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stepped back, his face pale. “Gabriel, Michael, Rafael.”

    Laszlo shook his head, nervously twirling the button on his lab coat. “No. Just because her name happens to rhyme, that doesn‟t mean—”

    The clinic doors swung open, and Shanna ran to the sink to wash her hands. “Why didn‟t you call me? I just heard about the injured woman. Emma thought the Malcontents might have tortured her.”

    Connor shot a worried look at Roman. The medieval monk appeared awestruck. Laszlo was clutching a button so hard his knuckles were white. If they were thinking what Connor suspected they were thinking, they had to be wrong.

    Shanna dried her hands and grabbed a pair of synthetic gloves. “Why so quiet?” She gasped. “She hasn‟t died, has she?”

    “Nay,” Connor said. “She‟s unconscious.”

    Shanna snapped on the gloves as she approached. She grimaced at the sight of the wounds. “How terrible. Did you give her a local anesthetic?”

    Roman shook his head. “No.”

    “I think you should before you stitch up the wounds,” Shanna said.

    “I‟m not sure what to do,” Roman murmured. “I think we‟d better call Father Andrew.”

    “Why?” Shanna‟s eyes widened. “You mean for Last Rites? Surely we can save her.” She placed her hand on Marielle‟s head in a protective gesture. Her eyes rolled up, and she crumpled.

    “Shanna!” Roman grabbed her as she fell.

    “Oh my!” Laszlo rushed toward them.

    “Shanna?” Roman patted her face. Her limp body sagged in his arms, and he settled her on the floor. “Shanna?”

    Connor watched, his innards growing cold with horror. He didn‟t want to believe his eyes. Or his ears, for no matter how hard he strained, he could barely hear a heartbeat. Laszlo had to be thinking the same thing, because he fell to his knees and grabbed Shanna‟s wrist to feel for a pulse.

    “Shanna!” Roman screamed and shook her.

    “Sir,” Laszlo told him quietly. “She‟s fading fast.”

    “No! She‟s going to be fine. She— Oh, God.” He seized his wife‟s face. “Shanna, wake up!”

    “Roman!” Laszlo shouted, his eyes glittering with emotion. “She‟s dying.”

    Roman glared at him. “No. She just fainted, that‟s all. She—”

    “She‟s going to die,” Laszlo yelled. “You have to change her now!”

    “It‟s too soon! The children are too young. Sofia‟s only two!”

    “You have no choice,” Laszlo gritted out.

    Roman shuddered, then gazed down at his wife. “Oh God! I can‟t lose her.” He looked wildly about the room, and his gleaming eyes landed on Connor. “What have you done?”

    Connor stepped back from the accusing eyes. “I dinna mean . . . please, change her before it is too late.”

    “You‟re supposed to protect my family,” Roman hissed. “You brought an angel of death here!”

    Connor‟s blood ran cold. Holy Christ Almighty, had he truly brought death to the family he had sworn to protect?

    Roman pointed at the woman on the gurney. “Get her out of here before she kills my children, too!” With a hoarse cry, Roman tilted back his head and shot his fangs out. He sank them into Shanna‟s neck.

    Connor didn‟t know which was worse: the sound of Roman frantically sucking all the blood from his wife, or the wrenching sound of his sobs while he did it.

    My fault . Connor doubled over, nausea churning his gut. My fault. Shanna had trusted him to protect her, and he‟d brought death to her. Just as he had his own wife and newborn child.

    He fell to his knees. Failure again.

    “Connor,” Laszlo whispered.

    He glanced up to see Laszlo standing by the gurney.

    “You need to take her away.”

    He glanced at her, then at Shanna, dying in her husband‟s arms on the floor, then back at Marielle. Could Roman be right? Was she truly an angel of death?

    Connor rose to his feet and lurched toward her, grabbing the edge of the gurney in his fists. “Why dinna ye kill me ?” he growled. God knew he