Rory remained on the balcony. The palms lining the hotel’s driveway swayed in the breeze. The subtle motion of the fronds and the sunlight bouncing off the swimming pool proved mesmerizing.

His thoughts drifted back to a dreary winter day in Dublin, 1895. As promised, Jack Gilhooly had called on his mother...

Fanny was tense and viewed this outing of her son and Jack as something of a test. She combed Rory’s freshly washed hair and kissed the crown of his head. “Be a good boy. Do me proud.”

Jack stood just beyond the cottage’s open door, looking sullen. “We’ve a long walk ahead. Best get on with it, lad.”

It was time to get the dreaded outing with his future stepfather over with. Rory let go of his mother and joined Mr. Gilhooly on the front steps.

Fanny beamed at them and waved. “I want to hear favorable reports from you both.”

“We’ll be saints.” Jack thrust his hands deep into his pockets and pointed the way forward with a jutting chin. “Are you up to walking a couple miles?”

Rory nodded. He was active and ran every day delivering messages between the pub and the docks. “Yes, sir.” For his mother’s sake, he did as he was told and treated Jack with respect.

“That’s a good lad.” Jack smiled, and for a moment was freed from his usual ogre-ish expression, looking almost pleasant.

It was a cold day and they walked fast to stay warm. Despite his experience as a message runner, Rory soon fell behind Jack’s long strides.

Jack turned and waited for him to catch up. “If you get tired, boy, you can ride on my shoulders. We have a long way to go.”

His heart dropped. How much farther? They’d crossed the River Liffey and entered a part of the city he’d never seen. “I’m too big to be carried.” He was seven.

Looking amused, Jack’s brows lifted. “You’re a tough little man. I like that.”

They walked for many blocks and passed houses that were barely more than shanties, then entered a lovely neighborhood of looming brownstone townhouses surrounding a gated park lined with lime trees. He dared to hope they were nearing their goal and broke the silence. “Is this where the tailor lives?”

“There ain’t no tailor.” Jack laughed. “We’re going to see a cousin of mine who’s a rag and bone man.”

Was all this walking for nothing? “You promised my ma you’d buy me a coat.”

“And I will! Don’t be a wretched squid and hound me.” Jack scanned the immediate area. “Do you see a red cart pulled by a big black horse with braids in its mane? Tomás promised he’d meet me here.”

The vague answer didn’t suit him. He was too tired and hungry to remain patient. “Who’s Tomás? Will we have to wait long?”

“Tomás is doing us a favor. He’ll be here when he’s ready, so don’t whine like an ungrateful little gnat.” He drew his lips taut. “I shouldn’t have said that. Don’t tell yer ma that I called you a gnat or a squid. I’m trying to stay on her sunny side.”

He’d been waiting for the opportunity to get Jack over a barrel, and this was it. “Buy me some treacle and I won’t say nothin’.”

“I will do no such thing!” Jack glared. “What is this? Blackmail from a little snot with baby teeth? When I marry your ma, I’ll be the man of the house, not you. My word shall rule. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” If he fought with Jack, his mother would be cross. “But I still want treacle.”

They waited on the edge of the park for what felt like an eternity, but did not go inside. Only the residents of the elegant townhomes nearby were granted use of the private park.

His stomach growled.

Jack heard the noise and frowned. “It shouldn’t be long.”

Finally, a red cart clattered their way, pulled by a black horse wearing a gentleman’s derby.

“Tomás!” Jack rose from the park bench and hailed a man who wore a brown derby identical to his horse’s but with the addition of a pink silk rose festooned in the hatband.

Tomás pulled his cart to the side of the lane and dismounted. He had the same lanky build and greasy blond hair that Jack had, but appeared to be several years older. He used a dirty hand to wipe his face and left a sooty streak across the bridge of his nose. “Have you been waitin’ long?”

Rory almost answered yes.

“No.” Jack gazed at his boots. “We just got here.”

