That night, Sarah walked slowly past the graveyard, searching for some hint of the man who stalked her. The place was silent and still. No shadow, no sound, no movement. He was not there. She was a little surprised, for she had been so certain he would come. But there was still time. He might yet show himself at any point along the route.

He did not. Not that night or the next or the one after that.

Each night, Sarah slept in Killian’s bed while he went to King’s College and worked with the patients. Her days were spent in his laboratory, a wonderful space that spanned the entire top floor of his home. He had taken her there when she woke the first morning.

“I will not allow your talents to go to waste,” he had said. “If there is aught you need that is not here, you have merely to tell me so.”

And Sarah had immersed herself in work, free to indulge her interests and aptitude.

On the fourth night, Sarah waited by the doors of King’s College until Elinor emerged. “Sarah,” her friend cried and rushed to her side to throw her arms around her. “Are you well?” Elinor grasped her by the shoulders and drew back to examine her face. Before Sarah could speak, Elinor gave a muffled laugh. “Oh, you look well. More than well. Dare I say, happy?”

Sarah smiled. “I am well and happy.”

Elinor’s dimples appeared as she grinned. “Mr. Thayne told me you were well and safe. But I’m glad to see it for myself.”

A ball of warmth spread through Sarah’s heart. She had not asked Killian to reassure Elinor, yet he had done so. Such a Killian thing to do.

The two women stood talking for a few moments, and with Sarah’s assurance that she would call on Elinor one day soon, they separated, Elinor going in one direction, Sarah in the other.

Sarah walked past the graveyard. A thick, damp blanket of fog clung to the tombstones and the surrounding buildings. She braved a glance over her shoulder toward the slaughterhouses. The fog veiled them from sight though she knew they were behind her for the air was stained with the scent of blood and butchered meat.

Beneath her cloak, she carried her cudgel, and her fingers curled tighter about it now. Killian had grinned when he saw it.

“What will you do with that?” he had asked with a low chuckle.

“I shall cosh him on the head if need be.”

“Yes, I believe you will.” He had caught her to him and kissed her, and held her against his chest, his laughter rumbling through them both.

The sound had poured through her like chocolate, luscious and warm. She made him laugh. She brought him joy. There was such pleasure for her in that.

Now, she walked on, quickening her pace, the chill of the night, or perhaps unease, making her teeth chatter. She resisted the urge to peer about, to search for some sign of Killian. She knew she would see no hint of his presence. He blended seamlessly with the night.

The hunter. She shivered as she recalled his words, uncertain how she felt about that. He would do what he must to keep humans safe from one of his kind, but what did that make him? And what did it make her that she loved him nonetheless?

She turned onto Queen Street and continued toward St. Giles. They had determined that she would take the quickest way to Coptic Street this night, through alleys and courtyards, for that was the darkest route, the most isolated, and their best hope to draw out the man they sought.

Summoning the memory of her previous encounter with him, she recalled that he was tall, draped in a flowing black cloak, his hands gloved, his face shadowed by a low crowned hat. There was little enough to hint at his identity, but for some reason, she felt certain he was familiar. Not Mr. Watts. She had already crossed him off her list. Mr. Simon, perhaps? He was of a height, and there was the fact that, while he attempted to lay suspicion on Killian, he, too, had been present on the ward on the day of each murder.

But that was the conundrum. The day of each murder. Even if the deaths occurred during the night, Mr. Simon had been there during the day after the discovery of each body. If he was a newly turned vampire, how then did he manage to stand in the light?

A sound distracted her, and she whirled to see a group of dark, furry bodies nosing at the gutter. Rats. Twitching her skirt aside, she made a soft exhalation then walked on.

Keeping a wary watch on her surroundings, she passed the darkened chandler’s shop, and the black windows of the stores that dealt in all manner of birds and small animals. Between the buildings, the alleys and courts darted in all directions, made chilling and menacing by the impenetrable fog.

