He looked at her then, and the intensity of his gaze made her heart skip a beat. "Have you eaten yet?" he asked again.

Despite herself she smiled. "Most people have, this time of day."

"Recently?" he amended.

"I had lunch. That was a while ago."

"Then come to dinner with me. Please. I hate to discuss serious matters on an empty stomach. And this ..." he faltered for a moment, then continued with forced humor. "This place is hardly conducive to confession."

Though she knew she should leave the question unasked, she couldn't help but voice it. "Is that what this is about? Confession?"

Something sharp and hot flashed in the depths of his eyes. Pain? Fear? Maybe both. He turned away. "Yeah. I'm afraid so."

"What about this?" She held out the canvas toward him, offering him its secrets.

He reached out and closed his hand over hers. Warm, strong fingers: the touch was electric. This close to him she could smell his cologne, subtle but sensual. A delicate musky scent, precisely calculated to appeal.

Men that attractive are dangerous, Gresham had Gresham had warned her. Especially when they know their own power. warned her. Especially when they know their own power.

Sweet, sweet danger. She could drown in it, gladly.

He whispered: "Bring it."

He led them to a restaurant. It didn't surprise her that he knew such a place, a shadowed hideaway where lovers might whisper sweet endearments in the privacy of high-walled booths. Doubtless he had brought women here before, for more blatantly amorous purposes. The hostess gave them a table near the rear of the restaurant, in a section that was all but deserted. In such a place one might comfortably court a lover, she thought. Or share terrible secrets. Or both.

They ordered drinks, a house wine, and braised fillets of a local fish. They made small talk over sauteed dumplings, frothy mousse, steamed coffee. He asked about her work, and seemed to be genuinely interested in the details of her art. Was that real enthusiasm, or a prelude to seduction, rehea.r.s.ed so many times with so many women that it now seemed natural to him? How could one hope to tell them apart? In return, she asked him about his journey to Jaggonath. She discovered that he had never traveled out of his region before this, but she could not get him to tell her why he had done so now. And through it all she waited, watching as he tried to build up his courage, drawing strength from rituals of courtship so familiar to him that he probably could have played them with his eyes closed. Sensing the darkness that was within him, not knowing how to address it.

At last he pushed his coffee away with a sigh and shut his eyes. It seemed to her that he was in pain-or remembering pain, perhaps. Finally he dared, "The other day ..." It was clearly meant as a beginning, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. After a minute, hoping to help him, she urged, "At the shop?"

He nodded stiffly, then looked away. "G.o.d, this is so awkward. I just want to explain...."

When he faltered once more she prompted softly, "Go on." Her hand rested upon his, a gentle rea.s.surance. "I'm listening."

At last, with great effort, he managed, "What do you know about Merentha?"

"Not much," she admitted. "A few basics from history cla.s.s, and from seismics. Very little, really."

"My family's lived there for nearly ten centuries. They ... you might say we founded the place. Thrived there. It was a well established family, highly respected, active in civil service through most of its generations. Its founder ..." He faltered then, and shook his head as if rejecting that line of disclosure. "I was the youngest of the main line, but there were others. So many others ..." She could feel his hand trembling now beneath her own. "Five years ago ... I was out all night...." He lowered his head, his shoulders trembling, and raised up his other hand as if to shield his face; clearly he was remembering that time, reliving some secret pain. "Just like any other night," he whispered. "Or so it seemed. I came home ... I had no idea anything was wrong, you see, no reason to expect it.... I came home." He looked up at her, but his eyes were focused upon another time, another plane. "They were dead," he whispered, his voice shaking as he relived the past. "Murdered. All of them. The floor was covered with their blood...."

He lowered his head once more, overwhelmed by the memory. She longed to comfort him, to seek out some gentle words which would bring him back to the present, but the shock of his revelation had left her momentarily speechless. Because she knew knew about this tragedy. She remembered it. And the family name which had seemed vaguely familiar to her now sharpened into clear and horrible focus. about this tragedy. She remembered it. And the family name which had seemed vaguely familiar to her now sharpened into clear and horrible focus.

