"A contract killer shot me." She didn't want to think about Marqueta. Not with this drowsiness stealing over her, and the full heat pulsing between her thighs. "Is that all you want from me, Lucan?"

"No." His gloved hand moved into her hair and cradled the back of her head as he brought her face close to his.

He was kissing her, his open mouth on hers, his tongue gliding between her lips. He tasted of blood and tears and wine, and his hand tightened, pulling her hair. The sharp tug brought a moan from her throat.

What felt like an iron bar slammed into Sam's back, and her feet left the floor. Dimly she heard things falling to the floor, and then she was on her back, hard flat wood against her shoulders and buttocks, and he was looming over her, his shaking hands pushing her legs apart. She felt his erection through her trousers, and the answering rush of liquid heat that instantly soaked her crotch.

Lucan lifted his head and breathed in. "Christ Jesus, you smell like a jungle in the rain. What I could do to you, Samantha."

Velvet stroked over her cheek. "What I will do."

Some of the delicious heat seeped out of her limbs, replaced by knots of tension. She needed more than his sexy promises and soft gloves, but she didn't want more. Part of her was still screaming for her to fight and get away from him. "Let me up."

His hand palmed her, and his thumb pressed in, making the dampness seep through. "You're wet for me. Let me have you."

"No." Sam got a hand on his chest and gave him a weak push. "I don't want this."

Lucan's mouth tightened, and he lifted her from the desk back to her feet. Before he released her, he ran his hand slowly down the length of her body.

"Why did you have to be a member of the police? Why could you not have been a waitress or a teacher or a stripper? No." He rested velvet fingertips against her mouth before she could answer. "Don't tempt me further; I am ready to drag you down and have you on the floor whether you wish it or not. Look into my eyes."

She looked.

"I have answered all of your questions," he commanded. "That is what you will remember of our encounter. Nothing more. Say it."

"Your answers. That is what I'll remember. Nothing more." A fierce ache twisted inside her. "Why?"

"Because you-" He broke off and cursed in a language that sounded old and blunt. "You will suppress that annoying will of yours and do precisely as I have told you. Rejoin your companion now, and continue your search for the one who killed this woman. When I ask you, you will tell me everything you have learned about the murder." His gloves pressed against her cheeks. "Obey me, Samantha."

She didn't want to, but... "I will." She watched him do something to his wrist and hold a handkerchief to it, and then take the damp, warm cloth and wind it around her hand. When he had made a makeshift bandage, Lucan moved away from her to open a window behind the desk.

The night air was thick and hot, but it blew some of the cobwebs out of her head.

The scent of jasmine faded. She had to... Harry was...

Sam glanced down at her left hand, which was throbbing, and frowned. It was covered with a bloodstained cloth, but she couldn't remember how she injured it.

"Did I answer all of your questions to your satisfaction, Detective?"

"Yeah." She'd blanked out for a minute, but everything he'd said about Lena Caprell came back with a vengeance. Her eyes went to the only inexplicable thing in the room, the remains of a shattered wineglass. "Sorry, did I break that?"

"Just now." His mouth curled. "It was an accident. Come. I believe my assistant has the largest first-aid and medical kit known to man."

Chapter 6.

Gard Paviere's driver remained silent as he navigated through the empty streets to the Garden District, which gave Michael Cyprien a much-needed respite. Hours of trying to provide some solace to Gard and his devastated family had taxed him. He sympathized with the Pavieres, but Faryl had brought this upon himself. Now he wanted nothing more than to find his sygkenis, take her into a dark room, and lock out the many growing problems in their world. She would want to know about Faryl, however, and he would have to tell her something to explain away the fleshrot.

What he would tell her was his present dilemma. The truth was out of the question.

Alexandra was already obsessed with finding a "cure" that would transform Kyn back into humans, and learning of Faryl's self- inflicted disease would only fan the fires of her determination. Michael had yet to tell her that even if she did find some treatment with which to reverse the process, the Kyn would summarily refuse it. Alex might still think of herself and them as human, but the Kyn had shed their humanity a long time ago.

His lover refused to accept a very basic fact: None of them wanted to be human again.

Except Alexandra, Michael thought, who would cure herself and condemn me to an eternity of loneliness.

He could use his talent to make her forget Faryl Paviere and his hopeless condition, finding a cure, or anything else he wished.

Although like nearly all Kyn talent, Michael's only affected humans, Alex had never developed an immunity to it.

What that meant troubled Michael even more than Alex's dogged ambition to turn their world upside down.

She is not human, or Kyn. She is becoming something else.

The electronic gates outside La Fontaine, Michael's home and the heart of the New Orleans jardin, parted silently for Paviere's driver. When the chauffeur came to open the door for Michael, he said in French, "Seigneur, forgive me, but may I speak?"

