And then, miraculously, he recovered. The smile came back, albeit a little dimmed. And though his color remained chalky, the sparkle in his eyes was pure sincerity. "I'm okay," he said, taking her hand and kissing it gently. "It's just that hospitals make me kinda nervous."

"And nurses?"

"Naw." Once again grinning. "I like nurses just fine."

There was another beat of silence, in which he glanced at their empty gla.s.ses. His color was returning, in tandem with her s.e.xual confidence. "Looks like that waitress has gone and forgotten all about us," he said, all at once mock-woeful. He looked back to her. "Darlin', how's about you go and get us a couple o' drinks?"

Tanya smiled. "Sure," she said. "Why not."

He still had her hand as she slid out of the booth; and as she stood he pulled her over, gave her a little kiss on the neck. "Don't be long," he murmured, and nipped her, sharp teeth grazing soft skin. She shivered, smiled again.

"Be back in a flash," she told him, and he said he'd be here waiting.

But of course, when she got back, he wasn't.

43.

Jane heard the dying sound at exactly ten oh-three.

It separated itself from the rest of the agony by coming so abruptly, and by taking place in the corridor just outside Intensive Care.

It came unexpectedly, yanking her from her twilight haze.

And then, just as suddenly, stopped.

Apprehension settled over her as the near-silence resumed. The half-dozen other inhabitants of the ward stirred uneasily as the sound penetrated through the veil of drugs and destruction, impacted directly on subconscious survival circuits. Instinctively attuned to the subtle frequencies of suffering, they had learned to sift through the minutiae, unconsciously read the many layers of pain.

But this was not the sound of lingering illness.

This was the sound of sudden death.

Jane tensed, shooting fresh agony through her st.i.tched and bandaged torso. The heavy leather restraints on her arms and legs bound her firmly to the bed frame, gave her only a couple of inches of play. The bondage was her reward for resisting the Demerol intravenous they'd forced upon her this afternoon. The drugs left her dazed and groggy, made the arduous task of healing that much more difficult.

Jane fought her way back to the surface; her lidded eyes swam wildly in a head too heavy, too heavy to lift from the pillow. Through the opaqued curtains that ringed her bed she saw only dim light and blurry silhouettes, making a muddled wash of the world.

Then the door opened onto ICU, a bright misshapen rectangle at the far end of the room, and Jane's awareness tweaked up a notch. The drugs and the darkness left her vision blurry and diffuse; she could make out nothing of substance in the dim shadow-world of the ward.

But her hearing was fine; and it was the clack of boot heels that really caught and held her attention. The sound was entirely out of place here, dragging little spurs of dread down her spine as it moved purposefully across the length of the room.

Out in the hall, the phone began ringing at the nurses' station.

The footsteps grew closer. The phone in the hall kept right on ringing. The footsteps were heading directly toward her.

"Syd?" she murmured, barely audible.

Then the smell of him cut through the antiseptic atmosphere; and it was not Syd at all, not by a long shot. And though she had no idea who he was, she knew exactly what he was. That was more than enough. The memory of last night's ambush flooded her with panic, made all the worse by her utter helplessness.

"Oh, G.o.d," she whimpered, looking desperately for something she could use as a weapon. There was nothing. Not even herself.

The phone stopped ringing. The dark figure came into view: a shadow-shape, looming huge and then halting, strangely hesitant. There was a moment's sheer confusion.

And then the shadow whispered that name; and in that one microsecond of perfect horror, Jane understood everything . . .

. . . and suddenly, Vic understood as well. Understood all too well. He hovered, heart gripped by the coldest certainty he'd ever known. There was a woman in there, yes, but it was not Nora.

And yet pieces of Nora were there.

"No," he said, though he didn't know why. No was utterly irrelevant when the answer was yes. He reached out for the curtain flap, then staggered back as if struck.

"No." And then again: "No." Like rosary beads he dragged out one at a time. "No no no . . ." Accelerating now, as if it were a prayer that could erase what was true. He stood, mouth moving in denial of the dawning horror, until he could stand it no longer.

The woman made a tragic trapped-animal sound as he stepped through the curtain. Her pupils were huge, with fear. She tried to lift her head, tried to lift her hand. Vic growled and showed his teeth. She froze and, despite herself, began to cry. It gave them one more thing in common.

There were tears in his eyes as well.

Because they had scrubbed her down for surgery, yes; but there was so much that they'd missed-the little details that, in the end, meant everything. He smelled Nora under her fingernails. He smelled Nora in her hair. He smelled Nora's blood and meat and sweat.

Most of all, he smelled her death.

Vic reeled as the loss struck him fully, floored him with its finality. His heart went nova in his chest, sent a bloodred haze flooding into his skull as he realized that it was over, all of it, there would never again be a Nora, there would be no forgiveness and no second chances and no going back . . .

. . . and suddenly it was hot, too hot in the room, the walls and floor and ceiling too close, the thick milky curtains closing in to smother him as the murderous urge roared up and up. Vic moaned, low and menacing, felt the sound dip down to become a growl . . .

. . . and Jane flinched, unable to escape the onslaught as he began systematically destroying everything around her. The curtains shredded and tore clear from their hooks as his hand raked out, smashing into the monitor stand that stood beside the bed. The screens flatlined an instant before he destroyed them, previews of coming attractions. Jane winced and mewled as he moved toward the IV stand, shrieked as he wrenched it away and sent it flying, ripping the tubes from her arms and her groin in the process. Plasma and catheter bags splattered against the walls, drenching the floor beneath the bed.

Vic hovered over her like an angel of death, a horrible rictus spreading across his features.

His features, which began to ripple, and Change . . .

