“Alec, are you awake?”

Alec’s eyes snapped open. He was strapped to a table, bright lights shining in his face. “What the fuck?” he snarled, struggling against his restraints.

Standing over him was a woman dressed in a dark suit, dark glasses. Alec noted curiously that she had no smell.

She smiled. “Alexandru Constantinescu, born 1427, died — sort of — 1461. Correct so far?”

“I know who I am, sugatoare curva. Who the fuck are you?”

“Special Agent Winters, DHS . Alec, my Romanian is a bit rusty, but I’m quite sure that word you called me wasn’t very nice.”

“Sorry. In English. When I get off of this table,” Alec said, “I’m going to rip off your face. Then I’m going to fuck your skull. And then, when I’m done skull-fucking your skull, I am going to use the face that I just ripped off to wipe my cock. And then …I’m going to kill you. You get all that?”

Winters’ smile faded. “Alec, I want you to meet someone. He’s a doctor.”

“Is somebody sick?”

“Yes, Alec. A lot of people. We’re about to find out why.”