“Then the timin’ is perfect.” Tomás grabbed a large carpetbag off the heaped cart and walked behind a tree. “Come over here. I don’t want the poor mother who gifted me her son’s garb to look out the window and see me handing it off to another. That would be heartless.” He dug inside the valise and pulled out a finely made pine-green woolen coat with brass buttons. “Look here, a genuine London-style Chesterfield tailored for a nipper. Hardly worn. It’s a bit on the spacious side, but it gives the lad room to grow.”

Jack took possession of the coat, looked it over, and held it up to Rory for size. “It drags past his ankles.”

“Better too big than....”

“Dead?” Jack shrugged. “You’re selling me a dead lad’s clothes, aren’t ye?”

“What did you expect? Look at this quality! It’ll please your sweetheart to see her brat dressed like a little lord. I’ll bet she be all over your lap for that favor.” Tomás cocked his head; his gaze appraised Rory with a strange intensity. “Do I see a touch of Andalusian blood in the lad? The region breeds fine horses, fearsome warriors, and fiery women, yet I still can’t stomach a Spaniard. Tell me, does the mother have the same haunting dark eyes as the child?”

Jack thrust his bottom lip out. “Fanny’s eyes are as blue as a summer day.”

“And you looked all misty when you said it. It must be true love.” Tomás’s smile crooked. He glanced into the valise. “There are trousers, lace-up boots, and a child’s nightshirt. I’ll offer you a fair price for all of it.”

Looking uncomfortable, Jack fiddled with his collar, flicking it nervously with his thumb. “What do you consider a fair price?”

“Come here.” Tomás beckoned Jack closer, cupped his hand, and whispered something in his ear.

Jack nodded. “That’s a lot to ask.”

Tomás grinned. “In exchange, you’re getting a lot. Look at it this way. You’ll be treating the lad like family right from the start.”

Digging his hand deep into his pocket, Jack retrieved a wadded bundle of notes and gave them to Tomás.

After quickly counting the money, Tomás stuffed it in his pocket. “Just remember, you still owe me.”

Appearing hesitant, Jack scratched his scalp. “I’ll find another way to pay the difference.”

“I wouldn’t hear of it!” Tomás’s eyes bulged comically. “I want what we discussed. Are we first cousins or not? What sort of a world do we live in when kin don’t want to help kin?”

Breaking eye contact, Jack said nothing.

Tomás stood defiantly with his hands locked on his skinny hips. The silk rose wilted over the side of his hatband. “Because we’re family, you can keep the carpetbag at no extra cost.” He leaned over and chucked Rory under the chin. “I’ll be seeing you again, lad, sooner than later.”

Shaking his head, Jack stepped away. “Nothin’ is certain.”

Tomás returned a few coins to Jack. “There’s a fancy bakery two blocks south. Get the lad a jam tart.” He climbed back onto the cart, snapped the reins, and rolled down the lane.

Rory looked up at Jack. “I want two jam tarts.”

“Feeling greedy, are we? Why the fuck would I buy you two?”

“So I won’t tell Ma that you bought me a dead boy’s garb.”

Jack’s face blanched. “We can’t tell Fanny. With her unshakable belief in wraiths, it would frighten her. I can’t bear that. Her days are troubled enough without worrying about a dead boy’s ghost following us home. It’s best we say nothin’. Don’t you agree?”

It was then he realized Jack did want to look after his mother. “Buy me two tarts and I won’t say a word.”

* * *

SOMEONE KNOCKED ON the door.

Rory turned away from the balcony railing and walked back into the room. The faint scent of Madelyn’s perfume lingered in the hall. There was no need to ask, but he went through with the pretense anyway. “Who’s there?”

“The chuck wagon’s arrived!” Madelyn’s cheerful voice lifted his spirits. “I’ve got two pastrami on sourdough rye. Let me in.”

He opened the door and was greeted by her beaming face. “It wasn’t locked.”

“I know.” She shouldered her way inside, walking beneath his raised arm. A whiff of garlicy pastrami came with her. Despite the superstitions of the Old World, he’d never found garlic to be off-putting. In fact, the pungent scent enhanced a blood feeding, and he’d never minded it a bit.

