Analisa felt a growing sense of apprehension as the carriage left the city behind. A thick fog covered the coach and spread out over the countryside like a dark shroud. Shivering, she drew the lap robe across her legs.

It would be full dark soon.

She glanced at Mrs. Thornfield. The other woman was staring out the window, her face pale, her brow furrowed.

Analisa heard the crack of the whip, felt the coach lurch forward as the horses increased their pace. Home, Analisa thought; soon they would be home. She smiled, thinking of the elegant dressing gown she had bought for Alesandro. It was blue, the same deep indigo blue as his eyes.

She was picturing how handsome Alesandro would look in it later that night when she heard a hoarse cry from the top of the carriage. Frowning, she peered out the window, screamed as Farleigh's body plunged over the side of the coach.

Analisa looked at Mrs. Thornfield. "What's happening?"

Mrs. Thornfield shook her head, her eyes wide. "Highwaymen, perhaps," she replied. "Just give them whatever they ask for."

Analisa clasped her hands in her lap. Farleigh was dead. She was sure of it. The thought filled her with pain, and fear for her own life and that of Mrs. Thornfield. It was not unusual for carriages to be robbed. She had never worried about it when she was with Alesandro, knowing that he would protect her. She wished suddenly that he was there now. He would know what to do.

She glanced out the window again, but there was nothing to see. Whatever lay beyond the coach had been swallowed up in the thick gray mist.

She looked back at Mrs. Thornfield. "Why aren't we slowing down? Who's driving the horses?"

The housekeeper shook her head.

Analisa felt a growing sense of terror as the carriage continued at breakneck speed. This was no ordinary robbery, she was certain of that. And, judging by the expression on Mrs. Thornfield's face, she knew it, too.

The carriage turned off the main road and onto a narrow, rutted lane. Tall trees lined both sides. Leaning out the window, Analisa saw they were approaching a house made of stone. A house that seemed to have no windows.

Moments later, the carriage came to a halt in front of the house. Analisa was reaching for the carriage door when it opened, revealing a bulky man clad in a heavy cloak.

"Get out," he said, his voice gruff. "The master is waiting for you."

Frannie clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. She'd had little to do with the master of the house, and for that she was grateful beyond words. Seeing him now, his face dark with rage, his eyes blazing like the fires of hell, she hoped she would be as fortunate in the future.

"N-no, my lord, I... I haven't heard from Miss Analisa," she stammered. "She left this... this afternoon with... with Mrs. Thornfield. She... she said they would be home before dark."

Frannie watched him pace the floor, his long strides carrying him swiftly, silently, from one end of the parlor to the other. There was something passing strange about Lord Alesandro de Avallone, she mused, though she could not have said why she thought so. Something about the way he moved, as if his feet didn't quite touch the floor. The light of the fire cast eerie shadows over his face and hair; for a moment, it looked as though he were drenched in blood.

He stopped abruptly, turned, and stared at her. It was a look that chilled her to the marrow of her bones.

She took a step backward, her hand going to her throat. "No - "

"Come to me, Frannie."

She tried to speak, tried to shake her head, tried to run from the room, but her feet refused to obey. She was horrified to find herself walking toward him. His gaze never strayed from her face. Try as she might, she could not draw her gaze from his.

And then she was standing before him. She cried out, her voice little more than a shrill squeak of terror as his arm slid around her waist. It was like being encased in iron. She thought she might melt from the intensity of his gaze.

"Do not be afraid," he said. "I will not hurt you."

She stared up at him, mesmerized by the slow seduction of his voice. She could hear the sound of her own heart beating wildly in her breast as he bent his head toward her. There was a sudden pain that was not quite pain just below her left ear. She felt herself being drawn into a swirling crimson vortex, and then she felt nothing at all.

Analisa stood beside Mrs. Thornfield, the older woman's hand clasped in her own as she glanced at her surroundings. They had been ushered into a large, well-furnished room that looked like any other room in any other well-kept house, except that it had no windows. A fire blazed merrily in the hearth. There were expensive paintings on the walls; a plush carpet covered the floor. A comfortable-looking sofa faced the hearth. A large mirror hung over the mantel.

She had tried the door as soon as they were left alone. It was locked, as she had known it would be, but she'd had to try.

"Where are we?" Analisa wondered aloud.

Mrs. Thornfield shook her head.

"Do you think we've been kidnapped?" Analisa asked. Since they hadn't been robbed, that seemed to be the most logical explanation. She knew Alesandro would pay whatever was asked to get them back.

Mrs. Thornfield squeezed her hand. "I hope so."

"But you don't think so?"

"I think - "

The words died in the housekeeper's throat as the door opened. A tall figure stood in the doorway.

"What do you think, Elisabeth?" he asked.

"How do you know my name?"

