Amber closed her eyes very slowly as the shock washed over her but quickly got a grip on herself as she realized Frank Stiles was lying through his teeth. "Very funny," she said. "But I happen to know that's impossible."

"Now what makes you say that? You stole my journals when you left five years ago. You read the notes."

She shrugged.

"So you know you're perfectly fertile. That was one of the things I recorded there. Which means it's far from impossible. Unless you're trying to tell me you've never been with a man."

She spun away from him, heading into the hall. She thought maybe she should make a break for it then and there but chose restraint. She still didn't have what she'd come for, she thought And she was supposed to be suffering the chemical hangover of the tranquilizer, a side effect she remembered all too well. "I'm not discussing this. It's absurd."

He shot after her, gripping her arm before she got far and hustling her straight into the bedroom. "Is this some kind of immaculate conception, then?"

"Leave me alone." She paced away from him, sat on the bed.

"I can easily put you on the table in my lab and examine you. Or you can give me a straight answer. Are you a virgin or not?"

She lowered her head. More than anything she would like to avoid undergoing any more of this man's "examinations."

"No."

"Then you have slept with a man. Or men?"

She didn't reply.

"Did you use protection?" This time, when she failed to respond, he sighed. "Fine, I'll go and get the stun gun, if that's how you want to do this. I just hope it doesn't have some dramatic impact on the baby."

"There is no baby."

He rolled his eyes. "Five minutes. I'll be back in five minutes. Don't try anything." Then he slammed out of the room, locking the door behind him.

Amber sank onto the bed, holding her head in her hands as it spun with disbelief. Male vampires were infertile. Everyone knew that.

She looked up at the ceiling tiles, wondering if she should try now to get the hell out of here. But no. He would be back in five minutes, he said. She had to wait this out, give it some time, get the formula he used to make his Ambrosia-Six.

Stiles was playing head games with her. That was all.

His five minutes turned out to be closer to fifteen, and she was pacing, eager to get past his return and get on with things. She was starved to death-again. At least the nausea had gone, and the dizziness. She still felt tired, weak.

Stiles unlocked the door, opened it and entered. He held a yellow plastic bag with a drugstore chain's logo on it, then handed it to her.

Frowning, she took it and glanced inside.

A home pregnancy test kit. She pressed her lips tight, swallowed a lump of fear. He was really taking this ruse to the bitter end, wasn't he? What she couldn't figure out was what he had to gain by trying to make her believe she was pregnant.

"It was a vampire, wasn't it?" he asked.

She blinked up at him.

"You've only been with one person, and that person was a vampire. That's why you keep saying it's impossible. Tell me, was it my old friend Edgar?''

Clutching the bag in her fist, she muttered, "That's none of your business."

"I thought I glimpsed his mark on your throat before we stepped out into the sunlight this morning." He touched her chin, turning her head to look at her neck. "No sign of it now, of course."

She pressed her lips tight, and he took her arm again, tugged her into the hall, shoved her into the bathroom. "Take the test," he said. "Convince yourself, so we can get past that and move on."

She shook her head. "What makes you think I'd trust this kit? How do I know you haven't rigged it to make me believe this insane notion?''

He shrugged. "I just went to the drugstore on the corner and bought it. Receipt's still in the bag. Check it out for yourself." He pulled the door closed but didn't walk away. She knew he was standing out there, waiting.

She glanced at the tiny single bathroom window and thought she could probably squeeze through it. But not yet She didn't have what she'd come after yet. If she had to play along, take this stupid test, she would. But she wasn't leaving here without Willem's cure.

She took the boxed kit from the drugstore bag. It was shrink wrapped, and she checked it carefully for tears. There were none. When she took off the cellophane, she checked the box's seal. It was glued tight. She tore it open and found everything inside just as intact. Nothing seemed to have been tampered with. She even checked the store receipt, which included a date and time stamp.

Okay, okay. So it was probably the real thing.

Sighing, she read the instructions, made a face and followed them. Then she paced the bathroom, watching the second hand on her watch impatiently.

There was a tap on the door.

She opened it and faced Stiles. "Well?"

She looked at her wrist. "Thirty more seconds."

He pursed his lips and waited. The time ticked away slowly, dragging its feet.

