Evelyn and George exchanged glances, then George nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Alone,” Rhys said.

George shook his head. “No way.”

Swallowing his irritation, Rhys moved toward the bed. “What do the doctors say?”

“Nothing very hopeful,” George replied, his voice thick. “Even if she wakes up, she won’t walk again.”

Rhys took one of Megan’s hands in his. “What happened?”

“She was out shopping for a wedding dress. A drunk driver hit her when she was crossing the street.”

“Where is he?”

“In jail.”

Rhys nodded. If Megan died, all the cops in the world wouldn’t be able to protect the kid who had done this to her.

“How do you know our daughter?” Evelyn asked.

“We met at Shore’s. We’ve been dating for several months.” Rhys swallowed hard. “I asked her to marry me, and she said yes.”

George and Evelyn exchanged glances again. George looked incredulous.

“She never told us,” Evelyn murmured. She looked at her husband. “Why didn’t she tell us?” she asked, and burst into tears.

George put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and guided her, gently, toward a chair. When she was seated, he knelt beside her.

Rhys moved swiftly to Megan’s side. Taking her hand in his, he tried once again to join his mind with hers. It hadn’t worked from a distance; he prayed it would work now. Megan? He squeezed her hand, silently willing her to respond. Megan, can you hear me?

“Dammit, Megan,” he whispered urgently. “You’ve got to hear me!”

But silence was his only answer.

Rhys wandered the dark streets, heedless of where his feet carried him. Nothing mattered now but Megan. Four days had passed since the accident, and she was still lost to him, locked in a coma. He had gone to see her every night. Her parents no longer questioned his right to be there. Not wanting Megan to be left alone, her mother and father were taking turns staying at her bedside. Evelyn stayed during the day, George at night. Rhys arrived at the hospital late at night, after exhaustion and worry had taken their toll and her father finally succumbed to sleep.

And now Rhys again stood at her bedside. Unmindful of her father, asleep in a chair, Rhys held Megan’s hand, speaking softly of his love for her, of the life they would have together if she would only awaken. Even though he wasn’t sure she heard him, he went on, reminiscing about the nights they had spent together, the times they had made love.

“Megan, my sweet.” His fingertips brushed her cheek, traced the curve of her lips. Her face was as pale as the pillowcase beneath her head, her skin as cool as his, her breathing shallow. How much longer would she lie there, unmoving and unaware, before he lost her for good?

His gaze moved to her throat, to the pulse slowly beating there. If he brought her across, would it restore her to good health?

Or condemn her to spending an eternity in the horrible state she was now in?

And how was he to know?

Three long weeks passed. Fear and concern for Megan drew Rhys and her parents together. Rhys found himself genuinely liking George and Evelyn. They were good, honest people, openly expressing their gratitude to the doctors and nurses caring for their daughter. Rhys knew they were naturally curious about the man who claimed to be engaged to Megan, but their questions were tactful, and they didn’t pursue subjects he was reluctant to discuss.

He knew they wondered why he always arrived after dark, even on the weekends, why he never went for coffee with George or accepted any of the donuts or homemade treats Evelyn sometimes brought to the hospital to share with the staff. He considered telling them what he was but, in the end, years of discretion kept him silent. It was one thing for Megan’s parents to think of him as somewhat mysterious, another entirely for them to know the truth.

George and Evelyn spent hours talking to Megan or reading to her. A radio played constantly in the background in the belief that it might stimulate a response.

Rhys continued to speak to her as well, sometimes vocally, sometimes mentally, but there was no response. She didn’t speak, didn’t open her eyes, didn’t move. Some of the bandages had been removed, revealing ugly bruises on one side of her face and along her right arm.

Earlier that night, the doctor had called Megan’s parents into his office. Curious to hear what the physician had to say, Rhys had dissolved into mist and followed them. The news hadn’t been good. As gently as possible, the doctor had explained that, with every passing day, it became more unlikely that Megan would regain consciousness. He also advised them that there was a possibility she would regain consciousness but be in a vegetative state, meaning she would have lost all cognitive neurological function. She could be awake and appear normal, but if the cognitive part of her brain ceased to function, she would be unable to respond to her surroundings.

Distraught, Evelyn had sobbed, “It would be better if she died! She wouldn’t want to live like that.”

“There’s always a chance she’ll wake and regain all her faculties,” the doctor said. “But I thought you should be prepared for the worst as well.”

