Killian held her gaze a moment longer, his hands held in tight fists at his sides, his control clearly in place, if somewhat tattered. Sarah recognized that she affected him and that pleased her. The realization was disconcerting.

“Lock the door behind me,” he said, his voice taut.

She had no wish to lock the door against him. She had no wish for him to leave at all. Her lips felt warm, swollen from his kiss, and she wanted only to press her mouth to his and kiss him again.

“If I lock the door, how will you come to me should I call out?” Such a reasonable question, despite the unreasonable circumstance. She could not imagine calling out to him, could not imagine him sitting out there all night on the small, stiff chair. Why would he do that for her?

His shoulders tensed, but he did not look at her again. “There is no door that could stop me if I wanted to be at your side, Sarah. Remember that. Remember that I—” he made a slow exhalation, as though he struggled with the words, and after an instant, he continued in a low, ragged tone “—I am not like other men.”

No, he was not. A part of her recognized that with soul-searing clarity. He was like no one she had ever known. She had long sensed a hidden part of him, held in careful check just beneath the surface, and she did not doubt that he spoke the truth, that no lock, no door could hold him. It was a strange and frightening comfort.

He walked past the small table with the candle and the plate of food, and he paused there, his attention snared. She thought he meant to insist she eat, and she knew that she could not. Her stomach was alternately in knots, or dancing and twisting like it held a thousand butterflies struggling to get free.

“What is this?” he asked, lifting the old and yellowed copy of New Monthly magazine that lay open beside the plate. He read aloud the title of the short story she had pored over so many times that she could recite it by heart. “The Vampyre by John William Polidori—” he glanced at the date “—April 1, 1819.”

His voice had grown eerily flat, devoid of inflection.

“My father was obsessed with that story before his death,” Sarah said. “He read it again and again, studying and dissecting the words as though they held the secret mysteries of life.” She shook her head. “I have read it myself so many times that I can recite it in its entirety. A sad and horrid tale, but I do not see what agitated my father so greatly. There are no secrets hidden there.”

“Are there not?” He cast her a veiled look. “May I take this to read while I keep watch?”

Keep watch. Over her. When was the last time she had felt safe? Months. Perhaps years. But tonight, with Killian guarding her door, she was safe.

She knew not how to place that fact in the twisted uncertainty that had become her life.

“Yes, please do. Perhaps in your reading, you will find the secrets that I missed.”

“Perhaps. Tell me, in the end, is the vampire revealed for the monster he is?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“A guess. Are vampires not always fiends?” The thread of irony in his tone gave her pause.

“I don’t know. I have not read many such tales.”

He nodded slowly. “You have not read Byron’s The Giaour?”

“I have not.”

“It is a poem about a monster damned to drain life from those it loves.” There was no inflection to his words. They were flat and dry, yet she thought they meant something to him.

“How terrible,” she said. “To be so damned and so alone in that damnation.”

His gaze burned into her. “You feel pity for the monster?”

She swallowed. Did she? “Yes.” She looked at the floor. “Such loneliness is a vile pestilence eating one from the inside out.” She looked up again. “Perhaps he was a monster because of his loneliness.”

Killian drummed his fingers in a slow roll across the tabletop, and she had the feeling that he argued a silent debate within himself, as though he meant to say something and weighed the pros and cons. In the end, he said, “I…dislike that you know anything about such loneliness.”

Her gaze shot to his. “And I dislike that you know it too,” she whispered, daring much with this assumption.

He did not argue her assertion; he inclined his head and exited her chamber, closing the door behind him with a soft snick.

She hesitated then went to the door, pressing her palms against the frame. She could not say how she knew it, but she did—she knew he waited, listening until she turned the key in the lock.

Her hand trembled, and she held it out flat, watching the fluttering movement, feeling the reflection of that quaking in her soul. With a sigh, she rested her forehead against the wood and imagined that on the far side of the door, Killian leaned in and did the same.