In the distance, a dog began to howl, a solitary, mournful cry. Shivering, Sarah hesitated and looked about, the hair at her nape prickling and rising. She could hear the sound of her own breathing, harsh and loud.

Drawing her cloak tight about her, she walked on, daring a glance over her shoulder that revealed nothing save darkness and mist. But she sensed him, the man who stalked her. He had come.

And with him came her fear.

The sound of footsteps rang hollowly on the cobbles close behind her.

She froze, attuned to the faintest noise.

The footsteps stopped as she stopped, and when she began her trek once more, the echo of booted heels hitting the stones resumed.

A sharp trill of fear cut her, and she prayed Killian was behind her for she had no wish to confront the man—the vampire—on her own. No sooner did the thought coalesce, than the rising tide of her fear dissipated somewhat. Killian was watching, blanketed by the night. She had no doubt of that.

Faint sounds carried from the surrounding streets and buildings, raucous laughter, a woman’s sobs, a baby’s frantic cries. But all she could focus on was the ringing steps of the vampire that followed her, his steps matched to hers, neither falling back nor drawing near.

Just as she and Killian had planned, she turned down the same alley where the man who stalked her had cornered her before. Up ahead, the wooden cart was angled to block the way exactly as it had been the last time she walked this route. The thick vapor swirled around the wheels in ghostly embrace.

She kept her steps even until she reached the wagon, then she spun to face the length of the alley, her back pressed against the rough wood, her pulse hammering a frantic rhythm. She felt isolated here, the fog building a boundary between her and the rest of the world.

Before her, tendrils of mist stirred and parted, and she gasped as a dark shape emerged. Her heart slammed about in her chest like a bird desperate to fly free.

She saw him then, the vampire, there before her, a handful of steps away. His cloak hung about his tall frame and the low crowned hat was pulled down on his brow as it had been when last he hunted her. Panic clawed at her, though she knew Killian was near, knew he would let no harm befall her.

Her breath rushed in and out in short, panting gasps. Her arms trembled as she raised her cudgel, her full attention focused on the man who moved toward her, one step, another, bringing him closer and closer still.

Slowly, he raised his hand toward her. Her heart leapt to her throat.

The sound of cloth flapping in the wind carried to her, and a dark shape plummeted down from above, black cape rising like wings. She gasped and jerked back as Killian landed neatly on the balls of his feet, directly behind her pursuer.

With a hiss of surprise, the man began to turn, but Killian was on him, his lips peeled back in a feral snarl, his arm coming tight around the stranger’s throat, holding him fast.

With his hands clasped around Killian’s forearm, the man struggled to break his hold. His efforts were in vain. Regardless of how he twisted and clawed, Killian held him.

In the tussle, the stranger’s hat knocked free. Shaggy, dark hair tumbled across his brow and his gaze jerked up to lock with Sarah’s. Her vision narrowed to a tight black tunnel and she swayed where she stood, overwhelmed.

Shock and disbelief slapped her, and she sagged against the wooden cart as Killian slammed the man against the wall of the alley.

Her cudgel slipped from her hands to clatter against the stones, and she pushed herself upright, stumbled forward.

“Killian, no,” she cried. “He is...dear God...he is my father.”

His forearm still pressed across the other man’s throat, Killian turned his head to look at her. His lips were peeled back in a feral snarl, his expression terrifying. But she was not afraid. Not of Killian.

“He is my father,” she said again, joy and confusion, anger and shock all mixing together in a bubbling brew.

She almost ran to him, almost threw herself upon him, but Killian shifted so he stood between them and said, “Not yet, Sarah.”

She froze in her tracks. Her father bared his teeth as he snarled and clawed at Killian’s arm. It was clear that he was not merely trying to free himself, but to cause Killian harm. She recalled then what Killian had told her, how two of his kind could not inhabit the same territory. Her father was newly made. His instincts would surely overpower his logic.

