His aunt had raised him well and with love, much as his mother probably would've if she'd been strong enough to stick around. He'd chosen this work because of his father and also because of that day.

He could still feel emotion coiled in him like a striking snake. Hatred for his father and at himself for being his father's son, but, most of all, rage at himself for never having done anything to help those witches that day.

The memory lived like a vibrant thing inside him. He didn't know if he'd ever be free of its hold.

Jack looked down to where he fisted Mira's hair and relaxed his fingers, letting the silky strands fall to the pillow. He owed her. He'd watched her mother die and had done nothing to prevent it. He'd stood there in fear, when he could've fought his father and his friends, perhaps could've broken the spell, the circle, something.

Jack walked back to sit on the desk. Thomas Monahan, head of the Coven, had tasked Jack with watching over Mira Hoskins as soon as they'd discovered she existed. If the Coven knew she existed, most likely so did Crane. Jack had been tailing her for about two weeks, sitting in his car in the freezing cold to stake out her work and her apartment. Normally, he didn't do straight bodyguarding jobs like this one, but this was special. Mira was special.

She moved on the bed, waking up slowly. Jack sat on the desk in the dark, flicking the Zippo on and off absentmindedly as he watched her.

Yesterday he'd felt compelled to make actual contact with her, so he'd gone into the diner and watched her work. Her eyes were hazel. Sometimes brown, sometimes green. Her smile was easy and seemed genuine. She actually appeared to like people, which was something he couldn't say about himself.

"Mmmm, huh?" Mira murmured from the bed. She gasped as she caught sight of him in the darkened room and pushed up into a sitting position, her hand instantly going to her head at the abrupt movement.

Jack put the Zippo down. "How are you feeling?”

She took a few moments to answer. "Like I've been hit by a truck, abducted, and am now in fear for my life. How are you?”

"You're here for your own protection.”

"That's probably what all serial killers say.”

He slid off the desk, walked to the side of the bed, and flipped the light on. She eyed him uneasily and moved toward the center of the mattress, away from him. He watched her glance around the room, taking in the mahogany furniture, the paintings on the wall. She centered her gaze on each exit in turn—the door to the main part of his apartment, the door to the bathroom, and the window.

"Don't try the window," he said. "We're on the fifty-second floor. Are you hungry, thirsty?”