A moment later, she heard the creak of the chair as he sat, and it was only then that she recalled there was no light on the landing, and Killian had taken no candle.

She wondered how he would read the story of The Vampyre in the dark.

* * *

Muted sounds carried from below when Sarah awakened the following morning. The house was stirring. Shards of light stole through the crack where the ancient, frayed curtains met. Recalling all that had passed the previous night, the fear of being hunted, the thrill of being kissed, she gathered her resolve and crossed to the door. Throwing it open, she found Killian gone from the hallway, and The Vampyre resting on the chair.

He must have left at the first sign of dawn as he had promised. She was both disappointed and relieved by that. Relieved, too, because the confit box and ribbon were gone. Either the sisters had discovered the items or Killian had taken them away, a small but welcome kindness.

She washed and dressed with haste, for the hour was later than she preferred. Soon, she walked briskly along Portugal Street toward the hospital, her thoughts consumed by recollections of all that had passed between her and Killian, her emotions in a terrible state of confusion. Questions scurried about in her mind like the mice in the hallways of King’s College. She had run the gamut last night from abject terror as the unknown man chased her through the alleys, to absolute bliss as Killian kissed her, his mouth hot and hungry on her own.

His kiss had aroused both her body and her mind, weaving her in a spell of delicious wonder. His abrupt withdrawal had left her adrift, uncertain what to think, what to feel.

One thing she did know was that, oddly, last night she had slept better than any night since her father’s drowning, and she was grateful to Killian for that. After the terror she had endured during her panic-scored flight to Coptic Street, it was only the knowledge that he guarded her that had allowed her to sink into sweet slumber, and once there, she had dreamed of him.

There was danger in allowing herself to succumb to the lure of his protection, for who would watch over her tonight and in the nights to come? Only herself, as it had been only herself for so many months now. She was proud of that, of her ability to find solutions and care for herself in a city that was far from kind to a woman alone. Still, the luxury of allowing herself to be protected for a single night had been a sweet and wonderful balm.

And a distraction.

In the end, she had never learned why Killian had waited for her outside Mrs. Cowden’s house, the question of that forgotten in the muddle of other concerns and the heady lure of his kiss.

She was left wondering about that this morning as she made her way along the street, about his reasons for seeking her out last night.

Better to think of that than to ponder their late-night confessions where each had owned the paucity of their lives, the emptiness, the loneliness. She knew why she was alone. In part, it was the life she had led with her father, one which had offered few opportunities to cultivate friendships. In part, it was the lack of relatives. And in part, it was by choice for while she did not doubt she could find a man to marry her, she had no wish to marry a man who would limit her life to the four walls of their home, to washing his laundry and cooking his meals. No, she was better off alone and working at King’s College, which at least offered her opportunities to learn, to expand her knowledge, to care for others who needed her.

But better off or not, she was not merely alone. She was lonely, aching for someone to talk to, to laugh with, to cry with, to love.

Still, it was better to live a life of poverty and loneliness than to sacrifice the person she was.

Reaching the hospital, she hurried inside, out of the biting wind. After hanging her cloak away, she went to the sick ward and found Elinor there ahead of her, setting out bowls on the tray.

The other woman set aside her task and hurried over to grab Sarah’s arm and draw her to one side. “Have you heard?” the widow asked in a low voice, her eyes wide and round. Her words suggested she had a new tidbit of gossip to share, but her expression and tone belied that. Elinor was disturbed, afraid, and the words she shared were a cry of distress. “There’s been another death. This one worse than the others. The victim’s throat was torn open, and still not a drop of blood to be found.” She tightened her grip on Sarah’s arm. “Explain that by bugs and fever and excoriation, if you can, Sarah Lowell.”

Reeling with the horror of Elinor’s words, Sarah stood frozen in mute dismay. A greasy knot of dread congealed in her gut. Finally, she managed to croak, “Where?”

