A clock somewhere chimes the hours. Midnight. Lance has been gone three hours.

I’m not waiting any longer.

I run upstairs, change out of the gown and into jeans and a T-shirt. I grab my keys and head for the garage.

Shit. I realize I don’t know where the restaurant is located. I didn’t pay attention on the ride over. I plug the name into the Jag’s GPS system and the directions flash on the screen.

I’m there in twenty minutes. The parking lot is still full. Music floats on the air from a lounge somewhere to the right.

The doorman stops me at the door. “I’m sorry, miss. No jeans after nine.”

I stare at him. I didn’t think places that had dress codes still existed. I fish a twenty out of my wallet. “I won’t stay long. I just need to see if my friend is inside.”

He waves away the money. “Sorry. Maybe if you tell me your friend’s name?”

“Lance Turner. No, wait. He’s probably known here as—”

“Rick.” The guy grins. “The model, right? Sure. He was here. With Julian Underwood’s party. They left about ninety minutes ago.”

Ninety minutes? “Do you know where they went?”

He shakes his head. “No. Sorry.”

A couple approaches and he moves away to open the door. When he comes back, I add another twenty to the first. “You wouldn’t happen to know where Mr. Underwood lives, do you?”

He frowns. “If I started giving out customer’s personal information, I wouldn’t have a job very long, would I?”

Shit. He continues to glare at me as if I’ve insulted his integrity. He’s a valet at a goddamned restaurant, for Christ’s sake. It makes me want to show him what a real insult would be—knocking his ass to the ground in front of all his “customers” and slapping him until he squeals like a girl.

But what good would that do? None, except get me arrested.

I turn my back on the self-righteous jerk, run to the car. Time to move on.

Maybe Adele is back and knows where I can find Underwood. She knows so much about Lance’s life, she’s bound to know where “the boys” like to party.

I let myself back into the house through the garage. The MG is still gone. I’m beginning to feel more anger than concern—at Lance, at myself. Why would he stay with Underwood instead of coming home with me? Why did I let him?

I start up the stairs, calling to Adele.

There’s no answer.

Then I hear it.

A moan.

It stops me.

I grow still.

Listen.

It comes again. So soft, so low, it takes all my concentration to get a bearing on the sound. A human ear would never pick it up. In the silence that follows, I wonder if I imagined it. Could it be the wind?

No.

When it comes a third time, I feel pain behind it.

A spasm of alarm triggers the animal instinct. I feel the pain because I’m meant to feel it. I know it as surely as I know whose pain I’m feeling.

Lance.

Somewhere in this house. Not upstairs.

I ignore the frenetic beating of my heart.

Concentrate.

Lance, where are you?

No answer. Another ghostly moan.

From somewhere beneath me.

A basement?

Lance didn’t show me a basement today.

Why isn’t Adele here? She could tell me—

No time.

I start for the most logical place to find basement access. That cavern of a kitchen. There are no obvious doors that look like they would lead to a set of stairs. What next? There are a dozen sets of cabinets lining the back and one side of the kitchen. I open a half dozen before I hit on the right set. This one conceals not shelves and drawers but stairs.

I run down and into the darkness. It smells musty and dry. Old wine and long-forgotten root vegetables. Dust. Something else.

Blood.

Vampire eyes have no trouble seeing in the dark. They welcome it. Senses become more acute. Instincts sharpen.

I listen and watch. No more sound. No movement. I probe the darkness with my mind. I feel it. Lance is here.

He’s here.

Lance.

No response except an unusual one. An instantaneous shutting down of his mind. He’s hiding from me.

From me?

But not fast enough.

In two steps, I’m across the floor. I see him, huddled in the corner. He’s naked, curled in a fetal position.

My human voice. “Lance. Why didn’t you answer me? What’s the matter?”

He burrows deeper into the corner. “You have to leave me alone, Anna.”

I step closer. “You’re hurt. I can see it. What happened?”

Go away. Please. You’ll only make it worse.

Make what worse?

I’m at his side now. Close enough to see his face. Close enough to feel his despair. Close enough to see the bloody tracks ripped across his back.

My hand flies to my mouth, stifling the gasp. I don’t ask who did this to him. I don’t have to ask. I know.

I know.

I bend down, take his hand, hold it against my heart. “Let me help you upstairs.”

He pulls away. I don’t let him. After a moment, he gives in. Rises on shaky legs. I don’t know when Adele will be back. I look around to find something to cover his nakedness. There’s an old blanket on the floor. I wrap it around his waist. He allows me to lead him upstairs.

In the light, I see what’s been done. Whip marks, something jagged, barbed. But something else. A white substance cakes the wounds, keeps them open, bleeding.

The smell tells me. Brine. The sea.

Salt.

Why salt?

Lance turns dull eyes toward me, answers the question he read in my mind. “Salt keeps a vampire’s wounds from healing. Leaves scars.”

In a burst of clarity, I understand. Underwood wanted to inflict a punishment that would mark Lance forever. Scars like this would end his modeling career. End that part of him that’s connected to the human community.

“Why?”

He turns his face away.

He doesn’t need to answer.

It’s me. Underwood did this because of me.

I want to howl in anger. All this because I refused to stay with him tonight? There has to be more. It doesn’t matter. I swallow the rage. Save it for later to relish while I plot my revenge. Now, I’ll get Lance into the shower. Maybe it’s not too late to mitigate the damage.

“You can’t,” Lance says simply.

I turn the rage outward. “What do you mean, I can’t? I won’t let him do this. You can’t let him do this. What’s the matter with you?”

Lance’s expression is resigned. He’s prepared to accept Underwood’s punishment.

I’m not.

“You can’t fight me. Either you let me help you or I’ll do it without your help. I’m stronger than you. You know it.”

In spite of his anguish, Lance smiles. “I’m sorry to have gotten you mixed up in this.”

He’s been leaning on me. Now he straightens as much as his injured back allows. “I suppose truth be told, I’m more afraid of you than Julian anyway.”

Humor. A good sign.

“Glad to see you’ve come to your senses.” But my voice is rough with outrage. I put an arm around his waist and we trudge up the stairs to the bedroom.

I guard my thoughts. Lance has been through enough. I’ll take care of him. Tonight.

I don’t bother to strip. I climb into the shower with him, turn the water on his back. He winces and cries out. Vampires have remarkable healing powers, but we aren’t impervious to pain. The salt makes it worse. I’m trembling at his suffering, but unless we get all the salt out of the wounds, the healing can’t begin. I use my fingers to gently open the cuts, let the water dissolve the salt, wash it away. The water runs red with blood. It soaks my clothes, splashes on my face. I taste it. It’s Lance’s blood and—another’s.

Lance has fed tonight.

I flash on the women in Underwood’s entourage. They were there for one purpose. It shouldn’t surprise me that Lance would partake. We are vampire.