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  The pistol waved between their double grip. Rafe ground out, “Give up. Don’t make me do this.”

  The man bared his teeth. With a hiss, he muttered, “Fottiti, mostro!”

  Italian. And uncouth Italian, at that.

  “Damn it all,” Rafe muttered and flexed his arm. A wet, tearing sound came as he wrenched at the man’s neck.

  London closed her eyes and turned her head away, her stomach fluttering.

  “Who the fuck are they?” Neven murmured.

  “Not now,” Rafe said sharply. “I’ll take the heavy one. He’s not bleeding and I don’t have a change of clothes. Neven, you grab this one. Quickly. Quietly. Back to the house.”

  “Not in my house,” London said quickly.

  “The potting shed,” Rafe amended. “Where Jason won’t see anything.” He bent and picked up the first big man with no apparent effort and hoisted the body over his shoulder. “Hurry. Neven, move it. Neven!”

  Neven nodded and lifted the other man.

  Neven returned to the potting shed in fresh clothes, pushing the black sweater sleeves up his arms, as Rafe and Remy dug through the garments on the two bodies lying on the rickety plank table in the middle of the shed.

  “Jason is asleep,” Neven murmured to London as he passed her.

  “Thank you,” she whispered back.

  “Anything?” Neven asked Remy and Rafe.

  “Not a single piece of ID,” Rafe said. “Not unexpected.” He shoved a hand through his thick, black hair. “Chloroform on a pad. A syringe with something stronger. One gun. A cosh.” He glanced at each item lying on the bench beside the table, as he listed them.

  “Extra weapons in case the chloroform wasn’t enough,” Remy said, his tone dry. He was concentrating on the skinny man’s sleeve.

  Rafe turned to Neven. “What the hell happened back there?”

  Neven frowned. “I know as much as you.”

  “I’m not talking about why. I’m talking about you,” Rafe said. He crossed his arms. “You froze.”

  “I did not,” Neven shot back.

  “You did,” London murmured.

  Neven looked at her with a wounded expression.

  Rafe pointed at her. “So did you, m’lady.”

  London jumped. “Me? But…they caught me by…” She bit her lip and glanced at Neven.

  Neven wore a heavy frown. “I did slow down,” he admitted. “I kept thinking—it’s stupid, but I couldn’t get rid of the idea that just killing him outright wouldn’t be…”

  “Fair? Right? Human?” Rafe asked, his tone dry.

  “Yes,” Neven said. He grimaced.

  London wanted to nod in agreement. Rafe’s expression told her not to.

  Remy looked up from the body he was probing, scanning everyone. He took in Rafe’s rigid stance and returned to examining the body.

  Rafe moved in a tight little circle, six steps, his movements controlled and slow. Then he faced them once more. “You’re not human,” he said. “Not anymore.”

  “We live amongst them. We live as humans.” Neven’s tone was defensive.

  Rafe threw out his hand, a gesture of frustration. “This life you live is purely surface details. You float along it, like a boat on the sea. At any moment, you can be tipped into the water below, where your true life lies. You have to be braced for it. You must be constantly ready for it to happen.” He pointed toward his feet. “What do you do when you really are dumped beneath the surface of the water?”

  Neven’s face smoothed out. The defensiveness evaporated. He had once drowned and the memory lingered, never far away. “Swim for the top…if I can.”

  “Exactly what you did not do out there tonight. Either of you.”

  “I am human,” London pointed out coldly.

  “A detail that makes no difference,” Rafe snapped. “Your life is our life. You gave up being purely human when you married Neven the second time. Your real life lies beneath the surface and you put all of us at risk when you hesitate the way you did tonight.”

  London cleared her throat. “I don’t have your speed and strength.”

  Rafe’s expression made her squirm inside, because there had been a moment when she had held herself back. A lifetime of conditioning told her to let the authorities deal with the men, that responding violently would be wrong—even as the training she had been going through suggested a dozen different ways of fighting back. “It was just so unexpected,” she said weakly. “I don’t know why they wanted me. I don’t know them.”