“Surgical ward. Mr. Simon found him an hour ago.”

An hour ago. Before dawn. “What was Mr. Simon doing here so early? He usually comes in past nine.”

“He said he had concern for the patient he trephined yesterday. Wanted to see how he had weathered the night.”

Sarah held very still, sensing the answer before she even asked the question. “And how had he weathered the night?”

“He’s the one who is dead.” Her reply scratched at Sarah’s composure and sent a whisper of icy foreboding curling through her veins. Elinor darted a quick look around the ward and dropped her voice even further. “Yesterday, Mr. Simon and Mr. Thayne had words over that patient. Mr. Thayne said that the man had been insensate for over a week since he fell from the roof of the Bull and Mouth Inn, that he was unresponsive to stimulus of any kind, even pain. Mr. Thayne said he wasn’t likely to get any better if Mr. Simon drilled a hole in his skull. But Mr. Simon said there was no way to know for certain and so he went ahead and did it anyway.”

“And today the man is dead.”

“Not just dead.” Elinor pressed her lips into a tight line. “Murdered. There can be no doubt of it now, no simple explanations, or even convoluted ones, to brush aside concerns.”

Sarah stared at her, then looked around the ward. The patients were restless and wary, watching them, straining to hear their words. “Everyone knows?” she asked.

Elinor nodded.

“I must see—”

Elinor nodded again. “Go on.”

Without another word, Sarah spun and strode down the hall to the surgical ward, skidding to a halt just inside the doors. She stood, trembling, her heart hammering, her palms damp.

A group of men huddled around a bed in the middle of the large room, among them Mr. Simon and Mr. Franks, and two men she thought must be constables from the Metropolitan Police. One of them—dark haired and swarthy—seemed familiar, and she wondered if he was the officer who had attended the ward before, the one who had declined Elinor’s offer of tea.

“I tell you, sir, that I saw Mr. Thayne lurking about when I left last night,” said Mr. Simon.

“And what time was that?” asked the constable.

“Just before midnight. I know it because as I walked through the front doors, I heard the clock strike the hour.”

“And did you speak with Mr. Thayne at that time?”

“I did not. But I believe it was he that I saw.”

“You believe it was he?” the second constable asked. “Did you see him or not?”

Mr. Simon’s lips thinned, and when he spoke his voice was high with irritation, his cheeks flushed red. “I did not see his face clearly, but I saw enough of him to determine his identity. The man was tall, as is Mr. Thayne.”

“As am I. As is that attendant there.” The dark-haired constable gestured at a man standing by the wall and then cocked his head to one side. “You and Mr. Thayne are of a similar height, are you not?”

“Similar height. Different build. I tell you the culprit is Mr. Thayne,” Mr. Simon insisted. “He has been on this ward each time someone died of the strange and inexplicable wounds perpetrated upon their bodies. He and I had words over the care of each of those patients. And—”

“—and I would like to know precisely what accusations are leveled against me,” Killian said in a ringing voice as he stepped through the second doorway on the far side of the ward. His gaze slid to Sarah, lingered for an instant before sliding away. He scanned the faces of the men assembled around the corpse.

Sarah watched him walk deeper into the room, thinking that he seemed to appear mid-conversation with odd regularity, as though he could hear others invoking his name from a great distance. The thought flickered and then slipped away as Mr. Simon said, “Mr. Thayne, you will confirm your whereabouts last night.” The constable cast him a sidelong glance. Mr. Simon’s chest puffed up. “He was here each time a patient was killed,” he said to the constable, then looked to Mr. Franks for confirmation.

Mr. Franks, ever true to his adversarial nature, stepped forward and said, “As was I. As were you. As were the night nurses and several of the apprentices.” His attention was snared by a man on the far side of the bed. “Like young Mr. Watts there, with his white bib apron. I am certain you were here last night, were you not? You went out and then returned. I saw you come back with a sour face, saw you doff your gloves and hat and hang your cloak.”

