Lina rolled some more, turning onto her back. She moved as if to sit up. "I... I need to be at work by four-thirty," she said, scowling groggily. "What time is it?"

Brandon caught her by the shoulders, pulling her back down against the pillows. There's time, he signed to her. He leaned over and kissed her, drawing her tongue into his mouth. He felt his groin tighten at this, the warmth of arousal stirring, and he reached for her breast, kneading her through her shirt.

"Is there now?" she asked, as his lips parted from hers slightly, briefly. He nodded and she smiled, the corner of her mouth hooking wryly as she reached between them, unfastening his jeans. "Time for what?"

That was all it took-the barest sc.r.a.pe of her fingers against the bare skin of his belly beneath his waistband, and that mischievous smile, and he was hardened in full, urgent measure. He shoved his jeans away from his hips, and then jerked at hers.

She was already wet and eager for him; he speared all of the way into her with one deep thrust.

Within moments, she was writhing beneath him, approaching release, and he folded himself over her, taking her breast in his mouth, encircling her nipples with his tongue each in ravenous turn through her shirt. She coiled her fingers in his hair and jerked with climax. The force with which she tightened against him drove him to his own instantaneous release, and he gasped, plunging into her.

He lay against her, breathless and trembling, feeling the shuddering rhythm of her heart through her shirt against his face. After a moment, he sat up, keeping her thighs wrapped around his waist. She smiled at him, and he caught her hand, sliding her fingers between his.

I love you, he finger-spelled with his free hand, making her smile widen.

She was drowsy again; their lovemaking had been too much, too soon, and he watched her eyelids sleepily droop. "I love you, too, Brandon," she murmured. Her eyes closed, and she rested for a moment, her fingers slackening against his. Then, all at once, they tightened again momentarily, and her eyes opened. "Will you stay with me?" she said, even though he'd made no move to leave. "Please, Brandon. Just...just for a little while."

He nodded and she smiled, her eyes fluttering closed again. He stretched out beside her, holding her hand, watching her sleep.

I'll stay with you, Lina, he thought, leaning over and kissing her. I swear to you I'll never leave again.

Chapter Twenty-two.

"You look like h.e.l.l," Lina's partner, Larry Turner, said as they walked out of the precinct debriefing room together, ready to begin their shift.

"Thanks, Larry," she replied with a scowl, quickening her stride to try and beat him to the patrol car.

"I mean it, Lina," he said, hurrying after her. He caught her arm, staying her momentarily. "Are you feeling OK? Because you look-"

"Like h.e.l.l. Yeah, you've mentioned. I had a rough weekend, that's all." She pulled her arm away, and while he was within reach, s.n.a.t.c.hed the car keys from his hand. "I'm driving."

Larry had a wife, two small kids, a mortgage, a balding spot, and a paunch-things Lina knew nothing about. Which was about the same as she could say for her partner, even though they'd been a.s.signed to work together for the last ten months, ever since she'd returned from administrative leave following the shooting. She'd never made much effort to get to know Larry, although he tended to chatter rather incessantly and inanely about whatever household project his wife was currently nagging him to complete, or which kid had puked or s.h.i.t the weirdest color that week.

She climbed into the driver's seat of their squad car and fastened her seatbelt. As she turned the key in the ignition, she wondered if she really ought to be driving. She'd pa.s.sed out after Brandon had fed from her. Rene had explained it was no different than feeling woozy after donating at a blood drive. She'd had a snack when she'd awoke, a bit of orange juice, and she was no longer feeling quite so sluggish or dazed. She still felt tired, however; wretchedly so, and the events of the afternoon seemed to linger behind the dim drape of fog in her mind, hazy memories that seemed more like dreams. The man I've fallen in love with is a vampire, she thought, as Larry thumbed the radio mike and reported them as 10-41, ready for duty. Brandon is a vampire, and today, I let him drink my blood so he could heal himself from a bullet wound.

"And tomorrow, I'm off to the nut hatch," she muttered, looking behind her as she backed the car out of its parking slot in the garage.

"What?" Larry asked. His brows raised slightly, and he reached for her. "Hey, what happened to your neck?"

She swatted his hand away before he could touch the bandage against her throat. "Nothing," she said. She dropped the car into gear and drove toward the exit. "Cut myself shaving."

He shook his head, chuckling. As soon as they hit the street, he was rambling. Something about pressure washing his deck to get ready for summer. The wife had apparently been b.i.t.c.hing for months to get him to do it. Now she was threatening to withhold s.e.x. Which apparently, to Larry, was no incentive whatsoever to see the task completed.

