(and some that didn't) the demon-spawn were, for all intents and purposes, completely sexless. Kincaid had tested this himself, over a period of several years. All sorts of pornography, both written and visual, had not brought the slightest response from him. Neither had contracted Liaisons with prostitutes of either gender.

To be truthful, he was grateful. Human relationships seemed to be...untidy.

But disposing of the bodies afterward had been tiresome.

Exiting the bathroom, he entered the theater. Unobtrusively, he sniffed the air, hunting for his quarry's scent. He hid a grin as he slid into a seat in the fifth row, near the center aisle. There. Wainwright was above him, probably hid in the shadows of the balcony. The nature-loving bitch probably wanted the best view of her darling son she could get.

Enjoy it, Rachel. It'll be your last.

Rachel sat in the balcony, her hands gripping Josh's arm on one side, and Sarah's on the other. Behind them, Jeremy, Maria, and Yasna sat in a row.

How did it come to this? If she had had the good sense to simply drive around that traffic accident a few weeks ago, none of this would have happened. Althea would have perished, trapped in the body of a dying mortal man. She would still be estranged from Josh. Her children would be on the verge of an open break with her, she would never have met

Yasna, and Maria and Jeremy would never be more than what they had been at the time; a well-liked but replaceable intern and a maid who was no different than a thousand other women in the city.

Thus am I repaid for a momentary weakness, she thought morbidly, and had to stifle an insane giggle.

It was either that, or scream.

“How Long until they start?" she whispered, for the third time in the last four minutes.

“Any second now," Josh replied, his voice low and soothing. Despite herself, Rachel felt the tension at her shoulders ease the tiniest bit.

“It's-" he broke off as the curtain rose.

Alex and another young man walked onto the stage from the right. Behind them, props gave the impression they were standing on a city street at dusk. Her son was wearing a plain white shirt, a black leather vest, and dark trousers, belted at the waist. A scabbard holding a long dagger in a sheath hung from the belt, and low boots rose to mid-calf.

The other man spoke:

“Tush! Never tell me; I take it much unkindly

That thou, Iago, who hast had my purse

As if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this."

Her son replied, in such a tone of subtle contempt that she would have slapped him had his face been within range of her hand:

"*Sblood. But you will not hear me:

If ever I did dream of such a matter, abhor me."

A smattering of applause, quickly silenced, drifted up from the lower level. Rachel forgot everything, her eyes intent on the terribly vulnerable young man on the stage. Her blood. Her son. Her Lover.

Bait for an immortal evil.

As Alex spoke his lines, the words flowing from his mouth effortlessly, he felt exalted. If he thought rehearsal was a natural high, it was nothing compared to the sensation of playing in front of a live crowd. This was what he had been born for. Even as he sank into the role, the demonic Iago playing on Othello's insecurity, stoking the fires of jealousy, he wondered whether he should choose the stage, or whether a life on the big screen as a film actor would be the better choice.

He snorted silently at his ambition and pulled his mind back to his craft, concentrating on his scene. Suddenly, a flicker of motion in his right eye caught his attention, and he stumbled over his Line. Quickly he caught himself, but the motion repeated. As the focus of the scene left him and centered on Cassio and Montano, he frowned into the crowd.