"Lena Marcinko?"

Lena had been fidgeting, pacing the small conference room. Somehow, she hadn't heard the door open or seen the man enter till he was right across from her.

He gestured to the chair on her side of the table. "Please, have a seat."

Lena swallowed and sat down. She rarely felt frightened around men—afraid for them but not of them. This man was somewhere in his forties, she guessed. He was small and slight. Despite the gold tipped cane he gently rested against the table beside him, his movements were smooth and catlike. She doubted he even put wrinkles in his expensive suit.

And she was afraid of him.

"Are you a Grimm?" she asked. The other Grimm, the one who'd arrested her, had left her alive. Bizarre but true—and almost unheard of unless the Grimm wanted something.

Maybe this was why he'd left her alive, to let another Grimm question her. And then kill her. And kill Robert and Sally and—

But, the man laughed, a gentle, smooth sound. "Oh, no, Mrs. Marcinko, I'm nothing of the kind." If he were Wesen, now would be the time for him to woge and let her see what he was. But, he only smiled. "Oh, excuse me," he added. "I haven't introduced myself. Please, call me Mr. Gold."

"Why—why did you want to see me?" See me, she thought. She was used to men wanting to see her. But, not now. Now, her skin had already grown thin and wrinkled.

"I thought the staff of this fine establishment would have informed you. I'm a lawyer. I want to represent you."

"Why? I can't pay you."

"Oh, let's not talk of mere money, Mrs. Marcinko. There are so many other things in this world besides money."

Welcome to my parlor said the spider to the fly. . . .

Lena shivered. She hated that poem. When she'd first heard it as a child, she'd wanted to scream at the fly to run and make her escape.

Even so, the spider had been the one she'd identified with. Even if, back then, she hadn't understood why.

"What do you want?"

"Oh, let's just say that knowing you feel a sense of . . . obligation to me, if I should ever need to call on you for . . . assistance . . . would be all the reward I need."

Not a Grimm. Grimm's didn't talk like this. A Royal? One who wanted a Spinnertod assassin? Whatever he was, Lena knew she should get as far away from him as possible. "No."

"No? Mrs. Marcinko, do you know what I'm offering you?"

"I can guess. Anyway, I'm no good to you." She held up her wrinkled hand. "What do you think this can do for you?"

He laughed again, that eerily gentle sound. "We can deal with that, Mrs. Marcinko. What we need to do right now is clear you of any association with the first two murders. At that point, the third one becomes nothing more than a woman meeting a man aboard a yacht for a drink. Embarrassing, perhaps. But, if your husband forgives you, who are the rest of us to judge?"

"And I attacked a police officer. Or did you forget that?"

"Mrs. Marcinko, please. No jury in the world is going to look at you and believe you posed a serious threat to two police officers."

Lena put her arms down on the table and looked at the wrinkled, age spotted skin. "No, they won't," she said bitterly.

"Oh, no," the man said. "Please, no self-pity. I haven't time for it." He reached down and touched her arm.

Despite the fear he made her feel, Lena knew what it felt like when a man touched her when she was . . . needing them. The way she did now. She should have felt a warm burst of hunger. She should feel her mouth start to water as the poison gathered in her glands—

There was none of that. But, her hand changed. The lines and marks vanished. The need that had been eating at her washed away.

No. No. Not possible. She had looked for an alternative. All her kind did, a way to live without killing. When all else failed, she had tried to just fight the urge. But, there wasn't any way out except death, hers or another's.

Or being locked away. If they put her in a prison full of women with no men for her to feed on, she might die in there, but she wouldn't take anyone else with her.

She looked at her hand, at the young, unblemished skin. She tried to imagine being able to live without the need to kill hanging over her. It couldn't be possible. It was a lie, a trick. . . .

Wasn't it?

"Now, Mrs. Marcinko, unless you'd like me to undo what I did, perhaps you'd care to come to an agreement?

"I should mention, your husband is being held as an accessory. Your daughter is with his mother right now, but she could also be implicated. I'm sure you wouldn't want that to happen, would you?"

"How?" Lena said, staring at her arm. "How? I've looked for a way—any way—to avoid this. It can't—"

"It can. Not that you could do it. I simply . . ." he wriggled his fingers, ". . . know a trick or two. Now, let me ask one more time: do you accept my terms?

"And, before you answer, you should know: your daughter has woged. Her first woge." He studied her. "It was while the Grimm was transporting her to her grandmother's. He saw it all. If you don't want what I'm offering for yourself, you really must think of her."