Mr. Watts looked at the ground. Sarah studied him for a moment. He was tall and broad in the shoulders. And he was the apprentice Elinor had mentioned, the one she claimed watched Sarah with interest of a romantic nature. It was true, Sarah realized in that moment. Mr. Watts did watch her and he was always at the hospital when she was. He raised his head now and met her gaze. There was something dark there, something…angry.

According to Mr. Franks, Mr. Watts had left King’s College last night only to return.

Could he be the man who followed her?

Could he be the killer?

“Valid points,” Killian said as he stepped deeper into the room, holding to the shadows, out of the spill of morning light that came through the window. “I was here, as was Mr. Franks and Mr. Watts and a dozen others. As were you, Mr. Simon. Does that bring you under equal suspicion?”

“It does not.” Mr. Simon’s words fell like drops of burning acid. “As to the accusations leveled against you, the way of it is clear enough. Five dead bodies. I accuse you of having a hand in that.”

“Ah.” Killian raised a brow. He prowled closer, his dark garb blending with the gloom, his bright gold hair the only light thing about him. There were grace and power in the way he moved, and suddenly, Sarah wished there was not. She wished he were ungainly and gangly. Less masculine. Less threatening.

Her gaze slid to the constables. All of a sudden, she saw Killian exactly as they must, as a powerful man who would surely emerge the victor in almost any altercation. All the more so if he chose to attack a sick and weakened patient.

He would never do that. She knew it. There was no question in her mind or in her heart.

Killian reached down and drew the sheet up, covering the face of the man in the bed, shielding him from dozens of eyes. “And when exactly did this patient expire?”

“Last night,” snarled Mr. Simon. “I saw you here.”

“Did you?” Killian did not appear particularly perturbed by the assertion, but Sarah noted the constables studying him with wary assessment. She edged closer and heard the one murmur to the other, “This man didn’t die last night. The body lost its bladder and the sheets are still wet. I’d say the murder was closer to dawn, else the sheets would be dry or at the most, damp.”

Sarah swallowed. Killian had left in the early hours of the morning, at the first light of dawn. She glanced at the sheet-draped body.

In time, an explanation of these repulsive acts would surely come to light, and that light would not shine on Killian Thayne.

But the constables did not know it, and they stepped toward him, flanking him on either side to block any possible escape.

“He’s quite the bandy rooster, isn’t he?” one asked with a nod at Mr. Simon. “All full of questions and knowing all the answers, yeah?”

Killian made no reply.

“Let’s just step over here and have a brief chat, shall we?” said the other.

Killian walked with them to the side of the room.

Sarah followed, lifting soiled items from the floor as she went, hiding her interest behind the mundane task.

“So you were here the nights all five patients were killed. Can you tell us what you recall?” the dark-haired constable asked.

Killian looked around the ward. All eyes were trained upon them; all ears strained to hear. “May I suggest we adjourn to the corridor?” he said.

The constables agreed and the three of them stepped out.

Sarah lifted the water bucket, then wove her way between the beds, close enough to the open door to listen to what was said.

The dark-haired constable—she knew his voice now—repeated his questions. Killian replied with information both truthful and sparse, offering not a single word more than was absolutely required. As Sarah dipped the ladle and offered water to a patient, she realized that Killian never mentioned that he had seen her the night the woman had died in the sick ward. He never mentioned that she had been by Mr. Scully’s bed, that she had seen a shadow. He never mentioned her at all. He kept her out of it.

The constables let him talk, listening, not interrupting.

When he was done, the second constable asked, “So that patient, Mr. Scully…he asked you to kill him? Did you do it out of pity? Is that what made you kill him?”

Sarah bit back a gasp and took a half-step forward before she could stop herself.

“I believe Mr. Scully’s exact words were, ‘“Kill me and be done with it. You know the way of it, Mr. Thayne,’” Killian said.

The dark-haired constable said, “So you killed him.”

