"Something's come up, Rajmund. I'll need you in Buffalo for a time."
Raj frowned, wondering what the old man was up to. Krystof had given Raj the rich territory around New York City for a reason. It kept him happy—and far away from Buffalo. Sure, the old man was curious about Raphael's visit, but they could have handled that on the phone. So why was he being called back now?
"Something, my lord?” he asked.
"Something rather ugly."
"What does that—"
"You'll find out when you get here."
Raj was tempted to ask what kind of trouble could possibly have come up in f**king Buffalo that the old man's usual flunkies couldn't handle. But that flirted too closely with rebellion, and he wasn't ready to show his hand yet. “Very well, my lord,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “I can fly at first dusk tomorrow—"
"Fly tonight, Rajmund."
"My lord—"
"You have a private jet.” Krystof's voice turned petulant. “Use it. I'll see you an hour after sunset tomorrow, and I'll expect a full report on your visitor.” The old man hung up.
"Fuck!"
Emelie just looked at him. Her vampire hearing would have given her both sides of the conversation, enough to understand Raj's anger. “We're going to Buffalo?"
"Not we. I need you here; I don't trust anyone but my own, and besides, I don't want Krystof knowing about you yet, not officially. He might be senile, but he's not blind."
"You can't go there alone, Raj. At least take a few of the guards with—"
"I am capable of defending myself, Emelie. Besides, I'm not supposed to have guards."
"He's got to know you're making your own. His spies—"
"His spies can report anything they want, but if I show up surrounded by my own children, he'll have to do something about it. I'm not ready to push him yet. I'll go alone. Call the airport and get the jet prepped.” He calculated the remaining hours of darkness and swore softly. Damn that old man. “And tell them I'm on my way."
Chapter Seven
Buffalo, New York
It was cold. So cold. Regina shivered in her thin jacket, wishing she'd worried more about staying warm when she'd dressed for Katie's bachelorette party and less about looking good. Note to self: next time you get kidnapped, wear a decent coat. Her desperate chuckle became a sob of terror as the heavy metal door clanged open once more, sending tremors through the concrete floor. She pushed herself back against the wall, feeling the hard chill of the metal bed frame low against her back. She'd heard someone crying again last night. A cell door had clanged open and she'd been so grateful it wasn't her they were coming for, so desperately glad she wasn't the one crying, begging.
She jumped at the sound of metal on metal, close in the darkness. Her door opened and dim light fell in from the corridor, piercingly bright to her eyes which had grown used to the near total darkness of her cell. A man filled the narrow doorway, a dark silhouette with wide shoulders and a square head, eyes gleaming in the faint light. She scrambled off the bed and into a corner, tucking her knees to her chest, her whole body shaking with the force of her pounding heart. She clamped her lips tight, refusing to make a sound.
"I know you're there, little girl. You can't hide from me."
A cry of dismay escaped her lips and she heard herself sobbing just like the others, pleading. “No, please,” she whispered, staring up at him. “Not me."
Her protests crumbled as he drew closer, as his eyes bored into hers, clouding her mind with something sticky and warm. The light from the hallway faded until there was nothing but his eyes, his will, his desire. He reached for her, and somewhere deep inside she screamed.
Sarah rolled out of bed, not even stopping to turn on the lights in a blind dash for the bathroom. She fell to her knees and threw up, her stomach heaving uncontrollably as she gripped the sides of the toilet bowl, gasping for breath.
Tears rolled down her cheeks and she begged silently, Not again. Please, God, not again.
She huddled on the floor next to the cold porcelain, her stomach empty, her throat burning. Repulsed by the smell, she slammed the seat down, reached up and flushed. Pushing back against the wall, she levered herself up to sit on the closed lid and turned on the water in the sink, splashing her overheated face, ignoring the water that spilled over the sides and onto the linoleum tiles. She grabbed a towel from the rack and covered her face, leaning forward until her forehead touched her knees.
It was all so familiar, the isolation, the cold, every heartbeat like a bass drum against her rib cage, every breath as loud as a bellows in the dead silence of her captivity. Theresa Bracco, the teenager from West L.A., and Julie Seaborn, a mother of two from Hollywood . . . and the others, the nameless others who'd haunted her dreams. The ones she'd tried to ignore. She remembered them all.
And she remembered what had happened when she went to her parents for help.
The institution they'd sent her to was more of a boarding school than an asylum—except for the locks on the doors. She'd been fifteen years old when she walked through those doors, and she hadn't walked out again until her eighteenth birthday when, as an adult under California law, she'd fled her parents’ tender care and reinvented herself. A new name, a new city, a new life. College, graduate school, a job. Just like everyone else. No one knew who she really was. No one. Not even her good friend Cyn knew the truth about Sarah Stratton. There was nothing to distinguish her from the millions of people who went to the office or to school, who worked hard and slept safe in their beds every night. And that was just the way Sarah wanted it.