He stood stiffly. "You lured her here, didn't you, Reggie?" he asked coldly. "Why?"

"Because," Jade said softly from behind him, "she is Valeria."

"Lena? Suzette?"

The door to Lena's cottage was standing open.

Tentatively, he pushed it open. The place was dark. He heard a giggle.

"Drew!" Suzette said from the darkness.

"Drew's come to play!" Lena said, her voice husky, sultry.

"Hey, come on, turn a light on in here," Drew said. He wasn't going in. Already, it seemed that the hair at the back of his neck was rising. He could smell…

Blood.

And it looked as if there was a body on the floor.

"Drew!"

Suddenly, Suzette was in front of him. Stark naked. Wet. Hair slicked back. Eyes glazed.

She reached for him. Somehow, he knew to step back. It was her eyes.

And, of course, the fact that she was naked.

"No, no! Come in!" the blonde urged.

"We can play!" Lena, every bit as sleek and sultry and bare, was right behind her. She licked her lips slowly as she looked at him.

Scream. Grant had said that he should scream.

He did.

"No fun, no fair!" Lena howled.

He turned and ran. Seawater. Liz had said to head for sea-water.

Drew headed for the beach and plowed in. He stopped, turning back. They had paused on the beach.

Lena giggled.

Then they started coming for him.

"Shit!"

He let out a scream again. The two girls were several feet into the water, about to plunge beneath it.

He heard a sharp command snapped out from the beach.

"Stop!"

Suzette and Lena both froze.

Staring toward the sand, Drew saw Clay Barton. Lucien, my husband's name is Lucien, the woman he had known as Liz, now Jade, had told him. He's a good vampire.

A good vampire?

But both Suzette and Lena slowly turned. They walked like docile little lambs to stand about five feet in front of the man. Drew emerged from the water slowly and carefully, making sure that the good vampire was between him and the girls.

Once situated behind the man, Drew was tempted to make a face at the girls. Now, their faces were just blank. It was really a bizarre sight, the two of them, the blond angel and sultry Lena, buck naked in the breeze, staring at the man as if he were their puppeteer.

"We're going to need to restrain them," Lucien said. "Let's go."

"Let's go! They've become… harpies. There's… there's someone dead in their cottage!" Drew said.

"And you're walking away and they're free, coming right behind me!"

"They'll follow," Lucien said, taking the path toward his cottage. "Hey, please, try not to drip on me, huh?"

"Don't drip on you—but they walked right into the water!" Drew said.

"They haven't turned—they're just under the influence," Lucien said.

"Under the influence, huh? I couldn't just have friends who got drunk or did drugs, noooo, my friends have to turn into half-vampires!"

Lucien cast him a quick gaze. "You want to turn into one yourself? I didn't think so. So come along, and pay sharp attention."

Drew took a glance behind him at the women. He hurried along at Lucien's side.

"You bet!" he vowed nervously.

Stephanie awoke feeling the cold. She wasn't in pain, she was simply cold through and through.

Instinct warned her that she was in danger.

She opened her eyes slowly and carefully.

At first, she saw only the gray-toned slab of rock. Puzzled, she shifted her gaze. Despite her resolve, her eyes widened.

She was in a cave. That much was easily surmised.

She was on a bed in a cave, but quite a bed—heavy wood, antique carved. It was covered with a massive, arched canopy, and to one side, a heavy tapestry was hung. It should have given her some warmth. It did not. The fire that burned in an iron grate in the center of the area should have provided warmth as well. There was a massive, planked table not far from the fire; huge carved chairs surrounded it.

She tried to move. She was easily able to do so. Again, she found herself perplexed, for she was no longer wearing the jeans and shirt she had soaked in the ocean. She was in a long, medieval gown that felt like some kind of velvet. It was black; even the lace that edged the hem of the skirt and sleeves was black.

"So, you are back with us!"

She jumped, and turned.

Against the wall of the cave behind her was another massive medieval chair. The man sitting in it appeared to be something of a giant, for he was wearing a huge, sweeping black mantle that gave bulk to his shoulders.

She closed her eyes for a minute, accepting that none of this was a dream. She knew him, yes, had known him… and thought so very little about him. He had just been there. And he was so different now.

Gone was the lightness of features and manner that were usually his. The man's eyes blazed; his hair seemed like ebony, and there wasn't the least hint of laughter about his striking face.

