Gabrielle traded her half-eaten plate of food for his empty one. "It's all yours."

As Jamie went to work on her cold meal, Gabrielle leaned her chin on her hand and took a long sip of her wine. As she drank, her fingers moved idly over the faint marks she had found on her neck this morning after her shower. The unlocked front door wasn't exactly the strangest thing she had discovered, the twin welts below her ear took that prize, no contest.

The small nicks had not been deep enough to break her skin, but they were there. Two of them, evenly spaced, at the place where her pulse beat strongest against her fingertips. At first, she had wondered if she'd scratched herself in her sleep, maybe been swept up in the strange dream she'd had and raked her nails across her skin.

But the marks didn't look like scratches. They looked like something... else.

Like someone, or something, had nearly taken a bite out of her carotid.

Crazy.

That's what it was, and she needed to snap herself out of that kind of thinking before she did any further harm to herself. She had to get her head together and stop manufacturing paranoid fantasies about midnight visitors and horror-movie monsters that couldn't possibly exist in real life. If she wasn't careful, she might end up like her birth mother...

"Ohmigod, smack me right now because I am a complete and utter dolt," Jamie exclaimed suddenly, breaking into her thoughts. "I keep forgetting to tell you this! I got a call at the gallery yesterday about your photographs. Some bigwig downtown is interested in a private showing."

"Seriously? Who is it?"

He shrugged. "Don't know, sweetie. I didn't actually talk to the potential buyer, but based on the snooty attitude of the guy's assistant, I'd say whoever your admirer is, he - or she - is dripping with money. I've got an appointment down at one of the buildings in the Financial District tomorrow night. We're talking penthouse office, darling."

"Oh, my God," she gasped, incredulous.

"Uh-huh. Trés cool, girlfriend. Pretty soon you're gonna be too good for small-time art peddlers like me," he joked, grinning with shared excitement for her.

It was hard not to be intrigued, especially given everything she had been through the past few days. Gabrielle had achieved a respectable following and had won some very nice accolades for her work, but a private showing for an anonymous buyer was a first.

"Which pieces did they ask you to bring?"

Jamie lifted his wine glass and tipped it at her in mock salute. "All of it, Miss Thang. Every single piece in the collection."

From the rooftop of an old brick building in the city's busy theater district, moonlight gleamed off the lethal sneer of a black-clad vampire. Crouched in position near the ledge, the Breed warrior pivoted his dark head, then held out his hand, and gave a covert signal.

Four Rogues. One human prey. Heading straight for them.

Lucan nodded to Dante and stepped off the fifth-floor fire escape that had been his lookout perch for the past half hour. He descended to the street below in one fluid motion, landing quietly as a cat. Dual combat blades were sheathed crisscross on his back and thrust out over his shoulders like the bones of demonic wings. Lucan drew the titanium-edged weapons with barely a hiss of sound as he eased into the shadows of the narrow side street to await the evening's action.

It was just around 11 P.M., several hours past the time he should have been stopping by Gabrielle Maxwell's apartment to return her cell phone like he'd told her he would. The device was still at the tech lab with Gideon, who was processing the images and running them against the Breed's International Identification Database.

As for Lucan, he had no intention of returning the phone to Gabrielle, personally or otherwise. The images of the Rogues' attack had to stay out of human hands, and after the near fiasco he'd had in her bedroom, the farther he stayed away from the female, the better.

A goddamned Breedmate.

He should have known. Thinking back on it, there had been a few things about her that should have clued him in to the fact right away. Like her ability to see through the veil of vampire mind control permeating the dance club that night. She had seen the Rogues - Bloodlusting in the alley, and in the scrambled images of her cell phone - when other humans could not. Then, at her apartment, she had even proven resistant to Lucan's own efforts to bend her thoughts with mental suggestion, and he suspected she had succumbed more out of her own unconscious desire for the pleasure he offered than anything else.

It was no secret that human females with the genetic makeup unique to Breedmates possessed keen intelligence and flawless health. Many possessed uncanny extrasensory skills or paranormal talents that would amplify once a Breedmate was blood-bonded to a vampire male.

