"You seek a female?"

Alexander nodded, his gaze shifting momentarily to the veana on his right. Celestine appeared uncomfortable. For many reasons he imagined, one of which was associating with the Eyes. She didn't trust the street clan who bought and sold information in the vampire world. Hell, Alexander didn't either, but when you've exhausted all other avenues and they are the only ones left, you put aside your mistrust.

At least until they attempted to overcharge you.

"Is this female you seek Impure?" Whistler asked, leaning across the chipped chess table in Washington Square Park. A favored spot for the Eye the Romans frequently used when seeking information.

"She would be Pureblood," Alexander told him quietly, knowing his words-even the mention of the female being alive-were no doubt a knife in Cellie's unbeating heart. "But if she exists, she might not be sure where she belongs."

Whistler tapped his temple with one dirty finger. "A little funny in the head, is she?"

A sound came from Celestine then, a soft groan of ire. Alexander continued quickly, "She may not have been raised among vampires."

"Ah. Well, if she's with humans, she might think herself a little nuts." Whistler glanced over at Celestine and shrugged. "The need for blood and all that." When she hissed at him, the Eye turned back to Alexander. "To help the process along, I'm going to need something of hers. Blanket, clothing, anything from when she was a balas. Something I can give to the trackers."

Alex turned to Cellie, and he didn't even have to ask. Her eyes, mournful and hard, told him everything. "As you know, Whistler, we aren't even sure if the female's alive. We have nothing."

It wasn't the answer the Eye had been hoping for, and he sighed. "With no description and no scent to track, it may take some time."

Alex fought the urge to push away from the table and get himself and Cellie out of the moonlit park. He had to make this happen. It wasn't just for Cellie. Shit, it was barely for Cellie. The truth was, his mate, Sara, was in swell, months away from giving him a balas, nervous and exhausted but happy now that she had her mother in her life full-time. He couldn't stand the fact that he had kept this from her-that he'd actually lied to her.

Whatever he had to do, however much cash he had to part with, he would. Sara could have a sister she knew nothing about, and before she brought their balas into the world, she would be given the truth-at the very least the truth about Celestine's pregnancy and relationship with Cruen.

Alex narrowed his gaze on Whistler and thrust a bag of cash at his chest. "This should keep your mouth shut about our request, not to mention help things move along in the search. Don't you think?"

Slipping the money inside his jacket, Whistler gave Alexander a lopsided grin, flashing the tips of his rotting fangs. "Always does, brother. Always does. 'Course, it can't make miracles, but it helps."

"What about blood?"

They both turned to look at Cellie. Her anger and melancholy seemed to have dissipated or at the very least had gone inside to hide. Leaning forward, her eyes pinned on Whistler, she continued, "Could the trackers use the blood of her kin to find her?"

The Eye stared at her. He looked momentarily mystified. "If we had access to that kin, yes."

"Tell anyone of this, and you will die a horrific death." She raised her wrist to her fangs and bit down. As soon as the blood began to flow, she presented her arm to Whistler on the center of the chess table. "Now. Let's see if this changes anything."

Erion rarely slept. From early on in his balashood, he'd realized he wasn't very good at it. Whenever he would try, he couldn't seem to shut off his mind. And for a vampire, unplugging mentally was key to allowing one's body to rest and recharge. Granted, Pureblood vampires needed very little rest, but an hour or two a night would assist in creating a powerful body and solid brain function.

For Erion, if he was lucky and lay out on the floor near an open window, there was a chance he'd get in a solid fifteen minutes.

Tonight, however, he was heading into the four-hour mark. And not just that; he was actually dreaming. At first he thought he was awake and back in the Rain Fields with Hellen, but the appearance of the dog who'd followed him home in France caused him to pause and reassess that assumption.

He was running through the Rain Fields, the dog bounding along beside him, barking as Erion took down rogue after rogue. Then Hellen appeared, scooping up the dog in her arms and kissing it, rocking it slowly. His bow at his side, Erion stopped to watch, amazed and content at the sight of Hellen smiling and cooing at the mongrel. Suddenly, everything changed. The sky turned purple and the clouds at their knees broke with hot rain. Hellen looked up, her eyes confused, sad.

"This is the only one we'll ever have, Erion. We must protect him."

Erion tried to move toward her, toward them, but his feet wouldn't budge. He was sinking into the black ash; it swallowed him inch after inch. He called to Hellen, to the mongrel, who whined and wriggled in her arms, but neither responded. He kept on sinking, his legs pinned, the ash up to his waist now.

Hellen's eyes were filled with tears as she watched him, as she pulled the mongrel closer to her breast and whispered in the most haunting of voices, "Your father abandons you to death."

"No!" Erion roared. "Ladd!"

