“That’s why he wants the emeralds?” Chris shook her head. “The jackass is starting to believe his own legend.”

“Yeah, well, the Flying Dutchman is about to crash and burn.” Sam looked around at the faces of the other women. “And we’re going to be the ones who take him down.”

* * *

“For the first time in its seventy-six-year history, Fort Lauderdale’s annual Holiday on the Waves boat regatta has been rescheduled due to mechanical failures at four local bridges,” WSVN weatherman Brent Cameron reported. “All of the affected bridges have been closed, and the hundreds of vessels registered to participate have been temporarily relocated out to sea while city engineers address the problems. City officials are confident that repairs will be made in time for the boat parade to take place on New Year’s Eve.”

Lucan switched off the television set and regarded Aldan and Burke. “Four bridges?”

“We considered shutting down five, my lord, but that would have caused serious traffic delays around the stadium,” Burke said. “The Dolphins are hosting the Redskins tonight.”

“Our friends in the Coast Guard report that they have successfully diverted all private and commercial vessels away from the strike zone, my lord,” Aldan said. “The fleet is fully manned, heavily armed, and awaiting your orders.”

“Excellent.” Lucan went to his wall map of the Florida coast. “We will approach en masse and split into north and south divisions here.” He indicated a spot a half mile from the strike coordinates. “The front line will disable any defensive weaponry first and then assume holding positions until I give the order to attack and board. The second lines are to move in to form a blockade. Nothing leaves Vander’s vessel alive but Samantha, Christian, and the captive mortals.”

“Yes, my lord.” Aldan bowed and left the office.

Before he did the same, Burke took out a sheathed dagger, and offered it to Lucan. “If I may, my lord, I would ask that you take this into battle with you. I know you have no need of conventional weapons, but it belonged to my grandfather, and it always brought him luck.”

Lucan drew out the old steel dagger. “I recall meeting a Burke in Berlin. He led the tresori resistance, and helped us free the Kyn captured by the Brethren among the Gestapo.”

Burke nodded. “He considered you—and I will quote him—‘the deadliest son of a bitch ever to walk the night.’” He smiled a little. “You also saved his life by intercepting a hail of Nazi bullets meant for him.”

“I had forgotten that.” Lucan clipped the sheath to his belt. “Is this why you volunteered to become my tresora, Herbert?”

“Choosing a lord to serve is a complex matter, but I would say that part of my motivation was the fact that my grandfather did not sire my father until after the war. Good hunting, my lord.” The tresora bowed and departed.

Before he left the stronghold, Lucan went to the bar that had been smashed to hell during his brief battle with Jamys, and used Burke’s dagger to pick up the golden medallion from the floor.

Although he was sorely tempted to fling the phony tribute into the sea, he carried it to Christian’s office, where he draped it over one corner of the framed portrait of Darth Vader. He’d always known about her private nickname for him, of course, and had in fact secretly delighted in it.

“Tonight, my sweet girl,” he murmured, “I believe I shall earn it.”

* * *

After helping him with his final preparations, Garcia drove Jamys to the county’s oceanside dock, where he gave him the keys to the newest of the DEA’s speedboats, a sleek arrow of black and silver with four massive engines. “Are you certain you do not wish me to pilot for you, my lord?”

“Burke will have need of you at the stronghold.” Jamys surveyed the horizon. “If I must use the gems, please relay my apologies to Lord Alenfar and his lady.”

Garcia nodded. “And Miss Lang?”

He could think of a thousand things he wanted to tell Christian, but settled for the one he wanted her to remember most. “Tell my wife that I love her.”

Garcia helped him launch, and from the boatyard Jamys headed out to sea. A bitter wind rose, flinging needling spray into his face as he opened up the throttle and pushed the powerful engines to full capacity. The hull sliced across the waves as the boat raced south, a shadow flying through the night.

As the miles passed and Jamys drew closer to the rendezvous point, he allowed himself to relive every moment he had experienced with Christian since returning to Alenfar. He could not regret a moment of it; he had lived more and better in the handful of nights they had spent together than he had in all the centuries since he had risen to walk the night. She had given him the gift of herself and her heart; he knew what it was to love and be loved by the other half of his soul. If he died tonight, and he suspected there was an excellent chance that he would, he would go with but one regret: that he had to leave her behind.

