose petals. Lucas, I’m afraid, is so besotted he’d grant her anything.”

Lydia smiled even as she blinked away fresh tears. She loathed feeling like a watering pot; she’d always been so careful to hide her emotions, especially the stronger ones, which tended to frighten her. “Actually, I think that would be very nice. Very … Nicole.”

“Don’t tell Rafe, but I agree. Oh, speaking of Rafe, he’s downstairs with our friend Tanner, who has come to take you for a drive on this unusual warm day in dreary London. It’s so lovely to see the sun, even when it plays hide-and-seek with us as it is today. Honestly, the only reason I came upstairs instead of leaving you some time to yourself was to tell you about Tanner’s offer. Not only am I as big as two houses, I may be turning senile. At any rate, Tanner somehow knew Nicole was leaving today, and thought he’d bear you company. Such a wonderful friend, isn’t he? So you go fetch your bonnet and pelisse, and I’ll tell him you’ll be down directly.”

Lydia nodded, finding it difficult to speak, holding in her sigh until Charlotte had quit the room.

Was this to be her life for the remainder of the Season?

Charlotte and Rafe happily married; kind, caring, but also very much wrapped up in each other. Captain Fitzgerald, irrevocably lost to her. Nicole, her very best friend, off on a new adventure in her life.

And Tanner Blake, the man she’d initially taken in such dislike through no fault of his own, the man who still seemed so doggedly determined to live up to his promise to his friend Fitz, could soon be married as well, with a whole new set of obligations. Why, were she the dramatic sort, she would say that she was alone in the midst of a multitude, which was not a very pleasant place to be.

“If the exercise weren’t so fatiguing,” she told herself, “I should most probably throw myself to the floor and drum my heels against the carpet. Nicole always vowed it made her feel better. But I’m much too polite and restrained and civilized. Much too dull and boring. No wonder I sit with the desperate wallflowers. I may as well be invisible. Then again, if my inside were on my outside, if I were to act as I think and damn the consequences, like Nicole, I should probably shock everyone to their cores, including myself.”

Lydia allowed herself another deep sigh before she lifted her slightly pointed chin and dutifully went in search of her pelisse and bonnet. The bonnet with the sky blue ribbon Captain Fitzgerald had picked out for her last Season, saying it went so well with her eyes. Thus armed, she then headed for the staircase, having firmly decided that she was a Daughtry, not a mouse, and it was time she began acting like one.

Chapter One

There were few streets in the main port of Sydney which deserved the name, besides the one main thoroughfare, and even that bare packed dirt, lined only with a handful of small and wretched buildings that formed all the permanence of the colony. Tharkay turned off from this and led the way down a cramped, irregularly arranged alley-way between two wooden-slat buildings to a courtyard full of men drinking, in surly attitudes, under no roof but a tarpaulin.

Along one side of the courtyard, the further from the kitchens, the convicts sat in their drab and faded duck trousers, dusty from the fields and quarries and weighted down with fatigue; along the other, small parties of men from the New South Wales Corps watched with candidly unfriendly faces as Laurence and his companions seated themselves at a small table near the edge of the establishment.

Besides their being strangers, Granby's coat drew the eye: bottle-green was not in the common way, and though he had put off the worst excesses of gold braid and buttons with which Iskierka insisted upon adorning him, the embroidery at cuffs and collar could not be so easily detached. Laurence wore plain brown, himself: to make a pretense of standing in the Aerial Corps now was wholly out of the question, of course, and if his dress raised questions concerning his situation, that was certainly no less than honest, as neither he nor anyone else had yet managed to work out what that ought in any practical sense to be.

"I suppose this fellow will be here soon enough," Granby said, unhappily; he had insisted on coming, but not from any approval of the scheme.

"I fixed the hour at six," Tharkay answered, and then turned his head: one of the younger officers had risen from the tables and was coming towards them.

Eight months aboard ship with no duties of his own and shipmates nearly united in their determination to show disdain had prepared Laurence for the scene which, with almost tiresome similarity, unfolded yet again. The insult itself was irritating for demanding some answer, more than anything else; it had not the power to wound in the mouth of a coarse young boor, stinking of rum and visibly unworthy to stand among even the shabby ranks of a military force alternately called the Rum Corps. Laurence regarded Lieutenant Agreuth only with distaste, and said briefly, "Sir, you are drunk; go back to your table, and leave us at ours."

There the similarity ended, however: "I don't see why I," Agreuth said, his tongue tangling awkwardly, so he had to stop and repeat himself, speaking with excessive care, "why I should listen to anything out of a piss-pot whoreson traitor's fucking mouth--"

Laurence stared, and heard the tirade with mounting incredulity; he would have expected the gutter language out of a dockyard pickpocket in a temper, and hardly knew how to hear it from an officer. Granby had evidently less difficulty, and sprang to his feet saying, "By God, you will apologize, or for halfpence I will have you flogged through the streets."

"I would like to see you try it," Agreuth said, and leaning over spat into Granby's glass; Laurence stood too late to catch Granby's arm from throwing it into Agreuth's face.

That was of course an end to even the barest hope or pretense of civility; Laurence instead pulled Granby back by his arm, out of the way of Agreuth's wildly swinging fist, and letting go struck back with the same hand, clenched, as it came again at his face.

He did not hold back; if brawling was outrageous, it looked inevitable, and he...

PROLOGUE

Inner Mongolia

The strategic military outpost was such a closely guarded secret it didn’t even have a name, only a number—site 243.

