Mah be yen ah me a day wall.

The light grew brighter and hotter, and it didn't feel so good anymore.

May a pell dee sang ah voh tray sang mah be yen ah me.

His light was going to suck her in and burn her up, like the fires of hell, and it was filling the closet and her head until she was sure it would scorch the eyes out of her sockets?

Non.

Nick stumbled back, away from the light, and screamed.

"Mademoiselle." Tight hands shook her. "Wake up, please; you must."

Nick woke up. She was sitting huddled in the corner of her room, her arms cradling her head. Sweat soaked her jeans and T-shirt, and she was shaking so hard that her teeth chattered.

"Are you hurt? You were shouting." Adélie crouched down and touched Nick's shoulder, making her jerk with reaction. "Was someone in here?" She looked around the room quickly.

"No. It was only a bad dream." Nick felt as if she might throw up or start screaming, or both, but then the innkeeper's wife might call for an ambulance. "Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

Adélie drew back. "You could not help it." She reached down and helped her to her feet. "Go back to bed. I will bring you some warm milk. That will help you sleep."

That would make her puke. "No, I think I'll be all right. Thank you for waking me up."

"If you are sure." The older woman waited until Nick stood straight, and then retreated to the door. She hesitated and looked back. "You miss your family, mademoiselle? It is still early in America, if you wish to use the telephone—"

"Thanks, but I'm okay." Nick sat down on the edge of the bed. She couldn't call anyone, because there was no one left to call. The neighbors still believed that her parents had gone over to America to start a farm there, leaving Nick behind to live on their English property. No one suspected that Annette and Malcolm Jefferson had been dead for years. Dead and in unmarked graves in the middle of Annette's rose garden.

Nick knew because she had buried them there.

Chapter 7

Gabriel spent the long, empty hours in the darkness thinking about the woman Claudio had chased off, and working on his right wrist. The reality of her stayed with him, feeding his hope as nothing else could. Her memory remained so vivid and warm that he could almost still taste her in every breath he took.

What is her name? In his imagination, she was his maiden from the dreams, slim and strong, pale curls dancing around her young face. In reality, she might be plump and dark or flame-haired and angular. It didn't matter. He guessed from the dreams that she would be quiet, perhaps shy. Does she dream of me?

Frustration over the little he did know about her made him renew his efforts to prepare for her return. He could not call out to her, and his bonds prevented any real movement. Yet while attempting to move, he discovered that the wound in one of his wrists had stopped festering and had partially healed. Gabriel found that he could clench his fist and extend his fingers and, by doing so, widen the wound in his wrist. After he did so several times, it bled slowly, sluggishly.

Thanks to his weakness, it did not heal.

After a day of his working at it, his wound widened. He discovered that if he flexed his arm a certain way, the give in the wound allowed enough movement for him to rattle the chains binding him.

He didn't waste his energy making noise for old Claudio to hear, but concentrated on keeping the wound from healing again. Losing more blood was dangerous, but if she returned—when she returned—he stood a better chance of attracting her attention and bringing her within range of his scent—and under his command.

She would return, of course. She had to return.

To keep from worrying and wasting scent, Gabriel rehearsed everything in his head. He would lure her down to the basement. Once she came within hearing range, he could make enough noise for her to find his cell. His scent would do the rest. This was assuming that she was not resistant to l'attrait. Some humans were.

No, fate would not play such a joke on him.

The human female would have to break through the wall and free him before old Claudio discovered her presence. Gabriel didn't think the old man would harm her, but he couldn't leave that to chance. She didn't deserve to be injured or killed for helping him.

He would have to use his talent to keep the old man busy and out of the basement.

As he planned it out in his mind, a part of him emerged from his thoughts, the part that he most needed to protect the woman and ensure the success of his plan. It was a cold, unfeeling copy of himself, eager to return to the brimming void of the many that his talent stirred. It had no emotions left, save the desire to survive and to join with the many.

It wanted to use the woman in another way. She will feed you well, make you strong enough to escape alone.

Gabriel had always resisted the obvious, oblivious hunger—he knew too well how it could devour the soul—but over time the coldness had grown stronger and more persuasive.

As soon as she comes, summon the many, and take her.