She headed toward the balcony. “Let’s take these outside. I got myself a kosher dill. I’ll eat it on the patio, or else your room will smell like pickles for a week.” Once she was on the patio, she sat cross-legged on the floor and unpacked the contents of a large paper bag. “Sit.”

He sat in front of her, leaning against the iron railing that felt like the bars of a prison cell pressed against his back.

Madelyn set two huge sandwiches wrapped in newspaper between them, accompanied by two bottles of opaque brown soda.

He pointed to the bottles. “That’s an odd-looking type of cola.”

“That’s not cola.” Her brow rose. “Those are egg creams. They’re better when you mix them fresh at the fountain and they have a head on them, but they’re not bad this way either as long as they’re cold.”

Someone had bottled eggs? It sounded disgusting. “Is that safe for you to drink?”

She laughed. “Are you worried about my well-being? There’s no alcohol in it.”

The crap looked murky. “What about the eggs?”

“News flash. There are no eggs or cream in an egg cream. It’s seltzer water, chocolate syrup, and milk.”

Sadly, blood was all he could digest. The recipe sounded stomach-churning, and he almost retched. “Oh.”

“Don’t they have something like this where you’re from? Try one.”

“No, thank you.”

She pulled a tiny steel loop from her pocket and flicked the cap from a bottle. The contents hissed. “Oh, come on. Have you had one before?”

“No.”

Her eyes twinkled as she lifted the bottle to her lips. “Don’t be stubborn. You should try new things before life passes you by.”

Life had already passed him by, and he had tried almost everything. He’d danced with beautiful women on the rooftops of Paris, gambled with closeted Russian aristocrats in Kiev, and everywhere he could, he’d drunk the blood of the willing or soon to be dead. “Do you like that stuff?”

She tipped the bottle and took a long gulp. “It reminds me of a Mexican drink called rompope that I loved when I was a kid. But in Mexico we would add ground almonds and a shot of coffee and call it a cola de mono, monkey tail. Adults add a shot of rum.”

He studied the dramatic sweep of her cheekbones, tried to picture what she looked like as a child and failed. “Did you grow up in Mexico?”

Madelyn held a finger to her lips. “I was born in Los Angeles, but my mother traveled back and forth to Mexico City. I have family there. My birth name is Magdalena Maria Portola, but to get work in the studios, I had to change it to Madelyn Porter—but I’m not supposed to talk about that.”

“Who told you that, Bill?”

“My first agent, but I’m not with him anymore.” She unwrapped a sandwich that dripped onto the newspaper. “Bill got me out of that contract last winter. The agent wasn’t doing anything for me anyway, and said at twenty-six, I was getting too old to cast as the ingénue.”

Too old? She looked like a big kid sitting cross-legged on the floor. Was the world that stupid and cruel to women? But of course he knew it was.

Biting into the sandwich, she rolled her eyes heavenward. “Thank God for the Brown Derby,” she mumbled in between bites and nudged the unwrapped sandwich closer to him. “Chow down.”

There was no way he wanted to eat that sandwich, so he watched her instead. “Did you always want to be an actress?”

Her eyes lit. “I used to put on neighborhood plays on our front porch starring myself and anyone else I could talk into standing beside me while I stole all the lines. When I was twelve, my mother took me to see Dolores Del Rio in Bird of Paradise. It was heaven. I said to myself, that’s me! I can do this too. I got to Hollywood, and all I heard was ‘Don’t tell anyone you’re Mexican. We already have enough Mexican girls.’ Can you imagine? Nobody told Gene Tierney to go home because they already had enough pretty white girls.”

“Did you get more work after changing your name?”

“I used to work a lot, enough to support myself. Mostly small parts, especially in the chorus. I dance too.” She pointed through the open door to his duffel bag, which was set on the bed. “You know that book you’re carrying around?”

He did. Hal had traded that book to him, mid-Pacific, and he planned to replace it with many more as soon as he could get to a library or bookstore to find something he hadn’t already read more than twice. “The Razor’s Edge?”

