“Have you told Samantha anything about him?” When Rafael shook his head, Lucan’s expression relaxed. “Say nothing to her. Send word to the rest of the jardin. Donatien is to be tracked but not confronted. I will see to him personally. Now, tell me about this convent.”

“It is a few miles from here. The Sisters of the Annunciata. Their Mother Superior is named Sister Marguerite.” Rafael would not imagine her in Donatien’s hands. “She seemed very young to be in charge.”

“Then likely she is not. God, nuns, even in this enlightened age. What a waste of perfectly good females.” Lucan switched over screens and began typing. He read through the search results and clicked on a news item. “It seems that the convent is owned by a Daniel A. Nieves, and is no longer a convent.”

“But the Mother Superior—”

“—Died six months ago,” Lucan said. “Marguerite Aretino, aged eighty-seven, Sister of the Annunciata and the last member of her order. She owned the property and the convent outright, but refused to deed it to the church after her death. Much ado was made about it at the time by the Miami Archbishop.” Lucan kept reading. “It seems she left it to Mr. Nieves, who converted it into a private nursing home.”

“Donatien would never be interested in such a place. He despised the sick and elderly; being locked in the asylum drove him mad. Only youth and beauty drew him to…” Rafael’s gut clenched. “The one pretending to be Marguerite. It must be her he seeks. She is lovely, and no more than twenty.”

Lucan nodded. “He never could resist a pretty young face.”

He would not touch hers. “I must return to convent before dawn arrives. Your sygkenis will also need protection, my lord.” Rafael didn’t have to remind his master that Samantha was still vulnerable to Kyn talent, or what Donatien could do to her, given the chance.

“I can take care of myself, thank you very much.” Samantha said as she walked in and went to stand behind Lucan. “So, my man, why are you playing on the internet instead of waiting upstairs for me?”

Rafael glanced at the screen, but his master had managed to clear the information from it.

“Because the price of ale annoys me and you, madam, are very, very tardy.” Lucan turned around and pulled Samantha down onto his lap. “That is why Rafael believes you need protection. When bruised, my ego knows no bounds.”

Rafael saw that his presence was no longer required, and went to the door.

“Your ego makes Kevlar look like Kleenex.” Samantha began peeling off one of Lucan’s black silk gloves. Unlike the rest of the Kyn, she didn’t fear the destructive power of her lover’s hands. “Rafael, we need to get in some extra hours on this case. See you at noon?”

“I may be a little late.” He smiled at her. “Sleep well, Samantha.”

You can’t leave us, Bridget wrote on the blackboard. The police will return tomorrow. They will have search warrants. They will wish to question us.

Dani kept packing. “You have nothing to hide. Show them everything. I told them you are living under a vow of silence. At worst, they will think you a bunch of religious hysterics.”

You promised our Mother that you would protect us from the outside world.

“I can’t protect you if I’m the one being hunted. And I am.” She slammed the suitcase shut and turned to face the older woman. “It will be the way it was in South America; that was why Marguerite brought me here. Now that he knows where I am, he will kill every one of you to get to me. But if I go, he will follow me.”

Bridget sighed and turned to the board. You could tell the police about it. They may help you.

Dani shook her head. “Enough have died.” She picked up the suitcase and took the keys to Marguerite’s car from her desk. “Tell the police as much of the truth as you can. The man – Suarez – he seemed kind.”

“I am kind,” a familiar male voice said from outside the doorway. “But I will have all of the truth, Sister.”

Dani dropped the suitcase and went for the open window, but almost as soon as she moved large hands seized her and spun her around.

“I regret that I cannot allow you to leave.” Detective Suarez put one arm around her and caught her fist before it connected with his jaw. “Or that.”

“You have no right to trespass on our property or assault me.” Dani felt the strength beneath the care with which he held her, and didn’t struggle. What else would Marguerite say? “Release me and leave at once.”

“No.” He took out a pair of steel handcuffs and snapped one end over her wrist. “What is your name?” he asked as he reached for her free hand.

“Sister Marguerite Aretino.”

“Sister Marguerite is dead,” Suarez told her. “Who are you?”

Bridget fell to her knees in front of the door, blocking in with her bulk. She closed her eyes, extending her hands and letting her head fall back.

