No more would he taunt Lucan because he could not do the same.

"You will never have her," the sodden, thready voice from the bed told him. "Not even when I am gone to heaven."

"Are you so sure about that?" Lucan said, rising and walking over to the bed. "That you go from here to heaven?"

Leigh smiled, showing bloodstained teeth. "I have created beauty. Magnificent poetry that will live forever. What have you given to the world, my lord Darkness, but pain and death?"

Lucan knew Leigh felt bitter about the extreme dichotomy of their situations, but he could not let that pass. "I allowed you freedom. I helped you pursue this poetic life when I could have demanded your seclusion and service. I have never harmed you or yours."

"Why would you? You envied me. You coveted my talent, my family, and my beloved." He paused and lifted a stained handkerchief in a feeble hand to his wet mouth and coughed deeply. "I think you may even envy me this pitiful end I will have."

That struck hard, and was worse than anything Leigh had flung at him. "I could hasten it."

"Oh, yes, do." The damp red crumple of cloth fell away from bloody lips. "That is all you can do, is it not? Take what is not yours and smash it."

Lucan could not strangle his tresora; Frances would arrive at any moment. He could not respond, for what Leigh had said was true. He stood, impotent, unable to do more than watch the dying man drift back into semiconsciousness.

A fetid envelope of old blood, sputum, and sweat rose from the wilted linens around Leigh's limp body. Not even the smell bothered Lucan anymore, not after he had breathed it for the endless months they had spent in Hampstead nursing Leigh's brother, who had sickened and died of the same disease. The stink could not sicken Lucan, or affect him in any sense, but it was still poison on the air-poison to Frances, who was still human, and could catch the sickness.

Sometimes Lucan thought she had come to Rome to do just that. She could join Leigh in the grave, as she would never join Lucan in eternal life.

Unable to spend another moment looking down at the dying man, Lucan went to open the shutters. Let the sunlight irritate his eyes. With luck he would go blind, and never again have to look upon Leigh or Frances.The light was fading. They would need more candles, for only a single half column of tallow remained on the writing table near Leigh's bed. It was the last; part of an ingenious contraption of several candles Frances had linked together by lengths of cotton; as one burned the cotton thread would draw the flame to light the next. She had assembled it after Leigh had pleaded with her never to leave him alone in the darkness.

The door opened, and a tall, graceful Englishwoman walked in. Her dress had been carefully adorned with lace and ribbons to cover the threadbare spots; her light brown hair had been coiled in a simple yet elegant chignon. In her arms she carried a small parcel wrapped in brown paper that doubtless contained more remedies that would not save Leigh, and soft food that he could not swallow.

Frances barely glanced at Lucan. "What do you here, my lord? I would have thought you bound for England by now."

Lucan vaguely remembered threatening to board the next ship for London the night before after unsuccessfully pleading with her again to allow him to move Leigh to a hospital and take her with him to England.

"I fear the servants have deserted for parts unknown," he told her. "They refuse to be near him." He tried to take the parcel from her arms, but she stepped away. "I have done nothing to him but watch," he assured her. "We have not had a single argument." It was the truth; he had not argued with Leigh.

"You will not help him, so what reason is there for you to stay?" She set the parcel down on the writing table. "Go back to England, my lord. Your pity is of no use to us."

He tried to be gallant. "I cannot abandon you, my dear. It would not be the gentlemanly thing to do."

"You are no gentleman," Frances said, her gentle eyes sparkling with new disgust. "If you were you could use your powers to revive him-to heal him. Why will you not do that?"

"It is beyond me. No man-"

"You are not a man." She pressed a hand to her breast and swallowed, gathering her courage to say the rest. "It is said that you can make others like you by giving them your blood."

Lucan looked into her face and saw the mild contempt she had always shown him now swelling into hatred. He saw himself moving to the bed, removing his gloves, and laying hands on his tresora-not to heal him, but to put an end to the agony for all of them.

"I cannot heal his sickness. Centuries ago, perhaps, but over time our blood has become poison to humans." He had nothing else to lose; he would tell her all. "Frances, come away with me now. You cannot go on exposing yourself to his disease."

"You are lying." She crossed her arms. "You could not have such powers and be so helpless. Why will you not save him?"

He stared at her midsection and saw why she had been wearing her loose gowns. Jealousy savaged him; here was the only woman he had ever loved, and she was pregnant by another man.

"Did he give you that child in your belly?" he asked. "Is that why you wish me to play God? For the bastard you carry?"

"That is quite enough, sir." Frances went to the door and opened it. "If you refuse to help Leigh then I beg you leave us, my lord, and never come back here again."

"I could give you everything he cannot," Lucan told her stiffly. "Wealth and comfort. Devoted love for the rest of your life.

Protection for you, a name for your child. You would be my kyrya, my human wife."

"You are too late. Leigh and I were secretly married by a Roman Catholic priest two weeks ago. My child shall bear his father's name." Frances rested a hand on a slight curve of her stomach. "Do you think I would trade my love for the material things you promise? Do you imagine I could bear your touch, knowing you let him die?"