"That was you," she breathed. Remembering the headlines. b.l.o.o.d.y details splayed across local newspaper headings for months, exploitive articles that dwelled on every horrific aspect of the crime. And on every perceived weakness of the one survivor. "You." "You."

He managed to look up at her. "I was wondering how long it would take you," he said bitterly. "The murder of the century, "The murder of the century, they called it. It must have made all the papers." they called it. It must have made all the papers."

Stunned, she whispered, "They thought you did it."

He nodded tightly. "They wanted to punish someone, and I was the obvious candidate. The youngest son of the Tarrant line, selfish, undisciplined, the black sheep of the clan ... it was no great secret that the family and I fought a lot, usually about money. And it was likewise no secret that the slaughter of every other Tarrant had guaranteed me an inheritance that many men would kill for. As you can see," he said bitterly, indicating his person: the rich clothes, the fine jewelry, the air of easy wealth. "Only I would never have killed for that. Not my own family! I could never...."

She tightened her hand about his, and it seemed to her that his pain flowed through the contact. Maybe it did. Maybe the fae was so stirred by his emotion that it allowed her to glimpse the very core of his despair, unmasked by social repartee, unfettered by the bonds of language. The sheer intensity of it left her breathless. She could only hope that the same faeborn link would allow her to give something of herself in return, if only a shadow of emotional support. Even that little, she sensed, was more than he'd had in years.

"Of course not," she whispered.

He took a deep drink of wine; it seemed to lend him strength. "The trial lasted over a year," he told her. "It seemed like forever. A year of having to relive that dreadful night over and over again, so that strangers could pick it apart for incriminating details. I thought I'd go crazy. I nearly did. There are whole segments of time I don't remember now, parts of the trial I've blocked. I was so close to the edge back then. Once I even tried to give up all the money, to sign away my inheritance in the hope that they would take that for proof of my innocence. I guess it seemed the only way, at the time. My lawyers stopped me. Thank G.o.d." He laughed bitterly; his hand tightened into a fist beneath her grasp. "What did I know about earning a living? What did I understand of poverty? They They knew. They gave me meaningless forms to sign, and didn't tell me the truth until the fit had pa.s.sed. Thank G.o.d for them. Thank G.o.d." knew. They gave me meaningless forms to sign, and didn't tell me the truth until the fit had pa.s.sed. Thank G.o.d for them. Thank G.o.d."

She made her voice as gentle as it could become. "So what happened?"

"The state let me go, in the end. Not because it judged me innocent, but because it considered me incompetent. I was a wastrel, a freeloader, a waste of human life ... but I wasn't a murderer. Wasn't capable capable of murder." He drew in a deep breath. "They had that right, at least. Maybe all of it. I don't know." of murder." He drew in a deep breath. "They had that right, at least. Maybe all of it. I don't know."

"Don't," she whispered. "Don't think that."

He lowered his head again, trembling. "I didn't want to tell you. G.o.d knows, I didn't want to tell anyone. But when I tried on the armor at your shop ... it all came back to me, then. All of it at once, all the blood and the fear and the hopelessness...."

"Why?" she asked him. Trying to understand the connection. When he didn't answer for several long seconds, she pressed him gently. "What does the armor have to do with all this?"

In answer he disentangled his hand from hers-reluctantly, she thought-and reached across the table. The canvas roll had been tied shut with a slender cord; unknotting it, he set the string aside. He made room to spread the canvas out on the table, then did so. Handling it gently but firmly, hands trembling as he unrolled it. It was an old piece which had been torn and repaired more than once; stripes of tape had yellowed across its back, eating into the linen canvas. As he unrolled it, she saw aged paint, a webwork of fine cracks, the edges of a piece that had been hastily and carelessly hacked from a larger painting- And then it was laid out before her, and she saw.

"Oh, my G.o.ds," she whispered. Stunned.