“Yeah, that one. I read it too, a couple times. You see, I was up for the part of Sophie. It was a total fluke. The director saw me on a soundstage working on a newsreel bumper. I was just smiling and holding up title cards, but he took me aside and told me to read the book and audition. To be honest, I let him take me to dinner too, if you know what I mean.” Madelyn winked. “We’re all adults here. I wanted that part so badly.” She set the sandwich down and folded her hands in mock prayer. “For the first time, I got two call-back auditions and wardrobe test shots. I was good. I could feel it. In my heart, I was Sophie, but in the end, the director got cold feet about casting me, and Ann Baxter got the part instead. Lucky little bitch.”

“You’ll get your break.”

“Sure I will.” A moment later, she became sullen, and he sensed her withdrawal from further conversation. She wrapped the vast remainder of her sandwich inside the now damp newspaper. “I’ll finish this later. I should go back to my room and take a nap. You should take a nap too, if you can. It might be a long night.”

If possible, he needed to find a discreet situation where he could safely slip away unnoticed and feed. Bars and hospitals were ideal hunting grounds. “Where am I driving you tonight?”

Madelyn hung her head. “That damn suitcase finally arrived, and Bill will expect me to....” She swished her hand through the air as if erasing her former thoughts. “Never mind.”

That downturn of her mouth told him everything he needed to know about Madelyn and Big Bill’s dynamic. Despite her tough talk, he sensed they were far from equals, or even harboring friendly respect. Bill had power over her, but why? Something wasn’t adding up. “How long have you lived in the penthouse?”

She stared at the horizon. “Almost eight months. It’s funny, because when I left my agent, I expected things to get better fast. I told Bill I only needed a place to stay for a couple of weeks. Those weeks turned into months, and here I am. Time flies. I’ll be twenty-seven next month.”

That was the same age he had been when he’d been turned into a vampire. He looked into her eyes, which were clear and bright, yet her expression was so conflicted. Was that shame or fear lurking just below the surface? He couldn’t tell.

“Why are you looking at me like that? Did I say something that made you angry?”

He couldn’t even remember what it felt like to be free of a conflicted conscience. Every encounter with the living carried its own odd tale of longing, need, or indifference. “You didn’t say anything wrong. I was just thinking.”

“Just thinking? I’ve seen junkyard dogs with friendlier faces.”

Someone knocked on the door with three jolting knuckle raps as syncopated as drum beats.

Rory walked to the door and sniffed. His nose was as keen as a sharpshooter’s gaze was accurate. It was a man, midfifties, who wore a splash of mentholated aftershave. “Who’s there?”

“Geno. The tailor. Bill sent me.”

He opened the door. The man was everything he expected, far shorter than average but also more handsome. His aquiline features and silver hair swept away from his temples lent him the look of a modern-day Caesar. A small box was clutched in his hand, and reams of dark clothing were draped over his arm. He ambled into the room and set everything down on the bed.

Geno’s gaze swept over Rory, floor to crown. “Six foot. Twenty-eight waist. Thirty-three inseam. Shoe size, ten. Possibly ten and a half.”

“I could have saved you the trip up here and told you all that over the phone.” Madelyn gathered her things, placed the uneaten portion of the sandwich back in the paper bag, and stood.

A smirk crossed Geno’s lips. “You could have, but I like to see things for myself. You know, eyes on the target.” He turned toward Rory. “Am I right?”

How should he answer this? “About seeing things for yourself? I suppose so.”

A scowl of impatience made Geno look ugly. “I meant your measurements, jerk! Did I guess right?”

Did this fool just call him a jerk? Who called a hungry vampire a jerk? A doomed jerk, that’s who. Geno did guess his measurements correctly, but he’d be damned before he said so. “You’re close.”

Geno reached for the small box on the bed, opened it, and pulled out a cloth tape measure. “How close? I’m usually dead-on.”

Damn it. He hated that this idiot was going to get the satisfaction of being proven right.

“Drop your pants and spread your feet.” Geno delivered the command with a straight face. “Angel face.” He glanced at Madelyn and made a shooing motion with his hand. “Time to scram.”