“Killian, he is my father. Please, you cannot…” Cannot kill him.

He cut her a sidelong glance. “I am well aware.”

Her father chose that moment to surge at him. Sarah cried out, but Killian had the situation well under control. He was stronger than her father and he had been vampire for far longer.

He shifted his hold, keeping her father pinned with one hand, bringing his other to his lips. He tore open his wrist with his teeth and pressed the wound to her father’s lips.

“Drink,” he ordered.

Her father struggled for an instant, then with a moan he latched onto Killian’s wrist.

“Enough,” Killian said after a moment, and her father clutched at him in protest, but Killian was the stronger. He drew his wrist away and after another moment or two, he let go his restraint of her father. “Better?” Killian asked.

Her father made no answer, but he did not surge toward Killian in an attempt to attack, so she supposed it was better.

“It is enough to dampen the blood rage, yes?” Killian asked.

Her father offered a curt nod, then his gaze slid to Sarah, his expression shifting to shock then dismay.

“You are together—” He broke off and stumbled back, looking between Sarah and Killian, shaking his head from side to side as though trying to clear a noise from his ears. “You are with my daughter, yet you are like me? A vampire?” His tone was edged with horror.

“I am vampire,” Killian confirmed.

For a moment, the three of them stood in an awkward, motionless tableau then her father turned to her and held his hand out in supplication. “Sarah—”

She was dizzy under the onslaught of emotion that buffeted her. A thousand words tumbled to her lips, but she could manage only one.

“Why?” she cried, her gaze locked on her father, her nerves frayed and twisted in a Gordian knot. “Why follow me? Frighten me? Never reveal yourself to me?

“Sarah,” he said, his voice rough, the single word imbued with pain and distress and love. Then he pressed his lips tight and said nothing more.

She advanced on him, her shock and joy at finding him alive melding with feeling of both anger and betrayal. “Why?” she demanded. “Why did you let me believe you were dead? Drowned? I mourned you. I cried a river of tears. My heart was broken.”

“No, I—” He brought his hands up before him, a gesture of despair.

“How could you—” She broke off and simply shook her head, too confused, too overcome by hurt and betrayal to formulate the slurry of her thoughts into any semblance of coherent speech.

Again, she advanced, but Killian stopped her with a gesture. “He is vampire,” he said, and his meaning struck her. Her father was a vampire. She was human. Her blood was human, a siren’s song to one such as he.

Horror clawed at her and she fell back a step.

“No!” her father said. “I would never—”

“You cannot know that,” Killian said, his voice cold. He withdrew something from his cloak, and as he held it out, an offering to her father, Sarah saw that it was a flask. “Drink,” he ordered.

Her father looked back and forth between the two, then he accepted the flask from Killian and took a tentative sip. His eyes widened and he drank the whole of it down in greedy gulps.

Killian strode to Sarah’s side as he offered a command, his tone ice and steel. “Do not move from that spot, Mr. Lowell. Certainly, do not force me to stop you.” He pulled Sarah against him, wrapping her in the haven of his embrace.

She could not say how long they stood thus. Perhaps only seconds, perhaps far longer. At length, she felt her control return. Drawing a shaky breath, she stepped free of the shelter of Killian’s wonderfully safe embrace, her gaze lifting to meet her father’s tormented stare.

“I thought you were an opium addict. I thought that under the influence of that foul drug you fell in the Thames and drowned.” She paused. “You let me think that.”

“I did. And I am sorry.” Her father held his hand out to her, tears glittering on his lashes. Even in the paltry light, she could see his pallor and the deep black circles beneath his eyes. He had suffered, and it hurt her to know it. “I was never an opium addict, Sarah. I wanted you to think it because it was the only way to shield you. The symptoms you saw were...it was the hunger. I cannot explain it. It is like nothing I have ever experienced. It only grew stronger, a gnawing pain that ripped me to bits until I dared not be near you, dared not trust myself. My God, you have no idea what I have become. I did want to die. I tried. Flung myself in the Thames. Only...I came to understand that this thing I have become will not die.” He drew a great shuddering breath. “My God, I have missed you so.”