Finally time was up. She picked up the indicator stick and looked at the symbol in its tiny green tinted window.

A plus sign.

Blinking in shock, she looked again. But it was clear, clear as day. A plus sign. She even double-checked the instruction sheet to be sure that meant what she already knew it meant. "It's not possible," she whispered.

Stiles took her arm, guiding her back to the bedroom. She moved in a daze, not believing, even now.

"It was Edgar, wasn't it?"

She said nothing.

"Amazing. Every vampire DPI ever tested was sterile-males from the time of the transformation, females within six months or so. Are you sure you haven't been with anyone else?"

She frowned up at him, hearing, but not processing his words.

"Of course you are," he said. "Otherwise you wouldn't be so stunned by this." He shook his head slowly as he silently mulled over the ramifications.

Amber lay down on the bed, letting her forearm rest over her eyes.

Sighing, Stiles left the room, but he returned a moment later with a hypodermic. As he touched the needle to her arm, she jerked away.

He sent her his trademark smile, half natural, half a twisted grimace of scarred skin. "Don't worry, it's a half dose. And I've got no reason to believe it will be harmful to the fetus."

"You have no reason to believe it won't be, either." Then she caught herself. "Not that there is any fetus to be worried about." She looked past him at the floor, saw the small black bag, realized that was where he'd taken the needle from. Or at least she hoped it was.

Its slender sharp tip pierced her skin. She braced herself, waiting for the rush of dizziness and inevitable sleep, but it didn't come. Not for real. She thanked whatever sorts of angels watched out for her kind, whatever the hell her kind was, and let her arm go limp and her eyes fall closed.

Hours and hours passed before Amber finally felt the soft, heavy energy of sleep pervading the house. She was still tired, and her mind was spinning with the possibility that she might be carrying a baby. She really couldn't give it any credence, not now. Stiles was clever, clever enough to have a ready-made test kit on hand, or to fake a drugstore receipt. He had some reason for wanting her to believe something she knew to be impossible. She couldn't imagine what it was, but he had a reason. Maybe he thought she would be less likely to engage him in violence, or perhaps he thought he could hold the safety of her unborn child over her like the Sword of Damocles, using it to force her to cooperate with him.

She wasn't buying it. She couldn't.

Even so, she found her hands pressing to her abdomen. She closed her eyes and opened her senses. Her throat tightened until she couldn't swallow, because she felt something. Something so faint, so fleeting, that she couldn't be sure it was real. Was she picking up the essence of a new life or the effects of the power of suggestion?

She grimaced, got to her feet and arranged the covers over the pillows, thinking it probably wouldn't fool Stiles for a minute. With any luck, it wouldn't have to. She needed to keep her focus on the mission. She'd come here to get the formula Stiles called Ambrosia-Six and take it back to Willem to save his life. Stiles and his attempts at distracting her must not be allowed to work.

She could not allow herself to believe this insanity. Not even for a minute. Because if it were true...

No!

No.

She stepped up onto the bed and, from it, onto the top of the slightly higher nightstand. From there she could reach the ceiling easily, and she pushed one of its panels upward. It wasn't easy-there was insulation backing the thing, and she had to tear it apart with her fingers before it would allow the panel to move freely. She moved the panel to one side, then peered up into the rectangle of darkness, in search of a stud. There was one on either side of the opening, just as she'd guessed there would be-the panel's framework had to be attached to something, after all. She thrust her hands up through the hole, jumped just a little, and caught hold of the two-by-fours that flanked the opening; then, carefully, she pulled herself up into the ceiling. She made sure to lower her feet, one and then the other, onto the beams, not the panels. She would break right through those panels, and then she would give away her presence. So she straddled them, getting to her hands and knees, crawling along the two-by-fours, which stood up on their edges, left hand and knee on one, right on another, sixteen inches away. The narrow surfaces made balance difficult, and crawling on them was less than pleasant. Painful, in fact, by the time she'd moved a distance she judged would put her outside the locked bedroom door. She could have broken the lock, she thought. But so long as Stiles believed she was weak, kept tame by his tranquilizer, his guard would remain down.

