"Look, big brother." Her voice acquired an edge. "All I'm asking for is a sample. One vial of blood. Then I'll go away and you can go back and save kiddie souls and make excuses to God."

"I'm not a priest any longer." He looked down at his hands. They were rough and red from the hours he'd spent on his knees, scrubbing floors instead of praying. "I only made it official when I came back into town, but I left the church seven months ago."

"I'm sorry." And she was, when John had expected her to cheer. "I wish I could go back and change what happened in New Orleans. There are so many things I would do differently. So many bodyguards I would hire. Only time travel isn't one of the perks."

John studied her face, and then began slowly rolling up his sleeve.

A smile curved her lips. "Thank you."

He looked away again as she inserted the needle into his vein. "Cyprien, Does he treat you well?"

"As well as your average goddess. Why, I don't know. The man could have anyone he wants. I think he's had anyone he wants for the last seven centuries. Christ, I hate being part of a trend." She removed the tube of blood and drew the needle from his arm.

"You love him."

She nodded. "Sometimes that's the hardest part of this thing. Loving him, trying to work it out. Having fangs and drinking blood is the no-brainer stuff. I know you won't believe this, but Michael is a good man." Alex pocketed the blood sample and smiled. "When we get back to New Orleans—"

John never heard Alex's plans. A ball of fire smashed through the side window, soaking the seats around him and Alexandra with gasoline, and then blanketing them in flames.

How could you be so careless? Who allows you to do such things?

If I were your husband, you wouldn't leave our bedchamber. You'd be too tired to walk.

Jema opened her eyes. A dull pain throbbed on the side of her head. She reached up and felt a square of gauze taped over the spot. Another time she would have panicked, but now she lay quietly, assessing what she felt. Her memory began with being attacked and beaten in an alley by the museum. It ended with Dr. Bradford carrying her into the house. Daniel had not been her savior last night, however.

He saved me. Thierry. The golden-eyed demon.

He had shouted at her, too. Not as he had in the dream, but in a mixture of French and English. Loud, harsh, furious words. Things about her life and her work that were true. Mean, but true. She had felt the weight of his hand the whole way home.

The gardenias. They belonged to him. She brought her hand up to her face. She could smell him on her skin.

How many times had she woken up, smelling him in her room, on her body?

Jema got up slowly, carefully. The sore, battered feeling wasn't a product of her imagination on this occasion; under her nightgown she was covered with bruises. She went into the bathroom and braced herself as she looked in the mirror.

They'd hit her in the face more than once, the men who had jumped her outside the museum, and the evidence was all over her face: split lip, black eye, reddened nose. A graze on her cheek from when she'd been thrown to the ground. Being mugged didn't feel the way it looked on TV or in the movies. It had been real, excruciating pain, and the worst was not being able to stop it or the men beating her.

Jema remembered praying when the one of them dragged her back into the alley. She had prayed because she had known she was going to die there.

And here she was, alive. Saved from being murdered by a man who didn't exist.

What do I do now, little cat? How can I leave you now, even when I know I must? Who will be there the next time someone tries to harm you?

She went over and knelt before the toilet, lifting the seat, holding back her hair. Throwing up seemed like a privilege.

After she washed her face and brushed her teeth, she went back out into her room. Her alarm clock had not gone off with the usual buzz, and she checked it. Someone had turned it off. She switched on the clock radio and tuned it to a local all-news station.

The announcer confirmed everything she remembered. Her attackers were the top story of the morning.

"The three youths, identified as Gary O'Donnell, Lawrence Kunde, and Roland Riegler, were found stabbed to death in the parking lot behind the Shaw Museum. Police are investigating other members of the 'Bones' white supremacist gang, who they believe may have information about last night's triple murder. In sports, the Bears suffered a setback when…"

She went to the window and stepped out onto the balcony. New snowfall enfolded Shaw House in white; the naked trees were dressed in glassy icicles. She could smell gardenias—Thierry—all over herself, on her skin, in her hair. He's real. Everything we did together was real.