Michael rarely conversed with another Kyn's human servant-away from their masters, they were to be seen and not heard- but he knew Faryl's actions had Paviere's entire household on edge. "What is it?"

"Master Gard is so distraught," the driver said. He was an older Creole, and his dark eyes looked as if they missed little. "Gard is a faithful son, you see, and would do anything for his family. No one knew Faryl was still alive. I would beg you to remember this in the days to come. He is... a desperate man."

He was upset, even terrified for his master. Such devotion was common among the Kyn, who had lived under feudal rule for seven centuries, but very rare in their modern human servants.

"I know." Michael rested a hand on the chauffeur's shoulder. "Your concern is a testimonial to the sort of man your master is. I assure you that I will attend to this matter with Faryl as quickly and as mercifully as I can. Go home, and do what you can to care for the family."

The driver bowed and departed.

Michael followed the long, manicured hedge of white tea roses that Alexandra kept threatening to dig up and replace with hibiscus to the square marble footstones leading to the front of the house. His roses served as camouflage for the rosy brick of the privacy wall surrounding the old Victorian mansion. A tresoran architect had traveled from England to design his home, which resembled a Victorian fantasy on the surface but served as a fortress underneath stucco-concealed casing stone.

Perhaps he should have commissioned something more dignified to suit his diminutive castle than the carved white marble fountain in the center of the fore yard. But Michael liked the sound of bubbling water, and as a boy had been very fond of sketching the fish that swam in the river on his parents' country estate.

So often now he longed for those days, when nothing was more important than sunlight, silence, and peace.

He sat on the edge of the fountain's enormous basin and looked up at the fountain's top piece, a pair of angel fish with their long, flowing fins entwined. Cella Evareaux had sculpted them for him out of a block of old ivory-and-gold marble she had brought back from Greece, and silently presented them as her tribute when he was made suzerain of New Orleans.

How can I thank you for this ? Michael remembered asking her.

Her reply had been identical to his own secret desire: Leave me to my art, my lord. Leave me in peace.

His growing awareness told him it would be midnight soon, and he looked up at his bedchamber window. Alexandra was up there waiting for him. The night and day did not have as much effect on her as it did Michael and the other Kyn. She would want answers he could not give her, reasons he dared not explain.

He had no choice but to make her forget Faryl Paviere.

Michael went into the house and up to his bedchamber. There he found Alexandra curled up asleep in their bed, swathed in one of the satin nightdresses he had given her, her fiery chestnut curls spread over his pillow. He stood watching her breathe, but when he reached out to rest his hand on her slim throat, her eyelids lifted.

A smile slowly curved her lips. "Hey, handsome."

He sat down beside her. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"Then you should never have kidnapped me." She struggled up into a sitting position and pushed her hair away from her face.

"You just get home?" When he nodded, she rubbed her eyes. "Gard all right?"

"As much as can be expected."

"Poor guy. What a shit thing to happen to his brother. I liked meeting Marcella, by the way." Alex rubbed her eyes. "I thought she might be as stuck-up as her brother, but she's all right, for a gorgeous, somewhat grouchy hermit artist." "Cella prefers her solitude, and rarely speaks to anyone. You should feel flattered." He brought one of her small, clever hands to his lips. "When was the last time I told you how I love you?"

Her smooth brow furrowed. "You've never told me that."

"No?" His cock grew thick and heavy as he opened the front of her nightdress and exposed her small, pretty breasts. "I distinctly remember saying the words."

"Well, when I took a copper bolt in the chest for you that day in Chicago I think you mentioned it, but you were babbling a lot of nonsense." Her gaze shifted to the window. "What is it, about midnight? We'd better get busy if we want to get going before dawn."

"Indeed." He bent to kiss her, but she wriggled out from under him.

"You can have your wicked way with me on the jet," she assured him as she stood and walked to the armoire. "How many suits should I pack? And do you want all Armani, as usual, or should we be more daring this time and pack a few Calvin Kleins?"

"Pack." He thought she was jesting with him until he saw her remove two cases from the bottom and place them on the bed.

"Where are we going?"

"To Florida," she said with exaggerated patience. "Faryl's on foot, as far as we know, right? We should be able to beat him to Lucan's place." She picked up her medical case and checked the contents. "I need time to make up some darts, in case he wants to pull a Thierry."

Michael went to the open suitcase and closed it. "We are not chasing after Faryl, Alexandra."

"Of course we are. The guy is in serious trouble. Parts of his body are falling off him." She looked up, exasperated. "You can play nice with Lucan long enough for me to tranquilize the guy and have Phillipe haul him back to the plane."

"Faryl is not like Thierry. What Faryl did to himself, he did deliberately." He reached for her throat, but she glided out of reach.

"Wait a minute." She breathed in, and outrage flared in her eyes. "You don't smell like that unless you're hunting or trying to use your talent. You want to lift my memories? After all we've-How fucking dare you?"

