He knows her name.

"In Chicago, my lord." Michael hoped. Val's men were trying to track her down.

"That is inconvenient." Fragrant smoke curled in the air between them like snake ghosts. "You will have her brought back to New Orleans."

"Yes, my lord." Relief nearly made Michael sigh. If Richard had wanted Alexandra for his own purposes, he would have bypassed Michael and had her taken and transported directly to Dundellan. Richard never left his fortress. "May I ask why you summoned me here?"

"We have Kyn in desperate need of her particular talents." Leather slid and creaked before a loud, sharp click snapped in the air. A servant moved into the room. "Prepare our guests for their journey." He waited until the servant departed before he added, "Four members of the Durand family, to be exact. They were friends of yours, were they not?"

"They are." Michael absorbed the shock, pushed it aside. "They were taken?"

"Several months ago, in Provence. Angelica is dead, and her brother missing. My people have done what they can, but the family remains in decidedly poor condition." An animalistic shriek echoed in the outer corridor. "Thierry has gone quite mad."

Thierry Durand had been Michael's childhood friend, as had Gabriel Seran. Cyprien had served as groomsman when Thierry had taken vows with Gabriel's sister, Angelica. They had been neighbors in Provence, the Durands, the Cypriens, and the Serans. The eldest sons had tussled and fought together as children, fostered with each other's families, and ridden into war together. They had come home expecting celebration and instead found their people devastated by plague and famine. Yet not even death could separate Michael, Thierry, and Gabriel. They had risen to walk as Darkyn within days of each other.

"The Brethren did this?"

"Before he deserted, Lucan saw to them. All of them." He said the last with annoyed pride. "You will take the Durands back to America, and have this surgeon of yours repair the damages. And you will discover who betrayed the Durands to the Brethren."

"Is that wise, my lord?" He had never smuggled more than one or two Darkyn into the country at a time. Four would require special arrangements, particularly if they were wounded badly enough to require a surgeon's care. Which they undoubtedly were, after being in Brethren custody. This was assuming he could convince Alexandra to operate on them. "Travel is difficult for us under ideal circumstances."

"It cannot be helped. You know how the Brethren so enjoy using their cameras and computers. By now they have distributed photos and descriptions of the Durands through Europe. They will never again be safe on this side of the, Atlantic." Richard rose from the throne. "If they survive, and are so inclined, they may join your jardin."

Michael faced the high lord without flinching away from the sight of his distorted features and cruelly twisted body. Richard's peculiar condition made him unique among the Darkyn. Michael was one of those trusted few who knew what had caused it. "There have been more changes with you."

"Indeed, several." Richard lifted what had once been his hand and studied it. "It moves at a leisurely pace, my personal curse, but make no mistake: it progresses."

Michael wished he could express some hope, but he also knew why the condition was incurable.

"As I have no desire to see my evolution to its end, and I doubt I will be permitted to rule from hell, the throne could someday be yours. Certainly you would be my first choice to succeed me."

Michael froze. "My lord, I am content to serve."

"Always so politic. That is what drove Lucan to develop such a hatred of you, Michael. He never inspired the sort of trust or loyalty I have for you." The high lord sounded almost amused before his rich, deep voice turned flinty. "You will serve me, Michael. In all things, you will do precisely what I command."

"Yes, my lord." He bowed.

"Now go and see to your friends." Richard limped over to the hearth. "Send reports of their progress. Find out who betrayed them. Michael." He waited until Cyprien glanced back at him. "Keep your clever leech in New Orleans. I dare say I will have need of her again."

Pretty Kitty.

Alex sat at the bar and pretended to sip the soda water she had ordered. Three stools down from her left, a couple of bus drivers, still in their city uniforms, were having a beer and watching Monday Night Football on the big color TV set anchored in one corner above the bar.

Pretty Kitty. Pretty Kitty.

She had no business coming in this roach coach. She'd stopped here only to use the phone to call Leann Pollock, an old friend from the Peace Corps.

"My boss said I could dig through the archives, much as I want," Leann told her when Alex had called. "He thinks there are too many doctoral theses on pandemic viruses, but your angle intrigued him."

Alex had counted on that. Not too many people would even attempt to prove the existence of fourteenth-century viral mutations via DNA.

