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Cassidy allowed Monica to help her across the cabin, but was adamant about privacy in the bathroom. After relieving a painfully full bladder, she wobbled across a tile mosaic of some Greek mythological figure and stepped into the shower to let the hot water beat her limbs until she stopped shivering.

The translucent gray reflection in the mirror frightened her. Purple bruises marked the sunken, haunted eyes staring back at her, and the lips were as cracked and flaky as those of a corpse. She was running on empty in so many ways. What she needed was an IV, not a formal dinner with—wait.

“Did you say we have guests?” she said when she emerged, swathed in towels.

“Yes, I did.” Monica beamed. “Which do you think? The blue sequins or the green chiffon?” She held up two cocktail gowns, the former strappy, the latter with sleeves. “We’re about the same size, so either should fit you fine.”

“The warmer one. Who are these guests?” Had Kambyses captured more innocents to toy with? Was there a chance they could help each other? For this possibility, she would make herself join a formal dinner on her deathbed. Under no circumstance could she allow Kambyses to feed on her again.

“I don’t know. I think the green clashes with your coloring. Blue it is. I have a wrap to go with that. You’ll be fine.”

“Bitch,” Cassidy said under her breath.

Half an hour later, hair neatly pinned, makeup applied, and slinky, blue-sequined dress draped, she hugged a thin, black shawl around her bare shoulders and followed Monica, similarly attired in shades of red and orange, down the pitching hall. Past the little elevator lobby, the doors to the dining room stood open. Male voices engaged in animated conversation issued from inside.

“No way,” one exclaimed.

A more seasoned voice replied, “Better believe it. So what was I going to do? I told your father they were all round.”

Uproarious laughter.

Cassidy knew these voices, she was sure of it, but she couldn’t place them with faces. Not in this alternate reality. Then she stepped through the door—and into a nightmare.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Monica said as she swept into the lavish dining room. “I hope we haven’t kept you waiting too long.”

“Not at all. We were just reminiscing. Hey, Cass, is that you?”

Cassidy reached out to the nearest wall for support, but her fingers slid on the polished wood. That couldn’t possibly be Jackson leaping up from his chair and heading toward her with arms flung wide? He engulfed her in a bear hug. “Finally. I was wondering where you were hiding.”

She held on to him, clutched at the too-small blazer he wore, and inhaled his familiar aroma of sun and soap. It was him. Dear God, Jackson Striker, vampire hunter, was aboard a vampire-owned yacht. Having wine. With his uncle!

“Miss Chandler,” Garrett Striker said brightly when Jackson released her. He, too, wore an ill-fitting gray dinner jacket over…cargo pants and boots? She locked her knees to prevent them from caving and struggled to breathe as the man who had bounced a bullet off her skull the last time they met now embraced her like a member of his dearest family. “Good to see you again.”

“What the—what the—”

“Your surprise seems to have succeeded,” Monica said with unabashed delight. “You are surprised, Cassidy, aren’t you?”

She could only nod in numb horror.

“They joined us yesterday evening and have been enjoying themselves ever since while you were resting.”

“Come sit with us,” Jackson said. Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, he lead her to a chair at the oval table where five elegant place settings were laid, three on one side, two on the other.

“You did enjoy your day, didn’t you?” Monica asked as she rounded the table and took her seat opposite Cassidy.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had so much fun,” Garrett announced. “Those jet skis are something else.”

“And the gym is top-notch,” Jackson added.

Cassidy’s head threatened to explode. “I don’t understand, Jackson. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, we were way overdue for a vacation. Here, try this wine. It’s an exceptional Montracht. I think you’ll like it.”

She looked across the table to Monica, who sipped her own glass. As was Kambyses.

Another shock.

Had he been there a moment ago? He slouched in the chair with one elbow casually draped on the seatback. Red silk shirt, black blazer, hair gathered at his nape. Civilized. Except for that glass. That wasn’t wine he was drinking. The liquid coating the crystal was far too dense and red. Cassidy’s stomach flopped.