Rhage could see only shadows, as his eyes were incapable of focusing or processing much light. He hated the loss of faculty and did his best to track the two big shapes moving around him. When hands gripped under his armpits and latched onto his ankles, he groaned.

"Easy there, Rhage, we're just gonna lift you for a sec, true?" V said.

A fireball of pain shot through his body as he was taken up off the ground and carried around to the back of the Escalade. They laid him down. Doors shut. The engine turned over with a low purr.

He was so cold his teeth knocked together, and he tried to draw whatever was across his shoulders closer. He couldn't make his hands work, but someone pulled what he assumed was a jacket more tightly around him.

"Just hang in there, big guy."

Butch. It was Butch.

Rhage struggled to speak, hating the foul taste in his mouth.

"Nah, relax, Hollywood. You're cool. V and I are going to get you home."

The car started to move, bumping up and down as if it were getting off the shoulder and onto the road. He moaned like a sissy, but he couldn't help it. His body felt as though it had been beaten all over with a baseball bat. A bat with a spike on the end.

And the bone and muscle aches were a minor problem compared to his stomach. He was praying he'd make it back to the house before he threw up in V's car, but there was no guarantee he'd hold out that long. His salivary glands were working overtime, so he had to swallow repeatedly. Which made his gag reflex fire up. Which spurred on the churning nausea. Which made him want to...

Trying to pull himself out the spiral, he breathed slowly through his nose.

"How we doing there, Hollywood?"

"Promise me. Shower. First thing."

"You got it buddy."

Rhage figured he must have passed out because he came awake as he was being hauled from the car. He heard familiar voices. V's. Butch's. A deep growl that could only be Wrath.

He lost consciousness again. When he came back, something cold was against his back.

"Can you stand up for me?" Butch asked.

Rhage gave it a shot and was grateful when his thighs accepted his weight. And now that he was out of the car, the nausea was a little better.

His ears caught a sweet chiming noise, and a moment later a warm rush fell over his body.

"How we doing, Rhage? Too hot?" Butch's voice. Up close.

The cop was in the shower with him. And he smelled Turkish tobacco. V must be in the bathroom, too.

"Hollywood? This too hot for you?"

"No." He reached around for the soap, fumbling. "Can't see."

"Just as well. No reason for you to know what we look like naked together. Frankly, I'm traumatized enough for the both of us."

Rhage smiled a little as a washcloth scrubbed over his face, neck, chest.

God, that felt fantastic. He craned his head back, letting the soap and water wash away the remnants of the beast's doing.

Too soon the shower was off. A towel was wrapped around his hips while another one dried him off.

"There anything else we can do for you before you get horizontal?" Butch asked.

"Alka-Seltzer. Cabinet."

"V, fire up some of that shit, would you?" Butch's arm came around Rhage's waist. "Lean on me, buddy. Yeah, that's right¡ªwhoa. Damn, we've got to stop feeding you."

Rhage let himself be led across the marble floor and onto the carpet in the bedroom.

"All right, big guy, down you go."

Oh, yeah. Bed. Bed was good.

"And look who's here. It's Nurse Vishous."

Rhage felt his head get tilted up and then a glass was put to his lips. When he'd taken all he could, he collapsed against the pillows. He was about to pass out again when he heard Butch's hushed voice.

"At least the bullet went through him clean. But, man, he doesn't look good."

V answered quietly. "He'll be all right in a day or so. He recovers quickly from anything, but it's still tough."

"That creature was something else."

"He worries a lot about it coming out." There was the rasp of a lighter and then a fresh waft of that wonderful tobacco. "He tries not to show how afraid of it he is. Gotta keep up that glossy front and all. But he's terrified of hurting someone."

"First question he asked when he came back was whether you and I were okay."

Rhage tried to force himself to sleep. The black void was a hell of a lot better than listening to his friends pity him.

Ninety-one years, eight months, four days. And then he would be free.

Mary was desperate to get to sleep. She closed her eyes. Did the deep breathing thing. Relaxed her toes one by one. Ran through all the telephone numbers she knew. None of it worked.

She rolled over and stared at the ceiling. When her mind kicked up an image of John, she was grateful. The boy was better than so many other subjects she could dwell on.

She couldn't believe he was twenty-three, although the more she thought about him, it did seem possible. Matrix fixation aside, he was incredibly mature. Old, really.

When it had come time for him to go, she'd insisted on driving him back to his apartment. Bella had asked to come, too, so the three of them had gone downtown with his bike sticking out of the back of the Civic. Leaving the boy in front of that miserable apartment building had been hard. She'd almost begged him to come home with her.

But at least he'd agreed to be at Bella's tomorrow night. And maybe the martial-arts academy would open some doors for him. She had a feeling he didn't have many friends, and thought Bella was sweet to make the effort on his behalf.

With a little grin, Mary pictured the way John had looked at the other woman. Such shy admiration. And Bella handled the attention gracefully, though she was no doubt used to those kind of stares. Probably got them all the time.

For a moment Mary indulged herself and imagined looking out at the world through Bella's flawless eyes. And walking on Bella's flawless legs. And swinging Bella's flawless hair over a shoulder.

The fantasizing was a good diversion. She decided she'd go to New York City and strut down Fifth Avenue wearing something fabulous. No, the beach. She'd head for the beach in a black bikini. Hell, maybe a black bikini with a thong.

Okay, this was getting a little creepy.

Still, it would have been great, just once, to have a man stare at her with total adoration. To have him be... enthralled. Yes, that was the word. She would have loved for a man to be enthralled by her.

Except it was never going to happen. That time in her life, of youth and beauty and dewy sexuality, had passed. Had never been, actually. And now she was a nothing-special thirty-one-year-old who'd led a very hard life, thanks to the cancer.

Mary groaned. Oh, this was great. She wasn't panicking, but she was knee-deep in self-pity. And the shit was like sludge, clingy and disgusting.

She clicked on the light and reached for Vanity Fair with grim resolve. Dominick Dunne, take me away, she thought.