Shea stood frozen, for a moment unable to breathe or even think. Was the answer in front of her in all its stark ugliness? Was this thing, tortured and mutilated, her future, the future of those like her? She closed her eyes briefly, trying to shut out the reality. The brutality of mankind to do this. Tears welled up for the pain and suffering this creature had endured before his death. She felt responsible. She had been given such special gifts, yet she had been unable to unlock the secrets to the disease that condemned those who suffered as she did.

She took a breath, made herself look. He had been alive when his attackers sealed up the coffin. He had scratched at the wood, eventually working a hole in the side of it. Shea stifled a sob, feeling a kinship for this poor murdered man. His body was covered with a thousand cuts. A wooden stake, as big around as a man's fist, had been driven through his body near the vicinity of his heart. Whoever had done it needed a lesson in anatomy. She sucked in her breath, appalled. What he must have suffered!

His hands and ankles were manacled; rotting, dirty rags lay in strips across his chest like those of a mummy. The doctor in her took over to allow a closer clinical study. It was impossible to tell how long he had been dead. By the condition of the cellar and the coffin, she would have guessed a number of years, but the body had not yet started to decompose. Lines of agony still creased the man's face. His skin was gray and stretched tightly over the bones. The signs of suffering were stamped on that face, harsh and merciless.

And she knew him. He was the man in her dreams.

Although it seemed impossible, there was no mistake; she had seen him enough times. And he was the man in the photo graph Don Wallace had shown her. Though it all seemed out of the realm of possibility, she felt linked to him, felt she should have saved him. Grief was welling up, real grief. Shea felt as if a part of her lay dead in the coffin.

Shea touched his dirty, raven-black hair with gentle fingers. He must have had the same rare blood disorder as she had. How many others had been hunted, persecuted, tortured, and murdered for something they were born with? "I'm sorry," she whispered softly, meaning it. "I failed all of us."

A slow hiss of air was her only warning. Eyelids snapped open, and she was staring into eyes blazing with venomous hatred. A burst of strength shattered one rusty manacle, and a hand fastened around her throat with a grip like a vise. He was so strong, he cut off her airway, so it was impossible even to scream. Everything seemed to swirl, black and white rushing to overtake her. She had just enough time to feel regret that she would be unable to help him, to feel searing pain as teeth tore into her exposed throat.

Let it happen fast.

Shea didn't struggle; she knew it was useless. In any case someone owed this tormented creature something, and she had long ago accepted death. She was terrified, of course, but strangely calm. If she could somehow give him a measure of peace, she wanted to do so. Guilt for not finding a cure was uppermost in her mind. And something else, something elemental, as old as time itself. The need to save him. The knowledge that he must live and that she was willing to offer up her life for his.

Shea woke dizzy and weak. She had a headache, and her throat was so sore that she was afraid to move. She frowned, unable to recognize her surroundings. She heard herself moan. She was lying in the dirt, one arm locked behind her, something tight around her wrist. She tugged to get her arm back, but the band tightened, threatening to crush her fragile bones. Her heart jumped, and with her free hand she touched her throat, remembering. Her neck was swollen and bruised. There was a wound, too, torn and aching. Her mouth felt odd, a faint coppery taste coating her tongue.

She had lost too much blood, she knew immediately. Her head was splintering, fragmenting as the pressure increased. She knew the creature was responsible, attempting to get inside her mind. Moistening her lips carefully, she inched backward, closer to the coffin, to take the pressure from her arm. His fingers still encircled her small wrist like a handcuff, a vise that threatened to crush her bones if she made one wrong move. Another moan escaped before she could prevent it. She wanted to believe this was a nightmare. Steeling herself, Shea turned her head slowly to look at him.

The movement was intensely painful, taking her breath away. Her eyes locked with his. Involuntarily Shea struggled, tried to get away. His eyes, as black as night, burned at her. Fierce hatred, venomous rage, were concentrated in the soulless depths. His fingers tightened, crushing her wrist, locking her to him, dragging a cry of pain and fear from her bruised throat. Her head pounded.

"Stop!" Shea's forehead cracked against the side of the coffin in her struggles. "If you hurt me, I can't help you." She raised her head to meet those black eyes. "Do you understand? I'm all you've got." She forced herself to hold that black gaze. Fire. Ice. He had the most frightening eyes she had ever encountered. "My name is Shea O'Halloran. I'm a doctor." She repeated it in several languages, gave up when his eyes continued to burn at her. He seemed to have no mercy in him.

