He remembered the glow from the master bedroom's window and quit the kitchen, moving fast and silent over the carpeted floor. Just because he couldn't sense anyone else there didn't mean that the house had to be empty. If they kept very, very quiet...

Willie's voice grew stronger, as did that almost-familiar odor.

The only light breaking the interior gloom was a narrow streak showing out from the bottom of the bedroom door.

All the other doors opening onto the hall-the children's rooms, the bath, an office-gaped onto darkness.

Trap, he thought, his hand resting on the doorknob. Who was on the other side? One of Alejandro's hired assassins, waiting with a shotgun at ready? If so, then he was in for a hellish surprise.

Richard turned the knob. It moved freely. No hindering obstructions. What if opening the door triggered a booby trap of some sort? A bomb?

That smell... more concentrated now. It was an unlikely combination, reminiscent of new car interior and petrol, and its source was here.

As was another, intermingled with the first, but instantly familiar to him.

Blood.

Panic flared in his chest. He fought it down. Made himself go slow. Made himself listen. He should be able to hear the breathing, the very heartbeat of anyone in the room beyond.

Nothing. That damned music interfered, masked it all.

Sweat coated him, the slick discomfort of his own fear. If it was only his safety at risk he'd already be inside, but what if the threat was also to Stephanie?

He had to look in, to take that chance with her life.

He slowly pushed the door open, tensed and ready to spring, to fight, ready for anything except the sight greeting him.

They lay in bed together, Stephanie and her twin daughters, fully clothed, yet apparently asleep.

Too still, much too still for that, his mind whispered.

For it was the cold sleep of death holding them, and its freezing grasp closed hard upon his heart, holding him as surely as if he'd been struck dead himself. He was stunned beyond thought, beyond action; all that remained was sickening perception.

The bullet holes were unseemly neat in the smooth skin of the twins' foreheads, at least on the entry side. He didn't need to see the exits to know of the hideous damage there.

Their throats had also been cut. Blood was everywhere. It matted their fair hair, soaked the pillows, and dripped down onto the floor where it puddled on the hardwood. The slaughterhouse stink of it filled the room.

Stephanie's eyes were open and stared at him dully. She had two bullet wounds, one in her stomach, the other squarely over her heart. They weren't enough for her killer; he'd taken care to cut her throat, too.

Then her face blurred as tears filled Richard's vision. A keening cry escaped him, echoing through the emptiness of the house, and Willie's words mocked him from the sound system.

I'll get over you by clinging to the healing hands of time.

He tried to step toward them, hand out as though to offer help, to give comfort, an automatic gesture and quite useless.

He tried to step toward them, but his legs gave way, dumping him in an unceremonious heap on the floor. He couldn't move, couldn't see for the tears. A great sob racked his body, unstoppable.

No time. No time for this!

He fought the tidal rush of anguish and rage, raising up, trying to make his limbs work. He could have lain there forever weeping, but that smell of new plastic and petrol, now redolent of death, pierced his grief like a dagger, and he suddenly understood the true danger all around him.

It was Semtex. Plastic explosive.

No time to look for the bomb. It could detonate any second. They'd been watching for him, waiting for him to find the bodies- He had to run.

Terror overthrew the grief for a few precious seconds. Just long enough for him to gather himself to crash through the shuttered window. But a stray thought stopped him.

Michael. Where's Michael?

His body was not with theirs.

If there was any chance of the boy being alive, Richard would not leave no matter what the risk. He stared wildly about, then staggered to the closet, the bath.

Empty. Only blood. Blood everywhere.

At vampire speed Richard shot from the room, tore through the house. First Michael's room. Then the rest. He ripped open doors, threw over beds, calling the boy's name in a strangled voice he did not recognize.

Nothing. Not one sign of the child. Richard ran through the rest of the house in a frenzy of fear and doubt.

He tried the kitchen, searching all the cupboards, the pantry. Nothing.

Only the coat closet in the hall remained. He rushed toward it.

The front door was still open. Beyond lay the safety of night, of clear space to run.

