Saturday Morning: 10:00

Braden Bratianu stood on the main level of the four-story brownstone and reached behind the large leather sectional to hang the last dangling piece of the golden Welcome Home banner. He took a few steps back and eyed the shiny letters to make sure they were centered with the Raleigh coffee table.

Glancing up at the fourteen-foot ceiling, he snickered at the myriad of gold, silver, and ivory balloons, a few of them gravitating randomly toward the contemporary Asian clock above the fireplace mantel. Then he eyed the elegant, mobile, black-and-stainless-steel bar that Nachari had erected for the occasion, stocked with vintage, expensive spirits. A broad smile curved along his lips: Whereas humans catered their parties with cake, finger-foods, and punch, it appeared vampires outfitted their get-togethers with blue-label scotch, 1800s chateaus, and decadent French cognacs, all arranged next to priceless crystal decanters, Waterford glasses, and sleek, paper-thin flutes. He could only hope Nachari would allow him to sample the spirits.

Reaching into the back pocket of his pressed black jeans, he retrieved his cell phone and re-read the text from his mother—she had sent him a message just before boarding the house of Jadon’s private plane on a remote tarmac in Hawaii. “I’m so very excited to see you, son! Can’t wait to get there! Save lots of hugs and kisses for myself, Dario, and Conrad! Love you, Mom.”

He scrunched up his face and closed the screen. He could save lots of hugs and kisses for his mom—that seemed pretty normal—but for Dario and Conrad? Um, he was no longer fifteen years old. And that just wasn’t manly.

He absently wondered what Conrad looked like.

His little brother would be twelve years old now; he had to have shot up by several inches; and more than likely, he still had Dario’s dirty-blond hair and gunmetal eyes, the peepers a few shades darker than his father’s pale grays; and a skinny, but muscular, frame.

Braden had to admit, he was anxious to see him.

He was anxious to see them all.

More than that, he was eager to introduce them to Kristina—his intended. He laughed at the sound of those words: It was what it was. On top of that, he had a special gift custom-made for the redhead: a glossy five-by-seven card with the words Thank you for always having my back embossed on the front, and Passion, death and foreboding are not quite as frightening with you here to help me breathe engraved in the interior. The card was attached to a velvet-lined box that contained a gorgeous friendship bracelet: a sleek, platinum band attached to a thin platinum chain, peppered with onyx and rubies—gemstones he had made by himself.

Well, with the help of a few Ancient Warriors at the Dark Moon Mineral Plant.

But why split hairs on the details?

Kristina would love the bracelet; she would probably get along with his parents—at least, if she could forgive them for their perceived neglect—and they would definitely adore Kristina.

Who knew?

Maybe by the end of the night, all would be right with the world.

* * *

Kiera Sparrow shuffled to the door of her bedroom—correction: her captor’s bedroom—and stared at the bronze, oil-rubbed knob, deciding whether to open it. She had just taken a shower, donned a pair of Owen’s gray sweats, a plain Haines T-shirt, and a pair of men’s gray socks, and she felt revived enough—desperate enough—to contemplate a short encounter:

On one hand, she was starving. Owen hadn’t brought her any dinner last night, and he sure as hell hadn’t brought her any breakfast. She would need all her strength to punch out that window, remove the loosened bolts, and shimmy down the side of the building. But on the other hand, did she really want to bother Owen Green, give him a reason—any reason—to torment her further?

She sighed and backed away from the door, trying to gather her courage.

Damnit, Kiera, she told herself. You can’t go a day and a half without eating. Besides, he isn’t going to touch you—at least, he won’t physically assault you—Xavier won’t let him. It’s forbidden. She could only hope that the frightening Head Hunter’s directives were still being followed.

She took a few steps forward, gently palmed the door knob, and silently twisted it to the right, until she felt the latch slip free. Owen no longer locked it during the day, at least not all the time—apparently, he figured there was nowhere she could go—and she pushed it a couple inches open. Pressing her forehead to the frame, she peered out into the open floorplan…

And stifled a gasp.

Owen was standing in the middle of the warehouse apartment, next to Travis. They had moved the sofa to the side of one wall, and they were outfitting a stainless-steel table in its place, in the center of the freakin’ living room.

It looked like something one might find in an industrial kitchen.