It was really outrageous luck that Alex's old Peace Corps partner, Leann Pollock, had gone to work for the Centers for Disease Control. She felt a little guilty about inventing the thesis project in order to convince her friend to retrieve the information she needed from the CDC's archives, but it was better than trying to break into the building and raid the records herself. "Thanks again for your help on this, Lee. I really appreciate it."

"No problem. I'll look up those old immunization records you wanted while I'm at it." Leann chuckled. "Man, Ethiopia seems like a million years ago, doesn't it?"

Just before Alex had said good-bye to Leann, she heard the first whisper of the words behind her eyes.

Pretty Kitty, Kitty, Kitty.

Alex lifted her glass to her lips and casually let her gaze wander to the right. An older woman, straw haired and barfly thin, sat hunched over her fifth Black Velvet. Two stools down, almost tucked into the corner, a burly, bald man sat knocking back a row of tequila shots.

Pretty Kitty Pretty Kitty Pretty Pretty—

The bald man was mouthing those words. As Alex stared, he drained the last shot glass and slammed it down before grabbing his jacket and heading for the door.

Alex tried closing her eyes, but when she did, she saw the shoes again: two little pink sneakers with the Pretty Kitty decal on the sides. This time she could see socks above the shoes, socks with lace cuffs. On impulse, she tucked a five-dollar bill under her glass and walked out after the man.

Was the child with the sneakers his daughter? Why was he muttering about the decal on her shoes?

Her common sense tried to persuade her to go back to her hotel. Stupid to do this. You're hallucinating, hearing things. You need a shot.

Alex hated the injections. Human blood kept her symptoms in remission, but she had to inject it every day or the weight melted off her and the cravings started again. She'd also been in Atlanta too long. Someone was still looking for her—she'd dodged more Darkyn than she could count—and she was afraid to stay longer than a day or two in any city.

Pretty Kitty.

The image of the pink sneakers flashed into Alex's mind; this time the shoes were flailing with glee as the legs came down a slide. She saw the entire child, a small girl with light brown hair in curly pigtails. Her clothes were old but clean, and she was missing one front tooth. Her name was Tay-something (Taylor?) and she came to the playground every day after school. The child saw him sitting on the bench and feeding the ducks, and she wanted to feed them, too…

Alex lost sight of him, but she could still smell the scent of his sweat and tequila, and followed it. She crossed two parking lots and moved into a silent, empty maze of warehouses and car repair shops. She should have turned around and gone back to her hotel; she might have time to hit another lab before she left Georgia.

Breaking into labs at night was the only way for Alex to continue her research. Cyprien had infected her with something unknown to medical science, but she was slowly building a database on the stages of infection through analyses of blood, tissue, and symptomatic responses. What startled her most was finding her blood riddled with not one but three unique pathogens that seemed to be working cooperatively to take over her body.

Pretty, Pretty Kitty.

She heard rustling behind a pile of rubbish dumped behind one storage bay. Rats, not cats, and she was immediately tempted to stop and catch them. She used them as test animals, but so far injecting them with her blood had killed every single one within sixty minutes.

The next image slammed into her mind with all the finesse of a sledgehammer. Pretty Kitty pink sneakers with lace socks. A tight coil of blue-and-white boat rope around the child's ankles. He was looking down at them.

Looking down just before he slammed the trunk shut.

Alex caught up with the man where he had parked his Oldsmobile, in an alley between an abandoned building and a long-term-storage facility. She stayed out of sight as he opened the trunk and took out something small and writhing, legs and arms bound with blue-and-white boat rope, pink Pretty Kitty sneakers on her feet.

Taylor.

The burly man simply dropped his burden onto the asphalt and knelt to straddle her. His hands shook as he took out the knife and unzipped his pants.

Alex thought about screaming for the cops, but no one would hear her in time. She moved forward, hoping to scare him off. "She's a little young for you, don't you think?"

Taylor's eyes widened when she saw Alex, and she made a piteous sound behind the dirty rag gagging her mouth.

The man jerked and gave her a look of disbelief that quickly morphed into outrage. "Get lost, cunt."

So much for scaring him. "As it happens, I am. My first night in Atlanta." Alex scanned the alley from end to end, but there was no one in sight. She set her medical case down so she could run away fast. "I don't suppose you could stop molesting that little girl long enough to tell me how to get to Johnson Avenue."

He punched the girl in the face, knocking her out, and jumped up. He slashed at Alex with the knife he'd been planning to use on the girl's clothes and body. "I'll cut your fucking throat."