Gabriel knew he would have to take some of her blood in order to regain his strength and heal enough to make his escape. Like all the other Kyn, he had always healed spontaneously when he fed well. His one worry was his control.

Since capturing him, the Brethren had never fed him.

One of the interrogators had told Gabriel how surprised they were that he did not waste away as quickly as other Kyn they had captured. They never realized what he resorted to in order to obtain his nourishment, or how often he had taken small amounts from the various interrogators who had tortured him during his captivity. They believed the many were visited upon him by their vengeful God, as part curse and part endorsement of their brutality.

Gabriel had never enjoyed feeding from humans. His dependency on blood was an unpleasant part of his immortal existence; he barely tolerated it. His distaste and self-discipline were such that he had never once fallen into bloodlust, or suffered from thrall, the dream state induced by draining all of the blood from a human. Even when he had emerged from his grave, something had held him back from freely attacking humans. He wanted to believe it was compassion, but perhaps it was fear for whatever was left of his soul.

We will need all of her blood to leave this place.

Gabriel's disgust faded as his hunger and his coldness engulfed him. There was logic to it, and he would not have to hurt her. The many would take her, and by doing so would prevent any blood thrall from immobilizing him. They would see to it that she would not suffer. He had lived in daily torment for years; if she came to him he had the right to take her. As for the old man, he need not protect his life, either. The many would deal with him as well?

No.

Gabriel sagged in his bonds. Whatever came of this, he would not kill the woman, nor the old man. He would keep them both safe. Especially the woman; he would have to take certain measures to keep her from becoming yet another victim of the Brethren.

If she returned. When she returned.

Gabriel worked at his wrist until the wound burned and the need to sleep dragged at him with brutal weight. It came like this more often now, as if his exhausted body utterly rebelled against him. He needed to rest, to conserve himself, but if she came while he was sleeping… And that was his last thought as he drifted past the dark borders of the nightlands.

The forest gave way to rolling green pastures and the gentle creatures who roamed them. Gabriel walked through crisp, deliciously cool grass, breathing in the earthy scents that he had almost forgotten. His kinship with the land had always been a comfort, although he did not recognize this place. The rich, black soil here did not smell of home.

Go back, a part of him whispered. This is no place for you.

There was nothing to fear that Gabriel could see but a charming, whitewashed farmhouse. It was a humble structure, hardly more than an overbuilt cottage, but those who lived there had planted gardens and kept the grounds neat. Peonies and larkspur created splashes of color as they lined a little flagstone path leading to the back of the house.

Go back. She said the words now, and her voice held a note of fear. You shouldn't be here. Please.

He ignored the warning and hurried forward into an enormous flower garden. Roses and carnations bunched around a copper fountain with a marble statue of the Virgin Mary as its centerpiece. The marble glowed with a strange, fiery color, as if the statue had been carved from hot metal that had never cooled.

How can I find you? her voice called out to him from the shadows of the garden.

Gabriel had no name for where he had left his body. You were there. Come back to me.

Black-feathered chickens, hunting through the grass and pecking at bugs, swarmed around his bare feet. He paused to admire the dark rainbow sheen of their glossy plumage; even the dozen little chicks racing to follow their mother hen had down of pure ebony. A dark rooster snatched at the edge of his tunic, making Gabriel glance down.

He wore the cassock of a Brethren, the breast embroidered with five red crosses. It took a moment for him to connect the number with what had happened to him: one for every Kyn who had been taken with him.

Thierry, Jamys, Marcel, Liliette. The names burned into his heart. Angelica.

You shouldn't have come here.

She came out of the rose garden, his pale maiden, but something terrible had been done to her. Her body had been bloodied and bruised, her cotton slip soiled with earth. In her hands she held a short tree branch with tight green leaves and clusters of silver-blue berries.

He reached out to touch her cheek and froze as she recoiled. I mean you no harm.

The harm's been done. She pushed the branch into his hands as if she couldn't bear to hold it a moment longer. Do you love me?

He loved the presence of her, the way she soothed him, the sadness in her eyes that sang to the torment in his heart. He loved that she came to him and spoke to him even though he was not part of her quest. He loved the interludes she shared with him on her journey through the nightlands.

Real or imagined, he loved her.

But she did not know the horror of what he had become, and he would not inflict himself upon her. I am not like other men, I cannot—