MAX IS SITTING UP ON A COT, BACK AGAINST THE wall, legs straight out in front. He is neither bound nor gagged. He's wearing slacks and an open-neck white polo. He has socks on but no shoes. When the door opens, his head swivels toward the sound. He looks at me, at Martinez, but nothing registers on his face. His eyes are blank.

My skin turns cold at his complete lack of recognition. I approach the bed. Touch his forehead with the palm of my hand. His skin is clammy, sheeted with sweat, feverish. There is no reaction to my touch.

I round on Martinez. "What's wrong with him? What have you done?"

He shrugs. "I have only eased his pain."

"Pain?" I whirl back to Max, eyes searching his face, hands passing gently over his chest, his arms, down his legs. When I touch his right ankle, he groans and winces away. Carefully, I roll up his pant leg. The ankle is swollen and discolored and twisted to an unnatural angle.

"Martinez, you are making this so easy," I say under my breath.

He and the woman step into the room. "What did you say?" he says.

The woman pushes impatiently past him. "We are wasting time," she snaps. "I want to see her writhe in pain. I want to hear her screams. I want this man to bear witness." She pulls a syringe from her pocket. "Give him this. Now. It will bring him back."

Martinez takes the syringe from the woman, shoves me aside, and plunges the needle into Max's arm. Quicker than I would have thought possible, Max's eyes clear. In rapid succession, his expression flashes relief at seeing me, uncertainty at how I happened to be here, horror as memory floods back. Then the pain hits, and pain becomes the center of his reality. He groans and falls back against the wall.

A flash of something silver catches the corner of my eye. Pain, white-hot and searing, races up my arm. I turn in time to see the woman, face contorted with rage, slash at me a second time with a knife. I reach out a hand and stop hers in midair. Her look of astonishment would be amusing if I wasn't so angry. I back her up against Martinez. He, too, is stunned at my lightning-fast reaction.

I twist the woman's arm until she drops the knife. Then I keep twisting. "Who are you?" It comes out like a hiss.

She has recovered herself. She isn't cowed and she shows no reaction to the pain. She merely leans into me to relieve the pressure. Her expression is defiant. She leans in close to whisper, "Burke was right about you. You are vampire."

Her eyes glisten with eagerness and some of the same madness I saw reflected in Martinez. "What relationship do you have with the witch Burke? Are you one of her followers?"

She laughs. "No. I am not one of those children. And Burke is not a witch." She lifts her chin defiantly. "You cannot begin to imagine what she is."

"Then why don't you tell me." Impatience is bringing the animal in me to the surface. I feel the quickening of my blood, the lust to rip answers from this smug woman. I bring my face close to hers, let her read my eyes, see the fury building.

Martinez breaks the spell. He grabs the woman by the arm and yanks her back. "This is not what we brought her here for. Did you forget?"

For an instant, I think she is going to strike out at him. So intense is the hatred in her face, it makes me wonder what their relationship really is. Obviously, she is not the servant I first imagined.

I put as much scorn as I can into my words. "Who is this woman who looks at you with such contempt?"

Maybe not the most prudent thing to say. They both whirl toward me and the animosity directed toward each other is now aimed at me.

Max groans and the three of us turn to the cot. I take his hand. "Max."

He looks up at me, eyes clouded with pain. "How did you get here? Why did you come?"

I sit on the edge of the cot, easing myself down carefully to avoid his injured leg. "Foley brought me. I came for you."

"Foley?" The first spark of real life, anger flares in his eyes. "Where is he?"

I glance up at Martinez. "He took care of Foley. He's dead."

"Anna."

There is so much sorrow, recrimination and regret in the way Max says my name, I'm overwhelmed by it. Still, I put steel in my own voice when I say, "We'll be all right, Max. I promise."

Martinez laughs. "Yes, you'll be all right, Max." He turns away from us. "Marta, are you ready to end this?"

Marta. Somehow the name fits. Harsh, unmelodious. A name befitting the malevolent spirit that radiates from the woman.

She is watching me as if reading my thoughts. She nods. "Yes, mijo, I am ready."

She uses a Spanish term of endearment. Are she and Martinez related?

She pulls me from the cot. I let her. I'm ready to end this, too. My only concern is what will happen when Max sees what I become. For a fleeting moment, I wish they'd left him drugged and unresponsive.

But there is no turning back now.

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