Not soulless. An animal. Trapped. Hurt. Confused. A predator dangerous beyond belief, reduced to a helpless shell. "I'll help you if you let me," she crooned softly, as if coaxing a wild animal. She used the power of her voice shamelessly. Hypnotic, gentle, soothing. "I'll need tools and a vehicle. Do you understand?"

She leaned over him, her free hand gingerly touching his mutilated chest. Fresh blood was seeping around the stake, leaking from his many other cuts as if they were recent. His wrist had a fresh, ragged tear in it that she was certain had not been there earlier. "My God, you must be-in terrible pain. Don't move. I can't take that stake out until I get you back to my cabin. You'll bleed to death." Shockingly, his color was slightly better.

The creature released her slowly, reluctantly, his gaze never leaving her face. His hand reached down to scrape up the earth, bring it to the terrible wounds. Of course! The soil. She helped him, scooping up handfuls of the richest dirt to spread over his cuts. There were so many. After the first handful, he lay still, conserving his energy, his gaze fastened on her like a brand. He never blinked, his dark eyes never once wavering.

Shea glanced upward toward the cellar entrance nervously. Much time had passed while she was unconscious. The sun would be coming up soon. She bent over him, stroked back his hair gently, a strange tenderness stealing over her. For some unexplained reason she felt drawn to this poor creature, and the sensation was far stronger than her natural compassion, her need as a doctor to help. She wanted him to live. He had to live. She had to find a way to take away his terrible pain. "I have to get some things. I'll hurry as fast as I can, but I'll come back, I promise." She rose to her feet, turned to go, taking one step.

He moved so fast that he was a blur, his hand clamping around her neck, jerking her off her feet so that she fell across him. His teeth ripped at her exposed throat, the pain excruciating. He fed voraciously, a wild animal out of control. She struggled against the pain, against the futility of what he was doing. He was killing the one person who could save him. Her hand, flailing blindly, found his jet-black hair. Her fingers tangled in the dirty, thick mane, remained there when she slumped nearly lifeless across his upper chest. The last thing she heard before she passed out was his heartbeat. Shockingly, her own heart tried to follow the steady, strong rhythm.

There was silence, then a gasping wheeze as her body struggled for survival. The creature stared dully at her limp, slender body. The stronger and more alert he became, the more pain washed over him, consumed him. He raised his free hand, bit his wrist, and forced the gushing wound over her mouth for the second time. He was uncertain what was happening around him, the pain was so intense. He had been buried for so long, he could not remember seeing anything in his lifetime but shades of gray and black. Now his eyes hurt from the vivid brightness of the colors surrounding him. He had to escape the kaleidoscope of hues, the pain increasing every moment and unfamiliar emotions threatening to drown him.

Shea woke slowly, facedown in the dirt. Her throat was raw and throbbing, the same sweet, coppery taste coating her mouth. She was sick and dizzy, and instinctively she realized the sun was at its peak. Her body felt like lead. Where was she? She was cold and disoriented. Shea pushed herself to her knees, then had to lower her head to avoid fainting. She had never been so weak, so helpless. It was a frightening feeling.

Awareness hit, and she scrambled on all fours across the dirt floor. With her back to the wall and the width of the room between them, she stared in horror at the coffin. He lay as if dead. No discernible heartbeat or respiration. Shea pressed the back of one shaking hand to her mouth to keep a sob from escaping. She was not going near him again, dead or not. Even as the thought came, as intelligent as it was, she still felt the need to find a way to help him. Something in her could not let it go.

Maybe she was wrong about the blood disorder.

Was there such a thing as a vampire? He used his teeth; his incisors were sharp and must have an anticoagulant agent, just as his saliva must have a healing agent. She rubbed her pounding temples. The need to help him was compelling, overwhelming, so intense that she felt obsessed. Someone had taken their time torturing this man, derived pleasure from his suffering. They had inflicted as much pain as they could and then buried him alive. God only knew how long he had endured such a terrible thing. She had to help him whatever the cost to herself. It was inhumane to consider leaving him in such a state. It was more than she could bear.