It sat in a rugged, wind-swept valley far away from cities and centers of industry. Its architecture was minimalist, a cross between a high-end refugee camp and a low-rent university. Tents, trailers, and a handful of cheap concrete buildings made up its “campus.” The only outward signs of modernity were the Pizza Hut, Burger King, and Subway mobile restaurant trailers that made up the outpost’s “food court.”

It was just after three a.m. when the attack began. Lightweight Predator SRAW missile systems took out the fortified entry control point along with the watchtowers. Mortar rounds blanketed the campus, obliterating key infrastructure and force protection targets. When the four heavily armed fire teams breached the perimeter, the outpost was in complete chaos.

The well-trained soldiers tasked with 243’s security were no match for the men who now overran their positions.

Dressed in black, with hardened night vision goggles and suppressed weapons, the professional combatants appeared only long enough to engage each soldier with an economy of surgically placed rounds before slipping back into the darkness, often before their victims’ lifeless bodies even hit the ground.

At the main concrete structure, one of the fire teams used a shape charge to blow open the fortified door. As they rushed in, they heard a high-pitched whine followed by the thump of a limited EMP device being detonated. It was part of 243’s emergency protocol in order to destroy the facility’s data. The men in black, though, didn’t care. Their superiors already had a copy.

Their night vision goggles impervious to electromagnetic pulse, the team swept through the rest of the building, making sure they killed every occupant. From there, they moved on and cleared two more buildings while their teammates took care of the other tents, trailers, and concrete structures.

Fifteen minutes later, two helicopters landed and the teams were extracted. As they lifted off and disappeared back into the ink-black sky, not a single member of military outpost 243 had been left alive.

London

A man in a blue linen blazer pushed away the hand of his subordinate. “I know how it works,” he said, placing the tiny bud into his ear and activating the video on the smart phone.

His liver-spotted hands cradled the chrome device in his lap as he watched the scenes from Mongolia. It had been the most expensive and dangerous undertaking of his life. Though his club was actually a haven for members of the espionage community, he also sensed the presence of some of history’s greatest sociopolitical figures around him at this moment. Had he looked up to see the smiling ghosts of Lenin, Stalin, Marx, or Mao, he wouldn’t have been surprised. Great men who change the world shared a bond that transcended time, and he was on the verge of becoming just that, a great man who would change the world.

Though they were alone in the club’s library, he kept his voice low. “We’re confident that all of their data was destroyed?”

The subordinate nodded. “We have the only copy that remains.”

“And the personnel?”

“Everyone associated with the program has been terminated.” The Chinese have gone beserk trying to figure out what happened. They have no idea who hit them.

“Excellent,” said the man in the linen blazer. “Let’s keep it that way. Now, what about our network?”

“The network is fully intact and ready to go operational.”

This was an incredible moment, the man thought as he plucked the bud from his ear. This was a watershed, a history-changing moment.

He removed the SIM card from the phone and handed the device back to the subordinate. “I want you to initiate stage one as soon as possible.”

“So I have your permission to activate tight control then?”

“You do. And whatever happens, don’t lose sight of the bigger picture.”

Chicago

Alison Taylor hadn’t planned on going out drinking after work, but it was a gorgeous summer night, the project was pretty much complete, and everybody else in her department was going.

It was only supposed to be one drink at RL. As things often go, one drink led to another. The party worked its way south, hitting Pops, Shaw’s, the Roof bar atop the Wit Hotel, and finally some seedy dive bar just west of the Loop. Before any of them knew it, it was four a.m. and their presentation was in less than five hours.

To counteract the heavy volume of alcohol they had consumed, someone had suggested the nearby 24/7 pharmacy for charcoal tablets and caffeinated beverages, but the idea was put on the back burner when they noticed that the tiny burger joint across the street was still serving. “There’s nothing like grease to absorb the alcohol molecules in your system,” one of them said.

After cheeseburgers and fries, they conducted an unsuccessful search of the pharmacy for charcoal pills, loaded up on energy drinks, and then headed for the subway.

Since two of the women lived in the suburbs, Alison invited them to stay at her apartment where they could borrow clothes and head into work with her in a few hours. The fact that one of the women was five inches shorter and the other seventy-five pounds heavier was lost on all of them in their drunken state.

They spent the subway ride cursing the bright lights of the train compartment, downing Red Bull and Monster, and wondering how much sleep they could grab at Alison’s before having to leave for the office.

At Division Street, they stumbled up the steps from the Blue Line platform and out onto the sidewalk where they began to head east. It was in the crosswalk at Milwaukee Avenue that the unthinkable happened.

A taxicab came flying around the corner and slammed into Alison. Her friends watched in horror as she was tossed into the air like a rag doll and then landed, headfirst, fifteen feet away from where she had been struck.

All of it had happened so suddenly. Everyone was in shock. As the taxicab sped away into the night, neither of Alison’s friends had even gotten its number. The only thing they would be able to remember was the color of the vehicle, and that its driver appeared to be Middle Eastern.

Chapter One

Rhys St. Maur, newly Lord Ashworth, was a broken man.

Literally.

By the age of twenty, he'd fractured his left arm twice--once in a schoolboy brawl at Eton, and then again during an army training drill. Cracked ribs . . . he'd lost count of those. Fists driving through bar- room haze to connect with his face had snapped the cartilage in his nose a few times, leaving him with a craggy profile--one that was not improved by his myriad scars. Since sometime around his thirtieth birthday, the little finger on his right hand just plain refused to bend. And in damp weather like this, his left knee throbbed with memories of marching through the Pyrenees and surviving the Battle of Nivelle unscathed, only to catch a Basque farmer's hoe to the knee the next morning, when he left camp for a predawn piss.