"I work nights, for Christ's sake," he griped. "I want to sleep in the daytime, and trust me, that's hard enough with a G.o.dd.a.m.n two- and four-year-old running around the house nonstop, screaming and bawling. The last thing I want to is waste my shut-eye time spraying bird s.h.i.t and mildew off the G.o.dd.a.m.n..."

There was more, but Lina tuned him out. She zoned out the chatter on the radio, a steady relay of codes and dispatch calls between operators and officers. She had other things on her mind.

They responded to two domestic disturbances, one minor traffic collision, helped a woman jimmy the lock on her car door so she could retrieve her keys, and busted two subjects for public intoxication, one of whom had a bench warrant outstanding for failing to pay his child support.

By the time they'd dropped this latest and greatest off at the precinct drunk tank and resumed their patrol, it was feist approaching midnight. "I need to make a detour," Lina told Larry, driving toward the riverfront.

"Fine with me," Larry replied, slouched in his seat. He cracked his window and lit a cigarette, drawing a sideways glare from her.

"What? I brought Febreeze. I'll spray."

Lina bit back a nasty reply. Larry wasn't supposed to smoke in the car. Not only was this a department rule-and one that she'd get in trouble for breaking right along with him, whether she was the culprit or not-but it was also a personal pet peeve. She hated cigarette smoke. She imagined that was a big factor in why she'd never felt more endeared to Larry; the stink of stale smoke remained permanently trapped in his clothes and hair, surrounding him in a distinctive, malodorous cloud.

Lina pulled the patrol car to a halt in a fire lane facing the waterfront wharf where the floating nightclub complex, Apathy, was anch.o.r.ed. It might have been a Monday night, but the place was hopping, to judge by the packed parking lot nearby, and the throngs of people milling about the docking ramp, waiting to enter.

"Dispatch, this is unit fourteen forty-two," Lina said, using the radio mic clipped to her shoulder. "We'll be ten-seven for the next thirty minutes on a signal four. Do you copy?"

"Standby, unit fourteen forty-two," the dispatcher replied, his voice squawking fuzzily over the radio.

"Hey," Larry said, blinking at her, straightening in his seat "What are you doing?" She'd called them in as going out of service on a meal break. This was something Larry took even more seriously than an officer-down call. And with no food in hand, and no drive-through window in apparent sight, her call had obviously alarmed him.

"Relax," Lina said, glancing at him. "This will only take a few minutes."

"Why are we here?" he asked, frowning out the window at the bar.

"I need to check out something," Lina murmured, as dispatch came back on the air.

"Unit fourteen forty-seven, what's your ten-twenty?"

"I'm at the waterfront, the Fourth Street landing," Lina replied.

"Ten-four," the dispatcher replied. "You're clear." "Why don't you go on over to Chelsea's Diner?" Lina told Larry, unfastening her seat belt and opening the door. "I'll radio you when I'm finished and you can swing by and pick me up on your way back."

Lina had a suspicion that if Caine n.o.ble wasn't hanging out in Apathy that night, someone there would know where to find him.

In either case, she didn't feel like having Larry, the wonder suburbanite, tagging along for the ride. If it had been Rene riding shotgun with her, she would have insisted he come. But it wasn't Rene; it was Larry, and Lina had doubts that Larry could find his a.s.s with both hands, a flashlight, a map, and a week to try sometimes.

"Sounds good," he said, climbing out of the car. "You want me to bring you back anything?"

"No, thanks," she said. "I don't have much of an appet.i.te tonight."

He traded places with her, settling down in the driver's seat, and leaned out before closing the door. "So does this have something to do with your rough weekend?" he asked, a hint of glee in his eyes.

If only you knew, Lina thought, forcing a strained and insincere smile. "Yeah. Something like that."

She walked toward the steel boarding ramp as the squad car pulled away from the curb. She could hear the pounding, thrumming rhythm of heavy dance music spilling out of the nightclub, shuddering through the night air. She checked her side arm reflexively, settling her hand momentarily against the b.u.t.t of the nine-millimeter strapped faithfully to her hip, feeling comforted by its presence. Bullets can stop them, she thought. Bullets can fall them. Brandon said a bullet to their heads will kill them just as sure as anyone else.