He shrugged, but made no reply.

Mrs. Thornfield squared her shoulders. "I think you had better let us go before it's too late."

His laughter filled the room. It was a dark, ugly sound, like dry bonesrattling in a grave.

"Rodrigo." Analisa whispered his name.

He bowed from the waist. "You remember me. I am flattered. I, of course, remember you." He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

"What are you going to do with us?" Analisa demanded, and immediately wished she hadn't.

Rodrigo looked at her and through her, and she knew in that moment that she was as good as dead, and Mrs. Thornfield as well. They were simply pawns in an endless game of revenge.

"Alesandro - "

"He will not save you," Rodrigo said. "This is my home, and he cannot enter uninvited. Surely you know that?" His smile could only be described as fiendish. "He can prowl the outside, he can pound on the walls. He can listen while you scream. But he cannot come inside."

Rodrigo lifted his hand toward Analisa's cheek. She recoiled, only to find she could not move. Helpless, she could only stare at him in horror, a horror made worse by the fact that she could see her revulsion in the mirror, but no sign of the vampire. His hand caressed her cheek. She felt the coolness against her skin, and then he leaned forward, letting her feel his fangs against her throat.

"Do not worry," he said, his breath like hellfire against her skin, "I will not take you now. Not until he is here."

"Please, don't - "

"It is not personal, you understand?"

She grimaced with repugnance when his tongue slid over her neck.

"But I am fortunate," he went on, glancing at Mrs. Thornfield, "to have the company of the two women he cares for most." His eyes narrowed. "I think I shall dine on the elder first, and save the younger for dessert."

Releasing Analisa from his hold, he glided toward the other woman, his fangs gleaming in the light of the fire, his eyes as red as the coals in the hearth.

Mrs. Thornfield screamed and ran toward the door, her nails clawing at the wood, her cry rising in horror as Rodrigo's hand curled over her shoulder, his fingers sinking like talons into her flesh.

Analisa hurled herself at the vampire's back, her own safety forgotten. She cried out in fear and pain as the vampire reached behind him, took hold of her neck, and threw her across the room. Her head slammed into the wall, and everything went black.

Alesandro stalked the dark shadows of the night, his cloak billowing behind him like the shadow of death. Where was she?

His mind searched for her, called to her, but silence was his only answer. In desperation, he sought a link with Elisabeth. As soon as he established the link, her terror slammed into him.

Rodrigo! Alesandro swore under his breath. He should have known! By damn, he should have known!

Elisabeth's fear shone in his mind, bright as the sun at noonday. It was a simple thing to follow it, to follow the sound of her screams as Rodrigo savaged her throat. But he had no sense of Analisa. Was he already too late?

Analisa woke to the sound of a groan, only to realize it was coming from her own throat. Afraid of what she might see, she opened her eyes. Closed them. And opened them again.

She was in a dungeon, her arms chained over her head.

A wrought-iron wall sconce held a single candle. The walls and floor of her prison were cold gray stone. The air was musty. In the flickering flame, she could see that she wasn't alone. Mrs. Thornfield was chained on the opposite wall, held upright only by the manacles on her wrists. Her head lolled forward. Her hair had come loose; it fell forward, hiding her face. As far as Analisa could tell, the housekeeper wasn't breathing. There was dried blood on her neck, on the shoulder of her dress.

"Mrs. Thornfield? Mrs. Thornfield! Elisabeth!"

No answer.

Analisa bit down hard on her lower lip to keep from screaming. This couldn't be happening. It had to be a nightmare. Soon she would wake and find herself curled up on the sofa in front of a fire in Alesandro's study, or safe in her own bed, anywhere but here.

She shifted her weight from one leg to the other, only then realizing that her ankles were shackled as well. Her arms ached. Her shoulders ached. Her neck... oh, Lord, he hadn't bitten her, had he?

She stared at Mrs. Thornfield, felt panic rise up inside her. The woman was dead, she knew it; she was chained in a medieval dungeon with a dead woman. Did Rodrigo intend to leave her here to die?

Alesandro! Her mind shrieked his name as horrible morbid images filled her mind. Images of herself going slowly insane as Mrs. Thornfield's body began to decompose. Images of herself slowly starving to death while rats gnawed her feet...

The fear inside her was a living, breathing thing, feeding on itself.

She tugged against the chains that bound her wrists until her skin was raw and red, until blood trickled down her arms.

"Alesandro!" She cried his name aloud, tears running down her cheeks. "Come to me. Please come to me!"

Soft mocking laughter filled the air, and then Rodrigo materializedbefore her, his eyes a hellish red, his fangs gleaming in the light of the candle.

He laughed again, her terror exciting him, arousing his hunger, and his lust.