. . . and then he stopped: his rage barely tethered, caught in a crossfire of conflicting emotion. Vic was seething with grief and incalculable pain, burning for vengeance. But there was another urge, beneath it. Something equally powerful in its allure.

He wanted to know why.

Vic brought his breathing under control, calming himself as best he could. As he moved closer he caught a whiff of something else on her, and the final piece of the puzzle clicked impossibly into place. Oh, no. The realization instantly reversed itself. Oh, yes.

"Of course," he muttered. "Of course."

Vic started to laugh, then; a coa.r.s.e and guttural chuckle that bubbled up from the depths of his madness. It was too perfect. It really was. And he had to admit, as much as he wanted to taste her blood, as much as he longed to hear her dying screams as he opened her up and sprayed her across the room, he was in awe of her as well. She had taken down Nora, after all. That feat alone commanded his respect.

And now there was no more Nora. . . .

Slowly, Vic peeled the sheet back from her body. Jane writhed before him, straining against her bonds, as he plucked at an abdominal suture, took stock of her damage.

There was nothing fatal. Nothing that wouldn't heal, in time. She was young. She was strong. She was already one of them.

And best of all, she was his.

And that was the beauty of it. He could smell Syd's mark all over this b.i.t.c.h. It made him crazy to even think of it, filled him with boundless, malevolent glee. At that moment Vic wasn't sure whether he should kill her, or f.u.c.k her, or both. And in what order. He drew near, getting very, very close in her face before he spoke.

"So here's my situation," he growled. "At the moment, I don't know exactly what I'm gonna do with you." He smelled the fear on her, loved it. "But I'll tell you what I am gonna do.

"First, I'm gonna go and take care of your little chickens.h.i.t boyfriend: the one who lets you do all his dirty work for him.

"And then-I swear to you, sweetheart-I'll be back for you."

He smiled then, his eyes alight with dreadful purpose. Vic leaned forward, close enough to graze her cheek. Jane shut her eyes. Trying, in vain, to shut him out.

Vic nuzzled her menacingly, and as he did he brought one taloned finger up to lightly slice its way along the inside of her thigh.

"I'll be back," he a.s.sured her.

And then, as quickly as he had appeared, he was gone.

Jane lay shivering for several minutes afterward: afraid to move, afraid to even breathe. The ward grew deathly quiet again. When she dared open her eyes she saw that a bright track of blood graced her thigh from knee to groin, dripping with malign promise.

There was no measuring the depths of her terror, or the magnitude of her need. Any second now, the room would explode again: with nurses, with doctors, with frantic, screaming people. With police . . . and police . . . and police . . .

She closed her eyes, saw men with needles. Men with guns.

I have to get out of here, she told herself, struggling in her bed. I have to get out.

But her every move was agony.

And she had so far to go. . . .

44.

It wasn't until the redhead came up to the bar that Syd realized he was a dead man. Coming back from Randy's office had been bad enough. After an eternity of desperate wheedling, the miserable woman at the hospital switchboard had finally relented. But when she'd put him through to ICU, no one had answered.

As he returned, the crowd was so thick and rowdy that Vic's table was utterly lost from view. If I can't see him, maybe he can't see me, he hoped. It was an ostrich's prayer, at best; but that didn't mean that it might not be true.

And indeed, once safely behind the bar, it was like he'd never left. Vic didn't come up, demand to know where he'd been. In fact, Vic didn't come up at all. Fifteen million other people did; and they managed to keep him running.

But no Vic.

No Vic whatsoever.

So Syd was already feeling nervous by the time the redhead came up to the bar. "Excuse me," she said, as he came within range. He nodded, giving her his full attention, and it suddenly dawned on him where he had seen her before.

At the bar, there were people who'd been waiting. They made faces Syd ignored. There was only one face he could see: the one that had greeted him as he'd staggered into the Emergency Room, the b.l.o.o.d.y bundle in his arms.

"Listen," she said, in the here and now. "Have you seen that guy I was with . . .?"

Syd's breath sucked in sharply. "He's not with you?" Already, he was looking over her shoulder to the empty booth.

"No," she said. "I came up here for drinks, and when I got back, he was gone. . . ."

"How long ago?" Syd was looking all over the bar now, scanning the sea of bobbing heads; but the intensity in his voice commanded her complete attention.

Her eyes startled wide. "It's been almost forty minutes now. . . ."

"f.u.c.k!" He banged the bar with his fist, already moving away from Tanya, racing down the length of the bar. "TRENT!" he hollered, catching his cohort's attention, waiting till they got close enough before going on.

"Got a medical emergency, man. Jane needs me at the hospital."

"Oh, s.h.i.t . . ."

"I know." Acknowledging the madness. "But I gotta go."

Trent looked miserable, and Syd was sorry, but there wasn't a d.a.m.n thing he could do about it, so he turned away before Trent had a chance to debate it, then slipped through the bartender's exit to the floor. The side door exit was closest, had the fewest crowds to fight through.

As he neared the bathrooms, the lines piled up and gridlocked, clogging the narrow hallway. Syd tried to gently push his way through, then fell back, caught himself on the iron ladder that led to the attic.

"MOVE YOUR a.s.s!".

The crowd parted reluctantly, let him squeeze through.

Syd broke free to the other side, quickly covered the remaining distance. He slammed down on the push-bar. The door wouldn't open.

He pushed again, more deliberately this time. The door gave just a little, locked up tight. He peered through the crack, saw a glimmer of steel. It took a second to register.

Someone had chained shut the door.

"Okay," he said, trying to remain calm. "Okay." Backing up, thinking three moves ahead. The next closest exit was the one leading out of the kitchen. He could duck through there.

If it wasn't too late . . .

. . . and before he could even start to rationally examine that thought, he was blowing past the bathroom lines and ramming through the kitchen doors.