That left knee was on fire tonight, sizzling with pain as Rhys trudged through the granite heart of Devonshire, leading his horse down the darkened road. The moisture in the air kept dithering between fog and rain, and the night was thick with its indecision. He couldn't see but a few feet in front of him, which was why he'd decided to dismount and lead his horse on foot. Between the poor visibility and the surrounding terrain littered with chunks of stone and boot-sucking bogs, the risk of fatal injury was too great.

For the horse, that was. Rhys wasn't in the least concerned for himself. In fact, if he thought this godforsaken moor had any chance of claiming his own life, he'd cheerfully saddle his gelding and charge off into the gloom.

But it wouldn't work. It never had. He'd just end up with a lamed or dead horse, another broken rib perhaps, and the same curse that had haunted him since boyhood: unwanted, undeserved, and wholly wasted good luck.

No matter what misfortune befell him, this or any night, Rhys St. Maur was doomed to survive it.

The wind's low moan played his spine like a fiddle string. Behind him, the gelding balked. With a reassuring shush for the beast's benefit, Rhys marched on, turning up the collar of his coat to keep out the mist.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil . . .

He'd been walking through this valley for a long, long time. Trod so far into death's shadow he'd felt his feet turning to dust in his boots, the breath in his lungs burning acrid as sulfur. A living ghost, that's what he was. He'd returned from war to a newly inherited barony, and his sole duty now was to haunt the English aristocracy. Hulk awkwardly in the corners of their parties, terrify their delicate young ladies, and cause the gentlemen to rub their temples self-consciously as they tried not to stare at the gnarled scar marring his own.

As Rhys rounded a sharp curve in the road, a vaguely familiar sight emerged from the gloom. If he'd read his landmarks right, this had to be it. The tiny village of Buckleigh-in-the-Moor. At this distance, just a meager constellation of amber pinpricks against the black night.

The horse, scenting straw and safety, picked up his pace. Soon the cluster of stone and cob buildings came into focus. It must not be as late as it felt. A fair number of the cottages still showed light through their windows--yellow eyes peering out from beneath thatched-roof hats.

He halted in the center of the road. Wiping the moisture from his eyes, he squinted in the direction of the old inn. Fourteen years he'd been gone, but the same sign still creaked on its chains above the door. It read, in retouched...

Chapter One

Veins of lightning lit the clouds, dancing whips of white-hot energy lighting up the midnight sky. The earth rumbled and rolled, unsettled and flinching as the creature clawed its way through the soil to burst into the air, instantly fouling every living thing it touched. Leaves shriveled and blackened. The air vibrated with alarm. The vampire settled to earth, turning its head this way and that, listening, waiting, its cunning mind racing, its rotten heart beating with a mixture of triumph and fear. He was the bait and the hunter was not far behind, close on his trail, drawn straight into the heart of the trap.

Traian Trigovise burrowed through the soil, following the stench of the undead. It was too easy, the trail too well marked. No vampire would be so obvious unless he was a rank fledgling and Traian was certain he was dealing with strength and cunning. He was an ancient Carpathian hunter, a species nearly immortal, blessed and cursed with longevity, with timeless gifts and the need for a lifemate to make them complete. He was first and foremost a predator, capable of becoming the most loathsome and evil of all creatures, the undead. It was his sheer strength of will and duty to his race that kept him from falling prey to the insidious whispers and call of power.

When the tunnel veered upward toward the sky, Traian continued onward, pushing deeper into the dirt, feeling his way, listening to the heartbeat and energy of the earth around him. Even the insects were silent, creatures often summoned by the evil ones. He scanned the surface, taking in a large area and discovered three blank spots, evidence that more than one vampire was close.

He found a web of roots, thick gnarled branches, humming with life, reaching deep into the earth. He whispered softly, respectfully, touching the longest, deepest artery, feeling the rhythm. He chanted softly in the ancient language, asking for entrance, felt the response moving through the thick old tree. Leaves shivered as the tree reached toward the moon, embracing the night even as it shrank from the presence of the foul beings. Imparting secrets and conspiring to help, the tree spread its roots to allow Traian into the intricate system protecting and nourishing the wide trunk.

The hunter was careful not to disturb the soil or the root system as he maneuvered his way carefully through the labyrinth, pushing through the surface, enough to scan his surroundings from inside the cage of safety of the overlapping roots above ground. He shape shifted as he emerged, spreading his shadow amongst the thick branches and leaves.

For one moment he could see only his prey, the tall, thin figure of Gallent, the vampire. He recognized one of the ancients sent out as he had been by their Prince so many centuries earlier. The undead continually twisted, sniffing the air suspiciously, his gaze darting along the ground. He clicked his long fingernails together in a repeated peculiar rhythm.

The wind rushed through the grove of trees and the leaves rustled and whispered. Traian allowed his gaze to shift, quartering the area, reaching with his mind more than his acute vision. The breeze brought the echo of that strange rhythm to him, coming from his left. Then from his right. Two more of the undead waited to fall upon him and rip him to pieces. He shifted again, drifting with the breeze through the cage of roots, rising as molecules into the night, allowing the friendly wind to take him higher into the cover of leaves.