Closet. A fleeting look. Empty. Whether that was good or bad...

Door. He made it as far as the threshold.

The universe exploded into flames and dropped away from him. Some terrible force seized his whole body, lifting him effortlessly. The noise was too great to hear, only feel as it pulsed through him like a vast train. He was flying, limbs fluttering, helpless as a rag doll. He tumbled end over end before slamming into the packed earth.

The impact struck the breath from him. He was dimly aware of things hurtling past, like bullets but larger. Great chunks of the house flew around him. He cowered, hands on his head. Futile shields.

Run!

But he couldn't coordinate enough for that.

Nor was he fast enough.

The whole front wall, somehow holding together in spite of the destruction, bellied outward. He had an awful vision of red flames licking through the expanding cracks between the huge logs, and then they were falling onto him, and they were all on fire.

Chapter Five

Amid searing light, he was in darkness.

And pain. So much that the shadows in his mind drew back enough to allow in consciousness...

... realization...

... and horror.

Everything around him was in flames. They crackled and roared in obscene greed, flames that must surely consume him if he did not quickly do something.

The darkness that had fallen upon him withdrew as swiftly as it had come, and Richard became aware that he could not move. He tried to turn and see what held him. The effort made his whole body scream, and the blackness at the edge of his vision crept close once more.

He lay facedown on bare earth. He could see his arms. They were bloodied but free. Something pinned his legs. He pushed at the ground, ignoring the agony, and tried once more to turn. Succeeded.

Where the old house had been was now a rumbling, roaring bonfire. Thick rivers of smoke, blacker than the night sky, spiraled high to blot out the stars. The heat hammered against his exposed skin, worse than the sun.

The great logs had been thrown around like matchsticks by the unholy blast. Some lay in jumbled heaps of devilish architecture, others stood upright embedded in the ground like giant nails.

And one huge timber lay across his legs. And it was on fire. He smelled burning flesh and knew it was his own.

He scrabbled at the earth beneath him, digging, clawing frantically for freedom. His hands tore and bled from the sharp stones; he lost several fingernails, ripped from the root. This was what an animal felt as it chewed off one of its own limbs to escape a trap. He dug faster, then twisted his body back and forth until at last something gave way.

The heat grew unbearable as the tinder-dry log that held him burned more rapidly, but at last his legs were coming clear. At least one of them must have been broken, yet still he pushed and pulled for his freedom. Then suddenly he slid out from under the log, dragging himself from the fiery trap.

But flames licked insidiously up his legs; he slapped them out with bare and bleeding hands. Unable to walk, he clawed his way over the baking earth, until the stinging smoke was not so hot in his straining lungs, then collapsed.

He could do nothing for what seemed a very long time. His world had become hell, and he one of the damned souls in eternal torment.

Keeping still, he tried to take stock of his injuries. Something was embedded in his back like a knife, whether wood or iron he knew not. He could feel the wet trail of his own blood running down from the wound. One of his legs was broken, as he had surmised, the thigh bone jutting out through his flesh, ghastly white in the light from the burning wreckage. He was gouged raw with shrapnel and splinters. Hearing was impossible; blood trickled from his ears, from his shattered eardrums. And he was badly burned. The lower front of his broken leg was black and charred, and his reddened hands sprouted ugly white blisters.

Never had Richard known such a wounding, not even in the plane crash. Had he been any closer to the blast or been a normal human, he'd be dead. He could yet die. That he still breathed was hopeful, but he needed time to heal.

And fresh blood. Lots of it.

But from where? This place was truly isolated. He doubted that the explosion, massive as it was, had been noticed by any other than the small animals in the surrounding fields.

The horses.

He could not hear them, but saw their panicked milling in the nearby corral. Distance from the house and the barn's tin roof had spared them from the blast and fire.

Animal blood was not good for him. Sabra had warned him from the very first of the dangers of drinking it, of it being much the same peril as seawater to a parched human, but in a desperate situation it would do. The wretched stuff would keep him alive and give him some strength, though it would not be pleasant.

