caught her gaze, but he could not touch her mind, could not influence her thoughts, for she had none of her own. Mindless, soulless, she belonged to Alexi, heard no voice but his.
She took a step toward him and he looked past her, wondering if he could make it out the door before she struck him down. The sunlight seared his eyes, momentarily blinding him.
A thin, humorless smile pulled at her lips as, seeing his distress, she kicked the door wider.
Grigori swore under his breath. What the hell was keeping Ramsey? He felt the sun's heat penetrate his clothing and he took a step backward, seeking the darkest corner of the room.
Wondering which would be worse, the shock of silver slicing into his heart or the burning rays of the sun igniting his skin and turning him to ashes, he stared at her, watching, waiting.
She moved with a quickness that startled him, lunging across the floor, her lips peeled back in a horrible grin as she struck out at him with the knife. He jerked to the side, and the blade, meant for his heart, pierced his right shoulder, then sliced across his chest, leaving a long, bloody furrow that oozed dark blood. She struck out at him again and again, and each time the blade found its mark.
In desperation, he grabbed for her knife hand, his fingers burning as they closed over the silver bracelet on her wrist. Grimacing with pain, he tried to wrest the blade from her grasp.
With a feral growl, she grabbed the crucifix and thrust it into his face. The silver burned through his left cheek like the fires of hell, and he stumbled backward, his nostrils filling with the scent of his own burning flesh.
She was on him again, the knife flashing in the sunlight. He had not expected her to be so fierce, or so strong. They toppled backward onto the bed, and his mind filled with a sudden image of the two of them lying in each other's arms on a wintry morning long ago, and then he looked into her eyes and knew that the woman he had held and loved no longer existed.
She thrashed wildly beneath him, upsetting the lamp on the bedside table, as she stabbed him again and yet again.
Teeth clenched against the pain that engulfed him, he drew back his fist and drove it into her face. Blood spurted from her nose, spraying over him like drops of crimson rain.
With a cry that could only be called a snarl, she lashed out at him with the knife, and he struck her again, and then again, until she lay still beneath him, her clothing and the bedding awash in his blood.
It was an effort to stand up. He could feel the sun climbing in the sky, feel the darkness probing at the edges of his consciousness as he stared down at the woman who had been his wife. He needed blood, but could not bring himself to take hers, knew he should kill her now and knew, just as surely, that he could not do it.
Going to the closet, he reached for the blankets folded on the shelf. With hands that trembled, he shrouded himself in the smothering folds of the thick wool, then staggered outside. It took every ounce of his rapidly waning strength to propel himself across town. Had the sun been higher in the sky, he knew he never would have made it. Even so, he could feel the sunlight seeking his flesh through the heavy cloth. In spite of the heat that engulfed him, fear that he would not reach her house in time chilled him to the core of his being.
It seemed as though hours passed before he reached Marisa's apartment. Barely able to stand, lacking the strength to break down the door and unable to summon the concentration needed to open it with the power of his mind, he threw a flower pot through the window, then leaned forward and let himself go limp so that he fell across the sill onto the floor, hardly aware of the shards of broken glass that nicked his skin.
He lay there a long moment, while the pure white heat of the sun burned through his clothing and scorched the preternatural flesh of his back and legs. He lay there for a long moment, watching his blood seep onto the carpet, leaving a dark, ugly stain on the blue rug.
The instinct to survive, the need to