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railing to better stare out at the empty track. In her mind’s eye, she followed it back to Calais and then across the Channel and home, to Eamon.
    Feeling the danger of that thought, she turned the other way and looked instead toward Berlin, to the lair Ulrika had described, and the task ahead. She closed her eyes to better summon her strength. Then it happened. As surely as if she had turned her eyes inward, she saw the apprehension in the demon. It felt something akin to fear. It had the power to thrive on fear, although it generally chose not to use it, preferring to gain strength in sensuality and desire. That the demon could lose its nerve had never occurred to Brigit. She chose to be cross. She had not spent so many years learning to be mistress over that inner beast to let it assert itself through faintheartedness now. Its fear would feed on her, and she wouldn’t have that. It and she would go home again, once they had completed their work.

    Mors had disappeared, but Brigit studied the other three, wondering if they had taken any stock of their demons. It wasn’t the sort of thing she could ask. The demon was each vampire’s own personal creature, that innermost part of the self in that other world. It was them, and yet not them. In the human world, with their human faces on, it was as though the demon did not exist. Not that they pretended it did not, it was merely that there was no acknowledgment. They were two different creatures, and neither was human.
    Brigit pressed her fingers to her eyelids, collecting herself. When she looked up, she saw a man watching her curiously. She tossed her head and smiled at him.
    â€œJust a bit of grit in my eyes.”
    â€œAh, yes. Inevitable. But the stations are much cleaner now, wouldn’t you say?”
    â€œOh, certainly.”
    Did he really think so? It didn’t seem any more clean than the French or British stations, and a damn sight less cheerful, too. However, she nodded politely and moved down to rejoin the others. Her first insincere conversation in Germany. She wondered how many more she would have before she could leave. The thought nearly made her smile, but it was interrupted by the screeching arrival of the train.
    Mors swung up behind her, whistling. She turned to him with questioning eyes. He winked.
    â€œGot a toothpick?”
    â€œSeven minutes. I’m impressed. And what about teeth marks? Tracks covered?”
    He edged her farther into the dark corner and raised a hand—one fingernail stretched out long into a blade-like talon.
    â€œThroat slit. Which is why you shouldn’t struggle when being mugged. Why parents don’t teach their children these things, I don’t know.”
    He flipped open his coat just enough to show Brigit the woman’s handbag.
    â€œExtra identity, which you’ll probably need. You can thank me later.”
    â€œSuch a giver you are. So, a violent crime in a peopled train station.
How shocking. Here I thought the Nazis had established themselves on a platform of law and order.”
    â€œScandalous, isn’t it?”
    Brigit hesitated, then had to ask.
    â€œAnd the taste?”
    Mors had just started toward the others. He paused and turned to look at Brigit with some resignation.
    â€œWell, we didn’t come here for the food.”
    Indeed.
    Â 
    The train was a local and unbearably slow. Brigit rubbed her wrist absentmindedly, then gazed down at the pink mark she’d made.
    Pink. Her skin turned pink under his hands, his mouth. The blood that lay so still under her flesh always rose with eager obedience to meet his touch. She followed the path of his hand up her leg, her thigh. He nipped the inside of her knee and she moaned, clutching the sheets as his mouth slowly worked its way upward.
    More of her body yielded to him, to his insistent tongue. A tiny pocket of her mind wanted her to pay closer attention than she ever had, because this might be the last