But before he could even think of doing anything else, whatever was impaled in his back would have to come out.

It was worse than his leg and still bleeding freely.

He reached gingerly around and felt behind him. His burned fingers touched something hard projecting from a low angle between his ribs, but he couldn't tell what it was. Slowly, agonizingly, he inched the missile from his flesh. It had punctured a lung; he felt rather than heard the bubbling hiss of escaping air with each breath. Black mist whirled about him, threatening to engulf him. He had to pause between each effort, recover, then brace for the next. The only thing worse than pulling it out was leaving the damned thing in. A fit of coughing seized him. He spat blood and kept working.

He had no idea how long the removal took, only that it was a long time, and that every moment was agony. Finally, with a desperate exertion, it slipped free. Richard caved flat with a groan and stayed that way for a while.

When the black mist cleared somewhat he dragged the artifact around to see. It was one of the iron hinges that had held the front door of the house in place, half a yard in length. A third of it was covered with his blood.

He let it drop in the dust. Or rather mud. The ground where he lay was soaked crimson.

He tried to get up and failed. His broken leg. He'd have to set it before the healing could begin or be crippled for the rest of his life. He turned over and lightly touched the end of the broken bone, and immediately arched back, again in agony, biting off his cry. That was no good. It would have to be quick, this straightening of the bone. He'd have to gather every atom of will and force himself through the ordeal. Icy sweat stung his eyes, and he realized that his arms were shaking.

Dear Goddess, give me strength.

Unable to walk or even crawl, he dragged himself once more, covering the infinite distance to the corral and one of its fence posts. Panting and chilled with encroaching shock, he hooked the heel of his useless leg against the post, positioned his good foot over the instep, and made ready to push.

Don't let me pass out before it's over.

He moved quickly, before he could think too much about it. He pushed hard, stretching the break apart, and then reached down and shoved the bone back into the flesh of his leg, so that the two ends were level with each other. They ground back into place and held.

He could not hear himself, but knew that he screamed throughout the whole procedure, an animal's scream that cut through the roar of the fire, the scream of a wolf caught in a cruel steel trap. Then he fell back, gasping and soaked with sweat, white with shock, hardly able to move.

But move he must.

Richard was pitifully weak; he'd never been so feeble and sick, and every moment's delay stripped more strength and blood from his body. All he wanted was rest, just to close his eyes and sleep, to get away from the dreadful pain that racked his existence. Yet if he slept now in this enervated state he might never wake again. Then the rising sun would surely finish him off.

He used the fence to pull himself up. Had to lean on it. The black mist hovered close, drifting across his eyes. He dared not give in to it.

But he was so tired. So hurt...

He clung to the wood, praying for the temptation to pass.

Blackness and rest. A few moments of it would help. He could be healing while- No. To give in was to lose all.

He limped one step, two, and nearly fell. He held to the fence like a drowning man.

Just a little more strength, I beg you.

Two more steps was all he could manage.

Someone would find him like this in the morning, arms draped over the crosspiece, head down, legs sagging. The sun would complete the job begun by the fire.

No...please... help me... Then he felt it. The surging return of a sometime enemy, sometime friend.

Dazed and unsteady, yet overpowering, relentless in its hunger, it pushed back the blackness with a defiant snarl.

His beast was awake.

Thus it was his red-eyed master that made him raise up and struggle on along the fence line to the gate, to the horses. He had to feed from them or die; it was as simple as that, and the thing inside him would not permit him to stop.

At last, after what seemed an age, he made it to the gate of the corral, and reached over to release the latch. The horses, already panicked by the explosion and fire did not need the threat of his presence to seek escape. The instant there was an opening one of them took it, and the rest followed. He lunged forward to grasp a halter, but their stampede knocked him and the gate away from their flight.

He swung helpless, tears of frustration sheeting his eyes as he tried to hold on. His head throbbed with insidious pain, his vision swam. The darkness at the edge of his mind grew, threatening to overcome even the blood of Annwyn's Hounds. He swayed against the fence, fighting the oncoming faint.