"I meant as punishment."

"So did I."

I stared at the phone for a moment and then clicked it shut.

It almost immediately rang again.

I tossed it at Marco and continued walking. He followed. "You gotta take the boss's call."

"Or what?"

There was a slight pause. "He'll be mad."

"He's already mad."

"At me."

I looked up to find Marco practically shaking in his boots. His face was pale and his eyes were almost bugging out of his head. He looked terrified.

At that moment, I didn't like Mircea very much.

The phone rang.

Marco held it out to me and I took it. "What?"

"I thought you might wish to know that Raphael is in the infirmary."

I stopped walking. "Why?"

"The doctors tell me that he is dying." Mircea said something else, but I didn't hear him. I'd already dropped the phone and the pizza and was running for the stairs.

I don't remember how I got to the lobby and couldn't tell you the name of the person who gave me directions. I skidded into a table on the way and almost fell but managed to clutch it with both hands and hang on. Cursing, I started to take off again and ran into a solid wall of vampire.

Alphonse, Tony's onetime head henchman, set me back on my feet. As usual, his seven-foot-plus body was clad in a bespoke suit. This one was dark tan with a cranberry stripe, and he had a ruby the size of a quail's egg for a tie tack. More rubies glinted from a couple of finger rings and from the wrist of his longtime girlfriend, Sal. He had the suits cut loose to conceal the half ton of weaponry he carried but didn't need. Between him and Sal, they could have taken out a platoon.

Sal was all in red to match the rubies, from the skintight sheath designed to draw attention to her ample curves and away from her missing eye—lost long ago in a saloon brawl with another "hostess" — to her anger-darkened cheeks. "I wish someone had done this to him, so I could gut them," she said by way of greeting.

"You've seen him?"

"Yeah." Sal wiped an arm across her face, smearing her mascara. I stared; I'd never seen her look this rattled. She noticed and smiled grimly. "You kinda get attached to someone when you know him for a century and a half."

"He's not bad, for a pretty-boy painter," Alphonse agreed. "You been in there?" He jerked a thumb at the set of ornate doors down the hall.

"No. I just found out—"

"So did we. Fucking idiots didn't tell nobody he was here, and he was too weak to do it himself. We're getting him transferred to a private room."

"How. . how is he? Mircea said something—"

"Bad," he said flatly.

"If you want to see him, you better do it now," Sal added bleakly.

I ran.

Casanova had said that they'd had to cancel the conventions, but I'd assumed it was because they needed the space. They did, but not only for rooms. The Murano glass chandeliers of the main ballroom, which usually looked down on fashion shows and business luncheons, now lit up row after row of cots. I could see them dimly through the glass insets in the main doors but not reach them. Because the ballroom had another new feature—a pair of armed guards.

They were vampires, but they weren't part of Casanova's security force. I knew all of them by now and they knew me, whereas neither of these guys made any attempt to move out of the way. "Human visitors are not allowed," one of them said without bothering to look at me.

"I'll take my chances," I told him, but he didn't budge. "My friend is in there." Not a word, not even a glance. "He's dying!"

Nothing.

"She's with me," Marco said, coming out of nowhere.

"No humans," the guard repeated in the same abrupt way, but at least Marco got eye contact. "Senate's orders."

"There have been problems?" Marco asked sharply.

The vamp shrugged. "Indiscriminate feeding. Some of the injured were out of their heads. The nurses say they have it under control, but the Senate doesn't want any incidents. That means no human visitors."

"Well, this human is visiting whether the Senate likes it or not!" I said furiously.

"Keep it in line or I'll do it for you," the guard told Marco.

"Screw this," I said, and shifted inside—only to almost get run over by an orderly with a cart. More than a dozen of them were zipping here and there, patching up patients like pit crews servicing race cars. A nearby patient had his sheets changed, his pillow fluffed, his water jug refilled and his meds doled out in about the time it took for me to blink.

The guard was suddenly beside me. I hadn't seen him come in, but I saw him stop when Marco's hand latched onto his shoulder. Marco pulled back my hair to show off the two small marks on my neck. "She belongs to Lord Mircea."

The guard's eyes thawed slightly. "Don't let her run loose," he warned.

"Yeah. I get that a lot." Marco put a hand to my back and hustled me down the nearest aisle.

We stopped at a cot exactly the same as all the rest by one of the walls. The man-shaped patient who lay naked on top of the plain white sheets was covered head to toe in cracked and blistered flesh that glistened from ointment that didn't seem to be helping at all. His bare hairy ankles and long pink feet looked relatively untouched, but the rest of him. . It was like he'd been parboiled.

His shoes, I thought blankly. Like his belt, which had left a pale stripe across his midsection, the heavy leather of his shoes had spared his feet the worst of it. But the light summer clothes and thin cotton sheets he'd wrapped around himself had been next to useless. They may have reduced the third-degree burns to second in a few places, but it was honestly hard to tell. A human wouldn't have survived that kind of trauma. And even Rafe was so disfigured that, without Marco's help, I would never have recognized him.

But he knew me.

"Cassie." It was a harsh whisper, like his lungs were on fire. My legs gave out and I collapsed to my knees.

"They say he was in the sun for hours." Marco sounded awed and appalled.

I didn't answer. A rush of adrenaline was making the room seem to pulse around me, but there was nowhere to run, nothing to do. I gulped in air, a little too much, a little too quickly, and choked, causing Marco's grip to tighten on my shoulder.

"Why did he do this?" I whispered. "He could have stayed behind—there was shelter."

"I heard you came back with some mages."

"They escaped with us."

"Yeah. People work together when their lives are on the line. But when they calm down, they revert to type."

I remembered Caleb's conversation with Pritkin. Had Rafe heard it and decided he couldn't trust them? My stomach rebelled as the implication hit—had he ended up this way because of me?

Rafe squinted up at us and tried to say something, but his lips had swollen so much that I couldn't understand him. "I think he wants his sunglasses," Marco translated. "Do you know what they look like?"

"They're Gucci," I whispered.

Marco found them on a nearby table and tried to put them on Rafe's face, but there was no way of resting them that wasn't going to hurt him. The moment they touched his raw flesh, he cringed and let out a hiss, and Marco snatched them back. I guess that explained the lack of hospital gown or top sheet. I couldn't imagine anything touching him and not being excruciating.

Marco was still trying to figure out the glasses dilemma when I heard a wet-sounding gasp and turned to see Sal staring at Rafe, her pale skin blotchy. Tears rolled and splashed down her face, though she didn't seem to care; she just raised her arm to swipe at her cheek without looking away from the bed. I'd never been so grateful for anyone in my entire life, because Sal was crying, Sal was, so I didn't have to.

"They said that he. . shouldn't be moved," Alphonse told me from behind her. The unspoken words, wouldn't survive it, hung in the air between us.