But he saw—. No, he was in another place. A vast room with walls of glass, but it wasn’t glass, no, nothing like glass, a vast room and beyond were the towers of—. He had almost seized on the name of the city when the voice of Amel interrupted him, Amel rising from behind his desk, pale skinned, red haired, yes! Amel! Amel speaking in that rapid, emotional, classic mammalian voice with which they’d all been endowed: “Don’t tell me you are the People of the Purpose when your purpose is to do just what they sent you to do! For the love of your souls, find for yourself a finer purpose! Just as I did.”

In shock, Garekyn opened his eyes. It was gone, this fiery fragment from the past. And he felt both an overwhelming desire to recall it to himself, and a fear of doing so.

Suddenly the weight of his frustration crushed Garekyn, and the rejection of him by the silent Benji Mahmoud cut his heart. He could have spoken to me! What did he have to fear from me, this strange being, who was brave enough to hide in plain sight among humans in the busiest metropolis in the world?

Angrily, Garekyn rose from the chair and sought out the lavatory. He needed to slap water on his face, wake himself up, come to his senses. The waitress directed him to a small corridor behind the dining room that reeked of dust and disinfectant. He made his way to the “last door on the left.”

Then he came to a halt. Danger.

There was no one in the little hallway but him. Beyond the kitchen wall to one side was the clatter and clang of pots and pans and the shrill cacophony of voices. He moved on, opened the door, and stepped into a large room containing a toilet and a fancy mirror and sink. As he turned to snap the lock, the door flew back, striking him on the forehead, and he found himself against the hard cold marble wall, stunned, as a blood drinker locked the door behind him.

Danger. Full alert. Massive danger.

Waxy, luminescent skin, a mass of dusty brown hair, and vicious eyes. A smile that was the baring of fangs and not a gesture of conciliation.

“You’re coming with me, stranger,” the male spoke in an ugly voice. “What do you mean stalkin’ little Benji? I have friends who want to talk to you.”

“And you are—?” asked Garekyn coldly. He did not move. He eyed the being as if he had all the time in the world to do so. Shorter than he; shorter arms; a massive head; old scars carved in the strange unnatural flesh as if painted on the face of a doll; and broken teeth between the glistering fangs; clothes that reeked of dust and mildew.