She shuddered. "You're lying."

"Why would I do that?"

"So you can have it your way."

"I will have it my way."

"I'd rather die," she moaned, as a fresh wave of nausea washed over her.

"If I wanted you to die," he said quietly. "I would have killed you already."Silence filled the room, punctuated only by her labored gasps.

"Why me?" she demanded through clenched teeth.

Whatever the reason, he didn't want to share it with her. "You were in the wrong place at the wrong time," he said at last. "Let me help you, Melinda. I hate to see you suffer so."

Her mind was a gray expanse of pain. The yearning within her urged to surrender to him, to let him do whatever unthinkable things would satisfying this intense longing. But logic reminded her how he'd pounced upon her in the empty subway car, torn at her neck with his piercing teeth and ripped through her flesh with his razor sharp claws. She whimpered and tried to slither away from him, but he stretched out beside her on the bed and gathered her into his arms.

"I promise," he said compassionately, "it will only hurt for a second this time. A little pressure, a little pain, then you'll just feel very drowsy."

She wanted to tell him to go back to whatever hell he crawled out of, to leave her to die, but he was kissing her gently, wiping the tears from her eyes. And with every feather-soft touch, a little of the pain disappeared.

"Please don't suffer anymore," he whispered, "it's breaking my heart."

The last of her will crumbled. "Just do it," she sobbed.

He ran a taloned hand over her eyes, shutting them gently, and grasped her tightly. His lips traced a line of fire from her mouth to her neck. He lingered there for a moment, then she felt his lips draw back, baring his fangs. She heard him suck in his breath, and she held hers. His teeth pierced her neck.

She screamed in the first shock of pain and flailed against him. But he held her still, and soon she found she didn't have the strength to move at all.

Blood rushed from her neck under the gentle pull of his lips against her throat. Her body seemed to flow into his like melting wax.

He shuddered in ecstasy, relaxing his grip a little, freeing a hand to caress her tenderly. She was feeling light-headed, it was difficult to hold on to consciousness. As he promised, the pain drifted away, dissolving into a total absence of feeling.

With great effort, he lifted his head from her neck and lay back onto the pillows, pulling her with him. He looked down at her, black eyes glazed with pleasure and lazily licked the last of her blood from his lips.

Moving was out of the question. Her body was unresponsive, her limbs as heavy as lead. She hovered somewhere on the brink of consciousness and tried not to think.

Pain jarred her back to wakefulness. She had the vague impression time had passed. But how much time. Hours? A day?

Something shifted in her jaw. With a wet sound, her gums tore. She probed with the tip of her tongue and gasped as she cut herself on the razor-sharp points of her new teeth. She swallowed a mouthful of her own blood and looked at him in agonized bewilderment.

Gently, he drew back her upper lip. What he saw seemed to satisfy him. "It's almost over," he said, stroking her swollen lips.

To Melinda, the torment seemed endless. Cracked and flaking remnants of her nails lay in bloody pools about her cuticles.

Beneath she could see a new set of coarse, white nails sprouting. They looked like claws.

Deep within her a desire was awakening, a sinister, compelling lust. It was a longing beyond sensual, a thirst that could only be quenched by something warm, red and salty. She stiffened in his arms, dismayed to discover it was blood she craved.

"Ah," he said. "Now you're beginning to understand.""Oh God No!" Melinda pleaded, realization dawning on her with frightening clarity. She sat up, trying to free herself from his embrace, but he rose with her, preventing her escape.

He didn't seem perturbed at all, rather, he was patient, eager to have her participate in this carnal act. He held out his wrist in offering. "You might want to try the wrist. The neck takes a bit more skill."

She gagged and shivered. "I can't."

"You must."

"No--" She started to protest, but he raised his wrist to her lips.

"Come," he said softly, pointing out a thick, blue vein. "This one right here."

The desire was stronger than her will. Tentatively, she placed her teeth on his wrist. She was going to be sick.

"You'll have to apply a lot more pressure than that," he said kindly, placing one strong hand behind her head to guide her.