Madelyn smoothed the creases from her skirt. Her hands strayed across her tanned thighs. With the grace of a stalking leopardess, she strolled through the room and turned the knob. She smiled at Rory before exiting and allowed the door to shut slowly behind her.

With a swift smack on Rory’s arm, Geno got his attention. “If you’re smart you won’t do that again.”

His arm stung from the smack. It took all his self-control to not throttle Geno and crush his windpipe. “Do what?”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t look at that girl like she’s the blue plate special.” Geno’s expression softened. “She’s not what you think she is.”

As if this rude little tailor would know what he thought? “And what do you think I think she is?”

Geno’s mouth twisted as if conflicted about saying the next words. “Forget I said anything.” He sorted through a stack of black trousers and pulled a pair from the pile. “These will fit.” He thrust the pants into Rory’s hands. “Put ’em on.”

Rory unbuttoned his canvas pants and kicked them down his legs. The trousers Geno handed him were made of the finest weave, which slid across his palms without the least bit of friction. As a vampire who traveled the world borrowing or stealing the clothes of others, he’d seen and felt a little of every fabric imaginable. “Cashmere?”

“Yep.” Geno hunted through a selection of jackets, examining each carefully. “This is your lucky day. Aside from being a little too short, the other trousers are just plain old wool.”

He stepped into the lightweight trousers and drew them up his legs. The waistband hit at exactly his hipbone, and the trousers fit as if they’d already been tailored for him.

“Good.” Geno handed Rory a matching cashmere jacket dyed as black as a starless night. “Which side do you wear your gun on?”

Rory paused. Except for his military exploits during WWI in the Royal Irish Fusiliers, he had never owned or carried a gun. The element of surprise was all he ever needed.

“Are you mute? Right- or left-handed? Gimme a clue and I’ll add a vent inside the lining or a hidden interior pocket.”

He had no intention or desire to carry a gun. Many times, while pressed against a victim feeding, the thought had crossed his mind that he was grateful they didn’t have a gun to turn against him. Sooner or later, it was bound to happen, but he’d be damned before he provided the weapon. “I’m a driver. Guns aren’t my style.”

Rage flashed in Geno’s dark eyes. “You’re a bodyguard, goddammit! How are you going to protect Maddy without a gun? Are you going to give the bad guys a wicked paper cut?”

There it was, right at the surface. The explanation why this guy was so peeved. Everything from the fleeting but desperate look on his face to the emotion in his voice gave the not-so-secret secret away: he had territorial feelings toward Madelyn and maybe even loved her. Could he blame the poor bastard? “What happened to Madelyn’s last bodyguard?”

“None of your business.” Geno sneered.

This guy was a portrait in misery. “How dangerous is this job?” Not that he cared.

“The creep had it coming. Don’t mention nothin’ to Maddy. We told her he went to work for somebody on the East Coast.” Geno held the jacket up and waited for Rory to thrust his arms into the sleeves. Once the garment was on, he smoothed the fabric into place and buttoned the front. “Raise your arms. Bring your hands forward. Draw them back. Let your arms hang at your sides.” His gaze scanned every detail. “The fit is good as is. It’s not worth getting the needle and thread out.”

“You mean not worth the trouble for me.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.” The unchosen clothing was gathered off the bed. “You have to be presentable, nothing more. You’re not the fucking groom at the wedding.”

Rory gazed down. “A button’s loose.”

“Don’t touch it.” Geno’s voice burned with annoyance. “I’ll take care of it.” He opened the sewing kit, removed a small pair of ornamental scissors shaped like a crane with a long, sharp bill, and snipped the loose threads away from the Bakelite button.

Drawing a tense breath, Rory tried to remain still, but having an angry man this close provoked the impulse to pounce. He shifted away from Geno. “I’ll take the jacket off.”

Looking put out, Geno leaned closer. “Don’t bother. This will only take a minute.”

In his agitated state, being this near a human was torture. The faint scent of sweat and aftershave was getting to him. He reached for the lapels. “Let me take it off. It will be quicker.”