She didn't want to kill Caine n.o.ble, but, depending on his reception, she might be forced to. The gun was leverage, her ace in the hole. But I'm going to try to win him over with my charming personality first, she thought with a smirk, as she ducked and shouldered her way through a heavy tangle of young people waiting in line. They were dressed in ridiculous fashion, some head to toe in black, with jet-black dyed hair, alabaster white faces, ebony lipstick. Others wore hot-pink and electric-blue wigs, stood on platform heels that hoisted them a good-if not precarious-foot and a half off the ground and shiny vinyl pantsuits or miniskirts. She pa.s.sed by at least a dozen whose s.e.x she couldn't clearly distinguish based on outward appearance alone. Thank Christ I made Larry wait in the car, she thought. If he'd tagged along, he couldn't have kept his d.a.m.n mouth shut-and we'd both be killed before we hit the lobby.

Lina wanted to talk to Caine, to reason with him. Tessa had explained that people called the Elders were coming for Brandon; that more than just a mandate to bring him back to Kentucky and punish him, they were under direction to kill him. The Elders were the most powerful among Brandon and Tessa's people-the Brethren, they'd called them. Tessa suspected that Caine was acting outside of the Brethren's control; that he'd followed Tessa from Kentucky to try and find Brandon. The Elders hadn't found their way to the city yet, but they would. They were hunters, Tessa had explained. That's all they know. It's what they do.

If Lina didn't find a way to diffuse the situation-and fast-then Brandon was going to leave. He and Tessa had apparently been preparing to do exactly this when Lina had arrived at Rene's building that afternoon. Lina might have been able to persuade him to change his mind, but she hadn't tried. He'd been sleeping when she left, and she hadn't wanted to disturb him. Rene had told her rest would help him heal from the bullet wound in his shoulder. She also hadn't wanted to beg him to stay. Because he would, if I asked him to, she thought. He would stay for me, and the Elders would find him, kill him. I can't let that happen.

She didn't know how to get in touch with the Elders-and most specifically, with Augustus n.o.ble, Brandon's grandfather, under whose orders the Elders operated. She didn't have Jude's connections; she couldn't just come up with the man's phone number with a few quick calls. But I bet I know another way, she thought. Caine knows how to get in touch with his grandfather, and whether he likes it or not, I'm going to ask him to help me.

"May I help you, officer?" the bouncer at the end of the ramp asked. He was an enormous man, at least a foot taller than Lina, and outweighing her by a good seventy pounds of nothing but sheer muscle. His bald head gleamed, and his brows narrowed warily at her. "Several of you've already been out here today, and we told you-we don't know nothing about those murders. We don't let freak cases like that get in here."

Ah, Lina thought. So homicide investigators had followed her own line of thinking-and their search had delivered them to Apathy, as well.

"Yeah, I can see you have a closed-door policy for freak cases," she remarked dryly, with a pointed glance at the nearest pink- haired, seven-foot-tall, platform-booted transvest.i.te. "I'm looking for a man."

The bouncer raised his brow and offered a little snort. "Hope you like them in skirts," he said. "It's the Queen-for-a-Night pageant in the drag lounge."

"The guy I'm looking for is probably more interested in the Catacombs," Lina said. "His name is Caine n.o.ble. He's about six- one, six-two, lean build, about my age. White guy with dark eyes and black hair, really long, down to the middle of his back."

The bouncer looked thoughtful. "Hang on a sec," he said, reaching for a shelf on the podium beside which he perched. He picked up a handheld walkie-talkie. "Let me call down there and see."

He turned and walked a few paces away from her, holding the radio up to his ear like a telephone to hear and be heard over the din of the music. After a few moments, he returned. "You know what?" he said. "Phil said there is a guy matching that description down there. Been coming in every night the last few or so. A real lady's man."

Yeah, I bet, Lina thought, remembering how his eyes had rolled over black and how he'd shaken his head like an enraged dog shuddering off a dousing of water, snapping his jaw out of socket to accommodate his growing canine teeth.

"He said to send you on down," the bouncer said, sidestepping to allow Lina past.

Lina walked aboard the crowded nightclub. She stepped off the gangplank onto the main deck, where colorful neon signs offered her a number of venue options. She followed the doorway marked Catacombs, descending down a narrow flight of steel stairs. The air smelled funny, filled with the peculiar, stale odor of dry ice used to create a mist effect on the dance floor.

The driving beat of dance music was deafening, thrumming through the stairs beneath her feet, trembling in the walls. The nightclub was packed and dark, with multicolored strobe lights flashing violently in time with the music. She smelled the stink of cigarette smoke, sweat, and beer, and as she stepped off the bottom riser, she was immediately surrounded by steaming, perspiring, scantily-clad bodies in heaving, gyrating motion.

