For Tom Trainer, the pain of having fangs plunged into his skin and his blood drained to the point of near unconsciousness was horrifying in the extreme. And yet it didn't come close to the pain Dr. Donahue's rejection caused him.

The massive Impure, Mear, was kind to him, each touch a slow, sweet seduction to his flesh, while the half-breed assured him he was getting stronger and that the commander and his recruits would help him capture the woman who had spurned him and the paven who held her.

Tom shifted uncomfortably on the brown leather couch. They were in Mear's suite in the commander's home and it was his turn to drink. It was his third "meal" and he hated it, hated the metallic taste, the thickness of the liquid as it hit his tongue and slid down his throat. But it had already made him stronger, his brain clearer in his goal. His two canines were loose, and as Mear had told him, he would lose them within the month and fangs would begin to grow in their place.

He would be one of them. Almost. An Imiti, Mear called it. A human with vampire qualities. As long as he drank.

Mear turned to him, licked the remaining blood from his lips, and grinned.

"Ready?"

Bile rose in Tom's throat, but he forced a nod, and when Mear slashed his own wrist with one sharp fang and held it to Tom's lips, Tom shut his eyes and drank.

Anything for her.

Anything.