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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As usual, I need to thank those who make me look good...or at least do their damnedest with the material I give them! A huge thank you, once again, to my agent, Helen Heller, and my editors, Anne Groell of Bantam Spectra, Anne Collins of Random House Canada, and Antonia Hodgson of Warner Orbit.
This time, I want to offer a somewhat belated thanks to some people who helped me whip up a "series bible" I kept moaning about needing to write. Thanks to Ian O'Neill, Yan Ming, Genine Tyson, and Jennifer Thompson. I hate continuity errors and, with your wonderful help, I'll avoid (most of) them. And a big thanks to my beta readers, Laura Stutts, Raina Toomey, Xaviere Daumarie, and Danielle Wegner, who helped me avoid some of those nasty continuity errors with this one.
HOPE
LUCIFER'S DAUGHTER
There was a time in my life when the prospect of watching a man die would have filled me with horror. Now, as I shivered beside the cenotaph, knowing death was coming, what I felt was very different.
Only knowing it was too late to stop what was about to happen kept me from screaming a warning as I clutched the cold marble.
"Did you bring the money?" the first man asked, his voice tight with an anxiety that strummed through the air. He wore dress slacks an inch too long, hems pooling around scuffed department store loafers. His old leather jacket was done up against the bitter March night, but misbuttoned. I could picture his fingers trembling as he'd hurried out to this midnight meeting.
The other man was a decade older, his jogging suit hood pulled tight around his red-cheeked face. Beside him, a Chow panted, the chuff-chuff filling the silence, black tongue lolling as the dog strained the confines of its short leash.
"Did you bring the money?" the younger man asked again as he glanced around the park, his anxiety sharp against the cold rage blowing off the other man.
"Did you really think I'd pay?"
The older man lunged. A blast of fear, so intense my eyelids quivered. Then a gasp, rich with shock and pain. Chaos rolled over me and moonlight sparked red against the knife blade. The stink of voided bowels filled the air as the younger man staggered back into a spindly maple. He tottered for a moment, propped against it, then slumped at its base.
The killer pulled his dog closer. The Chow danced, its chaos fluttering past me, confusion warring with hunger. The man shoved its head to the wound, steaming blood pumping. The dog took a tentative lick, then--
The vision broke and I reeled, grabbing the cenotaph. A moment's pause, eyes squeezed shut. Then I straightened and blinked against the bright morning sun.
At the foot of the cenotaph, a shrine had started, with plucked daffodils and scraps of paper scrawled with "We'll Miss You, Brian" and "Rest in Peace, Ryan." Anyone who knew Bryan Mills well enough to spell his name was still at home, in shock. The people hugging and sobbing around the shrine were only hoping to catch the eye of a roving TV camera, say a few words about what a great guy "Ryan" had been.