Jesus, she thought, scowling as she shoved her way forward. She planned to make her way to the bar. Even in the poor light, she could tell she was going to need help in finding Caine among the throng. To her perfunctory observation, everyone in the Catacombs had long, black hair, dressed head to toe in black and clearly had ambitions of being vampires when they grew up.

She was frightened. She hated to admit it almost as much as she hated feeling that way in the first place. Lina didn't like being intimidated. She'd never taken to it well, but she knew she was placing herself in a very precarious and potentially dangerous situation, and only an idiot would be in her place and not feel apprehensive. She didn't know what Caine's reaction would be.

She hoped that, vampire or not, the sight of her uniform would keep him somewhat reasonable. Brandon had told her they'd been raised on a horse farm, not the moon; surely Caine could appreciate that he couldn't do anything to a police officer in a public place.

She frowned, sidestepping as someone shoved roughly into her. Someone else jostled her from the other side, and she yelped, ramming her elbow back angrily. "Watch it!" she snapped. She stumbled as someone else b.u.mped her and then another, and another, until she felt hands all over her, grabbing and pushing, forcing her along, shoving her forward. They stared at her, cutting dark glances around black-rimmed, heavily shadowed eyes in her direction, and she realized this wasn't an accident. Oh, Christ, it's like they're herding me! she thought, the anxiety she'd felt stirring mounting suddenly, swiftly to panic.

"Get your hands off me!" she cried, but the pounding ba.s.s from the dance floor swallowed her voice whole. She tried to backpedal, to fight her way to the stairs again, but there were too many people, all wedged too closely to her. She felt fingers fumble against her clothes, pawing at her hair, and she danced clumsily, balling her hands into fists, swinging at them. "I'm a police officer!" she yelled. It was too tight a s.p.a.ce, too confined, and she couldn't fend them off with her aikido. Each time she'd drive someone back with a wrist lock, another would surge forward to grope her in their place.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it, I'm a cop!" she shouted, reaching for her pistol, her one comfort, her emergency escape. Her eyes widened in bright alarm when her hand brushed against the open mouth of her holster; someone had stolen the gun. Oh, f.u.c.k me...!

All at once, the crowd drew to an abrupt halt. They unfolded from around her, leaving Lina staggering backward into a suddenly broad, empty circ.u.mference of s.p.a.ce. The music continued playing, blaring around them, but n.o.body moved. A crowd of at least two hundred people-their faces white, their lips and eyes painted black-stared at her, leveling dark, menacing glares, watching her as they might have a beetle pinned by sunlight focused through a magnifying lens.

"I'm a cop!" Lina yelled, her voice hoa.r.s.e and shrill. Without her gun, she felt as good as naked against them. Maybe they didn't take it, she thought, her mind whirling desperately, struggling to find some escape. Maybe it fell on the floor while I was being pushed around and all of this is my imagination. Just my G.o.dd.a.m.n imagination...!

Her heart pounded, her breath hiccupped frantically. She still had her shoulder mic; she could call for emergency backup. But, oh, f.u.c.k, these kids can do a world of hurting to me in the time it would take for that to get here, she thought.

"I'm a police officer!" she cried again. "Stand aside and clear a path for me to the stairs-all of you! Right G.o.dd.a.m.n now!"

Or what, Officer Jones? she heard a man's voice purr inside of her mind. It was the second such time in her life when a stranger's voice had infiltrated her thoughts-only this time, she knew it wasn't Brandon.

Oh, Jesus, she thought, turning slowly. She still had pepper spray clipped to her belt, and she reached for it now. Oh, Jesus, oh, Christ, oh, holy f.u.c.k...!

The crowd had been herding her, alright. She turned in full and found herself facing a lounge in the back corner of the nightclub, a semicircle of cushioned leather sofas with a black lacquer coffee table in the middle. Caine n.o.ble sat against the sofa immediately in front of her. His long hair was unfettered, draped over his shoulders in thick, glossy sheaves. He was impeccably dressed, black from head to toe, with his long legs outstretched before him, crossed at the ankles. He was flanked on either side by a bevy of beautiful young women, all of them more naked than clothed.

"Why, Angelina," he said, cradling a tumbler of what appeared to be whiskey in his hand. He took a long drink and smiled at her, revealing that his canine teeth had lowered somewhat, the tips curving downward over his bottom teeth. "What a pleasant surprise. While I'd certainly have liked to see you again, I couldn't have hoped for such an opportunity quite so soon."

He knows my name, she thought, shying back, feeling her chest tighten. Oh, f.u.c.k, how does he know my name?