Erion woke with a start, almost relieved to feel his hands and feet bound. He had never dreamed in his life. Not once. Perhaps because he'd never slept long enough to accomplish it. But if this was what he had to look forward to, he'd remain content with the unsatisfying fifteen minutes.

It was then that he realized he was no longer in the dungeon. He was still bound, perhaps even tighter and more restricted than before, but the cage he dwelled in now had no bars or walls and was a hundred times larger than his circular stone prison. It was a theater, arenalike, with seating all the way around. But the seats, which were empty, were more like short benches with plush red fabric and high backs. From his spot in the first row of the balcony, Erion's gaze finally settled on the stage and the primary set piece in the center.

A pallet.

"I designed it myself."

Rage bubbled inside Erion, but he continued to stare at the pallet with its satin gold bedding and solid gold frame.

"Long ago we used this arena for blood sport," Abbadon continued. "I miss those days."

The Demon King sat beside him now, his foul, ancient breath registering in Erion's nostrils.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he prompted.

"Barbaric."

"Well. As I said, we used it for blood sport, and that is beauty to me."

Erion ripped his gaze from the pallet and directed it to Abbadon. There was no denying it. The Demon King was the most imposing, terrifying being Erion had ever encountered. Besides having skin the color of blood and snowy white eyes that looked right though you and tempted your soul, he oozed the promise of death if crossed. And not a quick death. Even so, Erion could not keep his tongue curbed.

"What can I give you to stop this?" he asked, his tone impressively cool, even to himself.

The Demon King relaxed back on the bench and sighed. "Nothing."

Erion's eyes narrowed. He didn't believe it. Everyone wanted something. Even the Devil. "I would give you the child you require."

His ridge of an eyebrow lifted. "She has told you."

"I would remain here with her. You would have your foothold on Earth and your family at home."

Mirth lit the white eyes of the Demon King.

"I am the better choice," Erion continued, straining at bindings, his tone resolute. "I have vampire and demon blood. A child of both strains might take better inside Hellen's womb." That might have been too much, but he was desperate. Once Hellen stepped on that stage, once Cruen touched her, the beast inside him would attack. Anything and anyone who got in his way-including the red one before him-would feel the wrath he could not possibly control.

Putting Ladd in even graver danger.

Abbadon was studying him, his features, his obvious brawn. And for a moment, Erion believed in the possibility of claiming Hellen as his own-with her father's blessing.

Which just proved him a fool.

"If you were pure, I would perhaps consider it," Abbadon said with deep-seated arrogance. "But you are a mistake, Erion. You are the sad evidence of a broken-down experiment. Something that should have been extinguished long ago." He inhaled deeply, his snakelike nostrils barely flaring. "Not to mention, you are something I would never be able to control."

A rush of electric anger surged within Erion. Not because the bastard in front of him had just called him a mistake. Shit, he knew that. But because Abbadon had denied him. It was over. He'd lost. They'd all lost.

He cocked his head and growled. "And you think you can control Cruen?"

Abbadon grinned broadly, like the most hideous cat imaginable. "I already do."

Erion stilled, his guts twisting. What had Cruen done? What had that mad vampire promised in exchange for filling Hellen's womb?

He watched as Abbadon rose to his feet, a magnificent beast in bloodred. What could Cruen possibly gain for creating this child? A child he would never see? It had to be something vital, impossible to achieve any other way . . .

And Hellen, he thought with icy dread. She was naive to think that her father and Cruen wouldn't make her pay for not producing the one thing they both desired.

"It won't be long now," Abbadon said, rising. "I suggest you sit back, relax, and, when the lights go down, enjoy the show." He smiled. "I know I will."

Erion's demon flashed and he pulled against his bindings, hungry for blood, for the Devil's blood.

"It is a shame," Abbadon said, clicking his forked tongue. "You have much passion, a drive to take and protect. And you think her pleasant to look at."

"She is the most beautiful female I have ever seen." Erion snarled at him. "You are the true beast, Abbadon. The mistake. The one who should have been eliminated at birth."

But the Demon King was gone, his soft rumble of demonic laughter the only thing left in his wake.

Raine stood behind his counter, clutching the wood panel, as he watched the group of vampires file into his shop. He hadn't expected a crowd. In fact, he truly wished he'd never come out as a mutore to Nicholas and Erion all those weeks ago. But they'd forced his hand and promised him a possible antidote to the gene that had been granted him at birth-the one that had aged him so rapidly as of late. If he didn't find something to stave off the problem, he would be dead before he saw his children's children born.

As three pavens-mutore, Raine was pretty sure-drew closer, he heard them bickering back and forth.

"I can't believe him," said one, who looked as though he might be crossed with a wolf shifter. "A castle. What a fucking romantic."