Dark clouds swirled into a boiling cauldron. Lightning veined the murky, spinning mass. He hovered there, a small, humorless smile in his mind. Discretion really was the better part of valor in some circumstances. He would pick his own battleground. Then he heard the clicking of the fingernails again. The sound was growing louder. With each click droplets of water fell from the cloud. Small, tiny little droplets that never quite reached the ground. The beads collected in midair, formed a large shimmering pool. He could see his reflection clearly in the pool. Not the scattered molecules, or an illusion, but the real man amongst the leaves. It was his only warning and came a heartbeat before the attack.

He caught movement from the corner of his eye and instantly reacted, somersaulting through the sky, shifting into his true form, grateful for the leaves that hampered the nearly invisible silvery net attempting to entangle him. Spears spiraled through the air, tiny darts tipped with poison from the tree frog, showers of red-hot embers that burrowed into skin and burned for weeks. Insects clouded the skies and all the while the clicking of the fingernails went on relentlessly.

Traian launched himself at the shadowy figure orchestrating the fight, ignoring the two lesser vampires. Gallent was directing the action, a leader in evil, as he had been a leader among Carpathians. Traian burst through the sky his fist already snapping out, driving toward the vampire's chest.

Gallent shimmered transparently. The fist passed through his body harmlessly even as the undead struck back with razor sharp talons. The hand came from Traian's left, the movement swift, as only a full-fledged master manage. The knife-like nails drove deep through flesh and muscle, all the way to the bone. One of the lesser vampires hurled himself onto Traian's back, sinking his teeth into the exposed neck.

Traian simply evaporated, leaving the smear of blood on the shivering leaves and the scent of the ancient gift driving the vampires into a frenzy of rage and hunger. He traveled quickly through the night. The Carpathian Mountains were riddled with networks of caves, with rich soil deep beneath the earth waiting to welcome him. He was close to home. He had been steadily traveling back to his homeland to see his Prince but had become sidetracked when he came across the vampires. They were so obviously up to something.

His shoulder throbbed and burned. His neck was a fierce torment. There were a hundred places on his body that ached from the embers and darts. He found an opening into the cool interior of the mountain, deeper still, through a labyrinth of tunnels and opened the earth. He floated down into the bed of rich soil and just lay there, feeling a sense of peace and solace in the wealth of welcoming minerals.

* * *

Austria

The theater doors opened to allow the smartly dressed crowd out. They emerged laughing and talking, a crush of happy people pleased with the performance they had witnessed. Lightning forked across the sky, a brilliant, dazzling display of raw nature. For a moment the long sequined gowns, furs, and suits of varying color were lit up as if caught in a spotlight. Thunder crashed directly overhead and the ground and buildings shook under the assault. The light faded leaving the night nearly black and the crowd almost blind. The throng broke into couples or groups, hurrying to their limousines and cars, while valets tried to work fast before the rain began to fall.

Senator Thomas Goodvine stayed beneath the archway, bending his head toward his wife to hear her over the buzz of the crowd, laughing at her softly spoken words, nodding in agreement. He pulled her beneath his shoulder in attempt to prevent her from being jostled by the steady stream of people moving so quickly in an effort to avoid the weather.

Two trees formed the unique archway to the theatre, the branches interlocking overhead to form a small protection against the elements. The leaves rustled and the branches clicked together in the rushing wind. Clouds whirled and spun, dark ominous threads across the moon.

Another burst of lightning had him looking up, seeing the two large men pushing against the stream of theatre-goers coming towards them apparently determined to gain shelter in the building. The flash of dancing whips faded, leaving them with the dim lighting of the archway and the streetlights flickering ominously. Thelma Goodvine tugged at her husband's jacket to bring his attention back to her.

"Down, get down." Joie Sanders plowed into the Senator and his wife, her arms outspread, sweeping them both to the ground and rolling, almost in one move, coming up on her knee in front of them, gun tracking. "Gun, gun, everybody down," she shouted. An orange-red flame burst from two revolvers in a steady stream toward the couple she was assigned to protect. Joie returned fire with her usual calm and dead on accuracy, watching one man begin to topple, almost in slow motion, his gun still firing but up into the air.

People screamed, ran in every direction, fell to the ground, crouched behind flimsy cover. The second gunman grabbed a woman in a long fur and dragged her in front of him as a shield. Joie was already pushing at the Senator and his wife, in an effort to get them to crawl back inside the relative safety of the theatre. The second gunman propelled the sobbing woman forward as he fired at Joie who rolled again to cover her charges' line of retreat.

A bullet sliced through the flesh of her shoulder, burning a path of pain and spraying blood over the Senator's trousers. Joie cried out, but steadied her aim, ignoring the churning in her stomach. Her world narrowed to the one man, the one target. She squeezed the trigger slowly, precisely, watched the ugly little hole blossom in the middle of the man's forehead. He went down like a rock, taking his hostage with him, falling in a tangle of arms and legs.

There was a small silence. Only the strange clicking of the branches could be heard, a strange rhythm in tune to the rain falling. Joie blinked, trying to clear her vision. She seemed to be looking into a large shimmering pool and staring at a man with flat cold eyes and something metal glinting in his hand. He rose up out of the crowd, slamming into Joie before she could scramble out of the way. She twisted just enough to escape the lethal blade, driving the butt of her gun upward into his jaw, then slamming it back down on his knife hand. He screamed, dropping the blade so that it went skittering along the sidewalk. His fist found her face, driving her backward. The man followed her, his face a mask of hatred.

Something hit the back of his head hard and Joie found herself staring up at one of her men. "Thanks, John, I think he smashed every bone in my body when he fell on me." She took his hand, allowed him to help her out from under the large frame. "I can testify you can hurt in more than one place at time." Joie kicked the gun from the limp hand of the first man she'd shot, even as weakness took her. She sat down abruptly as her legs turned to rubber. "Get the Senator and Mrs. Goodvine to safety, John." The wailing sirens were fading in and out. "Someone help that poor woman out from under him."

