In the indigo light of predawn, Alexander Roman rounded Hudson Street and came to halt on 11th, sniffing the bitter November air like the animal he'd become. Too many to choose from, he thought, his fangs elongating, vibrating as hunger gnawed at his belly. He'd tried it their way, his brothers. Every hour on the hour, they'd had him feed from the stock at RB Beef Company, one of the many businesses he and his brothers owned and operated in the city. But for Alexander, the desire to find another female, human or vampire, and sink his canines into the sweet spot below her breast, drink deep and long until her heart stopped, was impossibly strong.

His father's DNA had finally shown up, two hundred years after it had been rooted in his mother's womb. Was this the kind of Pureblood male--the kind of paven his mother had been forced to lie with to create him? A rabid beast on a mission, pounding into her? If so, Alexander couldn't help but understand her need to despise him.

Delicate snowflakes fell around him, so white and pure until they hit the ground.

The wind picked up and Alexander cocked his head to one side, the scent of blood assaulting his nostrils. Ahhhhh . . . It was human female, a delicacy, easy prey, something he'd rarely allowed himself to sample until the hunger had hit. Now the hunger ruled, and he was off, flying full speed down the snowy street, his fangs curling as his mouth watered.

Then suddenly, halfway down the block, something halted him like a truck jerking on its breaks. Panting, he stood immobile on the sidewalk, an odd tingling sensation building in his fingertips. He shook his hands to get rid of it, then took off running again. But seconds later, midstride, he was hit by a rod of pain that stole the very breath from his lungs.

What the fuck?

His body began to shake and heat up as the pain traveled lightning quick up his wrists, forearms, biceps, and shoulders. Instinctively, he reached out for something to steady himself. His hand clamped around a thick metal pole and he pressed his body against the hard coolness as if it were his lover.

What the hell is happening?

First hunger, now pain.

His head began to pulse like the bends of an accordion and he could feel his pupils shrink until all he could see were shadows. Panic erupted in his chest at the sudden, ugly blindness.

Get home. Get the fuck home now!

From behind him came the steady and familiar hum of the delivery truck that always passed by at this time. Alexander heard the catlike screech of brakes and a male voice call out, "Look at that asshole."

The yeasty stink of fresh bread filled the air, intermingling with the sound of shared laughter.

"I haven't been that hammered since the Mets won the play-offs," another man said. "Careful there, buddy. Don't piss yourself."

Blind as a wolf pup, his head pressed against the dirty metal, Alexander hissed, his fangs tingling with a need to strike. If you want to remain alive and intact, keep driving.

"Sleep it off, buddy," one of them called before hitting the accelerator.

Something that felt like oil snaked down Alexander's throat. It was thick and purposeful and heading for his lungs. Suddenly there was no air.

No air in. No air out.

The pressure was excruciating, and Alexander dropped to his knees, his hands locking on to either side of his head. This wasn't another symptom of hunger. This was something altogether different.

His ears felt stuffed with something . . . rags--rags that housed a hundred pissed-off flies. Panting to supply his aching lungs with even a whisper of breath, Alexander started crawling toward what he hoped were the brownstone's stairs. He knew that most of the brownstones on this block had garden apartments. If he could reach one, he'd have the shelter he needed. Daybreak was near and he was fifteen blocks from home and four blocks from the tunnels.

Daybreak.

Something he'd never feared in all of his two hundred years. Not until this very moment.

It should've been impossible, he thought, feeling the edge of the icy stone steps beneath his fingers. It was too soon, too early. But with every shock of pain, every instinct warning him to find shelter, he knew it was true. The change was upon him, and he had only minutes before the sun caught and seared him.

As he scrambled clumsily down the steps, a quick wind picked up, sending a tornado of forgotten winter leaves whirling around him, their sharp, crackled edges stabbing at his sensitive skin. Like the tide rushing toward the shore, his vision came back--but in a binocularlike fashion, tunneled and unfocused. He squinted, caught sight of the minishelter before him. His muscles continued to tremble with small bone-aching seizures as he got to his feet and stumbled down the rest of the stairs and into the covered entryway of the brownstone's garden apartment.

He needed to get inside. He needed full protection.

On his knees, huddled against the door, he reached up and gripped the handle, then cursed when he found it locked.

What street is this? Where are the tunnels?

Suddenly it hit, like a lightning bolt of fire, angry stabs of sunlight against his skin.

Dawn.

He glanced up. Above him, in the dome of sky, the protective shield of indigo had succumbed to the pale, dire streaks of a lavender and pink sunrise.

Alexander cried out, turned and clawed at the door. With each fiery tear into his skin, his eyes watered, his nose ran, and he tried not to vomit with the acute, lethal pain of it.

It all made sense now. The desperate hunger, the relentless pain. He was being sent through morpho before his time.

One hundred years before his time.

Mouth wide and fangs curled, he cried out into the sunrise, then collapsed in a heap against the door.

