I was still bleeding, but the cut wasn’t deep, and it wouldn’t leave much of a scar. Figuring I was safe for the moment, I pulled my T-shirt over my head and carefully cleaned the wound, using the back of the shirt to soak up the blood so I wouldn’t look too gory. It stopped bleeding after a while, and I pulled the T-shirt carefully back over my head. Sudden exhaustion swept over me as the last day and a half caught up with me. Humans weren’t made to live at this high pitch of stress, and I was human. I was tired, tired of being afraid, tired of being brave anyway, tired of wondering what was going to happen to me. I leaned against the wall, then slid to the floor, putting my head on my knees, shaking. No tears. Why couldn’t I cry? Surely I had more than enough reason to cry.

I reached up and touched my eyes. Dry. Maybe I was born without tear ducts. It was just as well—tears were a sign of weakness and I couldn’t afford to show any. I leaned my head back against the wall, willing myself to relax. Staying at this high pitch of anxiety wouldn’t do me any good. I took a deep, calming breath, centering myself, and felt my body relax.

“Do not tell me you’ve fallen asleep.” An amused voice broke through my self-imposed reverie, and I opened my eyes to look up into Beloch’s kindly face framed by the doorway.

I smiled back at him, relief flooding me. I yawned and rose, stretching. Everything was going to be fine. “There wasn’t much to keep me occupied,” I said in an unruffled voice.

“I must apologize for the Nightmen. Our crime problem is small but virulent, and you were down by the river where the criminals tend to lurk. It was a good thing you thought to mention my name. I shudder to think what might have happened otherwise.” He looked over his shoulder, and there was a faintly querulous note in his voice. “And just where is Azazel? Why didn’t he accompany you? He would have made certain you didn’t wander where you shouldn’t have, and no one would have come near you.”

“I went out without telling him.” I didn’t stop to wonder why I was shielding him. There was already enmity between the two men, and anything I did to further that would presumably aid me.

Beloch held out a thin, gnarled hand, and I took it, propelling myself upward. He was an old man, and I figured he would topple over if I really used him to get up. There was a light of amusement in his rheumy eyes, as if he knew I’d been sparing him, but he said nothing.

“I have tea and cake waiting for us in my study, my child,” he said. His fingers had caught mine in a grip that was surprisingly tight, and I wanted to pull away, but there was no polite way to do so. He led me down the utilitarian hallways, hallways I sensed ought to be painted the universal industrial green, toward the heavy wooden door of his study. He held it open, and warmth poured out, physical and emotional. Beloch fussed over me like a grandfather, settling me into a comfortable chair, covering my legs with a lap robe, and handing me a cup of Earl Grey.

I hated Earl Grey. The smell of bergamot reminded me of old women and disapproval, but I drank anyway, glad of the warmth. “What time is it?” I asked, only vaguely interested.

“We don’t keep track of time here the same way people do in the outside world,” Beloch said, settling in the chair opposite me. To my surprise, a cat jumped into his lap and settled there, and he stroked it absently with his strong, gnarled fingers. The cat turned to look at me for a moment, then settled back on its master’s lap.

Odd. I loved cats. And yet I’d looked at this sepia-toned cat and felt an instant revulsion.

“You’re admiring my lovely Lucifer, aren’t you?” he said. “He’s quite beautiful, is he not? Such a sleek, lovely coat.” His hand stroked the shiny fur.

“He’s gorgeous,” I said politely, only the truth.

“I feed him a diet of raw meat. I find it not only improves his health but it brings him more in tune with his atavistic nature. Of course, it makes him quite savage with other people. I would suggest you don’t pat him—you could lose a finger.”

I laughed politely, assuming he was kidding. But I looked down into the cat’s face and wondered.

“I thought I might have them make up a room for you here,” he continued. “I had hoped that Azazel … well, he has certain things he needs to work out, but since it appears he’s unable to deal with them, you may as well stay here.”

That was just what I wanted. So why in the world was I trying to come up with objections? I wanted to be here. At least, I should. I cleared my throat. “I don’t think Azazel has anything in particular to work out. Apparently he needs to prove that he isn’t attracted to me. He’s done that in spades. I don’t think he wants me dead anymore. I think he just doesn’t care. As for finding me attractive, that’s simply ridiculous.”

A faint smile curved Beloch’s mouth. “I think you underestimate your charms, my dear.”

I smiled back, still feeling vaguely uneasy. “You’re very kind, but as far as Azazel is concerned I might just as well be a … a Nephilim.” I used the word deliberately, wondering if Beloch knew it.

He seemed to. “And you hate him as well?”

“Of course. He’s kidnapped me twice, maybe more, if I could only remember. He tried to have me killed, he keeps me prisoner, and he never answers questions. He won’t talk to me at all.” The last argument sounded rather lame compared to the others, but in truth it made me crazier than all the other offenses.

Beloch said nothing for a moment, stroking his self-satisfied, finger-eating cat. “To give him his due, he’s had a sad life. His wives keep dying. I believe he’s still mourning his last one to an excessive degree.”

I was suddenly very cold. “What happened to her?”

“To Sarah? I believe she was murdered.”

Oh, shit. Was Azazel some kind of Bluebeard? He didn’t seem like a serial killer, but then, how would I know what a serial killer was like? They could be quite handsome and charming, couldn’t they? Azazel fit the former—when considered dispassionately, he was absolutely gorgeous. But charming he was not.

“Er … how many wives has he had?”

“You’d best ask him. Though he may have lost count.”

I no longer bothered to hide my alarm. How could I have been so stupid? Stupid because I had felt his mouth on mine and responded, stupid because for a brief moment I had wanted him, really wanted him.

“Maybe I’ll skip that.”

Beloch chuckled. “But why waste our time talking about Azazel? I’d rather talk about you, my dear. About your lives and loves, your memories, your dreams.”

My lives? Just how much did he know about me and my past? I had the sudden, unbidden suspicion that he knew more than I did. Yet that was impossible.

Then again, no one could know less about my past. “I’m surprised Azazel didn’t tell you. I know almost nothing about my life. I’ve got some odd form of amnesia.” I didn’t tend to use that word for it, but it seemed like a nice, reasonable explanation for something that felt much more sinister.

“Amnesia,” Beloch echoed. “My poor child. But you know, we’re quite advanced here in the Dark City. We have very effective ways of helping you to remember almost anything.”

I must have looked doubtful, for he laughed. “Don’t look so worried, my dear. It’s simply a form of biofeedback.”

For some reason, a shiver ran down my backbone, but I managed a cheerful smile. “I think I’ll pass. If my past is even close to what Azazel thinks it is, I’m better off not knowing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You know the old saying: ‘The truth shall set you free.’”

I blinked. “That’s an interesting concept. I’ve never heard it before. Who said that?”

“Someone after your time, child,” he said with a soft laugh. “Let me order some more tea. Yours must be cold by now.”

I glanced down into the tea leaves floating at the bottom of the bergamot-scented sludge. They looked like drowned tree limbs after a hurricane. I looked up and managed a smile. “I’ve had enough, thank you. Too much tea makes my hands shake.” I set the delicate cup carefully on the table beside me.