"He will be dead by sunrise, and there is nothing I can do to stop it," Lucan told her flatly. "What will you do when he's gone?

You have no money. Your family in England will never take you back. Do you propose to sell yourself on the streets of Rome?"

"Leigh will never leave me." She smiled. "That is what you cannot understand, isn't it? The material world matters not. He and I will be together forever. Death is but a temporary separation. Our love and this child are our immortality."

Lucan thought of killing her. He thought of weeping over her and begging her to reconsider. In the end, he held on to the shreds of his dignity. "I will go then."

"Yes," she said, but her clothing had changed, and her hair had darkened. She wore sunglasses, and carried a weapon. "Go."

He reached out to her. "Samantha?"

"Master."

Lucan opened his eyes, expecting to see Samantha, or Rafael, or welcoming darkness. Instead Burke stood with sunlight streaming around him to pierce Lucan's eyes. He covered his face with one hand. "Is someone dead?"

"No, master."

Someone would be soon. Lucan lifted the edge of his hand to peer at the hovering figure of his tresora. "Why then do you wake me before sunset?"

"I beg you forgive me for disturbing you so early, master, but there are so many things happening at once," Burke said, rushing out the words. "I would have consulted Master Rafael, but he has not yet returned, and then the seigneur's seneschal telephoned requesting an audience with you tonight-"

"Cyprien." Despite the ache in his head from the sunlight and the disturbing dream, Lucan smiled. "You said yes, of course."

"I did, master, exactly as you had instructed to, but then the band manager called to confirm the Bastille Day concert-"

"Which you confirmed."

"I would have, but I accidentally disconnected the man when Detective Brown from the police department called to inquire if you were on the premises. I did not know what to say when she advised me that she, too, wished an audience with you, but she didn't seem to require an appointment-"

The damned daylight was going to fry the eyeballs out of his skull. "Burke."

"-and then there was the call from eliane in Ireland, and I heard the news about the murder, and with Master Rafael gone, I wasn't sure what to do about the concert band or the new delivery-"

"Burke."

"-when she... Yes, master?"

"Close the blinds and bring me the phone."

"Oh. Yes." Burke rushed over and began twisting the rod to shut the thin slats. "Master Rafael has summoned guardsmen. They have taken up positions around the building. They report that patrons are already beginning to line up outside.""We will be opening the club an hour later than usual. Two, if I choose to slaughter the seigneur." Lucan was annoyed by the fact that his seneschal thought he needed guards, but a show of jardin force was not an unwelcome thing. Cyprien still thought of him as Richard's creature. It was time his old enemy understood that this was his kingdom, and here he was king.

Lucan recalled the small, passionate face of Dr. Alexandra Keller. He had watched her in New Orleans when she had been arguing with Cyprien. It would be amusing to test how enduring the bond was between the sygkenis and her Darkyn lord.

Certainly it would drive his old enemy to distraction to watch his lover respond to Lucan.

He dialed the number to Dundellan Castle in Ireland. "eliane, it is Lucan." He listened for a moment as the frightened voice on the other end of the line described a horror he had long feared. "When will you arrive?" After she told him, he said, "I will see to it." He disconnected the line.

Burke was waiting for instructions, and Lucan forced himself to address him. There were other forms of distraction as well.

"Contact Alisa. I will want her and five of her associates to attend me during the meeting with Cyprien."

"Humans? To attend your audience with the seigneur?" Burke fumbled for a tissue and pressed it to his nose. "Master, do you think that is advisable?"

"Do you think it advisable to keep breathing through your mouth?" Lucan asked him. One of the lightbulbs overhead popped and darkened. "I know your nose does not function as it should, but I can create another airway very easily."

"No, thank you." His tresora clutched the end of his nose with the tissue. "I will call Ms. Kruk immediately." He turned to leave.

"Where is this delivery?"

"I left it in your sitting room, master," Burke said, gesturing to the door. "Should I bring it in here?"

Lucan got up and pulled on a robe. "No, I will see to it."

The box was from the same florist as before, and Lucan had no doubt it would contain more dead flowers. His admirer was certainly a persistent one. He pulled on his gloves, intending to toss it out into the hallway for Burke to remove. Then he smelled blood.

"Did you send me something more personal this time?" He set the box down and opened it. A dozen blackened, rotting roses lay inside, and buried in the midst of them was something wrapped in bloodstained rags. "A token of your affection?" He prodded the rag and felt flesh inside. "Or someone else's."

He took out the ragged bundle and carefully unwrapped it to reveal a severed hand. As a scare tactic it was entirely useless; he had seen dismembered body parts on the battlefield that would put this humble bit of farce to blush. The rust flakes embedded in the flesh at the severed wrist intrigued him, however. Had his admirer used something more inventive to separate this from its previous owner? Or was the hand treated with copper solution, as the lilies had been?

He put the hand aside and inspected the dead blooms. The thorns had been carefully removed, and thorn-shaped copper spikes inserted in their place. Here was the perfect illustration of his dilemma: beauty that could never be his to hold. Sanctuary that was to be destroyed before it could be fully known.

