shook his head. "Not now, Marisa."
And before she could decipher that cryptic message, Ramsey was pulling her out of the apartment.
Clinging tightly to his self-control, Grigori watched them go, watched her go. She had wanted to help him, wanted to offer him her life's blood. And he had wanted to take it, would have taken it save for the awful fear that, once he touched her, tasted her, he wouldn't be able to stop.
But there was no need for self-control now, and he shed it like a snake shedding its skin, surrendering to the pain that hummed through every inch of his body, loosing the hunger that clawed at his vitals. He felt the sharp prick of his fangs against his tongue, knew his eyes burned red with the need pulsing through him.
Ripping off what was left of his shirt, he tossed it into the trash, then staggered into the bathroom and washed the blood from his face and chest and arms. He looked at himself in the mirror, lifted a hand to his cheek, feeling the ragged edges of charred skin. It would be weeks before the burn healed. But it would heal and there would be no scar.
Shirtless, he left the house. Resting had restored some of his strength. He masked his presence from those he passed until he found what he was looking for, a healthy young man walking alone down a deserted street. Ordinarily, he never hunted in the same city where he slept, but now need overruled caution.
He blanked the man's mind, then bent over him, taking what he needed, drinking long and deep. The temptation to take it all rose up strong within him, but he took no more than the man could safely spare. He ran his tongue over the wounds to seal them, wiping all memory of his presence from the man's mind.
He ghosted through the city streets, taking his prey unawares. How much simpler it would have been to take one mortal and drain him to the point of death, to drink not only his blood but his life as well, but he had vowed, a century ago, that he would never take a human life again unless his own life was at risk.
It was after midnight when he returned to Marisa's apartment. He had expected to find Ramsey and Marisa asleep, but they were in the living room. Dialogue from a movie they weren't watching filled the silence of the room.
He felt the censure in their eyes as they watched him close and lock the door. When he turned around, they were both looking elsewhere. It made him feel as if he didn't exist.
For stretched seconds, no one spoke. And then Ramsey stood up. "Your clothes are in a bag in the kitchen."
Grigori nodded.
"I'm going to bed."
"Hold on, Ramsey. Where were you this morning?"
Edward let out a long sigh, and Marisa had the feeling that he had been waiting all night for this one question. And even as he seemed to gather the courage to answer, she wondered if things would have turned out differently if he had been at the motel that morning.
"There was a five-car pile-up on the freeway," Ramsey said, meeting Grigori's eyes for the first time. "Two fatalities. I got hung up in traffic."
Grigori nodded. "Good night."
Edward glanced at Marisa, then left the room.
"Well," Marisa said, not meeting his eyes, "I think I'll go to bed, too."
"Marisa."
"What?" She kept her head lowered, her fingers toying with the cross dangling between her breasts.
"Look at me."
She couldn't, she thought, she couldn't face him now, knowing where he had been, what he'd been doing.
"Look at me."
It was impossible to resist the power in his voice. Slowly, she lifted her head and met his gaze. "Does it hurt?" she asked, gesturing at his cheek.
"Yes. Why? Do you think me incapable of feeling pain?"
"I don't know."
"It doesn't hurt as much as the distrust in your eyes."
She glanced away, then met his gaze again. "Will I read about more dead bodies in the morning paper?"
"Not of my doing."
She said nothing, but he knew she didn't believe him.
"I haven't killed anyone, except to preserve my own existence, in over a hundred years."
She regarded him for a long moment. The hideous knife wounds were already healing. Some were no more than faint red streaks against his pale flesh. Only the burn on his cheek seemed unimproved, the flesh charred and black.
He wished suddenly that he had thought to stop at his resting place and