As for Gabrielle Maxwell, it appeared that she was gifted with a special vision that let her see what other humans could not, though just how far that vision went was anyone's guess. Lucan wanted to know. His warrior's instinct demanded he get to the bottom of it without delay.

But getting involved with the female in any form or fashion was the very last thing he needed.

So why couldn't he shake himself loose of her sweet scent, her soft skin... her sultry sensuality? He hated that the woman had brought out such weakness in him, and his current mood was hardly improved by the fact that his body was aching with the need to feed.

The only bright spot in his night was the steady clip of Rogues' boot heels on pavement somewhere near the mouth of the side street, coming his way.

The human turning the corner a few paces ahead of them was male. Young, healthy, garbed in black-and-white houndstooth pants and a stained white tunic that reeked of a greasy restaurant kitchen and sudden, anxious perspiration. The cook checked over his shoulder where the four vampires were gaining ground. A hushed, nervous-sounding expletive hissed in the dark. The human swung his head back around and walked faster, fists clenched at his sides, his rounding eyes rooted to the lightless stretch of asphalt at his feet.

"No need to run, little man," one of the Rogues taunted, his voice scraping like gravel.

Another made a shrill, mocking squeal as he loped ahead of his three companions. "Yeah, don't run away now. It ain't like you're gonna get far."

The Rogues' laughter echoed against the buildings flanking the narrow street.

"Shit," the human whispered under his breath. He didn't turn around again, just plowed ahead at a swift clip, two seconds from breaking into a flat-out, but pointless, run.

As the frightened human neared, Lucan took a slow step out of the gloom, bracing his feet wide beneath him. Arms extended out at his sides, he blocked the street with his menacing body and twin swords. He shot a cold smile at the Rogues, his fangs stretched long in anticipation of the fight to come. "Evening, ladies."

"Oh, Jesus!" gasped the human. He made an abrupt stop, staring up into Lucan's face in horror as one of his knees buckled beneath him. "Shit!"

"Get up." Lucan gave him the briefest flick of a glance as the young man scrambled to find his feet. "Get out of here."

He scraped his two blades together before him, filling the darkened street with the harsh metallic grate of steel sliding over hard-edged, lethal steel. Behind the four Rogues, Dante leaped to the asphalt in a crouch, then drew himself up to his six-and-a-half-foot height. He had no sword, but circling his waist was a leather belt studded with a collection of deadly, hand-to-hand weaponry, including a pair of razor-sharp, curved blades that performed as hellish extensions of his dazzlingly fast hands. Malebranche, he called them, and evil claws they were. Dante had them poised in his grasp in an instant, one mean-ass vampire who was always ready for a round of up-close-and-personal combat.

"Oh, my God," the human cried, his voice wobbling as he took in the danger that surrounded him. Gaping up at Lucan, the man went for his wallet, hands trembling as he pulled the worn billfold out of his back pocket and tossed it to the ground. "Take it, man! You can have it. Just don't kill me, I'm begging you!"

Lucan kept his eyes trained on the four Rogues, who were checking their positions, going for their own weapons. "Get the hell out of here. Now."

"He's ours," one of the Rogues hissed. Yellow eyes fixed on Lucan in pure hatred, the pupils permanently narrowed to hungered, vertical slits. Long fangs dripped with saliva, further evidence of the vampire's advanced Bloodlust addiction.

Just like a human could fall dependent on a powerful narcotic, Bloodlust was as destructive for the Breed. The tipping point between the necessary assuaging of hunger and reckless overdose of blood was easily breached. Some vampires went willingly into that abyss, while others succumbed to the disease through inexperience or a lack of personal discipline. Gone too far, and for too long, a vampire would turn Rogue, like these feral beasts snarling before Lucan now.

Eager to smoke them, Lucan slapped his long blades together, smelling the spark of heat as one length of steel crashed against the other.

The human was still standing there, idiotic in his fear, his head swinging between the advancing Rogues and Lucan's unwavering stance. The hesitation was sure to cost the man, but Lucan shrugged off the knowledge with cold dispassion. The human wasn't his concern. Eradicating these bloodsuckers, and the rest of their diseased kind, was all that mattered.