He kissed her tenderly on the forehead in reassurance, then fixed her with that black-eyed stare of his. She looked helplessly into his eyes. "It's all right," he said encouragingly, "You can't hurt me. This is a beautiful experience, the sharing of another's lifeblood."

She was falling, tumbling into the depths of those ebony eyes. She lowered her head and bit deeply into his wrist.

He winced at her clumsiness, drawing in a sharp breath. "Careful," he warned. He let the breath out slowly, going limp against her.

His blood was warm and thick like sherry. With each mouthful the pain and exhaustion receded, until she felt well and whole.

"Enough," he said abruptly. His hand gripped the back of her neck like a vice and gently disengaged his wrist from her mouth.

She swallowed blood and retched, letting her head fall to his shoulder. He held her quietly.

"Aren't you even going to ask my name?" he asked finally.

"Your name," she whispered. It was hard to think of him as having something as simple as a name.

He held her away from him, facing her gravely. "I am called Valdemar."

"Valdemar," she repeated, trying out the unfamiliar syllables.

He smiled and pushed a sodden lock of hair from her face. "You're a mess."

She reached for his wrist, to assess the damage she'd done.

The wound was already beginning to heal itself.

He took her hand and led her down to his bathing chamber, a level below the bedroom. Standing on the marble staircase, she looked in awe at the tiled pool that resembled a Roman bath.

"What is this place?"

"Lower Queen Subway Station."

"What?"Valdemar smiled. Her interest seemed to please him. "From what I can gather, it was supposed to be a junction point for a proposed subway line. Apparently, the transit company decided not to build it. They locked it up and forgot about it."

"You built all of this?" In spite of her fear, she was fascinated.

He shrugged as if everyone constructed Roman Baths in their spare time. "Time is the one thing I have a lot of."

"No one ever found you here?"

"Not yet." Valdemar held out his hand. "Come, let's get you cleaned up."

"You'll need a shirt," he said, standing in the doorway to his huge closet. He tossed the torn and blood-stained blouse aside. "Your jeans might be okay once they've been washed."

Melinda sat before the gilded mirror in his dressing chamber and tried on the borrowed shirt of soft suede.

"That's better," he said, turning and startling her by casting a reflection in the mirror.

"Surprised I have a reflection?"

"Now that you mention it, I'm surprised I can see myself."

"Well," he said, gesturing toward the mirror. "There you are. And you look beautiful."

She looked again at the creature in the mirror, seeing familiar features that now glowed with a beauty that was somehow cruel in its intensity. Her skin was the color of palest alabaster, her lips the color of deep red wine. She drew back her lips, revealing two sharply chiseled eye teeth. They were only fractionally longer than her original teeth, barely noticeable, yet deadly sharp. Violet eyes stared calmly back at her. It was an illusion. She certainly didn't feel calm inside.

Tentatively, she touched her face. The sight of her long, white claws made her freeze mid-gesture. They were easily as thick as a dime. She suspected that even filed down, they would still be deadly. She ran a tentative claw over the tender skin on the back of her hand and watched in horror as it left a streak that soon turned an angry red. Such talons were fashioned for dismemberment, Melinda thought with a shudder. They'd caught on her clothing as she dressed and snagged in the cloud of thick sable hair that before had been straight and fine.

"But I shouldn't have a reflection," she protested. "I mean, in all the books I've read--"

"You shouldn't believe the superstitious nonsense you read in books."

She turned and really looked at him for the first time. He seemed so ordinary, standing there in his black jeans and ebony shirt. It was easy to think of him that way, until you looked into that face that seemed carved from whitest ivory, and you knew that you were privy to a beauty too flawless to be entirely human. That striking face was framed by unruly black curls that spilled onto his forehead and over the collar of his shirt. He had the kind of innocent wide-eyed stare that beseeched your sympathy on one hand and looked right into your soul on the other. Melinda didn't want to look into those raven eyes that compelled her to do things against her better judgment. But, when he smiled, as he did now, he was blindingly handsome.

"Come to my parlor," he offered. "I'll explain it all to you."