The painting was part of a formal portrait, and it was marked with several parallel slashes where a knife had scored the canvas. The object of the portrait was a young man, and even this tattered remnant of a larger painting conveyed the power of his presence, the beauty of his person. Tall, slender, he wore a breastplate emblazoned with a golden sun and a coronet decorated with mythological figures. That That breastplate. breastplate. That That coronet. Fine golden-brown hair flowed down about his shoulders, tousled by an unseen wind. Gray eyes, cool and dominant, met the viewer's own as if there were some living will behind them. Sardonic, seductive. Seeing him rendered thus, Narilka felt herself tremble. Because there there was no mistaking the portrait's subject. And no denying that she knew him all too intimately. coronet. Fine golden-brown hair flowed down about his shoulders, tousled by an unseen wind. Gray eyes, cool and dominant, met the viewer's own as if there were some living will behind them. Sardonic, seductive. Seeing him rendered thus, Narilka felt herself tremble. Because there there was no mistaking the portrait's subject. And no denying that she knew him all too intimately.

The Hunter.

"Who is it?" she managed. Finding her voice at last.

"Gerald Tarrant. Founder of my family line, first Neocount of Merentha." He hesitated; when he spoke again she sensed him picking his way through his words carefully, perhaps choosing which facets of the story to reveal to her. "In his day ... he slaughtered all his kin. All but one. His son returned home to find ... what I found ... it was he who did this." He indicated the slash marks in the canvas, their edges cracked and yellowing. "That's "That's what I saw when I looked in the mirror. Do you understand? Not my face, but his. A man who could murder his entire family...." what I saw when I looked in the mirror. Do you understand? Not my face, but his. A man who could murder his entire family...."

"Shh. It's over now." She took his hands in hers, warming them gently. "The armor's just a piece of metal. And the coronet. No more." It hurt her inside, to know what the next words had to be-her artist's soul rebelled at the thought-but she knew they had to be said. "If they cause you pain, then destroy them. Unmake them. Commission something else, which has a better meaning for you."

The green eyes were fixed on her, their surface glistening; were those tears gathering in the comers? "I could never destroy your work," he whispered.

"It's only metal," she a.s.sured him. Trying to make the words come easily, so that he wouldn't sense how much this was costing her. "We can melt it down and make something worthwhile out of it. Something equally beautiful, that doesn't have memories attached."

He managed a wry smile. "Your boss would hardly approve of that."

"Some things are more important than Gresham's approval," she a.s.sured him.

And for a moment, in his eyes, it seemed that she could see into the core of him. Sensing a frightened young man who had thought that the world would always indulge his pleasures, now forced into a h.e.l.lish maturity of fear and isolation. All that, masked to perfection by this practiced persona: gambler, seducer, carefree aristocrat. Where was the real Andrys Tarrant, balanced between those extremes? How did one begin to seek him out?

"I could never destroy your work," he repeated. His hand turned over beneath hers, catching her fingers in a warm embrace. "And having these pieces restored ... it's part of my healing. Supposed to be, anyway." He shook his head. "I don't really understand it. But someone I ..." He hesitated, as if seeking the proper word. "Someone I trust trust advised me to have these things made, and I believe in him. Enough to try it." He laughed sadly. "Even if I can't for the life of me see how it's supposed to help." advised me to have these things made, and I believe in him. Enough to try it." He laughed sadly. "Even if I can't for the life of me see how it's supposed to help."

His hand folded tightly over hers: warm contact, hungry touch. She could sense the need in him, not just for communion of the spirit but a far more substantive interaction. Pa.s.sion and intimacy were allied within him; it was hard for him to seek out one without the other.

"Thank you," he said at last. "Thank you for listening. For giving me a chance."

"I wish I could do more," she said quietly. Knowing the words for the opening they were. Not even sure of how she meant them. "To help."

The bright eyes glittered, viridescent in the darkness. "You've done more than any woman has for years. Or any man, for that matter."

"Even your lawyers?" she chided gently. Aware that her heart was pounding anew, in response to words not even being said.

"In a way," he said softly. He drew up her hand to his lips, and kissed it gently. Soft touch, gently erotic; she felt fire spreading up her arm, fanning out from the contact.

"Come," he whispered. "It's getting late. I'll walk you home."