With a sigh she pulled herself into a standing position, then leaned against the wall until the cellar stopped spinning. Vampire or human, she could not leave him to suffer slow starvation and death. He was in terrible pain; it was obvious he didn't understand what was happening. He was trapped in a world of agony and madness. "It is obvious you are out of your mind, Shea," she whispered aloud. She knew what she was experiencing was more than compassion and the need to heal. Something incredibly strong in her was committed to ensuring his survival. In a bizarre way she had lived with this man for years. He had been with her at all hours, sharing her mind, calling to her, begging her to come release him. She had left him here in this place of suffering and madness because she had not thought he was real. She would not fail him again.

The sun was blazing in the sky. If he suffered the same lethargic effects as she did, he was probably in a deep sleep and would not wake until sunset. It was go now or risk another attack if he awoke. The sun was going to burn her skin. She found her bag, rummaged for her dark glasses.

Crossing the meadow was a kind of hell. Even with dark glasses, the light hurt her eyes, kept them watering so that her vision was constantly blurred. Unable to see the uneven ground clearly, she fell several times. The sun beat at her, relentless in its assault. In the shadow of the forest, the trees provided some relief. But by the time she reached her cottage she hadn't a square inch of skin that wasn't bright red or blistering.

Once at home she examined her swollen neck and throat, the terrible bruises and ragged wounds. She looked grotesque, a hideous lobster, beaten and battered. Shea smeared aloe vera over her skin, then, working quickly, gathered tools, instruments, and ropes, arranging them in her truck. The windows in the camper were already blackened, but she would need to cover him to get him into the truck. She returned for a blanket.

A wave of dizziness drove her to her knees. She was very weak. She needed a transfusion desperately. If she was to save this man, she must first save herself. It had taken a couple of hours to make the trek back to the cottage, and she hated wasting more valuable time. Still, knowing she had no choice, she set up a transfusion, using one of the units of blood she kept on hand. It seemed to take forever, each minute dragging by feeling like an hour, giving her too much time to worry, to wonder.

Was the coffin too near the opening to the cellar? Why hadn't she noticed? If she had left him where the sun would touch him, he was burning alive while she was attending to what amounted to minor inconveniences. Oh, God, why couldn't she remember? Her head ached, her throat was raw, and most of all she was terrified. She did not want to feel his hand wrapped around her throat again. She did not want to think that she could have been so insensitive as to leave him where the sun might reach him. The thought made her physically ill.

Finally transfused, Shea quickly prepared the cabin for the surgery ahead, laying out instruments to remove the stake and sutures to repair the damage. At least she had blood to give him. She didn't allow herself to think further about the task before her as she drove back to the blackened ruins.

The sun was sliding toward the mountains by the time she positioned the truck in front of the cellar entrance and, using the winch, lowered cable into the hole. Taking a breath, afraid of what she might find, Shea made her way down the rickety stairs. Instantly she felt the impact of those burning eyes. Her heart thudded fearfully, but she forced herself to cross the floor until she was standing just out of his reach. He was watching her with a predator's unblinking stare. He had awakened alone, still trapped. Fear and pain and intolerable hunger clawed at him. His black eyes fastened on her face in accusation, in rage, with the dark promise of retaliation.

"Listen to me. Please try to understand." She was so desperate, she used sign language as she spoke. "I need to get you in to my truck. It's going to hurt you, I know. If you're like me, drugs won't work on you." She was beginning to stammer, his unblinking stare unnerving her. "Look," she said desperately, "I didn't do this to you. I'm really trying my best to help you."

His eyes commanded her to take a step closer. She brought a hand up to shove at her hair and found she was trembling. "I'm going to have to tie you in so when I hook the cable to the... " She trailed off, bit her lip. "Quit staring at me that way. This is hard enough."

She approached him cautiously. It took every ounce of courage she possessed to step to his side. He could smell her fear, hear the frantic beat of her heart. There was terror in her eyes, in her voice, yet she came to him. He was not forcing her compliance. The pain made him weak. He chose to conserve his energy. It astonished him that she came to him despite her fear. Her fingers were cool on his skin, felt soothing in his filthy hair. "Trust me. I know I'm asking a lot, but this is all I could figure to do."

The eyes, black ice, never left her face. Slowly, trying to avoid alarming him, Shea padded the area around the wooden stake with folded towels, hoping that moving him wouldn't kill him. She covered him with a blanket to protect him from the sun. He simply watched her, seemingly uninterested, yet she knew by the way he held himself, that he was coiled and ready to strike if there was need. When she would have secured him in the coffin to minimize jarring and bleeding, he caught her wrist in the viselike grip she was becoming so familiar with.

