Holding it out like an offering, Edward waited until the sailor leaned over to inspect the purse. Before the actual movement registered, both men disappeared inside the alley, and Eleisha heard bones cracking.

Just like the cat.

Her companion had chosen a good time and place. No one else passed by to hear the struggle. Not that it was much of a struggle. She moved into the dark alley mouth only seconds later to see Edward leaning over a slumped form.

"It's time," he said.

"I can't."

But as she looked at the open throat, exposed veins, red fluid running down onto the ground, a hunger-and not a hunger-sent her memory into a wavering haze. Had this source ever talked and moved and danced? Or was it just a source? A wellspring?

"This pulls at you," Edward whispered. "Don't let yourself think."

He reached out and gently took her wrist. No pulling back. No fighting. She let him draw her forward, and then knelt down on her own.

The experience was similar to feeding on Edward's arm but more intense. The warm liquid was sweet. Heat raced through her while pictures of ocean waves and fistfights and a brown-haired woman etched themselves into her brain. After the initial physical connection, she was no longer conscious of her mouth on the sailor's throat, only the strength and pleasure and energy his life force brought.

Just as she could take no more, she felt his heartbeat stop. When she lifted her head, she saw torn-edged flesh and two dead eyes staring up into empty space.

Euphoria faded.

Edward's hand touched her hair. Turning, she hid her face in his chest, forgetting she might get blood on his jacket, not hating him anymore.

On the fourth night, they began traveling to Manhattan in Edward's carriage.

"The trip should take three days or so if we don't dally," he said, falling into his charming fop routine. Perhaps he played it so often the personality had become part of him. "I know a delicious little dress shop on Market Field Street. It's divine. We'll buy you something low-cut in red taffeta."

A handsome pair of bay horses trotted ahead of the carriage, pulling it away from the Croissant House Hotel. Eleisha felt sorry to be leaving. The hotel room had grown comfortably safe.

"Once more into the breach, dear friends," Edward called, snapping his whip in the air.

Despite the fact that he seemed genuinely glad to be heading for home, he was also avoiding any serious conversation. Not that she blamed him. What could they say? Last night had been brutal and emotionally exhausting. She didn't want to think about it, much less discuss it. And getting William into the carriage had been a nightmare. Although stronger from feeding on the cat, he was also more aware of his surroundings and terrified that Edward might be taking him back to the ship. Eleisha's coaxing and comforting did little to help. In the end, Edward lost his patience, slapped William hard enough to daze him, and then carried him outside like a sack of potatoes past the openmouthed desk clerk.

All in all, it hadn't been an easy night. Edward's empty chatter soothed Eleisha while she rocked William back and forth, assuring him there was no ship in sight.

She felt surprisingly safe beginning a new journey so soon after finishing the last one. But her trust in Edward was profound. He may not have been an overwhelming force like Julian, but he was strong and careful, no matter how frivolous he might pretend to be.

"Do you live in a house?" she asked.

"No, a hotel suite. You'll like it." He glanced over at William. "Can you put him to sleep?"

"Maybe. Why?"

"Because we'll have to cross W-A-T-E-R in a short while, and he's going to throw a fit."

"Can't you go another way?"

"No. Haven't I shown you a map of New York yet? We're on Long Island. Southampton's cut off by a small bit of the Peconic Bay. Just a sliver, but we need to take a ferry."

"How much farther?"

"About ten miles."

She hated to talk in front of William as if he weren't there, but Edward made sense. She continued rocking the old lord until he drifted off. Ten miles later, the carriage moved right up onto the ferry without stopping. William slept through the entire process.

"Capital," Edward sighed when they had safely crossed. "I was afraid I'd have to hit him again."

"You need to be more patient."

"If I'd resorted to patience, we'd still be sitting in the hotel."

His tone waxed humorous, though, good-natured. She smiled up at him, pretending they were a brother and sister escorting their grandfather on holiday, playing Edward's foppish game and forgetting reality if only for a little while.

Here, Wade became aware of himself briefly as the clear images of Eleisha's story switched to flashes and impressions rapidly shifting past him like the pages of a book.

Yet he still felt what she had once experienced.

Upon arriving at Edward's "home," she was delighted with his lavish hotel suite, and the new world that he showed her. But no longer a servant, she'd had trouble at first adjusting to the hotel staff waiting upon her, laundering her clothes, lighting the fire, cleaning the rooms… changing her bedding.

Images raced by as time flowed on.

The next seventy years passed in a flash of scenes. Edward moved his little family to a new hotel suite about once a year, and Eleisha was glad to let him handle their living arrangements, their money, ordering their clothes… their entire existence. She always hunted with Edward. Otherwise, her only concern was to care for William, and she was content to let Edward take care of everything else.

Still half lost in her mind, Wade could not truly pinpoint when the change began.

But one night, she wanted to order a gown to her own taste-something simple. Then sometime later, she wondered why she did not have her own bank accounts for the money Julian sent.

She said nothing of this to Edward.

But their world was changing.

She started hunting alone.

The scene crystallized again, and Wade forgot himself.

Eleisha ripped the bastard's throat out and watched him fall back with a soundless scream. Pig. A nearly black Manhattan alley hid his flailing arms from the outside world, not that anyone cared. With one hand, she pulled up the torn shoulder of her red taffeta dress, and with the other, grasped the back of his head.

This time the blood tasted good through her teeth, over her tongue, dripping in warm rivulets down her bare shoulder. She saw pictures of rape and whiskey, a red-haired girl being beaten, the hanging of an Irish steelworker, no beauty, no music.

She finished feeding and dropped him, feeling less remorse than usual.

Wiping her face carefully, she slipped back out onto the street. A white-bearded gentleman in his early fifties stopped at the sight of her torn but expensive gown.

"Are you hurt, my dear?"

Human nature still escaped her. This man possessed kind eyes, his concern genuine. But had her face been painted and her dress cheap dyed cotton, he wouldn't have stopped to nudge her dead body. She didn't really want his gallant services, but walking around with ripped clothing would attract attention.

"No, sir. Thank you. I walked past an exposed nail." She glanced about in pretended distress. "Could you please hail me a cab?"

Pleased to be of assistance, he stepped toward the street, found her appropriate transportation, and lifted her inside the cab as though she were a kitten.

"You are most kind, sir."

"Not at all," he said, bowing slightly like a knight standing over a slain dragon.

The cabbie pulled out and followed her directions to Bridge Street, to Edward's hotel suite. She'd never stopped viewing any of their various residences as Edward's.