“Do not lie to yourself or to her,” Killian said, his voice low. “You knew there was a way to die.”

Her father drew a breath, then blew it out. “Alright. Yes. I knew I could stand in the sun. It didn’t take long to find that out. But I—”

“Didn’t want to die,” Killian finished for him.

“I didn’t want to die,” her father agreed.

“Papa,” Sarah said past the lump in her throat, her hand reaching for him.

He lurched forward. Moving so fast he was little more than a blur, Killian insinuated himself between them, using his body as a shield.

“Do you trust yourself, Mr. Lowell?” he asked, darkly soft.

“She is my daughter,” her father said.

“She is mine,” Killian said in a tone she had never before heard from him. That single word revealed the beast inside him, the primitive creature driven by instinct, driven to claim and to hold what he claimed. He looked down at her then. “She is my light, my joy, my heartbeat. I will let nothing harm her.”

“I will not harm her. I have sat by her bed as she slept. I have followed her through this vile place—” her father gestured at their surroundings “—to keep her safe.”

“You sat by my bed?” Sleep now, Sarah. Dream sweet dreams. “You did. I remember.”

Overwhelmed, Sarah looked back and forth between the two. Her lover was a vampire, and her father had returned from the dead.

“How were you turned to a vampire, Papa?” she asked. “How did you become what you are?”

“The patient from France. You remember? The friend that Mr. Montmarche begged me to see.” His mouth twisted and his tone turned to a sneer. “My kindness was repaid by betrayal. He was a vampire, burned by the sun. His skin was blackened and falling away, and he was desperate for blood. He drained me nearly unto death.”

Sarah shuddered at his words, for the images they conjured were ghastly. She recalled the dead patients at King’s College, their wrists torn open, bloodless.

“Papa,” she said, pouring her sadness and empathy into that single word.

With a sigh, her father reached out for her. Beside her Killian tensed, ready to leap to her protection.

To protect her from her father.

She edged around Killian, weaving her fingers through his, then reached out with her free hand to her father. “You cannot know,” she whispered to Killian. “I thought him dead, and here he is. Alive.” She swallowed against the lump that clogged her throat. “I thought I would never see him again. I never even had a body to bury.” She paused. “I thought I was alone.”

Laying his hand on her back, Killian said nothing, but she could feel the tension that pulsed beneath the surface, sense the beast he had warned her lurked beneath the thin veneer. He did not trust her father, and she understood that, understood his need to hold her safe.

Warily, her father approached and took her hand. Tears traced along her cheeks. She held the hands of both men.

“You say he drained you nearly unto death, but how is it that you became what he was?” she asked her father.

“Montmarche’s friend—” her father made a dull laugh “—you know, I never did learn his name. Well, he gave me the choice. To die, or to take his blood and live. I chose life. But I did not understand. Not until I woke with the thirst.” He exhaled sharply through his nostrils. “He was long gone by then, and I was left with the thirst and a thousand questions.”

Killian made a small sound of disgust. “The newly made making more newly made. A dangerous folly.”

“Sarah, my darling, I would not have left you alone had I a choice,” her father said. “But it was better for me to die, to remove myself from your life. I have watched you from the shadows. Guarded you as best I could. I dared not be near you, for I was afraid both of what I might do to you, and of what you might think of the aberration I have become. But...you already know. You—” His gaze shot to Killian.

“Mr. Lowell,” Killian interjected. “You have been killing patients at King’s College.”

With a gasp, Sarah shook her head, reminding herself exactly why they had lured him to this place. Because of the murders. Murders. And Killian meant to end the string of deaths by terminating the killer.