Sara walked down West 11th toward her building, pulling her wool coat closed at the neck to keep out the frigid morning air. Exhaustion licked at her mind and her muscles, making her feel like a huge wimp. Fighting for Gray had become commonplace in her daily life, but last night's episode had drained her will more than she cared to admit. She liked to think of herself as a hard-ass, someone who pushed herself and those around her until the answers revealed themselves--then on to the next mystery. But witnessing Gray's potential suicide attempt had her wondering for the first time since med school if she might come out of this a failure, if her plan to go back home to Minnesota, return a well and happy Gray to their ever-hopeful mother, was an utterly bullshit objective.

The flutters of a melancholy heart warned Sara that she was bordering on vulnerability, and she didn't do vulnerable. Clearly, she needed sleep, a solid five hours to get rid of the weak-little-kitten vibe she was carrying around. Then she could go back to work--rethink and retool.

She made her way down the brownstone steps, pulling out her ring of keys as she went. But at the bottom, she came to an abrupt halt, nearly colliding with something blocking the entryway to her garden apartment. Her heart stuttered, and sudden fear yanked her out of her exhaustion. Huddled against her doorway was a man.

She turned her key chain again and palmed the pepper spray she'd had on there since moving to New York seven years ago. There was probably nothing in it but air now, but, what the hell, he didn't know that. She flicked the nozzle to the on position with her thumb, then walked cautiously up to him. A thread of fear moved through her and she was glad it was daylight.

The man's face was turned toward her door, his large frame curled into a ball. As she crept closer, she noted that the triad of smells that normally emanated from the lost souls who found shelter at her door were absent.

She leaned down and touched his shoulder. "Hey, buddy."

Nothing.

Perfect. This was the last thing she needed today.

She tried again. "Hey, it's really cold out here. Let me point you toward a shelter.

There's one a couple blocks down."

He didn't move.

Fuck. A quick fear implanted itself in her gut, one nurtured from years of living in the city and working in a profession of unpredictability. The man huddled at her door didn't fit the profile of a homeless guy, and that made him not only strange, but potentially dangerous.

She stared down at him, the cold morning wind blowing strands of her hair against her face. His clothes looked clean and expensive. Shoes, too. Maybe he was someone from her neighborhood, out partying--

HELP ME ...

The unspoken words slammed into Sara's mind. Caught off guard, she stumbled back, but got only as far as the first step when a sudden, tortured cry erupted from the man, and his dark, closely shaved head dropped back, exposing his face for the first time.

"Oh God. Oh ... oh, shit ..." Heart pounding, she stared at his ruggedly male face.

On either cheek, two angry red welts--symbols of some kind--had been singed into his pale skin.

"Who did this to you?" Sara uttered.

He didn't answer, just lay there, eyes closed, panting, openly suffering, back against the door. He was so huge. The width of his chest had to be twice the size of hers.

She knew it was probably a stupid move, but she was a doctor and her concern trumped her fear. She dropped to her knees beside him and cupped his face. "You need an ambulance."

The man's eyes shot open. Sara gasped, "Jesus!" Then she stared as severe, predatory merlot-colored orbs caught and held her gaze. She'd never seen anything so fierce or so beautiful in her life, and she just kept staring, transfixed as his full lips parted, then moved.

He hissed something. Then again.

She shook her head. "I don't understand."

NO AMBULANCE.

Sara's hands flew to her ears. What the hell? His voice. It was inside her head.

How was this happening? Exhaustion? Was it screwing with her mind?

NO POLICE. NO AMBULANCE.

Panicked, Sara released him and shot back to the steps. When she did, shafts of sunlight broke free all around her and flooded the space. Like a snake in search of a mouse, defying all logic and reason, the light slithered about, searching for its prey. She was delusional--had to be. And yet, as she watched, white-hot rays from the sun above them clamped on to the man's wrists and forearms, searing into his flesh, branding the sensitive skin with the same strange key-like symbols that etched his face.

"Oh my God. Your skin." She shot forward again, blocking him from the light.

"It's smoking--" Sara dove into her purse, grabbed her cell phone. She flicked it open.

NO! The man reached out, knocking the phone from her hand.

She gasped. "What the hell are you doing?"

IN.

Ignoring him, Sara reached for her cell phone again.

"Please," he said aloud for the first time, his tone dark and impassioned. "In."

"No!"

The man grabbed her wrist, his thick, long fingers squeezing lightly. Sara sucked in a breath as the muscles in her neck gave out and her head dropped forward. She felt instantly warm and light-headed. She didn't know how it was possible, but his fingers . . .

on her skin . . . it made her feel--

"Ahhh," she uttered, electric currents shooting up her arm into her neck, her face.

Her mouth started to water and she heard something in her mind again--something unintelligible. And yet she instinctually understood every word. She got to her feet, went to her door, and shoved her key in the lock.

It was incomprehensible, but she knew exactly what she had to do, and once the door was open, she bent down and curled her wrists under the man's armpits. It was like trying to move a bulldozer, and after several seconds of struggling to pull his enormous frame over the threshold, the man dug his heels into the concrete and helped her. But once inside her apartment, he let out a pained groan and collapsed on the floor, lying against the hardwood, still as a stone.

"I don't know what the hell is going on here," she said in a panicked voice, quickly drawing the curtains over the closed blinds, "but you need a doctor, like, yesterday." She ran to the couch and searched behind the cushions until she found the cordless. She was about to dial 911 when she heard something moving in her kitchen.