She paused, pawing aside insulation and lifting a ceiling panel so she could peer below her. She was over the hallway now. She thought about dropping down into the hall but knew his lab would likely have a locked door, just as her bedroom did. If he were true to form, it would have an alarm on it that would sound when it was opened. So she would just keep moving.

She crept farther, certain there would be two inch dents in her knees by the time she finished. She slid her hands along until a sliver drove itself into one palm, making her suck in a breath.

"Dammit," she whispered.

The sliver was embedded in the fleshy pad beneath her forefinger. She tried to bite it and pull it out, but it was in too deep. She would just have to suffer.

She got moving again.

The next room she peered down into was a bedroom. She saw Stiles, lying sound asleep in his oversized bed, a sheet covering his torso. A naked arm and leg were flung over the woman who lay beside him. Brookie. She lay still, not quite stiff, but not relaxed, either. She was asleep, but not deeply.

There was something about her...

Amber lowered the panel into place again and moved on. She located a living room, an empty bedroom and a kitchen, before she finally moved a panel aside and saw a pristine laboratory.

She felt like shouting. But instead, she only lowered herself as far as her arms would reach and then let go, dropping to the floor.

She brushed her hands against each other, took stock of the room.

Utterly white. The walls, the floor, the cupboards, the countertops. Aside from the silver knobs on the drawers and faucets on the sink, the place wasn't broken by any other color. A refrigerator stood on one side. A desk and computer on another. She went to the PC, turned it on, then searched for the most recently accessed files.

The one he'd viewed most recently was called "Hilary Garner Journals."

Frowning, Amber clicked on the icon. The document opened in a word processing program, and as she skimmed the first few lines, she knew it hadn't been written by Stiles.

I should have believed Tamara, years ago, when she told me what DPI was really all about. I should have believed her, but I didn't. And now that I've seen the truth for myself, it's too late. If I try to leave-when I try, for I must-they'll hunt me down and they will kill me. I know that. And yet it's not fear that keeps me from making the move. It's their latest experiment. The female captive is pregnant. They inseminated her with the sperm of one of the Chosen-a male mortal with the rare Belladonna Antigen. Not just any male. But the little boy Tamara worked with so long ago, when we were best friends and she was still among the living. Jameson Bryant. Precocious little Jamey.

Amber blinked. My God, this was about her parents!

It was about her!

Tapping the down arrow impatiently, she read on.

Hilary Garner had sent a letter, in secret, to Tamara and Eric Marquand, telling them about the prisoner and her pregnancy, knowing they would get word to Jameson and he would do something. But in the meantime, she wrote about how quickly Angelica seemed to become aware of her pregnancy, even before any symptoms should have been apparent. She would sit in her cell, her hands embracing her lower abdomen, caressing, stroking the child there as if she could reach it...

... and she would sing. God, the sound of her voice was like a choir of angels, I swear. I never heard anything so heart-wrenching, so sad or so full of love. I think part of the power of her voice is preternatural-she can sing like no human being ever could. But it's more than that. It's almost... magic. The other prisoners can hear her songs, all up and down the sublevels. And even the most violent, the most agitated, seem to relax at the sound of them. They stop pacing, lie back, close their eyes. It's the most amazing thing... and the guard dogs react, too. I've observed a few of them when her voice came floating on the air. The way their ears perk up and their tails wag. Some of them even begin to whimper, as if trying to sing along. I think they'd cut loose and do it, if they were less well trained.

She talks to her baby as if the baby can hear her and talk back. And I don't know, maybe it can. She knows it's a girl, she says.

I can't leave here yet. Not yet. Because I think maybe I'm the only one here who's willing to help her and her baby. She begs me to help her. Every single time I see her, she begs me with those eyes of hers. So imploring, so expressive. I try to tell her that I will, that I'll do whatever I can, but of course I can't say it out loud. I hope she understands. I hope she can read my thoughts the way DPI says they can. I hope she knows. I'm staying on here, continuing to work for DPI until that baby's born, and then I'm going to do something to help. Somehow.

She's not a monster. She's a mother. The only monsters here are Fuller and Stiles and the others.

Amber closed her eyes, and her stomach clenched tight. Her mother. That had been her own dear mother, singing her heart out from a prison cell, wondering what would become of her child. And a short while later a mob of vampires had surrounded that building and burned it to the ground. That was where Stiles had gotten his scars.