Another, who seemed to have avian blood, reacted coolly to this comment. "We do not own each other's thoughts and choices, Lycos."

"He is family, Phane," the paven retorted, leaning back against an eighteenth-century chaise. "Of course he doesn't have to tell us dick. But he should!"

"I believe he has always wanted what his twin brother possesses," the third mutore added. "Castle, mate, balas, family . . . We cannot fault him that."

The paven was very tall, his hair shaved close to his skull, and under his skin there were pale-striped markings.

They were markings Raine wasn't familiar with.

Just then, a paven Raine did recognize walked through the shop, paused between the stand of mutore, and entered the conversation. "It seems my true mate is not here. It took too damn long for you bastards to decide to come, and now she's probably returned to this castle you go on about. And for the record, brothers, it matters not what Erion bought or lived in or kept from any of us. He is gone, missing, and so is Ladd. We need to find them." Nicholas turned his attention on Raine. "Where did Erion take the woman?"

The bell over the door jangled furiously and two pavens entered, one dark haired, the other pale.

"Sorry about this, folks," called the pale one. "I couldn't stop him. The stupid Brit has a death wish."

The dark one stormed down the aisle, barely looking at the mutore or at Nicholas. His eyes were trained on Raine.

"You know Cruen, then?" he demanded in a thick British accent.

Momentarily stunned, Raine glanced from the Brit to Nicholas, then back again. The dark paven, though thin, was fierce and formidable like the ones behind him-a true pureblooded vampire, but he was much more than that. He was something that didn't care if it survived, something that lived and fed on hatred.

When Raine didn't answer, the Brit circled the desk and came up on him, assessing him, scenting him.

He bent down, got close to Raine's ear, and whispered one word-but it was the foulest of sounds. "Speak."

"I know him," Raine uttered nervously, glancing up at the paven with the utmost caution. "He is my uncle."

The paven's mouth twitched, not into a smile, but into something feral. He turned to Nicholas. "Did you know this?"

His jaw tight, Nicholas nodded.

"And you kept it from me?" His rage, which Raine heartily assumed was very near the surface of his skin at all times, exploded, and he dropped his fangs. "That is not the help I was promised, mate!"

Nicholas didn't flinch. "He cannot get to Cruen, Synjon."

The violent paven, Synjon, laughed a frighteningly bitter laugh. "He is family." In one quick stroke, he unsheathed a knife and placed it in front of Raine's nose. "Tell me how you communicate with your dear old uncle."

Terrified, his legs threatening to drop out from underneath him, Raine couldn't stop his mouth from spewing out information. "I don't know. I think of him in my mind, call to him, and sometimes he answers and sometimes not."

"You're a lying sack of shite, mutore." He said the last bit with undisguised hatred.

The pavens behind him growled low, a warning.

"Back off, Syn."

It wasn't Nicholas who spoke, Raine thought, staring at the blade before his eyes. Maybe the near-albino paven . . .

"If you don't tell me where he is, how I can get to him-something, anything-I'm going to cut you into pieces."

"Synjon, back the fuck off."

But Synjon wasn't listening. He seemed incapable of it. In fact, he seemed out of his mind.

Raine started to shake. "I can call to him. Let me try to call to him. I can't take you anywhere. I don't have that power."

"Jesus," someone uttered.

"Brilliant," Synjon said in a soft voice. "Close your eyes and call to him. And I would suggest you call rather loudly. Because if he doesn't come . . . if he doesn't make contact with you-"

"That's enough!" It was Nicholas, and he was coming closer.

Nearly cross-eyed, Raine continued to speak to the blade that was now pressed against his nose. "He may not answer for hours, days. I've already tried once today for a veana, who came here and-"

"Shit!" Nicholas rushed forward, jumped over the desk, and punched Synjon hard in the shoulder. The knife clattered to the floor. A terrible growl sounded, and Nicholas shouted orders to the mutore. "Hold him! Hold him down, goddamn it!"

Then he shifted his gaze to Raine. As pale as the albino paven now, Nicholas's dark eyes flashed with terror. "She was here. Kate. Where did she go?"

Raine's gut twisted. "She is your true mate?"

"Yes. Where did she go? Please tell me she went back to Erion's-"

"She wanted Cruen, just like all of you. She was as demanding as all of you." His voice shook as a few feet away the Brit struggled to get free from the paven and mutore who held him down. "I tried. I tried, but I couldn't reach him in my mind."

Nicholas grabbed him by the shoulders and howled. "Where is she?"

Shaking, unable to stand, unable to breathe, Raine cried out, "I told her about the cemetery. The way in, the blue fire, the portal they used. The mutore and Cruen's bride."

"The portal? The portal to where?"

Raine let the word loose from his aching throat in a screech. "Hell!"