to sleep, thinking about some oddly erotic combination of pizza and
Sasha.
Sasha woke with a stabbing pain in her face and sat bolt upright,
heart pounding, ready to attack. But there was nothing to attack. Only
a silent hospital room and Rafael sitting on a chair next to her bed.
They had gotten her to the Underground. Somehow they’d managed
it. Had Rafael been there? Had he saved her?
She looked at his quiet face, and her heart twisted. This was why
she’d driven him away—because, when she saw him, her resolve wavered
and she was ready to let him into her life, to love him regardless
of the consequences.
And now she was the one who’d walked on the edge of death.
Irony sucked. It made her think too hard, threw all her carefully thought-
out rationalizations out the nearest window.
Rafael twitched in his sleep. Sleep, she thought. Real, mortal sleep,
including dreams. Where you tossed and turned and twitched and made
funny noises, snored and drooled. She lay back down in her hospital
bed, careful not to make any sound that might wake him, and watched
him.
It wasn’t until fifteen minutes later, when Dr. Greene entered the
room, that she realized what was wrong. She frowned at the doctor.
“He doesn’t smell good,” she said.
“You’re awake,” said the doctor.
“Yes.”
“How do you feel?”
“Not great. Why does he smell funny?”
Dr. Greene picked up a chart from the table near her bed. “Maybe
he forgot that humans sweat and need to take showers.”
“No, it’s not that.” She peered at him. “You don’t smell good,
either. But I know what that’s about.”
“Now, I know I took a shower.” He examined her half-empty IV
bag. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes. That’s just it. I’m hungry, and he doesn’t smell like a decent
meal. Red-blooded, healthy male, and I have no desire to eat him.”
He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Well, that kind of thing’s a bit
dangerous with fangs, anyway.”
“You should know. Besides, that’s not what I meant.”
The doctor still looked smug. “I know what you meant.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”
“I doctored Rafael’s blood a little. I put some of my markers in it.
The ones that keep every vampire here from draining my veins.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I thought it might smooth things out between you two a little.
He’s still mortal, but at least you won’t have the urge to nibble on him
for breakfast.”
Sasha blinked, not sure what to think about the doctor’s interfer-
ence—or his assumptions about her feelings for Rafael. Her lashes
felt moist. “So you’re sort of a freakish, high-tech, geneticist-match-
maker type?”
“Something like that.”
Rafael grunted. Sasha watched as he straightened in his chair,
sniffling and snorting his way to consciousness.
The doctor stood. “I’ll leave you two to it, then.”
Sasha glanced at him as he closed the door behind him, then turned
to Rafael, who opened his eyes and looked at her blearily.
“I dreamed about you,” he said after a moment. He sounded surprised.
“Good dreams, I hope.”
“No, not really.” He grinned wryly, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I haven’t dreamed since—”
She understood both his wonderment and his reluctance to vocalize
it. “So what the hell are you doing here?”
He studied her face. Suddenly she wondered what she must look
like, what the pain in her face must mean. But there was no repulsion
or even distaste in his expression.
“I wanted to be with you,” he said. “You almost died.”
“Yeah.” She couldn’t stifle the edge of bitterness to her voice. “I
was stupid.”
“You were. Stupid and careless.”
“Rub my nose in it, why don’t you?”
His expression had chilled, becoming unreadable. “I don’t know if
I can be with you if you’re going to keep being stupid. It makes you
careless, and sooner or later, you’re gonna end up dead.”
away. “Touché.”
“Damn straight. How does it feel?”
“If your blood didn’t stink, I’d rip your throat out right now.”
“You’d regret it later.”
“Yeah, probably.”
“Right about the time you wanted sex.”
Her lips thinned. “There are plenty of men who’d be willing to
help me out with that.”
“Not many who love you.”
She opened her mouth, closed it again. Rafael went on. “Don’t
close me out, Sasha. I love you. Human, vampire, whatever combination,
I want to be with you.”
“Rafael—”
“I’m talking, Sasha.” His forced harshness made her smile. “Whatever
time we have together, I want to spend it with you. Ten years,
fifty years, six months. It doesn’t matter. I love you.”
“I love you, too, Rafael.”
“Good. Then you’re done with this nonsense about me being mortal
and blah blah blah?”
“Considering I’m the one who almost died, I think I’ll have to eat
at least a few of those words.”
“So I can kiss you, and we can call this whole argument over?”
“Yes.”
He rose from the chair, leaned forward, and kissed her. She pressed
into him, ignoring the pain of her burned face, savoring the flavor of his
mouth. Hot, beating with the rhythm of his heartbeat. He tasted better
than he smelled.