God, what if she were in the same horrible predicament her mother had been? Alone, imprisoned and unable to be sure she could protect her child?

"But I'm not," she whispered. "I'm no prisoner, and I'm far from helpless. I have the upper hand here. I say how long I stay. I say when I leave." Even as the thoughts crossed her mind, she looked toward the door and thought about running.

Then she swallowed hard, faced the computer again. "Besides, I'm not pregnant." She closed the file and opened the next most recently viewed document.

Edge arrived at the barn alone. He didn't know or care whether the other two were following. He had no time to focus his attention behind him. Only ahead of him. Only on Amber Lily... and that bastard Stiles.

He went to the barn where he'd last seen her, only this time, instead of going inside, he circled the place, moving slowly, his entire mind homed to pick up any trace of her.

"Look at him," Dante said. "He's like a bloodhound trying to pick up a scent."

"Mmm," Donovan agreed. "I read somewhere that bloodhounds on the scent will be so focused, so oblivious to everything else, that they've been known to walk right over cliffs, into canyons, even in front of speeding traffic."

"Then my analogy fits," Dante put in. "He's not even aware of our presence."

"Of course I'm aware of your fucking presence," Edge said, spinning around. "Now would you shut up so I can concentrate?''

Dante and Donovan exchanged glances. "There might be a better way, son," Donovan said softly.

Edge turned very slowly, pinned the man with his gaze. "Son? You're my sire, not my father."

"Is there really a difference?"

Edge stared so intently he thought the other man should have burst into flames. But apparently there was still only one in existence who could commit such a feat. A vampire named Damian-the first, according to legend. As for Edge's efforts, Donovan's hair didn't even begin to smolder.

"Dante has something for you, Edge," Donovan said.

Edge shot a look at Dante. "And I suppose you want me to address you as 'Gramps'?"

"Hardly," Dante said, seeming not the least bit amused. Still, he tugged a packet of papers, all stapled together, from the pocket of his black trench coat. "I went through the files of the old DPI. They had what were known as safe houses all over the country. Ordinary-looking homes, in ordinary neighborhoods, fitted with labs, computers and cells for the occasional prisoner."

"So?"

"So I got the full list. The Northeast Region begins on page three," he said, holding the sheaf of papers out to Edge.

Edge took it from him with a sigh, flipped the first two pages. "I don't see what good it will do. It's hardly likely Stiles would be using the former DPI safe houses."

"Why not? They'd have been put up for sale by the government when DPI was dismantled. They were, at the time, in a hell of a hurry to wash their hands of the entire operation, distance themselves from it."

"Probably in case word of the atrocities DPI committed ever leaked out," Donovan suggested.

Edge pursed his lips and skimmed the addresses under the header "Northeast Region." He slid his forefinger along with his gaze.

That one, someone said.

Edge frowned, lifting his head sharply. "Well, if you already know which one, why the hell are you asking me?"

Dante and Donovan frowned at each other, then at him. "What makes you think we know which one?" Dante asked.

"One of you just said so."

"I didn't say a word," Dante said.

"Neither did I. Neither mentally nor audibly," Donovan agreed.

Sighing, Edge returned his attention to the sheet, reading farther.

No, no, go back. It's that one, up there, I told you!

He jerked his head up again, eyeing the other two men.

Fourth from the top, that's the one!

Neither man had spoken. Nor did this voice seem like the ones he heard when he communicated with others of his kind telepathically. No, this voice seemed for all the world to be coming from someplace inside him.

"Surely you can hear that," he asked.

Donovan's puzzled expression changed to one of concern. "I hear nothing. Edge, are you all right?"

"Please, spare me the parental concern." He glanced down at the sheet again, fourth listing from the top, and read aloud. "One sixty-three, Poplar Avenue, Boston. Is that the one?"

"I don't know," Donovan said, still confused.

Yes, the voice said. It was a male voice, not as deep as Edge's own. Some other vampire, trying to offer assistance from afar? Or was it one of Stiles's newest tricks? Had he mastered telepathy now? Was he trying to draw Edge and the others into a trap?

He squeezed his eyes tight. "All right. That's the one."

"What makes you think that's where she is?" Donovan asked.

