“Name’s not ringing a bell.”

“He moved when you were seven, maybe eight. He lives in Thousand Oaks now,” her mother said. “Lived, I should say.”

“What happened?”

“He was a carrier.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“I didn’t, either, until I read the story. Seth was coming out of a bar and a group of blood snatchers went after him. The bar security got involved, and a couple of patrons were also carrying, and there was a shoot-out and Seth was killed.”

It shouldn’t have shocked her. Carriers were constantly getting snatched off the streets or dragged from their homes or taken when they were coming out of a store or a bar. It was insane, the way the world was now. And even if you weren’t a carrier, you were still in danger. When professional blood snatchers went after someone, they went in hot and heavy and had no problem hurting or killing anyone who got in their way.

Grace said, “You should really stop watching the news.”

“Why?”

“Because it isn’t healthy.”

“Ignoring the world isn’t going to stop me from worrying about you.”

“I’m sorry. For Seth.” And for me, Grace added privately. I’m sorry for what I’ve put you and Dad through since I was born—for what I’m still putting you both through.

Grace sat idling at a set of lights on Wilshire. It was a four-way stop. “I’ll be home in half an hour, maybe forty minutes,” she said. Up ahead, she saw a truck tearing its way through the intersection, heading west.

Another drunk driver, she thought. LA was full of them—especially at this time of night.

“Tell me more about the club,” her mother said.

A van pulled up alongside her. Grace turned as her mother said, “I read about it online. It seems . . . different.”

The side door slid open and she saw three masked men, covered from head to toe in black.

She saw handguns.

Assault rifles.

“Oh my God.”

“What?” her mother asked, alarmed. “What’s going on?”

A man with a crowbar smashed her side window. Grace had already turned away, searching for the panic button—Where is it? Where did I put it . . . ? Oh my God—and screaming for help as gloved hands flailed at her hair, her mouth and throat.

CHAPTER 33

IF FAYE SIMPSON was right about Paul and his crew, whoever they were, deciding to go after her because he thought Anton might have shared valuable information on Paul’s organization, whatever plans he had in place, it made sense to keep Faye as close as possible, which was why Sebastian had her move into his house.

Space wasn’t an issue. Two of Ron’s best, most trusted men were already living there and were running security operations out of Sebastian’s spacious home office. That left an extra bedroom for Faye. Having her under his roof, Sebastian reasoned, would allow not only him but also Ron’s people to keep a close, watchful eye on her.