"Giovanni," she said dryly.

He waved a hand in the air impatiently. "François, Comte François de Venue, if you care to be formal.

But I will let you call me François."

She swung her legs to the side of the bed and sat primly, folding her hands in her lap. She was aware then of the slight pounding at her temples and the strange crick in her neck.

"I see," she murmured, wondering whether to believe in the impossible again, or deny that any of it could be. Maybe it was a dream, and she simply couldn't awaken. "So… you are a long-dead warlord. You know, kidnapping me is not going to be helpful if you really decide that you want to be in the theater."

He smiled and rose. She thought she would jump up—jump out of her skin. But all he did was look at her, and she realized she was spellbound by the fire that seemed to burn in his eyes. She sat where she was, feeling as if there were chains about her.

"Ah, yes, the theater. I rather think I've outshone all the others you consider to be such good actors.

Perhaps, well, later. None of that is for tonight."

She didn't want to ask, but had to. "And what is tonight?"

"Tonight, I end it—for the next several centuries, at any rate."

"And what does that mean?"

"Why, we fight again."

"Who fights again?"

"Why, myself, with you at my side, against Conan de Burgh."

She shook her head. "Conan de Burgh died the night he sent you to hell."

François de Venue smiled, and it was a rake's easy smile, as if he chatted with her, drinking wine as they sat in an ancient castle. "As you see—I was not sent to hell."

"All right. I'll play along. Who is Conan de Burgh?"

"Come, come! Smart girl that you are. The fool who would follow you anywhere in the world. As he followed Valeria, centuries ago."

"Ah. You mean Grant."

" Voila, she is intelligent after all!" he mocked.

She shook her head. "I'm not Valeria, and he's not Conan. I know my personal history, and I wasn't dug out of the ground here. Neither was Grant. He's been working for a number of years, so I'm afraid that you're mistaken."

"Of course you are not Valeria. At this moment Valeria is with your friends."

Stephanie felt ill. Had Reggie hired her here? And if so—why? "Reggie?"

"Ah, yes, Reggie! Now, there you have the lucky one, but it's time for her to pay as well. Your Reggie—Valeria—has been living very well all this time, enjoying the luxury of life, hopping from decade to decade—century to century—by bouncing back and forth around the world. She has lived long and well—with the power I gave her."

"And that power is?" Stephanie asked.

"Obviously, that of the true vampire."

There was something in his words that was so simple and arrogant that she felt a chill even deeper than the cold that already seemed to lock her bones.

"I don't understand. Legend had it that Valeria was the one with the power," she said.

"Oh, yes. She has power. But she will always be subservient to me."

"And why is that?"

"Valeria had only the strength of a sorceress, something that was her right from birth, inherited from the time of the great Roman empire, when Egyptians were brought back to Italy as slaves. She, as her mother before her, was a direct descendent of a cult that honored a certain goddess, and through their training, they learned to use the amazing strength in their minds. Perhaps—I've learned so much about the new world in the past months—perhaps it is even genetic, as scientists believe today. Naturally, she honed her ability to an ait, a craft of unimaginable strength. I studied a great deal when I went to battle.

Amazingly, my own life was changed by a meeting in the great desert when I was seeking triumph and glory in the Holy Lands. It was rather ironic, actually. Men fell at my feet. I am extremely talented with a sword. But the spoils of war have always gone to the victor. There was a woman… when I finished with her, I discovered that she had not finished with me. Yet by day, my men found her in her weakness, and she has long since perished. They intended to take me home for burial, but… well, I didn't need to be buried. The closest I came to a real extinction was when I went to battle with Conan de Burgh. The injuries he inflicted healed so slowly while I lay buried beneath the rubble. And then… well, you know the rest. The earth shifted again. And I am free."

He sat down at her side. He stroked her face. Revulsion brought a tremor snaking through her. He saw it, and was amused. He was repulsive to her, and yet she had no power to move away from him, and he was very aware of it.

"I'm still very confused. Even you have said that Conan de Burgh was killed."

"Yes."

"Then…"

"He is back. His soul is returned in the form of your Grant Peterson. I knew, from the minute I opened my eyes from my long sleep, that he was in the world again. And, of course, it was fate that you two should meet. It was luck that you should have been so… enamored by him."