The photographs Don Wallace and Jeff Smith had shown her two years earlier had pictured some of their victims with blindfolds and gags. She couldn't deny that this creature looked exactly like the man in her dreams, like the man in their photograph, yet surely he couldn't have survived seven years buried in this cellar? There were rags in the coffin. A gag? A blindfold? Her stomach somersaulted. Even to protect his eyes she could not blindfold him. She could not duplicate anything those murderers had done to him. His filthy hair was very long, tangled, and falling around his face. She had a strong need to brush it away from his cheeks, to touch it with gentle fingers, to stroke away the last seven years with a caress.

"Okay, I'll leave your arm free," she soothed. It was difficult to remain still, waiting for his decision, her eyes held captive by his burning gaze. It seemed an eternity. Shea could feel his rage seething just below the surface. Every second that ticked by made it more difficult to keep her courage. She was not altogether certain he was sane.

Reluctantly, finger by finger, he released her. Shea didn't make the mistake of touching his arm again. Very carefully she hooked the cable to the handle at the head of the coffin. "I have to put this over your eyes. The sun is sinking, but there's enough light to blind you. I'll just lay it across; you can take it off at any time."

The moment she laid the cloth across his eyes, he ripped it off, fingers shackling her wrist in warning. His strength was enormous, nearly crushing her bones, yet she had the feeling it wasn't his intention to hurt her. He had drawn a clear line for her, what was acceptable to him and what was not.

"Okay, okay, let me think. No cloth." Her tongue found her lower lip; her teeth followed. His black gaze simply watched her, followed the movement of her tongue, came back to her vivid green eyes. Watching. Learning. "I know. You can use my glasses until I get you into the camper." She placed the dark glasses very gently on his nose. Her fingers stroked his hair in a little caress. "I'm sorry, this is going to hurt."

Shea took a cautious step backward. It was worse not seeing his eyes. Another step. His mouth twisted in a silent snarl; white teeth gleamed. She ran a split second before his arm snaked out with blinding speed. His nails ripped a deep furrow in her arm. She cried out, clutched her arm, but kept running until she reached the rotten stairs.

The light hit her eyes, blinding her, sending pain splintering through her head. Shea squeezed her eyes closed, stumbled to the truck, started the winch. She didn't want to see him brought up anyway. That she was the one tormenting him sickened her. Tears were streaming down her face. Shea pretended it was a reaction to the setting sun. Intellectually she knew he had struck at her out of fear that she was deserting him.

The whine of the cable stopped abruptly. Shea felt her way around the truck, opened the tailgate, slid down the ramp, and threaded the cable back through the cab into the shell. The winch loaded the coffin smoothly into the pickup bed. Shea desperately needed her sunglasses for driving, but she couldn't bring herself to get close to him again until it was absolutely necessary. By now he would be in so much pain that he might kill her before she could convince him she was not trying to torture him. She couldn't find it in herself to blame him.

The drive to her cabin took longer than it should have, with her eyes streaming and swollen and her vision blurred. She drove slowly, trying to avoid every rock and bump in the dirt track. As it was, even with four-wheel drive, it was hard going. Shea was cursing softly by the time she backed the truck practically onto her porch.

"Please, please, don't grab me and eat me alive," she chanted softly, a litany or prayer. One more time ripping at her throat and she might never be able to help anyone again. Taking a deep breath, she opened the tailgate and shoved the dolly over the ramp. Without looking at him, she lowered the coffin onto the dolly and wrestled him inside.

He never made a sound. Not a groan, not a sob, not a curse, He was in agony; she could tell by the sweat coating his body, by the white lines around his mouth, the crimson stain on his forehead, and the stark pain reflected in his eyes when it was finally safe to remove the sunglasses.

Shea was exhausted, her arms aching and weak. She was breed to take a moment to rest, leaning against the wall, fighting a wave of dizziness. His eyes were back on her face, simply staring at her. She hated his silence, instinctively knowing that hose who had tortured him had not received the satisfaction of hearing his cries. It made her feel like one of them. Movement lad to be excruciatingly painful for him.

Working quickly, she got him onto the gurney beside her operating table. "All right, I'm going to get you out of this box." She needed the sound of her voice even if he didn't understand. She had tried several languages, and he hadn't responded yet. There seemed to be intelligence, knowledge in his eyes. He didn't fully trust her, but it was possible he realized her intention was to help him.