Vaguely he heard a great deal of glass somewhere nearby shatter.

"Did you think me that careless?" He picked up the box and threw it across the room, shouting after it, "Do you think I am an idiot?"

What was the point of these ridiculously sabotaged dead offerings? To remind Lucan of what he was? Of what he had done?

Had he begged God Almighty to curse him with this? No. He had made the best of his lot. Had he not embraced what he was, and learned to control it, it would have put a speedy end to more than him.The time had come. He had given his word.

As for the taunting, childish offerings, they did not matter. If Rafael did not discover who was sending them, Lucan would. A fool so determined would not keep his distance much longer-and then he would discover just how appropriate his tribute had been.

"Master, the seigneur will be here within the hour," Burke said, stepping gingerly over the dead roses and glass littering the floor.

"I will see to having the windows repaired. I left a message on the band manager's voice mail confirming the concert appearance for July fourteenth." He stopped and stared. "Is that a real hand?"

"Are either of yours missing?" Lucan saw that in his anger he had shattered every windowpane in the room. He strode over, picked up the severed appendage and the rags, and stuffed them in the box. "Burn it-all of it."

"Yes, master."

"You will also please stop looking as if you think that I mean to tear your head off every time I address you." He saw Burke wince. "Truly, this cringing of yours will drive me insane. What is it now? Was my tone too loud? My countenance too fierce? I broke too much glass?"

"No, master, it is just... the man who was murdered. He was decapitated and mutilated." His tresora looked down into the box. "The police have not yet found his hand."

Now he understood why Detective Brown had returned. "Who was the man killed?"

"J. R. Montgomery, master," Burke said.

Lucan frowned. "I do not know the name."

"He owned the company that Master Rafael hired to complete the downstairs renovations," Burke said. "He was here only yesterday."

Sam bought Harry dinner at one of the local salad-and-sandwich shops, ignoring his demand for a chili-cheese dog and bullying him into having a chicken wrap and a diet soda.

"All this dieting and watching my sodium," he grumbled. "I bet I don't live a second longer than I would have on hot dogs and beer."

"But we'll be able to carry your coffin to your grave," she advised him, "instead of having to rent a forklift to move it."

Harry lifted his wrap with a grimace of distaste. "Gloria'll want to bury me by the rosebushes. Just dig a deep hole and roll me in."

Montgomery's office was situated in a strip mall, but the receptionist there had little to offer them but tears and sobs. Through them, she suggested they talk to Montgomery's employees, currently finishing up a job installing dry wall in a new medical building downtown.

Sam and Harry found the site, and spent the next six hours in Montgomery's cramped trailer interviewing his work crew. None of the men came out and said that J.R. was a lousy boss, but no one seemed devastated over his murder.

"Bud was okay," Hector Ladega told Sam as he slouched in the folding chair she had set up in front of J.R.'s desk. "Not as bad as some of those pendejos down in Miami." His gaze crawled over her, a jittery, hungry spider. "You know who killed him?""No," Sam said. "Do you?"

"Wish I did. Get me reward money, ay? Crimestoppers." Four gold front teeth flashed. "You know, you not bad-lookin' for a cop, chica."

Harry had made a run to the Portosan, or Sam would have turned Ladega over to him right then and there. "Did Mr.

Montgomery have trouble with any of the other men on the crew? Have you ever heard him arguing with anyone?"

"Nah. Bud never talk much to anybody except to say, 'Get to work, lazy bum, you.'" He reached down with one plaster- whitened hand to casually adjust his crotch. "So, you married? No ring on your finger. You like to dance?"

What is it about me that draws assholes like a magnet? Sam put down her PDA. "Do you know if Mr. Montgomery frequented a club on the beach called Infusion?"

He shook his head. "Too rich and white for me, lady. I hang at Latino clubs, you know, dance to real musica." He raised his hands, snapped his fingers, and shimmied in his chair.

Sam saved her retinas by looking at a framed photo on the desk that depicted the company's owner standing in front of his pickup truck. Bud Montgomery had been a little on the beefy side, an average-looking, couch-potato type of guy. He had kept what hair was left on his head short, which Sam thought was more sensible than the ridiculous long-haired comb-overs some balding men insisted on doing to themselves. The skimpy goatee he had worn, however, hadn't done much for his plump face or even faintly disguised the fact that he sported a hefty double chin.

He had his head back and looked down his nose at the camera without smiling, but the effect was more smug than sneering or stern. I'm the boss, the photo said. Don't you forget it.

"You should go with me some night, chica," Hector was saying. "We could have us a party, you know?" His shifty dark eyes finally decided to settle on her breasts. "A real good time."

Dwyer had said that to her once, when they were patrolling. Someday, Samantha, I'm going to show you how to have a real good time.

She had to stop thinking about the weasel in the department and concentrate on the weasel she was interviewing. "Did Mr.

Montgomery ever mention the club? That he liked it, or was going to meet someone there?"