Opening his eyes, Edge lifted his brows and tipped his chin to the right. "That's what the voice in my head is telling me, all right?" Then he shrugged. "And I don't hear any better ideas coming from either of you."

"Fine. Boston, then."

The formula was not on the computer. Nor was it in the file cabinet she managed to open with the force of her mind. She found several vials of her own blood in the refrigerator, but that was all.

Dammit.

Finally she put everything back exactly the way she'd found it and jumped upward, tugging herself through the hole in the ceiling again. When she looked back down at the room from above, she saw a tiny bit of pink fluff lying on the floor-a piece of the insulation. She looked at it and turned her head just slightly. The fluff spun across the floor and along the wall, vanishing behind a cabinet.

Perfect. She replaced the panel and crawled along the two-by-fours again until she was outside the lab and over the hallway. Then she emerged, lowering herself to the floor, straightening the panel behind her, making sure she left no signs. Then she began walking through the rest of the house.

He must have had notes somewhere. He must have recorded his work as he developed the formula. And he must have the formula itself hidden in this house. He didn't have a photographic memory that she knew of, so there had to be notes, a recipe, something.

Hell, where would he keep it, if not in the lab?

She tiptoed through the hallway, searching the house room by room. It was nearly dawn, she realized when she crossed the living room and glanced at the clock on the wall. It crossed her mind that very soon he would move her to a more secure location. She would be out of reach of assistance. Maybe she should remove the blocks from her mind. Send a call out to her friends. To her mother. To Edge. Just to let them know she was all right.

She closed her eyes and reminded herself of all the reasons why she must not do that. They wouldn't let her stay here long enough to get the formula. If they knew where she was, they would home in on her Like a flock of bats on a mosquito swarm. And they would know where she was if she lowered her shields. They would come charging to the rescue, just Like they always did. Edge right along with them, she thought-though she imagined he would deny it with everything in him, if asked. If he found her, he wouldn't leave Stiles alive. She didn't know what his issue with the man was, but it must be a big one.

No, she couldn't let her guard down. Couldn't let any of them know where she was. At least not until she got the formula for Will.

She padded through the carpeted living room, past the sofa and television stand and coffee table. There was a file folder on the coffee table, and she scooped it up as she passed, glancing at its label. "Poe."

Frowning, she carried it with her into the kitchen, set it on the table and opened the fridge as her stomach growled. She thought about helping herself to some of the fruits and vegetables that filled the drawers. Apparently someone-probably Brookie-had been sent shopping since their arrival here. Amber wondered if they would notice if anything went missing and decided to risk it. She took an apple, a banana, a stalk of celery; Then she opened the cupboards and located a box of granola bars. Thankfully, it was already open, so she took one out. Lastly she took a single serving size bottle of tomato juice. She loaded her stolen booty into a plastic grocery back she found tucked under the sink and turned back to the file folder on the table, flipping it open.

"Poe, Edgar, aka Edge," the top sheet read. "Ireland, 1943. Sire, Donovan O'Roark."

She blinked slowly. Edge's name was Edgar Poe? God, his mother must have had one sick sense of humor. And Stiles must be worried about him, to have pulled his file.

Something made her jerk her head up sharply. Not a sound-a feeling. No, the absence of a feeling. Not everyone in the house was asleep anymore.

Hell!

She closed the folder and stuffed it into her bag, certain she could sneak it back out to the living room before anyone noticed it missing. Then she tiptoed quickly through the house, every sense on full alert.

She made it to her bedroom door, saw the dead bolt on the outside.

A dead bolt. Nothing else. Excellent. She turned the bolt and quickly jerked the door open, ducking inside. Then, closing the door behind her, she used the power of her mind to close the dead bolt lock again.

She heard it snap into place and knew she'd been successful. Standing on the bed, she shoved the plastic bag up through the now loose ceiling panel, into the crawl space above-ceiling panels had long been a favorite hiding place of hers-and then she carefully put the panel back into place.

Even as footsteps came down the hall, Amber dropped into the bed, wriggled her way beneath the covers and wrestled the pillows up to the top of the mattress where they belonged. Just as she hugged them to her face, the door lock turned, the door opened.

Only it wasn't Stiles who came in this time.

It was Brookie.