Marisa blinked against the light. She felt disoriented, confused. And then she heard the sound of laughter. Soft laughter, tinged with evil. It was a voice she recognized.

"You'll get used to it," Alexi said. He moved into her field of vision, his arms crossed over his chest, his malevolent gray eyes regarding her with amusement.

"What happened?" She glanced around. "Where are we?"

"Italy."

"Italy! That's impossible."

"For me, my sweet Marisa, nothing is impossible."

She looked around the room again. There was a small four-drawer chest of drawers, a commode with a porcelain pitcher and bowl, the narrow bed she occupied. She could tell by the faded outline on the wallpaper that there had once been a crucifix above the door.

She sat up, hugging herself against the chill in the room. "Is this your house?"

"It is now."

Something in the tone of his voice told her that he had killed the former owner.

She cringed as he moved toward her, flinched as his hand stroked her cheek.

"Such a pretty creature," he murmured, "but then, Grigori always did have good taste in women. Good taste." He laughed as his fingers closed around her neck, tilting her head back to expose the pulse in her throat.

Terror rose up in Marisa as she stared into Alexi's eyes. "Don't," she said with a gasp. "Please don't."

"Just a taste," he promised.

"No! I don't want to be like Antoinette. Please!"

"Antoinette... I loved her, you know." He made a vague gesture with his free hand. "Loved her as much as I was able."

"Is that why you killed her children and turned her into a mindless zombie? Because you loved her?"

"I asked her to leave him, to come away with me, but she refused." His gaze grew hot. "I fear I have a rather bad temper." His hand tightened around her throat until she could hardly breathe. "You would be wise to remember that."

She tried to speak, but couldn't, could only stare at him as he lowered his head. His eyes were changing, the pupils growing larger, changing color, until his eyes were red and glowing. His lips parted, and she saw his fangs.

"No!" She screamed the word as she felt his breath sear her skin. This can't be happening! She clawed at the hand locked around her throat, raked her nails down his cheek, screamed in helpless terror as she felt his fangs pierce her flesh.

Darkness rose up in her mind, a writhing miasma of evil and death.

And then, abruptly, he let her go. Reeling backward, he glared at her. "He has marked you as his!"

"What? What are you talking about?"

"He has taken your blood."

Marisa stared up at him. "No."

"Yes!"

"It's impossible. He never..." The words died in her throat. She had imagined Grigori bending over her late one night. But it had been a dream. Hadn't it? "It's impossible," she said again. "If he'd taken my blood, wouldn't I be like Antoinette?"

Alexi shook his head. Hands clenched, he paced the room. "He didn't take enough for that, nor give you more than a drop of his in return. Just a drop of his!" He screamed the words. "Only enough so that I could taste him like poison in your blood."

Alexi whirled around, his eyes blazing with fury. "I would have taken you and let him keep Antoinette," he raged, "but not now! Not now! Call him, Marisa. Call him to your side."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Call his name." He caught her arm and twisted it behind her back. "Call him! He will hear you."

She shook her head, too frightened to speak, her whole body churning in revulsion at the thought of Grigori giving her his blood. How could he have done such a thing without her knowledge?

She cried out in pain and terror, everything else forgotten, as Alexi gave her arm another cruel twist.

"Call him." The vampire's gray eyes burned into her mind, obliterating her will to resist.

"Grigori."

"Louder."

"Grigori! Help me!"

Sobbing, she cried his name over and over again, until her throat was raw, until fear and exhaustion carried her away, into darkness.