The moment her eyes pried themselves from lashes crusted together, Porsche found herself in a clean bed with white sheets, under pale fluorescent lighting. Clear plastic tubing from a suspended IV bag fed fluid into her arm. A nurse attendant monitored her vitals.

"Welcome back," she said trying to be cheery and bright as she was trained to do. "How are we feeling today?"

Porsche blinked several times, her eyes irritatingly dry. She mouthed, "Where am I?"

"Georgetown."

"When?"

"They brought you in a few days ago with a severe concussion, broken hip, cracked ribs, deep lacerations to your artery, and . . . you pulled through."

"What happened?"

Porsche had no memory.

"You apparently crashed from a motorbike . . . But there's more. I'm not allowed to say. You're lucky to be alive."

There had been a terrific crash -- yes, she recalled slowly. No, there was more to it than that. She just couldn't remember all.

"Now get some rest, I'll let the doctor know you're awake." The nurse pulled the curtain around Porsche's bed. "Morphine button next to your left hand."

"Wait --" Porsche tried moving her arm, and suddenly realized she couldn't -- her wrists were secured to the side banisters. Shock quickly turned to anger.

"You're in police custody, dear."

"I want a phone call!" Porsche rattled the bed railings causing other patients and nurses from the hallway to notice.

"Stop it." The nurse frowned, hands on hips.

Porsche fumed. "Then get me someone in charge."

"Funny, people are real anxious to talk to you, too."

The nurse left and a minute later returned with two men, one in cop armor, the other in civilian clothes. "You have five minutes," she instructed the pair, and retreated, closing the door behind her warily.

The civilian stepped forward. He wore a leather jacket over dark zipped-up turtleneck. "I'm Detective Frito-Lay, Metro PD."

Up close, Porsche could see a portion of his face had micro seams covering the quadrant over his left eye. The detective had extensive bioware implants.

The uniformed cop didn't introduce himself but stood back to observe.

"You seem to be a mystery, miss," Frito-Lay said. "We have no ID on you, no fingerprints or biometrics in our database." He smiled, showing chrome teeth. "So why don't we start by you telling us who you are."

"Why am I in police custody?" Porsche rattled the cuffs against the railing again.

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"Well, there's a matter of a dead girl in the steam room not far from where you crashed your bike. Would you say that is of some concern?"

Porsche didn't answer, looking at Frito-Lay without expression. Then the picture slowly began to form and she realized why they were here. Indeed, there was more -- in the steam room. A girl. Talons. She attacked me . . . I killed her. Her gut began to churn and sour.

"How we know you're involved? For one, you hadn't a shred of clothes. And second, you were dipped in blood. Blood in the spa too. So, two plus two makes four. But there's a snag -- we can't find no murder weapon. Now you want to tell me what happened?" His eyepiece whirred to scan her.

"I want a lawyer." Porsche turned her head to one side.

"Don't want to cooperate? All right, then just listen -- you're going to be charged with murder, first degree against -- funny, we don't know the victim's identity either. Something wacky about all this. We will get to the bottom of it, I promise you."

Porsche tried to show no signs. Inside, injuries sustained from the crash and lacerations throbbed, almost making her swoon. Breathing remained difficult, her ribcage bruised. Flashes of light appeared in her retina, spots that blocked her vision, stemming from burned-out synapses. She tried blinking, getting tears to wash away the gray veil. Not yet. Stay awake, don't slip back.

She could see Frito-Lay didn't expect more. The real inquisition will come later.

Then the door to the room opened. A third figure she can't make out appeared and was blocked by the second cop. A few seconds of whispering and the cop let him pass.

"Who are you?" Frito-Lay demanded. The cop standing guard blocked him.

The visitor pulled the detective aside and whispered something in his ear. Frito-Lay reflexively stepped back as if he had touched a snake.

"Give us a second, will you detective?" the new man said. "I'll return her shortly."

"Okay, I got jurisdiction," Frito-Lay said. "This is a Metro murder investigation."

"All yours, I promise." The man winked.

Frito-Lay turned and left with the uniformed cop, locking the door behind them.

"Hello, Porsche."

"You -- I thought the air changed," Porsche said, her heart beating faster. She couldn't tell which emotion was swirling inside her: hate, fear, loathing . . . love?

"Still alive, how lucky for me," Lockheart said, looking down at the bed-ridden woman hooked up to monitors and machines.

"Don't you wish I was dead, you mean?"

"I thought I'd seen the last of you."

"I'm like a rash returning to torment you, Milo."

"That -- you've done, moya lyubov. Dearly."

"Don't you ever call me that!" She turned her head from him.

"This feud is getting old."

"You sent her to kill me. I should have put a bullet in your head when I had the chance."

"Harpy did it on her own."

"Oh, I see," Porsche said and blew air between her lips.

"I wouldn't have risked her -- not for you."

"You got bad taste in women." Porsche sneered.

"You had a chance to walk, but stayed to play."

"I saw you torch Moreau and burn some innocent girl."

"You killed five of mine!" Lockheart snapped, then calmed just as quick, his eyes relaxing. "Now six, and for what?"

"I only regret I didn't make you number seven."

He reached out, grabbed her neck and squeezed, choking the air to her brain. She was too weak to resist, her gasps becoming weaker, all the while his face showed no emotion. Lockheart released her suddenly as Porsche exploded in violent coughs, her chest heaving for air.

"Not like this." He shook his head. "When I heard what happened to my sweet Harpy, and you survived, I wanted to put you down. But standing here -- "

"No . . . balls," she mocked him between grunts.

"In time. I'll find you, and I'll work you -- in private. For now, Metro PD is waiting for their murder suspect. Don't get too comfortable."

"Get out," Porsche growled with a ferocity that was pulled by a veined neck and a snapping face. It sapped the little strength she had as the pain bowled her over. She tamped on the morphine button as fast as she could as yellow bile dribbled down her face. She panted and coughed, her vitals spiking amid monitor alarms.

Lockheart said with a knowing grin, "I'll see you in a few. Good night, sleep tight, moya lyubov."

Amid the beeping machinery, the nurse rushed back, seeing her bluish condition. "Out, get out!"

Lockheart made his way out past Frito-Lay and the boys in blue. Porsche passed out from exhaustion.