Jema thought of one dream she'd had as a little girl, when she saw herself running out of Shaw House and willing herself to fly away. She didn't flap her arms and take off, as a bird did, but instead she had known how to make her body lighter than air. In the dream, she had floated up, gently, slowly, a leaf floating on a river of warm air. It had felt so real to her that the next day she had walked out to stand on the lawn and tried to do the same thing consciously. Her feet had stayed on the ground, and as every child must, she understood that what happened in her sleep was not real, could never be real.

Where was the ground now? She looked over the edge. If she dared step out, would she fall to her death? Or would she float, a brittle leaf, curling in on herself, able to fly? Or would she be too afraid?

"Jema?"

She turned and walked back into the room. Daniel Bradford was there, his medical case in hand. He looked upset and relieved.

"You should be in bed." He drew back the quilt for her.

Jetna climbed in, too astounded by what she was thinking and feeling to protest. Daniel examined her thoroughly and changed the bandage on her head before he spoke again.

"Do you remember what happened to you last night?"

She folded her hands. "Some men came after me when I left work. They were going to kill me. Then I was here." She gazed up at him, willing him to explain what had happened in the time between the events.

"You have a mild concussion and some scrapes and bruises, but I think with a few days of bedrest you'll be as good as new. I keep saying that, don't I?" He grimaced and prepared a syringe. "You can imagine the state your mother is in."

Yes, she could. "She knows I'm all right?"

He nodded. "I think it would help if you stayed close to home for a bit. I know your work is important, but Meryl is terrified by what happened to you." He administered the injection. "I also think it would be a good idea if you wouldn't mention your friend or have any contact with him for the present."

"My friend."

"The man who drove you home from the museum last night." He misread her expression. "Your love life is your business, but it would just add too much strain to the situation. Once Meryl calms down, you can tell her about him. Invite him over for a meal, if you think he can stand the interrogation over dessert." He packed up his case and checked his watch. "If you feel up to coming down for breakfast, I know it would do great things for your mother's ulcer."

Jema didn't notice Daniel leaving her room. She felt disconnected from everything around her; breakfast and her mother were a million miles away. She pressed a hand to her mouth as it flooded over her. The only way Daniel could have known about Thierry was if he had seen him driving her home last night. The last fear that she was hallucinating or losing her mind disappeared, and she was left standing in a world where the man of her dreams existed.

Thierry was real.

"Oh, my God." There was so much she had to do. So much she had to know. Where he was, what he was doing, how he had done this thing, come into her dreams, shared them with her. She would know him if she were blindfolded, caught in the middle of a crowd of strangers, but she didn't know his address or phone number. She didn't know where he worked, if he lived in the city or at the lakefront.

Was what he had told her in the dreams true as well? Was he something other than a human being? Wouldn't he have to be, to do the things that he had done?

Jema's heart turned over in her chest. She had to get out of here. She had to find him, today, immediately, before another hour passed. She had to touch him and kiss him and slap him silly for what he'd done to her, and then throw herself in his arms and thank him for her life.

Thierry had saved her.

It took a little time and a lot of makeup to conceal the bruises and cuts on her face. When she went downstairs, Jema considered bypassing Meryl and going directly to her car. It would save precious time she could spend looking for her golden-eyed demon. She couldn't waste an ounce of energy on guilt or pandering to her mother's fears. As she walked past the dining room, she hesitated. The attack last night had been serious. The police were going to want a statement on what had happened. Jema knew she hadn't talked to them last night. She couldn't leave her mother to deal with them alone; Meryl would end up having a real heart attack from the hysterics.

Jema walked in and found her mother sitting by herself at the table. "I have to talk to you," she said, and saw her mother jerk in her chair.

"You startled me." Meryl's face had a gray tinge, and she pressed a hand under her breasts. "I told Daniel to keep you in bed."

"I'm fine. I have to go in to work. I'll call the police from my office and have them come by the museum to take my statement." She had no idea of how to tell her mother about Thierry. "There are other things that can't wait—"

"Sit down for a minute." Her mother gestured to the chair beside her. "Please. There's something I have to tell you."

Jema shook her head. "When I get home tonight—"

"You can't go to the museum. If they find out… with the police involved…" Tears welled up in Meryl's eyes. "You have to help me. We'll be ruined."

She had never seen her mother cry, Jema realized as she went and sat beside her. "Tell me."