“I said don’t bother.” Inches from Rory’s face, Geno picked at the loose threads with his head bowed. Beneath his olive skin, a vein shone green. Blood moved quietly below the surface, boom, boom. His gaze fixated on the sight the way a wolf stares at a limping rabbit struggling through snow. The scissors snipped, snipped, snipped.

It was taking forever. The sound of breathing and heat rolling off the skin at such close quarters was nearly unbearable. Like an endless scream ringing in his ears, the hunger for blood rose. He was ready to do anything he had to do to gain a moment of peace. His gums tingled as his fangs threatened to descend. This guy was in real danger. He shoved Geno away. “Stop!”

“What the hell!” Geno pushed back, striking Rory hard in the chest. “Look what you did!” He held up his hand. The tip of the scissors had pierced the skin, and a trickle of crimson dripped down his palm. “It takes as long as it takes. I’m doing you a favor hothead, so don’t snap your cap!” He strode into the bathroom.

At the sight of blood, a soft growl escaped him. He covered his face with his hands to avoid the alluring spectacle.

Geno turned on the faucet and washed his hands. “Mark my words, that hair-trigger temper is gonna be your Achilles’ heel.”

His heel wasn’t what made him vulnerable. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push you. I’ve been at sea too long and I’m a little....” What could he say that wouldn’t give him away?

“I get it.” Geno wrapped his hand in a towel. “You don’t have to say it. I was too old to fight in the last war, but I saw my share of ugly shit in the Great War. I thought we were only going to schedule a world war once and never do it all again. I feel for you boys. Most of you saw hell and you can’t un-see it. Let’s pray we never have a WWIII.”

Not only had he seen hell, he’d caused plenty of it too. He took the trousers off, then slid the jacket from his shoulders and set the items on the bed. “Some days I’m a little jumpy.”

“No worries.” Exiting the bathroom with the towel still wrapped around his hand, Geno picked all the clothes off the bed, draping them one by one over his arm. “I’ll sew the button back and have the suit brushed and pressed and ready by this evening, okay?”

Rory had no idea when Bill expected him to drive Madelyn, and he’d better find out. “I don’t have a schedule yet.”

“No hard feelings, right?” Geno’s attention was riveted to the thick sandwich wrapped in newspaper sitting on the nightstand. His heavy brows sank. “Pastrami from the Brown Derby?”

“Yeah.” The smell of the sandwich had become sickening. Blood was on the menu, the sooner the better, and nothing else would do. “Do you want it?” He patted his stomach. “Something’s not sitting well with me.”

“If it’s going to go to waste, I’ll grab it.”

With the swish of his hand, he motioned for Geno to take it away. “Help yourself, but don’t tell Madelyn. She went to some trouble.”

“I introduced that girl to the Derby.” Geno scooped the sandwich into his free hand, then walked to the door and gestured with his raised chin. “Could you get that?”

Rory turned the knob and pulled.

With arms laden, Geno walked to the end of the hallway. “Catch you later.”

The door shut behind him. Now what? He scanned the stark white walls of the tiny room. Was he supposed to just lie around until seven, eight, nine o’clock waiting for Bill to call? Damn, how boring. Tension rippled up his spine. He’d just come ashore to a city he’d always dreamed of exploring, and instead he was cooped up like a pet parrot in a penthouse cage.

Should he venture out and hunt? Was it too early? Perhaps it would be better to wait until dark, when coming and going unseen was infinitely easier. How was he going to just sit around while his hunger tormented him every moment he refrained from doing the inevitable?

Stepping onto the balcony, he looked down at the gardens. In the heat of the day, the tennis courts were empty. A ring of towering palms cast shadows across the sparkling surface of the kidney-shaped pool.

A gate creaked. A dark-haired woman walked onto the patio wearing a short white robe. She strolled toward a lounge, unknotted the belt, and allowed the robe to slowly slide from her shoulders like a fallen angel shedding her wings. A coral swimsuit provided a strong contrast to her suntanned skin. Taking several swift strides, she raised her arms above her head and dove into the pool, making only a slight splash.

She surfaced taking powerful strokes, each in perfect rhythm with the last. Her black hair streamed behind her as she cut through the water like an arrow, then rolled onto her back. With eyes closed in blissful peace, she stroked across the pool. It was Madelyn.

