And there he was. Towering over her, bigger than anything she'd seen that breathed, his pale eyes and hard face so cold she recoiled.

He brought a thin white roll to his lips and inhaled. As he spoke, smoke came out of his mouth. "Told you. I'm not going to hurt you. What's your name?"

Through a tight throat, she rasped, "Chosen."

"That's what you are," he snapped. "I want your name. I want to know your name."

Was he allowed to ask her that? Was he-What was she thinking? He could do anything he wanted. He was the Primale. "C-C-Cormia."

"Cormia." He inhaled on the white thing again, the orange tip flaring up brightly. "Listen to me. Don't be scared, Cormia, okay?"

"Are you-" Her voice cracked. She wasn't sure whether she could question him, but she had to know. "Are you a god?"

His black eyebrows came down low over his white eyes. "Hell, no."

"But then how did you-"

"Speak up. I can't hear you."

She tried to make her voice stronger. "How then did you intercede with the Scribe Virgin?" As he glowered, she rushed to apologize. "Please, I mean not to offend-"

"Whatever. Look, Cormia, you're not into this mating thing with me, are you?" When she said nothing, his mouth compressed with impatience. "Come on, talk to me."

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

"Oh, for the love of God." He pushed a gloved hand through his dark hair and started pacing.

Surely he was a deity of some kind. He looked so fierce she wouldn't have been surprised if he called lightning from the sky.

He stopped and loomed over her. "I told you, I'm not going to hurt you. Goddamn, what do you think I am? A monster?"

"I have never seen a male before," she blurted. "I know not what you are."

That stopped him cold.

Jane woke up only because she heard a garage door squeaking, the high-pitched whine coming from the condo to the left of hers. Rolling over, she looked at the clock. Five in the afternoon. She'd slept most of the day.

Well, kind of slept. For the most part, she'd been trapped in a bizarre dreamscape, one in which images that were half-formed and hazy tormented her. A man was involved somehow, a big man who felt at once a part of her and yet utterly alien. She'd been unable to see his face, but she knew his smell: dark spices, up close, in her nose, all around her, all over her-

That bone crusher of a headache flared up, and she dropped what she was thinking of like it was a hot poker and she was holding the wrong end. Fortunately, the pain behind her eyes eased off.

At the sound of a car engine, she lifted her head off the pillow. Through the window next to the bed she saw a minivan back down the driveway beside hers. Someone had moved in next door, and God, she hoped it wasn't a family. The walls between units were not as thin as an apartment building's, but they weren't bank-safe solid by a long shot. And screaming kids she could do without.

Sitting up, she felt beyond wretched and into a whole new category of dreck. Her chest was aching something fierce, and she didn't think it was muscular. Shifting around from side to side, she had some inclination that she'd felt like this once before, but she couldn't place when or where.

Showering was an ordeal. Hell, just making it into the bathroom was a chore. The good news was that the soap-and-rinse routine revived her a little, and her stomach seemed open to the idea of some food. Leaving her hair to air-dry, she went downstairs and fired up some coffee. The plan was to get her head into first gear, then return some phone calls. Come hell or high water she was going to work tomorrow, so she wanted to clear the decks as best she could before she went into the hospital.

With mug in hand, she headed into the living room and sat down on the couch, cradling her coffee between her palms, hoping Captain Caffeine would come to her rescue and help her feel human. As she glanced down at the silk cushions, she winced. These were the ones her mother had smoothed out so often, the ones that had served as a barometric meter of whether All Was Well or not, and Jane wondered when she'd sat on the damn things last. God, she supposed that would be never. For all she knew, the last butt that had taken a load off here might well have been one of her parents'.

No, probably a guest's. Her parents had sat only on the matching chairs in the library, her father on the right with his pipe and his newspaper, her mother on the left with a square of petit point on her lap. The two had been like something out of Madame Troussaurs wax museum, part of an exhibit on affluent husbands and wives who never spoke to each other.

Jane thought of the parties they'd thrown, all those people milling around that big Colonial house with uniformed waiters passing crepes and things stuffed with mushroom paste. It been the same crowd and the same conversation and the same kind of little black dresses and Brooks Brothers suits every time. The only difference had been the seasons, and the only break in the rhythm occurred after Hannah's death. Following her burial, the soirees had stopped for about six months on her father's orders, but then it was right back on the bandwagon. Ready or not, those parties started up again, and even though her mother had seemed brittle enough to crack, she'd put on her makeup and her little black dress and stood by the front door, all fake smiled-and-pearled up.

God, Hannah had loved those parties.

Jane frowned and put a hand over her heart, realizing when she'd felt this kind of chest pain before. Not having Hannah anymore had created the same kind of achy pressure.

Odd that she would wake up out of the blue and be in mourning. She hadn't lost anyone.

Taking a sip of the coffee, she wished she'd made hot chocolate-

A blurry image of a man holding out a mug came to her. There was hot cocoa in the thing, and he'd made it for her because he was… he was leaving her. Oh… God, he was leaving-

A sharp pain shot through her head, cutting off the tumbling vision-just as her doorbell went off. As she rubbed the bridge of her nose, she shot a glare down the hall. She was so not feeling social right now.

The thing went off again.

Forcing herself to her feet, she shuffled to the front door. As she flipped the lock free, she thought, man, if this was a missionary, she was going to give them a communion with-

"Manello?"

Her chief of surgery was standing on her front stoop with his typical bravado, like he belonged on her welcome mat just because he said so. Dressed in surgical scrubs and crocs, he was also sporting a fine suede coat that was the rich brown color of his eyes. His Porsche took up half of her driveway.

"I came to see if you were dead."

Jane had to smile. "Jesus, Manello, don't be such a romantic."

"You look like shit."

"And now with the compliments. Stop. You're making me blush."

"I'm coming in now."

"Of course you are," she muttered, stepping aside.

He looked around while he shucked his coat. "You know, every time I come in here, I always think this place is so not you."

"You expect something pink and frilly then?" She shut the door. Locked it.

"No, when I first came in, I expected it to be empty. Like my place."

Manello lived over in the Commodore, that ritzy high-rise of condos, but his home was just an expensive locker, really, decor by Nike. He had his sports equipment, a bed, and a coffeepot.

"True," she said. "You're not exactly House Beautiful material."

"So tell me how you are, Whitcomb." As Manello stared at her, his face showed no emotion, but his eyes burned, and she thought back to the last conversation she'd had with him, the one where he'd told her he felt something for her. The details of what had been said were kind of hazy and she had some vague impression it had been up in an SICU room over a patient-