Because I'm not a f.u.c.king idiot, Caine told her in her mind, making her flinch, crying out in startled, frightened reflex. He chuckled at her, turning his gla.s.s this way and that in his hand, admiring the play of lights from the dance floor against the liquor.

He glanced at Lina and winked. "You told me you were a cop two nights ago," he said. "You say that a lot. You must like to.

Does it make you feel powerful?"

He rose to his feet and walked toward her, his gait slow and leisurely. "I figured out real quick that the apartment you used to hole up with Brandon belonged to your brother," he said. "Brandon's n.i.g.g.e.r teacher from the farm. From there, it didn't take much to track you down-a n.i.g.g.e.r b.i.t.c.h cop with the last name of Jones."

Lina blinked as if he'd slapped her. Did he just call me and Jackson n.i.g.g.e.rs? She moved her hand from the pepper spray and curled her fingers in toward her palms in light, ready fists. Oh, G.o.dd.a.m.n it, that was a mistake.

She swung at him, her fist flying forward, the heel of her hand aimed with brutal velocity for his nose. She didn't hope to incapacitate him, but if she could stun him enough, catch him by surprise, she might be able to duck back into the crowd, to fight her way to the exit. Caine caught her punch, his hand darting up to intercept the blow so quickly, it was a blur in her peripheral vision. His fingers folded against her hand, crushing, and Lina cried out, crumpling to her knees. She screamed hoa.r.s.ely; when Caine released her, she huddled at his feet, cradling her injured hand against her belly, gasping raggedly for breath.

Ok, G.o.d, she thought, terrified now, plain, stark, and overwhelming. She could hear footsteps approaching-lots of them-and looked up to find the crowd closing in on her again, drawing near, like something out of a horror movie. Oh, G.o.d...! she thought as they reached for her, dozens of hands, all outstretched and groping. "Oh, G.o.d... no-!" she screamed.

Brandon awoke to find himself alone in bed. He sat up, groggy and bewildered, and winced as he rested his weight inadvertently against his sore shoulder. He pressed his hand gingerly against his bandages, wondering dimly if Rene had been wrong about feeding accelerating his healing ability.

He was naked; his clothes still lay in a tumble on the floor. Lina's were gone and of her, there was no sign. She'd told him she had to work that night. She must have left already, he thought, as he stepped into his jeans, drawing them back over his hips.

What time is it?

He smelled something wondrous and spicy and felt his stomach grumble hungrily. He ducked around the silk drapes and saw Rene and Tessa in the kitchen. Tessa sat at the table, looking through what appeared to be some kind of sc.r.a.pbook, while Rene stood over the stove. Both looked toward him as he approached.

"Bonjour, pet.i.t," Rene said, grinning broadly. "How are you feeling?"

Brandon shrugged to convey OK, I guess, and pointed toward the stove, his brows raised inquisitively.

"Hoppin' John," Rene replied. "An old family recipe straight from the bayou. I thought I'd fix us a late supper. La pischouette was getting hungry."

Brandon blinked at Tessa in surprise. You sure? he signed to her. Since scrambled eggs had been enough to roll her stomach only that morning, he was surprised that she'd consent to eat anything Cajun.

I'm OK, she signed in reply, laughing. She stroked a light fist down her chest: I'm starving in fact. She motioned to draw him near. Lock at this, Brandon. It's Rene's family tree.

Brandon stepped closer to the table, peering curiously over her shoulder. It was indeed a sc.r.a.pbook she was looking at, filled with yellowed postcards and ancient photographs. She'd drawn a piece of brittle, aging paper from the book and carefully unfolded it against the table top. Sure enough, it was a family tree, recounted in elaborate detail, recorded in tiny, tight, sloping handwriting.

Who did all of this? he signed to Tessa. He and Tessa knew next to nothing of their own family's genealogical history, particularly for generations preceding the Grandfather. The Elders kept all of the family Tomes under closely guarded lock and key because they used them to determine which clans would intermarry and which generations would wed into one another.

"Rene's grandmother," she replied aloud. "Isn't it amazing? And look at this..." She pointed to one entry, which Brandon had to lean over and squint at to read. "This is Rene's great-grandfather, Remy Morin. This says that he married Marguerite Davenant in 1782. Davenant, Brandon, as in Martin's last name. And now mine."

Brandon blinked in surprise, glancing toward Rene. If he was the least bit interested in Tessa's discovery, he didn't show it, busying himself instead with stirring the pot of black-eyed peas and rice.