A part of her still could not believe he'd been laboring over anything so trivial, but if he was this concerned, she wanted to help. Philip had fought Julian for her, protected her, stayed with her when she needed him-when he could have left and gone anywhere in the world.

"Well… I've never been to a hair salon," she said, "but Wade has. He might be able to suggest one."

"Wade!" Philip was aghast. "He goes to Supercuts. No, I've read articles, and I know something of this. I should not pay less than two hundred dollars, and I should only see a gay stylist. I can risk no mistakes."

His expression was so troubled.

Torn between wanting to comfort him and wanting to hit him across the face with a loose floorboard, Eleisha said. "Okay, we'll get a phonebook, and we'll start calling, and we'll find you an overpriced gay stylist."

He rocked back on his heels, clearly relieved. "Bien."

She could hardly believe this was the same man who'd recently kicked Julian out a window.

Julian paced the filthy study at Cliffbracken, dragging a sword over the Indian carpet.

Mary had not returned to him, and every few hours, he was gripped by an almost overwhelming impulse to call her back. But he feared pulling her away too soon-in case she was close to locating Eleisha.

What could be taking so long?

He hated anything outside his own control.

The only way he could gain an advantage over Eleisha was by catching her unaware, before she could invade his mind. If she was coming after him and he had no idea where she was, catching her off guard was impossible. His only option was to stay locked inside the manor-where he knew every inch and every sound-until Mary brought him a report.

But he was hungry… starving.

Walking to the door, he cracked it. Even from here, he could feel warm life force drifting down the halls from the kitchen.

One of the servants was still working.

Back in the days when Lord William and Lady Katherine ran the estate, they employed a small army of servants. But at present, Julian retained only three people: a handyman, whose job was to repair anything visibly falling apart, and two cleaning women, who could hardly handle a manor this size but managed to keep the main floor in fairly good order. All three of them lived "in house," but he never saw any of them. They had been sent out here by an agency in Cardiff and knew how to remain invisible.

Still gripping the sword, he stumbled from the library, down through the dining hall, into the corridor, turning right before he reached the mudroom, and made his way to the kitchens-as the pull of warm blood drew him on.

He heard a woman humming just a little off-key.

He stopped in the shadows of the doorway.

She stood by the table putting loaves of fresh-baked bread into large Tupperware containers. None of the servants had ever dared ask why he required no meals, but of course they had to feed themselves.

This woman looked to be about thirty. Her brown hair was woven back in a loose braid. She wore jeans and a wool sweater. Few servants wore uniforms these days even in the great houses, but here, any semblance of such formality had passed away.

Julian didn't even know her name.

He wished she looked younger and that she had wheat-gold hair, so he could pretend she was Eleisha and make her suffer.

Without speaking, he allowed some of his gift to seep out, to drift into the kitchens, and she looked up in alarm, seeing him there in the doorway.

Even without his gift, he knew the sight of him would frighten her. He hadn't bathed or changed clothes in weeks, and he was holding on to a sword.

"Sir…?" she stammered, stepping away from the table. "I'm sorry. I did not know you were out of the…" She didn't finish the sentence and backed toward the other doorway on the far side of the room. Her breathing was ragged.

He emanated the full power of his gift and watched in satisfaction as the alarm on her face changed to terror and her mouth locked in an O shape.

She froze.

He dropped the sword and strode toward her, grabbing her shoulders, turning her around, and slamming her against the table. She could not even scream as wave after wave of fear passed through her.

With his feet planted on the floor, he lifted her a few inches and bent her backward over the table, pinning her with his chest, basking in the terror and warmth her body emitted. He was starving, but he didn't want this to end just yet, so he cut off the power of his gift, banishing her induced fear and letting her feel panic of her own accord… of him.

The glaze in her eyes cleared and she began struggling wildly.

"No!" she shouted, trying to push him away, and then she screamed, "Liam! Liam, help me!"

Julian didn't care if she shouted for help, and he doubted anyone would hear her. The others were probably upstairs at the other end of the manor. Her breasts were pressed against him, and he enjoyed the feel of her struggles for a few more seconds, and then he drove his teeth into her throat, draining blood so fast that she stopped screaming.

He knew that he was supposed to see her memories as he drained her, that others of his kind saw the entire lives of their victims in the fleeting moments before their death. But Julian saw nothing.

He just reveled in the blood, in the sweet strength of life force flowing down his throat.

Her struggles grew weaker. He drank until her heart stopped beating.

Then he dragged her body through the kitchen by one arm-stopping long enough to pick up the sword. He dragged her all the way into the study, through the passage leading to the old dungeon, and he dropped her in the guard room a few feet from the spot where he'd drained his father.

Neither of the other servants even knew this part of the manor existed.

He felt better, stronger.

Gripping the sword tighter, he headed back up the passage into the study. He had blood on his shirt, and he could feel smears on his mouth. Thinking more clearly now that he'd fed, he decided to go to his own chamber upstairs and clean himself up. But as he walked toward the doors, the air in front of him shimmered, and Mary suddenly appeared, transparent magenta hair glowing in the lamplight.

"I found them," she gasped, again making unsettling sounds as if she could still breathe. Sometimes, he wondered if she knew she was dead.

"They're in Portland," she rushed on, "staying in some old church."

She seemed about to say more when she saw the blood on his face and shirt, and she stopped.

Julian could feel some of his uncertainty draining away. Eleisha was still on another continent.

Philip led the way off the public Streetcar and stepped down onto Eleventh and Couch. He made sure Eleisha was following, and then he started walking toward Twelfth Street, as earlier this evening, Eleisha had mentioned going to the Whole Foods store parking lot.

He was sick of hunting in parking lots.

He was sick of feeding in cars.

He was sick of drinking from wrists and leaving victims alive. He used to revel in hunting. Now the whole ordeal felt foreign and unnatural and unsatisfying.

But he could not speak such thoughts to Eleisha.

If he did, she might not forgive him.

And he would rather feed from wrists and alter petty mortal memories for eternity than lose Eleisha.

That was the reason he'd come here, following her on this foolish quest to buy a "safe house," after which she would locate this coiled serpent who'd been writing to her, seducing her with lies. Julian was behind this. He had to be. Who else knew Maggie's home address? Who else knew Eleisha's name and could connect those elements? No, Julian was leading Eleisha into a trap, and since Philip couldn't stop her from rushing down this path, he was forced to follow and protect her.