"We've got it, Joie," one of the agents assured. "We have the driver. How bad are you hurt? How many hits did you take? Give me your gun."

Joie looked down at the gun in her hand and noted with surprise she was aiming it at the motionless attacker. "Thanks, Robert. I think I'll just let you and John handle things for a while."

"Is she all right?" She could the Senator's anxious voice. "Sanders? Are you hurt? I don't want to just leave her there, where are you taking us?"

Joie tried to lift her arm to indicate she was fine but her arm seemed heavy and uncooperative. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She just needed to be somewhere else, just for a short time while the medics fixed her up. It wasn't the first time she took a hit and she doubted if it would be the last. She had certain instincts when it came to danger and it made her elite in the world of bodyguards.

Joie could blend. Some of the men liked to call her the chameleon. She could look strikingly beautiful, plain or just average. She could blend in with the tough crowd, the homeless or the rich and glamorous. It was a valuable gift and she used it willingly. She was called in for the tough assignments, the ones where action was inevitable. Few others had her skill with knives or guns and no one could disappear into a crowd the way she could.

She took herself out of her body, watched the frantic scene below her with interest for a few minutes. The others assigned to the Senator and the Austrian agents had everything under control. She was being put into an ambulance and hustled away from the scene. More than anything, she detested the hospital. She simply took herself away, soaring free. Wanting to be outdoors, under the sky or beneath the earth in a world of subterranean beauty, it didn't matter, as long as it wasn't within the walls of a hospital.

Joie felt weightless, free, skimming through the mountains she had studied so carefully. As she soared free, she planned her trip to go caving with her brother and sister as soon as the Senator and his wife were safely back home. She crossed space. Smelled the rain. Felt cool and moist in the mist of the mountains. Far below her, she saw the entrance to a cave, spotlighted by the small sliver of moon that managed to peek around the thick cloud cover. Smiling, she dropped down to enter the world of crystal and ice. Whether she was dreaming or hallucinating didn't matter, just that she could escape from the pain of her wounds and the smell of the hospital.

* * *

Traian lay in the cool earth, gazing up at the high cathedral-like ceiling. His body hurt in so many places he just wanted to rest. The beauty of the cave was breathtaking and took his mind off his physical pain. He turned his head and saw her. She was hovering just overhead, to his left. A woman with a cap of dark hair and large eyes. She was staring down at him in complete astonishment.

"You're hurt," she said. "If you were real, I'd send the paramedics."

"What makes you think I am not real?"

"Because I'm not really here, I'm in a hospital many miles away. I don't even know where here is."

"You look real enough to me."

"What in the world are you doing lying in the mud in the middle of a cave?" Soft laughter played along his spine. "You didn't mistake this for a beauty spa did you?"

His heart nearly ceased beating. Those simple questions turned his world upside down. He was aware of everything, the coolness of the interior, the blue of the ice, the dramatic sweep of architecture formed thousands of years earlier. He was mostly aware that her hair was a rich brown and her eyes were a cool gray. Her mouth was wide and curved at the corners and she had laugh lines.

He was seeing in color. After hundreds of years of a bleak, gray existence, living in a world without color or emotion, there she was. The other half of his soul. Staring down at him with curious eyes and an amused grin. There was blood on her shoulder and bruises on her face, a tear in the gown she wore.

"You seem a bit over-dressed for a cave," he pointed out.

She shrugged, her laughter soft and inviting. "Yes, well, a lady likes to know she looks her best when the cave crickets come calling."

"You are hurt."

"A small bit of trouble with some unpleasant fellows. What about you? And do you often go swimming in the mud with a gaping hole in your shoulder? You have heard of infection and gangrene, haven't you?"

"How good of you to notice. A small run in with a group of unsavory ruffians. I was uncharacteristically slow."

"You have an incredibly sexy accent. Do women fall all over you just at the sound of your voice?" She was very good at placing people by their accents, but his was different, a rich turn of his words. He spoke English but sometimes slipped into French and one of the Romanian dialects. As dreams went, it was a fun one.

"I have not noticed such a phenomenon but I will watch for it in the future."

"Nice cave. I love caves. This one looks like a wonderful place to explore."

"I do not believe it has been discovered yet," he replied pleasantly. Peace seeped into his body. His soul. Genuine laughter found its way into his heart.

"Really? You just sort of stumbled in blindfolded, did you? An interesting way to explore caves. Where am I? I'd like to come back here."

It was his turn to arch his eyebrow. "You floated through the air blindfolded?"

She grinned at him. "I do that sometimes when I don't want to be wherever I am. A bad habit."

Her form shimmered and her smile faded. "They're doing something nasty to me, I can't hold the projection."

He sat up, bit back a groan as the embers beneath his skin burned fiercely. "Do not go yet."

"I'm sorry." She looked down at her arm, looked back at him, tears swimming in her eyes. "They're cleaning it out. It hurts like a bear."

And then she was gone. Just that fast. Vanishing without a trace. He sat there alone in the dark of the cave, astonished at how life could change in the blink of an eye. She was real. Her psychic abilities were strong. He had shared her space, shared her mind and the path was imprinted on his brain. She would not escape him.

Traian lay back and waved his hand to close the soil over him, stilling his heart, his breath, allowing the song of the earth to send him into a deep healing sleep.