He made no move to call for the check, but laid a handful of coins on the table that would have paid for such a meal three times over. Then he helped her out of the booth, his touch warm upon her arm, his manner at once protective and possessive. The waiters did not question his leaving before a bill had been rendered, which meant that he had done this many, many times before. With how many women? she wondered. Had they all trembled like she did at his touch, or were they veterans of the same game, who knew what words and special gestures might be employed to maintain control of each move?

It was a long walk to her apartment, for which she was grateful. She needed the long dark streets, half-abandoned, quiet. She needed time to pull herself together. He walked by her side companionably enough, but she could sense the tension in him. Pain. Uncertainty. Desire. She could feel his warmth near her arm as their steps brought them close to each other, as his hand almost-almost- almost-almost-reached out and took hers. So very close. Her skin tingled with the nearness of him, but she was afraid to initiate any contact. What would such an act signify in his world, in that endless round of courtship and flirtation which was his normal venue? How did one approach a man like this, without giving him license to claim one's soul?

And then: Her building. Her stairs. Two flights of them, wide and well-lit. A landing, with four doors. He let her lead the way, to the third door in line. Keys. They were somewhere. She fumbled for them, fearing to look at him. Afraid she would get lost in his eyes forever if she did. Afraid she might wake up in the morning to find him beside her and never know how he had gotten there, or if he would ever leave. Or if she ever wanted wanted him to leave. him to leave.

Then he took her face gently in one hand-ever so gently, a b.u.t.terfly's touch could not have been lighter-and tipped her head back until she was looking right at him. Warm eyes, living eyes, not like the Hunter's at all. And yet the two men were linked, not just in appearance but in essence. The Hunter's pa.s.sion had sired this man; the Hunter's blood ran in his veins. How could she look at Andrys Tarrant and not feel the power of his forebear's presence?

"Thank you," he said softly. "For listening." His fingers stroked her cheek gently as he spoke, sending shivers down her spine. "It's been a long time since anyone did that."

She tried to respond, but the words caught in her throat. His fingers moved into her hair, twining amidst the dark strands. Sweet, possessive caress. "I ..." she whispered, but the rest of the words were all gone. Lost, as all of language was lost to her now.

He studied her for a moment and then leaned down to kiss her slowly-oh, G.o.ds, so slowly-so that she might pull away if she wanted to, drawing her close to him, one arm about her waist now and one hand entangled in her hair, his lips warm and so very sweet against her own. With a soft moan she shut her eyes, and her keys fell to the floor with a clatter as she clung to him, her heart pounding wildly against his chest. So close that she could feel the ridges of gold braid pressing against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the caress of fine silk against her cheek. She trembled as she held him, frightened by the hunger she sensed in him, even more frightened by that which she sensed in herself. Never in her life had she felt such an utter lack of control- And then the moment was over. He drew back from her slightly but did not release her. Studying her, she thought. a.s.sessing her response. And what if he decided to press on with this evening's sport? She had no strength to resist this man, she realized that now. Even more: she had no desire desire to resist him. to resist him.

But he stepped back, gently, his fingers releasing her hair with obvious reluctance, stroking her cheek as they withdrew. His fingertips left lines of fire on her skin, that spread heat throughout her body. It took everything she had not to move into his arms again, to invite a more lasting intimacy. Then, suddenly, his feet brushed the keys on the floor; the unexpected noise shattered the fragile moment like gla.s.s. With a smile he stooped down and scooped them up, then placed them in her hand. Gently he folded her fingers over them, each motion a tiny caress.

"I'd like to see you again," he said quietly.

"I would like that," she whispered. Somehow managing to get the words out.

She thought that he would kiss her again-it seemed that he almost did-but instead he drew back from her. He was going to leave, she realized. Now. Before ... Without ... She didn't know if she was more relieved or disappointed.

"I'll call on you," he promised. And then he stepped away from her, and he bowed ever so slightly-an outdated gesture, so ridiculous for others, so graceful for him-and with a parting smile he strode casually down the stairs. Owning her soul, as perfectly as if he had stayed the night to claim it in pa.s.sion.

