She stepped closer, took his elbow in an iron grip, and said, very quietly, “He lives, or you die. Understood?”

Laurent had heard this on more than one occasion from distraught family members. Threats to his life or safety were not so uncommon, but something about the way this woman shaped the words, the cold, cold intent in her dark eyes, truly frightened him. He chose not to antagonize her and instead simply said, “You’re family? We’ll need to get some information for treatment. And for the police.”

At the word police, she released his arm as if she’d been burned and stepped back with a low, spine-tingling growl that reverberated through the room, animal, chilling. It was like nothing he’d ever heard before. Slowly, she backed away to the door.

She was going to run. He’d seen this before, too.

“Madam,” he said, holding out a hand, but she cut him off with a savage snarl that froze him in place and had his bowels threatening to spill themselves.

“He lives or you die,” she reiterated, deadly soft, vibrating menace. She glanced at the cursive stitching on the front pocket of his lab coat. “Laurent.”

The high, wailing scream of sirens underscored his hissed name. Wild, she glanced over her shoulder at the ER doors and then back at him. For a moment he imagined her eyes changed, something about the pupils…Had they elongated? To slits?

But then she was gone. Like a gazelle she bounded away and disappeared through the glass doors into the night, just as three blue-and-white police cars with sirens wailing and lights flashing blazed into the parking lot.

Eliana limped into the catacombs just before dawn, exhausted as she’d never been, every muscle aching, every step burning sharp with pain.

The pain of heartache. The pain of confusion. The intense, stabbing pain of guilt.

If Gregor died, she’d never, ever forgive herself.

It took nearly an hour of navigating the silent, twisting passageways before she came upon the rusted metal stepladder hidden around a black corner deep in the belly of the catacombs. The ladder, drilled right into the rock, led up three stories through a ragged fissure in the limestone to the basement of the abbey. She climbed slowly, dazed, the chilled air doing little to soothe her abraded skin.

She needed a bath, and sleep, and to talk to Mel about everything that had happened. Not necessarily in that order.

The old wooden trapdoor was much heavier than usual to push open, but she did it, emerging into the frigid darkness of the basement—

When suddenly, a strong hand reached out, lightning-fast, and painfully fisted itself in her hair.

“You stupid fucking bitch!” Caesar hissed in her ear. Viciously, he yanked her head back and she lost her footing on the stepladder, twisting away from him. Pulling her by the hair, he dragged her clear of the tunnel and slammed her down to the dusty stone floor.

Before she could rise, he kicked her hard in the ribs. Twice.

Eliana heard Mel’s scream, and she heard another voice she recognized as Silas’s, but mainly she heard the furious snarls of Caesar as he beat her with iron fists and booted feet and called her every filthy name she’d ever heard, and many she hadn’t. She doubled over, too stunned to comprehend what was happening, too exhausted to do more than twist and roll on the hard floor, covering her head to avoid the more violent of his blows.

“Stop!” Silas shouted, dragging Caesar away. “My lord, stop!”

White dots danced in her vision. It had suddenly become very hard to breathe.

Mel’s face swam into view, hovering above her, pale and horrified. “Ana! Ana, can you talk? How badly are you hurt?”

Eliana inhaled a breath that felt like fire, and she coughed. Pain shot up her right side where Caesar had kicked her, and she moaned.

“So help me, Caesar,” Mel hissed, staring at him, still restrained in the circle of Silas’s arms, “one of these days—”

“One more word and you’re both dead!” Caesar shrieked, veins popping out on his neck. He twisted and fought Silas’s hold, kicking, but the older man was stronger and taller and held him fast, murmuring soothing words into his ear. Caesar settled after a few moments, and Silas allowed him to shake free, bristling but no longer spitting in rage.

“You ruined everything! You led them right to us! Now everyone knows we’re in France, in Paris. We’ll have to move before we’re ready. We’ll have to change all our plans—”

He shouted on and on, pacing back and forth over the stone floor, wild-eyed, red-faced, held back from attacking her again only by the outstretched hand of Silas, who seemed able to dissuade him with only that.

Mel helped her to a sitting position, her hands firm around her back while she gulped in lungfuls of dank air.

“My lord,” interrupted Silas smoothly, still with that outstretched hand, “perhaps you could allow your sister a moment to collect herself so we can find out exactly what happened.” He glanced at Eliana and Mel, still crouched together on the floor, and then turned his gaze back to Caesar. “I would be happy to speak with her and report back to you as quickly as possible.” His voice, still soothing, turned velvet. “In the interim, I’ll arrange for a girl to be sent over. Your favorite, perhaps? The blonde?”

Still breathing hard, Caesar stopped pacing and shot a black glance at Silas. After a moment, he nodded curtly and then looked back at Eliana. His upper lip curled. “You’re lucky he’s here, sister.” He spat the word as if it tasted evil in his mouth. “If he wasn’t, you wouldn’t be breathing right now.”

He turned and strode from the room, and as soon as he was out of sight Silas swept over and knelt down beside her.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, gently touching her shoulder. “He felt your approach. It was all I could do to keep him from bringing his gun.”

Their eyes met. She saw the genuine concern, the sincerity of his apology, and she also saw the unspoken I told you.

“You were right.” She tried not to inhale too deeply because it caused too much pain. “I didn’t believe you, but you were right.”

“Right about what?” Mel asked as she and Silas gently helped her to her feet.

Silas gave her a look—probing, intense—and Eliana glanced away.

“Let’s get you cleaned up and we’ll talk,” he murmured, allowing her to lean on his arm as he led her toward the door. She felt his penetrating gaze slant down to her. His voice dropped even lower. “Thank Horus you’re back. When I heard you’d been captured by the police, then the explosion at the station, I felt…” He left it unsaid, the thought unfinished, and it hung there between them, louder than any spoken word. His voice turned harder. “And don’t worry about your brother. I won’t let this happen again.”

Neither will I, Eliana thought bitterly, but she only nodded and allowed herself to be led away.

Silas knew she was lying. What he didn’t know was why, or what exactly about.

Eliana had rested and bathed and dressed, and now she stood staring at a crumbling eighteenth-century headstone, the winged angel perched atop, mossy and blackened with age. They stood in the little decrepit cemetery beside the old abbey, its rows of leaning headstones with faded inscriptions ringed by gnarled plum trees who decades ago had stopped bearing fruit. It was late afternoon; the sun was slung low in the sky and cast long, sinister shadows that crawled hungrily over the dead grass and up their legs.

He thought it best to be outdoors, away from any interested ears, so they could speak openly.

“…so I hid in a drainpipe until I was sure they were long gone.” Eliana’s voice was utterly emotionless.

Silas studied her. Clad in her usual black leather ensemble, she looked even more somber than usual. There were faint blue smudges beneath her eyes, her lips held a downward curve, and every once in a while she would give a small, unconscious shake of her head, as if she were answering the same unasked question, over and over again.