“No.”

“When you killed him, did you think it an act of mercy?” the second constable asked.

“I did not kill him.”

Sarah tightened her grip on the bucket handle as the constable threw another question at Killian and another, his colleague chiming in, until the drone of their voices buzzed as they challenged and prodded. Killian answered each sally with calm equanimity.

Sarah noticed they asked the same question again and again in different ways. Were you with Mr. Scully when he died? So, what did you do for Mr. Scully at the moment he expired? When Mr. Scully died, how was he positioned in the bed? On his side? On his back? They were not merely questions; they were thinly veiled accusations.

Though Killian remained calm, they were increasingly disinclined to believe his replies. Their doubt was evident in the tone of their voices and the cadence of the questions that came faster and harsher now.

For the third time, one of the constables asked him, “And exactly where were you at midnight last night, Mr. Thayne?”

For the third time, he answered, “Occupied elsewhere.”

He sounded amused, and Sarah thought his attitude only further inflamed the officers, inclining them to believe the worst of him. She set down the bucket and glanced around to make certain that no one watched, then she edged forward so she stood at the open door and had a clear view of the three men. The constables stood side-by-side, facing away from her. Killian faced them, which meant he saw her there in the doorway. He offered no recognition of her presence in expression or action.

“And this morning? At dawn? Where were you then?”

“Occupied elsewhere.”

“I am afraid that will not do, sir. I need details of your whereabouts, and witnesses who can attest to your activities during the time in question.”

Sarah held her breath, her throat tightening, horror and fear congealing in a sickening knot. They believed that he had done this thing. They were convinced that he had killed this man in a hideous, unthinkable manner. No, not just this man. Many people. They thought Killian was responsible for all the questionable deaths on the wards.

Her first thought was for him. Her second was for herself. If he told them where he had been last night, what little security she had would be sliced away like a scalpel slicing away skin and muscle. If he said he had been with her, her position at King’s College would be forfeit. What would happen to her then? She had managed to scrape aside two pounds four shillings in savings that she kept in a tin beneath the foot of her mattress. That money would not last her long if she found herself without employment.

She wet her lips, trying to think, to plan, to see a way clear of this disaster.

Killian’s gaze met hers, and he made a small jerking movement of his head, as though willing her to leave. She understood then that he meant to protect her, even to his own detriment.

“I must insist that you accompany us to the station, where we can finish this discussion in a more appropriate venue,” said the dark-haired constable as he exchanged a quick look with his companion.

Sarah clasped her hands before her to stop them trembling. She had heard about the interrogation rooms beneath the offices at Bow Street, heard about fists and cudgels and the manner in which suspects were encouraged to answer questions and admit their guilt. Anyone who lived in this parish had heard the horrible tales. But these were not Bow Street Runners. They were constables of the Metropolitan Force. Would their methods be different? The thought that they might carry out such brutality on Killian, the image of him beaten and bloodied, made her ill.

One of the constables grabbed Killian’s arm.

Behind her, the hubbub in the ward grew, closing in on her, a cacophony of sound.

She took a step back, thinking that she must flee. She turned and saw Mr. Simon’s face and Mr. Franks’, the apprentices’, the patients’. Elinor stood to one side, her expression pinched with worry. Matron stood a few feet away, having come along the corridor and heard the last of the constable’s words. Her lips were pressed in a taut line. She looked angry and disapproving, but when she stepped forward and said, “You err, sirs. I do not believe Mr. Thayne capable of such vile acts,” no one paid her any mind.

Killian glanced down at the constable’s hand on his arm, then lifted his gaze to Sarah.

They were going to do this. They were going to drag Killian away and see him charged with murder. Murders. Five murders.

Before she could ponder ramifications and consequences, Sarah stepped forward and said, “He was with me. I am your witness. He was with me—” her chin came up, and she finished firmly “—all night.”