Grasping her sharpest knife, Shea leaned over him to get at the thick ropes. Instantly he caught her wrist, preventing movement. Her heart sank. He didn't understand after all. She closed her eyes, steeling herself for the pain of teeth ripping through flesh. When nothing happened, she looked at him, fully expecting to meet his blazing eyes.

He was examining the long gash on her arm, his eyes slightly narrowed, lids half-closed. He turned her arm one way, then the other, as if fascinated by the long line of blood from wrist to elbow. Impatient, Shea tugged to get away. His fingers clamped down hard, but he didn't look at her face. He brought her arm to his mouth slowly, and her heart seemed to stop. His breath was warm against her skin. He touched her gently, almost reverently, a long, moist caress that took the sting from the injury. His tongue was rough velvet, lapping at the wound with care. The feel of it sent an unexpected curl of heat spiraling through her.

Intuitively she knew that he wanted to repair the damage he had done. She blinked down at him, unable to believe he was attempting to heal her silly scratch when his own body was so terribly mutilated. The gesture seemed so touching, it brought tears to her eyes. She stroked back his shaggy mane of hair with tender fingers. "We need to hurry, wild man. You're bleeding again."

He released her reluctantly, and Shea slashed through the ropes. "It's okay to yell at me if you have to," she chattered on needlessly. It took an eternity to remove the manacles. Even with a bolt cutter, she was not very strong. When his wrist finally came loose, she grinned at him triumphantly. "I'll have you free in no time." She heaved the heavy chains off him, revealing blackened, charred flesh up and down his legs and across his chest.

Shea swore, furious that such evil existed. "I'm pretty sure the people who did this to you found out about me and my research, too. We may have the same blood disorder." One manacle was finally off his ankle. "It's very rare, you know. A few years ago some fanatics banded together and decided people like us were vampires. But I guess you already know that," she added apologetically.

The last cuff fell away, and she threw down the bolt cutter. "Your teeth seem more developed than mine." She ran her tongue along her teeth, assuring herself she wasn't really like him as she began to rip away the rotting sides of the wooden coffin. "Since you can't understand a word I say, I'll admit I'm glad about that. I can't imagine biting into someone. Yuck. It's bad enough that I need extra blood to survive. There, I'll cut your clothes away and get that thing out of you."

His clothes had all but rotted off anyway. She had never seen a body so battered before. "Damn them for this." Shea swallowed hard at the extent of the damage. "How could they do this to you? And how could you have survived?" She brushed perspiration from her brow with her forearm before bending over him once more. "I need to move you onto this table. I know I'm jarring you, but it's the only way."

He did the impossible. As Shea took the weight of his broad shoulders, attempting to slide him over, in a burst of courage and strength he shifted himself onto the table. Blood beaded on his forehead, trickled down the side of his face.

For a moment Shea couldn't go on. Her body was seized with tremors, and she lowered her head to hide her tears. She could hardly bear to see his suffering. "Is this ever going to end or you?" It took a few minutes of fighting for control before he raised her head to meet the impact of his black gaze. "I'm going to knock you out. It's the only way I can do this. If anesthesia doesn't work, I'll hit you over the head or something." She meant it, too. She was not going to torture him as the others had.

He touched her cheek with a gentle fingertip, removing a tear. He stared at it for a long moment before he carried it to his mouth. She watched the curiously intimate act, wondering why her heart was melting in a way she had never experienced before.

Shea washed thoroughly, pulled on sterile gloves and a surgical mask. When she would have put a mask over his face, too, he warned her off with a silent show of fangs and a wrist lock he couldn't budge. It was the same when she tried a needle. Hack eyes blazed at her. She shook her head at him. "Please don't make me do this, not like this. I'm not a butcher. I won't do it this way." She tried to sound tough and not tearful.

"I won't do it." They stared at one another, locked in a strange mental combat. His black eyes burned into her, demanded obedience; his rage, always seething, was beginning to surface. Shea's tongue touched her lower lip; her teeth followed, scraping nervously. Satisfaction crept into the black ice of his eyes, and he lay back, certain he had won.

"Damn you for being so stubborn." She cleansed the area round the stake, set up her clamps, all the time wishing for a good surgical nurse and a large mallet. "Damn them for doing this to you." She gritted her teeth and pulled with all her strength. He moved, just a ripple through his muscles, contracting, flexing, but she knew he was in agony. The stake did not budge. "Damn it! I told you I couldn't do this with you awake, I'm not strong enough."