His chest tightened and his hands gripped the railing as a burst of unsettling emotion seized him. His reaction to her was intense, and he wished he could be close to her, talk to her, know more about her. Such desires were so unwelcome.

Madelyn opened her eyes and looked up. She stopped swimming and treaded water. “Rory!” Her voice echoed between buildings. “Borrow some trunks and come down!”

With his bloodlust running hot, could he swim beside a flirting mermaid and expect no one to get hurt? It seemed like asking for trouble. He cupped his hands and shouted, “I better not.”

“Why?” She shrugged. “No one cares!”

He cared for a number of reasons, but he didn’t want to admit that to Madelyn.

“There’s an extra pair of trunks in the towel closet. Put them on and join me.”

Would it be so wrong to float weightless in cool water beside a beautiful woman and for a few fleeting minutes pretend to be just like any other man? Fighting every conflicted desire in his heart and mind, he shook his head.

“Your loss!” She frowned, ducked her head beneath the water, and swam away.  

The balcony was in full sun. He moved away from the light and shut the drapes. Sunlight didn’t harm him, but as the decades marched on, he’d come to prefer the shadows. The faint sounds of splashing below enticed him to return to the balcony, but he resisted. He lay across the bed and stared at the pale plaster ceiling that badly needed a fan to circulate the still air.

Now what? Should he just stay put and wait for Mr. Boven to tell him what to do, or should he slip onto the street and hunt? There were several movie theaters and bars nearby. He could sneak into any of them, enthrall a donor—as he preferred to call those he drank from—and flee before anyone took notice. If Madelyn wasn’t swimming laps directly below his room, he might have risked a leap to the fire escape and exit through the outside staircase. Bill and the guys in the front room would likely remain oblivious to the fact that he’d left the penthouse, but knowing Madelyn was possibly watching held him in check.

He closed his eyes. Sneaky wasn’t anything new to him. Long before he’d become a blood-stealing vampire he’d been a stealthy little boy. His thoughts wandered to Jack Gilhooly...

After their initial fight, Jack seemed eager to win Fanny over and was more respectful toward her, at least in front of Rory. His usually excessive drinking and swearing had been greatly reduced, and a wedding day had been set for the following month. One night when Fanny was working at the pub, Jack came to the cottage and knocked on the door.

“Open, Rory. It’s your soon-to-be da. We’ve got an errand to run.”

He’d been asleep and rubbed his eyes. “I’m tired. Ma told me to stay put.”

“Let me in. We’re all but family. This will only take an hour. You’ll be back in your snug little bed in a wink. Be a good lad, do as I say and hop to.”

If his ma found out he’d ignored one of Jack’s direct requests, a scolding was sure to follow. He tossed the blankets aside, got out of bed, and drew the latch. Jack stood at the threshold, cupping his hands and blowing warm breath into them while steam rose from his collar. “Dress warm. This is a good night to wear that bonny new coat I bought you.”

Even as a child, he recognized Jack’s half-truths for what they were. “You traded for it.”

Jack hung his head. “Right you are, and I’m still paying off that debt. For God’s sake don’t say nothin’ about it to your ma.”

Reaching for his newly acquired winter wear, he dressed. “Where are we going?”

“Hush.” Jack held a finger to his lips. “It’s a secret.”

Again, a little part of him knew that going with Jack was likely something his mother would disapprove of, but she’d also put him in the double bind of needing to obey Jack. “You mean if I don’t know, I can’t tell her.”

“No! Don’t say that. You make it sound like we’re doing something bad, and this is more of an adventure.”

Did he have a choice? Not really. Whatever choice he made, someone was sure to be cross with him. “If I go with you, can I have a jam tart?”

“A tart?” Jack’s brows flew toward his hairline. “It’s midnight, lad. Ain’t no sweet shops open at this hour.”

He slipped his arms into the heavy jacket and buttoned it with clumsy fingers. “All right. I want a pasty!”

