Saxson Olaru threw open the doors to the LoDo bar and stormed inside the dimly lit space.

Nathaniel Silivasi followed on his heels, immediately ensnaring the attention of every patron in the establishment. He pitched his voice to a low, silken growl and hissed two words: “Get. Out.” The entire room scattered. Patrons, waitresses, even the bartender scurried to the nearest exit, leaving their drinks where they sat. The owner of the bar, who had been sitting in a booth toward the back, left his ledgers on the chic, oblong table and followed the rest of the humans.

Julien Lacusta went right to work. “Where was Kyla standing, the first time you saw her?”

Saxson pointed toward the back of the bar, the hall that led to the kitchen, just feet from the door to the restroom. “She was standing right there,” he said, “clutching her left wrist in her right hand, staring at the markings and biting her bottom lip.” Anger pulsed through him in waves.

By all the gods, she had played her hand well.

Julien stalked to the area, dropped into a squat, and leveled both hands, palms down, about an inch above the floor. He closed his eyes and angled his head to the side, as if listening…

While all vampires could track prey with savage proficiency, Julien was a legend. Saxson had no idea what he was feeling for…or listening to…but the male could filter through vibrations a month or two old; siphon residual emotions from the kinetic imprints they left behind; read patterns in the dust and light—or enter the shadows—and retrieve their hidden secrets. Julien nodded and stood, spinning with feral grace toward the entrance to the bathroom.

Saxson and Nathaniel followed, careful to give the tracker space and to remain unobtrusive in the background.

Julien stood in the center of the tiny, one-room bathroom, turned 360 degrees in a circle, then prowled toward the mirror and placed his palm against the glass. He turned the faucet on and off, as if mirroring someone else’s movements, then glanced over his shoulder toward the small rectangular window on the far side of the lavatory, where he absently glanced at the sky. And then his focus narrowed—his pupils visibly constricted—and he backed his way toward a heavy metal door that led out into an alley, making note of what looked like a freshly installed deadbolt. “The owner suspected a break-in, but he had no idea about the kidnapping.”

Saxson’s heart dropped into his stomach. He had seen the scene play out in Kyla’s mind, in her memories, but this was altogether different. Standing here. Watching Julien as he worked. Knowing that he had been so close…so very close to his true destiny.

“She dropped her purse,” Julien grumbled, speaking to no one in particular. “Kyla picked it up and tossed it into the garbage when Kiera wasn’t looking…”

Saxson nodded. That matched with Kyla’s memories.

Julien slammed a steel-toed boot against the heavy alley door and strolled into the fresh night air, pacing the distance between the doorway and something else, as if measuring Kiera’s frantic steps. “One assailant pulled her backward with his hand over her mouth…” He closed his eyes and grew still. “The other one held her arms.” He reopened his eyes, made the shape of a box with his hands, and squatted, once again, to touch the gravel with the pads of his fingers. “The van was here, facing south.” He began to scan the pavement, his moonstone-gray eyes emitting soft red beams as he toggled between supernatural and infrared vision, recording the pattern of the tires, possibly the weight of the vehicle, and any tracings left behind. “Did you get a license plate number from Kyla’s memories?” he asked Saxson.

Saxson shook his head. Then realizing the vampire wasn’t looking at him, he projected his voice. “No. Kyla never looked down at the plates.”

Julien nodded. He sniffed the air, several times, his dark lashes fluttering, and Saxson knew that he wasn’t just smelling the air, but analyzing the scents—hundreds of thousands of week-old scents, sifting through each one: identifying it, categorizing it, memorizing the ones he needed.

Time seemed to stand still as Saxson and Nathaniel waited, growing increasingly anxious.

But this couldn’t be rushed.

If the tracker could get a clear enough bead on the van—on every scent that came from the vehicle—he could track it for miles, just like a dog.

They all could, only Julien could do in minutes what might take another vampire days or weeks. He’d spent centuries of his life mastering this craft.

“Well?” Nathaniel asked, betraying his impatience.

Julien stood up and grunted. “Yeah, I’ve got it.” Without another word, he released a powerful set of mahogany wings, rendered his body invisible, and shot into the air.

Saxson and Nathaniel followed suit.

* * *

Kiera Sparrow whimpered through the gag as her body hummed with pain.

She was nauseous, she was dizzy, and the room was spinning…twisting…from never-ending vertigo. If agony was a river, then Kiera was caught in a turbulent stream, being slammed against the rocks, held against the bottom, then swept away, yet again, with the current.

And there was no escape in sight.

Owen had carved a treble clef into her right thigh; a bass clef into her left thigh; piano, mezzo piano, forte, and fortissimo into the tops of her hands and her feet.

He had carved the entire outline of a violin over her stomach, chest, and breasts.

And now—and now—he was finally done carving.

Kiera didn’t know whether to be terrified or relieved.

She was so very tired…

So…very…tired.

She wanted the whole ordeal to be over with, but she knew what came next…

An extravagant white maple-and-stainless-steel grandfather clock began to ring in the background, the polished chrome pendulum ticking off ten metallic chimes against the hanging white shells.

So it was ten P.M.?

She watched through tear-drenched eyes as Jon, Mike, and Nick adjusted their hooded black robes, removed the sashes from around their waists, and slowly stepped out of their underwear.

What was the point of all this slow, methodical drama? Drawing out the ceremony?

Torture was torture.

Murder was murder.

And rape was rape.

As the clock struck ten and the chimes fell silent, Owen pressed Kiera’s left arm against the table and placed the tip of the dagger against her radial artery, prepared to slit her wrist.

So it had already come to this?

She bit down on the cloth like a horse with a bit…and waited.