“What? King’s College?” Her father scrubbed his palms over his face. Dropping his hands, he glanced first at Sarah, then Killian. He seemed to sink into himself as he made a gesture of futility. “Yes. I saw no other course, no way to slake the hunger. I took only those who were suffering. Only those who would die regardless. You know, I can sense that now. I can feel death clinging to every breath. I know who will not survive, no matter what medical machinations are offered.”

Sarah glanced at Killian. That was how he knew which patients would not benefit from any intervention. He, too, could sense death.

“So you chose with care.” Killian’s lips turned in a faint smile, and his tone was one of understanding. “I admire both your restraint and your compassion. It is common for the newly turned to feed in a mad frenzy without thought or care. That you held yourself from that is admirable.”

Something in his tone made Sarah’s breath catch. Something dark.

Admirable or not, he would kill her father.

She could not let him. But, oh God, her father was himself a murderer.

Her gaze jerked to Killian’s, and she found him studying her, his eyes flat, his expression ruthlessly neutral. There was a sinister side to what he was. He had warned her of that.

“Killian,” she whispered, even as her father said, “Sarah—”

Killian’s gray eyes gleamed in the darkness, holding her trapped, breathless. He had told her this. He had told her of the murderers and thieves that he had fed from. Was her father to be his next victim?

“No, love. That is not the way of it,” Killian said with a shake of his head.

Love. She drew a sharp breath, stunned by the term. Killian would not use it lightly.

“For five centuries I have been alone.” He cast a sidelong glance at her father. “And now I go from being completely alone, to having a complete family, including a father-in-law who is a fledgling I must needs tutor.” He made a wry smile. “There is a certain dark irony in that.”

Her thoughts whirling, Sarah could only gape at him, trying to understand his meaning.

Killian inclined his head to her father, and said, “If you would afford us a moment of privacy, sir?”

Without waiting for a reply, he took her hand and drew her off into the shadows.

“You called him your father-in-law,” Sarah said.

“I did. I’ll marry you if you’ll have me.”

Sarah lifted her brows and pressed her lips together. “Was that meant to be a proposal?”

Killian laughed softly. “The first I’ve ever made to any woman. And the last.” His gaze grew somber, and the teasing glint disappeared. “Do not answer me right away, love, only listen to what I offer. I want to turn you.”

“Turn me?” Even as she echoed the words, his meaning became clear. He wanted her to be as he was. “Killian—”

“Please—” he pressed his fingers to her lips “—hear me out.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. “You asked me if I loved you. I knew I wanted you. I knew I respected you. I knew I treasured you. I did not believe I loved you because I did not believe myself capable of love.”

She swallowed, staring up at him, her heart thudding a painful rhythm.

“But in this alley when faced with the need to terminate the interloper, I could not because of the pain it would cause you. When faced with the instinct to stop the creature that could expose us all, I could not because of the pain it would cause you. When I realized that he was your father, the joy that swelled inside me on your behalf was brighter than a sunrise. What I feel for you is deeper than instinct, stronger than my hunger, greater than any need I have ever known. If it would benefit you in some way, I would walk into the sun. So it appears that the monster is capable of love after all.”

“Killian,” she whispered, choking on her tears. He leaned in and kissed them where they traced down her cheek.

“I want to share eternity with you,” he said. “To show you the world. To never see you grow a day older than you are now. To watch civilizations evolve and change until there are women who are physicians and surgeons and you are one of them.” His expression grew solemn. “But there is a price. Both your father and I were turned without knowing the full extent of what we would become. If you choose this, love, if you choose me, I need you to make that choice with full understanding.

“So say nothing yet, my love. Make no hasty decision.” He pulled her against him, and brushed his lips across hers. “Stay with me, Sarah. Be my light, my love. And when you are ready, only then give me your answer.”

Her heart swelled and she could only offer a mute nod. It was too much, too much. Killian loved her. He loved her and he wanted her for exactly who she was. And he offered her the world.

She rose up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his, then whispered, “I love you,” against his lips.