He seized the stake himself and jerked it free. Blood gushed, prayed her, and she fell silent, working desperately to clamp off every source of bleeding she could. She didn't look at him, every ounce of concentration focused on her work. Shea was a meticulous surgeon. She worked methodically, repairing damage, at a fast, steady pace, blocking out everything around her. Her entire being was centered on the surgery, her mind locking him to her so he would not die.

Jacques knew she was unaware of her fierce hold on him. She was so involved in what she was doing, she seemed not to notice how she merged with him mentally to keep him safe. Could he have been so wrong about her? The pain was excruciating, but with her mind merged so strongly with his, it kept the shattered remains of his sanity together.

Twice she added light for the close work, suturing for hours. So many stitches inside and out, and when his chest was done she still wasn't finished. All his other cuts had to be washed and closed. The smallest laceration took a single stitch, the largest forty-two. It went on and on as the night closed them in. Her fingers were nearly numb, and her eyes ached with strain. Stoically she went on cutting away dead flesh, forcing herself to use soil and her saliva, though it went against everything she had ever been taught in medical school.

Exhausted, hardly knowing what she was doing, she pulled off her mask and gloves and surveyed her work. He needed blood. His eyes were nearly mad with pain. "You need a transfusion," she said tiredly. She indicated the blood transfusion apparatus with her chin. The black eyes stared at her relentlessly. Shea shrugged, too exhausted to fight him. "Fine, no needles. I'll put it in a glass for you, and you can drink it."

His gaze never left her face as she wheeled the table to the bed and, with his help, shifted him into the comfort of clean, soft bedding. She stumbled twice, so exhausted that she was half asleep as she went for the blood. "Please cooperate, wild man. You need it, and I'm just too tired to fight with you anymore." She left the glass on the night table inches from his fingers.

Like an automaton she cleaned up, sterilizing instruments, washing down the gurney and tables, bagging the remains of the coffin, the rotted rags, and the blood-soaked towels for burial at the first opportunity. By the time Shea was finished, dawn was only two hours away.

The shutters were closed tightly to block out the approaching sun. She bolted the door and dragged two guns from the closet. Propping them up near her only comfortable chair, she tossed a blanket and pillow onto the cushion, prepared to defend her patient with her life. She knew she needed sleep, but no one was going to harm this man further.

In the shower she allowed the hot water to pour over her, rinsing blood, sweat, dirt, and grime from her body. Shea fell asleep standing up. Minutes later a strange sensation in her mind, almost like the brush of butterfly wings, jerked her awake. She wrapped her long hair in a towel, pulled on her mint-green robe, and stumbled out to check on her patient. Switching off the generator, she made her way to the bed. The glass was still sitting on the nightstand. Full. Shea sighed. Very gently she touched his hair. "Please do what I ask and drink the blood. I can't go to sleep until you do, and I'm so tired. Just this once, please listen to me."

His fingertips traced the delicate bones of her face as if memorizing her shape, the satin softness of her lips. His palm spanned her throat, fingers curling around her neck. He pulled her toward him slowly, relentlessly.

"No." The single word was more moan than protest. He increased the pressure almost tenderly until he had pulled her small form onto the bed beside him. His thumb found the pulse beating frantically in her neck. Shea knew she should struggle, but she was beyond caring, lying helplessly in his arms. She felt his mouth move over her bare skin, a whisper of movement, an enticement. His tongue stroked gently. She closed her eyes against the waves beating in her head. He was there. In her mind. Feeling her emotions, sharing her thoughts. Heat coiled in her as his mouth moved over her pulse again. His teeth scraped, nipped; his tongue caressed. The sensation was curiously erotic. Searing pain gave way to warmth and drowsiness. Shea relaxed against him, gave herself up to him. He could decide life or death. She was simply too tired to care.

Reluctantly he lifted his head, sweeping his tongue carefully to close the wound. He savored the taste of her - hot, exotic, the promise of passion. There was something terribly wrong with him; he understood that. Part of him was locked away so that he had no past. Fragments of memory seemed like shards of glass piercing his skull, so he tried not to allow them in. She was his world. Somehow he knew she was his only sanity, his only path out of his dark prison of pain and madness.