Head pounding, knees weak, she leaned against the door to her apartment and tried to catch her breath.

Dear G.o.ds, she prayed. Even her inner voice was shaking. she prayed. Even her inner voice was shaking. What have I gotten myself into? What have I gotten myself into?

He could have done it, he thought. Could have had her tonight. Could have lost himself in the heat of her body, drowned out his sorrow in a few desperate hours of pleasure.

But he hadn't. And that wasn't like him.

What had happened?

Walking down the night-shrouded streets, he struggled to comprehend his own feelings. What made this woman so unnerving? What made him so uncertain about how to handle her? Surely it wasn't a fear of impotence this time; his body had signaled its willingness to cooperate hours ago. So what was the problem? Fate had provided him with a cool, clear night and a beautiful woman, and hours of leisure to have his way with both....

Only I don't want to hurt her, he thought. he thought.

It was a strange sensation. Usually he didn't care what happened to women once they left his arms; the stronger ones came back for more, the weaker ones would learn to be more careful in the future. But this girl ... she awakened wholly new feelings within him, emotions he didn't even know how to name, much less respond to. The thought that he might cause her pain for an instant, even by so harmless a vehicle as seduction, was unbearable to him. And he had seen the fear in her eyes. Pleasure also, and a hunger to match his own, but the fear was there. And he couldn't bear to make that worse. Not for any price.

He remembered her touch on his hand, in the restaurant. So tender. So caring. When was the last time a woman had really cared about him? Or anyone, for that matter? When was the last time he'd kissed a woman and sensed nothing but pleasure in her-not some cold calculation of how much he was worth, how much he might be enticed to spend on her, how much she might manage to get from him in the long run if she played her cards right? It had been bad in the days before his family's death, but a thousand times worse afterward, when the whole Tarrant fortune was his. It was all part of the game, he'd told himself. He'd come to expect it, and learned not to be bitter.

But this woman was different. This woman, when she kissed him- He had to stop in the street for a moment, as the memory of that experience overwhelmed him. How long had it been since he had felt such acute desire for a woman? His hands shook as he remembered the silken smoothness of her hair between his fingers, the velvet softness of her cheek. Her scent was alive in his nostrils, sweet natural perfume more perfect than any man-made imitation. The desire he felt was more intense than any sensation which drugs might have sp.a.w.ned, and for the first time in months it occurred to him that he might make it through a night without some artificial aid to support him. Just memories. Just sweet, tantalizing memories, melding into erotic dreams before the dawn.

With quickened step he hastened toward the hotel. The gambling rooms would be open by now, spreading their heavy doors wide to greet the night; perhaps he should take to the card table and see what fortune this mood could win him. Who could say what wagers he might not win tonight, with energy like this pouring through his veins?

But gambling no longer meant to him what it once did, and even the prospect of such a triumph was not enough to tempt him into the company of strangers tonight. Inheriting the Tarrant fortune had accomplished what all the stern disapproval of his family never could, and soured the taste of such games forever. Oh, he still played, but it was more for sport than fortune now; his only real delight was in breaking those whose skill or audacity made them seemed charmed, in pitting his fae-luck against their own. And finding such men required prowling the casinos like a hunter, alert for the smell of rich and arrogant prey ... no, he was not in the mood for such games tonight.

Maybe a wh.o.r.e, he thought, as he climbed the gleaming numarble stairs at the Paradisio's entrance. Nodding to the very doorman who had so recently challenged his right to enter the lavish hotel. With the right money and some connections he could probably find himself a pale, slender girl; if not one with jet-black hair, then one who would be willing to dye it for a price. It certainly wouldn't be the first time he had used his wealth to purchase a fantasy. What would that be like, he wondered, to douse the night's fire in a woman so like her.... her....

Only there was no one like her, he knew that. The complex essence of womanhood that so affected him with Narilka Lessing could not be found in a wh.o.r.e. And if he thought that imagination alone could bridge such a gap, that it would be enough to have any pale, black-haired woman spread out beneath him ... then he was asking for failure yet again. And he had tasted enough of that that experience in the last few years to last him a lifetime. experience in the last few years to last him a lifetime.

