LITMIR.BIZ

      She drove carefully. Just as well. He slipped in and out of consciousness like a drifting leaf. “I’ll owe you forever for this,” he said.

      “I’ll collect when I need to.”

      “Tell me when we get to Hyde Park Corner,” he said and slumped against the seat.

      Dixie hoped they’d get that far. She was tempted to ignore his insistence and take him to the nearest hospital, but he was right. She couldn’t drive up and say, “I need help for an injured vampire.” They’d lock her up.

      Cold panic hit her at a roundabout, but she negotiated it and would have patted herself on the back except she needed both hands to maneuver a lane change. The traffic got denser with every mile. Stuck in a jam somewhere near Wandsworth, she glanced over at Christopher. He looked gray as doom.

      The streetlights cast odd shadows, highlighting the empty socket and his sunken cheeks. She drove on through the massed traffic. If this was evening, she didn’t want to see rush hour.

      “We’re at Hyde Park Corner, Christopher.”

      He didn’t open his eyes, but he’d heard her. “Go up Piccadilly.” She had to concentrate to hear his voice above the noise of the traffic. “Now left here.” She noticed the name, Half Moon Street. “Now left…. Second right…. To the end, then left.” A narrow road turned abruptly by a pub at the corner, The Red Lion. “Through the gateway.” There were high walls behind and houses in front, and at the end, another wall with a black garage door. “This is Tom’s. You can park inside.”

      “How do I get in?” As she spoke, the door rose and closed behind her as she pulled to a halt in a small yard behind the tall, dark shape of a townhouse. A tall figure made a silhouette against the light in the open French windows.

      “Kit?” The voice echoed with worry in the night air. He bounded across the yard and wrenched open her door. “Who the hell are you?” he asked as Dixie stepped out of the car

      “I’m Dix…” She could have been Ivanna Trump for all he cared.

      “Kit,” he called, and then saw Christopher, slumped and unmoving in the passenger seat. “What have you done to him?” he demanded and vaulted over the car roof. Pulling the door open, he gathered Christopher in his arms. Fury sparked behind his eyes. “Be glad you’re a woman. If you were a man, I’d tear you limb from limb for this.”

      “For what? For bringing him here? It’s what he wanted. Do something, can’t you? He called you his friend.” Dixie yelled. She hadn’t done all this to be griped at.

      “Who are you?” The voice cut like a knife across the night as he strode towards the house, carrying Christopher as lightly as a plate of cookies.

      “I’m Dixie LePage.”

      “Oh.” He carried Christopher through the garden door. Taking that as an invitation, Dixie followed.

      Christopher looked worse in the light. The color he’d gained earlier faded. He’d gone past pale to a green-gray color that suggested morgues and cold slabs. Her heart clenched cold in her chest. “Is he dying?” she asked Tom’s fast-moving back.

      “He’s been dead four hundred years,” he snapped without turning his head.

      That did it! Half leaping, she caught up with him and grabbed the sleeve of his shirt and walked across the room beside him. “You know exactly what I mean, smart-ass! He said you’d help him!”

      The man stopped mid-stride and turned a pair of onyx-hard eyes on her. Tears welled up behind her lashes. She forced them back. She wasn’t crying in front of this bastard. Why had she ever come? If he did anything to Christopher, she’d clobber him. “He’s safe with me. I’d as soon harm myself,” he said, his voice strangely gentle, “but it may be too late.”

      “No!” The word screamed like a tempest in her brain. “He said he’d be safe if I got him here.”

      “Safe is not the same as sentient. You brought him here. I thank you for that. You’d best leave.”

      “No way, José! How do I know he’s really safe with you?” She parked both hands on her hips, standing square in front of him to block his way. He never spoke. Just looked as if searching her soul. The burr of traffic and the scent of some night plant outside the open door hovered in the background as they fought for Christopher.

      “You wouldn’t have brought him if you really doubted.” He angled his head to the open French windows. “I’m taking him upstairs. There’s nowhere down here to lay him.” She couldn’t argue that one. Wall to ceiling bookshelves, a massive antique desk, a computer, and a pair of swivel chairs were the only furnishings. “Shut the door. I don’t want the house full of mosquitoes or moths.”

      “He’s dying and you’re worried about mosquitoes?”

      “And neighbors who might summon the law if you keep shrieking.”

      Was she shrieking? Probably. It was a wonder she wasn’t screaming the house down. She took a deep breath. Before she exhaled, he spoke again, “Shut it, Miss LePage. Do you want me to waste energy that might save Kit?”

      There was only one answer to that. But by the time she turned back from shoving the last bolt home, he’d disappeared. He wasn’t getting away. She ran through the open door and up a wide, curving staircase. She ignored the three closed doors. In the fourth room, Tom bent over Christopher, two black shapes so close they seemed one through the blur of her tears.

      Tom turned as Dixie approached. “Wait outside a couple of minutes. I’m getting him in bed.”

      “I’m staying.” She closed the distance between them. Christopher looked worse, if it was possible. Moisture beaded on his face and neck. Sweat? “What’s

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