After a moment, he drew back and looked into her eyes. “Until
death do us part,” he murmured.
“Amen,” she said, and kissed him again.
Julian’s Journal
So it can be done. Rafael is mortal now, transformed by the catalysts
of blood. This means the other Children—the ones Turned before
puberty—can also be made mortal again.
I want it done as soon as possible. If Ialdaboth comes, and there
are still little ones among us, he’ll slaughter them.
We need a backup plan, though. A way to hide them if he comes
before we’re ready. Because I feel he will come soon, and their transformation
will take time.
The pieces have begun to fall together. Rafael’s contribution added
weight to some elements, took my attention away from others I had
previously thought were important. There’s an answer here somewhere.
I can feel him. His power. Did I take something from him when I
defeated him the last time, or did he mark me in some way? Or both?
Maybe I am capable of killing him outright—I don’t know. I don’t
know what power I have, what it means, what it can truly do.
Sometimes I think if I unleash it, it will kill me. Not exactly what
we’re after.
Lorelei worries, I can tell, but she won’t talk to me about it. She
can feel the babies inside her, she says. Moving, stirring. Dancing,
perhaps. I have to save all of us in order to save them.
So the Chi
ldren come first. Tara has agreed to help. I found her in
the Senior’s memory—didn’t even know she existed until my concern
over the Children made her face float up out of the morass I inher-
ited—that I was forced to take—from my predecessor.
Tara has been important to the Children, helping to keep them
safe, ever since her relationship with Dominic and his subsequent
death—a shame; he was a decent vamp—led her to the Underground.
She can handle what needs to be done. I’ll send her to DeAngelo—
after what Nick told me about him, and from what I’ve seen myself, he
seems the most logical choice.
It’s all about choices. The Children can have the choice now—
the doctor and I can give them that. And from there we go . . . I don’t
know where.
Nowhere, if I don’t find the secret to Ialdaboth’s destruction. We’re
closer to it, with Lucien’s litany and now Ialdaboth’s, supplied by Rafael.
Aanu’s healing progresses well—it shouldn’t be long, now, before we
can find out what he knows, assuming he brings that knowledge back
with him from the dark place he has been these past four thousand years.
But the enemy has come closer, as well. Jasmine died in Perth
Amboy last night, and the two who hunted with her don’t know what
killed her. I had never even heard of her until she died. We’ve given up
on Brendan and Vince ever returning from Atlantic City—so much for
their little “vacation.” Other reports have come in, as well, of vampires
missing or being killed by “strangers.”
I can offer no further protection for those who have chosen to
live outside the Underground. I can’t take the risk they might be agents
of Ialdaboth. If they die, perhaps that is on my head. So be it.
Ialdaboth himself is dormant. I’m not sure how I know that.
No, I do know. I dreamed it. I dreamed he was sleeping, and
there was a sort of dark curtain over his body. I think Lucien hurt him
more than he knew, when they tangled in Romania. It will take time for
the bastard to recover.
Time I must be certain to use wisely.
Tara
I sleep, but my heart waketh: it is the voice of my beloved that
knocketh . . .
Song of Songs, 5:2
It’s like I’m watching right through his eyes—though Liam’s eyes—
and he’s looking at Felicity. “He’s a vampire,” I’m saying to her.
“There’s no question but that he must die.”
Gray DeAngelo, past-life
regression journal
The past must always be considered, but often ignored. It
can mutate and distort, until no one is certain at all of what
may or may not have happened. Beware of this, O my too-certain
children.
The Book of Changing Blood
One
The sign on the office door read GRAY DEANGELO, CERTIFIED
HYPNOTHERAPIST. Tara looked at the ad she’d torn from the Yellow
Pages. There, in addition to hypnotherapy, Dr. DeAngelo had listed,
“Stop smoking, lose weight, recover lost memories, past life regression.”
This appeared to be the place. She opened the door and went in.
Not long ago, she would have considered Dr. DeAngelo to be a
quack and all his patients at least gullible, but more likely stupid. Since
then, she’d dated a vampire, watched him die, and taken a lucrative job
as part-time teacher, babysitter, and mentor to a group of pre-pubescent
vampire children. As a result, past life regression seemed less weird
than most of what she saw every day, and Dr. Gray DeAngelo was the
most likely solution to a complicated problem.
The receptionist seemed friendly enough, but Tara felt unaccountably
on edge. The whole situation was so precarious. She felt as though
she could breathe wrong, look at someone the wrong way, and blow
everything.
“I trust your judgment,” Julian had told her. “You’ve spent more
time with the Children than any of the rest of us. If anyone is qualified
to monitor Daniel’s progress, it’s you.”
