Strange, how tired and pat that thought felt. Like he’d thought it a thousand times before, and worn off the nap.

“Liam!” Eoin bounded across the room toward him like a jackrabbit on crack, his eyes alight like flashlights in his skinny face. He had partied all night long, but he was still revved. “Hey, what’s up?” He looked at Liam’s bag. “I thought you were staying till tomorrow!”

“Can’t,” he said, though his mouth felt dusty and dry. “Gotta go.”

“I’m glad I saw you, then. A favor before you go, eh? I’ve been telling Eugene about that set of reels you wrote. I remember ‘The Dusty Shoon,’ and ‘Traveler’s Joy,’ but not the B and C parts of ‘The Old Man’s Beard.’”

His stomach curdled in dismay. “I have to go. Another time.”

“Oh, man, please?” Eoin entreated. “It’ll only take five minutes. Eugene has his DAT to record it. I had this great arrangement worked out, and the lads love it!”

Liam’s jaw ached from clenching so hard. “I don’t have my fiddle.”

“Eugene will lend you his!” Eoin’s eyes pleaded. “Five minutes?”

Christ on a crutch. Five minutes of stomach-churning agony. But he didn’t want to burden Eoin by telling him that the world had just ended. He let himself be towed into the small conference room and tucked Eugene’s fiddle under his chin. Tried to compose himself.

The kid was having such a great time. Let him fly, as far as the air currents would take him. A guy crashed to earth soon enough.

Liam wasn’t in the lobby. Nor in the parking lot. Nor in the showcase halls, or the alcoves, or the vending machine corners, or the lounge, or the gift shop, or the restaurant. No. He was gone. It was over.

Sadness settled down, like a smothering blanket. She’d come to depend upon him for feeling good. The world looked wretched and empty, dirt poor without him. And she was so angry. She wanted to break windows, smash furniture.

She couldn’t have caved to his demand. It took two to make a compromise. If she blew off an opportunity like this out of fear, she’d never respect herself again. And he wouldn’t respect her, either.

“Ms. D’Onofrio? Are you all right?”

Nancy dashed away tears, and looked over her shoulder. “What?”

“Can I get you something?” It was Enid’s Hollywood studio exec. Big, beefy guy. Muscle going to fat. He had a sleek black goatee on his broad face, gleaming black hair. His eyes were full of concern.

She tried to orient herself, vaguely remembering that this guy was significant for some reason. She was supposed to be kissing his ass.

“No,” she whispered. “Thanks. I’m fine.” She dug around in her pocket for a tissue. It was coming back to her now, in little fragmented pieces. The studio exec. The time crunch. The plane leaving for L.A. “I’m sorry,” she said. “We were supposed to have a meeting, right?”

“Yes, but it’s all right. I can see you’re not well,” the guy said.

Her spine stiffened with embarrassment. “No, actually, I’m fine. You’ve got a plane to catch, so let’s go to the bar and have some coffee.”

But Sills led her right past the bar and into the restaurant. He walked briskly past the few free booths, and sat down in the oddest spot. A table, not a booth, and way in the back. Out of sight of all but a few of the booths, but annoyingly close to the kitchen door, which continually swung open as tray-laden waitresses bumped and bashed their way through with hips and elbows to carry out orders.

The waitress brought them a carafe of coffee. Maitland Sills poured and pushed the cup across the table. “You look tired,” he said.

Did he but know. She gave him a wan smile, and took a deep, grateful gulp of coffee.

She knew within three seconds that something was wrong. A numb, crawling feeling spread from the tips of her toes and fingers, creeping inward toward her core. Her heartbeat, louder and faster in her ears. She couldn’t move. She was frozen, fighting to keep breathing as the darkness rose. What the hell? Was this a panic attack?

She looked into the eyes of the MGM studio exec. Her insides flash froze. Those dark eyes, fixed and cold. Reptilian. His mouth, so wet. Her eyes fluttered, and in those brief eyelid flickers, she saw like tiny nano-sized film clips the monstrous thing he was beneath his human mask. Something fanged, tusked. Ravenous and foul.

His breath was fetid. It smelled like death.

He leaned forward and pitched his voice low, like a snake’s hiss. “Do you wonder what your mother’s last words were when she was gasping on the floor, Nancy?” he crooned. “Do you want me to tell you?”

She tried to open her mouth, scream for help. Nothing worked.

A waitress burst through the kitchen door and bustled past them without looking at them. The open door let a wave of clattering sound swell in volume, then diminish again as it swung shut.

He reached across the table, seized the pendant Lucia had given her, and began to twist. The burn of the gold chain tightening around her throat kept her conscious. Snap. The chain broke. He pocketed it.

He got up, came around the table, and reached for her.

“Let us by!” John bawled. “Move over! She’s going to be sick!”

He shoved his way through the snarl of employees in the restaurant kitchen. Nancy stumbled alongside him, nearly unconscious. He’d plastered her own hand over her mouth to muffle any sounds she might make, clamping his own hand on top of it. Her hair dangled down to hide her face. He dragged her past a waitress carrying a loaded tray, jostling her hard enough to make her stumble.

Plates of eggs Benedict flew, splattered. Shouts of protest. He hustled on, bellowing, “She’s going to be sick!” whenever anyone tried to interact with him, and burst out the kitchen entrance. He loped past the Dumpsters, toward the corner and the hotel parking lot.

He dragged her into the shrubbery, still doubled over, and let her drop, right next to a big fiberglass instrument case that he’d planted there four o’clock the previous morning. It was for an upright string bass, and big enough to carry a slender, curled-up, drugged woman.

He made barfing, choking noises, for the benefit of any employees who might have poked their heads out of the kitchen, but it was probably overkill, after the mess he’d made in there. They’d be too busy scrambling to clean up and replace orders to pay attention to him.

He snapped open the case in feverish haste and followed his carefully planned choreography. Rip off goatee and wig. Shove them into the case. Shake out his own shaggy dark hair. Strip off jacket. Replace with a fringed yellow leather jacket. Mirrored aviator sunglasses.

He scooped up the D’Onofrio woman, dumped her slight, limp weight into the wide part of the case, folded and tucked her limbs until she fit. Curled up like a chick in an egg. Soft and helpless. Prey.

He did up the fastenings, peeked out of the bushes, and yanked the rolling case onto the asphalt. Walking, oh so nonchalantly, toward his car. He glanced at his watch. From restaurant table to parking lot, barely over three minutes. Good show. He forced himself to stop grinning. Wouldn’t do to get sloppy, or too self-satisfied, or overexcited.

Time enough for excitement later. When it was time to indulge.

A big-name showcase was about to begin. Liam had gotten stuck in the crowd. He shoved his way through the crush, having finally extricated himself from Mandrake’s clutches. Something inside him was pulled so tight, it hurt like a bastard. When that part snapped, he did not know what would happen. He just knew he didn’t want it to happen in public.

A high-pitched commotion was taking place. He tried to wiggle around it, but the press of bodies filing into the hall was too thick. It was the blonde, the singer who was married to the butthead. She was having a snit fit. He didn’t particularly want to know the details, but someone was wheeling a fucking piano into the hall. It blocked his way.