A half mile from the rendezvous point, Jamys switched off the boat’s running lights, changed course, and headed east, guiding the speedboat between the fleet and the shoreline as he raced ahead of Lucan’s front line. As he had hoped, the roar of the hundreds of engines heading toward Vander’s ship masked the sound of his, and he was able to pull ahead of Lucan and the garrison without alerting them to his presence.

He spotted the bizarre silhouette of Vander’s floating stronghold, which appeared to be cobbled together from an old pirate ship, an ultramodern yacht, and clusters of smaller boats tethered to them. No lights shone from any of the decks, but he detected the shapes of a dozen men standing watch on the old ship.

Once he shut down the engines, Jamys looped the strap of the waterproof bag Garcia had given him around his neck, and dived off the side of the speedboat.

Jamys took care not to resurface until he had reached the stern of the old ship. There he caught hold of the massive, rusted anchor chain and looked up at the remains of the letters that had long ago been carved into the rotted wood above his head: OLDE OR E.

He drew a dagger, clamping it between his teeth, and began to climb hand over hand up the chain. When he came within a foot of the railing, he jumped, catching hold of the edge of the upper deck and using it to pull himself up to eye level.

Women in ragged tunics stood behind each of the men standing guard, and in their hands held broken pieces of glass. Samantha and an old woman were walking across a makeshift bridge to the yacht; Christian stood with her back against the mainmast beside a fair-haired woman whose eyes were closed.

Even more astonishing, Vander’s men walked past the pair without giving any sign that they noticed them.

The woman standing beside Chris opened her eyes and looked directly at Jamys, and then disappeared from sight, along with Chris, the other women, and Samantha.

Jamys knew of a few Kyn capable of creating illusions—his mother had been one—but none so powerful they could bespell an entire ship of mortals and Kyn alike.

He released his grip on the deck, and plummeted back into the water. He could hear the front line of the fleet approaching now, and knew in a few minutes Lucan would attack. He gauged the distance he would have to swim to reach the yacht, where there were no guards, and sank beneath the waves.

* * *

Sam broke the lock on the yacht’s main cabin door, and slipped inside as quietly as she could. The stink of gasoline made her hold her breath as she scanned the darkened casino, where hundreds of patrons huddled in miserable clusters between several corpses that had been executed with head shots, probably to intimidate the rest of the hostages.

Knowing the smell of the gas and the ballroom dimensions of the cabin would make using l’attrait virtually impossible, Sam fell back on her knowledge of movies and human nature.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she called out in a firm, clear voice. “I’m with the Miami Bomb Squad. Several explosive devices have been planted all over this casino to set off the gasoline. My team and I can’t defuse them until we move you to a safe distance. I need you to be quiet and follow my instructions exactly, because if you don’t, you will set off these bombs. Stay where you are until I come to your group.”

Sam went to the nearest bunch sitting around the roulette wheel. “You, you, and you,” she said, pointing to obvious couples. “Hold hands and walk out onto the deck. Wait at the railing and don’t make a sound.” As a fat man lunged up from another group and tried to run past her, she caught him and shoved him back down. “Do that again, pal, and you’ll be the last to go.”

As she worked her way around the room, a few more jackasses tried similar tactics, which she countered easily, and one elderly man offered her a million dollars in exchange for letting him be first one off the ship.

Sam shook her head. “What happened to letting the women and children go first?”

“There aren’t any kids,” the old man told her, “and if you get a better offer from one of the women, I’ll double it.”

She took a moment to step close and shed enough scent to affect him. “You just volunteered to be the last one out of here. Also, if you do survive, you’re going to donate that million dollars to Gamblers Anonymous.”

“Last. Million. Gamblers.” He nodded and sat back down.

Once the rest of the hostages had been sent out, Sam led the old man out onto the deck and moved to a spot where the breeze would help spread her scent. The night sky and cold air chased off the lingering fatigue of day, and she was able to bring the crowd under her command in a few minutes. She sorted them into lines according to how many she thought each of the smaller boats could carry, and issued her final instructions.

“Climb one at a time down the ladders. As soon as the last person is on board, start the boat engines and drive north away from the yacht to Biscayne Bay.” She heard the sound of approaching engines and quickly finished with, “Dock your boats at the pier where the ferry picked you up, get into your cars, and go home.”