“No.” Dani lunged against the detective's hold. “Let go of me. Bridget, for the love of God, no.”

Two quarter-size wounds appeared in the woman's wrists, and blood began to pulse from them.

Suarez took in a sharp breath. “Dios mío.” His arms fell away, and at last Dani was free.

She caught Bridget before she toppled over and turned to glare at Suarez. “Get the first aid kit. In the desk there.” Gently she lowered the heavyset woman to the rug, and yanked up her sleeves.

“What did she use to cut her wrists so fast?” he asked as he brought the white plastic box to her.

“Nothing.” She grabbed a roll of bandages from the kit and began wrapping the wounds. “Here,” she said when she had one bandage in place, and handed him the wrist. “Apply direct pressure.”

“We will take her to the emergency room,” he said. “She will require a doctor's attention.”

“A doctor can't do anything for her.” She finished wrapping the other wound and firmly pressed her fingers over it. The cuff Suarez had snapped on her dangled from her wrist as she met the detective's gold-shot gaze. “No one can.”

“Don't be foolish. At the very least she will need stitches.”

Dani closed her eyes. She had not used it since leaving South America, so it was much stronger now.

“What are you doing?” she heard Suarez demand.

“Praying.”

Suarez believed her, and gave her the time she needed to finish. As soon as it was done, she unwrapped the bandages and wiped away the blood to make sure the wound had disappeared.

Suarez did the same thing, and muttered something under his breath. “This is impossible. She cut herself—”

“No, she did not.” Dani gently wiped a tear from the unconscious woman’s cheek. “The wounds come as God wills. Sometimes, when Bridget is afraid, I think she can make them appear.”

“Now you are speaking nonsense,” he said as he checked both wrists closely. “No wounds appear just like that, without explanation or cause.”

“There is a cause, Detective, although I cannot explain it.” She looked down at the unmarked wrists. “Do you know what the stigmata is?”

“I know of the myth,” Suarez said. “Stigmata are injuries that zealots inflict on themselves to imitate the wounds Christ received before he was crucified.”

“You must be an ex-Catholic.” Dani pressed her hand to Bridget’s brow, and saw a drop of blood fall from her sleeve. If he saw… “She is feverish. I should give her some water. Please hold her up for me.”

As soon as Suarez had his arms filled with Bridget, Dani stood and looked down at him. For a moment she wondered what it would be like to be held in his arms, to be protected by such a man. Then she ran across the room.

“No.”

Sunlight filled up her eyes, erasing the open window and everything around her. The stucco wall came next, slamming into her face. Dani fell back and the light became a warm, lovely pool of gold. As she sank into it, she wondered how Suarez had made the sun rise two hours early, and if he would be the next one to die.

Three

Donatien strolled up A1A, enjoying the attention his magenta velvet suit and lacy white cravat drew from passing tourists. Such formal attire did not actually suit this time or locale, which even on this October night dripped with heat and humidity, but his immortal body had not produced much in the way of body fluids since his second rising.

The Spaniard would have to bleed for him.

His two favorite accessories, a beautiful redheaded girl on his right arm, and a handsome brunette boy on his left, walked on rhythm with his movements. Both said and looked at nothing. He felt it a pity that they had become so well-trained in so short a time. Nothing on this earth that amused him lasted very long.

That would have to change before existence bored him to death.

Donatien did not resent his present circumstances. He had been quite happy to leave the Middle East, where he had lived since Hitler’s fall from grace. As amusing as the descendents of the Saracens could be, the decades of carte blanche had gone too quickly. When the Americans came, the place had become a hotbed of night bombings and CNN exclusives. So he moved on. He had always wanted to go to South America to look up an old friend from the war they should have won. Unhappily Le Chevillard had been stupid enough to get himself drowned, but he had left behind some very amusing play things – and Cristál, his pearl among the swine.

At first Donatien had not believed what he had read in the old journals. Le Chevillard had been a madman, and his ramblings (while vastly entertaining) could hardly be called reliable. Donatien had consoled himself for a time by playing with the savages, all of whom proved to be vigorous and in remarkably good health. Then he had seen it for himself, first in the scars of horrendous wounds on the bodies of his playthings, then by listening closely to the babbled tales of miracles.

The Hand of God had not saved them. A girl had.