Why hadn't she come to him right away, when he had first called her? He had been so aware of her presence in the world. He had bent his will and commanded her obedience, but she had waited. Jacques had had every intention of punishing her for forcing him to endure madness and pain. Now, none of it made any sense. She had suffered much for him. Had there been some reason she had resisted his call? Perhaps the betrayer or the assassins had been following her. Whatever the reason, she had suffered greatly at his hands already. It didn't make sense that she had deserted him deliberately, prolonged his agony. He could read compassion in her. He felt her willingness to trade her own life for his. When he touched her mind, he felt only light and goodness. It did not add up to the cruel, treacherous woman he had perceived her to be.

Jacques was weak, vulnerable in his present state, unable to protect either of them. Shea was small and fragile. He had been so alone. Without light or color. He had spent an eternity alone, and he would never go back to that ugly, dark world. He slashed a wound in his chest, cradled her head to him, and commanded her to drink. Binding her to him was as natural as breathing. He could not bear to let her out of his sight. Shea belonged to him, and right at this moment she needed blood every bit as much as he did. The blood exchange had been made. Their mental bond was strong. When his body was healed he would complete the ritual, and she would be irrevocably bound to him for all eternity. It was instinct as old as time itself. He knew what to do and that he must do it.

As small as she was, Shea felt right in his arms, a part of his insides. None of it made sense, but in his narrow world, it didn't matter. Even as she fed, her mouth soft and sensuous against his torn flesh, he lifted the glass and carelessly emptied the contents down his throat. When he had sensed her sleeping as she bathed, he had awakened her, fearful of the separation. Now she would sleep beside him where she belonged, where he might have a chance of protecting her should the assassins find them. He might not be at full strength, but the monster in him was strong and lethal. No one would harm her.

The one bit of his memory that remained, forever etched into his mind, was the scent of the two humans and of the betrayer who had lured him to his living hell. He would recognize the voices of the tormentors and their smell. Demons. God, how they'd made him suffer, how they'd enjoyed his suffering. Laughing, taunting, torturing him until madness reigned. And it still reigned. He knew he was struggling for his sanity.

He would never forget the hunger as they bled him dry. Hunger had burned holes in him, crawled through him, eaten at him from the inside out. To survive he had slept, heart and lungs ceasing so that what little blood his body retained, he kept. He woke only when food was near. Always alone, unable to move, in agony. He had learned hatred. He had learned rage. He had learned there was a place where there was nothing, only stark, ugly emptiness and the burning desire for revenge.

Had these same animals attempted to hunt Shea? The thought of her in their hands sickened him. He fit her close to him so he could feel her reassuring presence. Was she being hunted? Were they close on her trail? If he had unfairly punished her failure to aid him, he would never forgive himself. He had wanted to kill her, had almost done so. Something inside him had been unable to do it. And then she had ceased to straggle, offering her blood, her life for him. He had thought himself hard, impossible to touch, yet something in him had melted at her offering. And the way her fingertips had brushed his hair had sent his heart pounding.

He cursed his weakness, both of body and mind. He needed more blood, hot human blood. It would speed his healing. There was something terribly important eluding him. It slipped in and out of his mind, leaving pain and fragments in its wake. If he could just hold it for a moment he might remember, but it never stayed long enough to do other than drive him mad. It was unbearably frustrating to have his memory taken from him.

Shea groaned softly, the sound cutting through him like a knife. She was shivering, even in her heavy robe. His gaze quickly jumped to her face. She was in pain. He felt it in her mind. Instinctively he laid a hand on her stomach, fingers splayed wide. Something was happening inside her body. Again his head seemed to splinter as he tried to catch the memory. He should know. It was important for her.

Shea rolled over and came to her knees, clutching her stomach. Her eyes were wide with fear. She was extremely cold, as if she would never be warm again. Shivering, she could only rock back and forth as wave after wave of pain shook her small frame. Heat was burning her insides, eating through her internal organs, squeezing her heart, her lungs. She rolled off the bed onto the floor, landing hard, attempting to protect her patient from whatever virus she had contracted. The towel unraveled, and her hair spilled out like dark blood pooling around her head. Her abdomen was on fire. A fine sheen of perspiration coated her body; across her forehead was a faint ribbon of scarlet.

Jacques tried to move, to get to her, but his body was not his own, lying heavy and useless. His arm couldn't reach her. His every movement brought pain rippling through him, but his world for so long had been pain, he knew no other. It had been his only reality in the darkened eternity of the damned. Pain only added to his iron will. He would live for all eternity and find those who had taken his past. He would turn that same iron will to finding a way to help Shea.