December 10, 1822
One o'clock in the morning
On the deck of the Heloise Leger, The English Channel

Hell hath no greater fury than the storms that raked the English Channel in winter.

With elemental tempest raging about him, Major Logan Monteith leapt back from the slashing blade of a Black Cobra cult assassin. With his saber countering the second assassin's strike, using his dirk, clutched in his left fist, to fend off the first attacker's probing knife, Logan suspected he'd be learning about the afterlife all too soon.

Winds howled; waves crashed. Water sluiced across the deck in a hissing spate.

The night was blacker than Hades, the driving rain a blurring veil. Falling back a step, Logan swiped water from his eyes.

As one, the assassins surged, beating him back toward the prow. Blades met, steel on steel ringing, sparks flaring, pinpricks of brightness in the engulfing dark. Abruptly, the deck canted-all three combatants desperately fought for balance.

The ship - a Portuguese merchantman bound for Portsmouth that Logan had been forced to join five days before, when, on reaching Lisbon, he'd discovered the town crawling with cultists - was in trouble. Battered by pounding waves, buffeted and tossed on the storm-wracked sea, the ship wallowed and swung, no longer held into the wind. Whether the rudder had broken or the captain had abandoned the wheel, Logan couldn't tell. He couldn't spare the time to squint through the rain-drenched dark at the bridge.

Instinct and experience kept his eyes locked on the men facing him. There'd been a third, but Logan had accounted for him in the first rush. The body was gone, claimed by the ravening waves.

Logan struck, saber swinging, but was immediately forced to block and counter, then retreat yet another step into the narrowing prow. Further confining his movements, reducing his options. Didn't matter; two against one in the icy, pelting rain, with his grips on his dirk and saber cramping, leather-soled boots slipping and sliding - the assassins were barefoot, giving them even that advantage - he couldn't go on the offensive.

He wasn't going to survive.

As he met and deflected another vicious blow, he acknowledged that, yet even as he did his innate stubbornness rose. He'd been a cavalry officer for more than a decade, fought in wars over half the globe, been through hell more than once, and survived.

He'd faced assassins before, and lived.

Miracles happened.

He told himself that even as, teeth gritted, he angled his saber up to block a slash at his head - and his feet went from under him, pitching him back against the railing.

The wooden scroll-holder strapped to his back slammed into his spine.

From the corner of his eye, he saw white teeth flash in a dark face - a feral grin as the second assassin swung and slashed. Logan hissed as the blade sliced down his left side, cutting through coat and shirt into muscle, grazing bone, before angling across his stomach to disembowel him. Instinct had him flattening against the railing; the blade cut, but not deep enough.

Not that that would save him.

Lightning cracked, a jagged tear of brilliant white splitting the black sky. In the instant's illumination, Logan saw the two assassins, dark eyes fanatically gleaming, triumph in their faces, gather themselves to spring and bring him down.

He was bleeding, badly.

He saw Death, felt it - tasted ashes as icy fingers pierced his body, reaching for his soul.

He dragged in a last gasp, braced himself. Given his mission, given his occupation for the last several years, St. Peter ought at least consider letting him into Heaven.

A long forgotten prayer formed on his lips.

The assassins sprang.

Crack!!

Impact - sudden, sharp, catastrophic - flung him and the assassins overboard. The plunge into turbulent depths, into the churning icy fury of the sea, separated them.

Tumbling in the watery dark, instinct took hold; righting himself, Logan struck upward. His dirk was still in his left fist; he'd released his saber, but it was tied to his belt by its lanyard-he felt the reassuring tap of the hilt on his upper thigh.

He was a strong swimmer; the assassins almost certainly weren't - it would be a wonder if they could swim at all. Dismissing them - he had more pressing concerns - he broke the surface and hauled in a huge breath. He shook his head, then peered through the water weighing down his lashes.

The storm was at its height, the seas mountainous. He couldn't see beyond the next towering wave.

The ship had been in open water in the middle of the Channel when the storm had hit, but he had no idea how far the tempest had tossed them, nor any clear idea of direction. No idea if land was close, or—

He'd been losing blood when he'd hit the water. How long he would last in the cauldron of icy waves, how soon his already depleted strength would give out-

His hand struck something-wood, a plank. No, even better, a section of the ship's side. Desperate, Logan grabbed it, grimly hung on as the next wave tried to slap him away, then gritting his teeth, he hauled himself up and onto the makeshift raft.

The cold had numbed his flesh. Even so, the cut down his side sent burning pain lancing through his entire body.

For a long moment, he lay prone on the planks, gasping, then, gathering his ebbing strength, steeling himself, he inched and edged further onto the planks, until he could lock his right hand over the ragged front edge. His feet still dangled in the water, but his body was supported to his knees; it was the best he could do.

The waves surged. His raft pitched, but rode the swell.

Beneath the lashing roar of the storm, waves crashed. Cheek to the wet wood, he listened, concentrating, and confirmed; the waves were crashing against something near.

The ship was, he thought, wallowing in the unrelieved blackness to his right. Breaking up. Sinking. Given how he and the assassins had been flung, the impact must have been mid ship. Whipping up his failing strength, he lifted his head, searched, saw debris but no bodies - no other survivors - but only he and the assassins had been so far forward in the prow.

Lightning cracked again, and showed him the ship's bare masts silhouetted against the inky sky.

As the simultaneous clap of thunder faded, Logan heard a sucking, rushing sound. Recognizing the portent, he peered at the ship.

The listing, tipping, capsizing ship.

Out of the night, the main mast came swinging down—

He didn't even have time to swear before the top of the mast thumped down across him and the world went black.