  Rafe nodded, as if he had read her thoughts. “You can’t fuck around with this stuff, London. You must off-load your human sensibilities about the law and human rights. Tonight, out there, with these two men…this is the thin edge of survival showing itself. Holding onto old habits and expectations won’t serve you in the long run.”

  “As much as I’d like to watch you tear them into small, writhing strips,” Remy said, his tone mild, “I have to interrupt. Look at what I found.”

  Rafe turned back to the table. London moved over to stand beside Neven as he stepped closer. She wondered if Neven trembled as much as she did. Disapproval from Rafe was a difficult thing to accept.

  Remy lifted the skinny man’s elbow. He’d yanked back the sleeve of the knitted shirt the man wore. A silver chain hung around the man’s bony wrist, far down the forearm. Remy turned the chain until a flat solid plate appeared. There was a little red icon at the corner.

  “Medic alert,” Neven said.

  “Alert for what, though?” Rafe murmured. He reached out and dipped the tip of his finger in the great wound where the man’s neck had been, then touched the bloody tip to his tongue and frowned.

  “What are you doing?” London breathed, horror spreading through her.

  “Sampling,” Remy said, watching Rafe. “Diseases and chronic conditions can sometimes show themselves in the blood.”

  “Oh, ugh…” London pressed her lips together.

  “We can’t catch anything, remember?” Remy told her, the corner of his mouth lifting.

  Rafe shook his head. “Nothing, except there’s way too much sugar for someone so skinny. He should be burning all his blood sugar at near perfect efficiency. Give me the chain, Remy.”

  Remy hooked a finger over the links and tugged, caught the broken chain as it fell, then held it out to Rafe.

  Rafe shoved it in his pants pocket and pulled out his phone. “Alex can search on the ID number on the bracelet. It will give us a direction to look, at least.”

  “Is that necessary?” London asked. “They’ve been dealt with. Why dig deeper?”

  “Because we don’t know why,” Remy said, his tone patient.

  Rafe looked up from the phone. “Think of it this way. We’re all still swimming for the surface. Until we know why this happened and can negate it, we can’t get back.”

  Sydney opened the potting shed door and stepped inside and shivered, for it was considerably warmer in southern Spain than it was in Brittany. “I didn’t think you meant this type of trouble,” she said, glancing at the bodies. Then she said to Rafe, “Alex is logging into the database as I speak.” She held out her arm.

  “I’ll be back,” Rafe said, and stepped into her arm.

  They jumped and disappeared.

  Remy reached for the striped awning which shaded the south of the house in summer. He unfolded it and tossed it over the bodies. “London, you look as though you need a scotch. Come on.” He put his arm around Neven’s shoulders. “Rafe is right on every point,” he said gently.

  Neven sighed. “I know that, dammit.”

  London didn’t say anything. She knew Rafe was right, too. The knowledge didn’t remove the big, tight mass in her chest, or calm her swirling belly. They were both sensations which Neven was spared, as he was no longer human. Only she got to suffer through them.

  “Make it a double,” she told Remy.

  “His name was Giuseppe Novara, and he was from Turin,” Alex said, two
hours later. He stirred the silver chain laying on the table between them with his forefinger. “That’s why it took so long to get the details,” he added. “Sydney had to hack into the European database to find him.”

  “What was the alert bracelet for?” London asked, sipping her third straight espresso. It was at times like this she wished for the vampire lack of need for sleep.

  “Renal cell carcinoma,” Alex said.

  “Which explains the sugar,” Rafe added.

  Remy nodded.

  “Pretend I’ve only been a vampire for under a year,” Neven said, his tone patient.

  “Blood sugar feeds tumors,” Alex said. “Unlike the rest of the body, which can switch to burning fats if there’s no sugar. Cancer cells are survivors by definition—they will do anything to make sure their food supply continues. The man was emaciated and probably always hungry and eating like a horse…which provided the sugar the cells needed. The tumor was probably advanced and stealing nutrients from the rest of the body, too.”