She stopped, looked up. "Who's there?"

There was a moment of utter silence; then a man stepped out from behind the wall that separated the two rooms. "It's me, Dr. Donohue."

Wearing a suit that was two sizes too big, the young man stared at Sara with wide brown eyes. He was tall and thin, his straight dark hair almost to his shoulders now. It had been just hours since he called the hospital looking for her, but three months since she'd last seen him, since she'd stopped treating him--three months since he'd snuck into her office and declared his love, offering her the bluebird that lay stiff and lifeless in his hands.

Sara tightened her grip on the phone as she moved to stand in front of the man on the floor in an utterly asinine attempt to protect him. "Tom ..."

"You remember me." He smiled broadly, looking remarkably like a dimpled serpent. "I didn't think you would."

Adopting the motherly tone he'd always responded to, Sara said gently, "Tom, you need to leave now. This is very inappropriate."

His smile widened. "You said that to me once before, remember?"

"I think you should go home. We can talk later."

Tom wagged a finger at her. "No, I don't think so. I've tried to talk to you, but you won't answer my calls."

"If there's something you really need to see me about, then maybe we can schedule--"

"No!" He frowned, his eyes filling with tears. "You're lying."

Fear rose in Sara's throat, but she kept her eyes trained on him as she searched the phone's keypad with her thumb. Where's the fricking on button?

"I've been waiting all night for you." He moved toward her, his polished loafers making a scraping, sandpaperlike sound against the wood floor. "Where were you?"

"Working." Sara shifted her hand higher on the cordless. To the left, then up two buttons.

"Working with him, that disfigured mute you love so much," he said with an exaggerated pout. "All you care about is him. The rest of us are just your experiments."

"That's not true," Sara assured him gently. The image of Gray that shot into her mind made her all the more conscious of remaining alert and alive.

Tom noticed the man on the floor behind her, cocked his head to one side. "Who's that?" His tone instantly changed from childlike to menacing. He looked accusingly at her. "You brought someone home? Are you going to be with him? Let him touch you?"

There. Sara stabbed the call button on the phone. Knowing she had only seconds before Tom's aggressive side surfaced, she looked down and dialed. But she never completed the call. Tom descended on her, knocked the phone from her hand. Terror pulsing in her chest, Sara ran for the door, but Tom was right behind her. He reached out, grabbed her wrist, and hauled her back against him. She winced in pain, but she wasn't about to give in. The little bastard was going to get a knee to the balls if it was the last thing she did. She kicked at him, twisted in his grip, tried to bite his shoulder, get her hands free, get to his eyes with her nails.

"I like you like this," Tom hissed in her ear, clamping his hand over her mouth.

"Why do I like you like this?"

Where was the phone? The front door? Was it still open?

Sara's gaze went wild, looking, searching as her breath remained jailed inside her lungs. Then she saw it--the front door. Open a crack. She had to get out, get free. She bit down on Tom's hand, then jammed her elbow into his gut.

"Bitch," Tom cursed, releasing her.

Momentarily free, Sara made another run for the door, but tripped over one of the couch legs and landed on her hands and knees.

Get up! Move!

Behind her, she heard Tom mutter the words "You little whore ..."

She scrambled to her feet, her lungs aching for breath. But she never made it to the door. Tom caught her coattails and yanked her back. She stumbled, losing her balance as panic closed in on her. She pushed against the feeling. There was no way she was going to be taken down like this.

She scissored her legs, but just as she managed to get her feet under her, Tom grabbed her shoulders and whirled her to face him. Sara opened her mouth to scream, but before the sound cleared her throat, Tom's fist slammed into her face. Time stopped, then slowly picked up again, and then she was flying back, her head hitting the hardwood floor with a nasty thump. Blinding pain assaulted her, followed by pins and needles. No.

She couldn't catch her breath. Her lungs ached for air, but there was none. The room narrowed. From the back of her mind, she heard a growl--slow and menacing. Was it her?

No . . . didn't come from her. She struggled to stay conscious, turning her head to the side and blinking.

Again. The sound of an animal.

Her gaze lifted. The man on the floor. Was it him? No, he was still lifeless, eyes closed, skin pale, except for the key-shaped brands on his cheeks. Oh God, she wanted to help him, warn him, but her body felt impossibly heavy--

Suddenly, without warning, the man's eyelids popped open, his head jerked back, and within seconds, he was on his feet and heading straight for Tom. Sara struggled to stay conscious, to focus on the impossible scene playing out before her. The man was so huge, his face a mask of animal rage.

"Who the hell are you?" Tom cried out, backing up, his eyes little balls of terror as he stared at the stranger.

"Very thirsty," the man hissed.

The image of Tom's terrified face drifted down the tunnels of Sara's clogged mind. So tired. She just wanted sleep. Her gaze flicked upward. The man had Tom in his clutches, his feet dangling off the ground like a puppet. Tom was swinging his fists . . .

hitting nothing but air . . .

Sara's head pounded with the slow beat of her heart. The last thing she saw before she blacked out was the man's teeth.

No. Not teeth. Fangs.