With a nod, George led Evelyn out of the doctor’s office.

Rhys had been back at Megan’s bedside when they entered her room.

He was there now, his hand lightly stroking her brow. It was almost two in the morning, and the hospital was quiet save for the soft shushing of rubber-soled shoes as the night nurses checked on their patients, and the ever-present wheezing and beeping of life-support machines. Megan’s father slept in one of the chairs, his brow furrowed with worry even in sleep.

As he had every night, Rhys tried to connect with Megan’s mind. Tonight, fear and a sense of doom caused by the doctor’s gloomy prognosis drove him to persist longer than usual. Intent on the task at hand, he did not notice as the minutes and hours passed, until he felt the warning tingle that signaled the rising of the sun.

He was about to kiss her good-bye when her voice sounded in his mind.

Rhys?

Megan! Hope flared in his heart and soul. Megan, can you hear me?

Where am I? Where are you? It’s dark, so dark.

Heat from the rising sun prickled along his skin. Moving quietly, he went to the window and closed the blinds. Open your eyes for me, Megan.

I can’t. What’s wrong with me? Am I dying?

No, love, you’re in a coma.

Then how can we be talking?

I don’t know. I want to try something.

What?

I’m going to give you some of my blood.

He smiled faintly as he sensed her revulsion. It might help heal you.

Afraid she would object, he didn’t wait for a reply. He bit into his wrist, and, after gently parting her lips, he held his arm over her mouth and let a few drops of his blood trickle onto the back of her tongue, hoping they would slide down her throat.

He would have given her more, but a nurse chose that moment to pause outside the door.

Turning his back to the nurse, Rhys closed the wound in his wrist, bid the nurse good night, and left the room.

Outside, he took a quick moment to admire the sunrise before willing himself to his penthouse.

He was back at the hospital at sundown the following night. Earlier that day, he had touched Megan’s mind. Even though she hadn’t answered, he had assured her that he loved her, missed her, would see her soon. He was whistling softly when he arrived at the hospital, unable to contain the hope that his blood had worked a miracle, that he would walk into Megan’s room and find her sitting up in bed, smiling and happy.

But such was not to be. Even though she was now breathing on her own, Megan lay as before, pale and unmoving. George and Evelyn stood together at her bedside. The weeks had taken their toll on Megan’s parents. Her father’s hair had turned completely gray; deep lines of worry bracketed his mouth. Her mother, too, had aged in the last month. Evelyn never smiled now; the dark shadows under her eyes were evidence of sleepless nights and anxious days.

Two to four weeks, the doctor had said. If Megan didn’t come out of the coma in that time, the odds were she would lapse into a vegetative state and never recover.

Taking her uninjured hand in his, Rhys bent down, his lips brushing her cheek, her eyelids, the pulse beating in the hollow of her throat.

“Fear not, my love,” he whispered. “I won’t let that happen to you.” She didn’t respond, of course, and because he wanted her to know he was there, he reached for the link between them; he found only emptiness.

In that moment, he made up his mind. No more waiting. No more hoping and praying for a miracle that might never come. Tonight, he would bring her across. But not here. If it worked, she would wake with a ravenous thirst. It wasn’t something doctors or nurses were equipped to handle, nor was it something he wanted her parents to see.

He glanced at George and Evelyn. It would be cruel to take Megan away without warning them beforehand. They had suffered enough.

His decision made, he closed the door to Megan’s room. “George, Evelyn, why don’t you sit down? I have something to tell you.”

They exchanged glances, then sat side by side, holding hands. Evelyn’s cheeks were damp with tears. George looked mildly curious.

Rhys dragged his fingers through his hair. “I’m not sure how to say this except to say it straight out. I’m a vampire.”

Evelyn blinked at him.

“This is no time for jokes,” George said angrily. “My daughter is dying.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

Clenching his fists, George started to rise. There was no doubt in Rhys’s mind that the man was looking for any excuse to hit something. He had been through hell in the last month, and, up to now, he had managed to hold it all together.

Drawing on his preternatural power, Rhys forced the man back into his chair.

“What the hell!” George exclaimed. “Who are you?”

“I told you, I’m a vampire. Do you need more proof?” And so saying, Rhys bared his fangs and unleashed the monster within him. He knew what they saw. He had seen enough of the Undead to know that his face took on a hardness no human’s ever wore, that his eyes were blood red.