“You’ll get a sausage pie, another time. What shall we do, shake the baker awake and force him to roll dough by moonlight? I think not.”

Reality sank in along with disappointment. He was going to have to do as Jack said, and there would be no reward, at least not now.

“Hurry!” Jack helped him tie the laces on his boots, which were well made but decidedly too large to walk comfortably in. When he ran in these shoes, he sounded like a duckling flapping its feet.

They shut the cottage door while Jack looked furtively about to see if anyone had witnessed their exit. No one had, so Jack hoisted him up, placed him on his shoulders, and strode into the night. “I’ll carry you. It will be quicker, and you’ll be back in bed all the sooner.”

Like a rajah riding an elephant, Rory swayed back and forth on Jack’s shoulders as they cut through the mist settling over the street. The view was spectacular. From here he could almost peer into second-story windows. Jack’s long legs covered distance far faster than he could run. In little time they reached a fine neighborhood with tree-lined streets and imposing stone mansions.

Jack approached a fine three-story house with six chimneys on its roofline. There were no signs of life about the house, and every window was dark. They stepped into a shadowy lane that ran between houses, and waited.

The chilled breeze became numbing. “What are we waiting for?” he whispered.

Jack lifted him off his shoulders and set him on a ledge. “You’ll see. It won’t be long.”

The stone ledge was too cold to sit on, so he stood.

A horse cart driven by a man in a flamboyant hat pulled beside the curb. Jack’s cousin Tomás dismounted. His gaze settled on Rory, and his harsh slash of a mouth parted in a horrid grin. “Hello, nipper. Ready to join the family business, are we?”

He looked at Jack. “What’s the family business?”

Tomás crouched to Rory’s level. “You’ll be a trusted member of the Gilhooly liberation squadron.”

He had no idea what that meant.

Pointing at the impressive entryway of the house, Tomás continued. “Inside this elegant abode, there’s a lovely lady who works as a cook. It so happens her wretched brother owes me money. I am prepared to show her charity for his debts at the horse races in exchange for a little look about within this fine manner whilst the lord is called away to London.”

Debt? Business? How was this any of his concern?

Tomás leaned closer. “We must be subtle and leave no signs of a break-in. The lady must be convincing when she looks her master in the eye and swears that she heard nothin’ and saw nothin’, understood?”

He didn’t understand.

Jack intervened. “Rory, I’m going to lift you onto the second-story balcony, and you are going to scramble up the ivy to the third-story window and climb inside.”

The steep walls appeared daunting. “How?”

“The window has been left unlocked. All you have to do is push it open and climb into the room.”

“I’ll be horsewhipped!” he protested.

“Quiet, lad.” Tomás covered Rory’s mouth with a sooty hand. “No such thing will happen. The lady’s abed, and there’s no one else at home.” He released Rory and brushed his fingers against the Chesterfield jacket. “Look at these fine clothes. We’re not asking much from you in return. You’re the only one who can do this. See how small that window is? Can you picture Jack or myself struggling like fish in a net to wiggle through it? Of course not. Now be sensible. Scurry up the balcony. Open the window and climb inside. Once you’re in the room, you’ll see a desk beside the window. Slide the top drawer open and fill your pockets with gold snuffboxes.”

He didn’t like the hardened look in Tomás’s eyes. “What’s a snuffbox?”

Jack offered a weak smile. “It’s a cunning little thing that looks like a locket covered in pretty paintings and polished jewels. I think you’ll know one when you see it.”

Puffs of breath froze in the air in front of him. “How many boxes?”

“As many as the lord has!” Tomás tapped his boot in agitation.

This didn’t sound like anything his mother would want him to be doing. “This is stealing.”

Tomás got in Rory’s face and sneered. “There’s no shame in it. This is liberating goods from a fellow who’s got far too much. It’s called making things fair.”

This didn’t seem fair to him or to the English lord. “So, I’m to be your mouse in the pantry. I take the risk, and I don’t even get a pie?”

“You’ll get your reward down the road.” A manic gleam lit Tomás’s eyes. “That’s how the world works, Rory. Be patient and eventually you’ll get what you deserve.”