Shea's slender body writhed, locked, writhed again. She rolled to her knees, tried to crawl toward her medical bag. She wasn't thinking; the movement was blind, instinctive. She had no idea where she was or what was happening to her, only that the fire consuming her had to stop.

He struggled, raged at his inability to move, to help her. Finally he lay back, crawling into her mind as he had many times before in an effort to save himself.

Come to me, to my side.

The whisper of sound, the thread of sanity, was in her head. Shea knew he had not spoken aloud. She was hallucinating. She groaned, rolled over, and curled up in the fetal position, making herself as small as possible. She would not go near him. If this were contagious, he would not survive such a virulent flu.

What if she didn't survive? What if she had brought him here, and, with no one to care for him, she left him to die slowly of starvation? Somehow she had to tell him there was blood in the icebox. It was too late. Another wave of fire beat at her, attacking her internally, spreading to every organ. She could only draw up her knees like a mortally wounded animal and wait for it to pass.

You must come to me. I can help ease the pain.

Thewords penetrated her next moment of lucidity. He sounded so tender, so unlike the way he looked. She didn't care if she was going crazy, if she was making his voice up; there was a soothing quality, like the touch of gentle, cool fingers on her body, to the voice in her mind.

Shea was going to be sick. Something in her, some ridiculous shred of dignity, made it possible to drag herself to the bathroom. He could hear her, fighting to stop the endless stomach spasms. Her agony was worse for him than his own, his rage at his impotence growing until he was consumed with it. Fingernails lengthened to murderous claws, tore holes in the sheets. Outside the wind picked up, howled at the windows, and ripped through the trees. A low growl rumbled in his throat, in his mind, increasing in volume. She was trying to protect him. He was a male of his race, his duty to take care of his own, yet she was suffering the fires of hell and refusing his aid lest she somehow give him her illness. He knew it was hers alone, that the fire twisting her insides was something important. She had to come to him; he did not know why, but every instinct, every cell in his body demanded her compliance.

You must come to me. I cannot get to you. There is no danger to me, little red hair. I must insist on your obedience.

Itwas an imperious demand, the voice a soft yet steely thread of sound. Very Old World, heavily accented. At the same time his voice was brushing at her skin, soothing her, promising his aid.

In the bathroom, Shea splashed cold water on her face and rinsed her mouth. She had a minute or two before the next wave hit. She could feel the wild man's mixed emotions. He was frustrated with his inability to help her, was determined to reach her should she not respond. She was amazed that he needed to help her. It was an all-consuming emotion that vibrated in the air. Shea wanted to do as he commanded but was terrified of infecting him. The way her body was convulsing and pulsing with pain, she was certain it would kill him. Yet she wanted the comfort of another being.

I cannot come to you. You must come to me.

His voice was pitched low, black velvet enticement, impossible to ignore.

Shea pushed herself off the wall and stumbled back to the bedroom, her face starkly white, shadows under her eyes. The bruises and wounds on her throat stood out plainly. She looked so fragile, he was afraid she would break if she fell again. He held out a hand to her, the expression in his dark eyes a mixture of demand and gentleness.

"You probably gave me rabies," she muttered rebelliously, but already the fire was eating at her spleen, her kidneys, spreading from tissue to muscle, bones, and blood.

Come now!

I cannot take your suffering a moment longer.

Deliberately he used that same mesmerizing tone, so that she felt an overwhelming need to do as he asked her. The voice seemed to be echoing in her mind, impelling her forward until she made it to the bed, rolling into a ball, burying her face in the pillow, hoping for death.

His hand gently, almost tenderly, pushed back the heavy fall of hair from around her face, traced his thumbprint on her neck. He made an effort to search inside his mind for information. There was a key somewhere, a way to end her suffering, but, like his past, it eluded him. He was failing her when she had already endured so much to ensure his survival. He wanted to roar at the heavens, tear someone's throat out. They had done this to him.

Two humans and a betrayer. They had taken his past, shattered his mind, and imprisoned him in a living hell. Worst of all they had taken away his ability to protect his lifemate. They had created a monster the likes of which they could not conceive.

He touched her swollen throat, examined her wounds. Shea was beside him, locked in her own world of suffering. This was so wrong. His head ached, splintered. He damned himself and wrapped an arm around her waist, offering her what comfort he could. The dawn was upon them, and he inadvertently did the one thing he needed to do. He issued a sharp command and sent them both to sleep.