He shook his head. "It is better this way, ma belle. Let me help you."

"Help me what? Forget what I know about the Pavieres?" She glanced down at his erection. "I get it. You can't screw me into submission, so you'll mind-wipe me? Is that the deal here?"

"You can't save everyone," Michael shouted.

"Why the hell not?" she yelled back, and then her eyes narrowed. "What did Faryl do? What's going on? God damn it, Michael, you say you love me, then trust me enough to tell me."

All the anger drained out of him. He couldn't bring himself to lie to her, or to erase her memory. She was right: He loved her too much. All that was left was the truth.

"Faryl was a devout Templar, but unlike most of us the change did not destroy his faith. He has remained a Catholic ever since he rose from his grave." He went to the window to close the curtains against the first light of dawn. "He is like many were in the beginning. He despised being Darkyn, and loathed our dependency on humans as nourishment. Over the centuries Faryl tried to accept his needs, but the struggle between faith and survival became too much for him. Two hundred years ago he disappeared.

We thought him dead, but he isolated himself in the swamps away from people. He has been feeding on the creatures that live there.""He's been drinking animal blood for two centuries?" Alex demanded. "Nothing else?"

Michael nodded. "You know from your own experience that to do so makes us ill. However, we can feed on animals for very short periods of time. It is the last resort. If a Darkyn continues to feed exclusively on animal blood..." How could he tell her this?

"Let me guess." She closed her eyes briefly. "They get something like leprosy and their bodies begin to rot."

It was not far from the truth. "Something like that, yes."

"Okay, so Faryl is falling to pieces because he hates being a vampire, but he has to go to Lucan and ask Mr. Badass to kill him because Faryl is a Catholic and can't commit suicide. Which makes him as dumb as a brick." She eyed him. "Have I got this right?"

Michael went to her. "I know Gard and the Pavieres would wish it differently, but it would be best for everyone involved to allow Lucan to dispatch Faryl, as he wishes."

She gnawed at her bottom lip. "This leprosy condition, is it irreversible?"

"I cannot say." The only other living Darkyn with Faryl's condition would not thank him for revealing too many details about the beast drinkers. "All who have suffered it have never... recovered."

"The Darkyn have never had me on the payroll." Alex slipped her arms around his waist. "If I'm going to understand what is happening to me, and has happened to the rest of you, I have to analyze everything about our condition. Even something as repulsive to you as this thing with Faryl. As for him, if he really wants to die, he'll find a way no matter what we do."

He felt a cautious sense of relief. She was listening to him, and trying to understand. "What do you propose?"

"We go to Florida and find Faryl and talk to him," she said. "He may let me take some blood samples. If the deterioration of his body isn't too bad, and there aren't any toxins present to prevent healing, I might even be able to reverse it."

"There is also Lucan," Michael reminded her.

"What is it with you and him?"

Michael thought of the centuries he had spent locked in a silent battle with Lucan for Richard's favor. "We are old enemies. He will not thank me for invading his territory."

"You're the seigneur of America. I'd say he doesn't have a whole damn lot to say about it." She pressed herself against him.

"Come to bed."

"I thought we were packing."

"I can't remember the last time we were in that bed together." She brought his hand to her breast. "So we'll pack later." There was a polite knock on the door, and she looked over his shoulder and saw Phillipe appear. "I'm sorry; where's my tranquilizer gun?"

"Je suis desole." Michael's seneschal gave them an apologetic look. "There is a call from Chicago for you, master. It is Jaus."

Reluctantly he dropped his hand. He had asked Valentin Jaus, the suzerain of Chicago, to keep Luisa Lopez, one of Alexandra's former patients, under guard. "Forgive me. Jaus has been trying to locate the men who attacked Ms. Lopez-"

"Don't worry about it." She touched a finger to his lips, silencing him. "I'll pack. Tell Val I said hi, and to give my love to Luisa." Sam was winded by the time she reached the second landing, and felt like crawling the rest of the way to her apartment. Her hand was throbbing like a tooth in dire need of a root canal, like both sides of her forehead. There was a place on the back of her head that she was pretty sure was going to explode any minute. She had saved some pain pills from her hospital stay, and the promise of that chemical relief got her up the last set of stairs.

The door across from hers opened, and a blue-haired head looked out. "Evening, Officer Sam."

"Hey, underage brat." Sam fumbled for her keys.

"You look like crap warmed over. Did you bring me some coffee?" Chris stepped out into the hallway. "I guess not. What's up with your hand? You get shot? You shoot back?"

Sam looked down at the hand Lucan's assistant, a funny little man with a bad head cold, had bandaged for her. The bullet- wound scar throbbed more than any of the cuts. "Yes. No." She leaned forward until her brow touched the door. "I had an accident with a glass." She turned around and for a moment thought she was hallucinating. "What's all this?" She gestured toward Chris's clothes.