One of the Rogues wiped a dirty hand across his slavering mouth. "Back off, asshole. Let us feed."

"Not tonight," Lucan growled, "not in my city."

"Your city?" The rest of them sniggered as the Rogue in the lead spat on the ground at Lucan's feet. "This city belongs to us. Won't be long and we're gonna own it all."

"That's right," added another of the four. "So, looks like you're the one trespassin' here."

Finally, the human had gathered his wits and started to make a break. He didn't get far. Moving with incredible speed, one of the Rogues lashed out a hand and grabbed the man by the throat. He jerked him off his feet and held him aloft, letting the human's black hightop sneakers dangle six inches off the ground. The human grunted and squirmed, struggling wildly as the Rogue squeezed harder, slowly strangling him with his bare hand. Lucan stared, unfazed, even as the vampire dropped his twitching prey and tore a hole in the man's neck with his teeth.

In his periphery, Lucan saw Dante creep up silently behind the Rogues. Fangs bared, the warrior licked his lips, eager to get busy. He wouldn't be disappointed. Lucan struck first, and then the street erupted with the clash of metal and the crush of breaking bone.

Where Dante fought like a hell-spawned demon, malebranche blades flashing, war cries splitting the night, Lucan maintained a cold control and deadly precision. One by one, the Rogues fell to the warriors' punishing blows. The kiss of titanium-laced steel sped through the Rogues' corrupted blood systems as poison, accelerating death and bringing on the swift stages of decomposition characteristic of the Rogues' demise.

With their enemies dispatched, their corpses reducing from flesh and bone to fine, drifting ash, Lucan and Dante surveyed the other carnage in the street.

The human was unmoving, bleeding profusely from the tattered wound in his throat.

Dante knelt beside the man, sniffing at the savaged form. "He's dead. Or will be, in another minute."

The smell of spilled blood reached Lucan's nostrils like a fist slamming into his gut. His fangs, already extended in rage, now throbbed with the urge to feed. He glared down at the dying human in disgust. Although the taking of blood was necessary to him, Lucan despised the idea of accepting Rogue leavings, in any form. He preferred to draw his sustenance from willing Hosts of his own choosing whenever he could, although those meager tastes only staved off the deeper hunger.

Sooner or later, every vampire had to kill.

Lucan didn't try to deny his nature, but on the occasions when he killed, it was by his choice, by his own rules. When he sought prey, he took primarily criminals, drug dealers, junkies, and other lowlifes. He was judicious and efficient, never slaughtering simply for the sake of it. All of the Breed adhered to a similar code of honor; it was what separated them from their lawless Rogue brethren.

His gut tightened as another whiff of blood trailed into his nose. Saliva surged into his parched mouth.

When was the last time he'd fed?

He couldn't recall. It had been a while. Several days, at least, and not enough to last him. He'd thought to curb some of his hunger - both the carnal and the systemic - with Gabrielle Maxwell last night, but that idea had taken a quick turn south. Now he was shaking with the urge to feed, and too far gone to consider anything but the necessity of his body's basic needs.

"Lucan." Dante pressed his fingers to the man's neck, feeling for a pulse. The vampire's fangs were extruded, sharp from the battle and the physiological reaction to the scent of pooling crimson life. "If we wait much longer, the blood will be dead, too."

And no use to them, for it was only fresh blood, pumping through human veins, that could quench the vampires' hunger. Dante waited, even though it was obvious he wanted nothing more than to drop his head and take his fill of the human who had been too stupid to flee when he had the chance.

But Dante would wait, even to the point of wasting prey, for it was an unwritten protocol that later generation vampires did not feed in the presence of an elder, particularly when that elder was Gen One Breed and starving.

Unlike Dante, Lucan's sire was one of the Ancients, one of eight alien warriors who came from a distant, dark planet only to crash-land thousands of years ago on unforgiving, inhospitable Earth. To survive, they had fed on the blood of humans, decimating entire populations with their hunger and savagery. In rare instances, these foreign conquerors had successfully bred with human females - the first Breedmates - who spawned a new generation of the vampire race.