"I've seen what the ardeur can do, Elinore. You haven't, not really." His face tightened in lines of anger so raw it almost hurt to see it. "I've seen my face look like Requiem's. I remember what it feels like." His hands gripped the bedpost until the skin changed color, just a bit. The mottling would be more after he fed. The wood creaked in protest, and he dropped his hands. "Part of me still wants to feel like that. It's like being on a drug all the time. Being pleasantly high, pleasantly happy. It may not be real happiness, but it's hard to tell the difference when you're in the middle of it." He hugged him­self tight. "The world is a colder, darker place without it. But with it, you're

a slave. A slave to someone who makes you do things ..." He shook his head, so hard it looked dizzying.

"Maybe London should go before I start this," I said.

"No," he said, "no, if I can't bear to watch you feed the ardeur on some­one else, then I need to find a new master, and a new city. If I can't bear this, then I need to go somewhere where no one carries the ardeur."

"Jean-Claude is your master, London; you will need his permission to leave," Elinore said.

"We have already discussed it," Jean-Claude said.

"When?" I asked.

"He is an addict, ma petite, an addict to the ardeur. I saved him from Belle Morte, who would have addicted him again, but London and I discussed that even your ardeur, and mine, might be too much for him. If it is"—he gave that graceful shrug—"I will find him some place far away from such temp­tations, but it will take time to find a home for someone as potentially pow­erful as London. Especially someone with his bloodline, and male. If he were female, there is a waiting list."

"But not for men," I said.

"Non, ma petite, the female masters seem convinced they would become bespelled by males of our bloodline. The male masters seem convinced they could master the women of our line."

"Well, isn't that just typical," I said. I looked back at London. "If this gets to be too much for you, promise me you'll leave."

"Why do you care?"

I raised a hand before Elinore could chastise him again. "Because I'm going to have enough trouble freeing Requiem's mind; I don't want to have to do it twice today."

He nodded. "I swear to you that I will leave, if I feel it is too much." The look on his face was very solemn, with none of that dark defiance, or anger.

I took a deep breath and turned back to the man on the bed. He gave me peaceful, eager eyes. It was as if the lamb wanted you to slit its throat.

I moved up beside him, so I could touch the unbruised side of his face. I cupped his face and he leaned into that touch, eyes closing for a moment as if that one innocent touch was almost too much to bear.

I called to him. "Requiem, Requiem, come back to me."

He laid his hand against mine, pressing me tighter against his face. "I am right here, Anita, right here."

I shook my head, because this wasn't him. It was his body, but whatever made Requiem who he was, that wasn't in his eyes. It was a stranger's face. What makes people people is not just bone structure and eye color, but the

force of their personalities. The years of experience painted on their faces. Them, for lack of a better word. Them.

"Oh, Requiem, come back to us."

He gazed up at me, so puzzled. He didn't understand that he was lost.

I closed my own eyes, so I could concentrate and not have to see his eyes, so trusting and empty. My necromancy was unlike any other power I had. Maybe because it was mine. Whatever the reason, I didn't have to decide to use my necromancy, I just had to stop fighting it. Stop blocking the power. Blocking my necromancy was like making a fist, tight-clenched, squeezing, squeezing, so hard, so the power didn't get away from me. I spread that metaphorical fist wide, let go all that effort and the necromancy just was. Be­fore, with Auggie, there had been so much happening, so many different powers, that it had distracted me, but now there was nothing but the necro­mancy. It felt so good to finally let go. So amazingly good.

I opened my eyes and stared down at Requiem. "Come to me," I said, "come to me." He rose up, off the bed, arms reaching for me. I put a finger on his chest, and said, "Requiem, stop." He stopped instantly. As if he were Some sort of toy; hit one switch and he goes, another and he turns off. Sweet Mary, Mother of God, this was so wrong.

"Ma petite, ma petite, have a care."

I turned and glanced at Jean-Claude. "I'm a little busy here," I said, and couldn't keep the impatience out of my voice.

"I would be more specific with your calls, if I were you. You told only Re­quiem to stop. The others are still compelled." He motioned at the other vampires. London had a death grip on the bedpost. He looked panicked. Wicked and Truth were fighting at the edge of the bed. Truth wanted to get on, and Wicked was holding his brother back. Truth looked scared, and Wicked looked angry.

I found Elinore standing by her chair, holding on to it, as if only the chair's weight kept her from coming to me.

I felt myself go pale. "I didn't mean..."

"Your necromancy has gained in power, ma petite, as have your beasts. Be more specific on your orders; use his name."

I looked at Elinore. "If I called you, would you have to come to me?"

She swallowed hard enough for me to hear it. "I would fight, but the com­pulsion would be strong. I am not yet a Master of the City. As you must be of a certain level of power to rule a city, so the ruling of it, and the oaths that are taken, the magic that binds, gains a vampire more power. I do not have those ties, yet, so I... I am not Augustine, or Samuel. I think if you forced the issue it would be difficult."

It was my turn to swallow.

"We are all blood-oathed to Jean-Claude," London said, through gritted teeth. "I think her call is stronger for her ties to him."

Truth broke from his brother, and went to the chair by the fireplace. He strode to it, and hid his face in his hands. Wicked turned back to me. "He wanted to go to you. We are both blood-oathed to Jean-Claude. Why was my brother more drawn to your call?"

"He fed on ma petite, when he oathed to us," Jean-Claude said. "You took my blood."

"I told you when you brought him over that I had to be brought over in exactly the same way. You assured me that it wouldn't matter." He gestured angrily toward his brother. "This matters."

Requiem wrapped his arms around me, and laid a kiss upon my neck. He was bending his stomach to do it. Didn't it hurt?

I said the only thing I could think of. "I didn't know."

"We must always be bound the same," Wcked said, "we must always be the same. It is our strength. It is who we are. Whatever you have done to him, you must do to me, or undo to him."

I nodded. "I'll try."

"I'm beginning to understand why we used to kill necromancers on sight," London said.

"Is that a threat?" Jean-Claude said, voice mild.

"No, no, master."

But I understood what London meant. Requiem licked along my neck, and that one touch made me shiver, just a little. "Requiem, stop touching me."

He froze against me, but he was still touching me. He simply stopped kissing and licking me. I guess I'd have to be careful how I worded things. I had to find Requiem. Not just a vampire, or the dead. I needed him, his in­dividual self. I'd done something similar once in the Church of Eternal Life, when the police and I were searching for a vampire murder suspect. I'd sought the flavor of one person, and that had been someone I hadn't known. I knew Requiem. I was holding him.