Or worse, in a morgue.

In the top two corners, they had attached two lengths of chain with loops on the ends, connected to handcuffs. And toward the bottom, they had installed two leather straps, the perfect size to clasp ankles. Beside the morbid table was a plain wooden stand, and what sat atop the platform made Kiera stagger sideways: an ancient clay basin with a bloodred cross dyed into the stone; a crude, serrated dagger with something inscribed in the cross-guard—she couldn’t read it from the bedroom—and a sacramental bowl filled with plain, clear liquid—could it possibly be holy water?—next to a box of latex gloves.

Oh, hell no!

Kiera yanked the door shut and spun on her heels to run.

She couldn’t wait until nightfall.

Whatever they were planning for their macabre party, she had a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach—she was the guest of honor. A pair of heavy footfalls stomped across the warehouse, and Kiera’s heart seized in her chest, her feet frozen in place, as Owen Green threw the bedroom door open and stormed into the room. He must have seen her through the alcove.

“Get your violin!” he barked. “We need some music while we decorate.”

Kiera gulped. She eyed the distance between herself and Owen, trying to remember what was on the other side of the door: a marble-topped pedestal table with a heavy brass statue atop, the figurine of a hunter. She could tuck the violin beneath her left arm, leave the bow dangling in her left fingers, and snatch the statue with her free right hand, then swing it like a baseball bat at Owen’s skull. She would have to drop the violin—who cared—and keep right on swinging the statue, over and over, until there was nothing but brain and blood and tissue left. But then there was the problem of Travis—he was standing next to the table with the wicked-looking dagger on top, and he would doubtlessly come to Owen’s defense.

Still, the tuning fork could be used as a stiletto, but how hard would she have to thrust it to impale a grown man’s breastplate? Before she could conjure up a better plan, Owen reached into the waistband of his pants and retrieved a forty-five-caliber handgun. He pointed it right at her, and his light-green eyes grew murky. “I’ve had enough of the princess-violinist act, and Xavier’s not here to save you.” He smirked, and the visage was pure evil. “Don’t get me wrong; I would never disobey my Head Hunter, but the thing of it is, Miss Sparrow, I finally have his permission…” His pointy tongue snaked across his lower lip, making his features appear demonic. “Xavier’s done with you, sweet princess. He’s finally had his fill, and that means we can do whatever we want.” He glanced over his shoulder at the stainless-steel table and rubbed the barrel of the gun against his groin—was he crazy? “Oh, and we want—but not just me, all of us—believe me, we intend to take turns.” He laughed then, as if anything he had just said was funny. “But luckily for you, it’s not yet time—you have a few more hours to wait.”

His sex jerked in his pants, and Keira felt like she might throw up.

“Until then, you’re gonna play that fiddle. And by fiddle, I mean just that. None of that stuck-up Bach and Beethoven shit; we wanna hear something more…unique. In fact, why don’t you try your hand at ‘The Devil Went Down to Georgia’—think you can pull that off?” He raised the barrel of the gun, pointed it at her head…then her heart…then her gut. “Something tells me you’re gonna try…real hard.” He cackled at the double-entendre in the last two gravelly words.

Real hard.

They were planning to rape her—all of them—the entire vampire-hunting group.

And then they were going to torture her—God only knew how—and kill her, and Xavier was not going to stop them.

Kiera had run out of time.

As her knees began to buckle beneath her, she struggled to catch her balance.

No, don’t fall; don’t pass out; don’t give up!

She still had half a day to think.

It was only 10:30 A.M.

She needed to take this opportunity to survey the warehouse, categorize everything she could use as a weapon, figure out how to barricade the bathroom door. She needed to pour every ounce of energy, intelligence, and will into fashioning a plan that could work at a moment’s notice…then wait for that moment to arrive.

At some point, Owen had to feed her, or at least allow her to relieve her bladder.

Something—or someone—would distract him, if only for a second, and Kiera needed to be ready.

Straightening her legs and stiffening her spine, she slowly spun on her heel and headed toward the cursed violin case. Yes, she could play “The Devil Went Down to Georgia”—or “The Devil Went Down to Denver,” as it were—and she could blend into the background while the animals schemed and planned.

And all the while, she’d be plotting as well.