* * *

"Linnet! Linnet! Come quickly! Come see!"

Linnet Trevission looked up from the old flagstones of the path that ran from the stable to the kitchen door. She'd left the stable and was nearing the kitchen garden; directly ahead, the solid bulk of her home, Mon Coeur, sat snug and serene, anchored within the protective embrace of stands of elm and fir, bent and twisted into outlandish shapes by the incessant sea winds.

At present, however, in the aftermath of the storm that had swept over them last night, the winds were mild, coyly coquettish, the winter sun casting a honey glow over the house's pale stone.

"Linnet! Linnet!"

She smiled as Chester, one of her wards - a tousle-headed scamp of just seven - came pelting around the side of the house, heading for the back door. "Chester! I'm here."

The boy looked up, then veered onto the stable path.

"You have to come!" Skidding to a halt before her, he grabbed her hand and tugged. "There's been a wreck!" His face alight, excitement and more bubbling in his voice, he looked up into her eyes. "There are bodies! And Will says one of the men is alive! You have to come!"

Linnet's smile fell from her face. "Yes, of course." Swiping up her skirts - wishing she'd worn her breeches instead - she strode quickly toward the back door, inwardly reviewing the necessary tasks - tasks she'd dealt with often before.

On the southwest tip of Guernsey, dealing with shipwrecks was an inescapable part of life.

Chester trotted at her side, his hand gripping hers - too tightly, but then his father had been lost at sea three years ago. As they neared the kitchen door, it opened to reveal Linnet's aunt, Jemima.

"Did I hear aright? A wreck?"

Linnet nodded. "Will sent Chester - there's at least one survivor. I'll go straightaway - can you find Edgar and the others? Tell them to bring the old gate, and the pack of bandages and splints."

"Yes, of course. But where?"

Linnet looked at Chester. "Which cove?"

"West one."

Grimacing, Linnet met Jemima's eyes. Of course it would be that one - the rockiest and most dangerous. Especially for whoever had been washed up. "Broken bones, almost certainly."

Nodding briskly, Jemima waved her off. "Go. I'll have everything ready here when you get back."

Linnet met Chester's eyes. "Let's race."

Chester flashed a grin, let go of her hand, turned and ran back around the house.

Both hands now free, Linnet gathered her skirts and set out in pursuit; with her longer legs, she was soon on Chester's heels. The path cut through the surrounding trees, then out across the rocky expanse that bordered the edge of the low cliffs.

"Hold up!" Linnet called as they rounded the southern headland of the long northwestern side of the island and the west cove opened up below them.

Chester halted at the top of the path - little more than a goat track - that led down to a strip of coarse sand. Beyond the sand lay rocks, exposed now the tide was mostly out, a jumble of tumbled pieces from fist-sized to small boulders that formed the floor of the cove. The cove wasn't all that wide; two promontories of larger, jagged rocks enclosed it, marching out into the lashing gray waves.

Looking down, Linnet saw three bodies, two flung as if carelessly discarded on the rocks. Those two were dead - had to be given the contortions of limbs, heads and spines. The third she could only catch glimpses of; Will and Brandon-another two of her wards-were crouched over the man.

Aware of Chester's pleading look, Linnet nodded. "All right - let's go."

He was off like a hare. Linnet kilted her skirts, then followed, leaping down the familiar path with an abandon almost Chester's equal. As she descended, she scanned the cove again, noting the flotsam thrown up by the storm; to her educated eyes the evidence suggested that a good-sized merchantman had broken up on the razor-sharp rocks that lurked beneath the waves out to the southwest.

Reaching the sand, Chester bounded toward Will and Brandon. Suppressing the urge to follow, Linnet carefully made her way out onto the rocks, and confirmed that the other two men were indeed dead, beyond her help. Two sailors by the look of them, both swarthy. Spanish?

Leaving them where they lay, she picked her way through the rocks back onto the sand, then walked to where the third body lay close to the cliff.

His back to her, Will looked up and around as she neared, his fifteen-year-old face unusually sober. "He was on this piece of siding, so we lifted it and carried him here."

Halting, she dropped a hand on Will's shoulder and answered the question he hadn't asked. "It was safe to move him if he was already on the planks."

Shifting her gaze from Will's face, she got her first look at their survivor. He was lying on his stomach on the section of planking, a wet tangle of black hair screening his face.

He was large. Big. Not a giant but in any company he would rank as impressive. Broad shoulders, long heavy limbs. Running her gaze down his spine, she frowned at the bulge distorting his sodden coat. Bending, she reached out and touched it, traced.

"It's a wooden cylinder in oilskins," Will said. "It's slung in a leather holder with a loop through his belt. We think his arms must go through other loops to hold it in place."

Linnet nodded. "Curious." Had he been carrying the cylinder secretly? With it nestled between the long muscles on either side of his spine, if he'd been upright, the fall of his coat would conceal it,

Straightening, she ran her gaze down his legs, but saw no evidence of breaks or wounds. He was wearing breeches and a loose coat, the sort many sailors wore. His right arm was extended, the fingers of his large hand curled around the front edge of a plank. His other hand, however, lay level with his face, fingers locked in a death-grip around the hilt of a dagger.

That seemed a trifle odd for a shipwreck.

Conscious of her pulse thudding - the run to the cliffs shouldn't have made her heart beat so rapidly - she bent to look at the dagger. Not just a dagger, she realized - a dirk. The fine scrollwork on the blade was exquisite, the hilt larger than that of most knives, with a rounded stone set in the crosspiece. Reaching down, she pried long, hard, ice-cold fingers away from the hilt, then handed the dagger to Will. "Hold that for me."