  “Cancer…” Neven breathed. “Where does that leave us?” he added.

  Sydney smiled. “If it was all we had dug up, we’d be nowhere. Alex isn’t the only one with access to interesting databases, though.”

  “What did you find?” Remy asked.

  “Giuseppe Novara was arrested in St. Malo three days ago, for possession of cannabis.”

  “Cannabis is still illegal in France,” London pointed out.

  Alex tapped the bracelet. “This was his get-out-of-jail card. He has a prescription on record for medical marijuana.”

  Remy leaned forward. “Please tell me the police took his address.”

  Sydney smiled.

  St. Malo was the nearest big town, four hours north-east of Saint-Jacut-de-la-Mer.

  “The address is all wrong, though,” Remy pointed out. “It’s right on the quays, among the warehouses.”

  “Suggestive, no?” Sydney said softly. “No houses nearby…”

  “What are you doing, London?” Rafe said, his tone sharp.

  London folded the switchblade and shoved it in her jeans pocket. “I’m coming with you.”

  There were at least three protests in response.

  “Someone has to stay with Jason,” Remy added.

  “You can,” London replied. “He won’t settle for anyone but you when he’s teething, anyway.”

  “We might need fighters,” Sydney said, her tone mild.

  “You must do without one,” London replied, “and put up with me, instead. I started this. It’s me they wanted, although I still can’t guess why. If we really are still swimming for the surface, then I can’t just sit back here and wait while you sort it out. It’s worse than hesitating at the wrong moment.”

  Rafe’s expression was calm. He nodded. “Very well.”

  Remy and Neven protested again.

  “If London stays, Neven must, too,” Rafe said, looking at Remy.

  Remy scrubbed at his dark blond hair. “Choix impossible...!” he muttered.

  Alex held up his hand. “I’ll watch Jason. And I’ll get rid of the bodies while you’re gone. I noticed bags of lye in the potting shed and the old iron bath is out in the yard.”

  London shuddered. Then she remembered she had a switchblade in her pocket and there was a good chance she would use it by the end of the night.

  They drove to St. Malo, for none of them knew the town well enough to jump to the address Novara had given the police. The hour was late enough that little traffic was on the D168, even though it was a major route through northern Brittany.

  Neven parked the big Renault estate car by the quay where the channel ferries berthed, among a hundred other vehicles. They walked across the bridge to the enclosed quais, and the acres of concrete and cargo containers, warehouses and silos, and dark, silent semi-trailer road trains.

  As they drew closer to the warehouse, Sydney took the lead. She loosened the gun she wore under her jacket but didn’t withdraw it.

  London was surprised when Sydney didn’t creep up to the massive sliding door. She walked up to it as she might approach the doors of any public building, as if she belonged there.

  Sydney put her hand on the door, then held her other hand up. “It’s unlocked,” she breathed, and withdrew the gun and cocked it. The silvery metal flashed in the light shed from lamps high overhead, as Sydney looked around with an intense, assessing stare. “Camera,” she added, nodding toward the roof. “They know we’re here.” She looked at Rafe and raised her brow.

  To London, it seemed she was conferring with Rafe.

  He considered and shrugged. “Go in, anyway,” he said. “We need the information.”

  Sydney raised the gun. “Pull weapons if you have them,” she said in a low voice, then pushed the door open. It moved easily for such a large door and stopped just beyond a normal door’s width.

  They slid inside silently. There were massive shelves and racks holding boxes and cartons, trunks and mini containers, all of them sealed. The shelves ran in long rows back into the darkness.

  To the right, though, bright light shone over the top of the shelves. The glow lit their way as they moved past the rows of shelving. London griped her knife harder to stop her hand from shaking and moved around the last row with trepidation. It was one thing to tell Rafe she would do her bit to sort this out. It was quite another to face the prospect of violence calmly.

  No one else looked afraid, though.

  London made herself stay level with Neven and Remy. Everyone halted as they rounded the last row of shelves and moved into the brightly lit area beyond.