Killian swung his gaze to her, pewter and ice, and she read his shock that she spoke in his defense.

“He was with me,” she said again, louder, firmer. “So he could not have killed anyone because he accompanied me to my lodging and remained there with me from ten o’clock last night until dawn.”

Gasps and murmurs followed her words, and then silence.

Censure and condemnation hung in the air like a foul smell.

Of course, she had known it would be so even before she spoke. In saving Killian Thayne, she had doomed herself. A woman of loose moral character was not a woman to be respected and offered the opportunity of advancement on the wards.

Once before, the day Mr. Scully died, she had stepped forward in Killian’s defense. That day, he had saved her from herself. But today, she was not so lucky, for so speedily had she forged into battle, there had not been a moment for her protector to stand before her.

“You assert that Mr. Thayne was with you the entire night?” the constable demanded.

“I do,” she replied.

“The entire night?” The second constable stepped between her and Killian, using his physical presence to sever any influence that proximity might have over her answer.

She held his gaze and waited for uncertainty to creep to the fore on little rat feet. In truth, she could not swear that Killian had sat in the chair every moment of the night, guarding her door while she slept. He had been gone when she awakened, and he could have left at any time after she closed her door and locked it.

She looked back over her shoulder to the dead man on the bed. This time, the killer had ripped open the victim’s throat. And still, there was not a drop of blood spilled.

I hear your blood rushing in your veins, Sarah. Killian’s words echoed in her thoughts. How could he possibly hear her blood? How? And why had he said such a thing at all? I am not like other men.

His own softly spoken admissions were rife with macabre possibilities.

With a shudder, she looked away from the corpse, her gaze lifting to meet Killian’s over the constable’s shoulder.

The silence hung heavy, like a thick, cloying fog.

“Miss Lowell,” Killian said, his attention focused on her, and she knew he meant to say more, to sacrifice himself for her honor, to ensure that her name not be besmirched by her assertion that he had remained at her side the night through.

“Killian Thayne never left my side during the hours between ten o’clock and dawn,” she said again, her tone steady and sure. She knew it for the truth. He had told her he would guard her and keep her safe, and he had meant it. Whatever beast lurked beneath Killian’s skin, it was not a beast that had done this murder.

She turned her attention fully on the dark-haired constable and stared him down, though her legs trembled beneath her skirt, and her pulse pounded so heavy and fast it made her temples throb. She must find a way to make these men understand that they were looking for their monster in the wrong place.

“He is not your killer, regardless of what Mr. Simon believes he saw. In fact, Mr. Simon—” she turned her head toward the man in question and found him watching her with narrow-eyed rage “—I believe you said that you saw the patient alive some time close to midnight, a full two hours after Mr. Thayne left King’s College. With me.”

She knew what they thought. That she had lain with Killian. That she had allowed him liberties of a base nature.

She almost laughed. If she was to be painted with that scarlet brush, she wished she had at least done something to deserve it.

Killian inclined his head, a spare movement, almost as spare as the tiny smile he offered her. He had not expected her defense of him. But he appreciated it. Appreciated her.

In that instant, she wanted to stride to his side, take his hand between her own and decry the constables’ vile suspicions.

In that instant, she wished she were guilty of all the lascivious acts they suspected. She wished that she had allowed Killian those liberties, that she deserved the horrified looks the nurses and the matron cast her way.

The truth was, she might well have allowed them if he had only asked.

Because...Oh, sweet heaven...her heart twisted and she felt the blood drain from her cheeks. She was in love with him.

The magnitude of that realization left her reeling.

She thought she must have loved him for a very long time. For all the small kindnesses he offered to those less fortunate. For the way he offered each patient his undivided attention. For the way he spoke to her and listened to her and valued her words. For the way he had sat outside her door, his presence lessening her fear.

She was in love with Killian, despite—and because of—all his secret layers and hidden depths, all the mysteries and shadows that dogged him.

She was in love with a man they suspected of murder.