No, he thought, as he headed toward his suite, the memory would be enough for tonight. A memory that would meld into sweet dreams when he retired, for once un.o.bscured by a haze of drugs or the bitter distortion of alcohol. Because tonight he felt no need for drugs or liquor, or even a pa.s.sing desire for them. He was drunk on this girl, (so slender, so fragile, not even his type!) and it was a heady intoxication. Far more intense than mere drugs could supply.

Optimism stirred within him, an unfamiliar emotion. If he could make it through one night without artificial aids, could he do it again at some future date? Could he perhaps, in time, learn to take control of his life again? The concept was elating. Maybe when this nightmare was over, maybe if Gerald Tarrant died and he survived, he could start his life all over and do it right- "Welcome home," Calesta greeted him.

His fragile hopes expired in an instant, smothered by the power of the demon's presence; a cold and hungry hate took its place. The transition was so swift that it was physically stunning, and it was a long moment before Andrys could pull himself together enough to close the suite's door, so that none might hear them. And an even longer moment before he could find his voice.

"What do you want?"

The demon chuckled coldly. "Hardly a suitable welcome for your ally."

He drew in a deep breath, struggling for control. Trying to recover his image of the girl, his fragile hopes, anything of the last half hour ... but his effort was in vain. Such gentle emotions had no place in Calesta's presence.

At last he stammered, "Why are you here?"

"You wanted instructions. I came to supply them."

He dared to look up at the demon, to meet those inhuman eyes head-on. "Why now?" he challenged him. "I've called to you often enough. I've begged for instruction! Why come to me now, the one night I don't need you?"

The demon hissed softly; the sound reminded Andrys of a snake about to strike. "You don't need me?"

The threat behind Calesta's words chilled him to the core. I could leave you alone forever. Then what would you have? I could leave you alone forever. Then what would you have? Hurriedly he struggled to explain himself. "I didn't mean ... it's just ... tonight...." Hurriedly he struggled to explain himself. "I didn't mean ... it's just ... tonight...."

The demon laughed; the harsh, grating sound made Andrys quail. "You poor fool! Is it the girl who inspires such courage? You found yourself a single night's comfort and now the battle is over?" His voice was a jagged thing, that sc.r.a.ped Andrys' skin like shards of gla.s.s. "And what do you think the Hunter will do when he finds out that his mortal enemy has fallen for a woman? Do you think really think he'll allow you that comfort, once our battle is fully joined? Or any other? You're a walking death sentence, Andrys Tarrant, and anyone you touch-anyone who touches you you-will be felled by it. Or did you think that you could make war on the Hunter without him striking back?"

The room seemed to swirl about him. He reached for a chair and somehow managed to fall into it, heavily. His hands seemed numb; his heart was ice.

"Perhaps you've forgotten what manner of creature you've sworn to fight." The demon paused. "Perhaps I should remind you."

"No-"

Memories swirled about him, horrific images all too familiar. A hundred times more intense than what he had recalled in the restaurant, a thousand times more horrible. The dismembered head of Samiel Tarrant gazed down at him from its grisly throne, a sardonic smile twisting its lips. Dared to dream of love, did you? Dared to dream of love, did you? The bloodsoaked eyes narrowed in amus.e.m.e.nt. The bloodsoaked eyes narrowed in amus.e.m.e.nt. What makes think you're worthy of loving anyone? What makes think you're worthy of loving anyone?

"Make it stop," he begged. Shutting his eyes, trying to shut out the visions. Samiel staring at him. Betrise. All of them. "Please. Make it stop!"

The visions faded. His hands, white-knuckled, gripped the chair with painful pressure.

"I think we understand each other," the demon a.s.sessed.

Shaken, he whispered hoa.r.s.ely, "What do you want me to do?"

"You will go to the cathedral in the great square of Jaggonath. You will attend the services of your G.o.d. Pray with your fellows as Gerald Tarrant instructed, as if you intended to fulfill his misplaced vision."