  “Sheesh…who’d’ve called that?” Sydney murmured, her gun lowering until it hung from her fingers.

  London had to agree with her. In the center of four banks of outdoor arena lights was a single reclining armchair, and a pedestal table holding a decanter and crystal glass.

  A man sat in the chair, his feet up, a cigar in his hand. He wore a normal business suit and his short hair was brushed back neatly from his forehead. He was in his late fifties. Gray sprinkled the temples of his medium brown hair. The lines at his eyes folded as he smiled at them.

  “Welcome. Come in, come in,” he said in French, waving them forward with a flicker of his hand. A pinky ring flashed in the bright lights. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “What the fuck?” Rafe breathed.

  “Closer, but not too close,” Sydney breathed. She slid forward a dozen steps and everyone followed.

  The man watched them and puffed on the cigar. He was relaxed. The guns, knives and cudgels they carried did not seem to bother him in the slightest.

  Beyond the circle of lights which illuminated him, London could see nothing. The lights blinded her and all was shadow. There could be anyone back there. “I don’t like this,” she breathed.

  “That’s unanimous,” Remy murmured, his gaze on the man in the chair. Then he frowned and peered closely. “I don’t believe it…Louis Durand!” He straightened and said in French, “What are you doing all the way over here in Brittany?”

  Durand smiled, showing large, yellow teeth. “Ah, you do remember me. I am pleased. Our dealings were not always cordial, eh, Zoric?” His eyes narrowed as he looked at Neven expectantly.

  London hid her dismay. Durand thought Neven was Kristijan Zoric, the man she had first married, a criminal with an organization spanning most of Eastern Europe. They could not explain that Neven was Kristijan’s alter-ego, from another, parallel world.

  Neven crossed his arms. “Nor were they memorable. I don’t remember you at all.” His voice was flat and harsh. London shivered, for it was the way Kristijan had always spoken in the later years—with a complete lack of empathy for anyone, including her.

  Durand nodded. He didn’t seem upset by the observation. “You’ve grown older, Zoric. So have I, hey? Look at me…” He prodded his stomach. “Two hundred pounds gone, just like that.” He clicked his fingers.

  “Why did you
try to kidnap my wife, Durand?” Neven demanded.

  Sydney shifted back two steps, making it seem natural and unforced. It put Neven out in front of everyone, where Kristijan Zoric would naturally stand.

  “To talk, Zoric. Just to talk, you and me. I could not think of another way to gain your attention.”

  Neven’s jaw flexed. “You’re lying.”

  “A professional habit, I assure you,” Durand said, his tone still jovial. His face hardened. “I have been waiting here since noon today, for Novara or you to appear. As it is you, I presume Novara and Philstein are dead.”

  “A smart presumption,” Remy said. His voice was also flat and hard—just as London remembered it from the days when she had thought him to be a monster.

  “You wanted to talk, Durand,” Neven added. “Talk, then. My patience won’t last forever.”

  Durand puffed on the cigar and blew a cloud of blue smoke into the air above his head, where it swirled and hung like a fog in the light. “True, true. That was never one of your virtues, was it? Let me tell you a tale. Three years ago, I was told my heart was failing. Congestive failure, probably the result of far too much good living.” He winked. “They put me on a waiting list for a donor heart. I was told not to hope. My blood type is AB negative, you see.”

  London fought to control her need to gasp. She was AB negative.

  Her heart beat harder, as if it had heard her thoughts.

  “Then, miracle of miracles!” Durand exclaimed. “A man in Paris, a horrible accident, a fall from the top of his apartment building…he was AB negative. What odds, hey?”

  Remy’s laugh was short and hard. “You killed him for his heart.”

  Durand touched his chest. “Moi? I was just the joyfully happy recipient. So were three other men.”

  “Including Giuseppe Novara?” London asked, as it came together with a sudden flare of horror and amazement.

  Durand managed to appear astonished. “Indeed! He received a kidney…so fortunate, no?”

  London couldn’t help the sound of disgust which escaped her. “The man in Paris, the donor. He had cancer.” It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a guess.