She pressed against the wall, but there was nowhere to go, no way to escape from the monster who stood before her, watching her as avidly as a cat at a mouse hole.

"Call him again," Rodrigo urged. "Let him hear your fear, the way your heart poundsin terror." He threw back his head and closed his eyes, his expression bordering on rapture. "Soon my vengeance will be complete," he murmured. "Soon my Serafina will be avenged, and I will... Listen! He is here."

Alesandro circled the house, his frustration growing with each passing moment. Analisa was inside, and he could not go to her. He tried to open the door, both physically and mentally, but entrance was denied him. He tried to speak to Analisa's mind, but she was blocking him. When had she learned to do such a thing? he wondered, and then realized it was not Analisa's doing, but Rodrigo's.

In his mind's eye he could see the other vampire bent over Analisa, his fangs lightly raking her throat. It was Rodrigo keeping him out. He could hear the other vampire's mocking laughter in his mind, hear his voice as clearly as if he spoke aloud.

I have won! At last my Serafina will be avenged. And you, my old friend, will know the pain I have suffered these four hundred years!

"No!" Alesandro prowled the perimeter of the house. Such an odd house, with no windows and only one door. He cursed savagely. Had there been a thousand doors, each one open, he could not have entered the house unless bidden.

He came to an abrupt halt, his mind seeking Elisabeth's. She was lethargic, on the very brink of death.

Elisabeth! Elisabeth, listen to me. You must invite me into the house. Now! Before it is too late.

Alesandro?

Yes. Hurry.

But it's not my house.

It doesn't matter. You are, in a manner of speaking, a guest in the house. Hurry!

Alesandro... you are... welcome here.

He was at the back of the house now. There was no door here, but that was no longer necessary. He moved through the wall with ease and found himself in the dining room. There were no lights burning in the house, but he needed none. He moved through the house as if he had been there before, following Analisa's scent.

A tall, narrow door led to a flight of circular stairs. He followed them down, paused at the bottom, somewhat surprised to find himself in a dungeon. There were empty cells on one side, ancient instruments of torture on the other. A rack, an Iron Maiden, a wooden table stained with the blood of eons past. In passing, he saw that it held an array of knives, a garrote, several pairs of shackles.

The flickering of a candle lit the far end of the room. He moved toward it on silent feet, surprised that Rodrigo had not detected his presence.

And then he saw the other vampire. He was bent over Elisabeth's throat, lost in the rapture of feeding. Analisa was watching him, her face as white as parchment, her eyes wide with horror. He felt a surge of anger when he saw that her hands were chained above her head. She had tried to free her arms. There was dried blood on her wrists where the rough metal had cut into her flesh.

Elisabeth! He spoke to her mind, but there was no response, only the barest flicker of life.

With a wild cry, he hurled himself at Rodrigo's back, his hands curling around the vampire's throat, his fangs driving toward his neck.

He heard Analisa's scream, but he shut it out of his mind. If he lived, she would live. But, for this moment, there was nothing in all the world but the vampire struggling in his grasp.

Analisa's hands clenched into tight fists as she watched the near-silent battle. Of similar height and weight, the vampires seemed well matched as they lunged at each other, broke away, and lunged again, their hands formed into deadly claws, their lips drawn back to reveal bloodstained fangs.

She spared a quick glance at Mrs. Thornfield. The housekeeper's head lolled forward, and Analisa feared she was really dead this time.

Rodrigo screamed what was surely an oath at Alesandro, and her gaze darted back to the two vampires. They were horrible to see, but there was a kind of graceful beauty to their deadly ballet. Faces pale, eyes burning with the hatred of four hundred years, they circled each other. They seemed to float above the floor, cloaks billowing like dark wings behind them.

She gasped as Rodrigo's fangs sank into Alesandro's shoulder, tearing away cloth and flesh. Blood spouted from the wound, spraying over the other vampire's face.

With a wild cry, Alesandro wrenched free and hurled himself at Rodrigo. He drove him back, out of the cell, down the damp corridor.

Analisa leaned forward as far as the chains would allow, but she quickly lost sight of them. Heart pounding, she listened for some sound that would let her know how the battle was going, but for several minutes there was little to be heard other than an eerie silence punctuated by a curse or an occasional grunt of pain.

Sweat trickled down her spine, dripped from her brow. Every muscle grew tense with worry and fear for what would happen if Alesandro lost the fight.

Alesandro, Alesandro, I love you.

She repeated the words over and over again, hoping that somehow he would feel her love and gain strength from it.

A shrill scream filled with rage and excruciating anguish rose in the air, reverberating off the high ceiling, the walls, the floor, ringing like a death knell in Analisa's ears.

And then there was only a silence as deep as eternity.

She stared at the entrance to the cell, waiting, wondering if it would be life or death that walked through the doorway.

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