It hadn’t seemed prudent to argue with him. Not because he frightened
her—though he did, still, just a little—but because, technically, he
was right.
Sitting in Dr. DeAngelo’s waiting room, she crossed her legs, folded
her arms over her chest, and generally tried to make herself as small as
possible. As if it would keep them from noticing her even though she’d
already talked to the receptionist and signed in.
This was crazy. She had no reason to be so nervous. It wasn’t as
if Dr. DeAngelo could take one look at her and instantly know her
innermost secrets. She picked a spot on the opposite wall and stared at
it, easing herself into a semblance of calm.
“Tara Summers?”
It was a testimony to the success of her calming techniques that
Tara merely blinked at the sound of her name, instead of jumping out of
her skin. She smiled gently, came to her feet, and looked at the man
who had spoken.
Gray DeAngelo was tall, broad, and very pretty. An irrelevant
thought drifted across her mind—that she was glad she wasn’t here to
discuss some kind of sexual dysfunction.
“Ms. Summers,” he said, holding out a hand. “I’m Dr. DeAngelo.”
She took his hand, liking the way it enveloped hers snugly. “Nice
to meet you.”
His smile seemed a little cautious, genuine but not entirely open.
“My office is this way.”
She followed him down the short hallway. He opened a door and
gestured for her to precede him into the room.
The office was different than she’d expected. Though she wasn’t
certain what she had expected—big, intimidating furniture and musty
books, perhaps, but not this light, airy room. The furniture was upholstered
in pale blues and greens, and the sleek, modern desk was of a
pale wood with white lacquered trim. A window let in a great deal of
light, as well as a view of Manhattan. Tara felt instantly comfortable.
Which, she assumed, was the point.
“Have a seat.” The doctor gestured toward a chair. He looked at
the date book on his desk. “You’re here for a consultation?”
“That’s correct. I need someone to treat my son.”
Dr. DeAngelo settled on a corner of the desk. “How old is he?”
“He’s ten. He’s adopted.” She added the last perhaps a bit too
hastily, aware that she was, and looked, a bit too young to be the mother
of a ten-year-old. That Daniel was, in fact, nearly five hundred was, at
the moment, irrelevant. “He’s been having some problems lately, and
we believe it may have to do with something he experienced as a very
young child.”
“Something he’s repressed.”
“Yes. Some kind of abuse, most likely.”
“That sounds like something I could handle. Have you spoken to
any other therapists?”
“No. You were recommended.”
“By whom?”
“A friend of mine. Nicholas Carrington. He saw you in connection
with an illness. He had cancer.” Plus, Julian had agreed with the
recommendati
on—Tara wasn’t sure why.
“Ah, yes. I remember. I taught him self-hypnosis to handle the
pain. How is he?”
“Unfortunately he passed away a few months ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Tara lowered her gaze to her lap, hoping she looked appropriately
distraught. Nick had asked her to tell the doctor that he’d died. “He
spoke very highly of you, so when this situation came up with Daniel, I
thought of you.”
“I appreciate that. Have you seen any other doctors? Besides
therapists?”
Tara grimaced. “They all wanted to medicate him. I didn’t realize
until recently that Ritalin and Prozac were such cure-alls.”
Distaste rose in his eyes as he spoke. “They have their place, of
course. I believe in being very cautious with drugs, though. Particularly
with children.”
Tara nodded. “It might have been a quick fix, but I wanted to get
to the root of the problem.”
“Good for you.” He leaned backward from his perch on the edge
of the desk to pick up a notebook from the opposite side. “I’d like to get
some information, for starters.”
“Of course.”
“You said your son’s name is Daniel?”
“Yes.”
“And your husband’s?”
“I’m not married.”
His gaze flicked from his notes to her.
“Divorced,” she clarified. “My ex-husband is very involved and
will be helping me with the financial aspects of Daniel’s treatment.”
Dr. DeAngelo made no comment. “I’d suggest we get started as
soon as possible. Make an appointment with my receptionist on the
way out. Of course, you’re more than welcome to attend all Daniel’s
therapy sessions. In fact, I encourage it.”
“There was one more thing I wanted to mention. I’ll have to make
my appointments for the evening. Daniel has a very rare skin condition.
He’s extremely sensitive to sunlight.”
Dr. DeAngelo’s eyebrow twitched oddly. Tara had no idea what
that meant.
“Of course,” he said. “Just explain the situation to my receptionist.
She’ll make an appropriate appointment for you. But before that,
I’d like to talk to you a bit about the exact nature of Daniel’s behavior
problems.”
She told him the story she’d concocted with the aid of Dr. Greene.