The man hadn't stirred; not a single muscle had so much as tensed. Linnet drew back, aware of her instincts twitching, flickering in definite warning, yet for the life of her she couldn't make sense of the message.

The stranger was all but dead - indeed, she wasn't sure he wasn't-so how could he be dangerous?

From his position kneeling on the other side of the planking, Brandon said, "He's got a sword, too. On this side."

Linnet circled the man, looked where Brandon pointed, then crouched and unhooked the lanyard that attached the weapon to the man's belt. Drawing the blade carefully from under the man's leg, she straightened, studied it.

"It's a saber - a cavalry sword." She'd seen enough of them during the war, but the war was long over, the cavalry largely disbanded. Perhaps this man had been a trooper, and after the war had turned to sailing?

"We think he's alive," Brandon said, "but we can't find any pulse, and he's not breathing - well, not so you can tell."

Leaving the saber with Brandon, Linnet returned to Will's side. The man's head lay turned that way.

"He must be alive because he's bleeding," Will said. "See?" He lifted the clothes along the man's side, and a rent parted, exposing pale flesh and a long nasty cut. A recent cut.

Crouching beside Will, Linnet looked, and recognized a sword slash. That explained the dirk and saber. While Will held the clothes, she leaned closer, examining the wound, following it up - to the side of the man's breast. Thick muscle had been sliced through. Tracing the wound down, she sucked in a breath when she saw bone - a rib. But that was lower, where there wasn't so much muscle between taut skin and ribcage.

"He's bleeding," Will insisted. "See there?"

Linnet had noted the pale pinkish liquid seeping from the cut. She nodded, not yet ready to explain that that might simply be seawater oozing back out of the wound, tinged with blood that had bled out before. Before the man died.

Yet it was possible he still lived. The sea had all but frozen his flesh; any bleeding would be extremely slow, even were he alive.

Continuing to trace the wound, she discovered it curved inward, angling down and across the man's belly. She couldn't see further than the side of his waist, but a gut wound—if he had one, he was almost certainly dead, whether he'd already died or not.

Lying as he was, the pressure of his body, combined with the effects of the icy sea, might have held the wound closed, inhibited the usual bleeding.

She glanced at Brandon's face, then at Will, alongside her. Chester was hovering at her shoulder. "I need to check the wound across his stomach. I need you to help me ease this side of him up - enough for me to look."

The boys eagerly reached for the man's left shoulder, his side. Settling on her knees, Linnet placed Brandon's hands on the man's shoulder, positioned Will's hands beneath the left hip, set Chester ready to help support the shoulder Brandon would lift. "All together, then." Linnet licked her lips, said a little prayer. She was too experienced in matters of life, death, and the sea to allow herself to become invested in a stranger's survival; she told herself it was for the boys' sake that she hoped this stranger lived. "Now."

The boys heaved, pushed, propped. As soon as they had the man angled up and steady, Linnet ducked down, close to the heavy body, peered beneath to trace and follow the wound - then exhaled the breath she hadn't realized she'd held. Easing back, she nodded. "Let him down."

"Will he be all right?" Chester asked.

She couldn't yet promise. "The wound is less deep over his belly - no real danger. He was lucky." A scenario was taking shape in her mind - a picture of how the man had received such a wound. It should have been a killing, or at least incapacitating, slash. He'd escaped death by less than an inch, just before his ship had wrecked.

"But he's still not really breathing," Brandon said.

And she still wasn't sure if he was alive. Linnet checked for a pulse in the man's wrist, then in his strong throat. There was none she could detect, nor any discernible rise and fall of his chest - but all that could be due to being close to frozen. There was no help for it; shuffling nearer, with one hand she brushed back the fall of black hair hiding his face, bent close, focused - and stopped breathing.

He was heart-breakingly, breath-takingly beautiful. His face, all clean angular lines and sculpted planes, embodied the very essence of masculine beauty - there was not a soft note anywhere. Combined with the muscled hardness of his body, that face promised virility, passion, and direct, unadorned, unadulterated sin.

Such a face did not belong to a man given to sweetness, but to action, command, and demand.

Chiseled lips, firm and fine, sent a seductive shiver down her spine. The line of his jaw made her fingertips throb. He had winged black brows, a wide forehead, and lashes so black and thick and long she was instantly jealous.

She'd frozen.

The boys shifted uneasily, watching, waiting for her verdict.

As usual her instincts had been right. This man was - would be - dangerous. To her peace of mind, if nothing else.

Men like this - who looked like he did, who had bodies like his - led women into sin.

And into stupidity.

Dragging in a breath, she forced her eyes to stop drinking him in, forced her mind to stop mentally swooning. She hesitated, needing to get nearer - and too rattled to lightly risk it.

Maintaining her current, already too-close distance, she held her fingers beneath his nose. And felt nothing.

Turning her hand, she held the sensitive skin of her wrist close, but could detect not the smallest waft of air.

Lips thinning, mentally muttering an imprecation against fallen angels, she leaned down, close, in - angled her cheek so that it was a whisker away from his lips—

And felt the merest brush of air, a breath, an exhalation.

She eased back, straightening on her knees, and stared at the man's face for an instant longer. Then she turned to the wound in his side, checked again. And yes, that was blood, not just seepage. "He's alive."

Chester whooped. The other two grinned.

She didn't. Getting back to her feet, she looked down at trouble. "We need to get him up to the house."