She tried to get his arm around her shoulder. He really was charming. What a smile. She envied the girl. But then, he clenched his teeth.

"No! Get away!" he insisted, suddenly shaking his head fiercely.

His voice was deep, rough, edgy-but commanding. He was accustomed to authority.

"You're hurt-"

For a moment she thought she saw his eyes, his face. She felt ice creeping around her. He was so ashen. He smiled again, but his smile faded.

His eyes were focused on her.

Focused on ...

Her throat.

She felt a deep, swift shaft of fear along her spine, yet she was mesmerized. She thought he smiled still, despite that razor-sharp gaze he kept hard on her.

A rueful smile.

He hadn't meant to be seen, she thought.

She could feel her heart pumping. She could feel her veins. Pulsing.

It was like ...

Music. Childhood stories came to her mind.

"Grandma! What gold eyes you have!"

"The better to see your veins with, my dear."

"Grandma! What big teeth you have!"

"The better to suck those veins dry!"

"Go!" he said gruffly, speaking at last. She couldn't move at first.

Then, "Go!" he repeated. "Yes, I'm hurt; get help!"

He shoved her. She lurched forward, then stopped. He was crumpling to the floor. The strangeness she had felt faded. Help, she needed help. He was too big for her to handle.

Jasper, one of the male nurses, had just come in. He'd played football until a shoulder injury sidelined him for good. He was great friend, and his strength came in handy at the hospital.

"Jasper, quick, we've a patient, or maybe not a patient-" she said as she approached the nurses' station.

"What?"

"There's a man in the hall who is hurt-"

"A patient is up and staggering around?"

"Maybe he's not a patient; he's just a man-"

"He is or isn't a patient?"

"I'm not sure, d.a.m.n it. Now, Jasper, there's a man in the hall hurt, and he's a big one. He's ... he's too much for me. Help me."

"Sure, I'm coming." Jasper said, his dark eyes confused, but not doubting. He gave himself a shake, as if he'd realized he should have moved much faster. He followed Janice as she started back to find the man.

She came to a dead halt. He was gone. There was no one there.

Nothing. Not a drop of blood, not a speck of torn flesh-not a hint of the man.

"Couldn't have been hurt too badly," Jasper commented.

"Jasper, I swear, he was here."

"I believe you. I guess .. . Hey, maybe he was a gunshot wound. He chickened out and disappeared. What was he? White man, black man?

Kid? Senior? What did he look like, Janice? Maybe he's already a patient. h.e.l.l, maybe he's from the loony ward!"

Janice walked forward. "He couldn't have been a gunshot wound ...

there's not a speck of blood anywhere." "Hey!" Jasper said suddenly. "Look."

The door to the supply room, always locked, was open. Drugs were kept in this particular room. And the blood they used for transfusions.

She looked at Jasper; he looked at her. They started forward together.

The supply room had been devastated. It looked as if a hurricane had gone through. Shelves had been broken, cabinets overturned, drawers emptied.

Yet...

Drug vials lay everywhere.

"Jasper ..."

"Janice," he answered softly, and he looked at her, his dark eyes wide. "There's not a drop of blood left in here!"

Chapter Three.

Soon after seven a.m., Lucian was seated at his table at the restaurant. His face was washed; his hair was neatly combed. His features betrayed weariness.

His eyes were wary.

Jade wasn't at Cafe du Monde, and Cathy had not come in to work.

He hadn't really expected either of them.

He had come here because of Daniel.

After the full light, weary and worn, he had spotted the young man leaving the morgue, and had followed him, knowing his a.s.sociation.

They liked the same restaurant.

He watched the young man. Time and again, Daniel dragged his fingers through his hair, then pressed his temples, then shook his head.

He ordered coffee and eggs.

When the eggs came, he pushed them aside, stared at them, then covered them with his napkin.

As if giving them a decent burial.

Lucian's server came by. This morning it was a girl named Sh.e.l.ly.

He asked about Cathy. No, she wasn't coming that morning. No, Sh.e.l.ly wasn't sure why.

Daniel noted the two of them talking. Lucian met Daniel's gaze. Daniel offered him a weak smile. "Hey, sorry, didn't mean to eavesdrop. Caught your accent. You're not from around here."

"No, not originally," Lucian agreed.

"British?" Daniel inquired.

"Scottish," Lucian said.

"Yeah, British."

"Ah, well, there is a distinction there-ask any Scot or Englishman," Lucian said lightly. He never answered questions, especially about his background-no matter how innocuous.

Daniel sipped coffee, his hands shaking. "Scottish," he said, agreeing. He would have agreed to anything. He wanted company.

Someone to talk to.

"You're from here?" Lucian asked politely.

He nodded. "Well, close enough. Metairie. Just up the road."

"It's a good town."

"I used to think so." Daniel hesitated a moment, then looked somewhat longingly at Lucian. "I had a rough night," he said.

"Really?"

He nodded, still looking hopeful. Lucian indicated the chair opposite him at his table. "Feel free to come tell me about it"

Daniel got up so quickly his chair toppled over. He reddened, picked it up, straightened it, grabbed his coffee cup, and moved over to join Lucian.

He offered his hand. "Daniel Thacker," he said, introducing himself.

"Lucian. DeVeau," he added after a moment. The name tasted strange on his lips. He hadn't used it in a long time.

"That's not Scottish," Daniel commented.

"French-Norman, rather. Around a thousand years ago, it seems, my family moved north. A great -great-I don't know how many greats-grandfather left Reims on a merchant ship, was attacked by Nors.e.m.e.n, and joined them in their pursuit of Celtic gains. He settled there."

"Cool," Daniel said, staring at him blankly.

Lucian grimaced inwardly. He seldom offered information about his surname. He had given Daniel more than he was actually ready to comprehend.

"Have I seen you before?" Daniel asked. "Maybe, I come here sometimes."

"So do I. I feel like I know you. Wow, that sounds strange, doesn't it? I don't mean anything by it. I 'm not trying ... I mean, I have a girlfriend. Well, not really anymore, she kind of broke it off, but what I mean is-"

"It's all right," Lucian said, lifting a hand, amused.

Daniel nodded.

"I'm trying to be a writer. I think I'm pretty good. My friends think I'm pretty good. And they're writers themselves, successful ones." He ran his fingers through his hair again. He had the start of a wispy, pale blond beard on his cheeks. His clothes-jeans and a tailored cotton shirt-were neat and clean, but showing signs of a few wrinkles.

Lucian lifted his coffee cup. "Keep at it then. I'd like to write myself."

"What do you do?"

Lucian hesitated briefly, then met Daniel's eyes. "Travel."

"Ah. So you're independently wealthy. You have a castle back home?"

"Not exactly."

"I'll bet you have a t.i.tle."

"Not much of one."

"A great estate, at the least, huh?"

"All that's changing these days, you know," Lucian said casually.

"They've even done away with the House of Lords."

"Yeah, of course, well..."